Against the Day by Thomas Pynchon: a steampunk epic through time and space at the turn of the 20th century...
The Silentiary by Antonio di Benedetto: some more prereading for the February pick of the #nyrbbookclub...
Misery by Stephen King: my current car audiobook, a perfect winter horror...
2025 reads, 9/25:
“I’m afraid to draw up a tally of sins. I don’t want the past to be more powerful than the future.”
Zama is the first book of Antonio di Benedetto’s unofficial “trilogy of expectation.” This book is followed by The Silentiary (1964), then rounded out with The Suicides (1969), which is also the #nyrbbookclub pick for February 2025. I already got The Suicides in the mail (as we are now way past February) but wanted to take my time getting through this trilogy and really get to know di Benedetto.
I tried this as my “bedtime” Kindle book – but that wasn't a good idea. This is a work to be studied and fully entranced in, reminiscent of Jean-Paul Sartre's Nausea or literally anything by Clarice Lispector. Once I started reading this during the day, more alert and aware, I got much more into it.
Don Diego de Zama is the eponymous main character, whose thoughts we are with the entire novel. Over three preiods of his life (1790, 1794, and 1799), he is a servant under the Spanish occupation of Paraguay, as he moves from village to village, trying to find meaning and happiness in his everyday life. Zama is self-destructive, languid, detached, and disinterested in anything except for his yerba maté. He does not really care for others, and tries to advance his career without actually doing anything. To be honest, he is one of the most solipsistic characters I’ve ever come across.
“I thought through these actions but did not succeed in moving.”
Zama is also the king of misreading situations. In the first two parts, there would be many instances where something would happen, and then he will go on this internal tirade completely misreading everything and everyone in it. It gets a bit repetitive after a while, but is crucial to his character development, or lack thereof. In the final section, we actually see what happens when this lackadaisical attitude is put in front of characters who, in turn, could not care less about him.
One thing I've noticed that helps with reading these “stream of consciousness” novels (or any philosophical novel), is that it helps to read a little bit about the author. Sure, arguably the best way to get to know someone is to read their writing, and you might be able to convince me of that. But a little prereading can really go a long way in aligning yourself with the time period and circumstances in the author’s life that caused them to write this (both The Stranger and The Hour of the Star benefit heavily from reading a bit about Camus and Lispector, respectively). Di Benedetto is no different, and reading Esther Allen’s introduction about his life in Argentina, inspiration from Dostoevsky, and the state of Paraguay under Spanish rule, helped me ground myself in the work.
It’s a dense read, but a great introduction to the “trilogy of expectation” that I plan to continue. Zama’s expectations of the world around him are aggressively denied, but maybe there’s something to learn in his downfall. Ultimately, I am glad for the opportunity to be exposed to di Benedetto, an author I would have never found if it wasn’t for the #nyrb book club.
Something more is always expected. My thinking mind had this thought, but when I dispensed with thinking I fell into a brute inertia, as if my share in things were running out, and the world would be left unpopulated because I would no longer exist within it.
2025 reads, 8/25:
HERE LIES EDUARDO TORRES, WHO, HIS WHOLE LIFE LONG, CAME, SAW, AND WAS PERPETUALLY DEFEATED AS MUCH BY THE ELEMENTS AS BY THE SHIPS OF THE ENEMY
Imagine writing you own epitaph, years before your death, and releasing it to the public for comment. This self-aggrandizing act is just one among many in Augusto Monterroso’s only novel, The Rest Is Silence. This book is the January selection of the 2025 New York Review Books book club, a Christmas gift from my mom. (Thanks mom!) Each month, NYRB will send me a newly published novel from their catalog, usually a recently-translated work, brought to new light (at least for me).
This novel takes the form of a festschrift (a new word I learned, from German, literally meaning “celebration writing” or “commemoration document”), a collection of documents, articles, works, and tributes honoring some respected person. The entirety of The Rest Is Silence is thus a festschrift of the fictional literary critic Eduardo Torres, whose epitaph is written above. The blurb mentions him as something of a “Don Quixote,” but after reading this I get whiffs of Dorain Gray and maybe, maybe Hunter S. Thompson. Though, this fawning over Torres really only takes place in the first part of the book. For example, see how his “friend” describes him:
Through the high and broad French windows bursts an agitated mass of sunbeams, five or six of which descend to nest lovingly on the high and somewhat grizzled head of our biographee. The diminutive particles of dust revolving through said light might suggest to an observer–recalling Epicurus–the plurality of worlds.
Absolute suck up.
I do wish I had read Don Quixote before this, though, because there seem to be many allusions to it. In Part II: Selections from the Work of Eduardo Torres, one such work is Torres’ fictional introduction to the novel, followed by a criticism of said introduction. This was an interesting pair of essays to read, but I would have gotten more out of it had I been more well-versed in Don Quixote (and the overall Mexican literary scene, as many references were made to philosophers and artists of the time).
That thanks to contemporary experience, it is recognized continent-wide that the best way of losing interest in the works of other authors consists of getting to know them personally.
The Rest Is Silence elevates the concept of “meta” to a new level. Memories are written and then rebuked in later chapters. There are connections made between the works, there are article clippings, poems, even some hilarious drawings (that further elucidate the utter brashness of Torres). And despite the conceited subject of this festschrift, there are some really great quotes and ideas here about artistry in general and what it means to be an artist. Honestly, I loved the format of this, almost like short stories that shared a common connection. While I’m sure there are plenty other books out there that use this format, I can confidently say this one pulled it off magnificently. Starting off strong for the 2025 NYRB Book Club!
When you have something to say, say it; when you don’t, say that was well. Never stop writing.