article is the result of extensive readings of the early
Anglophone and Latin American reception of Joyce’s and
Faulkner’s work. It was thus possible to establish a
parallel understanding of their work in both cultural
contexts as essentially 'baroque'. A discrepancy arises,
however, in allusions to the baroque in an Anglophone
and Latin American context. Early Anglophone critics
tended to find their 'baroquism' troubling. By contrast,
Latin American mediators found in their baroque propensity
a potential model for the expression of native concerns.
the light of the above findings, the article centres
on the connections between Joyce, Faulkner and García
Márquez, focusing on the exploration of alternative
and suppressed historiographies in their fiction. It
discusses their deployment of a 'baroque' aesthetic
of difficulty, duplicity, theatricality and temporal
disruption to arrive at a representation of 'otherness'
that voices their historiographic scepticism.
and Joyce have long competed for the crowning position
in Latin America’s literary pantheon. This is not meant
to be, by any means, a reflection on such aspirations.
Both men were largely oblivious to the Latin American
literary tradition and to the aesthetic and narrative
conundrums faced by its writers in the course of the twentieth
century. On the contrary, their work is intensely local
and preoccupied with their own respective social, cultural
and political milieus. Any desires they may have harboured
towards universal influence and recognition would have
been a result of their determined efforts to render their
own cultures faithfully, and to honour them by such a
rendition. Ironically, their preoccupation with the local
may be the reason for the influential position that they
have long occupied in Latin American letters, for it is
arguably their intense localism and its accomplished artistic
rendition that has proven inspirational for their Latin
American counterparts. Ever since early mediators such
as Jorge Luis Borges and Alejo Carpentier heralded their
importance, they have been understood to occupy very distinct
and, at times, mutually exclusive, positions with regards
to their impact on the literature being produced in Latin
America throughout the twentieth century. Thus, Joyce
has been traditionally characterised as the master of
literary audacity, spurring the work of linguistic mavericks
such as Guillermo Cabrera Infante and Julio Cortázar or
of poets like Haroldo de Campos. Ulysses, the
modernist novel of the city par excellence, would
be seen as the inspiration behind some of the most important
Latin American urban novels such as Julio Cortázar’s Hopscotch
and Carlos Fuentes’s Where the Air Is Clear.
Faulkner, on the other hand, would be heralded as inspiring
a wealth of rural narratives, most notably Gabriel García
Márquez’s fiction, providing an example of colour and
texture, to be deployed when depicting the hot and racially-mixed
this article I propose to follow a literary genealogy
that goes against the traditional study of influence in
two ways: firstly, by rejecting the understanding of García
Márquez as exclusively 'Faulknerian' and, secondly, by
advocating a multidirectional and dynamic approach to
the comparative study of the three authors in question.
The traditional understanding of literary influence would
deny that Faulkner and Joyce have greatly enriched García
Márquez’s work. Although I do not intend to dispute this
contention, I think it is also useful to consider how
Joyce’s and Faulkner’s works have been revivified by García
Márquez’s readings and those of fellow Latin American
writers in ways that are enriching and revelatory of their
artistry and accomplishments.
Joyce’s and Faulkner’s fiction through the prism of García
Márquez’s work can alert us to the deep historiographic
drive that underscores their narratives, as well as to
the strategies that they deploy to register their historiographic
scepticism. The narrative entanglements at the heart of
their work can be explained, as I try to argue here, as
the result of a desire to give voice to marginal and suppressed
historiographies. It is this complex voicing of hidden
historiographies that may ultimately anticipate the radical
strategies of magical realism exemplified by García Márquez
in One Hundred Years of Solitude. The study of
literary transmission is inevitably a study of reception
and, as a result, I focus on the reception of Joyce and
Faulkner by early Anglophone and Hispanic critics. Both
groups fundamentally agreed in their assessment of both
Joyce’s and Faulkner’s narrative 'challenges' as baroque
in essence. The Anglophone critics’ disdain for this baroquism,
however, contrasts with the tendency of the Latin American
critics to embrace them – at least, in part – precisely
because of their perceived affinity with a baroque genealogy.
