Neruda, p.52
Neruda, page 52
René de Costa’s insight lines this biography (somewhat separately, it was his call for a reappraisal of venture of the infinite man that catalyzed me to propose the project to City Lights). A coda to our Nerudian relationship occurred recently during a long afternoon spent with him in Barcelona, where he is now retired, just after I delivered this book to Ecco from its Catalan shores. The richness of the conversation we sustained recalled the time I first visited him at the University of Chicago in 2004. We had been participants together in events celebrating Neruda’s centennial that year. At the same time, René was preparing his office for that move to Spain. And at one point he reached up and plucked a woodprint from where it hung on the wall above his desk. It was the artwork from the cover of his seminal book The Poetry of Pablo Neruda. He handed it to me, saying something along the lines that I should have it. It’s a gesture that still humbles me, one that has fortified me through the fight to finish this book.
Along with what I have gained from these kindred scholars, my research is built upon the monumental work of some truly fastidious, impassioned erudites. Many of their names are signaled in the bibliography, but some merit extra recognition: the endnotes should testify to how important Dr. David Schidlowsky’s incredibly relentless research effort has been. The emotion we shared in our correspondence made all that information even more significant. I so appreciate the blessing he has given my venture. This book owes so much to him, as it does to Hernán Loyola and his tremendous, noble Nerudian work across the decades, from the many manifestations of his analysis to his scrupulous compilation of the Obras completas. Edmundo Olivares’s trilogy on Neruda’s experience abroad was broadening. Besides the value of his writings, Peter Wilson took the time to answer my doubts via email. Ever since our first café next to Chile’s Biblioteca Nacional, Raymond Craib has awed me with his insight. Fortunately his scholarship on the Chilean student movement is available for all to read through his writings. I met Federico Leal at a Nicanor Parra talk, where he turned me on to his exclusive look at Neruda’s relationship with opium and other facets of his time in the Far East. I appreciate his spirit and his willingness to share early drafts of his work with me. Roanne Kantor’s intuitiveness brought up groundbreaking questions about the Far East periods as well, most significantly around Josie Bliss. I am moved to laughter again recalling our conversations and the dynamism of Roanne’s genius. It was Megan Coxe who introduced me to Roanne; the two studied at Austin together. While Megan’s contribution to the seemingly ceaseless translation of original material was valuable, her friendship and grounding concern, particularly about this project, has been a warmth and a comfort.
Throughout the years, through his books and emails, the so cariñoso Bernardo Reyes, grandson of Neruda’s half brother, Rodolfo, provided many answers for me, especially with regard to his great-uncle’s childhood. He also generously allowed me to use photos from his precious collection. I also had the great fortune to have the help of the brilliant Patricio Mason, great-great-grandson of Charles Mason, head of the Temuco Mason clan.
I received invaluable research assistance in Santiago from a trio of young freshly graduated literary students. It started with Jimena Cruz’s diligent help, particularly obtaining articles from the National Library when little was digitalized yet. Later, Francisca Torres and Tania Urrutia provided consistently ingenious assistance. And on the other side of the Andes, Natalie Prieto was essential in educating me and aiding my research concerning Neruda’s time in Argentina. Above all, the friendship, the laughs, the learning.
Isabel Allende’s writing brought me to Chile before I set foot there. Upon my return, she doubled her influential effect, providing her time and thoughtfulness as she shared her personal connection to both poet and country with me directly.
So many have opened their doors to me throughout this journey, and a humble gracias to all those who invited me into their homes and their personal Nerudian worlds (or gave me time on the street): there are too many to list here without leaving some equally deserved mention out, but all their names, whether or not they appear on a page, are imprinted within. In memoriam, though: José Miguel Varas, Sergio Insunza, Sara Vial, Francisco Velasco, Marie Mariner. Lily Gálvez, who embodies humanitarian warmth, helped introduce me to many of Neruda’s friends in Santiago.
In 2015 I was invited into the home of Rosa Ermilla León Muller, the niece of Teresa León Bettiens, Neruda’s Temuco muse. The enchantment Teresa realized continues down the generations. Rosa, her children and grandchildren, and the laugher that afternoon just filled up my tank. Our continued long-distance communication has sustained the life-affirming fulfillment their spirit provides.
In Puerto Saavedra, where Pablo and Teresa’s romance played out along the shore, I was welcomed by the lively Eugenia Vivanca, head of the town’s library, which is a continuation of Augusto Winter’s, in which Neruda spent so many afternoons. She took me to the lost red poppy gardens and the specific hills sloping to the sea on which Neruda’s poetry and personality developed across so many crucial summers.
To the east of Puerto Saavedra and Temuco, in Pucón, up against the Andes, surrounded by snowcapped volcanoes, the hospedaje and ecoconservation base ¡Ecolé! often served as a home away from home during the writing of the book, and I am grateful to all those involved, especially Marta Barra. Following in that stream is Patrick Lynch, a persistently determined environmental lawyer, working to keep Patagonia’s rivers running wild. His insight, introductions, motivation, and friendship helped sustain the flow of this book.
