Virgil Suárez: In Thanks and Praise

Be as careful of the books you read as of the company you keep; for your habits and character will be as much influenced by the former as by the latter.
Paxton Hood

If we must
all die, why not drown in our own
words, our tongues rolling back
into our throats to reach happy notes.
Virgil Suárez, “My Need of Bruce Weigl,” 90 Miles: Selected and New Poems

Of all the writers I know, Virgil Suárez, a Cuban-American, is the most generous.

I met Virgil in 1997 when, as director of the Humanities Program at Appalachian State University, I helped sponsor his participation in the English Department’s Conference on World Literature. I was already a fan of Virgil’s work, having greedily devoured his four novels—The Cutter, Latin Jazz, Havana Thursdays, and Going Under—as well as Welcome to the Oasis, his first collection of short stories.

Several years earlier, Virgil played a key role in furthering my love for Latina and Latino fiction through Iguana Dreams—the magnificent anthology of short stories that he and his wife, Delia Poey, compiled and edited. For this blessing alone, I am forever in Virgil’s—and Delia’s—debt.

When Virgil visited Appalachian State, in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, he had recently published Spared Angola—a deeply moving and candid “autobiography” told in vignettes and verse. And as Virgil and I started to become friends, he mentioned that he was giving up fiction for poetry, which he described as his “passion.” At the time I questioned the wisdom of that decision—mostly for selfish reasons, being such a huge admirer of his novels. (Virgil has since published another collection of short stories, Infinite Refuge, so he hasn’t abandoned fiction altogether.) But today, almost ten years after that conversation, I realize that Virgil was right in following his writer’s heart—in pursuing his calling he has become one of the most highly regarded poets in American letters.

In the years that followed our first meeting (we’ve stayed in touch and our paths have crossed several times since), Virgil has wholeheartedly supported my entry into the world of fiction, and whenever I knock on his door in search of sage counsel, he always awards me a few minutes of his precious time. (It was Virgil who introduced me to Elaine Markson, the agent we share.) What’s more, he has encouraged and helped countless other aspiring authors. As I said earlier, Virgil’s the most generous of writers.

But the largest debt I owe him is a creative one.

The final chapter of Bernardo and the Virgin was, by far, the most difficult to write. In it, the author/character that brings the novel to a close embarks on a quest to tell Bernardo’s story shortly after experiencing a nervous breakdown. I wrote four different drafts of this chapter—all failures. In these, I was unable to describe such a crisis convincingly. A small knot still forms in the pit of my stomach whenever I recall the moment in which—feeling utterly defeated—I pressed the delete button, permanently erasing over fifty pages of painful writing.

At the time I started to believe that, having finally arrived at the last hurdle in my own quest to produce this novel, I was destined to fail. I brooded for days, unable to think of another way to conclude Bernardo and the Virgin. But to my good fortune, I was able, eventually, to suppress my panic and, in an inspired moment of lucid, rational thought, ask myself: have I ever read a novel in which a character suffers a complete emotional breakdown? The answer came to me at once: Going Under, by Virgil Suárez.

At the World Literature Conference where Virgil and I first met, I delivered a paper on Going Under as a part of a panel discussion on his fiction. Now, with the certainty that Virgil, once again, had something to teach me, I picked the novel off the bookshelf, reread it carefully—in the process remembering why I liked Going Under so much—and then let him show me how to put a character through a psychological meltdown. Afterward, with Going Under as my blueprint, I followed Virgil’s paces and successfully resolved my dilemma. The concluding chapter of Bernardo remains one of my favorites—and several readers have told me that it’s their favorite as well. And I’m always happy to share the story of Virgil’s “contribution” with them, adding that I’m lucky to have him as a friend and mentor.

In the acknowledgements of Bernardo, Virgil’s assistance is recognized, albeit cryptically: [to] Virgil Suárez (for helping me, by example, with the most difficult chapter of this book). But while writing what turned out to be the successful draft of the last chapter, it occurred to me that the best tribute I could give Virgil for his aid in rescuing my novel was to have Xavier Cuevas, the main character of Going Under, make a cameo appearance toward the end of Bernardo and the Virgin.

For his seemingly boundless generosity, for his apostolic zeal in spreading the good news about Latino and Latina literature, and, in particular, for allowing me to borrow his character to help me bring my first novel to its conclusion, I shall always be grateful to Virgil Suárez.