My use of the term 'baroque' in this article stems from
this early critical reception, and I hope that it retains
both its Anglophone connotations of excessive (and troubling)
complication and its Latin American usage as a strategy
for the expression of native cultural difference and inscription
of the marginal. (2)
8 December 1982, Gabriel García Márquez closed his Nobel
Prize lecture with a tribute to William Faulkner, and
echoed the American writer’s own visionary words upon
reception of the same prize some thirty years earlier:
a day like today, my master William Faulkner said, "I
decline to accept the end of man". I would fall unworthy
of standing in this place that was his, if I were not
fully aware that the colossal tragedy he refused to
recognize thirty-two years ago is now, for the first
time since the beginning of humanity, nothing more than
a simple scientific possibility. Faced with this awesome
reality that must have seemed a mere utopia through
all of human time, we, the inventors of tales, who will
believe anything, feel entitled to believe that it is
not yet too late to engage in the creation of the opposite
utopia. A new and sweeping utopia of life, where no
one will be able to decide for others how they die,
where love will prove true and happiness be possible,
and where the races condemned to one hundred years of
solitude will have, at last and forever, a second opportunity
on earth (García Márquez 1993: 20).
is significant that García Márquez chose to honour Faulkner’s
own recognition of apocalyptic momentum (prefigured in
the all too real possibility of nuclear holocaust) as
a site upon which to found a 'utopia of life' filtered
through the complementary acts of reading and writing.
That, in García Márquez’s understanding of his role as
a writer, signals the act of literary creation as an act
of re-creation, one that affords both the author and his
readers the possibility of re-appropriating their historical
and political destinies by means of visionary recognition.
Thus, Faulkner’s 'man', whose end he 'declines to accept',
is rendered here as 'the races condemned to one hundred
years of solitude', in what is not only an allusion to
García Márquez’s most famous, and arguably, most accomplished
work but also a postcolonial celebration of the colonial
subject’s eventual liberation, depicted here as the triumphant
obverse of apocalyptic demise. García Márquez’s words
represent a bipartite paean to the notion of literature
as the space afforded to the colonial for self-expression
and recognition, and for the understanding of history
as a narrative whose secrets and possibilities constitute
the threads out of which the Latin American writer will
weave the rich tapestry of his redemptive tale.
is here placed at the crux where history and literature
intersect through Messianic re-telling, thus drawing suggestive
parallels between his and García Márquez’s fictions. Furthermore,
this repositioning of Faulkner’s 'man' as an analogue
to Latin American man forces us to re-evaluate Faulkner’s
works from a postcolonial point of view, to ascertain
why García Márquez experienced an illuminating moment
of self-recognition in coming into contact with Faulkner’s
'atmosphere and decadence' (García Márquez 2003: 135)
or why he acknowledges Latin America’s debt to Faulkner
by stating that 'Faulkner is enmeshed in all Latin American
literature' (García Márquez, Vargas Llosa 1968: 52-53).
apocalyptic is at the hearth of Faulkner’s creative impulse,
something that he revealed by observing that he thought
of 'the world [he] created as … a kind of keystone in
the universe', a keystone that, were it removed, would
provoke the universe to 'collapse'; as well as by foreseeing
his last book as being 'the Doomsday Book, the Golden
Book' (Faulkner 1960: 82) of Yoknapatawpha County, the
fictional space inhabited by most of his creations. Although
his readers were never treated to an apocalyptic culmination
of the Sutpen, the Compson, the Bundren, or the Sartoris’
dynasties akin to the Buendías’ holocaust in One Hundred
Years of Solitude, his narratives are a constant
re-enactment of the fire and brimstone of the hour of
judgement: be it the biblical flood and fire which threaten
to desecrate Addie Bundren’s corpse in As I Lay Dying,
the personal apocalypse of Joe Christmas and Reverend
Hightower in Light in August, or the all-devouring
fire which consumes Thomas Sutpen’s dynasty and legacy
by the close of Absalom, Absalom! In the light
of Faulkner’s recurrent fictive apocalypses, García Márquez
emerges as a worthy disciple of the American 'prophet',
daring to take his characters to absolute oblivion with
the hurricane that devastates Macondo at the end of One
Hundred Years of Solitude, thus presenting us with
the blank canvas on which to build that 'utopia of the
future' that he salutes in his Nobel Prize lecture.