From southern Chile to Northern California, where Cannon Thomas’s cognitive guidance and inspiration have helped empower me to have all that I hold essential in my heart breathe fully. Without that help, I highly doubt this book would have ever been finished. In San Francisco’s Mission district, thanks to Todd Brown and the Red Poppy Art House for the dynamic buttress. In Marin, Alexandra Giardino, champion and translator of Matilde Urrutia, has been such a champion supporter of all my work, and a champion of a friend. In Oakland, the novelist Carolina de Robertis and her beautiful heart provided strong, gemlike gleams to some sections of the text as well as thoughtful overarching insight and guidance. Raised in Oakland, Zafra Miriam was named for the sugarcane harvest in Cuba. When this manuscript was a wild field, she helped cut away the excess, creating the sweet. Stephanie Gorton Murphy, a talented wordsmith, also provided crucial help through a thorough, transformative edit. Carl Fischer and Teresa Delfin, both of whom I met in Palo Alto before they earned their PhDs, provided astute insight into linguistics and literature.
Moving south to Santa Barbara, where Aly Metcalfe introduced me to Mary Heebner (who pairs her paintings with Neruda’s poetry in sublime artist’s books) and her husband, the photographer Macduff Everton (whose breathtaking picture of Isla Negra is in this book). This joyous connection and our conversations of reverence for our mutual friend Alastair Reid, of Pablo, of traveling through Latin America, have filled me with beauty.
Out East, my thanks to the amazingly creative Ram Devenini’s constant encouragement and insight, and the AE Venture Foundation, which provided me with a generous grant to support the completion of this work. Leslie Stainton for her early encouragement, her ability to animate Lorca and Spain in her beautiful biography Lorca: A Dream of Life, and the insightful answers about those subjects she kept affording me. Unas gracias al poeta y profe Martín Espada. Keila Hand, obrigado, warmest heart from the depths of Brazil’s rain forests, who set forth to help sustain the forests of the world, who with her friendship helped sustain me through the completion of this book. Jonathan Denbo has always had my back and helped me keep my head up. Pedro Billig, camino sage, buena onda shepherd; and Dan Long too, their long unwavering run of respaldo and friendship since I met them in the fourth grade.
Washington: Shortly after I arrived, I was surprised by an email from Marie Arana, a golden-hearted literary powerhouse whose books I’ve adored. She wanted to use clips from my documentary as part of a Kennedy Center event on the “Tres Pablos”—Picasso, Neruda, and Pau Cassal. Ever since, her fervent support and guidance have continued to be crucial. John Dinges, who recently was awarded the Chilean government’s highest honor to foreigners for his journalistic work on the atrocities during the Pinochet regime, has given me hours of his time in various D.C. bars helping me wrap my head around all that history, most especially the phenomenon of the assassination presumptions. My thanks to the writer Roberto Brodsky, currently Chile’s cultural attaché, for his perspective and the doors he has opened. Renata Gorzynska was engaging in her help around Czeslaw Milosz’s interactions with Neruda and other leftists. At the Library of Congress—truly a world treasure—many have been incredibly helpful; above all, those in the Hispanic Division under the leadership of the amazing Georgette Dorn. Not only did they provide great assistance, but they made me feel so at home in their reading room. An additional thank-you to Cheryl Fox, head of the Manuscript Division. I’d also like to thank the Textual Records Division of the National Archives, in particular David Langbart.
As I finished the book in Washington, three friendships in particular have meant so much to me: Anna Deeny Morales, Gwen Kirkpatrick, and Vivaldo Santos. Each holds a beautiful mix of character and brilliance. All three are professors at Georgetown University, and I appreciate their intellectual contribution to this work. However, it is their emotional contribution to my well-being that has been so vital.
Quickly then, to across the pond: A flurry of excitement came over me when I first found Dr. John R. G. Turner’s letter in Neruda’s archives, announcing they wanted to name a butterfly after him. That joy has sustained: in between Dr. Turner’s long stints researching winged insects “in the wilds of Scotland,” we’ve begun our own correspondence, through the course of which in addition to sharing with me Neruda’s reply to his letter we’ve discussed a kaleidoscope of intriguing thoughts prompted by poetry and butterflies. Dr. Turner is not only an essential evolutionary biologist, but an award-winning translator of Verlaine. I appreciate him greatly.
