Contemporary Basque Literature: Kirmen Uribe's Proposal 9783954871667

Table of contents :
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Part I: Contemporary Basque Literature
1. A Historical Perspective
Part II: Kirmen Uribe’s Proposal
2. The Grandeur of the Small
3. Bodies and Voices: Meanwhile Take My Hand
4. Four Boarding Cards for Bilbao-New York-Bilbao by Kirmen Uribe and One Coda
5. Identities in Diverse Societies in the Novel Bilbao-New York-Bilbao by Kirmen Uribe
Part III: Interview with Kirmen Uribe
6. Between Assimilation and Difference
Index

Citation preview

Contemporary Basque Literature: Kirmen Uribe’s Proposal By Jon Kortazar With the collaboration of Paulo Kortazar Translated by Cameron J. Watson

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Contemporary Basque Literature: Kirmen Uribe’s Proposal By Jon Kortazar With the collaboration of Paulo Kortazar Translated by Cameron J. Watson

Iberoamericana - Vervuert - 2013

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kortazar, Jon. Contemporary Basque literature : Kirmen Uribe’s proposal / by Jon Kortazar with the collaboration of Paulo Kortazar ; translated by Cameron J. Watson. pages cm Includes index. Original title: Bitartean New York. Kirmen Uriberen literaturgintza. Donostia: Utriusque, 2010. Direct translation from Basque, except chapter 6, “Interview with Kirmen Uribe: Between Assimilation and Difference,” by Paulo Kortazar, translated from Spanish. ISBN 978-1-936353-15-6 1. Basque literature--History and criticism. 2. Uribe Urbieta, Kirmen, 1970---Criticism and interpretation. I. Kortazar, Paulo. II. Watson, Cameron, 1967- translator. III. Title. PH5281.K66 2013 899’.9209--dc23 2013020730 Original title: Bitartean New York. Kirmen Uriberen literaturgintza. Donostia: Utriusque, 2010. Direct translation from Basque, except chapter 6, “Interview with Kirmen Uribe: Between Assimilation and Difference,” by Paulo Kortazar, translated from Spanish. All rights reserved: © Iberoamericana, 2013 Amor de Dios, 1 – E-28014 Madrid Tel.: +34 91 429 35 22 Fax: +34 91 429 53 97 [email protected] www.ibero-americana.net © Vervuert, 2013 Elisabethenstr. 3-9 – D-60594 Frankfurt am Main Tel.: +49 69 597 46 17 Fax: +49 69 597 87 43 [email protected] www.ibero-americana.net ISBN 978-84-8489-725-5 (Iberoamericana) ISBN 978-3-95487-101-8 (Vervuert) Depósito Legal: M-10632-2013 Cover: a.f. diseño y comunicación Printed in Spain The paper on which this book is printed meets the requirements of ISO 9706

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgments...............................................................................

7

Part i: Contemporary Basque Literature

1. A Historical Perspective.............................................................

11

Part ii: Kirmen Uribe’s proposal

2. The Grandeur of the Small........................................................ 3. Bodies and Voices: Meanwhile Take My Hand........................... 4. Four Boarding Cards for Bilbao-New York-Bilbao by Kirmen Uribe and One Coda............................................... 5. Identities in Diverse Societies in the Novel Bilbao-New York-Bilbao by Kirmen Uribe..................................

75 89 133 153

Part iii: Interview with Kirmen Uribe 6. Between Assimilation and Difference........................................

179

Index..................................................................................................

195



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Acknowledgments

This work was translated into English thanks to a translation grant from the Provincial Council of Bizkaia. This work has been published thanks to a grant from the Provincial Council of Bizkaia and the University of the Basque Country. This work is part of research project IT 851/13 by the Basque Government Research Network. Jon and Paulo Kortazar thank the generosity of Bulletin of Hispanic Studies (University of Liverpool) and the Spanish Journal Ínsula, where chapters 3 and 6 respectively where previously published. Jon Kortazar [email protected]

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Part i: Contemporary Basque Literature

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1

A Historical Perspective

In the pages that follow, I wish to outline the historical process of current Basque literature between 1969, the year I take to mark the beginning of its modernization, and the present. In order to do so, I will avail myself of the comments made annually by different literary critics and culture journalists in order to describe and reflect on the moment in question. This is an intermediate source located somewhere between histories of literature and day-to-day topical journalism that has proved valuable when it comes to contextualizing, from today’s perspective, the more general phenomena associated with the years under consideration here comprising the historical account of Basque literature. However, a more general reflection that connects these historical processes is also necessary, an outline that takes account of the key moments and dialectics of the historical processes described here. Basque literature is obviously a “small literature.” The adjective “small” does not just apply to size: the number of Basque speakers (approximately eight hundred thousand, almost all of whom are bilingual or trilingual), the number of authors (around three hundred), the number of potential readers, and the number of works published and sold. It is also a feature that can affect the way in which the literature itself is produced. To date, and probably erroneously, Basque literature has been deemed a “minor literature,” following the well-known thesis of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari (1986).1 Yet the concept of “minor literature,” that literature 1 Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature, trans. Dana Polan, foreword Réda Bensmaïa (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986).

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produced at the boundaries of a major language, does not appear to fit very well with a literature that is produced in a small language. For that reason, the concept of “small literature” would appear to be much more appropriate for the current Basque literature. In a “small literature” the dialectic between ideology and literary autonomy would seem to be one of the axes around which the day-to-day life of writers in that language revolves. Antón Figueroa has studied this process in the Galician case2 and in what follows we will see that, in the case of Basque literature, it is a never-ending focus of debate. Given the fact that within small literatures, because they exist in a permanent tension relating to their very survival (a survival of both their language and their identity), the dialectic between ideology and literary autonomy seems to be an important feature, one can verify that this has been expressed in multiple forms in the Basque case: there are debates over commitment as opposed to autonomy, over a literature committed to the national idea as opposed to what is deemed a more personal literature, and over a national or what is called here an identity literature and a literature that seeks to be cosmopolitan. On occasion, the first of these options has been labeled realism when it really meant the creation of a literature that would defend nationalist postulates as opposed to a more autonomous literature; or at such times, the name resistance literature was preferred over a more universal literature. Even studies and debates about postmodernity in Basque literature are influenced by that tension that Figueroa describes in the aforementioned work. However it is called, and bearing in mind that each name, as we will see, offered an extra dimension to that tension, that tense thread between ideology and autonomy is a constant feature of the period studied here. As such, Kirmen Uribe’s affirmation that Basque literature should by now be a literature that does not just imitate what comes from elsewhere, but that it should also serve as a source of imitation for other literatures, has come to imply a kind of manifesto within the debate carried out between these two points. There are other focal points of tension in “small literatures” that can also be seen in the Basque literature considered here. According to Deleuze and Guattari, a minor literature will display features such as linguistic deterritorialization, political totalization, and collective appropriation of the

2 Antón Figueroa, Ideoloxía e autonomía no campo literario galego (Santiago de Compostela: Laiovento, 2010).

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discourse.3 The first of these is the least applicable to a “small literature” because it asserts that an author will write in a language outside that of the national territory from which he or she comes. This was the case of Kafka, who wrote in Prague in the language of the German minority, as well as belonging to the Jewish minority.4 Yet the other two features are very noticeable in emerging literatures. Deleuze and Guattari contend that “the political domain has contaminated every statement”5 in such a way that “small literature” defines itself as a system of dissidence against another literature, against which it should construct and reaffirm its identity.6 The construction of Basque literature is recreated in a form of identity selfaffirmation that, as we have seen, has received several names varying from committed literature to that of resistance or national literature and proindependence or pro-sovereignty literature, in such a way that the social situation might be interpreted as a force that leads writers toward considering themes that are directly related to (the at times violent) Basque society. In fact, this identity or resistance stance is not defined in and of itself but rather, as we will see, by a tension with literature that seeks autonomy. Thus in the pages that follow I will highlight reflections that show the need for commitment or that emphasize the appearance of works that favor national or committed theses. But clearly this force is only evident in tension and is not accepted by everyone. The paradox of the Basque literary system is that this force might be hegemonic or widespread and at the same time appear, seeing itself as a victim, to be the least accepted or valued tendency by critics, especially those in the academic world. The tension, then, between that universal literature most resembling what is produced elsewhere in the world and identity literature is twofold: on the one hand, what in the global scene appears as “retrograde aesthetics” or “outdated aesthetics”—the influence of historical avant-gardes, for example, as a form of resistance against universal literature—appears in the Basque literary system as something that “one should do.” This is because it reaffirms political positions that seek to underscore it as a literature of resistance against global literature. Another significant element of tension in “small literatures” resides in the power of the excessive dimension accorded to the language used in literary 3 Deleuze and Guattari, Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature, 16–18. 4 Simona Škrabec, “Quê és una literatura menor?” L’Avenç 320 (2007), 4–6. 5 Deleuze and Guattari, Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature, 17. 6 Inmaculada López Silva, “Sistema teatral e Institucións,” Ph.D. diss, Universidad de Santiago de Compostela (2008), chap. 2.

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texts. It is common to hear that this literature prefers a “philologized” language, that it pays greater attention to the use of language than to undertaking literary objectives. Put this way, saying that “small literature” prefers language to literature might be an exaggerated statement. Yet understood in a nuanced way, in the Basque literary system the use of language is a literary value in itself. The Basque literary project demonstrates these kinds of cultural tensions in the period under consideration in the pages that follow.

1. The Year 1969: The Creation of a New Aesthetic Consciousness Different perspectives on the discussion as a whole of current Basque Literature tend to situate its takeoff at the moment General Francisco Franco (1892–1975) died and the Spanish political transition to democracy began. Thus, the chronology of literature takes as a starting point for its consolidation a piece of information from the political system within Spanish history. It is true that this change in the political order and the new climate of freedom created from that moment onwards consolidated the efforts that actors (writers, publishers, readers) in the Basque literary system had been carrying out for some years. Yet if we bear in mind the development of the literary system itself, it had already been strengthening—although in a very uneven way—several efforts that were going to flourish more vigorously with the disappearance of the Franco regime and the creation of democratic structures (with all their weaknesses, problems, and pacts) during the transition to democracy (1975–1982). In 1981, Jesús María Lasagabaster (1931– ) suggested 1969 as a crucial moment for the development of the Basque novel because in that year Ramon Saizarbitoria (1944– ) published his important novel Egunero hasten delako (Because Dawn Breaks Every Day).7 In this novel the author employed new literary techniques that departed from the traditional way of describing modernity and introduced new features into the way a novel’s narration is carried out. Moreover, there were 7 Jesus Maria Lasagabaster, “Euskal nobelaren gizarte-kondairaren oinharriak.” Euskal Linguistika eta Literatura: Bide berriak (Bilbao: Universidad de Deusto, 1981), 343–368. Translator’s note: Where no published English translation of a work exists, a translation will appear in parentheses. If a work has been translated into English, the translated title will be given in italics together with the original publication date.

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certain sociological characteristics that stood out as part of Ramon Saizarbitoria’s narrative, which were not unique within his overall production. For example, this was an author who had studied at university in Switzerland, with a deep knowledge of the latest developments in the European novel and particularly that of France. Indeed, contemporary Basque culture owed much to the French example. As opposed to the traditional Basque novel that situated its plots in rural settings, the characters’ activities in this new narrative raised questions about contemporary youth. In fact, in Egunero hasten delako Saizarbitoria highlighted the absurdity of the fact that abortion was legal in some Swiss cantons yet not in others; which leads one to conclude that in 1969, during the Franco regime, he was in favor of legalizing abortion. The fact that the novel was written in Euskara (the Basque language) likely meant that it eluded the censors without any problems and could be published. The issue was central to the cultural climate of the time. Indeed, it was central to another novel, Tiempo de silencio (1962; Time of Silence, 1964), written in Spanish by another novelist residing in Donostia-San Sebastián, Luis Martín Santos (1924–1964). The truth is that 1969 did not just mark a milestone for the Basque novel. Three other books were published that year which from a historical perspective can be considered essential to the development of Basque literature. First, there was the poetic text Isturitzetik Tolosan barru (From Izturitz, Without LeavingTolosa, 1969). This was a multimedia piece of work by JosAnton Artze (1939– ), which included painting, music (a record, now a CD, accompanied the book), and a black box with a poem inside, written from an avant-garde perspective and was inspired specifically by the music. Artze wanted to achieve something similar to that of the compositions of John Cage, who had taken part in what was known as the Pamplona Encounter (1973). In his book, Artze blended the verbal component of his poems with a visual composition that aided and completed their meaning. Then, Juan San Martín (1922–2005), a poet who was part of the social literature movement, published Uhin berria (New Wave), an anthology of new Basque poetry. It is worth examining the title of this collection in greater detail because it offers a clear indication of the cultural atmosphere at the time. First, it would appear to be a direct translation of the French nouvelle vague, made up of important directors like François Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard. This was a movement of filmmakers from the neighboring country who, between the late 1950s and early 1960s, attempted to create a cinema based on freedom of expression and technical autonomy.

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In this sense, the book’s title would support the idea of a significant French presence among the Basque intelligentsia. Moreover, in Spanish circles the term “new wave” referred to a movement of renovation and cultural change among young people at that time; in other words, the “pop” culture of urban youth. Finally, with regard to the importance of 1969, I would also cite the volume Euskal Elerti 69 (Basque Literature 69). This was a compilation of works in a publication made up of 551 pages edited by Gabriel Aresti (1931–1975), one of the most emblematic poets in Basque literature. In 1968 he had published a book of poems, Euskal Harria/Piedra Vasca (Basque Stone), and was one of the principal reference points of Basque literature and culture at that time. Euskal Elerti 69 highlighted the precarious nature of the Basque literary system during the era. It sought to bring together the contemporary production of Basque writers within one single volume and to offer a platform on which to convey by means of an annual review the creations of Basque authors from different genres who had no other customary channels in which to be published and distributed. In other words, this volume came as a means to help spread knowledge about young authors who lacked the normal channels to publish their work in individual books – which in turn demonstrated, precisely, the weakness of the system. This experience was repeated in 1972 with the publication of Euskal Literatura 72 (Basque Literature 72). This brittle and weak panorama in the Basque literary system, whose most solid feature was the existence of the Lur (“land” or “earth”) publishing house that had published both Saizarbitoria’s book and Aresti’s collection, did however demonstrate a new collective creative consciousness with the appearance of novels and poetry that are now considered key in Basque literary history. Nor should one forget the political climate in the Basque Country. The armed organization ETA (founded in 1959), which at that time enjoyed certain sympathy and approval or at least no condemnation among nationalist sectors in Basque society, carried out its first assassination in 1968: a Civil Guard, José Pardines. Following a chase, the person responsible for the assassination, Txabi Etxebarrieta (1944–1968), was also killed. Etxebarrieta had been a major intellectual influence on significant numbers of young Basques, and these deaths shocked Basque society. This all leads to two important conclusions. In the first place, one should highlight the impact of the whole ideological, political, and cultural

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magma of the 1968 protests, with the events in May in France influencing a revolution of the creative foundations of the Basque Country. This facilitated the first stirrings of postmodernism in the aforementioned works by Ramon Saizarbitoria and JosAnton Artze; a topic that demands a more detailed examination than is possible here. In the second place, one should make clear the chronological importance of 1975 and beyond. Without underplaying the transformation implied by the major socialization of the Basque language and literature following the passing of laws designed to this effect after 1975, certain aesthetic and creative foundations had already been set down in the late 1960s.

2. The Institutionalization of Basque Literature: the 1980s Following the death of the dictator Francisco Franco and the arrival of the democratic system, the Basque literary system enjoyed a period of reaffirmation, of creating cultural foundations, and of both artistic and commercial expansion: in short, a moment of institutionalization. This would take place not without tension, debates, and problems that writers and agents of the literary system raised within the boundaries of Basque literature. At the moment in which a new political system was being established in Spain, Basque literature would also enjoy a major period of development. This went hand-in-hand with the creation of a political system in the Basque Country as well, through the establishment of an autonomous community within what was called the state of the autonomies. There is general agreement among historians of Basque literature about the importance of the political regulation of the autonomous community following the passing of the Statute of Autonomy of the Basque Country (1979). This brought an end to a long political process of democratic renewal in Spain. In a short space of time a number of significant events took place in Spanish society. In 1976 the law on political reform was passed by referendum, and this led to a new political structure in Spain. In 1977 general elections to the Spanish parliament were called and held. The following year, 1978, was crucial in that laws were passed that would lead to the Spanish political transition, through the replacement of the dictatorship with a democracy. A law on pre-autonomy for the Basque Country was passed, and that same year an embryonic Basque government was set up, the Basque General Council. The

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Spanish Constitution, a key element in the transformation of society, was also passed. In 1979 general elections to the Spanish parliament were called, as were municipal elections that were intended to renovate city councils. The Statute of Autonomy was also passed, leading to the creation of the Basque parliament in 1980. And in 1981 the fiscal pacts (conciertos económicos), imbuing the Basque provincial councils (Diputaciones) with fiscal and economic authority within the complex institutional framework of the Basque Country, were reinstated. Put another way, the Basque Country enjoyed a certain fiscal independence within the Kingdom of Spain. This set of political processes meant that the Basque Country became an important agent within the creation of democracy in Spain. Certain important qualifications should be added to the panorama described here. First, this whole process was related to the institutionalization of the Basque language and literature in the Autonomous Community of the Basque Country, and did not apply to the Foral Community of Navarre.8 Here, Euskara was also spoken yet it had a weaker presence in the educational system and the process of institutionalization was slower (the foral law on the normalization of the Basque language was passed in 1986). Nor did some of the legislative changes described here take effect in that other region where Basque is also spoken: Iparralde (the “northern region” in Euskara) in the terrain of the French Republic. Yet on the contrary, it is clear that the institutional development of the Basque Autonomous Community (also known as Euskadi) favor—as a result of grants established by the Basque government—literary creation and publication in both Navarre and Iparralde. Second, a wide-ranging political debate accompanied this historic process. Those in favor of maintaining the political process debated with those who advocated breaking with the historic process and, ultimately, with the democratic system itself. Right-wing parties (which currently make up the Partido Popular or People’s Party, PP), the Partido Socialista Obrero de Euskadi (PSE, the Socialist Workers’ Party of Euskadi), and the Partido Nacionalista Vasco (PNV, Basque Nationalist Party) aligned in legitimizing the process. The Basque nationalist left (Herrin Batasuna or Popular Unity, HB) advocated breaking with the process. This debate was more intense within the world of the Basque language and literature, in which 8 Translator’s note: The adjective foral derives from the noun fuero. The fueros (plural) were laws and charters historically forming a system of common law in Araba (Álava), Bizkaia (Vizcaya), Gipuzkoa (Guipúzcoa), and Navarre.

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the Basque nationalist left enjoyed a not at all symbolic preeminence, and in which it debated against the moderate nationalism of the PNV. How did all of this affect the Basque language and literature? The legislative branch of the Basque parliament advocated a policy defending and promoting the Basque language, and this clearly affected Basque literature as well. The passing of the law on the normalization and use of the Basque language (1982) is fundamental when it comes to understanding the social process and the development of literature in Euskara. The law addressed the teaching of the Basque language and literature in Basque schools. It regulated the form in which Euskara would be taught in public schools, in such a way that this allowed for the unprecedented presence of the publishing world in Basque society. The need to create, develop and subsequently distribute textbooks in the Basque language allowed publishing houses to consolidate their businesses financially, and thereby allowed them to grow exponentially. Thus, while Basque publishing houses published 103 books in 1974, by 1990 they were publishing 850 books annually.9 Institutionalization was accepted in other fields of establishing structures in the Basque language. Basque public television, Euskal Telebista (ETB), a station created with the aim of offering programs in Euskara, was created in 1983. It later established a second channel, ETB-2, which offered programming in Spanish. Other elements that aided in strengthening the Basque literary system centered on different associations that encouraged literary creation. Thus, the Euskal Idazleen Elkartea (EIE, Association of Basque Writers) was created in 1982 (www.idazleak.org/english). Its goals were modest but with a clear aim in mind: that of protecting copyright earnings for authors; a right that, as is well known, may extend to ten percent of the final price of books. These books did not normally achieve very high sales figures, yet this was a statement of intent that demonstrated the association’s will to defend the position of writers within the literary system and underscored the importance of making it a professional concern, however precarious it may be. As well as writers, other artists decided to join together in institutions that might serve as an aid to the different protagonists of the Basque literary world. First, the Euskal Itzultzaile, Interpretari eta Zuzentzaileen Elkartea (EIZIE, Basque Association of Translators, Interpreters, and Copyeditors) was established in 1987 (www.eizie.org) as a platform to defend the rights of professionals working in the field of translation. Mean9 Joseba Intxausti, Euskera, la lengua de los vascos (Donostia: Elkar; Gobierno Vasco, 1992), 181.

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while, other associations such as the Bertsozale Elkartea (the Association of the Friends of Bertsolaritza), also created in 1987, protect and encourage bertsolaris (Basque oral improvisers).10 The institutionalization was especially strong in the field of education. The Basque language was introduced into high schools and the first qualified teachers took up their positions in 1982. Similarly, Basque philology studies were also introduced: first at the religious University of Deusto in 1976, and then in 1978, under the tutelage of Professor Koldo Mitxelena at the University of the Basque Country. Indeed, at the latter institution, certain subjects in the physical, mathematical, and medical sciences were also taught in the Basque language. Education, radio, television, and publications all came to make up a social framework that in turn encouraged literary creation. One might describe these several characteristics as those that demonstrated a panorama that was heading toward the greater professionalization of writers, toward the disappearance of single-work authors who approached literature with a didactic aim to teach the language rather than any aesthetic goals, toward the multiplication of aesthetic forms in such a way that there no longer existed only one form of literary expression, toward a literature based on simple writing that was understandable to all readers (who were mainly to be found in schools), and toward the preeminence of children’s and young adult literature. This debate might be summed up by two attitudes: artistic creation (and consumption) in Euskara because of activism (whether political or ideological, in order to help develop the language) or because of professionalism or institutionalism. The debate centered on voluntary will (with a measure of idealism) as opposed to pragmatism (with a measure of economic materialism). The institutionalization of the Basque language and literature, in a word of Basque culture, offered the possibility of making them more professional. And once the Basque public administration was established, it was offered the possibility of entering into the civil service. This transformational capacity would be especially evident in the world of publishing in Euskara. From being a more or less amateur endeavor, it became a highly professional industry. Gabriel Aresti, the main symbol of 10 Translator’s note: Bertsolaritza is the art of Basque oral improvised verse. Bertsolaris improvise this oral poetry in a variety of settings (postprandial recitals, performances, competitions, and so on).

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Basque poetry who had created the Lur publishing house, died in 1975. Subsequently, from being the main publishing house in the Basque language it suffered a certain decline, although it still retains a commercially viable position at present. In the late 1970s and early 1980s several important publishing initiatives were carried out. Some of these concerned the creation of leading publishing houses. Elkar (“together”) was established in 1975 and Erein (“to sow”) in 1976. There were other looser initiatives aimed at publishing more risky collections and more in keeping with a more activist, avant-garde, and ephemeral outlook, such as the Ustela Saila (“rotten collection”) literary collection in 1977 or that of the Susa publishing house. Moreover, several other initiatives were aimed at publishing literary journals. These were especially important in the 1980s as the breeding ground for new writers, but they have little influence today. These journals included: Ustela (“rotten”), 1975–1976; Pott (“failure”), 1978–1980, founded by Bernardo Atxaga together with other writer colleagues; Oh Euzkadi (Oh Basque Country), 1979–1983; Susa (a polysemic word that means both “mushroom” and “sex,” as well as being a city, Sousse, in Tunisia), 1980–1994; and Maiatz (May), 1982–present. This latter journal compiled Basque-language literary creation in France, with laudable energy and little financial assistance. At the beginning of the 1980s, bearing in mind those that published Basque literature emblematically, the publishing industry panorama was made up of the following three publishing houses: Erein, which emerged from the Gero (“after”) publishing house, owned by the Society of Jesus; Elkar, which was created from a book distribution company and was the first Basque enterprise to combine all aspects of the publishing industry (publishing, distribution, direct sales through its own bookstores, all making up a powerful network that tended toward a monopoly); Pamiela, based in Pamplona, Navarre, and established by a cultural activist, Txema Aranaz; and Susa, the platform created by new writers and that was founded on the basis of a journal of the same name. Listing these publishing houses allows one to examine them systematically, from the religious and humanist connotations of Erein to the nonconventional, cutting-edge undertones of Susa, by way of the aestheticism of Pamiela and the solidarity within Elkar. Yet at the same time, the first works to be published in collections emerging during these years are no less representative. Indeed, with slight modifications, they have remained equally representative to this day.

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In 1977, the Ustela Saila collection by the Lur publishing house chose to publish the poetic text Oinaze zaharrera (Toward the Old Suffering) by Koldo Izagirre (1953– ), and reprinted Saizarbitoria’s Egunero hasten delako that had been originally published in 1969. Today, these authors are emblematic representatives of two tendencies in Basque literature: of avant-garde poetry in the case of the former, and of ambitious narrative in the case of the latter. The Erein publishing house began its literary output that same year, 1977, with the poetic work Ilargiaren eskolan (In the School of the Moon) by Juan Mari Lekuona (1927–2005). In 1979, the Hordago (an expression from the card game mus implying to call someone’s bluff or challenge them) publishing house published Zergatik panpox (Why, Darling?) by Arantxa Urretabizkaia (1947– ). That same year, too, Abuztuko 15eko bazkalondoa (The AfterLunch Talk of August 15) by Joxe Austin Arrieta (1949– ) was also published after winning an important literary prize. At the time it was a widely read and analyzed work. The Elkar publishing house chose Narrazioak (Narrations) (1983) by Joseba Sarrionandia (1958– ) to launch a literary collection that survives to this day. And Susa began its publications in 1983 with the work Anfetamiña (Amphetamine) by Xabier Montoia (1955– ). The listing I have just made consists of and recounts the aesthetic innovations and play among different positions that could be found in Basque literature, the aesthetic gestures that emerged in this literary space, and the initial prefiguring of a canon. Many things happened in the Basque literary system between 1977 and 1983. The aforementioned list includes the aesthetic symbolism of Juan Mari Lekuona, the author with the longest trajectory in the previously cited panorama, and the symbolic fantasy narrative of Joseba Sarrionandia, the youngest of the authors listed. Some of the authors mentioned can be situated in the historic avant-garde (Koldo Izagirre), and there are also novelists who had already been published in 1969 (Ramon Saizarbitoria). Meanwhile, feminism makes its first appearance with Arantxa Urretabizkaia, who was heavily influenced by Simone de Beauvoir (1908–1986). This was a literature that looked toward the future, the avant-garde, and feminism, but at the same time included writers with a significant past, such as Juan Mari Lekuona and Ramon Saizarbitoria. While the agents of social institutionalization (government agencies and publishing houses) were reinforcing the structures of the social system, writers were creating works that, from a historical perspective, now appear emblematic in the evolution of Basque literature. In 1978, Bernardo Atxaga (1951– ), the best known Basque writer outside the

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Basque Country, published the book of poems Etiopia (Ethiopia). Prior to this, Atxaga had written a theatrical work that was published by Gabriel Aresti which passed by unnoticed and an apocalyptic novel that did not enjoy much success among the public. Ziutateaz (About the City), published in 1976 and written by Atxaga while he was doing compulsory military service, centered on an uprising against a tyrant. This topic had already been explored quite thoroughly in Latin American literature, in works such as Yo, el Supremo (1974; I, the Supreme, 1986) by Augusto Roa Bastos and Conversación en la Catedral (1969; Conversation in the Cathedral, 1975) by Mario Vargas Llosa. Atxaga also added an expressionist style to the novel and it was connected to the later book of poems by its consideration of the dictatorship. Etiopia owed much to expressing a blend of the symbolist style—it confessed explicitly to being indebted to Marcel Schwob (1867–1905)—with the historic avant-gardes and expressionism. This work brought about a substantial change in the artistic creation associated with Basque literature and a transformation of its coordinates. The avant-garde and violent expression played off one another in a commitment to expressing a chaotic world, but one that was intelligible in the context of the global economic crisis in which the work appeared. The circles in which the work is structured invite the reader to undertake a journey into hell, as did Dante in his Divine Comedy, but with a clear allusion to surrealism and irrationalism that imbue new meanings to Atxaga’s work and the creation of Basque literature. It has often been remarked that the title reflects a contraposition of the concept of utopia in such a way that the book appears as “uchronie,” utopia turned upside down.11 It seems clear to me that the historic context—always so important in Atxaga’s literary composition— plays a vital role here. The war that devastated Ethiopia in 1974 and that culminated with the overthrow of the kingdom of Haile Selassie (1892–1975)—a dictator, thereby indicating a clear connection with Ziutateaz—and the famines that followed both contributed to creating the work. Atxaga’s work Etiopia expressed angst for change, for a world that had ended and a world not yet arrived, and perhaps this explains its apocalyptic and violently expressive connection. 11 Translator’s note: “Uchronie” is a neologism based on adding the prefix –u to chronos, the Greek for time. In this sense “uchronie” implies a time that does not exist or a “nontime.” In a similar way, “utopia” is a place that does not exist or a “non-place.”

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One should bear in mind, however, that this work has only been printed twice (the original edition in 1978 and a reprint in 1983) and thereafter the author denied any permissions to reprint it, at least as he had done originally. This perhaps indicates the final meaning of the work more than its innovative nature, although its irrational avant-garde writing style has been a major influence on the poetic creation of all subsequent young Basque poets. More of a farewell work than the dawn of a new age, Etiopia—which has also been interpreted as an initial foray into postmodernity because of a poem that speaks about the dissolution of identity and fragmentation of the text and the subject—can be interpreted in parallel fashion to two works dating from the same era that rejuvenated Galician and Catalan aesthetics: Con pólvora e magnolias (With Gunpowder and Magnolias, 1976) by Xose Luis Méndez Ferrín (1938– ) and Estimada Marta (Dear Marta, 1978) by Miquel Martí i Pol (1929–2003), respectively. Together with the social and administrative institutionalization of Basque literature a literary practice emerged that, although with its ups and downs, demonstrated a new social conscience in literary creation. Authors for the most part did not display a strictly professional approach when it came to literary writing, although such an approach was perceptible in certain circles. Most undertook literary endeavors by means of an activism in defense of the Basque language, seeking to make sure the language did not perish rather than for financial reasons. This attitude that was so evident among most authors was not so clear when it came to the publishing houses. Here, within the true exponents of literary change in Basque literature in recent years, financial and market concerns—if only as a means of being able to pay their workers’ wage packets each month—were more important and this dose of realism gradually extended little by little to other literary authorities. At this time, Basque authors preferred poetry for both financial reasons (it costs less to publish poetry than novels) and socioliterary motives (one only need know a particular language to write poetry, whereas to produce a novel one must be aware of a social idiolect). Thus, single-work authors were promoted. As is often the case in a small literature, writers came to literature attracted by its “symbolic capital” and its strong sense of identity, yet they needed the help and support of a literary society to maintain their place there. The institution formed by the community of the Basque language, the universe of Euskara, offered a professional outlet to those writers who moved away from literature and into journalism, television (as scriptwriters), teach-

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ing, publishing houses, and so on. If during the initial moments of the era being described here the image of writers was associated with being a teacher of Euskara, there was soon a wider socialization of this profile and journalists took over the image from teachers. At the same time, market concerns began to gain (although imperceptibly) increasing importance in the institution of Basque literature, in such a way that publishing houses and readers made it clear that they preferred products that sold more easily in the market over more profound yet minority creations. Following institutionalization there came a socialization of the literary market.

3. From 1983 to the Publication of Obabakoak (1988) by Bernardo Atxaga The political transition to democracy in Spain ended officially in 1982 with the arrival of the Partido Socialista Obrero Español (PSOE, the Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party) in government. Of course, as in all such historic processes, this did not herald the end to all tension among the subjects of this process. Changes in the Basque literary system were already underway, but in parallel fashion, 1983 marked the year in which there was an appreciable growth of short stories within this same system. As a consequence, poetry, which had occupied a central place within the system, began to lose ground. In 1983, ten books of short stories were published (out of 401 books published in Euskara), most of which were written by authors of novels and among which one might highlight the following: Narrazioak by Joseba Sarrionandia, Panpinen erreinua (The Kingdom of the Dolls) by Mikel Hernández Abaitua (1959– ), Dudular by the member of the Pott group Jose Mari Iturralde (1951– ), and Ilusioaren ordaina (The Payment to Hope) by Laura Mintegi (1955– ). Among those works by authors already known in Basque letters, I would cite the short stories of Arantxa Urretabizkaia, who published Aspaldi espero zaidulako ez nago sekulan bakarrik (Because I’ve Been Waiting for You for a Long Time I’ve Never Been Alone) and the collection Gau ipuinak (Night Tales) by Mario Onaindia (1948–2003). Sarrionandia’s work has achieved special recognition in the Basque literary universe. Two other books of short stories followed this to complete a full cycle of literary creation. Narrazioak (1983) offered ten very different

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short stories. As occurs in societies with a diglossic or weak language in the face of one or more powerful neighboring ones, Sarrionandia’s literature attempted to offer diverse narrative forms in the weak language in order to demonstrate that the minoritized language was just as capable as its more powerful counterparts of creating different kinds of texts. Thus, the short stories range from lyrical dreamlike tales to deconstructed texts, from realist political stories to non-structured narration, from magical tales to expressionist stories, from cultivating debate to expressing his poetics, and from Kafka to Borges.12 Thereafter, in the works that followed, Sarrionandia cultivated similar features to those of his first foray in the world of Basque short stories: Atabala eta euria (The Drum and the Rain, 1986), whose title reminds one of The Sound and the Fury (1929) by William Faulkner (1897–1962) and thus follows a general discovery of Faulkner in Spain from the 1960s on; and Ifar aldeko orduak (The Northern Hours, 1990). Interestingly, all three works contain ten short stories. On completing the thirtieth and last of these there is a reference to a writer who is working on a book of ten short stories. A brief synopsis of each of the stories follows this in such a way that in this final tale a backward glancing loop is completed that summarizes, in one narration and in miniature, Sarrionandia’s whole narrative development. And this unitary consciousness is curious because the author always defended the idea of his works not displaying any unity that might lead them to be considered as books about one single thematic unit, or cycles of stories, but rather that they should maintain a diversity of subjects. Sarrionandia’s poetics highlighted the fact that each story should have an “it,” a mystery, something special that made it attractive to readers, and that was the dominion of that resource, that “it” that made the book important. However, this last tale in the final book of short stories indicates that, a posteriori, the author carried out a reflection with the goal of combining his entire production of short stories that were thereby located in a unity of meaning. Yet besides the presence of new authors, Basque literary society and its weakness—artists that were looking for the swift publication of their books, a rush when it came to publishing and a rapid search for readers— 12 Translator’s note: One of the stories in this work, “Marinel zaharrak,” has been published in English. See “The Ancient Mariner,” trans. Linda White, in An Anthology of Basque Short Stories, ed. Mari Jose Olaziregi (Reno: Center for Basque Studies, University of Nevada, Reno, 2004), 205–211.

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supported the publication of short stories. In the following lines, Álvaro Rabelli records the conditions that aided this growth in publication of short stories: Some key explanations for the success of the short story include: - A consciousness of the genre demonstrated by the authors. - The international success the genre was achieving. - The increasing amount of prizes for short stories. - The demand in schools for writing short texts. - The work in favor of short stories by journals. - The commitment of publishing houses. Young writers responded by publishing collections of short stories in response to the demand for texts that improved the market. - The attention of readers to short stories, which facilitated the successful publication of collections of short stories.

As a consequence, 1983 became a milestone in the history of the Basque short story.13 That same year, Anjel Lertxundi (1948– ) published an important novel, Hamaseigarrenean aidanez (Apparently, It Happened the Sixteenth Time), which had won the Jon Mirande Prize instituted by the Basque government in 1982. Despite the fact the title appears picturesque, the novel was seeking through Gabriel García Márquez (1927– ) to rejuvenate Basque realism by means of a detective novel that examined the role of women in a closed setting, explore the narrative plots surrounding the disclosure of an accidental death, and also reflect on the roots of the violence (including that of terrorism) that was taking place in the Basque Country. As we can see, those authors born in the 1940s (Saizarbitoria in 1944, Urretabizkaia in 1947, and Lertxundi in 1948) came to occupy central positions in the Basque literary system, while at the same time an overhaul of the system was being carried out by writers born in the 1950s (Atxaga in 1951, Izagirre in 1953, and especially Sarrionandia in 1958). This is a panorama that extends to this day, given that these same writers are still at the center of the Basque literary system. 13 Álvaro Rabelli, “Sarrera. Gaurko euskal ipuingintzaren historia. 1983/2003,” in Egungo euskal ipuingintzaren historia, supervised by Jon Kortazar, ed. Álvaro Rabelli (Leioa: Servicio Editorial de la UPV-EHU, 2011), 52.

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One should add to these the figure of Joan Mari Irigoien (1948– ), who belongs to the same age group. In the period under discussion here he published two important novels: Poliedroaren hostoak (The Faces of the Polyhedron, 1983) and Udazkenaren balkoitik (From the Fall Balcony, 1987). Influenced by the power of the Latin American novel, Irigoien (who had lived in Latin America) constructed novels from a foundation made up of the history of the Basque Country as a way to understand the contemporary world, connecting family history to social history. He did, however, make use of a structure of joining opposites and alternating chapters that offered stillness to his narrative. From 1984 on, the journal Argia (Light) published a yearly review titled Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (Basque cultural annual), followed by the year that it referred to. Obviously, this journal is most useful to cultural historians. Authors of the summaries of Basque literature were not named, but it was obvious which were the most important features of the year in question for these anonymous writers. For them, these years ran from September—or December of the previous year—to September of the year the annual was published, which came out officially in December. This publication allows us to follow quite precisely some of the features associated with the process of the Basque literary system. In 1984 (and applying to 1983 as well) the writer of the yearly summary underscored the fact that the main features that year had been the consolidation of narrative, grants by the Basque government aimed at helping to publish books, the importance of literary prizes, and the publishing of literary journals. The title of the summary was an important indicator of the situation: “Literature: Richness in the Imbalance.” Basically, there was a dual effect in perceiving the status of Basque literature. On the one hand, it noted the feeling that a literature capable of offering a series of creative texts was being produced that gave readers the impression of coming across great creative variety and depth; on the other, it noted the sensation that Basque literature was experiencing an uneven situation. This dual perception did not hide the fact that the four topics of consideration listed that year were going to frame Basque literary creation for years: the survival of narrative was assured. In a literary society that was abandoning the activist mentality in order to embrace—initially by way of the publishing houses—a culture that was attentive to market needs, to a businesslike and industrial attitude that was looking for profitability in its

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publications, or simply to being able to pay its employees, very soon narrative (obviously) came to occupy the central golden place of poetry. This process was the result of three key factors: the commercial factor, because it was the biggest selling genre; the pedagogical factor, because schools were encouraging the idea of reading as much narrative as possible (a genre that would soon be competing in this context with children’s and young adult literature); and the social factor, because the reading masses were demanding literary products that were quickly readable, above all in a reading society like that of the Basque Country with certain problems when it came to reading habits, and therefore that demanded accessible texts according to the language capacity of readers (in sum, easy or close-to-home texts). Indeed, the dominant presence of narrative was highlighted at the time by a poet who complained in 1986 that “prose was rewarded.”14 Basque government grants and subsidies were crucial in developing the Basque publishing industry, and were based on agreeing to buy around three hundred copies of every book published in Euskara. This help was vital for some publishing houses. It is hardly surprising that there was an ongoing debate on how to distribute these funds, in the same way that the very existence of such funding called into question how normal any system could be that had to rely to some extent on government subsidies. The cultural annual referred to here recorded in 1985 (the same year EIE was founded) that published works had increased thanks to official grants, although it lamented the fact that books were still expensive (a complaint that lasts to this day in the Basque literary system). The Basque literary system is a system immune to literary prizes because of the large number of avant-garde writers within it who are, moreover, very critical of awards. Despite this, and as part of the institutionalization process that took place during these years, more and more literary prizes were established. The “symbolic capital” that literature in Euskara offered the nascent Basque administration was seemingly attractive to the emerging democracy in the Basque Country. As a result, every small community created its own literary prize, thereby creating a truly special situation because of the amount of encouragement for literary creation through participating in such awards. Many (perhaps too many) prizes were created in a society that was not so accustomed to awards. 14 Tere Irastortza, “Azken urteotan prosagintza premiatu da gehien bat,” Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (1986), 154. Hereafter, this publication will be referred to as Urtekaria.