authors are further united in their deployment of a narrative
exuberance that belies their tales of decay and disaster
and underpins the melancholy failures of their characters.
It is this exuberance, this 'explosive overcrowdedness',
as André Blekaisten has described it, that sees Faulkner’s
'language depart from the standards of stern sparseness
and high finish the New Critics taught us to associate
with Anglo-American modernism' (Blekaisten 1995: 92).
It is in this overcrowded narrative space that I propose
that we can find the third vortex in the literary triangle
that I am trying to trace in this article; for it is precisely
in the 'baroque excesses', exemplified by Faulkner’s prose
and mirrored in García Márquez’s novels, where we can
find the echoes of that other excessive and baroque writer,
are faced in James Joyce and William Faulkner with two
atypical modernists, ill at ease with their contemporaries,
perching themselves at the edge of a 'logorrheic' abyss
in their attempts at encapsulating or, rather, re-creating
or re-appropriating their native spaces through a profusion
of language. Perhaps it was this affinity that prompted
a contemporary critic to disparagingly describe the writing
in The Sound and the Fury as 'more incoherent
than Joyce' (Hartwick 1999: 629) and Wyndham Lewis to
pithily summarise Faulkner as more 'Joyce than Stein'
(Lewis 1999: 643), as an author whose 'hot and sticky'
(Lewis 1999: 637) prose displays 'the rhythm' of 'Irish
sentiment' (Lewis 1999: 643). If Lewis’s summation is
redolent of Arnoldian reductions transposed to the Southern
States, other commentators have sympathetically framed
Faulkner within the Irish tradition. Thus, Seán Ó Faoláin
placed Faulkner’s writing in a decidedly Irish context,
by noting that life in Mississippi as filtered through
Faulkner’s prose sounded:
much like life in County Cork. There is the same passionate
provincialism; the same local patriotism; the same southern
nationalism … the same feeling that whatever happens
in Ballydehob or in Jefferson has never happened anywhere
else before, and is more important than anything that
happened in any period of history in any part of the
cosmos … . (Ó Faoláin 1956: 102)
Faoláin’s reading of Faulkner as a 'passionate provincial'
could be added to a litany of similar appraisals of his
work as that of a local raconteur paradoxically
endowed with portentous linguistic powers, were it not
because Ó Faoláin stresses the totalising nature of Faulkner’s
literary cosmos, whereby the Yoknapatawpha stories force
the reader to re-evaluate history through the prism of
the 'gnawing defeat' (Ó Faoláin 1956: 102) assailing Southern
man, to the point where any other perspective is obliterated.
This perspective proved intolerable to many of Faulkner’s
contemporaries who, imbued as they were with an ideology
that stressed the values of modernity, could not easily
reconcile his avant-garde experimentalism with
the recurrent presence of the irrational in his works.
