On Cien años de soledad

It would be a mistake to think of Márquez’s literary universe as an invented, self-referential, closed system. He is not writing about Middle-earth, but about the one we all inhabit. Macondo exists. That is its magic.
Salman Rushdie

One Christmas, when I was in my mid-twenties, my father, who managed a bookstore, gave me a gift.

“I think you’re going to like this,” he said as he handed me a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude, García Márquez’s highly celebrated novel in its English language translation.

During my years as an undergraduate student, I had strayed away from literature written in Spanish. On occasion I’d read my favorite poets, in Spanish—Pablo Neruda, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, and Ernesto Cardenal, mostly—but the novels I devoted my leisure time to were in English. (At the time my father gave me Cien años de soledad I was going through an obsessive J.R.R. Tolkien phase, having devoured The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings five times each.)

From the opening sentence, One Hundred Years of Solitude took possession of my heart. Halfway through the novel, I was dreading my eventual arrival to the book's last page; and throughout the entire reading, García Marquez’s work held me tightly in its spell. I never wanted that experience to end.

The characters and their stories, although greatly exaggerated, were so immediate, so familiar to me, that I could easily fool myself into believing that the Colombian writer had used several relatives from my grandparents’ generation, and quite a few of their friends, as his models. Interestingly, since then I’ve learned that many Latin Americans who’ve read this book have also felt the same way. Without a doubt, García Márquez was able to mine, masterfully so, the rich vein of our shared cultural heritage.

In addition, One Hundred Years of Solitude opened my eyes to the astonishing world of the Latin American novel. And this book, more than any other, was responsible for inspiring me to pursue a career in literature—both as a teacher and as a writer.

More importantly, though, Cien años de soledad made me immensely proud of my culture; and my father’s gift that Christmas confirmed what in my heart I had known all along—that the universe in which I spent my adolescence, all those years ago in Nicaragua, was, indeed, magical.

On a Governor’s Choice

Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.
J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, Book I, Chapter 2

If you should chance to bend the rod of justice, do not let it be with the weight of a bribe, but with that of pity.
Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote de la Mancha, Part II, Chapter XLII

Is Williams' redemption complete and sincere, or is it just a hollow promise?
Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger

I unchained my mind, and I did so through prayers and extensive study. I had to seriously question whether I was a human or a beast. In choosing not to be a beast, I discovered my humanity.
Stanley “Tookie” Williams

El poeta es un pequeño dios.
Vicente Huidobro


Stanley “Tookie” Williams was a fellow writer.

Sadly, Tookie’s decision to pen his thoughts may have sealed his fate. The co-founder and former member of the Crips was the author of Life in Prison and Tookie Speaks Out—the latter a series of eight books for children that warns them about the dangers of gang life. (There were numerous testimonies on Tookie’s behalf saying that Tookie Speaks Out had saved lives, steering young people away from gang membership. Proponents of Tookie’s execution countered that such claims cannot be measured because they are based on biased perceptions.)

In explaining his decision to forego clemency, Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger held that the dedication to Life in Prison was a clear indication that Tookie Williams’ redemption was neither “complete nor sincere.”

Furthermore, the governor’s official statement read: Specifically, the book is dedicated to “Nelson Mandela, Angela Davis, Malcolm X, Assata Shakur, Geronimo Ji Jaga Pratt, Ramona Africa, John Africa, Leonard Peltier, Dhoruba Al-Mujahid, George Jackson, Mumia Abu-Jamal, and the countless other men, women, and youths who have to endured the hellish oppression of living behind bars.” The mix of individuals on this list is curious. Most have violent pasts, and some have been convicted of committing heinous murders.

To choose an author’s dedication as the basis upon which to uphold his death sentence makes me, as a writer, shudder.

It’s also ironic that Governor Schwarzenegger—who has interpreted numerous characters born out of a writer’s imagination—would believe that by glancing at the opening words of a book he can see straight into an author’s soul.

Nothing can be further from the truth.