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At this time of great energy and the emergence of new voices, of popular participation in literature, it is hardly surprising that literary journals flourished. Young writers who did not have sufficiently extensive work under their belts to publish a book set up a considerable number of such literary journals. These publications offered them a space to publish their debut work as well as allowing them to feel like opinion makers insofar as they maintained an independence and control over what was published by them, together with other original work sent in to these journals. Many of them were spokespeople for groups of writers that, with time, would branch off in different directions. Seven new journals were founded in 1984 that were added to the twelve already in operation through the 1980s; a considerable number for a small literary system. This phenomenon disappeared in the 1990s and is currently very weak because the distribution systems changed and because of the control of such systems by the publishing houses; which implies much about the nucleus of the system in regard to its margins. Only five new literary journals were established in the 1990s, a figure that stands in stark contrast to the vitality of the 1980s. The record of events in the annuals was itself very uneven. The 1984 summary contained an important list of the key topics in discussing the Basque literary system. However, in 1985, there were just summaries of events, such as tributes to writers, and a list of the books published that year. This tendency continued in 1986, with the publication of the main activities of Basque writers (such as the meeting of Basque, Galician, and Catalan writers in Donostia-San Sebastián) and it was recorded that “it was a bad year for literature,”15 because so few novels were published that year. Nevertheless, in 1987 it was noted that a lot of poetry had been published, reflecting an upward publishing tendency. According to the poet Iñigo Aranbarri (1963– ), “poetry is gaining prestige,” and the well-known poet Felipe Juaristi (1957– ) would write that “the foundation of literature is poetry.” In 1988, the annual concluded that narrative had grown markedly and that poetry was the “Cinderella of the literary system.” Such ups and downs are not at all strange in such a small literary system like that written in Euskara. With such small publishing figures, any small oscillation can result in modifying the perception of any description of the situation or the evolution of the system. In any event, 15 Pako Aristi, “Urte txarra literaturarako,” Urtekaria (1986), 153.

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one would have to conclude that Basque-language book production grew considerably during the era under discussion here, as represented in the following figures:16 1980 1981 1982 1983 1984 1985

– – – – – –

209 200 316 409 421 523

1986 1987 1988 1989 1990

– – – – –

600 606 732 774 828

Putting to one side minor day-to-day activity and discussion of the relative importance of genres in the Basque literary system, we will see that the record of this annual review revealed some of the themes that would subsequently be very significant in the development of Basque literature and its system. Together with the polarization implied by that debate between prose and poetry, greater attention was being paid to new literary genres that were making a major impact in the market. It was soon very clear that Basque literature depended on the school system (in other words, book sales in schools and recommended works for pupils), to such an extent that this mediation would have significant consequences on a literature that was designed directly for teaching purposes. Besides literature that was easy to read, children’s and young adult literature also expanded. Soon, translation became an important part of the panorama as a vehicle of change in writers’ libraries. Moreover, it also came to shape the development of the capacity of Basque literary language which, insofar as it was able to render into Euskara the classics of world literature, suggested new forms of expression and maturity of representation for this literary language. Already by 1985 there was a noticeable ideological tension within the Basque literary system. That year, there was a general debate on the place of literature and society and a specific discussion of literary autonomy between José Luis Álvarez (1929–2012), who had introduced the modern novel into the Basque system, and Bernardo Atxaga. The former defended realist representation or what one could label political representation in 16 Urtekaria (1991), 119.

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defense of positions linked to the Basque nationalist left. The latter was in favor of complete literary autonomy. This association between realism and a connection to radical Basque nationalism (in its non-violent form) was constant throughout the 1980s. Indeed, this was to such an extent that, in the words of Joxe Austin Arrieta, a writer and left-wing Basque nationalist politician, “The pairing Basque writer/revolutionary have been separated from one another because many Basque writers have distanced themselves from socialism and independence.” He concluded that, “writers who embrace the political implications of the nationalist left have not brought the practice of that doctrine to literature.”17 One should recall that these were some of the bloodiest years of ETA activity, whose assassinations sadly marked the 1980s. Obviously, opinion emerged that was opposed to such orthodox and closed ideological assumptions and the resulting debate put more and more strain on the system. In 1987 there were various debates about the production of different writers. The ideological bias—according to conservative critics—in Atxaga’s work was severely criticized; the works of Arantxa Urretabizkaia and Laura Mintegi were criticized on the basis of language use and literary attributes. This could not, then, be classified as a profound debate but instead as one of common practice. Yet there had been nothing like it before in the Basque literary system. The meaning of Basque literature itself was debated following the highly critical and exaggerated opinions of Jon Juaristi (1951– ). He affirmed the subaltern nature of Basque literature and encouraged Basque writers, as Miguel de Unamuno had once done, to write in Spanish instead; an argument that Mikel Hernández Abaitua responded to. And finally, the political debate resurfaced in a bitter argument between Felipe Juaristi and Laura Mintegi over the political compromise of Basque writers. As a culmination of all this confusion, the writer Álvaro Bermejo (1959– ) won a short-story competition with a work originally written in Spanish and translated into Euskara; a provocation that angered the collective of Basque writers. Yet at the very moment the system appeared so bumpy, new literary creations once again came to the surface. In 1987 two important books of shgort stories were published: one titled Mendekuak (Revenges) by Koldo Izagirre and the other, without any hint of irony, Odolaren usaina (The 17 Anonymous, “Literatura: Urteurrenak eta argitalpen berrien konsideratzioa,” Urtekaria (1985), 159.

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Smell of Blood) by Mikel Albisu (1961– ). The latter, known by the nom de guerre Mikel Antza, would subsequently become a high-ranking leader in ETA. These works were, however, overshadowed by the book of recollections Azukrea belazeetan (Sugar in the Meadows) by Inazio Mujika (1963– ) and, above all, Obabakoak (published in English in 1992) by Atxaga. Mujika’s book, which owed much to the narrative of Juan Rulfo (1917– 1986), sought within the unity of space and feeling a thematic nucleus in which the stories mutually supported one another in order to offer a configuration of reality. Anchored in a violent rural landscape, and using the techniques of both oral literature and profound sentence structure, Mujika described a rural landscape and moral nature in his short stories. These ultimately resembled the wild nature of Mexico during the Cristero War of 1926–1929 recreated by Rulfo in El Llano en Llamas (1953; translated as Burning Plain, and Other Stories, 1967 and Plain in Flames, 2012). Mujika’s stories reflected a harsh reality that closely resembled industrial society within the framework of the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939) and personal violence magnified into social violence; precisely what the Basque Country was suffering at that time. This work was published some months before Obabakoak, Atxaga’s masterpiece that contained a number of stories he had already published in journals. There was unquestionably an air of familiarity surrounding Basque writers at this time. Obabakoak was published in 1988 and the response was immediate. Xabier Mendiguren Elizegi (1964– ), for example, summed up the impact of the work: Bernardo Atxaga has gifted us with Obabakoak. Although the public has been waiting for it for some time, I do not think it has let anyone down. My take on it would be that he has brought an era to a close with one majestic stroke, which leaves the short-story route spent.18

The author of this article was referring to the fantasy literature that had dominated the short-story aesthetics of the era. In Obabakoak, Atxaga introduced a world full of literary creation. It won Spain’s National Narrative Prize the following year and was a work that demonstrated the value of creation in the Basque language, which could now be compared to its surrounding literatures. Obabakoak was very reflective of fantasy literature and the work of 18 Xabier Mendiguren, “Ikasturteari errepasoa,” Urtekaria (1988), 136.

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Jorge Luis Borges (1899–1986). The mythical world of the village of Obaba was very soon just as popular among the Basque public, being widely read and commented on. Its success had three main consequences: 1) Social. The work was, perhaps without intending to be, a metaphor for the creative capacity of the Basque Autonomous Community; it was a visible indicator of the community’s development. In other words, it had been capable of overcoming the harsh political and economic situation of the 1970s to achieve unprecedented success in the literary field (one should also recall that Gabriel Aresti won a national award, the Iparagirre Prize, in 1968). Although this success was symbolic, it heralded the fact that in the Basque Country a realistic linguistic policy was being carried out. It was, at root, a metaphor for the consolidation of cultural policy in the Basque Country. 2) Literary. There is no doubt that Obabakoak revolutionized Basque aesthetics with its language and literary style. On the one hand, it brought costumbrista aesthetics to an end and on the other it opened up a debate on the influence of fantasy narrative in the Basque literary system. As a consequence, this narrative soon began to contend with aesthetics that favored a more realist approach to the Basque political situation. Ultimately, Atxaga himself got involved in this and ended up changing his own aesthetics, as we will see later. Moreover, there were consequences for all the other writers and their take on his work. Obabakoak had the effect of modifying and defining the Basque literary system. From that moment on, narrative enjoyed a central place in the system and demonstrated, moreover, the possibility that a writer in Euskara could be a professional writer. Anjel Lertxundi expressed the notion that after Obabakoak there remained little space for traditional classic narrative as understood by modernity. For this reason, he decided to orient his own work toward a narrative that was not obliged to recount a story with a plot and a temporal and spatial connection. He thus decided to use narrative experimentation that soon appeared to be outside the system, at a time when easily read short stories about issues close to the reader were the norm. Lertxundi has questioned himself about that decision in his literary practice, which has developed more modern plot elements that resemble the contemplative novel or the novel that addresses aesthetic elements. Furthermore, two other authors who had until that time been key figures of the Basque literary system stopped publishing their work; not so much because of the success of Obabakoak but more as a result of the changes underwent in the system. Ramon Saizarbitoria maintained a literary silence between 1976 and 1995 and Koldo Izagirre did not publish any

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poetry between 1989 and 1997; nineteen years in the case of Saizarbitoria’s narrative and eight in the case of Izagirre’s poetry. 3) Psychological. Nevertheless, there were other consequences of Obabakoak that are more difficult to evaluate. On the one hand, it reinforced a sense of self-confidence among the Basque public. It possessed a literature that, through the metonymy embodied by Obabakoak, was a metonymy insofar that it was a book rather than a collection that was admired by the languages into which it was subsequently translated. Basque literature had become a literature that could now be exported and translated into other languages; it had become visible, not just in Spain but throughout the whole world. And imperceptibly, the system itself returned to an external component, Spain’s National Prize, as something to shape the system. From this moment on, the importance of winning the National Prize would be crucial in writers’ careers, to the extent that it would even be considered a starting point as a means of getting a name outside the Basque Country and facilitate translations into other languages. To date, and ignoring the prize won by Aresti in 1968, the following Basque works have been awarded Spain’s National Prize: Apart from the already cited Obabakoak (1988), which won in 1989, works published a year before receiving the award are SPrako tranbia (Tram to SP, 2001) by Unai Elorriaga (1973– ) in 2002; Kokodrilo bat ohe azpian (A Crocodile under the Bed, 2002) by Mariasun Landa (1949– ) in 2003 in the children’ and young adult category; Bilbao-New York-Bilbao (2008, currently being translated into English) by Kirmen Uribe (1970– ) in 2009; and Anjel Lertxundi’s Eskarmentuaren paperak (Lessons from Life, 2009) in the 2010 category of National Essay Prize.

4. The 1990s: Economic Crisis, Canonical Novels, and the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao Basque literature experienced intermittent development in the early 1990s. Whereas most Western countries began to fall under the shadow of a major economic crisis, this was not the case in the Spanish economy. The first half of the decade can be divided into two very defined periods. The first of these was still marked by a lack of definition when it came to Basque literary production. And this was clearly demonstrated in the summaries about literary creation. Consequently, for example, in the 1990

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summary it was pointed out that, in contrast to what had been predicted, poetry publications had been “numerous and interesting.” This was explained by the fact that Izagirre had returned to poetry after “ten years of silence,” and the likes of Juan Mari Lekuona, Iñigo Aranbarri, and Jose Luis Otamendi (1959– ) had also published new work; in other words, Lekuona, a classic writer, had reappeared and was assumed to be part of the canon, together with his disciples: the writers close to the journal that published the summary. I will return below to a consideration of the poetry published at the beginning of this decade. With regard to narrative, which the summary described as rich and involved in aesthetic change in previous years, it continued to have the classification of “limited.” In terms of narrative quality, although no one writer was mentioned above the rest, the most consolidated name was that of Felipe Juaristi, a poet who had become a prose writer giving rise to a movement that would appear unstoppable: the conversion of poets into narrators and their journey from poetry to narrative and above all, the use of many genres by writers, a characteristic feature of minority literatures. This leads authors to experience a tension between creative and market needs, with the result that they may write poetry for themselves but publish in other genres for financial reasons, to assure their presence on the circuit, to gain readers, or even because of pressure from the cultural environment in which they function. That year an important cultural marker for Basque literature appeared: Spanish translations of the novel Saturno (Saturn) by Arantxa Urretabizkaia and the children’s book Txan fantasma (Karmentxu and the Little Ghost, 1996) by Mariasun Landa were published; and, especially, the first translations of Atxaga’s Obabakoak were successfully published. In 1992 the novelist Aingeru Epaltza (1960– ) highlighted the importance of “realism that addressed the political theme.”19 This coincided with the thoughts expressed by another novelist, Juan Luis Zabala (1963– ), who defined it as the “realism of our surroundings.”20 Therefore, both authors defined in a few words what was understood by the term realism in the Basque literary system: positions close to those of Basque nationalism, and politics understood as an examination of identity and pro-independence ideological markers. That same year some people began to speak about

19 Juan Luis Zabala “Errealismoa eta euskara revisited,” Urtekaria (1991), 130. 20 Ibid., 117.

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postmodernity,21 and the lack of a standard pattern in narrative development; all this in such a way that there was clearly a great diversity of subjects and styles.22 That said, only three aesthetic options within the general configuration were cited: political realism, the restructuring of detective fiction, and the historical novel. From this, one can thus deduce that within Basque narrative the general tendency was to opt for denying any kind of experimentation and holding onto readers, so that authors were already in search of readers. With time this tendency would arrive at a genre of literature that, in some ways, reduced literary quality and complexity in favor of easy reading and digestion of the works by readers. In other words, it was becoming obvious that an easily consumed genre of literature had emerged with its gaze aimed at high school readings. Nor was the initial period of 1993 especially important, although important changes in the structure of Basque narrative would soon be evident. In Basque poetry, the years 1989 and 1990 were important because they marked a symbolic moment in its creation and evolution. In 1989, Koldo Izagirre published Balizko erroteen erresuma (The Kingdom of the Imaginary Windmills), a book of important avant-garde poetry with utopian-like content that set out a poetic direction for young people who wished to follow that form of artistic creation. The book was defined more like a (poetic and ideological) manifesto rather than just a work of poetry and it underscored the social implications of the text. In 1990, Juan Mari Lekuona published Mimodramak eta ikonoak (Mime Dramas and Icons), a symbolic journey through the cultural history of the Basque Country, and an attempt to read through Basque cultural gestures (mimes) and their icons. Reflective of a cultural poetry heavily imbued with symbolism, it received the Euskadi Prize for Literature in 1991. These two books pointed in the direction of the two great trends in modern twentieth-century poetry: the avant-garde, which did not overlook ideological and social content; and aesthetic and cultural symbolism. These two directions have been maintained continuously, with a predominance of the former over the latter, in the development of Basque poetry during the last twenty years right down to the present. From an economic and social perspective, the early 1990s were marked by interesting movements that I will describe briefly here. The global 21 Felipe Juaristi, “New Yorkeko katarroak guregan doministikua,” Urtekaria (1990), 115. 22 Aingeru Epaltza, “Literatura eta Soziologia,” Urtekaria (1992), 130.

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economic crisis experienced elsewhere during these years was avoided in Spain thanks to the extravagant celebrations organized by the PSOE Spanish government around 1992, the five hundredth anniversary of the discovery of the Americas, and thanks to which the country was able to delay the oncoming crisis. Two events were especially important within this general celebration: the Barcelona Olympics and Seville Expo ‘92 (the Universal Exposition of Seville) – two events that promoted the geographically “peripheral” autonomous communities of Catalonia and Andalusia. In the Basque Country, after major industrial development in the period from 1960–1975, there followed a cyclical period of economic downturn during the period from 1976–1985. Afterwards, there was an intense period of growth until 1990, followed by another period of recession in 1992 and 1993. Following the shipbuilding crisis of the 1970s, the Basque economy would experience an important transformation in its productive structure. Traditional Basque industry maintained an important presence in the economy, but the service sector experienced major growth, above all as the result of another one of the cultural icons of that time: the creation of the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao. The museum was constructed amid great controversy. Its opponents argued that it would do nothing to promote Basque culture, that the museum would function according to imperialist directives and that grants supporting Basque literary and artistic creation would disappear because the construction and importance of the museum would take up all available investment and subsidies that had been previously destined for cultural institutions. Unquestionably, the impact of the museum could not be measured by one indicator alone. It has been successful economically, and for that reason its governing authorities place special emphasis on the investment generated by visitors to the city. It has been symbolically successful: it has led to the renovation of Bilbao’s urban structure and put the city on the map. It has been culturally successful: the building designed by Frank H. Gehry has become a global postmodern icon, revitalizing the debate about Basque art and, above all, introducing a postmodern element into Basque culture. The Guggenheim Museum Bilbao has established a form of understanding art (and therefore literature) within the global parameters of culture. From its inception to its opening in 1997, the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao has continually had a significant impact on the Basque cultural world.

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In the period between 1993 and the opening of the museum in 1997, many changes took place in the Basque literary system. Certain postmodern features became more widespread: the attention paid to readers; the creation of new publishing houses (Alberdania was founded in 1993, invigorating the panorama of the classic Basque publishing houses, and the Pamiela publishing house, which had been created in 1983, reorganized its structure in 1993); and the Lubaki Banda (Trench group), a new initiative designed to promote Basque writers, was formed around the figure of writer Harkaitz Cano (1975– ). Yet despite its initial media impact and successful launch, it lasted only a short while. This followed years in which voices complained that Basque literature was not being rejuvenated with new figures and, for that reason, there was a feeling that schools of writers were getting old and that there was a lack of stylistic and formal renovation. As Iñaki Aldekoa observes,23 three important novels in the history of the contemporary Basque novel were published after 1993. Indeed, 1993 witnessed the beginning of a significant narrative cycle. That year, Atxaga published Gizona bere bakardadean (The Lone Man, 1996). Following the success of Obabakoak, which had evinced an aesthetic close to magical realism and that was influenced by Borges and stylistic modernism, in 1991 Atxaga announced an aesthetic change that would involve a narrative that was closer to the real and historical world of the Basque Country and violent situation it was experiencing. The writer had a plan to offer a historical representation of the Basque Country through an ambitious and comprehensive project that would take the form of a trilogy, covering the period from the Spanish Civil War to the present. His proposal involved embracing realism and social history, as well as a prose that would be suitable to express the modern world in which the Basque Country was situated. One result of this aesthetic that preceded the 1993 novel was Behi euskaldun baten memoria (Memories of a Basque Cow, 1991), a children’s novel about the Spanish Civil War inspired by the life and main experiences of an Asturian maquis (member of the resistance). The Lone Man represents the first step in that trilogy designed by Atxaga to render a complex moment in the history of the Basque Country into fiction. The story centers on the figure of Carlos, a former terrorist in the political-military faction of ETA who laid down his arms and abandoned the armed struggle in order to run a hotel near Barcelona together with 23 Iñaki Aldekoa, Historia de la literatura vasca (Donostia: Erein, 2004), 259–269.

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some friends, using the money he stole during one of the last robberies he committed during his terrorist activity. The Polish national soccer team comes to stay at the hotel as part of the 1982 World Cup held in Spain. Carlos lives an ambiguous life. On the one hand, he has left the armed struggle behind, yet he also helps a couple of terrorists on the run from the police by letting them hide in his hotel. This ends in a (to some extent morally) tragic climax: through failure and tragedy, Carlos pays for his ambivalence toward historic events. This novel displays some of the key features that Atxaga would subsequently employ: 1) A connection with reality. The events narrated are framed through a recognizable historical event (the soccer World Cup) that is understood in a broad cultural and social spectrum. This allows it to be read by widespread sections of society, whether Spanish or international. 2) Technical complexity. Carlos experiences a dual confrontation in his conscience that is explained by his moral attitude and reflected by the game of the internal voice that speaks to him inside his head. The use of a double register does not hamper the possibilities utilized in the novel; instead, it pays attention to a description of both characters and cultural elements like gastronomy. Atxaga has remarked that the theme of the book has something to do with a biblical reference: the lone man Job is headed for tragedy because of his inability to integrate into society. Elsewhere, the novel underscores the importance of symbolic elements, of those objects that are made not for their usefulness but for their capricious nature. In the novel, such objects come to influence the will of people and lead them to commit acts whose consequences eventually determine the climax of the story. 3) Narrative skill. In the disguise of detective fiction, Atxaga recounts the suffering of Basque society during the most violent years of ETA activity in the 1980s, as well as that of the state’s secret security forces. One should add to this the author’s interest in situating the characters in his novels in closed places, to some extent cut off from cities, in heterotopias, in which conflicts appear more intense because of the restricted nature of the space itself. From this belief in returning to realism, Atxaga reconsidered the function of literature in society, prioritizing his ambition to tell stories in fiction about what was really happening on the streets of the Basque Country. Already in 1995 he declared that, “Basque literature must face up to

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internationalization.”24 At the same time, this meant that it would have to be open to the challenge of becoming known beyond its own borders, and would have to know how to take on board a process of new outside influences. The Lone Man is perhaps the first novel by Atxaga in which the author thought about an international reading public, not just because it examines a well-known global phenomenon like terrorism but because it does so by using the resources of internationally known novels. In 1994, Anjel Lertxundi published a novel that quickly acquired classic status: Otto Pette reveals a dual preoccupation on the part of the author. In the first place, following the publication of Obabakoak, Lertxundi began working with the form of the experimental novel. This meant that he avoided linear narration and sought different technical levels in his narration by means of stylistic innovation. It also implied working with interruptive elements, not just in time but at the different narrative levels. This all resulted in a novel that sought out very active readers, due to the obscure nature of its plot progression. In second place, Lertxundi proposed a new form of interpreting the Basque literary and novelistic tradition, taking literary language to forms of expression never previously attempted; as is well-known, because of the late appearance of the novel in the language, Euskara does not enjoy great literary wealth and its literary tradition, so intimately connected to religious prose, has clear deficiencies. Because of all this, Lertxundi suggested in his narrative prose a new way of practicing this tradition: “Our tradition is riddled with holes, and we will have to fill them from our own contemporary setting, because it would be ‘nonsense’ to do so from a Romantic perspective.”25 Otto Pette represents an allegory of power and its cruelty. The character who goes by this name recalls his life, a memory located in a medieval-like era but one which passes through the filter of a contemporary setting that is visible in the features of how the plot is conceived. This lapses continually into a novel set in the present, about the persistence of violence in the Basque Country. Otto Pette, the main character, recalls how he falsely accused Abad Yakue of spreading the plague, and how the destiny of his beloved Gezabel was so ill-fated. Using clichés from the medieval world, Lertxundi reflects on universal themes such as infidelity, the cruelty of power, and the immense 24 Bernardo Atxaga, Urtekaria (1995), 99. 25 Anjel Lertxundi, Urtekaria (1996), 92.

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distress of life. The novel offers, moreover, a rich prose that at the time it was published led many to believe it had an air of the classic canonical novel. In 1995, Ramon Saizarbitoria, without any shadow of doubt the best current Basque novelist, published a foretaste of the outstanding spirit that drives his narrative world. Hamaika pauso (Eleven Steps) once again picked up his innovative and creative work on the symbolic worlds that he had thought up during the initial era of his novel-writing in the 1970s. During those years he produced short novels that raised issues, but did not address them sufficiently according them the importance they were granted in his texts (the legalization of abortion, the subject of terrorism, and the importance of psychoanalysis in contemporary society). Saizarbitoria, a sociologist by profession, knew very well what the principal foci of concern were for Basque society (even the most secret ones) because he had studied them in depth. He had addressed these efficiently and suggestively, yet still not in a mature narrative fashion, perhaps because deep inside he still doubted his narrative capacity. The novelist Saizarbitoria had an obvious nagging doubt that he made public in the 1990s: whether he was truly a writer or just a lover of literature; a clear neurosis that only surfaces in his own lack of confidence. In contrast, we readers know very well that his work is at the center of the Basque literary system, whether his work has had the international recognition it deserves or not.26 Hamaika pauso narrates the story of the last people to be executed by the Franco regime and, centering on the figure of Ángel Otaegui, constructs a diverse work in which the character Iñaki Abaitua stands out: a writer working on a novel, Hamaika pauso (which is not the novel we are reading) who allows himself to be seduced by the figure of Daniel Zabalegi, an ETA member to whom he can never say no. The relationship between Abaitua and Zabalegi is based on the dominion of the latter over Abaitua, who was never able to say “no” to Zabalegi and because of which he gradually lost his personality. This works ultimately as a metaphor for the relationship the Basque Country has had with ETA, to which it could never say no, also 26 Translator’s note: In English, see Ramon Saizarbitoria, 100 Meter, trans. Gloria Castresana Waid (Fresno, CA: Basque American Foundation, 1985) and Rossetti’s Obsession, trans. Madalen Saizarbitoria (Reno: Center for Basque Studies, University of Nevada, Reno, 2006). See also an interesting article on another of Saizarbitoria’s works in David Laraway, “Nationalism in Mourning: An Epitaph for Ideology in Ramon Saizarbitoria’s Gorde nazazu lurpean,” Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies 8, no. 3 (2007), 357–378.

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losing its defining characteristics Jon Juaristi defined this novel as “the novel of our generation,” the generation of people seduced by May 1968 and by the sirens’ call to a revolution that would end in destruction, at the hands of a giant that would eat its own children. The novel does not just tell the story of the relationship between Abaitua and Zabalegi, but also demonstrates a whole structure of personal relations that describes the world of those who believed in revolutionary force. In an unpublished work, the Portuguese professor Gabriel Magalhaes describes the work thus: One should add that Los pasos incontables [the Spanish translation] is a magnificent work about fear: what it is to live under a repression that gradually suffocates us. All Iñaki’s feelings configure a geography of fear. This is a very interesting aspect. That is: the psychology of the protagonist allows us besides understanding him, to also understand a whole era in Spanish history. It is also nice to think that this novel is a palimpsest of another book, Los pasos incontables (the work written by Iñaki): the text we read is effectively the soul of an absent work. A novel that is already pure spirit. The book is well written, very polished, and edited in sum with sublime pulchritude. The author is very good when it comes to using details, he does so with great art (the shoes of the executed man, the movie that ends: but there are many more examples).

The first canonical works by these major authors in Basque literature appeared in 1993, 1994, and 1995. Yet these were also the years during which they conceived of continuing their ambitious narrative projects, in such a way that other literary works followed these first defining works of their literary projects, and ultimately came to confirm a golden moment in Basque literature. Saizarbitoria followed up his masterpiece Hamaika pauso by publishing Bihotz bi. Gerrako Kronika (Two Hearts: A Chronicle of War) in 1996. This could appear as somewhat of a lesser work within his narrative; as if it were a moment of diversion after the great work he had just produced. Yet nothing is further from the truth. For this novelist from Donostia-San Sebastián everything appears to be a pure narrative challenge, a confirmation of striving to go farther and farther. But one must bear in mind this is a writer who moves between two tendencies that play against each other very strongly in his narrative: on the one hand, we find his personal obsessions, which in this case involved the impossibility of communication between

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the sexes and the differences between men and women. The two narrative levels in this novel are resolved in different ways: the level concerning the current state of things, in which the influence of James Joyce’s narrative leads him to describe a woman who resembles Molly Bloom; and the level concerning the memories of old soldiers who had fought in the Spanish Civil War, which leads the author to giving importance to the theme of historical memory. Both levels come together at the moment in which the two main characters realize they are committing incest. After the publication of these two novels, Saizarbitoria once more came to occupy a central position in the Basque literary system. And despite showing some doubts in his capacity as a writer and defining himself as such, these works unquestionably offered him a deep well of creative experience that would gradually mature in the years that followed, as will be seen later. In 1995, a year before the publication of Bihotz bi. Gerrako kronikak, Atxaga published Zeru horiek. The title literally means “those skies” but it was translated into English as The Lone Woman (1999). Indeed, this is how I referred to it in the press at the time because of its obvious parallel to the realist novel The Lone Man. The two works share a central common thread in that they both explore the process of abandoning ETA. In this latter case, Irene, the protagonist, leaves jail in Barcelona by agreeing to social reintregation measures set up by the Spanish government. The novel, which employs a lot of flashbacks and leaps in time, narrates her bus journey from Barcelona to Bilbao, where she is not expecting a warm welcome. Paradoxically, Irene refuses to cooperate with the police who are pressuring her to be an informant for them. Yet besides centering on the psychology of the characters, the two novels establish points of thematic interaction in aspects such as the relation between affection and ideology; the importance of solitude and its tragedy in the psychological make-up of individuals; the importance of materialism if common interests are forgotten about; the disillusion caused by revolutionary movements, and so on. All these aspects made up a field of meaning in which Atxaga’s interests could be found. The Lone Woman portrays the character of Irene, who moves between a past she has renounced and an uncertain future. In that intermediate time—which is, in reality, the bus journey—several characters from the margins of society play supporting roles: two nuns who work with AIDS sufferers, a sick woman, and the memories of her friends who are still in jail. The novel therefore establishes a social commitment that goes beyond

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politics, which had up until that moment defined Irene’s life. The novel reconstructs the ideological, vital, social, and literary—an interpretation of the books she carries with her in her luggage occupies pages of the narrative—position of a character who, from a position of solitude, contemplates with some confidence an uncertain future. While Atxaga published his works between 1993 and 1995, and Saizarbitoria in 1995 and 1996, following Otto Pette in 1994, Lertxundi planned a tetralogy of works published between 1995 and 1998 made up of a book of short stories, Piztiaren izena (The Name of the Beast, 1995); the novels Azkenaz beste (Besides the Last One, 1996) and Argizariaren egunak (Wax Days, 1998); and a collection of short literary essays, Letrak kalekantoitik (Letters Viewed from the Street Corner, 1996), grouped under the general title Infrentzuak (Flipsides). Following his well-known interpretation of textual tradition, Lertxundi attempted to build bridges between the Basque oral tradition and the European written tradition, in such a way that great legends and the great Western narrative cycles sit side-by-side in his work. Piztiaren izena is a collection of stories grouped around the attitude that characters adopt in the face of destiny. The name of the beast refers to the devil and the main theme of the work centers selling one’s soul and the Faustian myth. Azkenaz beste picks up once again the subject of the wandering Jew, of the soul that cannot die and rest in peace forever. The author was inspired by several traditions that have the myth of the person condemned to perpetually roam the earth. Argizariaren egunak brought the ambitious cycle to a close with a twolevel narrative. The narrator is in a place that might resemble a hospital or some place of retreat, a heterotopia, from which he speaks about neurosis. The reality he speaks of is fragmented and reflected in many different mirrors. The book made up of clippings, short stories, and reflections on language, Letrak kalekantoitik, serves as a basis for understanding the author’s thoughts about language and his work at the very moment he is going through the process of creating it. He is always looking for the “flipside,” an intelligent glimpse into elements that tradition has left in the hands of the novelist. As one can see, then, there was a truly splendid five-year period for the Basque novel and narrative in Euskara between 1993 and 1998, with the appearance of six novels and a book of short stories—as well as the

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aforementioned book of essays by Lertxundi—that left a major imprint on Basque literature. As a result, the perception of Basque literature changed drastically, given that it had not only improved its overall publishing output since 1975, but that a canon had been produced. One should point out, moreover, that almost all the works cited by these three canonical authors were translated, at the very least into Spanish. As always, Atxaga—whose international appeal is indisputable—was the most translated of the three. During this time, he published his works in Spanish at the Barcelona publishing house, Ediciones B, and in English at the Harvill Press in London. Lertxundi’s work in Spanish, meanwhile, was distributed by the well-known Alfaguara publishing house (one of the most important in Spain) in Madrid. However, the results did not meet expectations and ultimately Spanish translations of his work appeared in the same publishing house as the originals in Euskara. Finally, Saizarbitoria contracted the indispensable literary agent Carmen Balcells, and his work was published in Spanish by the Espasa Calpe publishing house. Moreover, a German translation of Bihotz bi. Gerrako kronikak was also published. The cultural annual I have been making use of here changed format in 1996 and from then on the name of the person writing the general summary of the literary year, normally a culture journalist, was published. In 1996 Joxean Agirre was in charge of writing up the review and he underscored two key elements in the new status of the Basque literary system: first, when undertaking the review of the works published he only cited novels, in this case by the authors Ramon Saizarbitoria, Anjel Lertxundi, Patxi Zabaleta (1947– ), Patxi Ezkiaga (1943– ), and Juan Gartzia (1955– ), and the younger writers Harkaitz Cano and Juan Luis Zabala. This demonstrated what had already been guessed at: the dominance of narrative over poetry, although the indefatigable Tere Irastortza (1961– ) insisted on accentuating the positive: “Normally good poetry is done in the Basque Country, one of the best [things] out of everything done [in literature].”27 In 1997 Joxean Agirre indicated another important feature of the system: that it was by now impossible to follow all Basque publishing production, not just book production as a whole but literary production specifically. Twenty years previously readers could have read every book published annually in Euskara, yet by the mid-1990s this was impossible. To be honest, one should say that while it would be extremely difficult to 27 Tere Irastortza, “Azken urteotan prosaginta premiatu da gehien bat,” Urtekaria (1986), 93.

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read everything published in the Basque language, its literary production is still relatively easy to follow given that no more than a hundred works are published annually, in terms of the three main genres: narrative, poetry, and theater. That same year, 1997, Joxean Agirre was pleased because over a dozen novels had been published, a not exactly spectacular figure. He did point out, however, a potentially minor change to the canon in that some new names were winning prizes (although this has subsequently proved not to be true for various reasons). Juan Luis Zabala won the Critics’ Prize for his work Galdu arte (Until the Defeat, 1996) and Aingeru Epaltza earned the Euskadi Prize for Tigre ehizan (Hunting the Tiger, 1996), while Bernardo Atxaga won the Euskadi Prize for children’s and young adult literature. This did not dispel the fact that the system was very uneven, as I will allude to below. The Guggenheim Museum Bilbao was inaugurated in 1997 and those debates about colonization, identity, and the outside world surfaced once more, although this time in more serene fashion. The president of the EIE, the philologist Andolín Eguzkitza, argued that, “Basque literature should be translated outside [the Basque Country],”28 but by now the disproportionate nature of a small system was becoming apparent. There was an ongoing debate with the Basque public administration, in other words with the Basque government, about the subsidies on which publishing and distributing books should be based. Luis Mari Mujika (1939– ), a novelist who did not sell many books, pointed out that now only a few authors sold very well while many sold very little, and spoke about a “sick” literature.29 And the same names began to resurface when it came to awarding the most important prizes, such as Lertxundi who won the Euskadi Prize again in 1999 for Argizariaren egunak (Life and Other Doubts). However, he did not attach much importance to the fact, commenting that, “Prizes are merely anecdotal.”30 Moreover, that same year Atxaga also won the Euskadi Prize, in a strange paradox, for a work in Spanish. One author highlighted the importance of achieving a plausible register in real social situations in which Euskara was not spoken.31 And the Joseba Jaka grants were established in 1998, in honor of the founder of one of the main publishing conglomerates in the Basque Country, as a way of creating a prize-giving structure that 28 29 30 31

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Andolín Eguzkitza, Urtekaria (1996), 90. Luis Mari Mujika, Urtekaria (1999), 100. Anjel Lertxundi, Urtekaria (1999), 104. Juan Garzia, Urtekaria (2000), 98.

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might compete in both form and content with the Euskadi Prize, rewarding non-published projects and works and showing a preference for dissident work. Meanwhile, the Durango Book and Record Fair was still one of the main features of the Basque literary system’s identity. The Durango Fair, which takes place annually in early December, is a meeting place for publishers to sell their products directly to the public. This makes it an interesting commercial and financial event for publishers. But it is in effect much more, serving as a meeting place for publishers, writers, and readers, and the fact there is always a spectacular public attendance—around one hundred thousand people always attend the event—makes it a key reference point in the Basque literary and financial year. Even so, in 1999 Saizarbitoria pointed out that, “In order to normalize Basque literature it requires pleasure in reading.”32

5. Between Modernity and Postmodernity: The Short Story and Poetry in the 1990s Currently, there is no clear date that irrefutably determines the moment that postmodernity emerged in Basque literature. And for that reason the moment the postmodern movement might have burst onto the scene is open to debate. Some observers, for example, believe that certain features of the postmodern style and ideology are already perceptible in Ataxaga’s Obabakoak. Others, however, as explained in the initial pages of this introduction, try to show how important May 1968 was in terms of breaking with the Basque ideological and stylistic tradition in the production from 1969 onwards. Basque literature written after 2000 maintained constant elements that had been visible through the previous decade, such as the process of publishing normalization, its presence in schools, and the shift from so-called cultural activism (cultural acts undertaken as the result of idealism without thinking about financial concerns) to the professionalization of agents in the literary system. Most of all, the fact was underscored that a reader could no longer read everything published in Euskara. Moreover, it was recorded that there were so many aesthetic tendencies and so many writers that it was difficult to establish cartography of the situation. This latter observation, that 32 Ramon Saizarbitoria, Urtekaria (2000), 109.