To quote Lewis once more, if Faulkner’s 'novels are, strictly
speaking, clinics' (Lewis 1999: 638), readers are asked
to peruse these narratives by attending to the obsessions
and preoccupations of the diseased and insane. In other
words, their author demands that we adopt the point of
view of America’s 'otherness'.
dislocation of perspective, this dis-establishing and
maddening multiplication of voices that we encounter in
Faulkner’s work is, of course, central to the post-colonial
writer’s project. Ultimately, I believe, it is this powerful
invocation of the 'other' that proves so seductive to
a writer like Gabriel García Márquez, as well as aligning
Faulkner with that other 'patron saint' of Latin American
letters, James Joyce. Faulkner may have recognised as
much himself by describing Joyce’s influence with rich
and suggestive biblical overtones, stating that '[y]ou
should approach Joyce’s Ulysses as the illiterate
Baptist preacher approaches the Old Testament: with faith'
(Faulkner 1960: 77). The potency of this image belies
the lukewarm understanding of Faulkner’s 'Joycism' as
little other than a capricious and superficial appropriation
of the latter’s avant-gardism.
Márquez’s view of Faulkner runs counter to the characterisation
of the latter’s literary experimentation as mere technical
folly. In García Márquez’s readings, 'the Faulkner method'
(García Márquez, Vargas Llosa 1968: 52-53) (4)
represents a more than adequate tool to reflect his own
reality. This perspective is not only advantageous for
what I consider to be a more adequate understanding of
the value of Faulkner’s work and its impact on Latin American
letters, it is also inextricably bound to a reading of
Joyce as equally instrumental in the creation of a literary
language that renders itself to the expression of colonial
experience, and which baroque difficulty and excessiveness
are coupled with the process of inscription of the colonial
subject’s re-claiming of a distinct cultural and political
identity. That is, far from being the product of overzealous
commitment to cosmopolitan avant-gardism, Joyce’s and
Faulkner’s daring formal experimentation is intrinsically
bound to literary projects that are at once intensely
personal and exemplary, as the Latin American García Márquez
clearly understood. Thus, the overwrought intricacy of
their style is entwined with their desire to re-tell their
local and national histories as seen with the eyes of
the defeated and colonised, and their minutely-rendered
literary cosmogonies are the result of their wish to re-appropriate
their native spaces. These are projects that shun the
notion of language as a transparent means of expression,
just as they underpin a disdain for history conceived
as a linear and progressive enterprise, exposing this
linearity as dependent on the suppression of the marginalised
and oppressed. Their diction is best understood in terms
of cannibalisation and repetition, of obsessive, even
maddening inclusion, of radical heterogeneity and heteroglossia.
Faulkner’s voice had been neatly compartmentalised as
a Modernist anomaly, whose 'monstrous' means of expression
sat uneasily with his essential provincialism, Joyce was
the victim of the opposite misreading, as the pugnacious
specificity of his prose was reduced to 'a way of controlling,
of ordering, of giving a shape and a significance to the
immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary
history' (Eliot 1975: 177), in T.S. Eliot’s celebrated
words. The disorderly voice of the colonial is thus refashioned
as that of a conservative saboteur, inaugurating decades
of a critical understanding of Joyce as a relentless cosmopolitan
intent on performing a salutary exposé on the
perils of ignoring the crumbling edifice of Western Civilisation.
return to Joyce’s contemporaries, it may have been critically
more profitable to attend to the objections of those shocked
by the perceived squalor of his subject matter. Thus,
in retrospect, there might be more truth in Aldington’s
words, whose review of Ulysses T. S. Eliot criticises
in 'Ulysses, Order, and Myth', than in Eliot’s
partial appropriation of Joyce’s novel. In Aldington’s
summation, we encounter a variation of the same judgement
levelled at Faulkner, that peculiar coupling of admiration
and disgust, which exposes Joyce as an unruly, if precocious,
child whose 'marvellous gifts' are ill-employed to 'disgust
us' (Aldington quoted in Eliot 1975: 176). In wishing
to counteract Aldington’s simplistic didacticism, T. S.