As a novelist, one of my greatest joys is to breathe life into my characters. Writers, as the Chilean poet Vicente Huidobro sagely stated, are small gods.

And although I’m privileged to create people, albeit fictional, as part of my profession, they often surprise me. In several instances I’ve seen them acquire a free will that leads them to behave in ways I never could’ve foreseen. Therefore, it’s impossible for me, in spite of being their maker, to look into their souls with complete insight. How, then, could I presume to perfectly understand what motivated them to commit a terrible act? Moreover, how could I bear witness as to whether they have truly repented, or not? I may have a good idea of what is going on in their minds, but I can never be completely sure.

That’s why I know that it’s impossible for any one person to gaze into the heart of another with full understanding.

Yet Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger believes he has this power.

On Tuesday, December 13, 2005, shortly after midnight, Stanley “Tookie” Williams’ heart stopped beating as a result of a lethal injection. At that hour he met his maker, who—and of this I’m absolutely sure—is the only being capable of determining whether Tookie had genuinely repented, or not.

The death penalty has been outlawed in eighty-nine nations (including Panamá and Nicaragua, the two countries where I've resided most recently). When I look at the list of those that still practice capital punishment, I’m embarrassed to see the name of the United States, my homeland, among them. If we are to call ourselves “Leaders of the Free World,” then I believe that we are also obliged to be the earth’s most merciful people.

In the case of California, my home state, Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger acted against the advice Don Quixote offered Sancho Panza when the squire was appointed governor of the Island of Barataria: “. . . mercy is more precious and resplendent in our sight than justice.”

I cannot comprehend why the Governor of California would chose to apply the full rigor of the law over the saving grace of clemency—especially in light of circumstances that left such a harsh judgment open to doubt. For me to understand what motivated Governor Schwarzenegger to allow a fellow human being to die, I would need to be able to look straight into his soul.

And only God can do that.

An Interview--Revisited

This interview appeared in the October 2004 issue of the Pananole News, the independent student newspaper at Florida State University-Panama. It was conducted by Phillip Dennis, former president of the Student Government Association, shortly after I had left that institution to write full-time, and after I had been honored with the Seminole of the Year award. Today, Phillip Dennis works in the Office of the Provost of the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where he is program coordinator for Diversity Education. I reread the interview recently, remembered how much I enjoyed Philly D’s work, and thought of sharing it.

Seminole of the Year

By Phillip Dennis

Seminole of the Year is an award created by the Student Government Association-Panama (SGAP) to recognize dedicated individuals who have contributed to enriching the FSU-Panama experience. This past year was the first time this award was presented. It was my honor to interview the recipient: Dr. Silvio Sirias.

Denis: Hello there, Dr. Sirias. I first want to thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to chat with the FSU-Panama community and with myself. To begin, can you tell us a little about yourself?

Sirias: Well, Philly. I’m a Los Angeleno, born in California. But I grew up both there and in Nicaragua, where my parents are originally from. My entire life I’ve dwelled in the interstices between Latin American and U.S. cultures and languages—like many people here in Panama. That experience, which I have loved, is at the core of who I am. It’s allowed me to make a living for the past twenty years or so.

Denis: Why you are here in Panama?

Sirias: I came to teach at the invitation of the former rector, Dr. Jeremy Brown.

Denis: Can you tell us the most impacting experience you’ve had here at FSU-Panama? Was it coming to one of our Seminole Nights or the Cookouts? Just kidding, you know.

Sirias: To be honest, the single moment of greatest impact was the first time I saw the entrance to the Canal and the Bridge of the Americas through a window on the third floor of the main building. That experience took my breath away. The sad thing is that as soon as I got here I was put to work in a room without windows. From that moment on all I had to look at was my office mate, Dr. Adolfo Leyva. Although he is stunningly handsome, it didn’t quite fulfill my dream of looking out at that beautiful sight of the Canal and of the Bridge while I worked. (Chuckles.)