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was valid from the 1980s on but became more widely accepted by critics in the late 1990s, came to shape a state of affairs in which no single hegemonic aesthetic dominated any longer that might be replaced by another aesthetic. This had been a dynamic that, until the 1980s, had led to a key place being ascribed to the great literary controversy and the debate it generated within the Basque literary system. From the 1990s on, the “anything goes” idea and market concerns, the importance of sales and easily read works for readers, were essential components in configuring the literary system. This was due, precisely, to the fact that one trend had not been substituted by another. From the twenty-first century on, Basque literature entered into a process in which postmodern works were published alongside modern works; not without ideological and aesthetic tension, it is true, but without the virulence of previous years. This was because the size of the market allowed for this kind of coexistence of various trends, and occasionally called for an easily read and quick selling work. Not all works dating from this period were postmodern; besides such works, one could also find books in which modern utopias were praised and defended. This was logical, moreover, in a literary field in which there was political tension between those people who sought independence and sovereignty and others who favored a pragmatic politics of autonomy as well as the public administration at that time in the Basque Country. Other new elements that made up the Basque literary space included the arrival of the Internet in the field of communication and digital publication, a trend that has become more typical down the years within Basque publishing houses. If we return to the list of novelists mentioned in the previous section, we note some features of postmodernity in their works. For example, the loss of hope in revolutionary ideals is evident in Atxaga’s The Lone Man; the conception and execution of metanarrative exists in Lertxundi’s Argizagiaren egunak; a hybridization of genres is at the root of novels like Atxaga’s The Lone Woman and Saizarbitoria’s Hamaika pauso; constructivism as the axis of the narrative structure is clear in the dual conception—odd chapters for one theme, even ones for another—of Saizarbitoria’s novels; indeed, doubts about the veracity of what is being told and the possibility that what is being narrated might truthfully represent reality or might just be capable of capturing an image and its aura, but not its essence, are ever-present in Saizarbitoria’s work. Clearly none of these works could be considered superficial. For that reason, I should undertake some consideration about the relative presence

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of postmodernity in the work of the authors cited. Irony can be traced in Saizarbitoria’s work, yet curiously it is tragic irony based on an ironic perception of the author himself. And with regards to postmodern features, there were critical elements resembling this tendency in Atxaga’s narrative configuration. His notion of narrating the tempestuous history of the Basque Country was also a feature of the other two authors’ narrative. That objective presupposed the notion that there did indeed exist a modern conception of literature, such as that of Lertxundi’s work that is most attentive to the ethical dimension of his plots and characters, which implies the acceptance of a moral system. It is perhaps hardly surprising that postmodernity is present in Basque short stories. In fact, there are three obvious examples of the postmodern aesthetic in this genre: the quick bond with readers through an easily read writing style; the attention paid to the individual and her or his interpersonal relations, that is, to individualism; and stories that proceed at a quick pace. With the appearance of these novels during the period from 1993–1998, one was left with the impression that the 1990s were indeed an era of the novel. Yet this impression is not entirely correct, because during the same era a number of important short story works were also published: Bazko arrautzak (Easter Eggs, 1993) by Mikel Hernández Abaitua; Sargori (Sultry Weather, 1994) by Pello Lizarralde (1956– ); Autoestopeko ipuinak (Hitchhiking Tales, 1994) by Pako Aristi (1963– ), who had been a successful novelist in the 1980s; the already mentioned Piztiaren izena (1995) by Anjel Lertxundi; Lehenago zen berandu (It Was Already Late Before, 1995) by Arantxa Iturbe (1964– ); the excellent Gasteizko hondartzak (Beaches of Vitoria-Gasteiz, 1997) by Xabier Montoia; Telefono Kaiolatua (The Caged Telephone, 1997) by Harkaitz Cano, and Hollywood eta biok (Hollywood and Me, 1999) by the foreign-based writer Javier Cillero (1961– ), who was writing literature in the Basque language in the United States; and lastly, one should also cite the move into fiction by Iban Zaldua (1966– ), who published the collection Traizioak (Betrayals) in 2001. This is not just any old list because in it one can clearly see writers from diverse aesthetic trends and it also points to another of the tensions within Basque literature: the emergence of writers born in and around 1963. If we concentrate on the diversity of these works, we see some key elements running through them: the variety of aesthetics, from Borges’ “marvelous real” literature to Carver’s “dirty realism,” meant there were multiple aesthetic options in these literary texts; the willingness to play

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with fiction and hook readers in by means of surprise endings; the irony that one gets from the texts and the search for humor; a quality that prefers imminence to transcendence, which has been read as a fall into superficiality and easiness; the presence of the social and political reality of the Basque Country as well as political violence and its consequences; a literary practice attentive to other cultural practices such as art, pop music, video games, and allusions to movies, the latter of which make up one of the most important foundations of these cultural references; the presence in the same book of high culture and popular culture; and the presence among the authors of foreign-based writers, like Javier Cillero or Joseba Gabilondo (1963– ), both of whom were writing in the United States. There are two important aspects to the generational theme: one is difficult to explain and the other is related to the configuration of the canon. No one knows why exactly, but numerous contemporary and active Basque writers were born in the period from 1962–1964. This would appear to be related to a kind of “baby boom” and it is widely held that their rise to prominence has something to do with the fact that they were part of the first generation to be educated in Euskara in the Basque public education system. Furthermore, they were aided by a literary system that already possessed a television channel in Euskara and a degree of linguistic normalization through the creation of Euskara Batua (unified or standard Basque) in 1968. Another factor was the promotion of Euskara within the Basque administrative system (education, linguistic policy) that was created together with the Basque Autonomous Community. Because of all this, what one might term the “universe of Euskara”—the network of professions that was created around the language industry—helped to channel a creative character in Basque literature. In my opinion, what is typically overlooked in all of this is that this was also probably the last generation to be raised solely in the world of books and letters, that is, without the invasive audiovisual influence and, more recently, the Internet connections of the present. Whatever the case, there is a significant list of writers who were born during these years. These writers, and now I am thinking about their situation within the literary system, have felt displaced by two other generations: on the one hand, the senior writers described above who came to form the canon of Basque letters and who have been active for a long time. This is perhaps due to the fact that the political system instituted by Spanish democracy has also taken very long, and their careers have run parallel to this political structure. And on the other hand, by the new writers

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born in the period from 1970–1975, whose rapid rise to prominence has been built on their winning National Prizes for Narrative in Spain. Those writers born in the 1960s have called themselves the “sandwiched class” or the “peloton class” after the group of cyclists that typically follow the leaders in a race, but that have not yet achieved a leading role. There is, then, a tension within the Basque literary system that has emerged from that discontent within the culture of younger writers. The state of poetry varied in intensity throughout the 1990s. We should recall that the period began with two memorable books. In 1989 Koldo Izagirre had published his Balizko erroten erresuma and in 1991 Juan Mari Lekuona his Mimodramak eta ikonoak, two unavoidable references of contemporary Basque poetry. Yet thereafter poetry publishing fell into an era of decline. Less critical attention was paid to it and to its readers; it sold less than narrative works; the main publishing houses published very few works of poetry on an annual basis (which, by definition, meant that those that did pass the selection criteria were very well structured); they were not in the market because of their sales figures; and, foremost, in the 1990s the number of poets entering the system declined in relation to those who had published books of poetry in the 1980s. Further, poetry had ended up becoming the genre in which the debate about identity and postmodern features had most clearly and virulently dissolved, and in which there were the most noticeable differences between those who defended the autonomy of literature and those who believed in a commitment to the Basque nationalist political idea. The fact that it found itself on the margins of the market undoubtedly favored poetic practice that was more in line with the features of modernity, in which the defense of ideological and political positions was more ardent. Although the market situated poetry at the margins, it survived thanks to two recourses: one more traditional involving the publication of books that had won literary awards; and the other, more avant-garde, involving the creation of shows that blended poetry and music, and approached the idea of performance. A more recent activity has been the establishment of poetry meetings that combine lectures, recitals, and debates in a particular town. Yet one should not overlook the achievements of authors of books of poetry that particularly stood out now during the postmodern period, in the 1990s. Rikardo Arregi (1958– ) leaned toward a classicist aesthetic in his two books: Hari hauskorrak (Weak Threads, 1993) and Kartografia

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(Cartography, 1998). He sought, through his poetic creation, to map the everyday sentient experience of life. Indeed, one of his poems was one of the most translated and most successful of its time, the excellent “66 lerro hiri sitiatuan” (“66 Lines from the Besieged City”). This is one of the most emotional poems about the events in Sarajevo at that time, which also demonstrates that the political commitment of Basque writers is not limited to their own borders, but instead that nothing going on in the world is too far for them. Moreover, Arregi poeticized a barely disguised homosexual sentiment in the classicism of his texts. Another poet whose work resembled Arregi’s poetic practice was Juanjo Olasagarre (1963– ). He centered his work on the life of a small town in Navarre, coinciding with his own biography; and in his books of poems Bizi puskak (Pieces of Life, 1996) and Puskak biziz (A Life in Pieces, 2000) he dissected the arrival of modernity after 1968 and its effects on a community: how its arrival changed people, how it divided them and led them to different places and conditions, and how its solid identity became a changing and fluid identity. Harkaitz Cano maintained a sense of surrealism in his first book Kea lainopean bezala (Like Smoke In a Low-lying Fog, 1994), while later leaning more toward a poetics that blends surrealism with American pop, after spending some time living in New York. This list of poets is completed by poets who published their work right at the end of one millennium and the very beginning of another: Miren Agur Meabe (1962– ) and Kirmen Uribe, who through their books changed the conception of poetry in Basque literature.

6. Basque Literature in the New Century, 2000–2012 There have been few women writers in the Basque literary system.33 According to the statistics—depending on the universe analyzed—women represent somewhere between thirteen and fifteen percent of Basque writers. However, they were increasingly more visible with the coming of the new century. If a patient reader were to browse through the pages of the annuals I have been using as a guide here, even a superficial glance at 33 Translator’s note: For a survey of Basque women writers in English, see Linda White, “Emakumeen hitzak Euskaraz: Basque Women Writers of the Twentieth Century,” Ph.D. diss., University of Nevada, Reno, 1996.

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the photos of writers published between 1984 and 2000 would reveal just four women authors: the poet Tere Irastortza and the novelist and poet Itxaro Borda (1959– )—both of them a constant presence in Basque literature during the 1980s and 1990s and appearing twice here—as well as the novelist Laura Mintegi and the author of children’s literature Mariasun Landa (this short list excludes group photos of roundtable discussions or public presentations). It is strange not to see any individual photo of Arantxa Urretabizkaia. She appears in a group shot as a member of a panel of judges, but no comment is made about this. Moreover, in 1999 Bernardo Atxaga announced, in a strange and incomprehensible declaration, that he was renouncing his pseudonym and that from then on, he would sign his work with his real name, Joseba Irazu. It is not so easy, however, to give up a “brand name” and this announcement has been forgotten in the mists of time. The 2000 annual centered on the success of Koldo Izagirre’s novel Agirre Zaharrearen kartzelaldi berriak (The New Imprisonment of Old Agirre), which had been awarded a Jaka grant in 1996 and won an award from the Association of Gipuzkoan Booksellers for the best-selling work on World Book Day. Yet the panorama, as ever and without knowing why, was changing. In 1999, almost out of nowhere, Lourdes Oñederra (1958– ), a specialist in the field of Basque phonology, published a book that was an immediate success: Eta emakumeari sugeak esan zion (And the Serpent Said to the Woman, 2005). The story of a woman who decides to leave her husband after a business trip to Vienna seems a little predictable from the current perspective; with a simple narrative in which a woman’s decision-making capacity is linked to an international cosmopolitanism, the novel appeared to have rejuvenated feminist narrative in the Basque language. The author’s lack of any follow-up work in fiction means that she does not enjoy a significant presence in the Basque literary system. Yet in 2000 she won four awards, among them the Critics’ Prize and the Euskadi Prize for Narrative. One year later, the book of poems Azalaren kodea (Skin Code, 2000) by Miren Agur Meabe came to confirm the literary quality of a young author who was proposing a poetics of the body, a new language in expressing a new symbol originating in corporeality, from interpreting gestures, and the female consciousness of a new expression. Jasone Osoro (1971– ) would join this group of writers with the publication of her Korapiloak (Knots, 2001); a book that came to complete her view of sex and relationships that she had first presented in Tentazioak (Temptations, 1998). Osoro offered a

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non-prejudiced view of sex, seen from the perspective of the female characters in her work. Yet while her literary star shone brightly in the early years of the twenty-first century, her significance diminished over time. In 2000, the capacity for innovation that Ramon Saizarbitoria is so proud of led to him produce a set of short stories unified by a common plot. Gorde nazazu lurpean (Bury Me Beneath the Earth) heralded a step forward in the consideration of the maturity of Basque prose. The basic plots of these stories that made up a thematic unity are based on exhumation and are taken from the well-known story of how Dante Gabriel Rossetti exhumed the body of his wife in order to retrieve most of his unpublished poems. Thus, the tales here concern the several exhumations: of an amputated leg; of a man’s body in order to settle a paternity suit; of the body of one of the rebel soldiers who had entered Donostia-San Sebastián with the pro-Franco Carlist troops at the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, and of the father of Basque nationalism, Sabino Arana. Arana’s body had been disinterred and transported to a secret place during the war for fear that Franco’s troops might desecrate it. This narrative thread enables the author to undertake a game somewhere between irony and the macabre. Saizarbitoria was able to play with history and the truth of fiction in such a way that he called into question the concepts of truth and fiction, always by using a prose that is based on a doubt about what actually happened and what has been told to have happened. Therefore in the final tale the author questions the legacy of Basque nationalism and its significance in society. The author has referred on numerous occasions to the influence that having been born a Basque has had on him, and consequently the obligation he feels to answer questions about identity and the role of violence and terrorism on that identity. For this reason, he sometimes states his desire to feel free of all ties. Indeed, his narrative work is based on this contradiction between his identity and his wish to experience another reality, with such a strong aesthetic tension that this makes Saizarbitoria’s work one of the centerpieces of the Basque literary system. The following year, Gorde nazazu lurpean was on the point of winning Spain’s National Prize for Narrative, and was only ousted by the work of Juan Marsé (1933– ), the great Spanish novelist who had published Rabos de lagartija (2000; Lizard Tales, 2003). But there was a surprise in store the following year regarding the National Prize for Narrative because the young writer Unai Elorriaga, who in 2001 had published his first novel, SPrako tranbia, won the award in 2002.

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This novel addressed a theme that was previously unheard of in Basque literature: the loneliness of elderly people and their nostalgia for lost worlds symbolized by a tram that had once existed in their city but that subsequently disappeared; and that, despite their clear limitations, they might still hold onto the dream of reaching the summit of Everest. From a close evaluation of his characters’ illness (possibly Alzheimer’s), Elorriaga created an oneiric solitary world. The style recreates a nature of the senses and of evanescent realities. The aesthetic relies on the fantastic prose of Julio Cortázar (1914–1984). It delves into the absurd and the description of a world of sensations. Elorriaga’s writing style resembles an aesthetic based on the avant-garde that, from the absurd and a clear innocence, seeks to surprise readers. And he developed this same writing style in his subsequent works: Van’t Hoffen ilea (Van’t Hoff’s Hair, 2003) and Vredaman (2005; Plants Don’t Drink Coffee, 2009). Naturally, the Spanish National Prize leaves no one indifferent, whether the Spanish right or certain Basque writers. When it came to Elorriaga winning, the former complained that the panel of judges had come to a decision based on the translation of the work into Spanish and argued (falsely) that the panel did not have a complete translation. Meanwhile, within the Basque literary system there was much debate about the importance of the award as an (external) factor in leading to a canonization of a work. Thus, for example, the novelist Xabier Mendiguren Elizegi contended that, “We do not need the applause of outsiders.”34 And the writer Jon Alonso (1958– ), after congratulating Elorriaga, complained that, “it might be tough to admit that a gesture from the Spanish cultural world can change the Basque structure.”35 The same Xabier Mendiguren Elizegi, who had edited Elorriaga’s novel, was even more critical about awards in general in a long opinion piece: “In the Basque Country all literature lives a world away from awards: publishing houses pay them no heed, readers do not pay much attention to the books awarded prizes, and the important works rarely appear among the awards.”36 These are paradoxical words written before Elorriaga won the prize but published just at the moment he received the award, and in this case reality refuted the editor’s verdict. 34 Xabier Mendiguren, “Ez dugu kanpokoen txalorik behar,” Urtekaria (2003), 100. 35 Jon Alonso, “Zorionak,” Urtekaria (2003), 112. 36 Xabier Mendiguren, “Txosten txar bat mugaz bestaldean dudan lagunari,” Jakin 133 (2002), 54.

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That same year, in 2001, Joseba Sarrionandia published Lagun izoztua (The Frozen Friend), which received the Critics’ Prize. This was similarly not without debate because the author had been a member of ETA and escaped from jail in 1985, and he had written the work in exile. The novel tells the adventure of two Basque exiles throughout Latin America in a complex narrative structure that blends different eras. But this productive year was not over yet, because Kirmen Uribe gave us one of the best books of poems in recent years: Bitartean heldu eskutik (2001; Meanwhile Take My Hand 2007), a work soon translated into Spanish, French, English, Catalan, and Russian. It has sold six thousand copies in Euskara—when a book of poems might normally sell three hundred—and another six thousand in Spanish. Uribe’s poems took shape around the following characteristics: simple language, a narrative treatment of poetry, and the importance of an autobiographical past. The tone of his poetry had something to do with the joy of life, although the most memorable poems in the text were those about people about to die. Rooted in postmodernity, his poetry affirmed that it was impossible for language to completely grasp reality, and the work was structured around several key themes that displayed his schema of the world: the body as a new language; memory as a form of anchoring oneself in identity; love and sex; a glance at others and a self multiplied in an ever-changing reality; the boundaries of language; the understanding and dialogue between literature and other arts; a life that shines at the hardest moments of his father’s death, and so on. Uribe wrote a type of poetry that seemed easy, but one that thrilled readers. Anjel Lertxundi returned to a more traditional narrative plot in his Zorion perfektua (2002; Perfect Happiness, 2007), which tells the story, retrospectively, of a young girl who witnesses the assassination of a small-time drug dealer by ETA. The narrator describes the personal consequences of that experience and the effect of this environment on her. Transformed into a moral fable and ethical reflection, with this work Lertxundi took a step forward into new narrative terrain. Already at the start of the decade there was a general atmosphere in which consumer literature was monopolizing some of the most important positions in the market, “proposing a literature of easy consumption, more of a mass literature, in other words, more light.”37 However, in 2003 37 Iban Zaldua, “Euskarazko ‘kontsumoko’ literatura,” Urtekaria (2003) 111.

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Bernardo Atxaga published his most ambitious and best produced work, a masterpiece: Soinujolearen semea (The Accordionist’s Son, 2007). Employing a technique resembling autofiction, Joseba, a friend of David’s (the protagonist and accordionist’s son), rewrites the recollections of the latter. We thus read a story within a story. These recollections begin in 1957 when David began to embrace a Basque nationalist consciousness, and therefore soon realized that his father was collaborating with the Franco regime. They then go on to also tell the story of the Spanish Civil War, including his father’s participation in the conflict and the subsequent repression. There is also a novella about what happened to David’s American uncle. And they then continue with a discussion about his own participation in armed violence in the Basque Country, and his eventual escape from the organization to take refuge on a ranch in the United States. There he would meet his wife and live “knocking at heaven’s door” in the solitude of his ranch. In this novel, in addition to producing a condensed synthesis of many tense years in Basque history, Atxaga wrote a summary of his own narrative world, with references to his previously published novels; yet here he added his narrative talent and explored new spaces. It was unfortunate that the work became embroiled in one of the most unpleasant debates of the Basque literary system. Atxaga decided to publish the book with the Alfaguara publishing house after the fall of Ediciones B, the publisher of the Spanish versions of his works. Alfaguara belongs to the PRISA group that publishes the newspaper El País, which at the time also owned important television channels. El País looked after the launch of the work, in which it had invested a lot of money in the form of copyright fees. Unfortunately, in the same edition of the newspaper that announced the publication of the work, the newspaper’s critic Ignacio Echevarría harshly criticized the novel for political reasons in that, in his opinion, Atxaga was lukewarm toward ETA, and for literary reasons in that he saw it as a weak offering. This criticism cost him his position as a critic for the newspaper, but the debate left lingering prejudices. The debate, which did not have much of an effect in the Basque literary system, was more of an issue in the Spanish literary system, of which the novel was already a part. Moreover, it was further inflamed when, in a great surprise, that same year Jokin Muñoz (1963– ) won the Euskadi Prize for Narrative for his book of short stories Bizia lo (Lethargy, 2003), a collection of tales covering Basque nationalism from the post-Spanish Civil War era onwards. The narratives covered various emblematic moments in the course of Basque nationalism: the

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postwar period in which Basque nationalists were forced to remain silent and dreamed about any plaything that might raise their hopes; the moment ETA emerged, as seen through a child’s eyes; the tough waiting period of some parents who do not know if their son is among the dead after a bomb explosion, an experience based on real events; the hard cohabitation of a student whose father is in jail for involvement with ETA and his professor who had once been his father’s friend, but who no longer shared his ideas; and an apocalyptic tale that tells the story of the end of ETA, hounded and bereft of any popular support. In 2004 Ur Apalategi (1972– ) published Gure gauzak, S.A. (The Cosa Nostra Corporation), in which he satirized the Basque literary system and criticized the main Basque publishing house. It was very difficult for him to publish the book because no one wanted to do it and it suffered just as many problems as Atxaga’s work when it came to the launch. Both cases revealed that the literary system might become a problem. Furthermore, what had been deemed the lost or “sandwiched” generation—those writers who found themselves stuck between their senior counterparts who had published the great works of Basque literature and their junior colleagues born in the 1970s who had already won major prizes—now began to enter into the canon. Harkaitz Cano (born in 1975, one should recall) won the Euskadi Prize for Narrative in 2005, the year after Jokin Muñoz had won it, for Belarraren ahoa (2004; Blade of Light, 2010). And in 2006, the same prize was awarded to Iban Zaldua, a writer who deserved for both himself and the writers of his generation the attention that had been paid to the canonical authors. He finally won the Euskadi Prize in 2006 for Etorkizuna (The Future, 2005), a work that combines science fiction, a preoccupation for social reality, double meanings, and the use of time, which makes it resemble the narrative theory of Borges. Then in 2007 Xabier Montoia won the Euskadi Prize for Euskal hiria sutan (The Basque Country in Flames, 2006), a collection of short stories linked closely to the reality of the Basque Country. Taken together, they attempted to provide a universal take on the situation, either from the narrative use of space —given that they represented the whole Basque Country— or from the application of a general vision of different social classes, without ever abandoning an ironic take on reality. This cycle of awarding the Euskadi Prize to younger writers was completed in 2011, when Ur Apalategi won the award for his Fikzioaren izterrak (The Bases of Fiction, 2010), an intelligent work reflecting on literary creation and the Basque literary system.

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In this sequence, the Euskadi Prizes demonstrated their support for the short story genre, which in the Basque literary system is a significant genre. The awards also put the spotlight on some names that did not belong to the literary canon created by those people born between 1941 (Saizarbitoria) and 1951 (Atxaga). The generation of writers awarded prizes during this time went to those born between 1963 (Muñoz) and 1975 (Cano). However, in 2003, Spain’s National Prize for Children’s Literature was once again awarded to a senior Basque author: Mariasun Landa. She triumphed with her story of childhood fears and how to overcome them in Krokodiloa ohe azpian (A Crocodile Under the Bed, 2002), a beautiful tale in which the crocodile comes to symbolize a fear of the unknown. That year, 2003, was also controversial. The winner of the Euskadi Prize for Literature in Spanish that year was Antonio Altarriba (1952– ) for his La memoria de la nieve (The Memory of Snow, 2002), and he would later go on to win the Spanish National Prize for Comic Books in 2010 for his El arte de volar (The Art of Flying). At the ceremony to award the Euskadi Prizes in 2003, Altarriba spoke in front of the Lehendakari (president) of the Basque government, demanding more grants for literature written in Spanish in the Basque Country. This in turn led to a sudden and bitter response by several Basque writers opposed to the demand. It was clear that the Basque literary system was changing when the book of short stories Eta handik gutxira gaur (And Now a Little Later, 2004) by Eider Rodriguez (1977– ) was published; it was a foretaste of a new generation of female writers that subsequently changed the panorama of the system. Indeed, Eider Rodriguez was in charge of writing up the summary of the 2004 literary year for the annual I have been using here,38 the first time that this had been done by a woman. Here, she intelligently raised some of the problems with the Basque literary system: the aforementioned controversy surrounding the Euskadi Prizes; the bittersweet reception for Atxaga’s latest novel; Apalategi’s ironic description of the system in the above-mentioned novel; the re-inauguration of the Basque PEN Club; the enthusiastic establishment of reading clubs; the internationalization of Basque literature, and so on. Her book of short stories announced the arrival of a powerful narrator who, from a levelheaded perspective, recounted the problems of her characters, always written through their own actions and not from the narrator’s 38 Eider Rodriguez, “Literatura,” Urtekaria (2005), 105.

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description, who in effect hardly ever intervened. Thereafter, she developed her own particular style in Haragia (Meat, 2007) and Katu jendea (Cat People, 2010). In these works, Rodriguez creates a literature that does not indulge her characters very much. Instead, they hover between indifference and pain, between tension and anxiety. Plots emerge at very brief and specific moments, as if temporal density were a condition that increases the tension among the protagonists. The characters, women as protagonists, appear during seemingly trivial everyday moments, but at which key issues in their lives will be decided on. And they always function according to what once was and what might have been, as if a lack of fulfillment of sorts has shaped their lives. All these conflicts are told from an implacable gaze and from the confidence that the actions of these characters become the best means of describing them. In the years that followed, young narrators like Iban Zaldua addressed more closely the subject of political violence in the Basque Country; and a pending theme, gay identity, was tackled by the work of Juanjo Olasagarre and his novel Ezinezko maletak (Impossible Suitcases, 2004). Focusing on the story of four members of a small community in Navarre, the novel relates their different life experiences. One of them, a homosexual, ends up dying in London and his three friends must go there, with all their prejudices, to collect his ashes. In 2005 two memorable books of short stories were published: Harkaitz Cano’s Neguko zirkua (Winter Circus) and Koldo Izagirre’s baroque Sua nahi Mr. Churchill? (Do You Want a Light Mr. Churchill?), a book centered on the disappearances of people during the Spanish Civil War. However, the Euskadi Prize in 2006 for works that year went to Iban Zaldua for his Etorkizuna. This provoked the reaction of a number of writers close to the Basque nationalist left the following year, 2007, who published a manifesto, “Utikan Euskadi Sariak” (“Out with the Euskadi Prizes”), announcing that they never again wanted to be considered for that award. From early 2007 on, an important issue would surface in the Basque literary system. During the initial part of the year publishing houses were not publishing many books, and were instead concentrating their efforts on the multitudinous Durango Fair held annually at the end of every year. For this reason, most books and the most important works come out between October and December. Taking advantage of this gap in the market, with few new books appearing, the Elkar publishing house jointly published the work of two women writers: the book of short stories Aulki bat elurretan

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(A Chair in the Snow, 2007) by Uxue Alberdi (1984– ) and Sua falta zaigu (We Need a Light, 2007) by Katixa Agirre (1981– ). The previous year, Irati Jimenez (1977– ) had published Bat, bi… Manchester (One, Two… Manchester, 2006), and despite having aesthetic differences, the three authors did share some common features: their age, the fact that they were young women writers, and that their works were located outside the Basque Country, in places where they had done Erasmus University exchange studies (Sweden, Scotland, and England). Yet in contrast to the major narrative simplicity and great symbolic weight of Alberdi’s tales, Agirre proposed the very short story as a narrative genre; a story that paid more attention to creating ambiences and psychologies than the surprise ending normally offered by such tales. Jimenez, however, offered a more linear narrative that was close to readers: “What do children like? Harry Potter? Well give it to them.”39 Karmele Jaio (1970– ) represents a different case because she writes novelettes, sells a lot of books, and is a very popular female author. She published the novel Amaren eskuak (Mother’s Hands) in 2006 and the book of short stories Zu bezain ahul (As Weak as You) in 2007. In 2008 one of Elkar’s competitors, the publishing house Alberdania, published the debut works of women authors Irati Elorrieta (1979– ), Burbuilak (Bubbles) and Garazi Goia (1978– ), Bi hitz (Two Words). Curiously, both works situated their plots in two European capitals: Berlin and London. Completing the circle, in 2009 Elkar published three works by the same three women authors it had promoted in 2007: Habitat by Agirre; the novel Nora ez dakizun hori (You Don’t Know Where You’re Going, or the double entendre, “You Don’t Know Anything about Nora”) by Jimenez, a story that even included vampires; and Aulki-jokoa (The Game of Chairs) by Alberdi, a reflective narrative about memory and awaiting death; with all three being published again at the beginning of the year. To complete this review of women authors, in 2010 Alberdania published Gasolindegian (In the Gas Station) by Yurre Ugarte (1965– ) and Elkar published Galerna (Northwest Wind) by Iratxe Esnaola (1983– ). Seen from a distance, the panorama is heartening, not just because of the number of women writers who are entering the Basque literary system, but also because of the quality of their work. In 2008, Kirmen Uribe published Bilbao-New York-Bilbao, a novel that broke the mold. Indeed, with the publication of this work one could point to the dawn of a new important era for the Basque novel and one that 39 Irati Jimenez, Urtekaria (2008), 118.

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resembled that of the period between 1993 and 1996. Specifically, in the space of five years four major novels were published: Bilbao-New York-Bilbao by Uribe in 2008, Zazpi etxe Frantzian (Seven Houses in France, 2011) by Bernardo Atxaga en 2009, Twist by Harkaitz Cano in 2011, and Martutene by Ramon Saizarbitoria in 2012. Uribe’s novel Bilbao-New York-Bilbao takes place on a flight from Bilbao to New York, and the character who is traveling in this non-place of modernity is the source of several distinct tales that emerge to create a tapestry of multiple and different stories, a globalized story. From the seat of the plane, the author’s alter ego, the first-person narrator , recalls his family history. Uribe has declared that Bilbao-New York-Bilbao is a novel that wants to clearly connect with its time, the age of technological writing. I believe one can make out in the novel certain features that define the postmodern aesthetic. Below I highlight some of the topics raised in regard to this aesthetic by María del Pilar Lozano Mijares in her work La novela española postmoderna (2007). I should say at the outset that I only repeat her most important observations: the break with realist mimesis, a weak subject in the representation, a heterotypical space and temporal confusion as a narrative companion, metafiction as a resource for the novel and reflection on the creative process, polyphony (with the narrator’s mother’s diary as a clear example of polyphony, or resorting to the airplane screen that shows the miles traveled), and the democratization of literary forms. Uribe won Spain’s National Prize for Narrative in 2009 for this book and this led to a fierce debate. For some commentators the book did not deserve the reception it received; or even worse, without reason, that the work had been championed by the Socialist government because the Basque Lehendakari at the time, the Socialist Patxi López, had read one of Uribe’s poems at his inauguration. The novel has to date sold twenty thousand copies in the Basque language and around fifty thousand in Spanish. Apart from Spanish, it has been translated into Catalan, Galician, Portuguese, and French, with an English translation forthcoming. In 2008, the first stirrings of the global economic crisis that still affects us could be felt. However, in the midst of the crisis, Basque literature produced three memorable works. The canonical writers once more demonstrated their great talent. In 2009 Atxaga published Zazpi etxe Frantzian (Seven Houses in France), a novel situated in the Belgian Congo with the aim of denouncing colonialism. Seven Houses in France tells the story of a military post in the Belgian Congo.

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There in Yangambi, very close to the last bastion of “civilization” in Kisangani, Captain Lalande Biran, aided by Lieutenant Van Thiegel, carries out business deals and gets rich through the exportation of rubber and mahogany. He does so in order to satisfy his wife’s desire to own seven houses in France. Then Chrysostome Liêge, a prodigious marksman, joins the military post and he will play the role of “outsider” in the novel. His exceptional marksmanship allows him to rise up in the ranks and in the admiration of Biran, while provoking jealousy and hatred in Van Thiegel (a key character who leads the plot to its final tragic end). Van Thiegel steals an intimate portrait of the captain’s wife and rapes and kills Bamu, Liêge’s lover. There is a double revenge: the captain forces the two soldiers into an unequal duel and Livio, a native servant in the post, kills the captain and his assistant Donatien. In 2010 Lertxundi won Spain’s National Essay Prize for Eskarmentuaren paperak, and in this case there was no subsequent debate. The central theme of the essay is a reflection on Lertxundi’s own writing. It is a retrospective of his life as a writer, yet it also offers a perspective on life as a whole; a life in constant movement and, ultimately, a meditation on decay and death, as specified in the last part of the book. Eskarmentuaren paperak allows one to interpret the current state of affairs, the current vision of the author’s doubts, and the reference to life and death is less central in the essay. Lertxundi’s book confines itself to three key elements of the essay: a configuration of the self, autobiographical contribution, and the lack of any guarantee of certainty. Moreover, one should underscore the fact that it is an essay, so one should add a consciousness about style, a preoccupation that is evident on every page. In 2011, Harkaitz Cano published the important novel Twist. Following in the wake of Roberto Bolaño (1953–2003), and constructing a novel recounted by several voices—the one he employs at the beginning of the narration that gives voice to one of the dead characters, a recourse that reminds one of Juan Rulfo, is particularly dramatic—Cano revisits one of the harshest moments in the “dirty war” against ETA: the kidnapping and murder of Joxean Lasa and Joxi Zabala (Soto and Zeberio in the work of fiction) by members of terrorist cells formed with the acquiescence of the Spanish state. In reality, the two men were buried secretly and therefore presumed missing. However, Cano goes further in his work of fiction. A friend of theirs, Diego Lazkano, can never forget that he betrayed them. The novel Twist will be remembered as a milestone in the history of the Basque novel because of the depth of its character creation, because

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of the parallel stories of the disappeared men (Lazkano’s father also disappeared, although for personal reasons), and because of its ability to connect personal and collective history. In recent years, authors of Basque literature have made their presence increasingly felt in cultural activities; or, put another way, this is a presence that seeks to balance out the minor presence of books in Basque society. It is as if there has been a move to take books into the streets: reading clubs, meetings of writers and poets, and roundtable discussions; an element of visibility has entered Basque literature, and among these initiatives one must also include writers’ blogs and their cooperation on the Internet. Thus, precisely at the moment when the place of the traditionally published book seemed not to make that much sense, in 2012 Saizarbitoria published a novel that came calling at the door of a mature literary society. The novel Martutene is 782 pages long and is the complete opposite of the easy reading that is so fashionable in the market of literary consumption. Martutene joins together two novels into one, and two amorous conflicts together in a wonderful narrative that has been deemed the pinnacle of the Basque novel, or “the most important Basque novel written to date, and destined to be a new focus of the canon.”40 As noted, there are really two novels here: the first is a story, as I will call it, and it appears as the title of the book: “The Gynecologist.” It tells the story of a couple, Iñaki Abaitua and Pilar, both of whom are doctors. And the second story “Julia’s Decision,” tells the story of a writer, Iñaki, whom the translator Julia decides to leave. The two stories come together through space— Julia and Iñaki live in a Hooper-like house in Martutene (a neighborhood of Donostia-San Sebastián)—, and also through an important character, Lynn, an American sociologist who becomes Iñaki’s lover and who is renting the attic in the house in which the writer and translator live. The author has described the work as a novel about guilt: the guilt of Abaitua who is responsible for bad medical practice on—almost the rape of—a patient, who is in turn the relative, symbolically, of a victim of terrorism. His guilt over this leads him to remorse for which he will be saved by Lynn, an angel who, in a recurring act of symbolism throughout the 40 Joseba Gabilondo, “Martutene-New York (Montauk)-Martutene,” Zuzeu Albistaria (online journal). At http://zuzeu.com/2012/07/05/martutene-new-york-montaukmartutene/ (accessed July 2012).

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novel, picks up the wounded soldier. That private guilt whose meaning the author finds so appealing is, however, linked to a social guilt in the sense that Saizarbitoria feels the pressure to write about the recent violent years in Basque society. And this dimension of denouncing violence is most apparent in the novel. For that reason, the author announced after the novel was published that he felt free; in other words, that he has already written about the Basque drama and can now write about whatever he wants, about personal dramas. “Julia’s Decision” once again explores one of the symbolic fields the author is most fond of: the unfathomable relationships between men and women; and in this case, Iñaki’s guilt consists of not being sufficiently skillful to hold onto Julia. It is a novel made up of thousands of intertwining threads. Lynn’s scar, for example, which is the result of a previous operation, reveals her fatal destiny in another operation, performed by Pilar, which will leave her an invalid. The characters all belong to the comfortable bourgeoisie, and it is not lacking in references to memories of the Spanish Civil War and various illicitly acquired fortunes. In short, Martutene reflects a summary of Saizarbitoria’s entire work. If he began by commenting on abortion, here birth is important: the birth overseen by the gynecologist, and for which Abaitua will be forgiven by his patient, but for which he will be officially reprimanded. Saizarbitoria had tried out some of the techniques here in his previous work, such as the confusion created by changing a person’s name into Euskara, which is at root a private joke, and which happened to the author when his surname was erroneously transcribed by an administrative assistant. The work is influenced by Cervantes, Flaubert, and above all Max Frisch (1911–1991). Saizarbitoria’s characters read Frisch’s novel Montauk (1975) avidly, as if what happens there might serve as a basis for interpreting their own lives, as if they were experiencing the same story the Swiss writer experienced in his love for Lynn, which is repeated here by Abaitua, who is in love with another Lynn that will be his redemptive angel. At the same time, the decadence of the place, the Martutene neighborhood, parallels the decadence that hounds the characters, lost in a world that they cannot interpret. One of the obsessions of Basque narrative is found in the lack of any realist novels. For that reason, the reference to Flaubert is not inconsequential. This novel, which was written in “good faith,” refutes such an argument and might well become the beginning and foundation of the Basque realist novel.

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With regard to poetry, this genre continues to maintain a marginal position in relation to narrative. However, it has enjoyed more of a presence in the literary field. If we compare the figures for publications of Basque poetry by new authors, we see the following: 1975–1990: 80 poets/150 books 1991–2000: 40 poets/70 books 2001–2012: 90 poets/238 books We see, then, that an increasing number of poets have published their first book during the last decade, and an increasing number of books have also been published. In the first twelve years of the new century 139 authors, 90 of whom were new, published works of poetry. This indicates that what had once been considered lost has now become more widespread: the author of a single book of poetry, which is reflective of a frequent phenomenon in small literatures. About 15 books were published annually during this time, with peaks of more than 25 books in 2004, 2009, and 2011. No one knows why there were such variations. However, it would appear that self-publishing, which is easier for poetry than for other genres, is one explanation for this variation. This is a recourse because the big publishing houses, with the exception of Susa’s admirable policy of providing strong support for poetry, publish very little in the genre, perhaps a couple of works at most every year. In this regard, there is an interesting piece of data relating to 2002 and 2003 when the Elkar publishing house produced a lot of poetry books to coincide with the creation of a new collection. The big publishing houses maintain a symbolic commitment to poetry in that they always publish something, although this commitment is very carefully measured. Consequently, one must applaud the stance of publishing houses like Maiatz and Hatsa that still publish poetry in the French Basque Country in difficult circumstances. In such circumstances, publishing poetry came to rely on self-publishing and publishing with a limited distribution, as well as literary prizes, some of the latter of which (such as that awarded by Euskaltzaindia, the Basque Language Academy) had already disappeared. In the period described here, three great poets, Bitoriano Gandiaga (1928–2001), Juan Mari Lekuona (1927–2005), and Xabier Lete (1944– 2010), died at the beginning, middle, and end of the decade. They were three key figures of Basque poetry.

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Interestingly, one of the features of this period has been the possibility of publishing Basque poetry outside the boundaries of the language, which demonstrates a certain interest in Basque poets outside of the Basque literary system. As such, books have been published in Euskara for the first time in Madrid, Tarbes, Almería, and Málaga. Faced with a form of publication that was difficult to distribute, poets increasingly undertook joint collaborations with musicians. Moreover, performances and recitals, poetry on the stage, were also gaining momentum. Moving from a sociological to an aesthetic perspective on what has been produced during these last twelve years, after recalling the importance of works by Kirmen Uribe and Miren Agur Meabe, one should mention the book Egunsentiaren esku izoztuak (The Frozen Hands of Dawn, 2008) by Xabier Lete. This was a disturbing book of poems about the existence and the presence of an already glimpsed death; a text of personal memory and a profound sense of life. Authors that emerged in the 1990s continued to enjoy a significant presence, such as Karlos Linazasoro (1962– ), whose indefatigable writing produced eight books of poems during this time (and seven short story works). No subject escaped him and he developed a personal language that combined sensitivity with a precise way of naming things: in Etxe hutsean (In the Empty House, 2009), in which he explored the absence of his parents; in Gaur orain da betiko (Today Is Now Forever, 2010), a sensitive text of love poetry; and in the book of poems for which he won the first Xabier Lete Prize for Poetry, the complex Ezer gehiago behar gabe (Without Any Need for Anything Else, 2012). Likewise, Miren Agur Meabe published Bitsa eskuetan (Foam on My Hands, 2010), her long awaited second book of poems, in which her mother’s absence gave rise to a moving sense of the poetry, yet without overlooking the themes of eroticism and the body that have shaped her texts. It is worth highlighting that the postmodern aesthetic was extremely important to poets that began publishing in the 1990s. Nevertheless, despite the clear disparity of voices, one should point out: 1) What was dubbed the poetry of thought, perhaps linked to the philosophy in the work of Pello Otxoteko (1970– ) and Juan Ramon Makuso (1961– ). A figure close to this group was Jon Gerediaga (1975– ), who was influenced by Hölderlin and who had a powerful conception of the poems and the thought that they imbued. Aritz Gorratxategi (1975– ) might also be included in this group.

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2) The poetry of Castillo Suarez (1976– ) combines everyday life and an allegory of that experience. She published seven books between 2000 and 2008 and although she did not publish anything else, her work led to the emergence of a style among other women poets whose work resembled her aesthetic. One example of such a poet would be Leire Bilbao (1976– ). 3) A neoclassic and ironic poetry in the style of Catullus, with a markedly homosexual outlook, can be found in the brilliant poems of Angel Erro (1978– ). 4) An imaginative daydreaming style pervades the work of Igor Estankona (1977– ). 5) The exploration of identity, whether personal or social, drives the work of Jon Benito (1981– ). In addition to this brief list, one might add some of the names currently producing poetry in the Basque Country: Xabi Borda (1981– ), Txili Lauzirika (1975–), Mikel Peruarena (1978– ), and Asier Serrano (1975– ).

Bibliography Aldekoa, Iñaki. Historia de la literatura vasca. Donostia: Erein, 2004. Alonso, Jon. “Zorionak.”Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (2003): 112. Agirre, Joxean. “Literatura.”Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (1996): 91. —. “Literatura.” Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (1997): 89. Anonymous. “Literatura: Urteurrenak eta argitalpen berrien konsideratzioa.” Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (1985): 158–160. Aristi, Pako. “Urte txarra literaturarako.” Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (1986): 153. Deleuze, Gilles; Guattari, Félix. Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature. Translated by Dana Polan. Foreword by Réda Bensmaïa. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986. Epaltza, Aingeru. “Literatura eta Soziologia.” Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (1992): 130. Figueroa, Antón. Ideoloxía e autonomía no campo literario galego. Santiago de Compostela: Laiovento, 2010. Gabilondo, Joseba. “Martutene-New York (Montauk)-Martutene.” Zuzeu Albistaria (online journal). At http://zuzeu.com/2012/07/05/martutene-new-yorkmontauk-martutene/. Accessed July 2012. Intxausti, Joseba. Euskera, la lengua de los vascos. Donostia: Elkar; Gobierno Vasco, 1992.