Eliot unwittingly exposes a didacticism of his own, revealing
in his desire to rectify Aldington’s misreading his own
anxiety to control a book that is 'an invitation to chaos,
and an expression of feelings which are perverse, partial,
and a distortion of reality' (Aldington, quoted in Eliot
1975: 176). Joyce, on the other hand, was happy to absolve
Aldington, describing his criticism as 'legitimate' in
a letter to Harriet Shaw Weaver (Joyce 1957: 157).
and 'distortion' are, of course, primary elements of baroque
expression. As Brigid Brophy has written, the baroque
'encompasses images devoid of dignity: comic images; domestic
images; the taken literally imagist content of religious
myths; images of such bodily secretions as tears and milk'
(Brophy 1978: 149). In comparing the 'bold embrace' of
baroque expression to 'a pair of giant curly brackets
that clip together things irreconcilable' (Brophy 1978:
149), she provides us with a good metaphor to understand
the revulsion unleashed by Faulkner’s and Joyce’s fusion
of the demotic and the sublime in their fearlessly baroque
experiments. In this context Clifton Fadiman’s dismissal
of Faulkner as 'a Dixie Gongorist' (Fadiman 1999: 263),
as well as Jorge Luis Borges’s analogy of Góngora’s Soledades
and James Joyce’s works as failed linguistic experiments
(Borges 2000: 447) (5),
inscribe their re-enactment of baroque expression within
the context of modernity. Although Fadiman’s and Borges’s
appraisals may be ultimately disparaging, they provide
us with a clear-eyed analogue in the figure of Luis de
Góngora y Argote, the sixteenth century Spanish baroque
poet, whose name has become synonymous in English with
obscurantist linguistic experimentation (6).
With his rich and ornate quasi-Byzantine poetry, Góngora
epitomises the 'perversions' and 'distortions' of the
Spanish baroque, which, rooted in the culture of the Counter-Reformation,
was anathema to the transparency and equilibrium of Neoclassical
aesthetics. Góngora’s poetry was the maximum exponent
of that peculiar malady of irrational excess that afflicted
Spain, a country frozen in the ecstasies of debasement
and sublimation of the baroque in its stubborn refusal
to join the rest of Europe in its march towards modernity.
This reading of the Spanish baroque as a culture condemned
to inhabit the fringes of Western Europe can be coupled
with Jorge Luis Borges’s identification of the baroque
as an intrinsically Hispanic aesthetic. His reading of
Joyce in the context of baroque expression is, for that
very reason, more suggestive than it at first appears.
In Borges’s view, Joyce emerges as a marginal figure,
inhabiting the fringes of Western culture, opting for
a mode of expression that, in its historical definition,
is essentially Catholic and critical of modernity. This
vision coincides with Roberto González Echevarría’s vindication
of Góngora’s poetry as, '[I]nclusive rather than exclusive,
willing to create and incorporate the new, literally in
the form of neologisms. He is anxious to overturn the
tyranny of syntax, making the hyperbaton the most prominent
feature of his poetry' (González Echevarría 1993: 197).
inclusiveness of Góngora prefigures the inclusiveness
of artists like Joyce and Faulkner, whose creation of
neologisms signals a dissatisfaction with the limitations
of conventional language, presenting us at word level
with the fusion and duplicity of the baroque. González
Echevarría also points out that Góngora was the first
to reproduce African inflections in Spanish speech, in
what he views as an early inscription of America’s ‘other’
at the heart of Spanish baroque high art. An analogy can
be drawn here with Joyce’s incorporation of Hiberno-English
as part of the cacophonic proliferation of voices and
styles in Ulysses, as well as Faulkner’s inclusion
of African American and Southern speech, even if, unlike
Góngora, Joyce and Faulkner are operating from the margins
of their respective traditions. Góngora’s mercurial use
of hyperbaton could not be ignored, as it should not be
in Joyce’s case. The attack against 'the tyranny of syntax'
that hyperbaton supposes has been celebrated as a sign
of Joyce’s fastidiousness as an artist, best encapsulated
in his famous preoccupation with word order within the
sentence. We may recall here Clifton Fadiman’s flippant
description of Faulkner’s involved and profuse syntactical
structure in Absalom, Absalom! as a nightmare
of parsing (Fadiman 1999: 263), in the context of a review
that presents us with a Faulkner who, 'as a technician
… has Joyce … punch-drunk' (Fadiman 1999: 263). The same
critic usefully, if short-sightedly, decries Faulkner’s
narrative in the same novel as 'the Anti-Narrative, a
set of complex devices used to keep the story from being
told' (Fadiman 1999: 263). This 'anti-narrative', which
constantly frustrates the readers’ desire for completion
and unity by keeping the story in the throes of a protracted
resolution, reminds us of Joyce’s parodic interruptions
and digressions in 'Aelous' and 'Cyclops', the two chapters
in Ulysses centred on the task of arriving at
a native Irish historiography. It is no accident that
Absalom, Absalom! should have been the novel
where Faulkner most ambitiously tackles his own historiographic
project: positing the impossibility of a univocal version
of history through the digressive and conflicting range
of voices that configure the novel’s narrative structure.
