Iberoamerican Neomedievalisms: “The Middle Ages” and Its Uses in Latin America 9781641894814, 9781802700336

Table of contents :
CONTENTS
List of Illustrations
Chapter 1. Postcolonizing Neomedievalism: An Introduction
Chapter 2. The Criollo Invention of the Middle Ages
Chapter 3. A Militant and Peasant-Based Medieval History in Brazil: Fanning the Spark of Hope
Chapter 4. Neomedievalism and the Hagiography of Valdemiro Santiago: Neopentecostal Sanctification
Chapter 5. The “Middle Ages” in the Brazilian Presidential Elections of 2018: The Left, the Right, and the Centre
Chapter 6. Averroes in Mid-Colonial and Inter-Imperial Cordoba
Chapter 7. Hypermedievalizing and De-Medievalizing Dante: Leopoldo Lugones’s and Jorge Luis Borges’s Rewritings of Inferno V
Chapter 8. Borges and Kennings
Chapter 9. Memory, Desire, and Sexual Identity in Manuel Mujica Lainez’s El unicornio
Chapter 10. Rewriting and Visualizing the Cid: The Reconstruction of Medieval Gender and Race in Argentinian Graphic Novels

Citation preview

ARC MEDIEVALIST Further Information and Publications www.arc-humanities.org/our-series/arc/am/

IBEROAMERICAN NEOMEDIEVALISMS “THE MIDDLE AGES” AND ITS USES IN LATIN AMERICA

Edited by

NADIA R. ALTSCHUL and MARIA RUHLMANN

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. © 2023, Arc Humanities Press, Leeds

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CONTENTS

List of Illustrations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vi

Chapter 1. Postcolonizing Neomedi­evalism: An Introduction NADIA R. ALTSCHUL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Chapter 2. The Criollo Invention of the Middle Ages HERNÁN G. H. TABOADA. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Chapter 3. A Militant and Peasant-Based Medieval History in Brazil: Fanning the Spark of Hope MÁRIO JORGE DA MOTTA BASTOS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Chapter 4. Neomedi­evalism and the Hagio­graphy of Valdemiro Santiago: Neopentecostal Sanctification CLÍNIO DE OLIVEIRA AMARAL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 Chapter 5. The “Middle Ages” in the Brazilian Presidential Elections of 2018: The Left, the Right, and the Centre LUIZ GUERRA. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81

Chapter 6. Averroes in Mid-Colonial and Inter-Imperial Cordoba MARIA RUHLMANN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 Chapter 7. Hypermedi­evalizing and De-Medi­evalizing Dante: Leopoldo Lugones’s and Jorge Luis Borges’s Rewritings of Inferno V HEATHER SOTTONG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121 Chapter 8. Borges and Kennings M. J. TOSWELL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 Chapter 9. Memory, Desire, and Sexual Identity in Manuel Mujica Lainez’s El unicornio JUAN MANUEL LACALLE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 Chapter 10. Rewriting and Visualizing the Cid: The Reconstruction of Medi­eval Gender and Race in Argentinian Graphic Novels REBECCA DE SOUZA. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Figure 3.1: Flag of the Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra— Brasil (Movement of Landless Rural Workers). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Figure 3.2: View of enff buildings, Guararema, São Paulo State.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Figure 3.3: Flag of peasant movements worldwide. Courtesy of Via Campesina and Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra—Brasil (mst). . . 56 Figure 5.1: Cartoons by André Dahmer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 Figure 5.2: Front page of the newspaper Opinião in a dossier about the tfp— depicting a crusading knight holding a banner. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 Figure 5.3: Knight Templar with Brazilian flag and text “God, Country and Family.” “Templários da Pátria.” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Figure 5.4: Facebook profile-page picture of the “Cavaleiros Templários da Opressão,” depicting Jair Bolsonaro as a crusader. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Figure 5.5: Former Facebook profile-page picture of the “Cavaleiros Templários da Opressão.”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Figure 5.6: Image posted on the Facebook page of the group “Medi­eval Guido mxcvii.” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 Figure 5.7: Image published on “Medi­eval Guido mxcvii”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

Figure 10.1: Front cover of Cantar de mio Cid. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185 Figure 10.2: Jimena in Cantar de mio Cid.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

186

Figure 10.3: The Cid’s dream in Mio Cid. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189 Figure 10.4: Front cover of Mio Cid. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190 Figure 10.5: Warfare in Cantar de mio Cid. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191 Figure 10.6: Map in Mio Cid. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194