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Irastortza, Tere. “Azken urteotan prosaginta premiatu da gehien bat.” Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (1986): 154. Juaristi, Felipe. “New Yorkeko katarroak guregan doministikua.” Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (1990): 115. Lasagabaster, Jesus Maria. “Euskal nobelaren gizarte-kondairaren oinharriak.”Euskal Linguistika eta Literatura: Bide berriak, 343–368. Bilbao: Universidad de Deusto, 1981. López Silva, Inmaculada. “Sistema teatral e Institucións.” Ph.D. dissertation, Universidad de Santiago de Compostela, 2008. Lozano Mijares, María del Pilar. La novela española postmoderna. Madrid: Arco, 2007. Mendiguren, Xabier. “Ikasturteari errepasoa.” Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (1988): 136. —. “Txosten txar bat mugaz bestaldean dudan lagunari.” Jakin 133 (2002): 52–57. —. “Ez dugu kanpokoen txalorik behar.” Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (2003): 100. Rabelli, Álvaro. “Sarrera. Gaurko euskal ipuingintzaren historia. 1983/2003.” In Egungo euskal ipuingintzaren historia, supervised by Jon Kortazar, edited by Álvaro Rabelli. Leioa: Servicio Editorial de la UPV-EHU, 2011. Rodriguez, Eider. “Literatura.” Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (2005): 105. Škrabec, Simona. “Qué és una literatura menor?” L’Avenç 320 (2007): 4–6. Zabala, Juan Luis. “Errealismoa eta euskara revisited.” Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (1991): 117. Zaldua, Iban. “Euskarazko ‘kontsumoko’ literatura.” Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria (2003): 111. Sources Euskal Kulturaren Urtekaria, 1984–2011 (except 1997 when no annual was published). Published by the journal Argia (Donostia).

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Part ii: Kirmen Uribe’s Proposal

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1. Biographical Details Kirmen Uribe was born into a family of seafarers and fishermen in the Bizkaian town of Ondarroa in 1970. He did his undergraduate degree in what was then the Faculty of Philology, Geography, and History (today the Faculty of Letters) at the University of the Basque Country in VitoriaGasteiz, earning a bachelor’s degree in Basque Philology. He then began a doctoral course on postmodernity within the Erasmus exchange program for students in the European Union, at the University of Trieste, Italy. In all likelihood, he found in those courses a channel to the solid foundations of his poetics. Initially, Kirmen Uribe worked with Jon Elordi and the two of them coauthored an essay that was awarded the Becerro de Bengoa Essay Prize by the provincial council of Araba in 1995. That work, Lizardi eta erotismoa [Lizardi and eroticism] was published in 1996, and explored the metaphors and style used in the symbolist poetry of the major Basque poet Xabier de Lizardi, a pseudonym for José María Agirre (1896–1933) to express desire and eroticism. The same two authors also wrote textbooks on Basque literature, among which Manual Literaturazkoa (A Manual on Literature, 2003) stands out. In 2000, Uribe won the same prize for the work Zazpi leiho, zortzi maratila (Seven Windows, Eight Bolts, 2001). In this book, based on the courses taken at the Italian university, he reflects on the basic characteristics of postmodernity in the work of Basque authors Bernardo Atxaga (1951- ) and Joseba Sarrionandia (1958- ); addressing themes such as the effects of the Basque conflict, the appearance of the self, the “other,” and

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the weight of History. This book was never published and continues to be widely unknown. With regard to his progress in the field of poetry, following the publication of a very short book, Ekografia (1998), came the work Bar Puerto, Bazterreko ahotsak (Bar Puerto, Voices From The Edge, 2001). In this case, Kirmen Uribe made use of a model that Bernardo Atxaga and the novelist Joxemari Iturralde (1951- ) had put into practice, with the collaboration of musician Ruper Ordorika, in the Henry Bengoa Inventarium (1985), a compendium of poetry, music, and video recital. In the following pages I will address in more detail how the Bar Puerto, Bazterreko ahotsak performance came about, what it comprised, and how it was received. Then, toward the end of that same year he published Bitartean heldu eskutik (Meanwhile Take My Hand), the key contribution in his poetry, because on this crossroad-laden path that the aesthetics of the turn of the millennium implied, he managed to sketch out an aesthetic current that came to embrace ligne claire or easily understood poetic clarity. In doing so, he was influenced by the poetics of W. H. Auden (1907–1973) and T. S. Eliot (1888–1975), and once more highlighted key current issues although the fictitious nature of the work was always paramount. And he came to suggest a new interpretation of the contemporary, more than postmodernity, in a poetry that clearly “says things” and does not stuff itself full of words, images, and metaphors. In a word, Kirmen Uribe seeks to create a poetry of proximity. His work frowns on the game between the avant-garde and symbolism, and seeks to flee the dark alley that existed between commitment and creation, searching instead for a personal direct route between the two aesthetics that led him to winning the Critics’ Prize in 2002, and to being a finalist (and nearly winning) Spain’s National Prize for Poetry. In March 2003 he traveled to New York City with the musicians Mikel Urdangarin, Bingen Mendizabal, and Rafa Rueda, and the cartoonist and illustrator Mikel Valverde, in order to take part in various poetry recitals, but just the experience of being in the city proved fruitful. And the result of this trip was the book and CD Zaharregia, txikiegia agian (Too Old, Too Small, Maybe, 2003), which included new poems. In this work, his poems take on a musical form and tend to be more direct. That same year Kirmen Uribe also wrote his first children’s book. In 2006 he published a special edition work, Portukoplak (Port Verse), a collection of performance poetry about visiting fishermen, after winning a prize awarded by the Onadrroa city council the previous year.

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In 2008 he published the innovative novel Bilbao-New York-Bilbao, of which I have commented elsewhere.

2. Bar Puerto, Bazterreko ahotsak (Bar Puerto, Voices from the Edge) The Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak (2001) performance cannot really be separated from the book of poems Bitartean heldu eskutik (2001). And one might even go so far as to say that in that original performance there were already traces of intuitions and ideas that appeared later in the novel Bilbao-New York-Bilbao. Yet the success of the book Bitartean heldu eskutik—it sold out its first printing of one thousand copies in a relatively short time (one month), breaking all records for a work of Basque poetry—cannot be understood without taking into account how Bar Puerto paved the way for this. Because Bar Puerto was part of an effort conceived in tandem with cultural activism it gained a certain amount of public recognition. The Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak performance, combining music, poetry, painting, and video, came to prominence as part of “Korrika Kulturala” (Cultural Korrika), acts in support of the Basquelanguage organization AEK (Alfabetatze Euskalduntze Koordinakundea, Coordination of Education and Literacy in Euskara; an organization that teaches the Basque language to adults). As part of the “Korrika Kulturala” the poet, Kirmen Uribe, the singer Mikel Urdangarin, and the painter Josu Eizagirre traveled all over the Basque Country with the performance. This collaborative work was a tremendous help to the poet, Kirmen Uribe, because it familiarized both his face and his work with a wide section of the Basque public. Mikel Urdangarin’s work was already well-known and he had released several CDs. Thanks to the arrangement, the work was published as part of the Korrika activities: the short book was titled Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak and published jointly by Korrika, Olee, and Gaztelupeko Hotsak. No images of the paintings appear in the work, but Josu Eizagirre is still credited. One should also add that photos of the video that ran alongside the performance do appear in the book. Just a few months later, Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak appeared in a second incarnation, at the same time Bitartean heldu eskutik was published. This time, it was released as a CD-chapbook and did not include the painter’s collaboration, yet the musical dimension was expanded upon, incorporating Bingen Mendizabal. Kirmen Uribe was acknowledged as the author of the

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text in the CD-chapbook and recited one poem on the CD. In sum, because the CD Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak was released at virtually the same time as the book of poems Bitartean heldu eskutik, the appeal of the former greatly aided interest in the latter, as if in a joint uniting of forces. By that time, moreover, Kirmen Uribe was already blending fiction and reality in articles he was writing for newspapers, and his personality and writings were becoming more well-known within the wider Basquelanguage readership. However, underpinning the success of the book was a feature that is stressed time and time again by postmodernity: the aim of taking poetry to a wider audience by converting it into spectacle, taking poetry out of books and into the streets, and turning poetry into a show or a performance. The work Bar Puerto heralds the creation of a changing world (in common with the novel Bilbao-New York-Bilbao because this theme runs through both works), of a world in which personal (but also social) memory acquires symbolic value. With regard to the work, and in order to understand it correctly, one should mention the different layers in which the text develops. a) Genre Bar Puerto is situated in a current of poetry undertaken with social aims that has been long established in the Basque Country. From the work of Bernardo Atxaga through to that of today’s younger poets there have been many such “hybrid” works. In this sense the term “hybrid” has two clear meanings. On the one hand, it is connected to the shifting borders among postmodern literary genres, and it seeks to bring together different forms of artistic expression within those kinds of experimental works with works of different literary genres; and on the other, Bernardo Atxaga titled the aforementioned Henry Bengoa Inventarium compendium after the hybrid work Henry Bengoa Inventarium in his book Poemas & Híbridos. Numerous poetry spectacles have been arranged in the form of performances in the Basque literary scene and this is the most striking feature of hybrids: the platform of poetry through spectacle and the joining of different artistic forms of expression. Bernardo Atxaga declared, for example, that this was a means of bringing poetry to a public that did not read poetry. Poetry enjoyed a special place within these performances, but the dialogue with other forms of artistic expression lent a special tone to this creation.

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During the first throes of this expression hybrids took on a mainly narrative form, and this is how the Henry Bengoa Inventarium was organized. The poems and texts as well as prose and translated work of both performers and other writers were woven around this central thread. A first cycle of creating hybrids emerged around Bernardo Atxaga and his group, in which one should cite Jose Mari Iturralde and the singer Ruper Ordorika. This was made up of the following hybrids: · Henry Bengoa Inventarium (1988), which was published in Spanish by Visor, and reprinted several times, under the title Poemas & Híbridos (Poems & Hybrids). · Lezio berri bat ostrukari buruz (A New Lesson on the Ostrich) (1994). · Mendian gora (To the Top of the Mountain) (1996). · Groenlandiako lezioa (Lesson on Greenland) (1998), which was published in Spanish in Lista de locos y otros alfabetos (Siruela). Yet the formula grew quickly at a time (the 1990s) when poetry publishing was experiencing a difficult moment in the Basque Country and, in fact, both publication (around ten books a year) and public opinion of poetry had plummeted. In 2001 there were five different initiatives in the Basque Country: · The Poesiaren kontra, poesiaren alde (Against Poetry, in Favor of Poetry) debate among Kirmen Uribe the narrator Iban Zaldua, and the poet Gerardo Markuleta that resulted in the staging of what was termed EzinKomuniKazioA (NoCommuniCaTion). · The poetic stage performance Ibiltarixanak (The Traveler’s Cantos) by Iñigo Aranbarri and Jose Luis Otamendi, together with other collaborators. · Members of the Brigada Vladimir (Vladimir Brigade), the name of a magazine by young writers published in Zarautz whose best known writer was the young poet Jon Benito, created the stage performances Duintasunerako eskubidea (Right to dignity) and Hegaberak lubakietan (Lapwings in the Trenches). · The Kalderapeko bar in Bilbao organized jazz and poetry nights, a series titled “Literatur jazza” (“Jazz Literature”) that always included readings to music. · Pako Aristi and the musician Mikel Markez joined forces with the aim of combining poetry and music.

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From the communicative perspective, I have already referred to that desire to take poetry “into the streets,” though by reinforcing the means, enriching the forms of poetic communication, and without making do only with a spoken recital. The recital formula was also employed especially in the organization of the first Olerki Eguna or Poetry Day in the Basque language, in which many poets took part by reading their poems over a period of twenty-four hours. Unfortunately, however, this formula was not repeated. The hybridization of genres has been demonstrated categorically from a theoretical perspective. Peter Zima1 has written a thought-provoking essay on the deconstruction of the novel genre. This essay is an appropriate starting point for my own investigation here, in particular for the conclusions he draws, even though he discusses novels whereas I am exploring the game between narration and poetry. Clearly a “hybrid” is a text that is plural and pluralized in its voices, dialogic, ambiguous, and at times “indifferent” in the sense Peter Zima gives this word; that is, the indifference stemming from the impossibility of choosing from among different values (whether ethical, moral, or political). In his work Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak, Kirmen Uribe with the aim of offering the vision of a life already lost, gathers together a fragmented series of testimonies in which memory and narration combine. All the different polyphonic voices come together in the narrator’s voice, in the shadow of the organizer of the fragments. By selecting the poems this narrator underscores the grandeur of the characters’ small tragedies, imbuing them with an air of pathos. The author has referred on many occasions to the book of essays Plainwater (1995) by Canadian poet Anne Carson (1950–). In this work she speaks about recreating a world in which genres might be interchangeable, mixed up, and recreatable, and plays with the notion of poetry turning into narrative in this hybrid world; in sum, that hybrids offer a multipolar game and a game of difference. b) Journey through Bar Puerto I have already explained that the work Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak is set against the backdrop of the demolition of a particular neighborhood 1 Peter Zima, “Vers une déconstruction de genres? À propos de l’évolution romanesque entre le modernisme et le postmodernisme,” in Enjeux des genres dans les écritures contemporaines, ed. Robert Dion, Frances Fortier, and Élisabeth Haghebaert (Québec: Nota bene, 2001).

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in Ondarroa. A new road is going to be built and so the machines come to bulldoze away the Ondarroa neighborhood. The narrator uses a video camera and testimonies of local people’s voices to record how the neighborhood is demolished. Therefore, it is really a record of how, in reality, one neighborhood comes to an end. The book could not show the film recorded by the video camera—and for that reason, photographs appear in the 2001 edition that, incidentally, disappeared on the CD—yet it does include the testimonies recorded on video straight from the characters’ mouths. The narrator explains the reasons behind the text thus: Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak. Kostaldeko herri gztietan dago Bar Puerto deritzon taberna bat. Hara biltzen diren marinelak eta portuko langileak atseden hartzeko. Hango historiak jasotzea, aspaldiko asmoa. [Bar Puerto. Voices from the edge. In all coastal towns there’s a tavern called bar Puerto. Fishermen and port workers come together there to take a break. Gathering their stories, a long time intention].2

The text collects these voices and testimonies, yet it is much more than just this. It is also a diary, the cruel diary of a specific destruction, a bridge constructed between utopia and memory, the tragedy of the small as reflected by gazing at the large. In the general structuring of the text, four elements can be contemplated that give body to this collection of testimonies: · The structure of building blocks, the mîse en abyme technique, is the first obvious reference when speaking about the text. The principal voices give way to the narrator’s by means of testimonies recorded on video. Likewise, following these testimonies, the narrator includes original or translated texts (the latter by the likes of Paul Auster, Roger Iriart, Manuel Rivas, and Silvia Plath), and these literary testimonies give way 2 Kirmen Uribe, Mikel Urdangarin, and Josu Eizagirre, Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak (Donostia: Elkar, 2010), 96. Translator’s note: All English translations of the text in Bar Puerto quoted here are by Elizabeth Macklin and taken from her translation of the original Basque text reissued in 2010 as a DVD-chapbook. Page references are to the English translation in this edition. The text itself by Jon Kortazar refers to the first edition of the work.

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to the local characters’ “real” voice; the narrator then intervenes at times after these characters’ confessions and the passage ends with a poem. But besides this general structure, other kinds of different structuring elements are gradually added. · The text as a whole takes on a cyclical appearance. The testimonies begin with Omar’s story. He is from Guinea-Conakry and works at sea because there is nothing else for him. The last story is that of Unai. He, in contrast, loves the sea although he does underscore how hard this work is. This circularity is highlighted by the use of the icy theme. Omar comments that Europe is as cold as an icebox, and the narrative character helps some immigrants move a refrigerator at the end of the narration. · The time used is also symbolic. Although an earlier date is mentioned in the text, the (video) recordings were made between February 1 and 15. February is the symbol of coldness (and the wolf ) and what is more, many of the recordings were done on a Friday, an unlucky day in Basque popular tradition. During the four weeks (one month, a complete cycle) that the narration of the text lasts, a parallelism among weeks is highlighted: from the first and third weeks only the notes written on Tuesdays and Fridays appear, while Thursdays and Fridays are recorded in the second and fourth weeks (for the latter the narrator adds a special Monday note as well). · There is a contraposition between the testimonies of older and younger people. The older ones (Jous, Eli, the twins Agustin and Emilio, and Fontán) speak about the tragedy of war and also about times of happiness. The younger ones focus on contemporary problems: work, immigration, AIDS, and drugs. The first section of the text is dated January 23. It is a poetic text about the meaning of time (the beginning of the novel Bilbao-New York-Bilbao also speaks about time and age) and it clearly makes a case for the need to recall; the narrator becomes the focal point of creating memory; time has ended and it is necessary to remember. The neighborhood is going to be demolished, and we must go home. Ondarroa has become a place to return to. The name of the town, which is not cited at the start of the text, appears later on, and it is obvious which town the narrator is speaking about. Two songs set the tone for this return: “Aztarnak” (“Traces”) by Anari, whose meaning is clear from the title, and “Txatxamatxalinatxu,” a traditional song that tells the story of a tragic life: the year the child (Txatxamatxalinatxu) was

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born, the fishermen’s guild and the town council fell out with one another and this (which had nothing to do with her) would forever, and tragically, mark poor Txatxamatxalinatxu. January 26. The notes from this day explain what it is like to be at sea. Postmodern construction surfaces in these notes in the same way as in the films of Buñuel: hidden inner signs in objects and in the objects of people. The aim is to express what is really seen, however incredible this may seem. February 1 and collecting the testimonies begins. Omar is first. He is from Guinea-Conakry, an immigrant, and works at sea but does not really like his work. Immigrant: someone who must live according to the harsh realities of life. It is a clear symbol, of course, and one of integration. He is a foreigner, an ordinary man, but he speaks several languages and has also begun to study Euskara. February 2, Friday, Josu Urresti’s testimony is recorded. A sad story of involuntary incest (shades of Paul Auster) frames Josu Urresti’s memory of the Spanish Civil War, as a prisoner in and his escape from PamplonaIruñea jail, and once again with a traditional song as an element of contrast. February 6, Tuesday, the story of the corsair Pellot written by Michel Iriart introduces another sad story: the birth of Eli. She was born in prison and her story recalls the harsh years of the post-civil war era. How her mother was taken off to prison, and how she met, many years later, her father. February 9, Friday, a very short biography of Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894) is told and a poem by Silvia Plath (1932–1963) read aloud, and we are immediately thrown into the story of three deep-sea fishermen who came to Ondarroa in the post-civil war era from Galicia: how they arrived in the Basque Country and how they worked in Gran Sol (“Great Sole” in English, a fishing bank). The passage ends with a traditional song. Marian’s story, collected on February 12, Monday, introduces us to the world of drugs and AIDS, once again a tragedy as small as it is big and powerful. The rebellion is over and it is time to count the injuries and losses. Marian’s voice tells us about one of the biggest plagues to hit the Bizkaian coast in the 1980s and 1990s, which was decimated by the world of drugs. The text ends with an emblematic poem by Kirmen Uribe “Bisita” (“Visit”). February 14, Thursday, we hear Unai’s testimony. Like Omar, he makes a living by going off to sea, although he really does love the sea and, while he is not exactly happy to do so, he perseveres in going. February 15, the narrator leaves the town and returns to the city.

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c) Voices, Multiculturalism, and Memory. A hybrid poses one main problem, or if one prefers an a priori: its time is limited, a performance is necessarily constrained from the outset, and for that reason, any interpretation must be fleeting; one cannot dwell on it. Consequently, hybrids often take place in the oral realm. Parallelisms or sentences made up of short phrases assume greater importance in the text. Yet the Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak text examined here has other central narrative threads, central threads that clarify and unify, clear explanatory lines that construct meaning. The Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak text is an homage to memory yet the voices of those memories are specific, real, multiple, and fragmented. They have an incomplete memory, yet they speak about a world experienced and in that regard the world they describe from their own point of view is intelligible. It is therefore stylized. The experiences are their own and, in the sense that they are so close to them, and very powerful. Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak is, more than anything, a collection of voices, a summary of different ways of life, a collection of sensations, real moments in the lives of people, each of them with their own name and story: Omar, Josu, Eli, Agustín, Emilio, Fontán, Marian, and Unai; each of them tells their own tragedy – that of life’s necessities, that of the grief of war, that of drugs and AIDS. Yet at the same time, Emilio, Fontán, and Agustín demonstrate a world in which some happiness can be found in a simple life, when only the tables remain to be taken out before the house is demolished . . . an homage to life even on the point of losing everything. Without any doubt, one of the features of Kirmen Uribe’s literature is a sense of pathos. His characters suffer, and they wear their suffering on their sleeves. For example, there is Josu’s tale of the death of others, the pain of being born in prison and not knowing her father in Eli’s story, and the recounting of several other characters’ suffering. But combined with this pain and tragedy, there is also a celebration of life, and this is never lacking, even in the most bitter stories as well, such as Marian’s tale. After falling into the world of drugs, she spent some time in the El Patriarca building (a drug rehabilitation center) before returning to her hometown, and now (unlike before), she feels at home: “I had never, ever thought I would feel so comfortable in my hometown.”3 3 Uribe, Urdangarin, and Eizagirre, Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak, 115.

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Unai’s harsh life also has, to some extent, a bittersweet edge. He accepts that life at sea is tough, but he loves it nonetheless. Here the symmetry I noted above is reinforced because Bar Puerto includes three dark, tragic stories together with three others that, within the tragedy, look for the strength of life. T. S. Eliot wrote that April is the cruelest month. In this literature, April is followed by May, the month that follows cruelty. The special force of the text lies in that point between death and life in the collection of different voices. Yet there is not just an abundance of tones among the different voices, but within each of them as well. Different tones surface at the heart of the stories and this profusion enriches each of them, which are at the same time so personal and so uplifting. The text is dialogically diverse and polyphonic because it brings together different voices, yet the voices are collected from the narrator’s perspective (and in the writer’s treatment); and the many people born out of that neighborhood (old and young people, native born and immigrants) are brought together through metonymy with the aim of telling the whole story of the neighborhood. It is at the very point that life and death intertwine that Kirmen Uribe’s literature becomes so endearing, and only through bringing together such distinct voices can that connection be made. The most interesting value offered by this hybrid text is that of these multiple voices and within the transcription of those voices one must not forget the influence of orality in Kirmen Uribe’s literature, whether that of the different kinds of oral narrations he employs or his well-known and compelling technique in front of an audience. The characters that appear in a story have experienced tragedy, but, through recounting this tragedy, they disclose, reveal, and expose their lives. These voices become endearing and their lives, as told here, are seen in terms of pathos and affection. Kirmen Uribe’s literature has another virtue in that the polyphony of orality creates a rich mosaic. Immigrants, whether those of today or those that came in the 1950s, come together in the same place with native born people and all of them together create a multiple perspective of reality. Kirmen Uribe has demonstrated a great fondness for gathering together different testimonies, but he does not interpret what these people say; he collects them, above all else to display, although his perspective is not neutral. There are two ways of approaching different perspectives on what happens in society: an essentialist monodialogical way, the expression of one single voice, and a pluridialogical way that reveals many voices. Demonstrating diversity is a form of creating tolerance, and representing diversity denounces essentialist borders.

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But if these different voices are in the text it is a way of establishing social memory. However, this is curious because those memories may be tragic but they are also personal. Social memory emerges through being collected and put together. The theoreticians on social memory James Fentress and Chris Wickham contend that memory is what gives permanence to the subjective: …memory as naturally divided into two segments. There is an objective part which serves as a container of facts, most of which might be housed in a variety of other locations. There is a subjective part, which includes information and feelings that are an integral part of us, and which thus are properly located only within us.4

After reading this, it is clear that Kirmen Uribe finds the latter, subjective part of memory much more interesting: that subjective personal memory of the characters recorded in the text (whether literary or video), the autobiographical memory that takes shape and becomes social in the stories. This is subjective memory transformed into a story. Characters touched by tragedy and pathos have been extremely important in Basque literature in recent years. Bernardo Atxaga, for example, has often turned to pathos when describing his characters’ behavior. The novelty of Kirmen Uribe’s work is that, by turning people into characters and breaking down the borders between the two, he lets specific people speak for themselves without any filter, in their own eloquent recorded voices. These characters thus become the protagonists and the narrator seeks out a personal story, placing himself on a secondary level, without promoting any ideology, without judging, and without encouraging any kind of message (there is one of course, but it stems from the collection of voices rather than the narrator’s guiding voice). In order to establish an opinion about memory, I should add that the above-mentioned theoreticians observe that, for example, the memory created through stories told in a bar (not that all the memories in Bar Puerto originate in a bar because some of them appear to have been more obviously household stories) creates personal rather than social memory. Perhaps that is what the Bar Puerto stories want to do: create “episodic” memory, the memory of incidents and events, a “subjective sense of identity,” 4 James Fentress and Chris Wickham, Social Memory (Oxford and Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1992), 5.

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the edifice of a personal world, the sketch of a map of stories that are lost like smoke drifting between the walls of Bar Puerto, like the undersea reefs the narrator’s father used to draw;5 a map of personal misfortune that will be lost together with the demolition of the neighborhood; and collecting, transcribing, and publishing these stories transforms this map into social memory. In other words, Bar Puerto is not just a sketch of a world full of emotion (and perhaps this is the book’s primary objective), but also the portrait of a social world; a world in which immigration, the experience of war, the world of drugs and AIDS emerge and, through them, a fresco of social memory. A memory that fits into a refrigerator, which some Africans will carry home without realizing that it contains all the coldness of Europe.

Bibliography Fentress, James; Chris, Wickham. Social Memory. Oxford and Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1992. Zima, Peter. “Vers une déconstruction de genres? À propos de l’évolution romanesque entre le modernisme et le postmodernisme.” In Enjeux des genres dans les écritures contemporaines, edited by Robert Dion, Frances Fortier, and Élisabeth Haghebaert. Québec: Nota bene, 2001.

5 Uribe, Urdangarin, and Eizagirre, Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak, 96.

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Bodies and Voices: Meanwhile Take My Hand

The purpose of this chapter is to propose a reading of Bitartean heldu eskutik by Kirmen Uribe, focusing on the situations that surround the book through its poetic theory and practice, sketching out its main lines of thought with the aim of demonstrating what it conveys and, ultimately, by means of all this, to analyze the meanings of the book. Criticism is, by definition, an exercise in reasoning, and while reason and poetry are opposed to one another, this work can do no more than take the form of an essay, at the end of the day an attempt to interpret something. The book was published in the Basque language in December 2001 to coincide with the Durango Book Fair (in the province of Bizkaia), and its first edition sold out in a very short time. I should initially point out that the work was originally part of the Bar Puerto performance and narration, and that the book grew out of this project. The author uses several poems that appear in that original book to tell the story of a person who returns to “Bar Puerto.” Moreover, besides the book being published, the singers Bingen Mendizabal and Mikel Urdangarin also released a CD, Bar Puerto, based on the original show but at the same time a different project, and this initiative undoubtedly helped publicize the book. There were, then, a series of extra-literary activities surrounding the work that helped to spread word about it. Before becoming a book, the idea had been tried out in literary shows and recitals, and through music it was transformed into song. The recitals, sung poems, and book all came at the same time. Yet the book overtook both the recitals and the music in that it examined certain aspects that they could not, and the idea appears more rounded, taking account of not just one but a wider range of subjects.

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As if this were not enough, the book was published at a moment in which a poetry crisis had already gathered force. And, perhaps this is a work that was destined to spark debate within this crisis.

1. Situations and Landscapes Whenever I try to unsettle or alarm my students, I tell them that literature is a system, and that this has its consequences. To this point, my beloved students remain calm. But their anxiety grows when I explain to them that the fact of it constituting a system means that it is a question of an industrial system, that literature and commerce (and therefore the economy) are getting closer and closer, and that literature that does not become commerce (or, worse still, that which has no readers), in contrast to what Romantics might think, runs the risk of not being literature. Despite it being written down, anything stored away in a closet is not literature, nor is anything literature that has been written only in the name of beauty; nor, supposedly, is it anything that does not have any readers or is not published, or—and I do not completely agree with this—anything that does not sell. I do not agree, and I would prefer to think about this in another way, because whether it sells little or is not read very much, whatever reads well can of course be literature. At this moment when literature and industry have joined as one, poetry and lyrical poetry have come out losing because poetry does not sell much due its difficulties in establishing a foothold—selling—in the market. Poetry needs other channels besides commerce. I would like to recall now another definition of literature: a bestseller is, apparently, any book that sells a lot in a short time, and after this brief lapse no longer sells; literature, meanwhile, is supposedly that which sells a little over many years. Thus, poetry would be that which sells hardly anything over the course of many years. With the help of schools and publishing houses narration has surprisingly gained strength in the current context of Basque literature, while to a similar extent lyrical poetry has lost its golden aura; the aura that, for example, the poet Aitzol imbued it with by standing before the people and pointing out the path toward an ideal. As I already stated earlier in this book, not much poetry in Euskara is published in the Basque Country.

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Meanwhile, it seems to me that with the disappearance of many literary journals it is more difficult to publish new lyrical poetry and, to some extent, there is less rereading and critical responses have declined. As book reviews have increased in newspapers, so extensive critiques have diminished and reflective spaces—reflection in a country that does not accept criticism?—have diminished and become scarce to the same extent. For me, and in the opinion of Iratxe Gutierrez (now Iratxe Retolaza),1 an analyst of newspaper criticism of 1990s novels, the parameters embraced by “informative” criticism might be defined according to these features: · A critique made up of phrases taken from the prologue and back cover. · It tells the story. · It comments on the author’s characteristics. · It makes no judgment. · It is superficial. · The critics are friends of the author. Thus, we are facing a clear crisis in lyrical poetry, and it is obvious because being a small country has its consequences. Being small has its advantages, and also its drawbacks, at least in the field of culture and reading. By way of an example, one might cite the consequences of only having a small library, according to the sociologist Franco Moretti.2 As this researcher’s data show, the smaller the library the smaller the diversity of subjects in the volumes; to the extent that (as he reminds us ironically) if there is just one book, this will be religious and in such a limited library literature will make an appearance only later on. We might wonder, then, because ideology is our new secular religion, when literature will be introduced in our dearth of books at student’s libraries. In the first place it will be ideology, and then literature, and then consider when poetry will be introduced, to a plausible extent at least. Yet the issue is not just what is going on around us. In my opinion, we are faced with a number of right and wrong directions. If one agrees with Michael Hamburger,3 poetry has taken two main paths during modernity: 1 Iratxe Gutierrez Retolaza, 90eko hamarkadako narratiba berria: Literatur kritika (Bilbao: Labayru, 2000). 2 Franco Moretti, Atlas de la novela europea. 1800–1900, trans. Mario Merlino (Madrid: Trama, 2001). 3 Michael Hamburger, The Truth of Modern Poetry: Tensions in Modern Poetry from Baudelaire to the 1960s (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1969).

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symbolism and the avant-garde. The shine of the historical avant-garde wore off in many ways, on the one hand insofar as it was transformed into something that anyone could undertake, and on the other at the moment it became illegible. In Spanish poetry, for example, in the 1980s and 1990s much effort was devoted to producing a clear and intelligible, but at the same time elaborate, poetry; improvisations championed by the avantgardes were, therefore, brushed aside. But now, we could say that a crisis has also emerged in symbolist poetry; perhaps the Romantic way (at the end of the day the avant-ggarde and symbolism are both children of idealism) of writing is in crisis, both in its aesthetic tendency and writing style, and in its nature and writing. According to Jean-Marie Schaeffer,4 the poetic language created by Romanticism is based on two criteria, and is reaffirmed in both: · It is a poetic language in itself. · If it is a causal poetic language, and as in the case of natural language, the nature of the sign is not arbitrary, there should be some relation between the signified and the signifier; in poetry messages can only appear in this way, only in this form, and in no other; one cannot say the same thing with other words. Different forms of creating poetic language stem from these two main criteria, as well as specific and direct consequences. Taking both criteria into account, accepting them, we can sense and affirm the following characteristics: · Poetry is an activity that possesses a special dignity. · Poetry enjoys a special relationship with “truth,” something that science, meanwhile, does not; put another way, although science is a material truth, and although it is in a position to be related to the objective world, poetry would achieve a relationship with subjective truth, and more still with transcendence, in other words a “truer” truth: at least if veracity had a privileged place within truth. · The relationship it has with common language would be like that of any art with its material. The relationship of poetry with common language is like that of sculpture to stone. 4 Jean-Marie Schaeffer, “Romanticismo y lenguaje poético,” in Teorías sobre la lírica, ed. Fernando Cabo Aseguinolaza (Madrid: Arco, 1999), 57–83.

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· Poetry is an autonomous language with regard to common language; poetic language is the essence of poetry, and to the same extent, of language itself. · That great dignity of poetry and its privileged relationship with truth make up the exceptional, particular, and specific nature of its language. These approaches are those of the Romantic School in Jena, and are linked to an idealist poetry that grew with this school and took shape mainly in this kind of poetry. Such an approach is thus not new. If I were to question it, as I am doing in general here, there would doubtless be some debate. Yet it is this doubt that I would underscore here because if poetry is in crisis, in some way at least, it is precisely due to the fact that the Romantic form of understanding poetry has been called into question. And we should not forget that this Romantic form of understanding poetry materialized through idealism, and that it is a fine line that united the three poetic revolutions of modernity known by different names: Romanticism, Symbolism, and the Avant-Garde. If I were to mention once more the crisis in Basque poetry, we would come across a previously unstated reason in order to comprehend this crisis: that aforementioned idealist concept of understanding poetry has been extremely important in the Basque Country. For example, many young poets have stated that they have no intention of breaking with those that came before them; that their path is to continue in the same direction; that there is no time to break within the Basque Country. Perhaps the direction taken has been continuity, both with regard to the avant-garde and symbolism, to the point of boring readers, during these last few years without renewing poetics or theories on the ways of composing poetry. These reflections stem from a lecture I gave at the Faculty of Philology, History, and Geography at the University of the Basque Country in Vitoria-Gasteiz in 2000. Thereafter, I hardly published anything on the topic, except a short article that led to a debate. But I appeared more audacious in that lecture and, cautiously and prudently, I dared to predict what the future might bring us. It is true that I have no idea what kind of poetry will emerge; perhaps one that will be critical of Romantic language and accepts certain aspects of postmodern language and others not. Perhaps this is not the poetry of the future but just what we have now, which I like, because I can see innovation within it or because I believe it best expresses all the complexity of the world (in my opinion) or because, upon reading it, I see several new dimensions of poetic language.

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In Pérez-Reverte’s The Club Dumas an astute character says: Listen, Corso, there are no innocent readers anymore. Each overlays the text with his own perverse view. A reader is the total of all he’s read, in addition to all the films and television he’s seen. To the information supplied by the author he’ll always add his own.5

If narration has readers with such ability, we cannot deny that those who approach poetry do so in the same—and perhaps even a more astute—way. Novelists, for example, confess that when they tell stories in their novels the styles they have studied in literature prevail, but that the cinematographic way of narrating is increasingly frequent in their trade. I have never heard any poet say anything like that. I repeat that I have no idea how poetry will evolve, but we already have some clues as to what might be coming. And even at the risk of confusing the poetry of the future with what I like, I would like to now repeat characteristics that I spoke about two years ago: · Poetry has joined forces with narration. Narrative poems abound. · Fracture, the primacy of fragmentation. Poems have taken the moment as a unit of time. Although long poems are written, they are poems that take into account the moment, the instant. · Actions have become metaphors, not just nouns. · The elegance of poetic language has gradually disappeared, and everyday language gained strength. Two years did not go by in vain, though, because I became aware of other aspects of poetry that also existed in other eras, but that, from their own perspective now, seem like innovative elements. For example, simultaneity, the personality of the poetic subject shows up in different times and places, the piety that redeems the lost, the diversity of the poetic subject. Right now in Basque poetry, renovated languages and signs are appearing. In truth, it is useless imagining how the future will be. As Juri Lotman rightly says, in questions of culture imagination is “imagination,” and it 5 Arturo Pérez Reverte, The Club Dumas, trans. Sonia Soto (New York: Randomn House, 1998), 335.

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is impossible to guess which direction culture will take—even though its current direction might seem obvious—because in the cultural field there are frequent “explosions” and innovative forces change the orientation of culture and thus divert the paths being traced out.6 Bearing in mind all these doubts and with the aim of channeling the debate, I would like to present in the following pages a reflection on the work by Kirmen Uribe Bitartean heldu eskutik (Meanwhile Take My Hand). I am sure that the book offers up some interesting clues; on the one hand, because it has called into question Romantic language; and on the other, because the author makes an effort to elaborate a powerful autopoetics, and because the book reveals an attempt to break with previous movements. Because of all this, because I believe that there is a door to a poetic aesthetic that is being half-opened, because we are coming face-to-face with (to some extent) a new Basque poetic language, because—as is always the case in the literatures of languages reduced to minority status—new channels are opening up out of new interpretations of foreign literature, and finally because this book offers innovative interpretations for a poetry that I previously defined as that of continuity, I believe this book is most interesting. By way of an introduction, I will start with the modest literary critique that I published in a newspaper, because here some of the questions that I would like to pose in this more extensive text already appear.

2. Introduction: The Body and the Voice These are not good times for lyrical poetry. They are not good times when the presentation of a poet, this poet, Kirmen Uribe, tells us that he is a scriptwriter over being a poet. I do not know how Kirmen Uribe is as a scriptwriter; it would appear that he only just became a scriptwriter, but I have never seen a series written by him, and I cannot make any judgment. It hurts me when the author of one of the most beautiful books of poetry published in the Basque language this year [2001]—and maybe in recent years—is described as a scriptwriter and not as a poet. It is apparently a sign of the times, and there is little I can do about it. 6 Juri M. Lotman, Culture and Explosion, trans. Wilma Clark, ed. Marina Grishakova (Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 2009).

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We could say that, besides being a collection of poems, Bitartean heldu eskutik (Meanwhile Take My Hand) has become a social phenomenon thanks to the show Bar Puerto, related to this project. The work Bitartean heldu eskutik (Meanwhile Take My Hand) demonstrates a new aesthetic. It is closely linked to the body, with a new vision of human beings. Foucault already pointed out the importance of the body in conceiving the postmodern individual. In this sense, joining body and word, Kirmen Uribe has constructed a special setting composed of seven main sections: the body, memory, sex, others and the multiple “I,” the limits of language, the dialogue between literature and art, and life. In this abridged introduction I would like to mention just two aspects of the book: the dialogue between literature and art and the voice. It is a well-known fact that there has been a long dialogue between literature and art. Some authors relate poetry to painting, others to film. I believe that Kirmen Uribe makes an effort to relate it to modern art, and within this field to new forms of performance, with productions in which the body is ever-present. This already shapes the emergence of language: the body is the principal metonymy, beginning already in the title. The hand we take is the symbol that we will not escape death, but that we wish it was a symbol of life, of a love of human beings, and the search for protection. And the voices. There are two voices. On the one hand, that of the poet prevails, which refuses the grandiloquent we and speaks to us from the miniscule and impassioned I. On the other, characters’ voices come together in the poem. And nor can we forget the voices of poets present in the work. Most of them are quoted for the first time in Basque letters and demonstrate new interpretations; many new names in our tradition; Heaney and like him poets that come from Scotland in English: Atwood and Sexton, and Ingeborg Bachmann. And it could be Benjamín Prado. But all of them hinting at flesh, the flesh we lose, which forms a part of our whole I. We will be spirit and thought, but flesh too hints at spirit. I am referring here to all this for two reasons: because I was trying to communicate and gather together all the force that the book of poetry offered in that humble folio, as if it were a pill; and because the newspaper, always lacking space, did not publish it in its entirety. But there is, moreover, another reason: in its reduced size, that article offered a structure in order to suggest a reading of the book. In the first place, that original article set out the title and structure, the question of voices (an important aspect in any analysis of current poetry)

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after attempting to offer the basics of an autopoetics, and finished up by mentioning the subject of intertextuality. I will follow a similar route in this article and this introduction would be no more than a map so as not to get lost.