As Gerald Martin has persuasively argued, One Hundred
Years of Solitude is an equally impressive historiographic
battleground, where competing versions of Latin American
history wage a war whose victory seems to be ultimately
a pyrrhic one (Martin 1989: 95-116).
and Faulkner’s use of time is also warped and distorted,
foregrounding their use of a temporal unit that implodes
the notion of linearity and the 'Apollonian' and discreet
accumulation of time of classical reason: the instant.
David H. Stewart wrote on Faulkner’s deployment oftime
in these terms, by noting that in his novels, and more
specifically in Absalom, Absalom!, '[t]ime, instead
of being a process and a sequence with objective periods,
is still a compressed instant' (Stewart 1999: 313). In
Ulysses, the instant is the unit through which
Joyce’s characters filter their sensory recognition of
their surroundings provoking the collapse of the authorial,
all-encompassing gaze. In this regard, Joyce foregrounds
the figure of the flâneur, whose shifting perspective
causes the disruption of linearity, as the city-scape
is broken into myriad reflections that refuse univocal
recognition. Faulkner’s Benjy in The Sound and the
Fury represents the culmination of instantaneous
temporality and the absolute breakdown of sequential time.
In García Márquez, the instant becomes the unit in which
competing versions of (hi)story coalesce, a notion underlined
in the memorable first line of One Hundred Years of
Solitude: 'Many years later, facing the firing-squad,
Colonel Aureliano Buendía would remember that remote afternoon
when his father took him to see ice for the first time'
(García Márquez 1987: 7). (7)
This implosion of linearity is reckoned as central to
the project of the baroque 'which mobilizes the notions
of ambivalence and difference to provide … the ''Reason
of the Other'' which permits us to see the modern world
from within' (Turner 1994: 22).
González Echevarría has recognised, this 'Reason of the
Other' is intrinsic to the adoption of baroque aesthetics
in a colonial context. This explains why the aesthetics
of the baroque was such an attractive proposition to New
World artists in the Spanish colonies (8),
even if the baroque was also the dominant mode of expression
of imperial counter-reformation Spain. The vindication
of the baroque as a primary Latin American mode of expression
is echoed in Alejo Carpentier’s definition of Latin American
art as essentially baroque in his well-publicised essays
about 'The Marvellous Real' in Latin American literature
(Carpentier 1967: 92-112), as well as in José Lezama Lima’s
theories about its essential 'baroquism' (Lezama Lima
1969: 33-57). Thus, Alejo Carpentier’s theories on the
'marvellous real' have the effect of transfiguring magical
realism into another manifestation of an eternal Latin
American baroque. Inscribing the work of a magical realist
like García Márquez into a baroque genealogy forces us
to consider how his work, with its assured historiographic
drive, contributes to the multiplicity of versions of
history 'whose main feature is the shuffling of competing
histories which attempt to find the master version of
American history' (González Echevarría 1993: 171). This
is an American history which preys on the monstrous and
insatiable aesthetics of the baroque, and may well be
engulfed in the cannibalising thrust of its expression.