Overall, however, my most wonderful experiences at FSU-Panama stem from my relationships with students. I fell in love with virtually every one of them. And that affection has been reciprocated. Hardly a day goes by without a student sending me an email to ask how I’m doing, calling me on the phone, or dropping by my house to visit. The students of FSU-Panama are very special people, and wherever I go they will always be dear to me.

Denis: In addition to being a teacher you are also an author. When was it that you knew you had to become a writer?

Sirias: I like the way you phrase it . . . “had to become a writer.” That’s a concept most people find difficult to grasp. The passion to write, the need to write, comes from some mysterious place deep inside a person. I knew that I enjoyed writing ever since I was an adolescent, but it wasn’t until about fifteen years ago that I decided to commit myself to mastering the craft. (But the truth is that the art of writing can’t be mastered—the payoff is you learn something new which each project.) It took a long time for me to find my “voice” as a writer of fiction, but every step of the journey has been worth it.

Denis: Having time off from academia, what do you miss most?

Sirias: At FSU-Panama, my contact with students. From my experience at larger academic settings I miss the wide range of ideas that professors constantly share with one another. There’s an awesome generosity of spirit in universities with ten thousand students or more. I miss that very much because I find it inspiring. On the other hand, that experience I can only find teaching in the States, and for the moment I prefer to reside in Latin America. Living here fuels my creativity.

Denis: Do you think that you’ll ever be back in the classroom?

Sirias: Definitely. I love teaching and I would miss it terribly. But for the moment I’ve got a lot of catching up to do on my writing. But just to keep in practice, during the Spring semester of 2005 I will be teaching a course at the University of Louisville. At the moment, teaching one course per semester suits me fine.

Denis: Where do you think would be the ideal place to teach as full-time faculty?

Sirias: That answer will vary with the abilities and interests of each professor. With regard to myself, I would be happiest in a university where the administration is supportive of a faculty member’s need to grow as a scholar and as a person. That means giving the faculty the time and the resources necessary for him or her to conduct research and to write.

Denis: How important do you think it is for faculty to publish in their respective fields?

Sirias: Again, it depends on the individual. In the U.S. there are institutions that don’t push for their faculty to publish. A person who wishes to rest on his or her laurels—that is, to complete their degree and produce little more—can find a home there. Research institutions, on the other hand, demand that their faculty publish. Personally, I’d be thrilled to be among the faculty at a university that pushes its professors to be on the cutting edge of their fields by generating new knowledge. If I do return to the States, to work at such an institution is my goal. I’m proud of my publication track record. I think I’ve proven that I can play in the big leagues, that I can test my ideas against the best in my field.

Denis: Would you recommend for students at the undergrad level to attempt to publish something?

Sirias: Yes. My advice is to start small. Write for the Pananole News, for example. Or, in a class that you particularly enjoy, try to blow the instructor away with an inspiring essay or research paper. Give yourself a bigger challenge with each effort. Who knows, maybe someday they’ll be calling to inform you that you’ve won the Nobel Prize. But if you care about writing, even if you don’t publish, keep on practicing. With each effort you’ll be getting better.

Denis: What can we expect from you next as a writer?

Sirias: Well, Philly, this is a very, very exciting time for me. My novel, Bernardo and the Virgin, is scheduled to be published on November 28 (there has been a slight delay in the production so the release date may be postponed). It will appear as part of Northwestern University Press’ Latino Voices series. I expect to be making several trips to the States to promote the novel.

Now that I have some time on my hands I’ve been writing up a storm. Within a few days I’ll be completing the draft of the next novel, which I started writing over two years ago. It’s titled Meet Me Under the Ceiba. I have to say that I’m thrilled with how well the story is turning out. I expect that by June, after countless revisions, the manuscript will be in the hands of publishers.

And after that I will begin research on a novel set in Panama. All my novels are based on true incidents, and there are a couple of stories in this wonderful country that I’m sure will fascinate readers in the States.

At present I’m fifty years old, my goal is to have six novels published by the time I hit sixty.

Denis: Any final words you would like to share with the students and the rest of the FSU-Panama community that is reading this?