Chapter 1

POSTCOLONIZING NEOMEDI­EVALISM: AN INTRODUCTION NADIA R. ALTSCHUL

Foundations can become so entrenched in the disciplinary histories we tell ourselves that we forget to revisit and modify them. This introductory essay aims to revisit the foundations of what is commonly defined as the field studying the redeployment of the Middle Ages in post-medi­eval times, named “Medi­evalism,” by Leslie J. Workman, the founder of the field’s first academic journal Studies in Medi­evalism and of its institutional life through the International Society for the Study of Medi­evalism. A first point to make in seeking to postcolonize neomedi­evalism is to note that the main problem consistently identified for the field is its lack of proper theorization. Elizabeth Emery and Richard Utz explain in their introduction to the main attempt at that theorizing—their 2014 Medi­evalism: Key Critical Terms—that the field “still has no systematic theoretical map,” and practitioners do not always address explicitly “the critical underpinnings of medi­evalism.”1 Their stated hope was for this edited volume to establish that the field is indeed “implicated in theoretical considerations,” or at least to “generate dialogue” about those theoretical foundations through the contested vocabulary of key critical terms.2 Workman himself had stated in 1993 that basic exploration was needed before adopting a “real critical and philosophical appreciation”; yet by 1995 he argued instead that the “theory, method, and philosophy of medi­evalism are long overdue for exploration.”3 In the late 1990s, Workman was still identifying “a desperate need for… something that at least sets out the questions.”4 As evidenced by the 2014 volume on critical terms, this need still has not been fully met. We might even say that instead of being resolved, by 2021 this need has migrated to new grounds, still defined as too mutable to allow theoretical focus instead of a concentration on praxis.5 In answer to this lack of explicit theorization, this introduction examines the foundational ideo­ 1  Emery and Utz, “Making Medi­evalism,” 8–9. 2  Emery and Utz, “Making Medi­evalism,” 10. 3  Workman, “Medi­evalism Today,” 30.

4  Workman, “Speaking of Medi­evalism,” 447.

5  Referring to a “neomedi­evalism” associated with Robinson and Clements instead of my discussion below, Fitzpatrick’s 2019 Neomedi­evalism explicitly focuses on “an articulation of neomedi­evalist praxis” instead of treating this “continuously unfolding and changing phenomenon” as an entity for which “where and what it is” can be ascertained (Fitzpatrick, Neomedi­evalism, 29–30; cited in Mayer, “Dark Matters,” 68).

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logical underpinnings of Workman’s field. I will propose that the area of study we should instead call “Neomedi­evalism” is in need of a postcolonial approach to come into its own, and that the field at large can become productively broader and more inclusive as it reevaluates the lineaments established in its foundations. A main point to make for postcolonizing Neomedi­evalism is to identify that the understanding of “the Middle Ages” that functions as the bases of “Medi­evalism” is ostensibly the one thousand years between Rome and the Renaissance in Western Europe, yet its working definition is allied to Western Christendom and the Global North. The Medi­eval Studies that remains at the basis of “Medi­evalism” is in great measure reliant on the notion of Latin Christendom and the historical and scholarly peculiarities of French, German, and English histories. The Roman civilization that sits as foundation of the medi­eval in Western Europe extended to North Africa and the Mediterranean; yet these non-European geo­graphies are peripheral to “the medi­eval.” Likewise, the Islamicate Iberian Peninsula is omitted from the medi­eval not by geo­ graphical location but because it was insufficiently Christian. Vikings and Norsemen, on the other hand, allied to Global North powers and identity since at least the nineteenth century, are included in Medi­eval Studies and thus in “Medi­evalism” despite Paganism or insufficient Christianization. As humorously noted by John Dagenais and Margaret Greer, in the North American academy “medi­eval England and France represent some sort of norm for the Middle Ages from which all other instances simply deviate to a greater or lesser degree.”6 Scholars therefore do not measure French, English or German medi­eval cultures according to other local histories like those of Islamicate Spain: “the grammar of the Middle Ages allows statements like ‘Spain never developed true feudalism’ or ‘The epic tradition in Spain is relatively poor.’ These seem natural. They sound authoritative, disinterested. But were we to make a statement like ‘France never developed true Taifa states’ or ‘The kharja tradition in medi­eval England remains relatively poor,’ we would be greeted with bewildered looks, at best.”7 As a local European time span “the Middle Ages” of Medi­evalism Studies has thus gathered its meaning from engagement with particular parts of Europe—mainly France, England, and German speaking countries—to the detriment of the more hybrid, multiconfessional, and multiracial societies of the Mediterranean like medi­eval Iberia. As noted by M. J. Toswell, “the Middle Ages under discussion by way of the term ‘medi­ evalism’ denote only the Western, more specifically European and North American, approach to the years 500–1500.”8 Compounding the hegemonic French–English–German meanings of Medi­eval Studies, the field of “Medi­evalism” instituted by Workman in the 1970s was additionally delimited in that it centred on the British Isles. In its institutionalized form, Workman associated “Medi­evalism” with his own childhood in England and described the field as a “peculiarly English phenomenon” both in origin and for its first hundred 6  Dagenais and Greer, “Decolonizing,” 440.