is at the crux of these warring versions of history that
I propose we may encounter Joyce’s, Faulkner’s and García
Márquez’s baroque projects, as the Latin American artist
seeks allegiances with those marginal figures of modernity
intent on voicing their own history through the subversion
of prevailing historiographies. A special kind of historiographic
revision requires, thus, a special kind of expression,
one that will enable us to hear the voices of the 'other',
and will relentlessly pursue their cultural re-inscription.
The language of baroque expression, characterised by cumulative
exhaustion and disruption, and duplicity (exemplified
by the stylistics of the pun, the portmanteau word, irony,
pastiche, parody and allegory) represents the summa
aestetica of the post-colonial imagination. In this
regard, the deployment of baroque expression by the three
authors under discussion will be understood as an a
fortiori aesthetic source for the apocalyptic and
Messianic drive of their narratives. It must be understood
as uncompromisingly intertwined with their re-creation
of national and local narratives from the point of view
of the colonial and the defeated, rather than as a felicitous
or regrettable by-product of an aesthetic of modernity.
Joyce’s recourse to allegorical parable in 'Aeolus', where
the aspirations for liberation of a colonial people are
paralleled with the Mosaic Old Testament story of delivery
from bondage, as well as the repeated elevation of Bloom
to prophetic status in 'Cyclops' and 'Circe' attest to
the impossibility of a univocal historiography resulting
in the erasing of oppressed and marginalised voices. Stephen’s
'Parable of the Plums' in 'Aeolus', as ambiguous, oblique
and sensual an allegory as one could expect from baroque
expression, acts as a further negation of a transparent
and straightforward Irish historiography intent on suppressing
the specificity of its subject(s). Faulkner’s recurrent
fictive holocausts act as a literary reminder of the dangers
of burying a suppressed alternative historiography. As
the last author in this genealogy, García Márquez brings
the apocalyptic entanglements and complications of the
post-colonial baroque to their resolute climax, ensuring
that 'the races condemned to one hundred years of solitude
will have, at last and forever, a second opportunity on
Diana Pérez García (B.A. Universidad
Autónoma de Madrid, Spain; M.A. National University of
Ireland; Ph.D. National University of Ireland) currently
teaches in Saint Patrick’s College, Dublin City University,
Ireland. She is a founder-member of the Comparative Literature
Association of Ireland (CLAI). Areas of Interest: The
reception of Joyce in Latin America; the connection between
journalism and fiction; apocalyptic narratives; historiography
and baroquism in the work of Joyce, Defoe, Faulkner and
According to Lezama Lima: 'amongst
us the baroque was the art of counter-conquest' ('entre
nosotros el barroco fue un arte de la contraconquista')
(Lezama Lima, 1969: 47).
'Faulkner está metido
en toda la novelística de América Latina'.
'el método faulkneriano'
In his preface to a 1971 edition
of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, Borges writes: 'To
speak of literary experiments is to speak of exercises
that have failed in a more or less brilliant way, such
as Góngora’s Soledades or the work of Joyce'.
Roberto González Echevarría provides
us with the Webster dictionary definition of the term
'Gongorism' as: 'a Spanish literary style esp. associated
with the poet Góngora and his imitators, characterized
by studied obscurity of meaning and expression and by
extensive use of metaphorical imagery, exaggerated conceits,
paradoxes, neologisms, and other ornate devices- compare
EUPHUISM. 2a: an excessively involved, ornate and artificial
style of writing' (González Echevarría, 1993: 196).
'Muchos años después, frente
al pelotón de fusilamiento, el coronel Aureliano Buendía
había de recordar aquella tarde remota en que su padre
lo llevó a conocer el hielo'.
Or how they may be 'a source
as well as a tradition' (González Echevarría, 1993: 5).