3. The Title and Structure The title Bitartean heldu eskutik (Meanwhile Take My Hand) is taken from the poem “Visit.” Let us recall the theme of the poem: mother and brother are at the hospital bedside of a young drug addict who is dying. The protagonist has not awoken for some time and these were her last words. In this dramatic situation her words surface: An entire month and we haven’t heard a word from my sister, I don’t see my whole life stretching before me the way I did, she used to tell us. I don’t want promises, I don’t want repentance, just some sign of love is all. (…) Meanwhile take my hand, she implored us, I don’t want promises, I don’t want repentance, just some sign of love is all.7

The title of the collection of poems, the book of poems itself, is born when we no longer have our whole lives in front of us, when all we want is “a sign of love.” And that gesture of taking the hand is the principal metonymy, the metonymy of love, the metonymy of the body, the meager gesture of protection that, facing death, calls for a voice that does not need to repent for the past and the promises of the future. Yet in order to be on our guard for the dramatic sign that the text shows us, we 7 Kirmen Uribe, Meanwhile Take My Hand, trans. Elizabeth Macklin (Saint Paul, MN: Graywolf Press, 2007), 11, 13. Translator’s note: The published English translation of Bitartean heldu eskutik by Kirmen Uribe does not include all the poems in the original Basque-language edition. Where possible, examples have been drawn from the Englishlanguage edition of the work. On other occasions, where examples of poems not published in the English edition are cited, Elizabeth Macklin has generously provided translations specifically for this publication.

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should bear in mind developments that are so close to the author’s taste. At the beginning she “tells” and then she “implores” us. And furthermore, a gesture, as if language were not sufficient, as if in those moments he did not trust the word, as if the word and language were not capable of saying everything. The metonymy of the body dominates the book because the writer’s poetic creation is dominated by an appraisal of the body. And if in some cases this is a “rotten body,” I would contend it is because there has been an attempt to reevaluate the body, taking into account the whole book. Continuing with this basic description, we might define seven sections, seven main themes. And I would like to undertake a short journey through their glances in order to clarify the book’s intentions. The first section takes as its main idea “the body.” Following the poetic strategy in Kirmen Uribe’s book, one first comes across the theme in the quote that introduces the section, but at the same time also in the short poem that closes the section. This section begins with a quote by Margaret Atwood, and brings two themes together: the body and the impossibility of language: Your body is not a word, it does not lie or speak truth either.8

The poem that replies to this quote, however, says: —Describe, if you would, his heart for me. —It’s like a frozen lake, and the face of the child that he once was is erasing itself in there.9

The metonymy of the heart is nature (as is the case of Margaret Atwood’s poetry), but here the faces of drowned children fade away, memories are lost, and that poem is titled “Cardiogram,” in other words, the process that unites the representation of a feeling (cardio) and the writing process (gram). 8 Margaret Atwood, in Uribe, Meanwhile, 7. 9 Uribe, Meanwhile, 29.

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The theme of the second section is memory, the appearance and representation of childhood, but it begins with a quote by Zbigniew Herbert: “The loveliest stories are childhood ones.”10 However, on the other side of the quote there is the short final poem, recalling that memories (like the frozen lake) are made of water and they are written by rainwater, it shapes them: “Write my name in water, too.”11

Then comes Sex. Sex, the path of life, sex, the path of pleasure. As a psychologist friend once told me: “The tools for keeping a species going are those of pleasure. What a joy it is to eat, to drink… not to mention to mate!” However euphemistically put, the meaning was clear; clearer, in fact, than how it was said. Perhaps Uribe idealizes Bachmann’s quote: Papa and Mama will say they’re hearing spirits when we trade our breaths at night.12

Trade breaths! Change personalities… But it’s all the same. Because once again the end incites a new form of experiencing sex: The night’s been mild, but there’s dew on their skin.13

The most important change that postmodernity has given rise to centers on the disappearance of personality. In a similar way to what Rimbaud once said, “the other is me.” Now we know, however, that we don’t know who we are, that a lot of I’s live in us. The fourth section of the book addresses the fragment. “The amphora has cracked,” said Atxaga, and this quote has been repeated time and time again.14 One could also cite another Basque poet, Joseba Sarrionandia, but this would be futile, because even though a broken mirror might be put back together, it will never capture the last image it reflected. And many 10 11 12 13 14

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Ibid., 31. Ibid., 43. Ibid., 45. Ibid., 55. Translator’s note: Hautsi da anphora (The Amphora Has Cracked) is the title of a 1980 LP by Ruper Ordorika, which takes its lyrics from the poetry of Bernardo Atxaga.

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other authors have examined this broken identity, when we are foolish and other times serious. Following Juan Luis Zabala, I could say Hautsia natza (I lie broken).15 But in this case, the phrase that appears in another of the poems demonstrates the author’s message better than the last poem in this section: …reality’s bone marrow resides in its pieces.16

In the fifth section we come across another foundation of postmodernity: the limits of language. Can the language we use represent reality? Or is it a simulacrum? The limits of language also played a major role for the poets of the Pott Banda (the Pott gang).17 In this case, the last poem in the chapter in the Basque edition clearly confirms the poet’s intention: All of us have one word less to say to our neighbor.18

The key here is in that one word less, in the impossibility of saying. That game of chess between the Basque poet Aresti and Duchamp (including a breaking of the rules) underscores the need for a dialogue among the arts. The dialogue between literature and the arts has been most important. The game is well conceived: on the hand, there is Basque art, the Basque language, the historic creator of current Basque literature, the creator of Basque historical tradition, and on the other, Duchamp, the driving force of the avant-garde, the two of them, head to head. If I had to make any reference to tradition, that game of chess would bring to mind the game of mus (a card game) that Aresti imagined in one of his poems between himself and Franfran. There, Aresti loses the game against Fran(co)-fran(co) despite having thirty-one and being mano (the player to the right of the dealer), a winning situation in every case. I am not sure whether, when the game took place, the same thing happened between avant-garde language and social poetry. 15 Juan Luis Zabala, Hautsia natza (Bilbao: Euskaltzaindia; Bilbao Bizkaia Kutxa, 2000). 16 Uribe, Meanwhile, 87. 17 Formed by Bernardo Atxaga, Joseba Sarrionandia, Jose Mari Iturralde, and Jon Juaristi, together with Manu Ertzilla and the singer Ruper Ordorika. 18 “Harra” (“The Sting of Conscience”) – not in the English edition. All translations of poems not published in the English edition are by Elizabeth Macklin.

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In the last section, life triumphs. Even the rotten body loves life: I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion.19

Carl Sandburg’s verses make the meaning of life (ingeniously perhaps) evident. The sweetness of Sunday afternoon. The atmosphere previously included, when citing Anne Sexton’s text: Happiness, that journeyman.20

And the last poem in the section is not a short but instead a long text. Yet despite being long, it is enough to cite its title, “May.” The sweetness that comes after harsh April… May has arrived and April and its cruelty have gone. I am certain: the seven themes mentioned here, and I am going to recall them: the body, memory, sex, others and the multiple “I,” the limits of language, the dialogue between literature and art, and life, have much in common with the main contemporary themes; with the main characteristics of postmodernity, with the doubts of our times. Now I will address some of these themes in more detail with the aim of continuing with my interpretation of the book.

4. The Old Mill: The Difficulty of Representation The episteme created by postmodernity, worldview, claims that logical elements have been lost: in its efforts to deconstruct realism, it tends to refute the analytical and referential episteme. The features revealed by postmodernity are reflected in four basic characteristics in literature: · In the first place, the crisis of representation: language is no longer capable of representing reality. If one believes that a language is no 19 Uribe, Meanwhile, 107. 20 Ibid., 9.

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longer capable of representing the totality of reality a touch of relativism then appears, or one would have to test this against other languages. In Basque poetry Miren Agur Meabe, for example, has proposed a new code and titled her book Azalaren kodea (The Code of Skin) in order to create a new language that might represent that which desires, because ultimately there is expression in the crisis. · The organization of literary work is in the balance because it cannot continue to enjoy a chronological logic. · The key to understanding literature is a significant fracturing of text and the fragment. · The disappearance of the poetic subject. Writers start to use the concept of “self-less-ness.” Ever since Rimbaud said that “I am an other” (expressed above in a different way: “the other is me”) people have had multiple personalities, and one must thus start from that multiplicity in order to understand contemporary Basque literature.21 One comes across more traces of postmodernity in literature in a book by Ihab Hassan, and briefly noting these, there would be eleven characteristics: a lack of concretion, the predominance of fragments, decanonization, loss of identity, the mistrust of representing reality, irony, hybridity in genres, the importance of carnival, performance, constructivism, and imminence.22 I am not concerned here with recapitulating these characteristics oneby-one and examining their appearance in Kirmen Uribe’s work. But of course, some of them are evident. And to begin with, I will start with the disappearance of the concept of truth. When Nietzsche proposed that God was dead he opened the door to a personal and subjective configuration of the world. What postmodernity reveals is: we cannot know the world; everything we know is just a fragment, not the totality but just a fragment. The world, reality, is out there but language is not capable of representing that world. That position is termed the crisis of representation. Two elements emerge on this point: there is no Truth, and if there were we would be incapable of expressing it. 21 Dolores Vilavedra, Sobre narrativa galega contemporánea (Vigo: Galaxia, 2000), 51. 22 Ihab Hassan, The Postmodern Turn: Essays in Postmodern Theory and Culture (Ohio State University Press, 1987), 167–72.

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When postmodernity states that there is no Truth, it wants to express the following: there is no single unitary truth but rather different forms of truth, and these forms are also multiple. If there is no way of knowing the truth, such forms of expressing the truth are also questionable, and there is growing mistrust toward the capability of language to represent the truth. If representation of the truth is not stable, then the forms of expression also change; the poet reflects his expression through questions, through lack of knowledge, and through doubt. Rikardo Arregi Diaz de Heredia also refers to this in the foreword to the Basque edition of the work. But I will not cite this here because what Kirmen Uribe himself says in the poem that opens the book and that fulfills a function of autopoetics is enough: In everyone here is a hidden river that brings floods. If they are not fears, they’re contritions. If they are not doubts, inabilities.23

Doubts and impotence… the initial limits of poetry; doubt in order to understand what that reality might be, to express what that “hidden river” might mean; deep down, the impossibility of explaining a reality we do not completely know. Kirmen Uribe clearly expresses this: The language is unperfected, the signs worn down, as old millstones—the action of action.24

Or in this poem: All of us need some other thing to salve the inner sting of conscience. All of us have one word less to say to our neighbor.25

Section “Five” in the collection of poems is about that lack of words we possess to express reality; about the limits of language, the words we do not have. 23 Uribe, Meanwhile, 5. 24 Ibid., 83. 25 “Harra” (“The Sting of Conscience”) – not in the English edition.

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In the first instance, there are the big ideas written in capital letters, those that postmodernity has left to one side. There, words like truth are found, put in doubt, and viewed ironically: no saying Love, no saying Beauty, no saying Solidarity—can’t say it. Not tree not stream not heart. The ancienter law has been forgotten.26

We can no longer believe in the old ideals, we can no longer believe in Love, in Beauty, Solidarity… the important words got lost along the way, and only the subject remains. Life can no longer be enjoyed: nevertheless, we must not give up because of this. There are numerous ways for us to express the idea that language is incapable of expressing reality: “The flood’s taken out the bridge from words to things.”27

Yet as a form of consolation, other languages emerge, other forms of expression, other gestures (“My sister looks at me”28), speaking in a language that is not understood (“Halina” – not in the English edition), expressing restlessness (“Pedro” – not in the English edition), some songs on a bus, or a gaze, the gaze of cows, because there is still something to talk about, there is something to say. There still remains, for example, human language: Though when I’ve heard ‘my love’ from your mouth, I confess it has thrilled my being-whether it’s true or if a lie.29

Feeling that kind of “thrill,” that is the key; we see by way of contrast in the poem “Autobusean” (“On a Bus” – not in the English edition) a conversation that arises between a boy and a girl, but that does not have that same thrill. As Rikardo Arregi recalls in the foreword to the Basque edition, 26 Uribe, Meanwhile, 83. 27 Ibid. 28 Ibid., 89. 29 Ibid., 83.

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the task of this poet is to build bridges, swept away by floods, from words to things (in Foucault’s shadow). Specifically, the poem “Zubian” (“On the Bridge” – not in the English edition) is crucial (among others) to understanding the book: to strive to give form to the chaos, to draw the human being on to the world’s measure.30

The measure of the world that the poet proposes, and I say this once more, is small, humble, one that does not believe in grand words, but that still believes in the shelter that people can give one another: “Just some sign of love is all.”31

That small gesture (“Though when I’ve heard ‘my love’”32), memory, the stories told among friends, gestures, life… In the way he remembers his dying father: …Listen up, the bunch of you, you’ve got to head farther north, the net doesn’t have to go out where you know for sure the fish are, you’ve got to search way off over there, not settle for what you have.33

Because this work does not make do with what it has, Kirmen Uribe’s collection of poems concludes its pages with an exaltation of life, since postmodernity pointed out the path, proposing the disappearance of absolute truth in order to head toward nihilism. But the paths of nihilism are narrow and, sometimes, do not offer any possibility of return. This collection of poems is how it is because its poetry is nonconformist; even among the trails of postmodernity it switches on headlamps that point out a route with some return.

30 “Zubian” (“On the Bridge”) – not in the English edition. 31 Uribe, Meanwhile, 11. 32 Ibid., 83. 33 Ibid., 119.

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5. The Diversity of Self, the Development of the Fragment …reality’s bone marrow resides in its pieces.34

This is how the poem “Gadda” ends; a poem created about an Italian author. Gadda wrote short stories, although he wanted to write novels. And the image of this writer, who is used as an allegory, serves to affirm that the essence of reality resides in the short story—the fragment. Ever since Bernardo Atxaga declared that “The amphora has cracked,” Basque literature learned that reality could be completely grasped, that there was no absolute truth. The essence of reality is the fragment. And fragments dominate in these poems. Previously I highlighted the importance of the moment in the coming poetry. I was referring to the importance of the instant as reflected in this snippet: “Centuries become a second and seconds centuries.”35

The instant represents the smallest fragment in time, and still it retains inside all the symbolic force in order to be able to express the world, a whole age. I am speaking about fragments in order to confirm that some of the poems are only instantaneous, Polaroid photos, photographs of an instant, taken at a moment, photos of the characters’ profiles. By way of example: in the poem “The Island,” the swim in an instant; in the poem, “Supermerkatuan” (“In the Supermarket” – not in the English edition), a momentary apparition, and a bag falls; in the poem “Mohammed,” a painful recollection in the memory that tells the story of a whole life; in “Volga” (not in the English edition) a moment in the life of Chekhov. And I could carry on without any problem, but it is enough to look at the length of the poems to realize how important instants and moments are in this poetry. The diversity of the “self,” of multiple “selves,” is also crucial in the conception of this poetry. Clearly, Kirmen Uribe has a strong poetic sense grounded in that autopoetics of multiple self. In this age of postmodernity 34 Ibid., 87. 35 Ibid., 9.

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we do not have clear trains of thought because if, ultimately, the concept of “truth” is open to question, that is equally applicable to external and internal truth. We cannot shed light on, define our “truth,” we cannot say who we are, we cannot know it. Or, put another way, there are many “I’s” inside us, we are multiple, we adapt to situations… and situations alter us; we are one way at work and another, for example, in or moments of free time. There are many “I’s” within us, and there are many forms of responding to that multiple self. The self is shaped in different ways in the poems. This self is a child, possessing childhood memory and the second section of the book is dedicated to memory, attempting to construct an autobiography. Or there is a reference to a real self in the poem “Ezkutuko maitea” (“A Secret Love” – not in the English edition), although conscious of the fact that the voice is dreaming. Or a self that is different in the present and in the past in the following poem: I saw the one I once had been pacing in the yard. That young man who had been me eyes welling tears.36

Or time is confused, chronological order mixed up, and as T.S. Eliot recalled, past and present blend together in a moment: Sometimes the past turns into the present.37

If time has lost its chronological logic (and I purposely use this repetition), it is perhaps possible, as revealed in the short stories of Borges and Sarrionandia, to lose oneself in the paths of time, change direction at a temporal crossroads in the past, and end up in a different place. That might happen in fiction, in which it is possible to create two exits or solutions in one narration, going back and taking another path. Life is not like that, but how great it would be! Kirmen Uribe’s poetry explores this possibility in the form of temptation, of desire perhaps, although doubt prevails: 36 “Gatibuaren balada” (“The Ballad of the Captive”) – not in the English edition. 37 “Lehenago bezala” (“As Before”) – not in the English edition.

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I don’t know if we’re allowed to go back, if we have a way of rechoosing at the crossroads we left by the wayside.38 Can we ever go back to the ways we left?39

And together with this, the possibility of starting from scratch emerges: And to start over again from scratch, to set out on a new path.40

There is no certainty in postmodernity and that “I don’t know” and that question are significant. Is it possible to change the past? And the question remains immovable as is the case in fiction, and as we would like it to be in reality. In a reality that is being deconstructed, memory is what keeps us going, that which defines who we are, our strongest foundation; but as we all know, it is fickle, unstable; as Borges highlighted, when we remember an event we do not remember the event in itself, but rather our latest recollection of the event: reality takes refuge in recollection, and moves ever farther away in memory. Yet external reality is not robust; recollection and memory are the only pillars of postmodernity. For that reason, instead of Romanticism’s lyrical subject, it is preferable in our age to encounter the image of a poet who fictionalizes his own life. As Goethe remarked in his important book Poetry and Truth, autobiographical truth is only possible through a degree of fiction.41 In the following poems we can note the autobiography of the lyrical subject: there are poems about hospital and prison experiences that we could identify with personal experiences that have taken place in Kirmen Uribe’s life; because of the time he spent in prison for refusing to do military service, he speaks about his cellmates; because he experienced the death of his father in hospital, he fictionalizes several hospital-related events. He tells us about 38 39 40 41

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“Ezkutuko maitea” (“A Secret Love”) – not in the English edition. “Lehenago bezala” (“As Before”) – not in the English edition. “Nahikoa dira” (“They are Enough”) – not in the English edition. Dominique Combe, “La referencia desdoblada: El sujeto lírico entre la ficción y la autobiografía,” in Teorías sobre la lírica, ed. Fernando Cabo Aseguinolaza (Madrid: Arco Libros, 1999), 127–153.

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his father’s death (“There’s a Fear,” “Way off over There”), but that of his sister (“Visit”) demonstrates the strength of his fiction. He clearly resorts to fictionalization in, for example, “The Elevator,” in which the poetic voice delivers a crazy supposition, a proposition that will clearly not be fulfilled: after a look at the elevator, I say to my sister, “Should we go up? maybe he’s still there in bed waiting for us.”42

Yet there are other ways of revealing the other that resides within the internal self: mentioning the others, for example, by giving them a voice. The theory of postmodernity directs that practice of poetry. In principle, if the self is weakened, the subject is more likely to accept the “other.” Such a tendency, in truth, only takes place at a theoretical level. Small cultures demonstrate in the name of identity—others say in the name of life— that they cannot accept the other, because such acceptance is just another means of suffocating what they have. Larger cultures, however, demonstrate another attitude, yet in the name of globalization only a small element of this is forthcoming. Neither one nor the other. Yet while it is not at all clear at the theoretical level, our age has demonstrated a trick by which to acknowledge the other, in which the other clearly makes an appearance. I would contend that it is normal to pay attention to the appearance of something else when it is a multiple self. “Others” and “otherness” play a large part in this book. The multiple self loves traveling: real—tourist—journeys, literary journeys, the distancing of oneself and getting to know and accepting other cultures and other forms of seeing the world. The fourth section of the book is full of outsiders. There is a poem titled “Arrotza” (“Outsider” – not in the English edition) that remains silent, like Bernardo Atxaga’s only contact.43 The “traveler” figure is central to the book: children fleeing war, the Mongols, Bhutan, the far-off country, and 42 Uribe, Meanwhile, 89. 43 Translator’s note: A reference to a poem by Bernardo Atxaga, “37 Galdera Mugaz Bestalde Dudan Kontaktu Bakarrari” (“37 Questions to the Only Contact I Have Beyond the Border”), which is set to music and sung by Ruper Ordorika on the CD Gaur (Today), released in 2000.

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Asilah’s travel notes (not in the English edition), possibly the saddest poem in the collection of poems, the poem in which fleeing, cheated, the protagonist returns home: Being landlubbers, they don’t realize they haven’t even left Moroccan waters, they don’t know they’ve reached the very land they took off from, all over again.44

That “all over again” expresses every echo of the tragedy, because it combines both time and space; and captives—not prisoners—and planes that fly from one side to the other, and of memory lost in history books. Yet the other is also there in several other poems, in the Maghreb people in the supermarket (“Supermerkatuan” – not in the English edition). And it is there in the errant souls, in those who wander and travel, because as the author says: “It is still early.”45

Too early to know what changes we will face, too early to live with them, too early for everything… Contemporary poetry loves multiple voices and, continuing with the fictionalization process, one should highlight the narrative tendency of this poetry.

6. Narration and Voices Contemporary poetry possesses an undeniable narrative tendency, in such a way that lyricism is expressed by means of making a metaphor of facts, by narrating events. Stories, passages, events, and histories are narrated by selves or first persons . . . perhaps one can identify certain excerpts told by the self with the poet’s self, and maybe link that self to an autobiography. For example, we already know how important his father’s death was in shaping Kirmen Uribe’s feelings. We can identify the “son” who appears in 44 “Bidaia kaiera: Asilah” (“Travel Notes: Asilah”) – not in the English edition. 45 Uribe, Meanwhile, 79.

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the poem “Way off over There” with the writer’s personality, because the poem is about a dying father: As the boat passed by, we’d race to where they were about to moor it. Even when Dad was in bed at the last, he was singing the praises of life, saying the day has to be lived. The moment you start to worry, life escapes you.46

Obviously I realize—narratology explained this a long time ago—that the author (Kirmen Uribe and the representation of his voice (the narrative voice, and the image of the running child) are two distinct elements. And for the most part the two do not coincide in most narrations. The new theories on poetics, however, have explored in greater depth the process of identification, recognizing that there are bridges between the two while still acknowledging the space between them. The fictional voice might be a means of connecting with the author, or not. The explicit self can be identified with the real author and the “we” with a reduced group that includes the real author. This identification implies a negative characteristic: the absence of marks in the text that show us that the poet is speaking through the mouth of a fictitious character. This explicit appearance of the “I” might take place with or without some appeal to a “you.” In the latter case, the poem is a pure expression of the “I” as such, and as Juri Levin says, it is a modality fitting confession or a diary.47

The fact that this book has taken on a confessional tone can perhaps be regarded as one of its most important virtues. From the moment the grand words, the great narratives of modernity, are abandoned, words like Love, Beauty, Freedom, the communicative act chosen by the author represents a simple, unassuming and transitory word. He speaks about the small and from below, about himself and humbly, and that is the tone employed, confessional, and one that tells something important. 46 Ibid., 117, 119. 47 Angel Luján Atienza, Cómo se comenta un poema (Madrid: Síntesis, 1999), 227.

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Yet that self concedes the voice to other characters and in the poems we will hear the voices of many people. If we analyze the poem “Visit,” for example, and I will return to this poem later, we notice how many voices say and repeat the verbs “say/tell,” how many voices say or tell something in that poem. I will quote it at length, highlighting the words in question so we note their importance: Heroin had been as sweet as sex she used to say, at one time. The doctors have been saying now she won’t get worse (…) Today we found the patient in the bed before hers in tears, no one had come to visit, he’d said to the nurse (…) An entire month and we haven’t heard a word from my sister. I don’t see my whole life stretching before me the way I did, she used to tell us.48

To tell the truth, for me at least, the initial force of this poem is to be found in two plays of contrast; on the one hand, in the opposition between what his sister says and what the doctors say, firstly with regard to tense (used to say/have been saying), and then in terms of character (sister/ doctors), thereby marking out a hierarchy between them: her subjective words and their objective words, her opinion and their expertise. All of these contrasts make up one of the best beginnings of a poem that I have seen in a long time. This is a collection of poems full of voices and people that say/tell, that speak and speak. Yet there is a surprising symmetry between the third poem in the book (“Visit” about the sister’s death) and the antepenultimate, the third from last poem (“Way off over There” about the father’s death). In this poem a self begins the narration, telling us the story of the father, explaining his life as a fisherman: they “were six years old when they went out fishing for the first time”. . . “when they were boys” . . . “When we were kids . . . the day Dad came in from sea” . . . “Even when dad was in bed at

48 Uribe, Meanwhile, 11.

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the last.”49 And when the poem is about to end, the father (a story within a story) speaks up and advises them: …Listen up, the bunch of you, you’ve got to head farther north, the net doesn’t have to go out where you know for sure the fish are, you’ve got to search way off over there, not settle for what you have.50

And when the father’s voice fades away, the poetic voice of Dylan Thomas, by means of a quote, takes over: “Death shall have no dominion,” wrote Dylan Thomas.51

The poem gains in intensity through the inclusion of this text. And three voices speak in the same text, intensifying the dramatization. The poem “Egun hura” (“That Day Back Then” – not in the English edition) is also constructed around saying and what is said. Showing characters and giving them voice, repeating what they say again and again, is a clear narrative technique. And in this collection of poems the voices of many people are heard: that of the talkative checkout assistant in “Supermerkatuan” (“In the Supermarket” – not in the English edition), that of “Mohammed” (an example of a fictitious person who expresses himself in the first person),52 that of “Mohammed’s father,”53 that of Chekhov’s mother and brother (“Volga” – not in the English edition), that of the characters in the poem “Cardiogram,”54 the child’s voices, the voice of Loren,55 the news that arrives by letter (“Urriko poema” or “October Poem” – not in the English edition) and messages that do not arrive (“Technology”56). And 49 Ibid., 117. 50 Ibid., 119. 51 Ibid. 52 Ibid., 21, 23, 25. 53 Ibid., 21. 54 Ibid., 29. 55 Ibid., 17. 56 Ibid., 41.

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there are also named characters, the secret lover who promises a future that will not be fulfilled, the characters in the fourth section speak and ask questions, making interrogation and doubt symbols of a lack of security, and the traveler speaks of his birthplace,57 and the children of war show us their happiness (“Bad Dream”),58 the inhabitant of Bhutan will speak to us,59 Said the Moroccan (“Bidaia kaiera: Asilah” or “Travel Notes: Asilah” – not in the English edition), the captive (“Gatibuaren balada” or “The Ballad of the Captive” – not in the English edition), and the Japanese… and the Pole who calls Halina (“Halina” – not in the English edition). This is a long list, but it clearly demonstrates the polyphony of the book, and polyphony, one should recall, would be encouraged by narration. The “anchoring” of the poems is very important when it comes to evaluating this poetry as narrative. By using this word, all I mean is how it offers information to the reader about the reality referred to in the text, what it tells him or her at the beginning of the poem so that he or she can locate themselves in the text. This is perhaps better understood by way of an example. Journalism always bears in mind five factors at the moment of publishing a news item. It will always begin by asking: who, what, when, where, and how. They are references that help readers situate themselves with regard to the news item. These five factors make up the “anchoring” of the news item and grab readers’ attention, in such a way that they do not lose themselves in the reading, offering them the most important elements of the news item. At the beginning of these poems there are often narrative elements that clarify for the reader what to read, at least at the start. That way, it is quite normal to mention the elements we see in journalism in the “anchoring” of the narration. Take the following poem, for example: I, too, had a secret love when I was seven or eight years old. That secret love never had a clue. I never said a word.60

In a book full of commentators, there is someone who remains silent, although to tell the truth, this is not the only one: the “Arrotza” (“Outsider” 57 58 59 60

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Ibid., 63. Ibid., 65. Ibid., 67. “Ezkutuko maitea” (“A Secret Love”) – not in the English edition.

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or “Foreigner” – not in the English edition) does not speak either and leaves without saying a word; and “Abioiak zerua urratzen” (“The Planes Cutting Across the Sky” – not in the English edition) begins with a reference to silence brought on by a pair of eyes. Returning to the poem cited above, let us look at the information offered by the text in more detail: who (I), what (“I . . . had a secret love”), when (“when I was seven or eight years old”), and how (“[she] never had a clue”). The information is totally direct so that the reader grasps it immediately and it guide’s the reader’s comprehension of the text. There are many such beginnings in the text, for example the following: “It’s Sunday on the beach for all people of good desires.”61

Not all the beginnings of the poems are as clear as those cited, and one can find texts in which the beginning follows a more surrealist route: You loved danger. Some people think a tough childhood.62

Here, it is unclear to whom the “you” is directed, and it is not clearly identified in the text, although at the end one might speculate it is the figure of the father because this poem might be linked to the poem titled “There’s a Fear,” in which a dying person speaks to the lyrical “self ” in this way: “Some things in life we just have to accept. This doesn’t look good at all. You have to be brave.”63

The poem I cite below, “Danger,” speaks of the value recommended by that character. He speaks about value and danger and evaluates danger as a key factor in life: You loved danger and I realize we’re nothing at all without danger: can’t go through a door, go to sea, no lovers.64 61 Uribe, Meanwhile, 9. 62 Ibid., 15. 63 Ibid., 85. 64 Ibid., 15.

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And on reading the poem I might add “don’t go north” and recall what his dying father said: “the net doesn’t have to go out/where you know for sure the fish are.” In a book of poems that affirms life it is logical to also affirm danger. We thus reach another significant aspect of this collection of poems: the strength of its consistency. Many of the poems are coherent, united, and linked. We have seen how, for example, “Visit” and “Way off over There” are linked around the subject of death. Yet other semantic fields are developed and what is mentioned here is expanded on the other side of the text, and the echoes are aimed everywhere in the text and enhance and improve the unity of meaning. In many other cases, however, stories are told, and narration opens up horizons in this lyrical poetry. “Mohammed,” for example, tells one story and Said (in “Bidaia Kaiera: Asilah” or “Travel Notes: Asilah” – not in the English edition) that of his compatriots, and each short story is an allegory, the metaphor of another meaning. The objective of the story is always to express something else. Although the richness of voices dominates the text, in analyzing these voices one should not forget to whom the messages are directed, and why such words are used. Many of the messages take place between people: one character talks to another, they speak among themselves, and we listen in on their conversation from outside, while on other occasions a character talks to a “self ” that represents the poet. And that “self ” that represents the poet tells us something, he tells us a story. Sometimes, as we have seen, that “self ” is a fictional character while other times we might identify with the “self ”; on still other occasions, even though the “self ” that represents the poet is speaking, we cannot connect his words to him. This second approach is just a means of reporting the rich relationship that the richness of voices still create, and it is an approach, precisely, because otherwise we run the risk of making another long list. It is clear, though, what the function of the voices is. On many occasions another character’s voice expresses the final message of the text. For example, we previously saw how it was left to Dylan Thomas’s words to express the meaning: “‘Death shall have no dominion’.”65

65 Ibid., 119.

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And Mohammed’s father, for example, uses a contrasting ploy and expresses it in a very clever way, in unequivocal words: He used to say there was nothing on the other side of the sea, to get those thoughts out of my head…66

Or what is said about the person about to die: “Meanwhile take my hand.”67

It would be more interesting to limit oneself to an analysis of the voice of this “self.” As I noted earlier, the “self ” takes on two forms: either a fictional character speaks, or the “self ” that represent the author speaks. Moreover, when this second “self ” speaks, it organizes its discourse on different levels. We have seen it speaking to a “you” when it approaches autobiography. That “you,” as happens on many occasions, might be its lover, and this is the case in the poems about sex and love: We go into the water naked, We see anemones, red mullets, sea thistle on the bay floor. Look-like the wind the wheat the water moves the sand. I go under and behold you from underneath.68 The space-time of trees is inside you After we have made love.69 My breasts are small and my eyes round. Your legs long and cool.70

Before continuing with some more examples, I should mention that in this text there is no way of telling if this “self ” is male or female, the “self” we identify with a representation of the poet or with the woman with small breasts. I am aware that men have breasts as well, but they do not mention this so much. And what if this was homosexual love? There is a great multiplicity of voices. 66 67 68 69 70

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Ibid., 23. Ibid., 13. Ibid., 9. Ibid., 53. Ibid., 51.

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Let us continue with the examples: Traces of your soul. Whether it was evil or good I don’t know.71 Do you know yourself what that was that truly distanced us?72

The shadow of that “you” also extends to the personal “we”: Still I have in my mind that epoch when we slept holding each other, scared tiger cubs in our vigil.73

But above all these examples there is a special connection, there is a specially executed communication between that “I” and “you.” It is the poem “The Cherry Tree” in which the “I” of the poet speaks to someone who is dead. And its distinctive feature clearly enriches the communication used in this collection of poems: The cherry tree at home has died, the one we’d stare at from the window, when it was in bloom, can you see it? Not many days after you died, they died.74

José Antonio Pérez Bowie75 has analyzed the metafictional processes that emerge around the communication established in the “self ” and they appear in the form of a quick stroll. First of all, the fictional “self,” and within that the historical (when speaking about a historical or famous person), the ironic, and the deceased selves (that does not appear in Kirmen Uribe who 71 Ibid., 47. 72 “Lehenago bezala” (As Before”) – not in the English edition. 73 Uribe, Meanwhile, 49. 74 Ibid., 39. 75 José Antonio Pérez Bowie, “Para una tipología de los procedimientos metaficcionales en la lírica contemporánea,” Tropelías 3 (1992), 91–104.

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prefers dying characters). Then he takes into account the fictionalization of the real “self.” One might conclude that Kirmen Uribe overcomes that panorama of possibilities offered by Pérez Bowie because his discourse is full of very different forms. And within the make-up of that “self ” different forms appear before our very eyes: a real “self ” is fictionalized by means of a dream, by the expression of childhood, by means of illusion, and manifestations of the fictional “self ” are not major historical characters, but what we have here when they speak are outsiders’ perspectives, from below, although one cannot deny that those anonymous characters are also historical.

7. The Body and Art As I pointed out previously, the book Meanwhile Take My Hand demonstrates two characteristics: several semantic fields appear, by way of a hidden thread, conferring unity and completeness to the work; and the work attaches a lot of importance to the body. The hand becomes a symbol of piety and compassion in the text. As mentioned, in the face of death taking that hand is the only —albeit weak— protection there is. One should specify, moreover, that a typical request is that of children asking to take their hands, in search of a gesture of support in the face of a lack of security. In Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, God reaches out to Adam’s finger, offering him the gift of life. As a tragic parody and gesture of this in the poem “Visit,” the sister implores her brother and mother to take her hand. This could be reflective of the gesture between God and Adam, but on the contrary, what it seeks is a bridge that emerges between life and death. Bridges are important in this collection of poems and there are attempts to build them through words: “The flood’s taken out the bridge from words to things.”76

But when words are not enough, “when we’re longing for somebody’s presence / when the smallest reminder empties the blood from a vein,”77 there are gestures, the metonyms of gestures that create new signs. This is why a 76 Uribe, Meanwhile, 83. 77 Ibid.

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thread emerges between the hands, and those of the poem “Visit” are not the only hands in the book. There are two other hands. The first appears in the first poem and here, too, it offers protection, an attempt to escape solitude: The wind has lifted a poplar out by its roots. They could be an older woman’s hand awaiting any other hand’s caressing.78

The caressing desired by the older woman is like that craved by the sister in “Visit.” But another hand is mentioned, once again in the hospital and once again in a poem in which the hand serves as a bridge between life and death. It is used to describe a character and there, too, the hand is thus vital when it comes to expressing a character’s nature. This is in the poem “There’s a Fear” and the title is significant, given that here the hand once more symbolizes protection and the possibility of escaping fear: speaking right in my ear. I could see only his hand. That hooked hand equal to catching little owls on the boat.79

Three hands are thus joined, joined by a situation in the face of death and in the face of major loneliness. These hands are joined just as rivers and floods are joined. The flood has taken out the bridge from words to things, but secret rivers are still flowing inside of us, so we must tell stories and we have already seen how much is said, even though there are no bridges, between things and words in this collection of poems. We might compare the floods that have taken out bridges to the rivers mentioned in the initial poem: In everyone here is a hidden river that brings floods. If they are not fears, they’re contritions. If they are not doubts, inabilities.80

That buried hidden river must bring out once more the fears that are crucial to postmodernity, faced with death (we already know “There’s a 78 Ibid., 5. 79 Ibid., 85. 80 Ibid., 5.

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Fear”), repentance (“I don’t want repentance,”81 says the character in the poem “Visit”), doubts (the large amount of questions in the text), impotence. If language can no longer clearly explain the preoccupations, another code will be chosen. And Kirmen Uribe cites Margaret Atwood: Your body is not a word, it does not lie or speak truth either.82

Yet we must enter into the landscapes of understanding with our body. The importance we once attached to the body has a twofold source. One should mention Foucault; because, specifically, in his work The Order of Things he reveals the issue we are concerned with in this work: How can one understand the connection between things and words? At the moment the disappearance of the subject is taking place, Foucault discerns in the definition of sexuality and in the body a way of ontologically constructing personality. Fernando Savater, for example, expresses in the following way the influence of this in our current way of thinking, regarding the importance given the body to be one of the basic characteristics of postmodernity: Sense of definitive reality of the body. Both in its limits and its possibilities (“No one knows what a body can do,” pointed out the hardly crazed Spinoza). The body is the unique root of our condition and also the frontier on which we live together.83

Kirmen Uribe himself writes the following in a poem that does not appear in the book, “Bar Puerto”: Long time gone, I sold my soul, I’ve got nothing left but my body now.84

81 Ibid., 13. 82 Ibid., 7. 83 Fernando Savater, “El Pesimismo Ilustrado,” in I Jornadas sobre Crisis de los ideales de la modernidad: La postmodernidad (Bilbao: Colegio Oficial de Doctores y Licenciados en Filosofía y Letras y en Ciencias de Bizkaia, 1989), 47. 84 Cited in Kirmen Uribe, Mikel Urdangarin, and Josu Eizagirre, Bar Puerto. Bazterreko ahotsak, book/DVD, English translation by Elizabeth Macklin (Donostia: Elkarlanean, 2010), 122.

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In the exaltation of the body one might say that we find ourselves facing a postmodern hedonism, facing the desire to live, facing irony and play. For this reason, what the father says just before dying is so moving: Even when Dad was in bed during his last moments, he was singing the praises of life, saying the day has to be lived. The instant you start to worry, life escapes you.85

Singing the praises of life. It is a praise of life that is repeated time and time again in the collection of poems, especially in the poems about love, in the poems about sex. Here sex is understood as a definition of the body, that is, language, and thus the body is understood as a path of dialogue between the “self ” and its surroundings; the body as a metonym of communication, as a metonym of communication, compassion, and the protection of the hand itself. The body is a word, a bridge between words and things. It does not say a lie, it does not tell the truth, it is perhaps a question: How many times can we change? How many times for the better? Do you know yourself what that was that truly distanced us?86

Yet after the question comes the exaltation of the body: Your arms are salty, your chest salty, belly salty. The same power that joins the moon with the sea has joined us, too.87 Don’t pursue the fear, don’t say always, don’t say never. Give the world the liberty to make its own way.

85 Uribe, Meanwhile, 117, 119. 86 “Lehenago bezala” (“As Before”) – not in the English edition. 87 Uribe, Meanwhile, 9.

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The space-time of tress is inside you after we have made love.88 We’ve gone to sleep back to chest, the way the lips rejoin after sighing.89 I’ve had knowledge of your soul. It’s one of the evil kind, doubtless.90

Etcetera, etcetera. But if doubt and questioning dominate postmodernity, the complex gaze revealed by Kirmen Uribe is no less important. The body is exalted on several occasions but this gaze is not foolish, it understands very well that there are different areas in the body, that there is a tired area, a frozen area, a cold area within the nerves. This is why the body appears in so many different guises, yet the complete confidence revealed by postmodernity in the body is not that of Uribe; it is more about mistrust in the face of death, because the force of death dominates the text. For that reason, because it is a complex outlook, the author reveals a sense of mistrust in postmodernity because he knows the body will not last forever. The character of the sister in the poem “Visit” clearly demonstrates this: I don’t sleep nights, she used to tell us, I’m afraid to go to sleep, afraid of the bad dreams. The needles hurt me and I’m cold, the serum sends the cold through every one of my veins. If I could only escape from this rotten body.91

This last line demonstrates a darker side to this exaltation of the body. The body is also rotten, and it frees its weaknesses in that rotten state. This is because a new world is on the point of emerging, but until it arrives:

88 89 90 91

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Ibid., 53. Ibid., 51. Ibid., 47. Ibid., 11, 13.