Sirias: I just want to pass on something valuable I’ve learned from experience: live simply. That’s exactly what I’ve tried to do. In today’s world, the media brainwashes you. Television will convince you that the more you own—expensive cars, stereos, laptops, clothes, houses, cell phones, etc.—the happier you will be. That’s not true. What will happen is that you will accumulate all this stuff, but you will also have large monthly bills to pay. The trick is to live contentedly owning only the things you really need. Dump your credit cards because they can enslave you. Try not to owe a penny to anyone. That way, if someday you should find yourself without a job, instead of staying up late at night worrying about how you’re going to pay the bills, you can just kick back and relish the freedom.

Denis: Dr. Sirias, thanks once again for taking time away from your writing to chat with us. The students that knew you here at FSU-Panama deeply miss you, and we wish you the best with the rest of your career.

Cuban Identity as Dreamworld: On Reading Cristina García

To me, a story is always subject to competing realities. I try to capture something of that in the way I write my books. Ambiguity is generally more honest that absolutes.
Cristina García

Neurosis is the inability to tolerate ambiguity.
Sigmund Freud


During a conversation with Cristina García, I asked her about an incident that takes place in Dreaming in Cuban where a santera—a Santería priest—dissolves into nothingness as she stands before a house where she had been brought to perform a healing ceremony. The scene left me absolutely perplexed, but I also found it very believable.

“What made you decide to have the santera melt?” I asked Cristina.

“I really don’t know,” she answered. “It’s just the way the scene resolved itself.”

Can an author really hand over that much control of the narrative to the subconscious?

Since then, I’ve learned that the resolutions that surprise the author are the ones that leave the reader breathless. Moreover, Cristina’s access to the nether regions of her subconscious is so prodigious, so astounding, that she is capable of constantly bewildering herself, which in turn stuns her readers.

Years ago, when I first read Cristina’s first novel, Dreaming in Cuban, I fell madly in love with her narrative voice. And to this day, after keeping up with her subsequent works, The Agüero Sisters and Monkey Hunting, my infatuation with her writing style continues.

I’ve also been fortunate to have had several conversations with Cristina. She is intelligent, erudite, and witty. What’s more, she is one of the most unassuming authors I’ve ever met. Time passes far too quickly when one is with her.

The joy of reading her books ends much too swiftly as well—at least for me. Every time I turn the last page of one of Cristina’s novels I find myself wishing that the experience could go on forever.

In wonderfully poetic and sensual language, Cristina mines the richness of her Cuban-American heritage. And although the Cuban Revolution has a momentous impact on the lives of her characters, she doesn’t dwell on politics. Instead, Pilar from Dreaming in Cuban, Reina and Constancia from The Agüero Sisters, and Chen Pan from Monkey Hunting, discover that they have fallen into the gap between their family’s history and the myths they’ve created in order to overcome the pain and loss that resulted from their traumatic upbringings.

In the end, their search for personal truth and healing is far more important that the strife-ridden political circumstances that surround them. Remarkably, Cristina’s characters realize that bitterness and revenge are destructive forces, and because of this they invariably choose the path of reconciliation—with themselves as well as with others. In every one of Cristina’s novels, in spite of difficult loses, her central protagonists conquer their demons and successfully come to grips with the true purpose of their lives.

But what I like best about Cristina’s writing is the immense respect she has for the reader. She, like Miguel de Cervantes, is a master of ambiguity—or what literary critics today call indeterminacy—and they leave it up to the reader to resolve the nature of the reality described within the text.

During my last conversation with Cristina, I expressed how much I admired the opening of The Agüero Sisters, where a completely unexpected and cold-blooded murder takes place.

She smiled and then, leaning toward me to whisper as if the question she was about to pose was embarrassing, asked, “Can you tell me why he killed her?”

“Cristina,” I answered, “you wrote the book. You should know.”

“Well, I have a few theories about it, but I’m not really sure.”

And that, I believe, illustrates why Cristina’s novels are so magical.