7  Dagenais and Greer, “Decolonizing,” 440. 8  Toswell, “Tropes of Medi­evalism,” 69.



Postcolonizing Neomedi­evalism: An Introduction

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years of existence.9 This kept the new field of Medi­evalism closely related to the British Medi­eval Revival, and mainly to carving out its difference from Romanticism and Victorian Studies. Workman’s openly Anglocentric perspective was coupled by a similarly Anglocentric semantic history that established the term “Medi­evalism” based on the 1853 English usage of John Ruskin. As the field instituted by Workman was recognizably Anglocentric, locations like Spain, Portugal and its former colonies were generally left out from Medi­evalism Studies in the English-speaking academy. The geo­graphical areas forming the core of Studies in Medi­evalism instead led the field to associations with nationalism as well as nostalgia and the loss of a bygone past.10 However, the concept that engagement with medi­eval texts was allied to patriotic nineteenth-century nationalism did not easily match important Ibero-American examples. The Venezuelan/Chilean polymath Andrés Bello, for instance, edited the soon-to-be medi­eval Spanish “national epic” in the midst of the subcontinent’s Wars of Independence against Spain.11 Nor was nostalgia a key concept for “the medi­eval” in the Ibero-American nineteenth century. In fact, it was perhaps the direct opposite. Foundational writings in the subcontinent, like Civilization and Barbarism by Domingo F. Sarmiento in Argentina and Os Sertões by Euclides da Cunha in Brazil, redeploy “the medi­eval” not for a nostalgic return to a better, lost past but as a present that lives within their own societies and demands forceful eradication.12 As with this disavowal of nostalgia, a critique of the notion of a bygone past is likewise essential for the understanding of Ibero-American Neomedi­evalisms. Instead of a lost past, in Spanish and Portuguese America the Middle Ages were supposed to have continued, not only according to the nineteenth-century thinkers mentioned above but even according to many scholars in the twenty-first. Workman’s Medi­evalism, in fact, is not only Anglocentric but erected on the presupposition that in different parts of the world and for different groups of society “medi­eval patterns of thought and behavior ended at different times….”13 He explicitly founded Medi­evalism by institutionalizing this idea that many peripheries in the world had not yet fully left the Middle Ages behind. Medi­evalism itself, however, needed the conscious separation from these medi­eval continuations to exist; medi­evalism depended on a Middle Ages that had both ceased to be and that was viewed through historical distance. In terms of the field’s underlying theorizations, this continuation of the medi­eval in non-hegemonic 9  Workman “Modern Medi­evalism,” 2; Emery and Utz, “Making Medi­evalism,” 3.

10  As Matthews summarizes for Medi­evalism: Key Critical Terms, “The Middle Ages has always been associated with nostalgia” (Matthews, “Middle,” 147). 11  See Altschul, Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge. 12  See Altschul, Politics of Temporalization.

13  Workman, “Editorial,” 1993, 2. Workman continues with the statement that until 1926 “feudalism was not banished from the English statute book,” a comment that reads differently than the notion that feudal law survives in parts of French Canada. He also added that the “social ideas” and “agricultural techno­logy” that the Puritans took to New England “were similarly medi­eval” (Workman, “Editorial,” 1993, 2).