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The wind from the North hurts my face. The new world as yet unmade hurts, too.92

In the language of gestures drawn by the body comparisons are often used in this poetics that are constructed through elements from nature. For example, references are made on more than one occasion in the text to an icy stare or a snowfall. Natural elements have created a language or speech and that language serves to bring out the internal nature of people, the hidden river that they carry within: “Look—like the wind the wheat the water moves the sand.”93 —Describe, if you would, his heart for me. —It’s like a frozen lake.94

And the bat will become a symbol of impotence, and the death of the cherry tree will indicate the death of a character, and the salty lovers are grains of wheat, and when the situation is perfect, the author compares the situation to supermarket apples. The gaze he directs toward nature indicates the influence of popular poetry that the text takes on board, and that is evinced in the use of other rhetorical components such as parallelisms or triplications. Ultimately, the body is also a language of contemporary art, because we should recall that one of the basic features of contemporary art is performance, in other words, the body appears through artistic activities undertaken temporarily and is thereafter suddenly destroyed and disappears. Performance forces a dialogue between art and action, appearing in transitory fashion. In this way, the call to the body in this collection of poems is just a rapprochement with contemporary art. As I write these lines, magazines are reporting on an artist named La Ribot, trained in the world of dance. The show she puts on blends dance, sculpture, and performance, in such a way that she has years of experience devoted to creating art with her body. Her work is summed up thus: 92 Ibid., 17. 93 Ibid., 9. 94 Ibid., 29.

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We are at a moment in which many artists are looking for new expressive territories, without the straightjacket of labels or the limits of language. La Ribot is one of those artists. Her Piezas distinguidas are like corporeal poems, at times brazen, always subversive. Between dance and performance, she presents her latest pieces in a Madrid gallery.95

There are three modes of expression in La Ribot’s art: dance, exhibition, and performance; the body, nudity, and silence, three starting points from which to create art. I believe that Kirmen Uribe seeks to explore new terrains of expression because he moves within the hybridization of genres and his poetry is new, appearing at the boundaries of language. New, to a certain extent, of course, but it has been capable of breaking with the poetry that has been followed blindly. In Basque literature there has been a widespread majority opinion: because it was a small community, the main works had to maintain the status quo, for fear of rupture. I will not deny that there are echoes of former poets in the text, but I see something new in the work. And this novelty is expressed in two points: in its reflection on art and in the appearance of a new intertextuality. Art, art! I still have made no reference to the sixth section of the book. I have not paid any attention to the chess game between Duchamp and Aresti. It is time to pay some consideration to this game. Kirmen Uribe has stated in several interviews that autopoetics is necessary to create good poetry. To a certain extent, autopoetics is new in the field of Basque poetry. It breaks with previous poets, although it does acknowledge and bear in mind several previous elements. In this poetics several elements, as we have seen, come from postmodernity: the negation of metaphysics, the mistrust of language, the primacy of irony, the game of pastiche, the disappearance of personality, the importance of memory, the multiple self, the presence of others, and the exaltation of the body, and so on. Yet autopoetics is always expressed in the texts. We see three poetics in this book by Kirmen Uribe, three metapoetic texts, three poems about poetry. 95 Fietta Jarque, “La Ribot. Mi obra parte del desnudo y el silencio,” El País. Babelia, December 29, 2001. See also Laura Revuelta, “La Ribot: Soy un resumen del siglo XX casi sinquererlo,” ABC-Cultural, December 29, 2001.

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The first is “The River,” which opens the book. In the middle of the poem the following is expressed: In everyone here is a hidden river that brings floods. If they are not fears, they’re contritions. If they are not doubts, inabilities.96

Here in these three verses we come across the pillars of postmodernity: the desire to recover the hidden river (something that was lost), to restore memory, and besides this the language that he maintains (the constant presence of the Bizkaian dialect of Basque throughout the text, the collage of text written in Spanish by his father). That hidden river does not represent, as it did for the Romantics, the other world. The hidden river symbolizes, above all, the demonstration of feelings of dread: fear (one poem incorporates this in its title), repentance (there is another based on the idea of “no repentance”), impotence (there is a poem titled “No Saying” in the text), and doubt. We do not know, as postmodernity contends, what the truth is, but it is reachable through questioning reality, it is approachable through doubt, and doubt through expressing questions. The author’s second poetics is found in the poem “No Saying.” The three main emblems of the French Revolution, Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, have disappeared, we can no longer say them; we cannot say Love, Beauty, Solidarity. Only small stories remain, those experienced in privacy. And moreover because language cannot express reality, only minimal personal stories appear, personal experiences related by oneself, because it is incapable of doing many things. The third poetics is located in that game between Duchamp and Aresti. It is a text full of irony, insofar as the chess game takes place on the borderline of the absurd. The dialogue takes place between two traditions; stone on the one side, glass on the other: You miss the stones, I miss the glass. We wouldn’t make a bad pair. Glass lets what’s hidden show,

96 Uribe, Meanwhile, 5.

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windows are glass, as are your goblets, your hourglasses.97

And to a certain extent the dialogue between the writer and the character from the art world will continue because the game does not end, because they have no wish to end it. In this theatrical dialogue about art two ideas prevail: the need of the reader and of the listener, and the affirmation that art needs no explanation. Both ideas are expressed quite clearly: “There’s no art without a listener.” “Now, poetry needs no explanation whatsoever.”98

After suggesting this idea, Aresti undertakes a small reflection on behalf of discovering the hidden river. We do not know exactly what this river is, something hidden; something that must be expressed. The critic Nuñez Ramos analyzes the nature of poetry and resumes his intentions thus: In sum, the words in a poem suggest a semantic representation of experiences, situations, objects… that because they are fictitious (on whose condition the particular elaboration of the signifier dwells), do not reflect situations, objects, experiences in the real world, but that stimulate the affective response of the receiver, inviting him or her to confront their vital experience with the imaginary realm of the poem.99

This author has demonstrated the form in which a poem is constructed, being created from an image of an experience of something lived and felt, and the main question resides in making out how to get that image across to the reader.100 This is precisely what Aresti refers to when he extols the primacy of poetic language, when he affirms that the poetic word is surrounded by silence, 97 Ibid., 103. 98 Ibid., 99. 99 Rafael Nuñez Ramos, La poesía (Madrid: Síntesis, 1998), 59. 100 Ibid., 57.

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and poetry must open windows in that silence. The poetic word is image, is fiction, but an image inside the reader; he or she compares that suggested fiction to their own experience, if he or she enters into the game of reading. Aresti, moreover, expresses another idea, that of the necessity of dialogue, saying: What’s best are the conversations, time with so many people.101

Kirmen Uribe’s book also represents an attempt at dialogue, a dialogue constructed in the game of intertextuality.

8. Intertextuality The writer undertakes a dialogue with writers who had not previously made an appearance in the field of Basque literature. When we began the reading journey that has brought us to this point, I mentioned the quotes that opened each section of the book, listing the writers in question. Let us recall them once more: the Irish poet Seamus Heaney and the poets that write in English in Scotland, as well as Margaret Atwood, Anne Sexton, and Ingeborg Bachmann. On the one hand, there is a very interesting Polish poet, Zbigniew Herbert, and beside him, Szymborska (whose presence is perhaps clearer in the poetry of Rikardo Arregi). Both are very close to poetry of experience, both mistrustful of great ideas and favoring the quotidian. On the other hand, there is another important field in female English-language poets: Margaret Atwood and Anne Sexton, and perhaps also Silvia Plath, revealing the metonymy of the body, what the word does not say by means of the body, explaining through gestures and glances, loving small things, and conceding importance to color and to nature. Elsewhere, Seamus Heaney’s name springs to mind; not because of his direct influence, but because of his theory. Whatever the case, one does notice the influence of Anglo-American poetry in the clarity and cleanliness of the verse, in the anti-rhetorical tendency, in the attention paid to oral literature, and in the determination to use understandable materials in written poetics. 101 Uribe, Meanwhile, 101.

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Poetry is not something strange and extravagant; it is close to everyday language, to the quotidian, but it requires elaboration and work. Seamus Heaney is the author of an essay titled “Feeling into Words.” Here, he describes the following definition of poetry: You have to be true to your own sensibility, for the faking of feelings is a sin against the imagination. Poetry is out of the quarrel with ourselves and the quarrel with others is rhetoric.102

For me, this poetry finds itself at that point: it is aware, it is clear and sincere with respect to its sensitivity, it makes no concessions to rhetoric— in other words, to falsity—and it expresses what it must say in order to convert emotions into words, just like that.

9. May T. S. Eliot wrote, in a phrase often cited by the Pott Banda, that “April is the cruelest month.” Kirmen Uribe, and here one might say by means of responding to a new sensibility, loves May. Look, May has come in, It’s strewn those blue eyes all over the harbor.103

This is a natural love poem, aimed at a “you” that has gone away but that is felt closely, and in this we can note certain key features of the book. Here one can see the chief elements of postmodernity: the lack of security, the questions, and the doubts: Come and we’ll talk over all of the old same things, The value of being pleasant, The need to adjust to the doubts, How to fill the holes we’ve got inside us, Come, feel the morning reaching your face.104 102 Seamus Heaney, “Feeling into Words,” in Preoccupations (London: Faber and Faber, 1980), 34. 103 Uribe, Meanwhile, 123. 104 Ibid.

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Indeed, there we find doubts, questions, and voids. Yet to the same extent it is important to feel well with life, to be nice, to live history itself, that minimum support of personality. Postmodernity has not been able to free itself of its conservative tendency and that gives priority to the importance of utopia in this movement. I mentioned before, too, that it was a seriously critical moment in the trends between minoritized cultures and postmodernity. And the emergence of the utopia theme makes sense in this context. For Kirmen Uribe, it is clear: The new world as yet unmade hurts, too.105

And in creating that world as yet unmade one must travel farther north, cast the net beyond where we know there are fish, go father; perhaps acknowledging that the others have an important place in our social environment: “Every one of us keeps forever someone else’s hidden side.”106

The path to the utopia of the small is perhaps to be found on this hidden side. Meanwhile, as all utopias do, what it manages is to freeze time: We’ll continue the story that ended a year ago, As if inside the white birches next to the river Not a single additional ring had grown.107

105 Ibid., 17. 106 Ibid., 123. 107 Ibid.

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Bibliography Combe, Dominique. “La referencia desdoblada: El sujeto lírico entre la ficción y la autobiografía.” In Teorías sobre la lírica, edited by Fernando Cabo Aseguinolaza. Madrid: Arco Libros, 1999, 127-153. Gutierrez Retolaza, Iratxe. 90eko hamarkadako narratiba berria: Literatur kritika. Bilbao: Labayru, 2000. Hamburger, Michael. The Truth of Modern Poetry: Tensions in Modern Poetry from Baudelaire to the 1960s. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1969. Hassan, Ihab. The Postmodern Turn: Essays in Postmodern Theory and Culture. Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1987. Heaney, Seamus. “Feeling into Words.” In Preoccupations. London: Faber and Faber, 1980. Jarque, Fietta. “La Ribot. Mi obra parte del desnudo y el silencio.” El País. Babelia, December 29, 2001. Lotman, Juri M. Culture and Explosion. Translated by Wilma Clark. Edited by Marina Grishakova. Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 2009. Lujan Atienza, Angel. Cómo se comenta un poema. Madrid: Síntesis, 1999. Moretti, Franco, Atlas de la novela europea. 1800-1900. Translated by Mario Merlino Madrid: Trama, 2001. Nuñez Ramos, Rafael. La poesía. Madrid: Síntesis, 1998. Pérez Bowie, José Antonio. “Para una tipología de los procedimientos metaficcionales en la lírica contemporánea.” Tropelías 3 (1992): 91–104. Pérez Reverte, Arturo. The Club Dumas. Translated by Sonia Soto. New York: Random House, 1998. Revuelta, Laura. “La Ribot: Soy un resumen del siglo xx casi sin quererlo.” ABCCultural, December 29, 2001. Savater, Fernando. “El Pesimismo Ilustrado.” In I Jornadas sobre Crisis de los ideales de la modernidad: La postmodernidad. Bilbao: Colegio Oficial de Doctores y Licenciados en Filosofía y Letras y en Ciencias de Bizkaia, 1989. Schaeffer, Jean-Marie. “Romanticismo y lenguaje poético.” In Teorías sobre la lírica, edited by Fernando Cabo Aseguinolaza, 57–83. Madrid: Arco Libros, 1999. Vilavedra, Dolores: Sobre Narrativa galega contemporánea. Vigo: Galaxia, 2000. Zabala, Juan Luis. Hautsia natza. Bilbao: Euskaltzaindia; Bilbao Bizkaia Kutxa, 2000.

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4

Four Boarding Cards for Bilbao-New York-Bilbao by Kirmen Uribe and One Coda

In my opinion the novel Bilbao-New York-Bilbao (2008) by Kirmen Uribe presents four narrative elements that might characterize the text upon a first reading that does not aim to be totally comprehensive in terms of its literary depth: 1) Autofiction as the first compositional element, 2) of a family history, 3) that plays on the margins between reality and fiction 4) and that makes use of new forms of literary communication. In the novel there are clearly other connecting points in this interpretation that might serve the goal I am striving for: a universal reading of the novel that begins with some features that are significant for a semantic and symbolic understanding of the text.

1. Autofiction The first boarding card for the plane allows us to travel to one of the first clear features of the novel. The ticket takes us from Bilbao to Frankfurt and bears the imprint: autofiction. The author’s name is Kirmen Uribe, as is the name of the first-person narrator and the character who is traveling on the plane. This identification of name does not imply complete identification. The author maintains an identity that only resembles that of the narrator and the character in a fragmented way. It is and, at the same time, is not the same identity.

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Considerations and debates on the topic of autofiction have multiplied in recent years in Spain and in the Basque Country; whether at a theoretical level through the publication of El pacto ambiguo. De la novela autobiográfica a la autoficción by Manuel Alberca in 2007; or whether at a critical level in examining the novel under discussion here, given that many authors of novels that have dealt with the narrator’s “I” and define themselves in a similar way to the author addressed here have coincided in a small space of time (Vila-Matas, Javier Marías, and Javier Cercas, among others). The narrator who is not just the real writer’s voice, but also who appears to traverse the boundaries between reality and fiction and is recreated as an “I myself,” at the same time similar, alike, and different. Yet whatever the case, it leaves the vast difference between the writer I and the narrator I in suspense, like real and fictional entities. In the above-mentioned book, Manuel Alberca defines this form of autofiction: “An autofiction is a novel or story that is presented as fiction, whose narrator and protagonist have the same name as the author.”1 Before arriving at his conceptual conclusion, the author has led us through different territories in an approach toward factually accomplishing the definition, yet previously he would have developed other kinds of approaches, offering moreover an analysis about the possible consequences of this in how the reader receives the work: Autofiction is not just another autobiographical novel, but a fictitious proposal and/or a more transparent and more ambiguous autobiography than its older counterpart. Autofiction looks like a novel, but a novel that simulates or seems to be an autobiographical story . . . The coincidental identity of name between character and author constitutes one of its fundamental pillars . . . and leads to a changed expectation on the part of the reader . . . that, contrary to the ‘aura of truth’ that, in Lejeune’s opinion, results in the author’s own name appearing in the autobiographical story, is not the case in the autofictional novel. Onomastic coincidence leads to such an unsteady reception of the story that it turns out to be disturbing.2

Or, to put it more succinctly, which at the same time refers to the teaching of its possibilities: 1 Manuel Alberca, El pacto ambiguo. De la novela autobiográfica a la autoficción (Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 2007), 158. 2 Ibid., 128.

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In sum, autofiction can simulate an autobiographical story with complete transparency and yet be a pseudo-autobiography or alternatively be what it appears to be with scarcely any pretense, that is to say, an autobiography in the form of a novel. Stated in a schematic and succinct way, autofiction can: a) make a novel seem like an autobiography without being so, or b) camouflage an autobiographical story by calling it a novel.3

From this perspective, there is no doubt as to the generic designation of Kirmen Uribe’s Bilbao-New York-Bilbao. One of the quotes that opens the book clearly confirms this. It is a text by Elias Canetti that is as follows: “Say the most personal thing, say it, / nothing else matters, / don’t be ashamed, / the generalities can be found in the newspaper.” This is true, yet, because there is no unanimous agreement among critics and because José María Pozuelo Yvancos, for example, suggests a direct link between the term autofiction and that of autobiography, in such a way that he prefers the narrative genre that plays the ambiguous game of the author’s, narrator’s, and character’s names all matching to take on a more generic name, such as “configurations of the self,” specifying that the concept of autofiction coined by Doubrovsky is directly related to autobiography. In the same way, a report in the newspaper El País on September 13, 2008, announced this narrative form. In the report, the two references are used indiscriminately: autofiction and writing of the self, an understandable position in a general article that includes the opinions of sixteen writers and critics. Beyond differences of terminology, the effects the author of the report notes do not differ from those defined by Manuel Alberca. In the first instance, its multiform aspect is defined, its play between reality and fiction: They are not autobiographies, they are not diaries, they are not memoirs, they are not legal records, they are not biographies, they are not fictionalized essays, they are not pure novels in which everything is imagination. But they are also all of these. It is literature. They are novels, argues Javier Marías, “because that assimilates everything.”4 3 Ibid., 129. 4 Winston Manrique Sabogal, “El Yo asalta la literatura,” El País. Babelia, September 13, 2008. www.elpais.com/articulo/semana/asalta/literatura/elpepuculbab/20080913elpbab ese_3/Tes (accessed April 2009).

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Secondly, the genre is located within the coordinates of the society that creates them and that reads them, reinforcing the idea of a correspondence between the texts and some of society’s interests and underscoring in any event its intimate connection to autobiography: The main features of this oral story speak about it being a case of books with a kind of plot and narration more in keeping with these times of individuality, of fiction’s supposed loss of prestige, of readers’ zeal for true stories, of readers’ need to have the world reconstructed and to be able to recognize themselves in it, of how difficult it is to compete with so many incredible stories disclosed by the media; and, in Spain, by the lack of inhibition when it comes to talking about oneself after a past marked by fear and of the loss of prejudice toward genres that tell life stories.5

Thirdly, there is a good definition of the principal effect caused by that breaking of the established rules to date. With a clear insight, Javier Marías refers to a fracture in the definition of literature: “Writers explore ‘that deliberately undefined territory that has always existed about what is real and imagined, but in which some have discovered a fine seam when highlighting that lack of definition, in breaking the pact about what literature is’, assures Javier Marías.”6 Issues such as that of exploring the space between reality and fiction or that of breaking the pact “about what literature is” define some of the most original aspects of Kirmen Uribe’s work. And one might now mention the first author that appears to have had a major influence on the conception of the work. I am referring to W. G. Sebald and his book The Rings of Saturn, a book with which it is linked in a material way more than in the close relationship between self and literature. Anyone who glances at a copy of the work cannot fail to notice the reproduction of Rembrandt’s work, which reminds one simultaneously of the painting by Arteta in Uribe’s work, both of them located at the beginning of the reading adventure of the book and as important references for the subjects of the books, although their narrative support is greater in the Basque’s novel than in Sebald, insofar as it channels one of the novel’s central narrative ideas and is maintained from beginning to end, creating one of the few plot surprises in the text. 5 Ibid. 6 Ibid.

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It is not my intention here to go into the minor controversy about whether this technique of using the “representation of self ” goes beyond what to now has been used in Basque literature (although I believe this is defendable), because what perhaps existed until now did so in the form of fictional autobiography, which is a different narrative figure. And as a demonstration of this, see the form that makes use of the dual “representation of self ” in Bernardo Atxaga’s Soinujolearen semea 2003 (The Accordionist’s Son, 2008).

2. A Family History The second main compositional idea, the second boarding card that I have been given for this journey, Frankfurt-New York, takes shape through a family history that takes in three (or four) generations, that of the grandfather Liborio Uribe (who we find out has monarchist sympathies that will classify him among supporters of the pro-Franco Nacionales during the Spanish Civil War in 1936, although he would never make use of this for personal social gain), that of the father Jose Uribe, a deep-sea fisherman who will see the industry that made his rich town fall into decline, that of Kirmen Uribe himself, his wife Nerea, and their son Unai (the fourth generation). In other words, a general overview of personal family history from the 1930s until well into the twenty-first century. A bird’s-eye view on everyday life in the Basque Country. Deep down, the novel is a plane journey, one might say almost a perfect chronotope that links space (a physical journey by plane) and time (a journey through the history of the Basque Country through a rapid overview that stops in an already declining past and a future yet to come, between a civil war and an explosion in a police station). This use of narrative thread can be seen in two recent novels: The Gravedigger’s Daughter (2007) by Joyce Carol Oates and The Sorrows of an American (2008) by Siri Hustvedt. Both make use of the story of a family as the basic leitmotif of the plot. One might think that neither of these novels has anything more than an indirect connection with Kirmen Uribe’s work, given that it would have been complicated to discover Siri Hustvedt’s work, for example, which only appeared in Spanish translation after the Basque writer’s novel had been published. For that reason, in this section I will maintain a similarly indirect perspective. In other words, I will not seek direct influences, but rather what

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are referred to as the “pollen of ideas” that float around in the air, as the title of a book by Darío Villanueva alludes to,7 and that deep down explore indirect connections in literature, which exist in a cultural way because they exist in culture as a whole, or in this case in contemporary American culture. When Kirmen Uribe argues that his work is connected and is located in tandem with the preoccupations and interests of contemporary culture he is referring to certain “cultural isobars” that appear in his work in tandem with other works. And I say all this because I cannot find any direct link between Bilbao-New York-Bilbao and The Sorrows of an American except mainly in an indirect way through the relationship (that is, the narration) of the father’s death and through the impression the figure of the father leaves in the two novels; a figure that in Uribe is also developed in regard to his wife’s son, but which is distanced from that of The Gravedigger’s Daughter. Kirmen Uribe affirms his autopoetics in an autopoetics of risk, trial, and error, and has developed a personal work that after it is produced can connect with a very contemporary—and American—way of looking at things. His sayings and ideas that one can read in cultural supplements have come to confirm an aesthetic and a coincidence with certain contemporary preoccupations that appear as cultural references, like “isobars,” like lines connecting similar preoccupations with literary practice. The two works by the American authors tell family stories, and in a certain sense real stories. Joyce Carol Oates observes in the novel’s dedication: “for my grandmother Blanche Morgenstern, the ‘gravedigger’s daughter’, in memoriam.”8 The author thus establishes the coordinates of a real history that concerns her grandmother who was really, and not fictionally, the gravedigger’s daughter. In an interview published in El País, the same author mentions one of the trains of thought that gave rise to writing the novel: In the entry from May 20, 1986, a family secret surfaced, revealed casually by her septuagenarian father on a visit one Sunday. Here one can also find the origins of The Gravedigger’s Daughter, her novel published last year in the United States and now translated into Spanish by Alfaguara. “My father told me how his grandfather Morgenstern tried to kill his wife in a fit of rage, and ended up killing himself; the barrel of the gun under his chin, he 7 Darío Villanueva, El polen de las ideas (Barcelona: PPU, 1991). 8 Joyce Carol Oates, The Gravedigger’s Daughter (New York: Ecco Press, 2007).

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pulled the trigger, with my grandmother Blanche by his side. My father was about fifteen years old at the time. They all lived in the same house, clearly. . . A horrible story. And sadly comic: I asked him what my great-grandfather did and he told me he was a gravedigger,” she noted.9

This is clearly not a work of autofiction, but it is a narrative that relates the story of a family and that could be situated between autobiography and fiction, as the author herself confesses: “Fiction and autobiography—which is often semifictionalized memory— are ideal means by which to explore the past. One must imagine, but not invent; if there is any invention, pure fiction, that must stem from the real, from what has really happened,” she affirms. “I confronted the amazing story of my grandmother’s life, but I couldn’t appropriate it directly because I really didn’t know anything first-hand. I could only reach her in an elliptical way through art.”10

This quote reveals thematic coincidence and technical dissidence. It is different in the case of Siri Hustvedt. In this case, likewise, one should begin with a quote from her book: “My greatest debt, however, is to my father, Lloyd Hustvedt, who died on February 2, 2004. Near the end of his life, I asked him if I could use portions of the memoir he had written for his family and friends in the novel I was then beginning to write. He gave me his permission. The passages in the book from Lars Davidsen’s memoir are taken directly from my father’s text with only a few editorial and name changes. . . The story of my great uncle David is also true, and the newspaper article about ‘Dave the Pencil Man’ is quoted verbatim. Despite these direct borrowings, I have throughout the novel freely mingled imaginary stories with real ones.”11

In his commentary on the book, the critic and professor José Antonio Gurpegui observes: 9 Andrea Aguilar, “La épica de J. C. Oates,” El País. Babelia, October18, 2008. http:// www.elpais.com/articulo/semana/epica/J/C/Oates/elpepuculbab/20081018elpbab ese_3/Tes (accessed April 2009). 10 Ibid. 11 Siri Hustvedt, The Sorrows of an American (New York: Henry Holt, 2008), 306.

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Siri Hustvedt’s final confession of atonement leaves what the reader will find in the novel out in the open: a story narrated according to the purest post modern orthodoxy. Ultimately, if we have learned anything, or rather, if postmodernism attempts to transmit anything, it is precisely that the boundary between reality and fiction is as elusive and imprecise as the definition of art itself.12

Clearly, in this journey through the pollen of ideas, family histories end at a crucial point that I was thinking about at the beginning of this article: the boundary between reality and fiction.

3. The Margins between Reality and Fiction The whole previous discourse comes into force in the third boarding card of this journey, which takes us on the return leg from New York to Frankfurt. Reality and fiction, the margin that has taken us on this journey, and that has been apparent since the first moment we boarded the plane. Autofiction already spoke about the possibility of blending the margins between reality and fiction, and, especially, advocated breaking the traditional pact in which the narrator, supposedly, was another narrative figure distinct from the author. At the moment in which the author and the narrator both have the same name and the same ontological quality, narrative institutions are suspended, and the reader comes across an example of ambiguity. Kirmen Uribe uses reality, the fact, what happens, as narrative material that enters fiction head on, yet without being fictionalized, without being invented. The Austrian novelist—great novelist—Erich Hackl would say that documentation surpasses invention. There exists a mise en abyme in the novel: the movie the passengers watch on the plane is Entre les murs (The Class, 2008), a film about relations in a French school in which the actors are real pupils. Reality and fiction. Much of the data, many of the stories told in the novel could be considered “real,” elements that happen in the story, except that if they form part of a novel one might think they have lost their statute of reality, to 12 José Antonio Gurpegui, “Elegía para un americano,” El Cultural 6 (February 12, 2009), 16.

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become elements of another kind of authority, or, at the very least, susceptible to being converted into elements of an interpretation in another distinct reading authority. Nonetheless, there exists an element of ambiguity, of irony in the text. It is obvious that the person sitting next to him, Renata, is a fictional being. The novel begins by championing a crisis in fiction, but the novel ends when Renata receives a message on her cell-phone: “Please, help me.” In other words, a plotline—in the most traditional sense of the term—is introduced, a plotline that does not continue, in such a way that it is implied that fiction is present in a likely and subsequent possibility of narration that could continue as a story based on a traditional plot, but that is not developed, because for Kirmen Uribe, Joyce Carol Oates’ idea might be definitive: Fiction and autobiography—which is often semifictionalized memory—are ideal means by which to explore the past. One must imagine, but not invent; if there is any invention, pure fiction, that must stem from the real, from what has really happened.13

In Kirmen Uribe’s novel the unbreakable bond between reality and fiction leads it to including, as annexes at the end of the novel, several photocopies of an official gazette, as if the notarized document were filling a gap that reality was reclaiming in the fiction.

4. New Forms of Literary Communication The last flight takes us back to Bilbao, from Frankfurt, and the character has not returned in the same way he left. The novel maintains a core meaning that has not been examined. The fundamental core is based on the growth of a writer who undertakes a journey in order to return knowing more, and being different. Kirmen Uribe has used new forms of literary communication in this novel. Close to nonfiction, as I have just mentioned, his narrative poetics would comprise three aspects: nonfiction, the use of memory, and the possibility of creating a literature subsequent to postmodernism. 13 Aguilar, Andrea, “La épica de J. C. Oates.”

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a) Nonfiction As in previous cases, we might describe the author’s autopoetics through ideas disseminated here and there, expressed in press articles. In the case of this section, No ficción by Vicente Verdú springs naturally to mind.14 Yet one should state for the record that Kirmen Uribe’s creative process has come to configure a vision of narrative creation that, little by little, has taken shape in writing. This personal reflection coincides with a wellknown article by the writer and journalist: “Reglas para la supervivencia de la novela” (“Rules for the novel’s survival”).15 We should note the publication date of this article in order to reinforce the idea that Kirmen Uribe, who at this time had been developing his novel for several years, had arrived in an intuitive—and creative—way at points that other contemporary ideas reinforce and attest to. In this article Vicente Verdú proposes, in the first instance, a literature of the self, before going on to describe ten aspects that would define a new way of creating the novel. And here I copy the ten proposals without making too many comments. 1) The contemporary novel—or however you wish to call it—must show itself to be emphatically resistant to attempts to translate it into a film, into a television film, or into a video game: literature today, more than ever, should stand as something non-transferable […] 2) Fantasy, plot—and even more so when it is more complex—should be considered a stereotyped resource and a sign, at the same time, of aspiring to no more than a Sudoku […] 3) The work should not make use of any prefabricated structure by which the reader will be led, through tricks of the trade, to the final apotheosis, so redolent of old magazines and vulgarity in its borrowings. Literary narration conscious of itself will not aspire to any final apotheosis just as destiny does not exist in the vibrant project of the moment, while metaphysics is dispelled […] 4) The fragmentation of stories, with their annotations and mental intervals, tends toward copying from blogs and an omnipresent fragmented communication […]

14 Vicente Verdú, No ficción (Barcelona: Anagrama, 2008). 15 Vicente Verdú, “Reglas para la supervivencia de la novela,” El País, November 17, 2007. http://www.elpais.com/articulo/narrativa/Reglas/superviviencia/novela/elpepuculbab/2 0071117elpbabnar_13/Tes (accessed April 2009).

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5) Development, then, of the book will not stick to a hegemonic plotline but to a network of experiences that, spun, overlapping, or taken together posit a tutti frutti for today’s multipolar reader […] 6) The eminently new novel will not, of course, have to grab you by the throat and carry you off like that, by the neck, until its end, twisting and turning along the way. In contrast to these modern circuses, the good twenty-first century novel will take account of the multiple sensibilities of the media reader and interaction. He or she will value the efficient beauty of form, aesthetic seduction […] 7) Film, television, [and] virtual reality might present scenes and vicissitudes with greater external richness but internal fluctuation is the special game of writing and its maximum legitimation […] 8) Fiction? If literary work, mathematical formulas, [and] musical pieces are always and whatever the case autobiographical, then why pretend? If, as recognized, truth is always greater than fiction, then why fantasize? The author speaks much better about what he or she knows personally and worse about what he or she deliberately contrives. Fiction, ultimately, belongs to those times prior to the capitalism of fiction. If literature aspires to understanding something more about the world and its sick people, its choice is the direct, necessary, and bold writing of the self […] 9) The voice, in consequence, will be that of the first person singular. A direct transaction between author and reader, between the adventures, passions, or pain they share in the sequence of the text […] 10) It would be better to play around and laugh at oneself because now, any grim humorless work lacks a sunny place in the world of communication.16

Non-transferable work that cannot be translated into the mass media (such as this work, which would be difficult to translate into film, based as it is on a journey in the seat of an airplane); novels without any plot, without any magic tricks that keep the reader hooked until the end (nor is there any plot in this novel, and whatever there is, is false, although the story about the grandmother who was Arteta’s model and that the grandfather wants to contemplate in an exercise of nostalgia and as a way of summing up his life at the end of his days offers up a moment of surprise in the text); the voice as a supreme form of continuity in the prose of the narrativity (and perhaps it should be stated that the quality of the prose and its poetization is one of the few constant threads that holds the novel together), fragmentation (a novel of stories, a story made up of fragments of 16 Ibid.

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reality), a network of experiences that weave a multiplicity of elements that represent a multipolar world, blog writing (each of the novel’s tesseras could fill the space occupied by text that fills a computer screen), humor as a subtle form of distancing (as in the issue of the boat’s name, “Dos Amigos” or “Two Friends,” that ends up being a joke on the part of the author, who leads us down a blind alley), internal fluctuation (like that character called Kirmen Uribe and that grows at the same time as the plot); in sum, a fiction of reality and of the self. All of this goes to make up a poetics that BilbaoNew York-Bilbao abides by. In this exercise in narrative creation, which Kirmen Uribe undertakes with a deft hand, I would underscore the memory-driven configuration of that world of experiences that Verdú defines at the root of new literary creation. b) Memory It is obvious that Bilbao-New York-Bilbao is structured like the sum of different stories, like a compendium of remembrances. For that reason, memory, both personal and also collective, is defined as one of its main narrative bases. That leads the author to a continuous chopping and changing of stories. On this issue I would like to cite a couple of literary references that, in their similarities, shed some light on Kirmen Uribe’s creation. Siri Hustvetd, for example, explains in an interview the technique she used to produce The Sorrows of an American: “She does not understand narrative as anything fixed but rather as dynamic material, in constant movement. ‘The stories we tell are changing all the time, they have holes. We try to establish the links that bring together pieces of life, a life that necessarily skips over those holes’.”17 The dynamism in Kirmen Uribe’s narrative joins together with memory to make up a fresco comprised of creating multiple changing references, both in time, and in the tone of describing memory. The second reference is taken from the poetics of W. G. Sebald, who compares memory to a dog in the snow, sniffing around here and there, that stops abruptly and all of a sudden makes a different decision. Memory functions like that, and that is how memory functions in Bilbao-New York-Bilbao. 17 Andrea Aguilar, “Unas historias cruzadas,” El País. Babelia, January 10, 2009. http:// www.elpais.com/articulo/semana/historias/cruzadas/elpepuculbab/20090110elpbab ese_3/Tes (accessed April 2009).

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c) Literature That Is Written with the Internet In a widely discussed article, José Maria Pozuelo Yvancos predicted the arrival of a new literature that was going to change the way narrative forms were popularized by bringing together narrativity and the blog technique: Each radical change in the system of communication has brought with it a significant modification of literary genres. The shift from orality to literature modified the lyric and epic series; the coming of the printing press once again redrew the panorama, with the emergence of the novel, its great ally. Later, journalism and photography heralded the collapse of that nineteenthcentury realist hope and aided the emergence of that internal subjectivity with Joyce and Virginia Wolf that could not be photographed. Not much time would lapse before the Internet once more caused upheaval in the physical make-up of genres. It is useless on such occasions to adopt apocalyptic or integrated alternatives. Literature, which is a necessity not dependent on the medium, has survived each profound change in the way it is channeled. And it will do so just the same in the twenty-first century. But it will not be the same. Nor is it desirable to be so.18

This hypothesis, which links writing technique to literary practice, has been sometimes debated, but whatever the case, there are many others, from Walter J. Ong onward, who link writing technology to the form of literary creation. Without going any further, I would cite a recent article in the press in which writing technology and thought are connected: It is not so unusual that seemingly minor changes in reading practice (such as reading through a material base or a virtual one) have notable consequences. Reading is a neurologically complex activity. A recent work by the psychologist Maryanne Wolf, Proust and the Squid, reminds us that the act of reading is not natural . . . and in fact alters the brain of the subject that practices it, to such an extent that he or she configures it in a certain way if reading in alphabetic characters (such as Spanish) and in another way if done in Chinese ideograms.19

18 José Maria Pozuelo Yvancos, “Llega la estética del ‘blog’,” ABC, January 6, 2007. http:// www.abc.es/abcd/noticia.asp?id=6089&sec=32&num=779 (accessed April 2009). 19 José Antonio Millán, “Leer sin papel,” El País, April 9, 2009.

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If the effect of the reading practice implies such important changes, one must reflect that changes in writing technology could be important when it comes to the creation of narrative practice. In Kirmen Uribe’s case, a whole practice of blog writing was incorporated to write this book: a) the technique of the already mentioned space, in which one tessera occupies the text space of a computer screen; b) the use, in some cases openly and in others hidden, of Wikipedia, c) the reproduction of e-mail messages, d) the insistence on recalling the airplane screen that shows the miles traveled and how far it is to one’s destination; e) the reproduction without any kind of aura, which would be mechanical for Walter Benjamin, of different kinds of documents, such as the official gazette. The Internet era has raised the possibility of a new form of making literature that is termed in very different ways: blog writing, as preferred by Pozuelo Yvancos; afterpop writing, as it is called by one of the major theorists of this change, Eloy Fernández Porta; or Pangaea (whole earth) literature, as espoused by one of its most important theorists, Vicente Luis Mora. It is worth focusing on this writer and—still conscious of the element of doubt that such a contemporary kind of literature that has barely been outlined might raise—consider the features that define for this literature what is happening and emerging. a) Time: continuous Future and past ideas disappear, dissolved into a present that is not continuous but absolute and circular. b) Subject: avatars, nicks, phantasmagorical and virtual representations of identity. c) Notes: continuity, skepticism, confident consumerism. Return to the ambition of everything, not understood as Everything, but as a multiple and instantaneous globality. d) Topoi. Non-places. Internet, virtual reality (VR). e) Concept of truth: it does not exist. Impossibility of veridiction (Greimas), that is: demonstrating the falsifiability of an assertion or hypothesis is unattainable. f ) The Pangaeic novel type is undefinable, but must have, at least, these textual features: a structural presence of expressive mass communication

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electronic media visual resources, taking on board the image (positive, a drawing or a photograph; or negative, erased) as one more element of narrative discourse . . . the incorporation of new cyber forms of texts like blogs, chat or e-mail, preserving its original structural and digital formulas, translated into the literary text.20 Starting from the notion that literature is still not defined there are certain constants undertaken in the novel Bilbao-New York-Bilbao by Kirmen Uribe. Of course, as noted above, the characteristics are the following and I will list them from the most obvious to the least invoked: a) The incorporation of diverse material, always keeping the typography differentiated in the typography of the text; b) The play between reality and fiction means that we might think that many of the actions narrated happened, but that fine line of doubt created by autofiction of course underscores the impossibility of verification. The author is and, above all, is not the character; some of his actions are real, as pointed out above, but others are not (the card game at the festival and, especially, the fact that the person who lost would later become his wife make one suspect a fictional construction, or in any event not verifiable). c) The fundamental topos of the novel is the plane: the basic non-place. Although it is true that references are made to real places: Ondarroa, Bilbao, and so on. d) The notion of globality is highlighted in the idyllic vision of a multicultural character, the old filmmaker, watching immigrants playing and creating in the image the hope of new times to come. e) On this return journey, the first of these features is the least defined, because even if the reminiscences of the three generations can—and I would emphasize the word “can”—make up a general whole in memory, it is equally true that the generations are well designed, and first and foremost the future is well defined; for that reason, this is perhaps the characteristic that is least fulfilled in Bilbao-New York-Bilbao, while it is probably that which enjoys greatest specific importance in defining an afterpop or Pangaeic work. 20 Vicente Luis Mora, La luz nueva. Singularidades en la narrativa española actual (Córdoba: Berenice, 2007), 72–73.

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Let me return, by way of conclusion, to the beginning: for Vicente Luis Mora, the genre is still as yet undefined. In Kirmen Uribe’s work, within his major intuitions about creating a work that sets off from a premise of autofiction and ends up entering a new aesthetic that resembles afterpop literature, one can observe an oscillation between literature considered postmodern and the consciousness, still undefined, of a literature—defined by the author as new, although refuted by some critics—that is defined as the point of departure for the coming age; that, indeed, no one knows what will be like.

5. Baggage Claim The book has already arrived at its destination and now, in the baggage claim area, it is awaiting the potential reactions of its interpretations and readers. We have reached this point in the description of the technical features and intentions that guided the author in a work I consider original within the Basque—and even Spanish—panorama, and that forms part of the new aesthetic currents of the globalized world. Another thing is the evaluations of these same features that for some readers will be more convenient and for others will move them to consider the work a good literary work. Aesthetic evaluations, as we know very well, depend on many variables, among which one might highlight the pleasure of the subject that expresses them and the subjectivity on which they are based. It is worth focusing on some reactions that the work has stirred up in the world of readers in the Basque Country. Iban Zaldua and Angel Erro in the blog “Bolgako batelariak” published an extensive analysis of the work. The article analyzes fundamental aspects of the work, such as autofiction, its similarity—of course this would have to be emphasized—to Nocilla Dream by Fernández Mallo (although this novel is based on television channel-hopping unlike Kirmen Uribe’s work), the theme of family and the narration of generations, the memory of a small place, the false storyline of the “Dos Amigos” name, looking back to a lost world (that does not project future-leaning memory), and fragmentation and autofiction as foundations of the work—and here some supposed antecedents in Basque literature are cited that Manuel Alberca could probably catalogue in another section different to that of autofiction, some cases are fictional autobiographies.