-Bleikasten, André, 'Faulkner from a European Perspective'
in The Cambridge Companion to William Faulkner, ed. Philip
M. Weinstein (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995),
Jorge Luis, The Total Library, Non Fiction, (1922-1986),
trans. and ed. Esther Allen, Suzanne Jill Levine and Eliot
Weinberger (London: Penguin, 1999).
Brigid, Baroque-‘n’-Roll and Other Essays (London: Hamish
Alejo, 'De lo real maravilloso americano', in Tientos
y diferencias (Montevideo: Arca, 1967), pp. 92-112.
Eliot, T. S, 'Ulysses, Order and Myth' in Selected Prose
of T. S. Eliot, ed. Frank Kermode (London: Faber & Faber,
1976), pp. 175-8.
Clifton, 'Faulkner, Extra-Special, Double-Distilled',
in William Faulkner Critical Assessments, Vol. III: General
Perspectives; Memories, Recollections and Interviews;
Contemporary Critical Opinion, ed. Henry Claridge (East
Sussex: Helm Information, 1999), pp. 261-4.
William, 'William Faulkner: An Interview' by Jean Stein
in William Faulkner, Three Decades of Criticism, ed. Frederick
J. Hoffman and Olga W. Vickery (New York: Harcourt, Brace
& World, Inc., 1960), pp. 67-82.
William, Absalom, Absalom! (New York: Random House, 1986).
William, As I Lay Dying (London: Vintage, 1996).
William, Light in August (New York: Random House, 1932).
William, The Sound and the Fury (New York: Random House,
Márquez, Gabriel and Vargas Llosa, Mario, La novela en
América Latina: Diálogo (Lima: Carlos Milla Batres, 1968).
Márquez, Gabriel, Cien años de soledad, ed. Jacques Joset
(Madrid: Cátedra, 1987).
Márquez, Gabriel, 'The Solitude of Latin America' in Nobel
Lectures in Literature 1981-1990, ed. Tore Frängsmyr and
Sture Allén (London: World Scientific, 1993), pp. 17-20.
Márquez, 'Gabriel García Márquez' in Latin American Writers
at Work, The Paris Review, ed. George Plimpton (New York:
The Modern Library, 2003), pp. 127-54. -González Eche?????varría,
Roberto, Celestina’s Brood Continuities of the Baroque
in Spanish and Latin American Literatures (Durham; London:
Duke University Press, 1993).
Hartwick, Harry, 'The Cult of Cruelty', in William Faulkner
Critical Assessments, Vol. I, ed. Henry Claridge (East
Sussex: Helm Information: 1999), pp. 627-31.
James, Letters of James Joyce, Vol. I, ed. Stuart Gilbert
(London: Faber and Faber, 1957).
James, Ulysses (London: Penguin, 1992).
Lewis, Windham, 'William Faulkner', in William Faulkner
Critical Assessments, Vol. I, ed. Henry Claridge (East
Sussex: Helm Information: 1999), pp. 632-48.
Lima, José, 'La curiosidad barroca', in La expresión americana
(Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1969), pp. 33-57.
Gerald, 'On Magical and Social Realism in García Márquez',
in Gabriel García Márquez. New Readings, ed. Bernard Mcguirk
and Richard Cardwell (New York: Press Syndicate of the
University of Cambridge, 1989), pp. 95-116.
Ó Faoláin, Seán, The Vanishing Hero: Studies in Novelists
of the Twenties (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1956).
David H., 'Absalom Reconsidered', in William Faulkner.
Critical Assessments. Vol. III: Assessment of Individual
Works: From Sanctuary to Go Down, Moses and Other Stories,
ed. Henry Claridge (East Sussex: Helm Information, 1999),
Bryan S., 'Introduction', in Baroque Reason. The Aesthetics
of Modernity, by Christine Buci-Glucksmann (London: SAGE
Publications, 1994), pp. 1-36.