In the home stretch, thanks to the journalist Mike Ruby for his benevolence in helping this manuscript find a home. He got it into the hands of Amy and Peter Bernstein, agents who time and time again have proven their warmth, and intelligence, and dedication to this project. I could not be more grateful for their trust. With thanks to Dan Halpern at Ecco, a publisher I’ve always considered to be the City Lights of New York, for the enthusiasm he’s displayed for the project. I could not have imagined a better outcome. At Ecco, among many, my sincere thanks to Bridget Read for enabling this book to reach its finest form, to Gabriella Doob for bringing it all together, to Nancy Tan for her astonishing copyedit, to Alison Law, who similarly blew me away with her proofread, to David Palmer and others in production for their patience and diligence, and to Miriam Parker, Meghan Deans, and Martin Wilson, for getting it out into the world. Finally, a deep sigh of awe and gratitude to Jillian Tamaki for the cover and Michelle Crowe for the design; a deep sigh of awe and gratitude to all who have joined this collective song.
Appendix I
Selected Poems in Their Full Length
Where Can Guillermina Be?
Where can Guillermina be?
When my sister invited her
and I went out to open the door,
the sun came in, the stars came in,
two tresses of wheat came in
and two inexhaustible eyes.
I was fourteen years old,
brooding, and proud of it,
slim, lithe, and frowning,
funereal and formal.
I lived among the spiders,
dank from the forest,
the beetles knew me
and the three-coloured bees,
I slept among the partridges
hidden under the mint.
Then Guillermina entered
with her blue lightning eyes
which swept across my hair
and pinned me like swords
against the walls of winter.
That happened in Temuco.
there in the South, on the frontier.
The years have passed slowly,
pacing like pachyderms,
barking like crazy foxes,
The soiled years have passed,
waxing, worn, funeral,
and I walked from cloud to cloud,
from land to land, from eye to eye,
while the rain on the frontier
fell in its same grey shape.
My heart has travelled
in the same pair of shoes,
and I have digested the thorns.
I had no rest where I was:
where I hit out, I was struck,
where they murdered me I fell;
and I revived, as fresh as ever,
and then and then and then and then—
it all takes so long to tell.
I have nothing more to add.
I came to live in this world.
Where can Guillermina be?
—From Estravagario (1958). Translated by Alastair Reid in Extravagaria, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1974.
Poem XV
I like it when you’re quiet. It’s as if you weren’t here now,
and you heard me from a distance, and my voice couldn’t reach you.
It’s as if your eyes had flown away from you, and as if
your mouth were closed because I leaned to kiss you.
Just as all living things are filled with my soul,
you emerge from all living things filled with the soul of me.
It’s as if, a butterfly in dreams, you were my soul,
and as if you were the soul’s word, melancholy.
I like it when you’re quiet. It’s as if you’d gone away now,
And you’d become the keening, the butterfly’s insistence.
And you heard me from a distance and my voice didn’t reach you:
it’s then that what I want is to be quiet with your silence.
It’s then that what I want is to speak to your silence
in a speech as clear as lamplight, as plain as a gold ring.
You are quiet like the night, and like the night you’re star-lit.
Your silences are star-like,
they’re a distant and a simple thing.
I like it when you’re quiet. It’s as if you weren’t here now.
As if you were dead now, and sorrowful, and distant.
A word then is sufficient, or a smile, to make me happy,
Happy that it seems so certain that you’re present.
—From Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada (1924). Translated by Robert Hass in The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems, City Lights Books, 2004.
A note on this translation and the art of translation in general: The literal translation into English of the first line of the opening and closing stanzas of Poem XV, “Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,” becomes “I like it when you become quiet because it’s as if you were absent.” But in the version above, Pulitzer Prize winner and U.S. poet laureate emeritus Robert Hass varies his translation from the traditional. His starts, “I like it when you’re quiet. It’s as if you weren’t here now.” “I was reading XV out loud to myself and it struck me that the alexandrines sounded exactly like an old Leonard Cohen lyric—‘Suzanne’—so I tried to render that rhythm,” he told me. He tried—and succeeded—to translate not just the meaning of the words but also the inherent poetry of the original. His decision was guided by “sound, which may or may not be a good reason. I was trying to imitate the meter, which ‘as if you weren’t here now’ fit and which the more abrupt ‘as if you were absent’ didn’t. ‘As if you weren’t here now’ sounded more like ‘porque estás como ausente,’ especially if the vowels are elided in ‘com’ausente.’”
Poem XX
I can write the saddest verses tonight.
Write, for example, “The night is filled with stars,
twinkling blue, in the distance.”
The night wind spins in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest verses tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times beneath the infinite sky.
She loved me, at times I loved her too.
How not to have loved her great still eyes.
I can write the saddest verses tonight.
To think that I don’t have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the verse falls onto my soul like dew onto grass.
What difference does it make if my love could not keep her.
The night is full of stars, and she is not with me.
That’s all. In the distance, someone sings. In the distance.
My soul is not at peace with having lost her.
As if to bring her closer, my gaze searches for her.
My heart searches for her, and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, of then, now are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, it’s true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched for the wind which would touch her ear.
Another’s. She will be another’s. As before my kisses.