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More favorable reviews of the novel have also been published, among which I would highlight an article by Ana Arregi (incidentally, the translator of the work into Spanish) and a post by Josemari Isasi Urdangarin, a novelist who has cultivated the play between reality and fiction in his novels, in the discussion that followed the article by Zaldua and Erro. Arregi21 underscores the capacity of the novel to create a new world and to hook the reader by the sensory plot created. The capacity for invention and seduction in the narrative plot defends a favorable opinion for the novel in which she also sees a texture of memory and voice that creates a twenty-first century aesthetic. Few critics—perhaps Ana Arregi. is the exception—have paid attention to the second quote with which the novel begins, a sentence by Sebald, again, which highlights the unified nature of the texture in some threads based on the voice. The narrative word of Kirmen Uribe is (probably) one of the most consistent connecting threads in the plot, which leads one to consider the possibility of assuming a lyrical influence in the work that has been little spoken about. Of course, the beginning is a poem in prose, and a lyrical text is located at the end of the book. Isasi Urdangarín22 champions the novel for its proximity to the author’s reality, but especially for its capacity to move consciences, to awaken them, to thrill them, from a mastery of language that is not easy to create in its simple transparency: Meritu langintza horretarako tonu egokia lortzean datza, irakurle askok horren ondo hartu dugun tonu atsegin hori, ez dena ez sentimentala, ez txepela, ez erromantikoa, ezta melodramatikoa ere. Tonu hori lortzea ez da bat ere erraza, kritikan diozuen bezala, oso idazle ona izan behar da horretarako; oso ondo hautatu behar dira hitzak, erritmoa, pausak, isiluneak [The merit consists in achieving that correct tone, in that pleasant tone that so many readers have gotten hooked on, which is neither sentimental, nor insipid, nor romantic, nor melodramatic. It is not easy to achieve that tone, as you say in criticism, one must be a very good writer to achieve it; one must choose words very carefully, the rhythm, the pauses, the silences].

21 Ana Arregi,“Mundu bat sortu,” Gara, December 26, 2008. 22 Josemari Isasi Urdangarin, “Arrainetan negau dena,” at http://eibar.org/blogak/volga/ archive/2009/01/30/bilbao-new-york-bilbao (accessed April 2009).

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Following the description of the state of the question I would like to underline, as a conclusion, that Kirmen Uribe offers a new aesthetic for new times, which no one knows how they will end, whether the aesthetic or the new times, but I am convinced that the attempt was worth the trouble. As Fernández Porta writes, innovations always produce controversies, sometimes for the different horizon of expectations from which one reads a work: The American writer and critic Don Webb suggested using the term “slipstream” for any creative current that by definition distances itself from the dominant tendency, and that deserves a specific reflection that is outside the possibilities of criticism conditioned by the dictatorship of the current situation . . . it is increasingly more necessary to speak of an independent literature.23

The ultimate goal of this work consists of offering sufficient and sufficiently grounded reading conditions to undertake a reading of a slipstream work: Bilbao-New York-Bilbao; a novel that lies within, and I return to the pollen of ideas, a new configuration of the novel that one can read about in different forums, and of which I will here offer but two examples. The first is by George Steiner: “But the form in itself of the novel is in danger. People are looking for more experimental forms.”24 The second is taken from an observation by Salman Rushdie in a recent interview: In the seventies and eighties there was in the literature of countries like the United Kingdom, the United States, or India, a great innovative spirit. It was what authors and readers wanted. In contrast, in the last fifteen years there has been a much more conservative spirit in cultural matters. Less risks are taken. That does not mean that there are no exceptions.25

23 Eloy Fernández Porta, Afterpop. La literatura de la implosión mediática (Córdoba: Berenice, 2007), 87. 24 Juan Cruz, “Entrevista George Steiner. Yo intento fracasar mejor,” El País Semanal, August 24, 2008. www.elpais.com/articulo/portada/intento/fracasar/mejor/elpepusocep s/20080824elpepspor_5/Tes (accessed April 2009). 25 César Coca, “Los grandes escritores se plantean decir la verdad a los poderosos,” El Correo, April 5, 2009. http://www.elcorreodigital.com/vizcaya/20090405/cultura/ grandes-escritores-plantean-decir-20090405.html (accessed April 2009).

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There is every chance that Kirmen Uribe, who undertook a quiet revolution with his book of poems Bitartean heldu eskutik/ Meanwhile Take My Hand (2001), has achieved a narrative innovation with Bilbao-New YorkBilbao.

Bibliography Aguilar, Andrea. “La épica de J. C. Oates.” El País. Babelia, October 18, 2008. http://www.elpais.com/articulo/semana/epica/J/C/Oates/elpepuculbab/20081 018elpbabese_3/Tes (accessed April 2009). —. “Unas historias cruzadas.” El País. Babelia, January 10, 2009. http://www.elpais.com/articulo/semana/historias/cruzadas/elpepuculbab/20090110elpbabe se_3/Tes (accessed April 2009). Alberca, Manuel. El pacto ambiguo. De la novela autobiográfica a la autoficción. Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 2007. Arregi, Ana. “Mundu bat sortu.” Gara, December 26, 2008. Coca, César. “Los grandes escritores se plantean decir la verdad a los poderosos.” El Correo, April 5, 2009. http://www.elcorreodigital.com/vizcaya/20090405/cultura/grandes-escritores-plantean-decir-20090405.html (accessed April 2009). Cruz, Juan. “Entrevista George Steiner. Yo intento fracasar mejor.” El País Semanal, August 24, 2008.www.elpais.com/articulo/portada/intento/fracasar/mejor/elpe pusoceps/20080824elpepspor_5/Tes (accessed April 2009). Fernández Porta, Eloy. Afterpop. La literatura de la implosión mediática. Berenice. Córdoba: Berenice, 2007. Gurpegui, José Antonio. “Elegía para un americano.” El Cultural 6 (February 12, 2009):16. Hustvedt, Siri. The Sorrows of an American. New York: Henry Holt, 2008. Isasi Urdangarin, Josemari. “Arrainetan negau dena.” At http://eibar.org/blogak/ volga/archive/2009/01/30/bilbao-new-york-bilbao (accessed April 2009). Manrique Sabogal, Winston. “El Yo asalta la literatura.” El País. Babelia, September 13, 2008. www.elpais.com/articulo/semana/asalta/literatura/elpepuculbab/ 20080913elpbabese_3/Tes (accessed April 2009). Millán, José Antonio. “Leer sin papel.” El País, April 9, 2009: 27. Mora, Vicente Luis. Pangea. Internet, blogs y comunicación en un mundo nuevo. Sevilla: Fundación José Manuel Lara, 2006. —. La luz nueva. Singularidades en la narrativa española actual. Córdoba: Berenice, 2007. Oates, Joyce Carol. The Gravedigger’s Daughter. New York: Ecco Press, 2007.

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Pozuelo Yvancos, José María. “Llega la estética del ‘blog’.” ABC, January 6, 2007. http://www.abc.es/abcd/noticia.asp?id=6089&sec=32&num=779 (accessed April 2009). Sebald, W. G. The Rings of Saturn. Translated by Michael Hulse. London: The Harvill Press, 1998. Verdú, Vicente. “Reglas para la supervivencia de la novela.” El País, November 17, 2007. http://www.elpais.com/articulo/narrativa/Reglas/superviviencia/novela/ elpepuculbab/20071117elpbabnar_13/Tes (accessed April 2009). —. No ficción. Barcelona: Anagrama, 2008. Villanueva, Darío. El polen de las ideas. Barcelona: PPU, 1991.

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5

Identities in Diverse Societies in the Novel Bilbao-New York-Bilbao by Kirmen Uribe

One of the most striking passages regarding identity in the novel BilbaoNew York-Bilbao (2008 in its Basque edition, 2010 in its Spanish edition) by Kirmen Uribe, with which he won the Spanish National Narrative Prize in 2009, appears very early on in the work. The author-narrator has been to interview his Aunt Maritxu and she tells him a symbolic tale that demonstrates the key notions underpinning how diverse identities will function in the novel: “Your grandmother suffered a lot. During the war, too, she was alone for a year, without her husband. She took into her home an official from Franco’s side, Javier, and also a lady whose mother was a prisoner in the women’s prison at Saturraran.” I frowned. “Yes, I know it’s startling to have people from both sides in your home in wartime. But ideas are one thing and the heart is another.”1

“Ideas are one thing and the heart is another.” This brief note will serve as a guide in our journey through the work and its conception of identity. 1 Kirmen Uribe, Bilbao-New York-Bilbao (Donostia: Elkar, 2008), 29; Spanish edition, trans. Ana Arregi (Barcelona: Seix Barral, 2010), 26–27. Translator’s note: In this chapter, the first page references to this work correspond to the first edition in Basque. These are followed by references to the first edition of the book in Spanish. The Spanish edition was translated from an as yet unpublished second Basque edition, which incorporated several additions to the original text by Kirmen Uribe. All citations from Bilbao-New York-Bilbao in English are taken from a forthcoming edition of the work translated from the second Basque edition by Elizabeth Macklin.

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1. Interconnected Identities During the Time of the First Generation Aunt Maritxu’s short narration refers to the time of the Spanish Civil War. As we know, the novel shifts between three (I contend that it should be counted as four) generations in Kirmen Uribe’s family. The first is embodied by Granddad Liborio, about whom, however, it is stated that: About my grandfather I don’t know too much. Liborio Uribe. By the time I was born he was dead and our father didn’t talk to us a lot about his father. He wasn’t big on the past, himself. A seaman by nature, he preferred to look to the future. About the people in our mother’s family, on the other hand, yes: we know a thousand tales from Mother’s side.2

The time of Granddad Liborio is constructed, then, through the narrations of women in the family, in such a way that in this novel, which has been accused (in my opinion erroneously) of minimizing the role of women; it is they who personify the principal role of creating stories in that first moment. The second generation is represented by the father of authornarrator Kirmen Uribe, the third by the same autofictional author, and the fourth, which I see and which I do not want to overlook, is represented, as in any good sailor, by the future outlook symbolized by Unai, the authornarrator’s wife’s son. That first time is that of creating a community that, without relinquishing its identity, is able to engage in dialogue and create a tolerant society, despite living either in wartime, like the narrator’s grandmother and Liborio’s wife, or in the postwar era. Before beginning my analysis, it is worth noting that there are two narrative levels in which the interconnected identities of diverse societies will be located: at the level of familial and anonymous characters, as in the case of the narrator’s grandfather and grandmother, and at the level of historical characters; in other words, principally the architect Bastida, the painter Arteta, and the politician Prieto. Among all of them the conditions will be established to create a society that at a difficult moment carries out, not just because of a cry from the heart, a series of dialogues that creates an interconnected society in its approaches. 2 Uribe, Bilbao-New York-Bilbao, 19 (Basque); 17 (Spanish).

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a) The Level of Familial and Anonymous People After having referred to the case, at this moment paradigmatic, of the grandmother who takes in an official from Franco’s side in her home, and the daughter of a jailed republican, given that the Saturraran prison served as a jail for women from the faction loyal to the Republic, one might put forward a series of cases in which the characters think differently yet share a common biography. The text expands on page 169 (Basque)/143 (Spanish); and with the particular form of narrating that Kirmen Uribe has, new information about the characters is added in a game of memory and recall that never remembers in the same way, so that when one returns to a passage and tells it a second time, it is recalled in a different way, enriching the passage with new data and thereby humanizing the characters: There were two other people who’d been given houseroom. Both of them spent their days at the jail at Saturraran. One was the military man Javier and the other was Carmen, from Asturias, the daughter of a prisoner. . . . I don’t know the exact circumstances but Communist Party people had told Carmen to go to that North Street house. I don’t know who her contact would have been, who would have sent her there.3

The message that life is above any ideology is underscored time and time again, sometimes when people with different ideologies forget about that in order to create an environment of peaceful coexistence. This occurs when speaking about Liborio and about his fellow in-law Amparo: All during those long days when Liborio was bedridden our grandmother Amparo, his fellow in-law, would come to visit him. Even though Amparo was an ardent Basque nationalist, she’d sit at Liborio’s bedside every afternoon and read him the Francoist press. I can imagine Grandmother’s way of reading, like that of a child, slow, stressing each syllable. Every once in a while, Amparo would quit reading and light into Liborio: “What lies your friends keep telling. This is the last time I’m reading you this nonsense.” Liborio would smile at her with his eyes. He knew Amparo was kidding. He knew for certain that the next afternoon too, Amparo would go to visit him and read him the newspaper.4 3 Ibid., 169 (Basque); 143–44 (Spanish). 4 Ibid., 176 (Spanish). Translator’s note: This text has only thus far been published in the Spanish edition of the book. The forthcoming English translation will incorporate these additions.

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While it is true that familial relations are not always so peaceful and, in the case of the grandmother and her mother-in-law, the relationship (in which an attempt is made to smooth over the problems) ends up being less idyllic, the grandmother wants a friendly rapport with her Carlist motherin-law, allowing her to name her second daughter: She left her second daughter’s naming to her mother-in-law, however. They had been furious for ages because of politics. The mother-in-law was a traditionalist and our grandmother was a nationalist. To calm the waters and get their relationship on a better footing she told her mother-in-law that she’d be picking the name for the baby. Her mother-in-law, however, was not so forgiving. She called the baby Margarita, the name of the traditionalists’ ladies auxiliary.5

Nevertheless, there is an acceptance of opposites in the treatment between the narrator-character and his grandfather, Liborio. In a metafictional narrative passage, the author contemplates why he chose his paternal rather than maternal grandfather when there were so few stories about him. The narrator affirms that, deep down, he made the decision because he was ideologically different, and because he was able to create through him a network of complicity, and understanding, if not comprehension: The allegedly good and openhanded man was in jail, apparently, for having come down on the side of the fascist uprising. At first I found that hard to take. I couldn’t comprehend it. But then I saw that in a person’s life the surrounding terrain takes on great weight and that those surroundings condition the decisions that get made.6 When I first took up the idea of the novel, I found the Granddad Liborio character simultaneously attractive and uncomfortable. My own grandfather had himself come down on the side of the fascist uprising, on the side of that movement which brought those bloodbaths into being. I could have spoken, no doubt about it, of my other grandfather, Mother’s father. Hipolito Urbieta, a calm and canny man . . . Nevertheless , for the novel Liborio was far more attractive to me. A person full of contradictions, who sparked so many questions in me.7 5 Ibid., 76 (Basque); 65 (Spanish). 6 Ibid., 168 (Basque). 7 Ibid., 141–42 (Spanish).

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In the citation there is a moment in which the author makes a confession. The word “contradictions” does not fit the portrait he paints of Liborio, given that he is coherent in his outlook, which does contradict the position maintained by the author, but not his own one. Whatever the case, either out of discomfort or out of attraction, there is a passage in Liborio’s life that dignifies him. At the moment the massacre of prisoners in Larrinaga prison in Bilbao is being narrated, right in the middle of the Spanish Civil War, Liborio manages to flee and make his way toward the rebel lines. At that moment: As he was going up Begoña, however, a skinny little fellow named Jose Luis Meler who was escaping along with him was hit by sharpshooters. Liborio took him up in a fireman’s carry and bore him to a safe place.8

Meler promised to help Liborio rise up the social scale, but Liborio never wanted anything ever: Jose Maria Meler, the fellow Liborio saved from Larrinaga prison, promised Liborio he’d help him obtain a good position in society, and would get money for him too, if he wanted. But Liborio never asked him for any money at all.9

The circle between the two comrades, and perhaps the word is ambiguous here, closes at the moment of Liborio’s suffering. Then Meler appears once more to show his gratitude by paying for the burial of his savior (page 176 in the Spanish edition). b) The Level of Historical Characters If at the first level of characters the phrase “Ideas are one thing and the heart is another” served as a pretext for creating those interconnected identities, at the second core of analyzing complex identity in historical characters in the novel the basic phrase, the motto for creating understandings, would be “All of them held different ideological beliefs but admired one another.”10 An 8 Ibid., 140 (Basque); 128 (Spanish). 9 Ibid., 168–69 (Basque); 142–43 (Spanish). 10 Ibid., 200 (Basque); 175 (Spanish).

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ideology and admiration that are found, are intertwined, and come undone within the circle of three key figures in the artistic and political history of the Basque Country: between Ricardo Bastida, one of the most important architects in prewar Bilbao, and Aurelio Arteta, an exemplary painter who learned much from cubism and was close to the historical avant-gardes. Ricardo Bastida, who is the focus of the narration, would also be in contact with the socialist politician Indalecio Prieto. Initially, the novel centers on the creative work of Ricardo Bastida, a traditionalist and conservative, and Aurelio Arteta, a nationalist and innovator. The chapter that relates their relationship is titled, significantly, “Two Friends”; the same name as Granddad Liborio’s boat, one of the first enigmas that serves as a form of union in the text. If Liborio was one of the friends, who was the other? This is the question that leads to an investigation that turns out to be false. The boat was named by its previous owners before Liborio bought it. The two friends are not, therefore, Liborio and another person, but Bastida and Arteta, who develop a relationship that begins with the painting of a mural in Bastida’s house. It continues with a project to create murals for the Bank of Bilbao in Madrid, and carries on with an assignment for the Logroño seminary, a key development, given that the author-narrator has the correspondence between both of them regarding this task. He thus states that: Reading the letters you see clear as day what Arteta and Bastida were like. They were totally different from each other.11

And yet they were still friends, even though Arteta was agnostic and Bastida took part in the Eucharistic Congress in Chicago in 1926. In the correspondence between Arteta and Bastida, artistic doubts and processes in the Logroño seminary are recounted. If there was a major difference between Bastida and Arteta, this was overcome in their collaboration on artistic projects. Arteta painted the buildings Bastida designed by means of huge murals. Yet the difference between Bastida and Indalecio Prieto was greater still, and yet, personal affinity and friendship overcame ideological differences. The narrator points this out clearly when Bastida sent some religious images sketched by Arteta, in a clear attempt to draw him into his religious faith: 11 Ibid., 61 (Basque); 53 (Spanish).

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He knew that Prieto was an agnostic and didn’t believe in those things, but that’s exactly why he went on sending them . . . It was a game between them, one of them a monarchist and the other a socialist. Prieto was vastly amused by Bastida’s lifelong attempt to turn him into a believer.12

And then, in the palimpsest that is the whole work, there are transcribed phrases from Prieto’s diary in which the socialist politician talks about his friendship with Bastida. With regard to the interconnected nature of situations and personal friendships, the passage that recounts Bastida’s visit to Prieto in his exile in Saint-Jean-de-Luz in 1848 is important. Curiously, their topics of conversation are personal (childhood memories, religious subjects) and professional (the plans both had for Bilbao that were cut short by the war) in nature (page 115 in the Spanish edition). The narrator underscores the consequences Bastida had to put up with as a result of their friendship, and at this moment the subject becomes political: The relationship he had with Prieto created big headaches for Bastida. Despite his being the architect of the bishop’s residence and a member of the Catholic Action association, the Francoists denounced Bastida and he lost his position and his salary in the Bilbao municipal government.13

When he speaks about Bastida in this passage, one finds one of the clearest condemnations of strong identities, as opposed to interconnected identities: He [Bastida] immediately felt trapped between the two sides. For some people he was too conservative, for others the friend of socialists.14

In the same way that José Luis Meler went to visit Liborio at the moment of his greatest pain, the three friends also repeat the same ritual: they go to visit their friend at the moment of his greatest pain or death: 12 Ibid., 106 (Basque); 90 (Spanish). 13 Ibid., 116 (Spanish). 14 Ibid.

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Ricardo Bastida died on November 15, 1953. Bastida had learned that Indalecio Prieto was feeling poorly and wanted to pay him a visit in Mexico, since Arteta too was an emigré there. But on the plane he fell ill and had to return. Just as soon as he reached the Mexico City airport he got another flight back home.15 One of the first to go see the body [of Arteta] was Indalecio Prieto, who was also in Mexico in those years. Prieto truly marveled at Arteta.16

It is a similar situation when recounting case of the socialist Tomás Meabe’s death, whom he helped with money earned from selling his paintings (page 200 in the Basque edition and page 175 in the Spanish edition), a moment in which the narrator combines the two phrases used here in this overview of the first generation: They all of them held different ideological beliefs but admired one another. I recalled that saying of Aunt Maritxu’s, likewise, about the people Grandmother Ana had in her home during the war. “Ideas are one thing and the heart is another.”17

2. The Discovery of the Other in the Second Generation In the descriptive overview offered here, I would highlight a crucial idea in each of the generational periods presented in the novel. The second generation is represented by the mother and father of the character-narrator Kirmen Uribe. In this section I would like to emphasize two key ideas: the changing identity experienced by this generation, told through female characters, and the importance of the other, recreated through the anecdotes of the narrator’s father. The first feature of identity associated with this generation is the rapid process of laicization and loss of traditions, in a swift process of modernization that is signaled in passing (although significantly) in the text: 15 Ibid., 149 (Basque); 115 (Spanish). 16 Ibid., 149 (Basque); 127 (Spanish). Translator’s note: The second sentence here has only been published in the Spanish edition. It was translated into English from the unpublished second Basque edition. 17 Ibid., 200 (Basque); 175 (Spanish).

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Her generation was perhaps the one that underwent the most changes. Raised in the straitened society of the postwar, they suddenly had to fathom the ideas of the ’68 revolution. Mother herself has said to me more than once, they went from working in Christian communities to being Marxists in a just few months.18

Next to this rapid change, that generation also maintains a certain syncretism, because despite its modern features, it accepts some traditional beliefs, like that defended by aunt Margarita: But inside them the two worlds were both very much alive. And precisely because of that, even though she was the trade-union rep at the cannery, Aunt herself took care of setting up the crèche at Christmastime and would take us up to the Antigua hermitage on foot, and tell us that one of the images in the hermitage, that of the Nazarene, was miraculous.19

Together with change and syncretism, an identity is offered through the image of the father that must both discover and respect the other. There are two levels in the narration of this signification. Firstly, there is a narrative level in which the actions related show a respect for the other. This occurs when telling the story of how his father is detained for illegal fishing, and the subsequent trial in which he is declared not guilty. After the trial, everyone—the accused and the witnesses—must return together in a small plane. Everyone who’d taken part in the trial was on the flight together from Stornoway to Glasgow. It was such a small aircraft they all ended up in conversation. One of the pilots from the Malvinas told our dad, in English, smiling, You know you were there. Dad smiled right back at him.20

So then, the official truth, not guilty, clarifies the real truth: the father was guilty. Yet the smile between both of them not only recognizes this reality, it accepts above all the other. At a second level, the narrator underscores the importance of the other at a symbolic or allegorical level and also in small spaces, as if the novel’s 18 Ibid., 76 (Basque); 66 (Spanish). 19 Ibid. 20 Ibid., 147 (Basque); 132 (Spanish).

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message would like to highlight the fact that different people should respect the other, given that they live in small spaces, as is the case of the Basque Country. We should see these references to the importance of respecting the other. The two metaphors are taken from the seafaring world, in one situation that highlights the need to count on others, a carpenter in this case on wooden ships or on the machinist in the new vessels: At one time it was carpenters on fishing boats. That in the era of the sailing ships. It was essential to have carpenters on the crew. If there was some breakup, if the mast went awry, if there was no carpenter aboard the vessel was sunk. And so it was that there were usually three or four carpenters on sailing ships. And there was always a contest between the master and the head carpenter. The shipmaster tended to want to go faster, to put the mast’s resistance to the test. The carpenter, though, tended to want to go slower, wanted to take good care of the boat, to get into port in one piece. I’ve often thought we all have the same contest going on in us. That we do have a shipmaster who wants to take risks and then the carpenter, who’d prefer to maintain the reservoirs, to play it safe. Later it was the machinists who took the carpenters’ place. And the contest went on exactly the same, down to the present day. The machinist wants to take care of the machine, so that it won’t overheat. The shipmaster wants to navigate using the whole of the machine.21

Despite the personal interpretation suggested by the narrator, “I’ve often thought we all have the same contest going on in us,” I believe that the need for and difference with the other conforms to a higher level, precisely because of its symbolic nature. That dialectic with the other is demonstrated in a most effective way in the passage in which the narrator travels with his mother to find the “other” in his father in Stornoway. An old harbormaster, Angus MacLeod, was responsible for arresting and helping (once more the dialectic with the other) fishermen who had been fishing illegally. A long time had gone by since then, and I think this fact is very important – the passage of time to justify the dream Angus still has in the story: to visit the Cantabrian coast, to do the journey that the narrator Kirmen Uribe’s father did in reverse:

21 Ibid., 110–11 (Basque); 94–95 (Spanish).

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Angus’s dream was to get to know the Cantabrian coast. . . . The situation was weird. Dad’s alleged enemy, that man who’d taken Basque boats in under guard, was now wanting to go to the Basque Country. As we’d gone to get to know Stornoway, he wanted to get to know our home place.22

This passage is extremely important because it demonstrates a harmony between adversaries, a unity of different people, reconciliation, an important word in the current Basque political panorama; although only after the passage of time.

3. Postmodern and Global Identities in the Third Generation The third generation to which the autofictional narrator, Kirmen Uribe, belongs is presented as a bearer of characters fitting a postmodern and global identity. Naturally, a good deal of attention should be paid to the configuration of this identity, because it does not just identify a generation but, as will be addressed later in more detail, the remaining identities (such as, for example, the interconnected identities of the first generation) are defined from this base, from this postmodern vision, even when they are not part of a postmodern but rather a traditional society. Yet Kirmen Uribe’s postmodern identity outlook rubs off on other identities, from the point of view that defines his own identity, within the identity parameters suggested by Diego Bermejo.23 In the first place, this is an identity that travels. Already during the description of the first flight from Frankfurt to New York in 2003, the narrator meets an Indian. I remember when we went in 2003 I became aware of a girl who had an Indian look about her.24

22 Ibid., 187 (Basque); 164 (Spanish). 23 Diego Bermejo, “Identidad, globalidad y pluralidad en la condición posmoderna,” in La identidad en sociedades plurales, ed. Diego Bermejo (Barcelona: Anthropos; Logroño: Universidad de la Rioja, 2011), 15–76. 24 Uribe, Bilbao-New York-Bilbao, 70 (Basque); 60 (Spanish).

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This reference, which will extend to the importance or not of coincidences, is important because it locates the author-narrator character within the globality of different forms of identity on his journeys, initially pointing out its external form and aspect. Of course, an internationally-minded writer like Kirmen Uribe must maintain a globalized identity, as he demonstrates unsurprisingly in chapter 11, “The Käsmu Gravestones,” in which he describes a writers’ meeting in Estonia. The variety of identities, joined in the literary texts that they all cultivate, leads to them meeting together at a moment in which different voices and different languages can come together. It is true, however, that this encounter among poets in different languages, and therefore that hint of international harmony, can only take place in an idealized and very specialized setting; although the text does attempt to correct this ideal reference point immediately through a story about the Malvinas/Falklands War: with speakers of the same language, Welsh, fighting on different sides –in other words, national identity prevailing over linguistic identity. The third generation’s identity is driven by two elements that reinforce its features. One is travel. The novel takes place during a transatlantic flight, in other words, in the worst possible space in which to develop any action; and the other is the importance of the media. Yet the decision to locate the action in a closed space, a plane, a ship, in parallel to traditional ships, boats, is undertaken from the writer’s consciousness, as the following note about his intentions (described in a very metaliterary way) testifies to: I laid out the project of the novel to Fiona. The idea had gone on evolving, and finally I’d be setting everything on a flight between Bilbao and New York. How else would I speak about three generations of a family without going back to the nineteenth-century novel. I told her about the process of writing the novel and in bits, in very small bits, stories of the three generations.25

Travel is not a specific feature of this third generation. The Bastidas (father and son) had journeyed to the Americas before Kirmen Uribe. And the second generation, of course, is a generation that had spent its whole life traveling for professional reasons. But the third generation travels more and further. They are more global. 25 Ibid., 155 (Basque); 136 (Spanish).

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The importance of new media and the impact of the Internet on the novel is a topic that will be treated in another chapter. Yet it is evident and a near manifesto is proclaimed on the subject: Our small cultures had to get renewed. The ways of doing things renewed. To adapt to the times. The medium has changed. Nowadays it’s not just books. Right there, you’ve got your new technologies. And who’s on the receiving end has changed too. No one was writing solely for the fellow members of their own community now. The world’s smaller.26

With regard to the globality of this identity, one should bear in mind another moment in which writers and artists meet that recalls a plural identity. This is the dinner in New York described on pages 152 and thereafter of the Spanish edition. It is attended by the poet, Elizabeth Macklin, the hosts, José Fernández de Albornoz, a doctor, and Scott Hightower, a professor of literature, the professor Mark Rudman, the poets Marie Ponsot and Phyllis Levin, and the Czech filmmaker Vojtěch Jasný. It is perhaps the most cosmopolitan moment (and I use the word carefully, because it does not mean the same thing as global) in the novel. Yet at the same time, it is the moment in which global identity reaches its highest point, because there are clear references to gender identity, maternity, and adoption by homosexual couples. This postmodern global identity of the third generation is under threat from the strong identity of Basque nationalism. There are two passages in which reference is made to this identity through the activity of ETA. The first is about the day it declares one of its ceasefires, which was thought to be a definitive declaration. The news of ETA’s last ceasefire caught me in Madrid on March 24, 2006. A friend called me on my mobile. He was overjoyed, “What we’d been hoping for years on end has finally happened,” is what he said.27

But that hope was cut short, broken, and an attack on the Ertzaintza (the Basque police force) police station in Ondarroa on September 21, 2008, is 26 Ibid., 118 (Basque); 101 (Spanish). 27 Ibid., 200 (Basque); 175 (Spanish).

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described. This is also a case of personal testimony, reflected in his preoccupation for his relatives and friends, but also from a collective outlook: I look at the housewife who lives across from me. She’s begun gathering up the glass. Her husband was killed by the paramilitaries in 1980. He was pro-independence. Her daughter was in my class. We weren’t older than ten. That was the first time I was conscious of the rawness of the conflict. . . . This fall I’ll turn thirty-eight. I’ve lived the whole of my life with this. Thirtysix years with a conflict and only two or three with some peace. How few.28

On the 2003 trip the narrator traveled with a young Indian, yet on this trip he accompanies Renata, an African-American. The topic of racial understanding will be key to the global perception of the novel, but especially with regard to the fourth generation.

4. The Fourth Generation: Shared Identities Looking toward the Future Kirmen Uribe and Renata Thomas, sitting next to one another in a plane, each of them with a boat called “Dos Amigos” in order to carry out the narration. The humble fisherman from Ondarroa and the slave ship that became a freedom ship (page 123 in the Basque edition and page 107 in the Spanish edition) in that series of dual reflecting images that so abound in the novel; two people from different races who reflect on stereotypes. One of the most emblematic scenes regarding the image of identities in the book takes place in front of Vojtěch: two girls from Ondarroa, one a white child and the other Senegalese are communicating: he stood watching the children who were playing in a meadow beneath the tower. . . . The children who were playing there were two little girls. One of them black and the other white. Both of them born in the town. They were catching butterflies, with a sheet. . . . those two little girls who’d gone to catch butterflies were using the same language [Basque], but to play in. Even the one who was the daughter of Senegalese.29 28 Ibid., 218 (Basque); 191–92 (Spanish). 29 Ibid., 229–31 (Basque); 198–200 (Spanish).

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The scene, which Vojtěch describes as “marvelous,” and defines as the “most natural” scene he has ever filmed, represents shared identity, the accepted difference that is the fundamental thesis of the novel. There is, moreover, another scene in which racial understanding represents integrated identity; it is just that this takes place in the virtual world of PlayStation games. I am referring to Unai’s idea to sign Drogba, a black soccer player who plays for Chelsea, with Athletic de Bilbao. Athletic has a well-known philosophy of only signing players who have been born or raised in soccer clubs from the Basque Country, and maintains this as a strong sign of its identity: there is endless debate over whether foreign players should be signed and from here, in a parodic way, signing a black player would be a dual negation of that touch of identity Unai is undertaking, but only in fiction. For this reason, the Basque daughter of a Senegalese sailor represents in this fourth generation the potential to hope for a future integration of identities.

5. Textual Gestures/Global Outlooks These are the different ways of considering identity I have been able to observe in the novel Bilbao-New York-Bilbao by Kirmen Uribe, whose title is a reference to Marc Fumaroli’s Paris-New York et retour (Paris-New York and Back Again). It is now a question of reflecting on the kind of identity proposed in the text and addressing this in light of the significant help that different theories on the topic offer. Before setting off on this quest, it is worth making a general consideration. The work discussed here is a work of fiction, even though it is autofiction. For that reason, it is not a treatise and one will not find in it long contemplative passages, although there are metaphors and images about identity. In other words, if an abstract element appears in the novel, for example the nature of writing, a story is told; when the narrator asks his father if he likes one of his articles, the father tells him the story of the town priests and their method of preaching sermons: I will always be thankful to my father for that honesty. . . . He clothed his argument in a story, making no direct judgments.30

30 Ibid., 52 (Basque); 46 (Spanish).

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And the author Kirmen Uribe proceeds like this as well. Let us take another example. At one point there is talk about homosexual couples adopting children. We do not know the character’s opinion, nor that of the author, Kirmen Uribe, because he is telling a story, from which it would appear that he is in favor of it, yet we do not know, because this is a story and not a qualification. In second place, because of the aesthetic strategy itself, some grand theories about identity will remain not at all clear in the text. a) Postnational Identity The term postnational identity is a political concept that emerged out of the theory of Jürgen Habermas in 1989 (in Spanish translation). It was first diffused in the Basque Country by Jon Juaristi in a talk that same year, although published a little later in its best-known version;31 and since then, it has been a controversial notion, always at the center of heated debate. There are those who attribute its entrance into Basque politics to Mario Onaindia. According to Juaristi, who incidentally does not cite Habermas but does mention Hans Kohn, Benedict Anderson, and Ernest Gellner, postnational identity—although he is reluctant to define clearly the postnational concept because, in his opinion, a single paradigm is still lacking to define “nationalism” and its diverse manifestations—has two features that lead to the depoliticization of nationalism, features that are put forward as a hypothesis rather than in a substantive way: 1) Within nationalism there exist the basic premises for its dissolution. Nationalism creates its own gravediggers.32 2) The national loyalties that substituted dynastic loyalties at the dawn of nationalisms are being substituted, in turn, by constitutional loyalties.33 If we consider these premises, we will see that in Kirmen Uribe’s novel there is a postnational horizon, but the strategically aesthetic reasons mentioned above make it difficult for one to believe that new constitutional loyalties are promoted instead. 31 Juan Aranzadi, Jon Juaristi, and Patxo Unzueta. Auto de terminación

(Madrid: El País-Aguilar, 1994).

32 Ibid., 106. 33 Ibid., 110.

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It is not a case of Kirmen Uribe’s novel not expressing an opinion about nationalism and therefore ideology, because this does occur; rather, what happens in not partisan, or directly political. What was termed the interconnected nature of the first generation in the novel is a so-called integration of people, through elements like admiration and the heart, despite their merely willing, non-programmed, general, and nonspecific nature. Moreover it is hardly a trite observation to underscore the fact that this interconnected nature proposed in the novel is not just any diverse combination; it is one of monarchists (Bastida), nationalists (Arteta), and socialists (Prieto) – a specifically interconnected form that reflects the wishes of very definite layers in society: the moderate PNV (Partido Nacionalista Vasco, Basque Nationalist Party) and the moderate PSE (Partido Socialista de Euskadi, Socialist Party of the Basque Country). Besides the one demonstration of integration that appears in the first generation, with the reference to the story of the two friends, the architect and the painter, and with the example of Grandmother Ana’s guests, there is a greater postnationalist component when considering the following quote by Jon Juaristi,34 on the creation of new postnationalist literature, to which he attributes two forms of appearance: 1) Extraterritoriality, or an opening-up toward the universal that underlies diversity. Juaristi makes the following clear proclamation: “If the concept of a ‘national language’ is absurd, still more so is that of ‘national literature’, which nationalism exalts as a kind of language utopia.”35 2) Additionally, the diffusion of new mass media can alter the concept of national literature and nationalism: “The diffusion of new audiovisual media [is important] in order to overcome cultural nationalisms. MacLuhan predicted the dissolution of nationalisms in a global village because of the electronic media.”36 From an aesthetic and literary perspective the attentive reader can discern these two options in Kirmen Uribe’s novel. On the one hand, there is extraterritoriality, given that the term New York pervades the novel, in the same way that within the work there is a quest to dismantle the nine34 Ibid., 113. 35 Ibid. 36 Ibid.

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teenth-century novel. Yet, as we will see later, this is not exclusive. It is not just a one-way journey; there is also a return. The importance of all things audiovisual and global communication is present within the pages during the writers’ meeting in Kismü; the text theorizes about the importance of this and, of course, from the beginning there are influential elements of new technology involved in structuring the novel, from using Wikipedia (page 25 in the Basque edition and page 22 in the Spanish edition), to a Facebook message (chapter 16). It has often been recalled that the length of each of the book’s fragments occupies the space of a computer screen. In this sense, Kirmen Uribe’s novel does attempt a literature beyond the borders of language and even tries to go beyond literary tradition, while still bearing it in mind. b) Postmodern and Global Identities The second theoretical frame with which to examine the identities present in the text presents theories about postmodern identity, which are naturally present, when the third generation and the identity of authornarrator Kirmen Uribe appear. Already, the use of autofiction will have been for him a clear demonstration of postmodern identity, insofar as it weakens the borders between reality and fiction. Postmodern identity emerged out of a global postmodern society.37 This society would be defined by the following features: globality, with two basic factors underpinning its emergence: a financial revolution and a technological revolution; a risk society, creating non-desired effects; a diverse society, with a visualization of diversity and difference; an individualized society, with open, differentiated, subtle, unstable, reflexive, elective, and, above all, individual identities where the subject makes decisions; an identity that stems from social mobility; and a vulnerable identity.38 This society would create an identity that would be maintained or that would fluctuate according to the following features: identity as a permanent crisis; fragmented and diverse identity; relational identity; aesthetic identity; and vulnerable identity.39 37 Bermejo, Diego, “Identidad, globalidad y pluralidad en la condición posmodena,” in La identidad en sociedades plurales, ed. Bermejo, 17–20. 38 Ibid., 17–20. 39 Ibid., 43–49.

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Clearly, the third generation characters live in this society and the novel’s characters project this image of identity. Identity in crisis, with regard to the references to a second family that his father could have in Scotland, is portrayed as a clear example of changeable identity; yet this changeable identity pervades the pages of the book, although the question “who am I?” does not appear. Autofiction is an example of identity in crisis. The “I” of the narrator offers a plural identity; it accepts the crises of identity, as a “national” writer, as a person who questions his own falling in love, who individualizes his decisions, and who, above all, connects with others. Everything in the novel is a search for relationships: the relationship of the boat’s name “Dos Amigos” with a fishing boat and a slave ship; relationships with people (with Renata on the trip, with writers in Kismü, with Nerea, with his “politically incorrect” or, put more bluntly, non-nationalist grandfather). And it is, of course, an aestheticizing identity, which through its language creates a personality in verbal relational play and a consciousness that might be summed up thus: An aesthetic in these key terms generates an aesthetic consciousness of special sensibility that, applied to the reconstruction of identity in postmodern conditions would imply bearing in mind the following aspects: a consciousness of belonging to contingent identities, historically constructed; a consciousness of partiality and relativity; a consciousness of diversity and the legitimacy of different recurring and simultaneous paradigms; a consciousness of the natural mechanisms of excluding the other . . . a consciousness aware of the excluded, that is, reconsidering that put to one side, the marginal . . . a recognition and acceptance of the other, that is, approaching the initially invisible, unheard, or imperceptible.40

The problem that this theoretical framework presents consists of how to extend the frame toward the first and second generation and make it practical at a time when societies were not global. In other words, how to analyze the identities present in the first and second generations, which did not live in global societies? When speaking of these generations, one would have to bear in mind that, really, there is a clear denial of strong identities in the book, instead of an affirmation of weak identities; although it is also 40 Ibid., 74.

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obvious that such identities are represented, from the moment the nonnationalist grandfather is chosen as a metaphor of the diversity existing in the Basque Country. The only solution I can see is that he can state that although such identities may not be postmodern, the gaze of the writer is postmodern, who has defined them by the gaps left untold, by the voids. One might argue that the author Kirmen Uribe has decided to highlight, to transcribe values and describe identities from a postmodern position and for this reason he has brought to the fore the discovery of the other in the case of the second generation, that is, to underscore diversity, multiple political loyalties, in the case of the first generation. In the case of respect for the other, Xabier Etxeberria contends: In the experiences of a complex identity, however, we bring together through our initiative multiple belongings; to a nation, to a religion, to a gender, to a profession, to an ideology, etc., with which our identity grows in abundance, but, what is more, the us-and-them borders are relativized due to constant changes in perspective (the “them” of one identification becomes the “us” of another); in this case, evidently, an interrelated perspective grows.41

With regard to the feature of identity that is highlighted in the novel in relation to the first generation, it is interesting that Diego Bermejo42 defines global identity as interconnected identity. The notion of interconnectedness would endow postmodern identity with consistency, which means the possibility of a new subjectivization of the subject, as well as “allowing one to reinterpret the notion of the identity of ‘I’ as a ‘narrative identity’” without arriving at the death of the subject, or the extreme disbanding of identity.43 For that reason, the interconnected political nature of the first generation would function as a kind of metaphor of the interconnected nature of the postmodern subject, and its political diversity. The image of the fourth generation is symbolic and significantly important in a society in which: “‘Syncretisms and hybridizations are more the 41 Xabier Etxeberria, “El yo moral: imbricación entre autonomía y alteridad,” La identidad en sociedades plurales, ed. Bermejo, 92. 42 Bermejo, “Identidad, globalidad y pluralidad en la condición posmodena,” in La identidad en sociedades plurales, ed. Bermejo, 56. 43 Ibid., 66.

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rule than the exception’—we agree with M. Featherstone—and they will continue to be increasingly so in the near future as has already been anticipated in arts and letters.”44 For this reason, the scene with the two girls—one Basque, one Senegalese—playing together and speaking Basque is very special because it demonstrates a future full of hope: The coming identity will be intertwined with new loyalties and belongings, to land, to humanity, and to solidarity. That is what we are longing for, together with A. Sen, among others: “I imagine another universe, not beyond our reach, in which [we] can jointly affirm our many common identities (even as the warring singularities howl at the gate).”45

That scene of solidarity shows a future in which different identities can collaborate in order to create a universe of plural relationships and an expectant vision in the community, even if those obsessed with identity put bombs in the doorway. c) Born Nation / Desired Nation A third interpretative framework can be found in the paradigm proposed by Jürgen Habermas in his book A Berlin Republic: Writings on Germany,46 in which he represents an opposition between a born nation and a desired nation, between two concepts of understanding identity. Bilbao-New YorkBilbao attempts, already in its title, an understanding between distances. While it does not seek to be a nineteenth-century type narrative, it does want to tell a story: the story of three generations that represents a summary of Basque twentieth-century history. In this same equilibrium between rupture and tradition, the stories of a born nation are woven together, Bilbao in the title and Ondarroa in the text, and the desired nation, in the New York of the title, and in the constant journey of the text: the journeys of the Bastidas, Arteta, and Prieto, in the fishing trips of his father, in the trips to New York of the authornarrator called Kirmen Uribe in order to recite his work in the Bowery Poetry Club or to give a lecture on poetry, but above all to converse in 44 Bermejo, intro., in La identidad en sociedades plurales, ed. Bermejo, 11. 45 Ibid. 46 Jürgen Habermas, A Berlin Republic: Writings on Germany, trans. Steven Rendall, intro. Peter Uwe Hohendahl (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997), 161–81.

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a heterogeneous group of professors and professionals, to feel a part of a global community, whether in New York or in Kismü. For this reason, the scene with the two girls—one from Ondarroa, the other a Senegalese from Ondarroa—is so important because the two of them confirm, before Vojtěch’s educated cinematographic gaze, the possibility of global understanding. This explains the moral arguments of a couple of phrases: “Ideas are one thing and the heart is another” and “They all of them held different ideological beliefs but admired one another.” They end up joining together in a more general argument that is open to the future and can be summarized as the equilibrium between born nation and desired nation.

Bibliography Aranzadi, Juan; Juaristi, Jon; Unzueta, Patxo. Auto de terminación. Madrid: El País-Aguilar, 1994. Bermejo, Diego, ed. La identidad en sociedades plurales. Barcelona: Anthropos; Logroño: Universidad de la Rioja, 2011. Bermejo, Diego. “Identidad, globalidad y pluralidad en la condición posmoderna.” In La identidad en sociedades plurales, edited by Diego Bermejo, 15–76. Barcelona: Anthropos; Logroño: Universidad de la Rioja, 2011. Etxeberria, Xabier. “El yo moral: imbricación entre autonomía y alteridad.” In La identidad en sociedades plurales, edited by Diego Bermejo, 77–124. Barcelona: Anthropos; Logroño: Universidad de la Rioja, 2011. Habermas, Jürgen. A Berlin Republic: Writings on Germany. Translated by Steven Rendall. Introduction by Peter Uwe Hohendahl. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997. Juaristi, Jon. “Culturas políticas y construcción nacional.” In Nacionalismo Vasco. Un proyecto de Futuro con 100 años de Historia. VII. Euskadi: una sociedad permeable al Nacionalismo, edited by Iñigo Urkullu, Txema Montero, Iñaki Goikoetxea, and Koro Garmendia, 23–33. Bilbao: Fundación Sabino Arana, 1998. —. “Nacionalismo y paisaje.” Cuadernos de Alzate 29 (2003): 25–36. Kortazar, Jon. “Identidad en la literatura vasca. Entre modernidad y posmodernidad.” Cuadernos de Alzate 29 (2003): 5–23. Muro, Miguel Ángel. “La (de)construcción de la identidad individual como tema en la novela posmoderna.” In La identidad en sociedades plurales, edited by Diego Bermejo, 200–246. Barcelona: Anthropos; Logroño: Universidad de la Rioja, 2011.

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Part iii: Interview with Kirmen Uribe

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Between Assimilation and Difference Paulo Kortazar

I am talking to Kirmen Uribe in Mundaka, a Bizkaian coastal town that strongly resembles his native Ondarroa. They are both places where the history, legend, and mysticism of the sea exist side by side. Places like this represent a place of return for Uribe. While he respects the seafaring tradition of his family, he has an internal drive that pushes him toward other reaches of the Atlantic. Thus, New York has also become for him a major point of reference. And that is where one finds the true Kirmen Uribe between one side of the Atlantic and the other; in transit between assimilating new tendencies and the differential element that his culture and surroundings provide him with; at the midpoint of a divided society. Uribe was awarded the Spanish Critics’ Prize for the best novel in Euskara in 2008 for Bilbao-New York-Bilbao. In 2009 he won Spain’s National Award for Narrative for the same novel. In order to tell the story of the novel, Uribe—a character, narrator, and author all at the same time—puts himself in a plane crossing the Atlantic and, through a process of memorization, recalls the history of the Basque Country through the twentieth century. Within this process different aesthetic ideas are revealed that will form the core of the following interview. These subjects revolve around postmodernity, tradition, and the hybrid forms that appear as the result of combing both elements. How are you feeling? Looking back, what was it like to publish a novel, with the critic’s prize and then later the national award? I felt like Vargas Llosa, who hesitated for fourteen minutes regarding the Nobel Prize. It was such a great delight and I couldn’t believe it. I called

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my wife twice to see if it was a joke. When the book was published I knew it was a little audacious, that its aesthetic was somewhat risky, or different, and that there were going to be different interpretations of it. There would be people who were going to like it a lot and others that perhaps expected something else of me—something more conventional. But later I realized that readers liked it a lot in all languages. For me this was like a happy ending, because it was not an easy year. I’ve heard you recite written poetry after Bilbao-NewYork-Bilbao (BNYB). Could you tell me something about your current projects? The truth is that I’m collecting all the poetry I’ve written in the last ten years, because it will soon be ten years since I published Bitartean heldu eskutik (2001; Meanwhile Take My Hand, 2007). Besides, I’m writing new poems. They are very different poems from those in Meanwhile Take My Hand; they are harder, although I do use a lot of humor as well. The voice resembles mine a lot, my own personal voice. It’s a step forward in my poetics. They are poems closely linked to social concerns, to what I have been experiencing in recent years: both good and bad. Meanwhile, I’m writing a short essay, which is a genre I like very much. And, what’s more, I’m thinking about several novels. It’s just that a novel demands so much. One can have thousands of stories in mind but the process of choosing one, in order to truly say something different, is very difficult. I’m at that stage of how to say something, how not to fall into the trap of repetition, and how to take a step forward. Why autofiction? Because there was no other way. There was no other way to express what I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say it. All novels ask questions. One is immersed in a tradition—in my case that of the Basque Country—but also, one might say, in the Western tradition. I asked myself: How can I tell the story of my “family,” or the world I’ve known since I was a child, without falling into the trap of costumbrismo, of fantastic realism, or even of realism? Because that’s all been done: Ignacio Aldekoa did it, Bernardo Atxaga did it, and even Txomin Agirre as well. But I wanted to do a novel about today, which incorporated the new aesthetic challenges that writers now face. Why autofiction? Because I

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wanted to create a fiction closely linked to the real; I wanted to recover the credibility that I think many novels have lost—what is deemed pure fiction. There are many kinds of novels in pure fiction that I’m not at all interested in because I don’t believe it. And it’s not just me; it’s the same for Joyce Carol Oates and a lot of writers who have wanted to return to the real. For that reason, I wanted to tell stories that really interested people and to recover credibility by introducing real people in the book— even though I later created fiction. In this situation, who better than myself to be the narrator? Whatever the case I should clarify that the Kirmen Uribe who appears in the novel is an image of the author, because for me it is very interesting to see how the notion of the author has changed in recent years. For example, there is the case of J. M. Coetzee: he wrote Boyhood (1997) and Youth (2002), which theoretically were autobiographies written in the third person. Now he has written Summertime (2009), which incorporates transposition and his own image is portrayed from different points of view. For me, this changing notion of authorship and experiencing the introduction of the author himself or herself in the text is very interesting. For example, W. G. Sebald said he no longer believed in those authors who remained outside the text. Instead, authors should introduce themselves in the text but in a different way, by means of a caricaturist image. What’s more, this allows them to establish a much closer relationship with readers. That’s what Manuel Alberca says in El pacto ambiguo. De la autobiografía a la autoficción that autofiction allows one to approach the reader more honestly because the self-narrator begins from the idea that what is in the text is fiction and not “truth,” which is the aim of autobiography. Yet in “Esto no es una novela” (“This Is Not a Novel”) published in Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, you cite Sebald in order to also take a stance against the dominance traditional omniscient narrators in fiction exert over readers. Could you explain this stance a little with regard to fiction? I’m at about the halfway point, because autofiction is very liberating. It’s as liberating as the free indirect style in Madame Bovary. What I mean is that one can use real things, introduce them into the book, and convert them into fiction. And this has a lot to do with the spirit of the novel, because the novel was written with a specific purpose. The narrator says at the beginning of the novel that fiction is in trouble. The novelist says: let’s make trouble

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for conventional fiction; I’m not going to tell stories with clear plots used in conventional fiction; I’m going to try to tell things in a different way. In BNYB style is much more important than the plot itself. Why? Because that’s literature. Plot is film or a television series. For me, here in the twenty-first century literature is style. We have gradually come to differentiate ourselves from other disciplines and ask ourselves the question: What is literature? Well, coming back to autofiction, for me it was very important that readers didn’t know for sure whether what I was saying was true or a lie. My aim was to go back to the original story, which is just as important as our own life and just as necessary for the individual. A couple, a family, or a community creates its own stories and it doesn’t matter whether it’s reality or fiction. The important thing is that this fact helps them understand life. Ultimately, we’re all interested in putting our own lives in order and putting our lives in order means using this original story. Autofiction because the topic calls for it or because of your guise as a poet, in which the lyrical “I” voice is omnipresent? But in my work there is a distancing. I’ve always tried to distance myself in poetry. Even in Bar Puerto (2001) the distancing is very clear: the narrator is a young documentary director who, on returning to his home town, finds out that his grandmother’s house is going to be demolished. And he begins to film. Clearly I use material from my own life, my grandmother, my father, the testimonies are real. Yet they are narrated by a fictitious person; I adopted that distancing for BNYB. I did the same as Siri Hustvedt in The Sorrows of an American (2008), in which she uses her father’s diaries to create fiction, even though the diaries are real. I therefore protect myself, and I even chose to do this in Bar Puerto. The major leap forward in BNYB with regard to my previous work is that my name appears and it is me who tells the story, although I am narrating fiction. For me it was essential to use autofiction in that novel, in which I wanted to convey how a writer in small literature lives in the twenty-first century. That’s what I wanted to convey, all the changes taking place now: technological, personal, familial, or those being experienced by new families; changes in male roles like the emerging concept of new paternity. I wanted to portray those changes and for that reason it was very important to use autofiction. We’ll see if I use the same technique for other novels: if it is good for the narration, yes; if not, no.

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With regard to the original story, in BYNB and in Bar Puerto it looks as if you’re moving from pétite histoire—what your grandparents spoke about, what you heard at home—toward HISTORY in capital letters. In other words, that in your narratives history is shaped by the voice of witnesses to the events. At the time I was writing BNYB I was very interested in fractal theory, in how one could write by means of variants or variations on the same subject. I was also interested in Paul Klee’s painting style. Paul Klee didn’t see the whole picture but instead began in a corner and gradually built up the whole painting, little by little, as if were a cloud that was changing shape. It was then I became very interested, and I’m still interested today, in pétite histoire; because the Basque Country is a place where grand history or history in capital letters, or interpretations of this, have created victims. History in our country has been very cruel to people. For that reason I’m much more drawn to small histories; they seem more real to me: first, in order to understand reality from different angles, and second, in order to be able to eventually heal those wounds. In the narrative sense, there is also a series of small histories in BNYB, because I was drawn to the idea of proposing stories in a radical way, in a total stripped down way. They are like—more than one reader has told me—many novels inside one novel: they are protonovels. Stories might emerge that can be developed further; but there they appear in their initial form. Now that we’re speaking about pétite histoire, from Bar Puerto to BNYB, in your work you underline the themes of everyday life and community. And in a similar way to the experience of historical testimonies, elements of popular culture enjoy a significant presence in BNYB. Orality is a theme of my work. I published a book with such a folkloric title Portu Koplak (Port Verse, 2006), in which I collected port songs, slightly marginal songs. I’ve always been interested in personal, let’s say popular, stories. And yet popular doesn’t mean traditional. I believe they are different. Community is very important in BNYB; because there is an ethical stand in favor of this community in the novel and I think it comes out very clearly. The first sentence in the novel indicates this commitment: “Fish and trees are alike.” People might ask: How are they alike? Not at all. But later I

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explain that it is because both have internal growth rings. What I’m trying to do in the novel is create connections between different things. That was very important for me: on the one hand, the image of a republican in a very nationalist and traditionalist town like Ondarroa; but also narrating how a bomb falls on his house and suddenly the birds he keeps start singing. That combination of different things. That wanting to understand why our parents, our grandparents, acted as they did and wanting to assimilate the fact that human beings are flawed, contradictory. That ethical stand of wanting to unite the diverse society that appears in BNYB. Do you believe in the writer’s commitment to society? When it comes to giving a voice to those who do not have one (immigrants, and so on). Even in your novel there are examples of artists like Picasso or Arteta who are very committed. Yes, that’s true. But there has always been a contrast between the individual and society. I also wanted to reflect that in the novel. It’s true that Aurelio Arteta and Pablo Picasso were very connected and committed to society. But they also felt a certain tension. Any writer who writes in a small language—as Pascale Casanova used to say—suffers the same tension. I think everyone loves their own language, everyone loves their own country. But at the same time that language doesn’t allow them to take any steps forward; it’s very odd. It was also my intention to express that tension, that love-hate relationship that one has with his or her tradition. It’s true that Arteta was very committed, but at one point he fled to Mexico with his family. Milan Kundera used to say that small linguistic communities behave like families and demand a lot of loyalty. Yet the writer is by definition an individual who is always trying to leave that community. Kafka, Joyce, and Beckett, who all created stunning works, wrote about this tension. It’s what Ricardo Piglia said, that in these communities assimilating the Western tradition is always much more open. It’s carried out in another way and that’s how beautiful and exotic, and strange, flowers emerge. But they are very difficult cases because the community itself ties you down firmly. David Lyon, among other theorists, has argued that postmodernity is a mostly metropolitan phenomenon. Do you think an idea like postmodernity is possible in a town like Ondarroa? Could you outline how a town like Ondarroa assimilates the idea of postmodernity?

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Bar Puerto is about this; it’s an assimilation of postmodern theories in a town like Ondarroa and, at the same time, very urban. It speaks about stories that happen in many places: drugs, AIDS, victims of history in capital letters, of women’s roles and immigration. A very urban work, set in a town of ten thousand inhabitants, but still very urban. And very different to all the costumbrista stuff that had been done up to then. Because what I wanted to do in Bar Puerto was locate all the tension that was being experienced at that time—the end of the twentieth century—in a microcosm. BNYB goes further, there are many topoi and what’s more, movement is very important: like a checker board where the pieces are constantly moving. With regard to assimilating the postmodern idea, yes it is possible. In all these communities there are two tensions. One is assimilation and the other is differentiation. Communities assimilate what is being done elsewhere. And two, they want to differentiate themselves from what is being done elsewhere. It’s important that the force of differentiation doesn’t outweigh that of assimilation. When that instinct to differentiate supersedes that of assimilating, works are poorer in literary terms and it affects literary debate. There are many theories, many concepts, which have not been assimilated in the Basque Country. Why? Because there is a centrifugal force that seeks to differentiate it from other traditions. And this to me is very negative. Sometimes assimilation even forms part of the process of differentiation but in another way: elements that have already come and gone are assimilated. Consequently, literature itself becomes very conservative. On the other hand, taking account of those possibilities Piglia mentions, small literatures do have that opportunity to create quality work that contributes to universal literature. But if we close ourselves off inside ourselves that is impossible. You speak about assimilation and differentiation. However, Basque literature is taking on a more international look—as in the case of young novelists who write what has been called “Erasmus literature”—with more global cultural and spatial references. This happens in BNYB. There are themes that go beyond the Basque conflict – although the conflict is also there. In my case, what I try to do is tell universal stories but without hiding my own tradition. Because BNYB is a very Basque novel. I don’t avoid the conflict, or tradition. Very traditionalist Basque authors like Txomin Agirre

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appear throughout the novel. Because one must not forget that I speak to the world from my own tradition. Nor can one turn one’s back on one’s own background to become global, because one loses content, one loses perspective. At the end of the day, I don’t know if Americans are really interested in the story of a Basque who lives in Norway without this story being particular in some way. Particularity is interesting if it is done in an open way. Orhan Pamuk does it in Istanbul: Memories and the City (2005) and when I read him and that entire list of Turkish authors I find that I feel like reading them. What’s important is the attitude one takes, open or closed. It’s like the teacher who knows how to explain himself or herself in front of those who don’t. With regard to this international look—a prominent feature of BNYB— how much does it have to do with processes of a global nature like multiculturalism, immigration, or the formation of the European Union? To what point does the connection Bilbao/Ondarroa and New York represent a new way of thinking differently? Because in BNYB there is a portrait of what the sociologist Manuel Castells calls a network of cities that represents the new centers of power in the global era. What I try to show is how an author from a tradition like that of the Basque Country in the early twenty-first century lives. For me, places, not just cities, including Rockall—which is a rock—and St. Kilda, an island, are also very important. Yes, I did want to create a network of Atlantic places. Not just great cities, but places and sites. That’s where my political commitment is with regard to this global process. I’m speaking about cities that are centers of power, but BNYB is just that, what its name indicates. There is a tension between big cities and small traditions. It’s not BilbaoNew York, it’s not an escape, it’s not a writer who goes off. He goes off and comes back. The tension is clear in the title, between the two cities and between the Basque and American traditions; as well as the tension between cities and places, the whole network of Atlantic sites, given that what unites them is the Atlantic. With regard to the phenomenon of immigration in the novel, right from the start, from the name of my grandparents’ boat—“Dos Amigos” (Two Friends)—I asked myself: Who was the other friend? The question is about the “other,” about otherness, and it circulates throughout the novel. The image of the immigrant is very important, especially forming part of

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an ancient tradition, of such an ancient language, of a community that has become very closed. It’s in that context that the image of the immigrant is very important: the image of what is different, of the woman who is excluded in Ondarroa for having had a child with an Italian during the civil war, of the black woman – who is not treated very politely in an elevator in Bastida’s son’s diary, and even of how at the end of the novel a girl with Senegalese parents speaks with another Caucasian girl in Basque. Throughout this interview you’ve mentioned the return of the first person for the importance of new technologies, the new challenges of current literature, and the crisis of conventional fiction. Do you mean that postmodernism has been exhausted? Do you think the material conditions exist, perhaps not for breaking with but rather continuing with postmodernism? Yes, I think so. Something is emerging that has been labeled altermodernity. I think society, writers, and art are moving ahead and different things are emerging. It’s true that in favoring pétite histoire, one recognizes the demise of the gran récit mentioned by Jean-François Lyotard. In that sense, Lyotard said that relativizing was emancipating for the individual. Although I don’t want to fall into radical relativism. Because I also think there is a late postmodernism, and here I’m closer to the thought of Frederic Jameson, given that it has been over forty years since postmodernism started. And I try to establish other versions of reality, attempting to return to a new modernity. I am believing once again in the human being. As far as experimentation is concerned, in my case, despite being very important I don’t see it as an end. For example, there are different discourses in the novel: advertisements, Wikipedia texts, Facebook messages. But everything has its raison d’être, each element appears for a reason, and never outside the content of the work: they appear because he, the author or narrator, is in a plane and reads the advertisement. They are not displayed gratuitously. In La luz nueva Vicente Luis Mora mentions a characteristic of fiction he calls “Pangaea”: the confusion between the literary process (writing) and the literary product (the novel). Beyond whether BNYB is a pangeaic (mutant) novel or not, BNYB is mostly an investigation. This is a process. Does choosing autofiction as a technique for narrating have anything to do with this?

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For me what was important was the process of writing the novel; not that conventional product. I have even been asked, most ingenuously, if I’m ever going to write that novel; meaning that whoever asked me this does not understand anything. It was the process that was important: it’s the flight, movement, change, and how the idea of authorship fits into the novel. That allowed me to tell real stories about people who are included in the novel. So how can one organize all this if there is no conventional plot? Here there are two elements. First, the association of ideas. The author is constructing memory and when one constructs memory the association of ideas jumps out, memory jumps out without any apparent logic. This was the first foundation on which to organize the story. Yet the association of ideas itself can end up being very boring, or too intellectual. This is what I find with Sebald’s books, which I love, but I realized that just with this association one loses something with regard to narration. How can one recover narration for a novel? By means of the second concept: networked structure. I use this structure with leaps of time and space and it is organized around three generations that progress in a chronological sense, like a clock moving along – to use Vila-Matas’s notion; establishing at the same time analogies, intertwining stories that gradually make up this network. Those stories appear and disappear; birds, immigrants crossing the Atlantic, abused women…there are a lot of intertwining stories that come to make up the novel, that give it that body so that it doesn’t fall apart. Without that body, without that network, the novel would fall apart; it would be of no interest to the reader. The reader would feel lost in a kind of unconnected series of stories. That’s why BNYB has a link. Each story appears, then it is repeated; it has an image, it has a reflection, a story never appears gratuitously. You speak about a network. Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari spoke of rhizome as a structure that was governed by the independence of its units and that had no center. However, when it comes to putting this idea into practice, when networks are constructed there are centers. There is Google on the Internet and normal users are on the periphery. In a similar way, in your novel one sees that when you establish a network with the structure you don’t abandon a center made up of the three generations of your family. Precisely. I call them knots of content, not of plot. They are almost biological knots that hold the novel itself together. Poetry has helped me a

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lot with this. The role poetry will take on in the twenty-first century novel will be very interesting. Especially if writers want to tell stories with plots, without these being overly important. Because the plot of BNYB is the same as that of the Odyssey, but this plot is not as important when it comes to organizing the novel. The most important thing is the units: discourses and stories that intertwine within the novel. The reason I give such importance to poetry—in order to write these new kinds of novels—is because poetry plays with analogies; it plays with metaphors and with repetitions. I have learned so much from this; I have learned how to organize silences so that the reader fills in the gaps. Moreover, I want to mention Vila-Matas, who, in his latest book, Perder teorías (2010), remarks that high poetry will be very important in the new novel. This is not a question of poetic prose. It’s about writing novels with an order influenced by poetry. In the same way a poet takes in reality. In BNYB one can see the influence of new technologies in the direct reproduction of digital content. Yet there is also an indirect representation in the writing and in the structuring of the writing with narrative units. Yes, also in the way of narrating. Nowadays people narrate in a very direct way on Twitter and Facebook and I wanted to grasp that spirit. Although it’s not the same as writing on the Internet. Because this is literature; it’s not the Internet. For me, it’s important to establish that difference. One thing is how young people write on the net. And another thing is writing novels like this, and I don’t think it’s about that. The Internet influenced me, but what I wrote was a novel. Because I’m not so interested in the electronic novel, but rather the novel: the novel genre that raises issues of change occurring in society. It happened with cinema, it happened with journalism, and now it’s happening with new technologies. Of course, despite the fact you are influenced by it, the material conditions of the novel are not the same as those offered by the Internet. That’s it, I represent that change. Yet I also respect the novel tradition and for me experimentation must make sense. And what I find attractive is what remains of experimentation in the tradition. It’s not breaking with everything; I’m interested in assimilating all these innovations in our lives and introducing them into the novel tradition. I’m between two paths; nor

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am I part of the conventional novel. I’m a big reader of traditional novels; for example, I love John Cheever. When I wrote BNYB I didn’t want to write a conventional novel, but a novel, yes. Yet the opposite, denying the influence of new technologies, is very naïve. One cannot deny these changes. To just base on all of those radical suggestions is yet another thing. I believe that in the novel, just as in life, everything must make sense and this rule should be respected. If one establishes some rules for a novel, these rules should be followed, even if they differ from those of an earlier novel. Henri Matisse told Picasso that his “Mademoiselle d’Avignon” did not respect the rules of art. Picasso told him it did, but they were other rules. In sum, it is important that the new rules also be respected, that they make sense, and that the reader then understands how to accept your book as a novel and not as something ethereal. Whether as a result of personal use or intentional imitation your novel attempts, to a certain extent, to imitate the intertextual possibilities offered readers by the Internet. Yet one can also arrive at this intertextuality from the oral tradition, the storyteller who ties together story after story. The thing is that both worlds live side-by-side in ours. In my own life, orality, the conventional literary tradition, and this whole new legacy coexist. Why should I put one of these traditions to one side? I read McCarthy, Phillip Roth, classical Basque literature and, what’s more, new things also influence me – not just postmodern things. There is a negotiation between the two parts, as there should be between assimilation and differentiation in regard to postmodernity. I’m interested in Lorca’s surrealism. In The Poet in New York Lorca assimilates surrealism, but his surrealism is very personal and recognizable on the part of the reader: it is logical. André Breton is not the same as García Lorca. And I’m interested in the latter because he bears in mind his own tradition, the oral tradition. His personality also present and his poetic vision makes an appearance. It’s not anything cold, but rather one understands his metaphors, one can recognize what he is saying. It’s not the same with Breton, because it is automatic writing. For that reason, I like to use experimentalism in a personal way and not break up the relationship with the reader so that he or she might recognize what I’m saying. Although I base my work on the very latest theories, I always bear in mind that I’m in the Western tradition. Experimentation must make sense.

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Because of what you said when citing Vila-Matas and because of the presence of poetry, it is clear that methodology, when it comes to structuring the novel, has had a major lyrical influence (analogy, metaphor, and comparison). But also technology. Hyperlinks. And furthermore, there is memory. All three. With regard to structure, how can one sort out the author’s memory, what that author is using, without falling back on a conventional plot? That was a very difficult challenge for me. Well, poetry appears in the form of poems and even in prose at the beginning of the work. But also when it came to sorting out how to narrate scenes and arranging the silences. Hyperlinks are very interesting. Even the length of a narrative unit is almost the length of a computer screen. The stories are as short as that in my case. And there are stories that unfold in many directions. Not just in one direction, which is what happened before, when stories were related to each other in a chronological direction. What about style? Perhaps because of your work as a translator and poet, one can see in your poetry and also in your prose the major influence of Raymond Carver? Or is it a case of the demands of the formats associated with the new technologies? When mentioning authors, and BNYB being a work of prose, Italo Calvino and his Six Memos for the Next Millennium were more of an influence. In which he said how to narrate by emphasizing lightness and quickness. I think that here Calvino got it absolutely right. But clearly the way of reading is changing, young people do not read in the same way, they read at another speed. Right now a twenty-year-old would find it difficult to read War and Peace. Reading goes at a different speed and from this emerges the need to print that lightness and that quickness of which Calvino spoke in writing. In connection with geography, there is a strong presence of the spaces of late capitalism—what Marc Augé (1992) called non-places—in your novel: walkways or airport terminals. Meanwhile, there are a large number of places of memory or identity in BNYB: the bridge and the port of Ondarroa. To my understanding, the narrator makes his intention clear to represent the difference between places, which are even represented in different ways.

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I was interested in that contrast between non-places and truly important places, like for example the chapel of the Virgen de la Antigua or the port of Ondarroa. It is very significant because it represents the “difference” factor in a geographical setting within the process of internationalization. The contrast between the flight and memory is also increasingly important, given that elements from the world of marketing gradually appear, not represented in a gratuitous way, but rather to serve as a contrast in relation to the places. The appearance of the Skagen watch brand, for example, was very significant. Later in the book there is mention of the history of Danish painters. Moreover, Denmark is Unai’s place of birth. This is an example of how from an object, from a brand, one can create or reconstruct one’s own life by associating it with places. Nevertheless, I don’t take sides with the places that are important in my life. Instead, I like to be “between.” Non-places are also important. But more still is the contrast between spaces: New York and Bilbao. I’m not interested in calling for a return to the past. Even though mention is made of a way of life that is being lost, even though I think it’s nice to tell stories about old words that are being lost in Euskara, it was never my aim to create a nostalgic vision. And I think this is very important in BNYB. It is not an ethnic book, it is not nostalgic, and it does not call for a return to the past. It stakes a claim for the present and the changes being experienced in our society. And it emphasizes the complex individual, who can like traditional songs and Calvin Klein. By contrast, with regard to the description of places, it is true that there is a difference between the cold language concerning the non-places, and a much more reflexive and more emotive one for the places of identity.

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Index

A Agirre, José María “Xabier Lizardi” 75 Agirre, Joxean 46, 47, 69 Agirre, Katixa 62 Agirre, Txomin 180 Aguilar, Andrea 139, 141, 144, 151 Alberca, Manuel 134, 135, 148, 151, 181 Alberdi, Uxue 62 Albisu, Mikel 33 Aldekoa, Iñaki 39, 69 Alonso, Jon 56, 69 Altarriba, Antonio 60 Álvarez, José Luis 31 Anari 82 Anderson, Benedict 168 Apalategi, Ur 59, 60 Aranaz, Txema 21 Aranbarri, Iñigo 30, 36, 79 Aranzadi, Juan 168, 174 Aresti, Gabriel 16, 20, 23, 34, 35, 100, 125, 126, 127, 128 Aristi, Pako 30, 50, 69, 79 Arregi, Ana 149, 151, 153 Arregi, Rikardo 52, 53, 103, 104, 128 Arrieta, Joxe Austin 22, 32

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Arteta, Aurelio 136, 143, 154, 158, 160, 169, 173, 184 Artze, JosAnton 15, 17 Atwood, Margaret 96, 98, 121, 128 Atxaga, Bernardo 21, 22, 23, 25, 27, 31, 32, 33, 34, 36, 39, 40, 41, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 54, 58, 59, 60, 63, 75, 76, 78, 79, 86, 99, 100, 106, 109, 137, 180 Auden, W. H. 76 Augé, Marc 191 Auster, Paul 81, 83

B Bachmann, Ingebord 96, 99, 128 Bastida, Ricardo 154, 158, 159, 160, 164, 169, 173, 187 Beauvoir, Simone de 22 Beckett, Samuel 184 Benito, Jon 69, 79 Benjamin, Walter 146 Bermejo, Álvaro 32 Bermejo, Diego 163, 170, 172, 173, 174 Bilbao, Leire 69 Borda, Itxaro 54 Borda, Xabi 69

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Borges, Jorge Luis 26, 34, 39, 50, 59, 107, 108 Breton, André 190 Buñuel, Luis 83

C Cabo Aseguinolaza, Fernando 92, 108, 131 Cage, John 15 Calvino, Italo 191 Canetti, Elias 135 Cano, Harkaitz 39, 46, 50, 53, 59, 60, 61, 63, 64 Carson, Anne 80 Carver, Raymond 50, 191 Casanova, Pascale 184 Castresana Waid, Gloria 42 Cercas, Javier 134 Cervantes, Miguel 66 Cheever, John 190 Chekhov, Anton 106, 113 Cillero, Javier 50, 51 Clark, Wilma 95, 131 Coca, César 150, 151 Coetzee, J. M. 181 Combe, Dominique 108, 131 Cortázar, Julio 56 Cruz, Juan 150, 151

D Dante 23, 55 Deleuze, Gilles 11, 12, 13, 69, 188 Doubrovsky, Serge 135 Duchamp, Marcel 100, 125, 126

E Eguzkitza, Andolín 47 Eizagirre, Josu 77, 81, 84, 87, 121 Eliot, T. S. 76, 85, 107, 129 Elorriaga, Unai 35, 55, 56 Elorrieta, Irati 62 Epaltza, Aingeru 36, 37, 47, 69

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Erro, Angel 69, 148 Ertzilla, Manu 100 Esnaola, Iratxe 62 Estankona, Igor 69 Etxebarrieta, Txabi 16 Etxeberria, Xabier 172, 174 Ezkiaga, Patxi 46

F Faulkner, William 26 Fentress, James 86, 87 Fernández de Albornoz, José 165 Fernández Mallo, Agustín 148 Fernández Porta, Eloy 146, 150, 151 Figueroa, Antón 12, 69 Flaubert, Gustave 66 Foucault, Michel 96, 105, 121 Franco, Francisco 14, 15, 17, 42, 55, 58, 100, 137, 155 Frisch, Max 66 Fumaroli, Marc 167

G Gabilondo, Joseba 51, 65, 69 Gadda, Carlo Emilio 106 Gandiaga, Bitoriano 67 García Lorca, Federico 190 García Márquez, Gabriel 27 Gartzia, Juan 46, 47 Gellner, Ernest 168 Gerediaga, Jon 68 Godard, Jean-Luc 15 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang 108 Goia, Garazi 62 Gorratxategi, Aritz 68 Guattari, Félix 11, 12, 13, 69, 188 Gurpegui, José Antonio 139, 140, 151

H Habermas, Jürgen 168, 173, 174 Hackl, Erich 140

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Index

Haile, Selassie 23 Hamburger, Michael 91, 131 Hassan, Ihab 102, 131 Heaney, Seamus 128, 129, 131 Herbert, Zbigniew 99, 128 Hernández Abaitua, Mikel 25, 32, 50 Hightower, Scott 165 Hustvedt, Siri 137, 139, 140, 144, 151, 182

I Intxausti, Joseba 19, 69 Irastortza, Tere 29, 46, 54, 70 Iriart, Roger 81 Irigoien, Joan Mari 28 Isasi Urdangarín, Josemari 149, 151 Iturbe, Arantxa 50 Iturralde, Jose Mari 25, 79, 100 Izagirre, Koldo 22, 27, 32, 34, 35, 36, 37, 52, 54, 61

J Jaio, Karmele 62 Jaka, Joseba 47 Jameson, Frederic 187 Jarque, Fietta 125, 131 Jasný, Vojtěch 165, 166, 167 Jimenez, Irati 62 Joyce, James 44, 137, 138, 141, 145, 151, 181, 184 Juaristi, Felipe 30, 32, 36, 37, 70 Juaristi, Jon 32, 43, 100, 168, 169, 174

K Kafka, Franz 11, 13, 26, 69, 184 Klee, Paul 183 Kohn, Hans 168 Kundera, Milan 184

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L Landa, Mariasun 35, 36, 54, 60 Laraway, David 42 La Ribot, María 124, 125, 131 Lasagabaster, Jesús María 14, 70 Lauzirika, Txili 69 Lekuona, Juan Mari 22, 36, 37, 52, 67 Lertxundi, Anjel 27, 34, 35, 41, 45, 46, 47, 49, 50, 57, 64 Lete, Xabier 67, 68 Levin, Phyllis 165 Linazasoro, Karlos 68 Lizarralde, Pello 50 López Silva, Inmaculada 13, 70 Lotman, Juri 94, 95, 131 Lozano Mijares, María del Pilar 63, 70 Luján Atienza, Ángel 111, 131 Lyon, David 184 Lyotard, François 187

M Macklin, Elizabeth 81, 97, 100, 121, 153, 165 MacLuhan, Marshall 169 Magalhaes, Gabriel 43 Makuso, Juan Ramon 68 Manrique Sabogal, Winston 135, 151 Marías, Javier 134, 135, 136 Markez, Mikel 79 Markuleta, Gerardo 79 Marsé, Juan 55 Martí i Pol, Miquel 24 Matisse, Henri 190 McCarthy, Cormac 190 Meabe, Miren Agur 53, 54, 68, 102 Meabe, Tomás 160 Méndez Ferrín, Xose Luis 24 Mendiguren Elizegi, Xabier 33, 56 Mendiguren, Xabier 70

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Mendizabal, Bingen 76, 77, 89 Merlino, Mario 91, 131 Michelangelo 119 Millán, José Antonio 151 Mintegi, Laura 25, 32, 54 Mitxelena, Koldo 20 Montoia, Xabier 22, 50, 59 Mora, Vicente Luis 146, 147, 148, 151, 187 Moretti, Franco 91, 131 Mujika, Inazio 33 Mujika, Luis Mari 47 Muñoz, Jokin 58, 59, 60 Muro, Miguel Ángel 174

N Nietzsche, Friederich 102 Nuñez Ramos, Rafael 127, 131

O Oates, Joyce Carol 137, 138, 139, 141, 151, 181 Olasagarre, Juanjo 53, 61 Olaziregi, Mari Jose 26 Onaindia, Mario 25, 168 Oñederra, Lourdes 54 Ong, Walter J. 145 Ordorika, Ruper 76, 79, 99, 100, 109 Osoro, Jasone 54 Otaegui, Ángel 42 Otamendi, Jose Luis 36, 79 Otxoteko, Pello 68

P Pamuk, Orhan 186 Pardines, José 16 Pérez Bowie, José Antonio 118, 119, 131 Pérez-Reverte, Arturo 94, 131 Peruarena, Mikel 69 Picasso, Pablo 184, 190

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Piglia, Ricardo 184, 185 Plath, Silvia 81, 83, 128 Ponsot, Marie 165 Pozuelo Yvancos, José María 135, 145, 146, 152 Prado, Benjamín 96 Prieto, Indalecio 154, 158, 159, 169, 173

R Rabelli, Álvaro 27, 70 Rembrandt 136 Retolaza, Iratxe 91, 131 Revuelta, Laura 131 Rimbaud, Arthur 99, 102 Rivas, Manuel 81 Roa Bastos, Augusto 23 Rodriguez, Eider 60, 61, 70 Roth, Phillip 190 Rudman, Mark 165 Rulfo, Juan 33, 64

S Saizarbitoria, Ramon 14, 15, 16, 17, 22, 27, 34, 35, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 48, 49, 50, 55, 60, 63, 65, 66 Sandburg, Carl 101 San Martín, Juan 15 Santos, Luis Martín 15 Sarrionandia, Joseba 22, 25, 26, 27, 57, 75, 99, 100, 107 Savater, Fernando 121, 131 Schaeffer, Jean-Marie 92, 131 Schwob, Marcel 23 Sebald, W.G. 136, 144, 149, 152, 181, 188 Serrano, Asier 69 Sexton, Anne 96, 101, 128 Škrabec, Simona 70 Soto, Sonia 94, 131 Steiner, George 150, 151 Stevenson, Robert Louis 83

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Index

199

Suarez, Castillo 69 Szymborska, Wislawa 128

T Thomas, Dylan 113, 116 Truffaut, François 15

U Ugarte, Yurre 62 Unamuno, Miguel 32 Unzueta, Patxo 168, 174 Urdangarin, Mikel 76, 77, 81, 84, 87, 89, 121 Uribe, Kirmen 121 Urretabizkaia, Arantxa 22, 25, 27, 32, 36, 54

V Valverde, Mikel 76 Vargas Llosa, Mario 23, 179 Verdú, Vicente 142, 144, 152 Vila-Matas, Enrique 134, 188, 189, 191 Vilavedra, Dolores 102, 131 Villanueva, Darío 138, 152

W White, Linda 26, 53 Wickham, Chris 86, 87 Wolf, Virginia 145

Z Zabala, Juan Luis 36, 46, 47, 70, 100, 131 Zabaleta, Patxi 46 Zaldua, Iban 50, 57, 59, 61, 70, 79, 148 Zima, Peter V. 80, 87

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