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parts of the world was not only noted in early issues of Studies in Medi­evalism but was the boundary from which to constitute this newly founded field. According to Workman in Studies in Medi­evalism 1.1: medi­evalism could only begin, not simply when the Middle Ages had ended, whenever that may have been, but when the Middle Ages were perceived to have been something in the past, something it was necessary to revive or desirable to imitate. This consciousness of an historical watershed grew in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and our concern extends from that time to the present, if not into the future.14

Workman worked tirelessly and successfully to distinguish the Medi­eval Revival from Romanticism but he also instituted a core theoretical distinction between medi­eval “revivals” and medi­eval “survivals.” Already in his first Studies in Medi­evalism editorial, he identified the confusion between medi­evalism and romanticism as equivalent to the confusion “between revival and survival.”15 This distinction was essential to Workman’s foundations and to the vision he bequeathed the field, a vision which had its own intra-British colonial imaginings. Based on Walter Scott, Workman divided Scotland into medi­eval still-Gaelic Highlanders and modern anglicized Lowlanders. According to Workman, Edinburgh in 1800 was a bustling commercial centre “whose rural society was still feudal”; and the Highlands as cultural frontier offered a “dramatic contrast…between medi­eval countrymen and modern city-dwellers.”16 As Scott was himself an originator of neomedi­evalist redeployments, those contrasts “ran throughout the Waverley novels” and we may say, travelled the world.17 A third conceptual distinction that overlaps with Workman’s “revival” against “survival” is the “continuity” he posited as a special characteristic of the English (and United States) relationship with the Middle Ages. The Anglophone continuity was not the survival that ejected underdeveloped locations from proper “Medi­evalism” but the sense of a positive and unbroken heritage. As Utz describes this “unique continuity,” Britain and the United States “imagined their countries and communities as continually connected to the medi­eval past,” and instead of viewing it as a model against which to construct a different future, they “celebrated political and legal traditions deriving from the Middle Ages as signs of an organically and peacefully progressing commonwealth.”18 The dualistic views of society found in nineteenth-century Ibero-Americans— which postulated interior medi­eval survivals alongside modernized cities—are thus also building blocks of Workman’s version of Medi­evalism Studies. In peripheral areas medi­eval patterns of thought and behaviour have continued after the Middle Ages 14  Workman, “Editorial,” 1979, 1.

15  Workman, “Editorial,” 1979, 2.

16  Kenney and Workman, “Ruins, Romance, and Reality,” 141.

17  Kenney and Workman, “Ruins, Romance, and Reality” 141, quoting Scott’s own words from 1893: “The ancient traditions and high spirit of a people who, living in a civilized age and country, retained so strong a tincture of manners belonging to an early period of society must afford a subject favorable for romance” (Kenney and Workman, “Ruins,” 141). The influence of Scott’s medi­ evalizing can be found in Sarmiento in Argentina (Altschul, Politics of Temporalization, 132). 18  Utz, “Global Phenomenon,” n.p.



Postcolonizing Neomedi­evalism: An Introduction

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have ended (elsewhere), and in modern metropolitan centres medi­eval lifestyles and worldviews have been left behind, opening the way for bona fide Medi­evalism. In geo­ graphical peripheries the Middle Ages continue to exist, disallowing a Medi­evalism that is defined by revival and desire, while in the modern centres that have successfully crossed into modernity Medi­evalism can begin with the aforementioned nostalgic slant for a bygone past. As I clarified above and elsewhere, however, this imputation that certain parts of the world are marked by medi­eval survivals or have not progressed into modernity are not descriptions of fact but are themselves well-defined forms of Neomedi­evalism, forms of medi­evalizing or of imputing medi­evality onto others. They are theoretical views with which we need not continue to agree. It is not, as I hope to have shown, that Medi­evalism Studies lacks theoretical underpinnings, but that the theoretical foundations are ones with which we may no longer want to abide: Anglocentrism instead of geo­graphical openness, insistence on survival versus revival leading to dual medi­eval-versus-modern societies, definitions of the medi­eval based on geopolitical and religious exclusions, and a focus on the Middle Ages as identity. Postcolonizing Neomedi­evalisms, then, implies a move beyond Workman’s parameters; beyond Anglocentrism, and with it, beyond his parameters that revival and imitative desire are the main ways of understanding the Middle Ages after the Middle Ages. This is an approach that is essential even to be able to study Neomedi­evalism in locations that are otherwise eliminated because they are apparently still in the Middle Ages instead of after the Middle Ages. In discussing resistance to the term Medi­evalism, Utz also brings to view the two strands of its Anglocentrism—a thematic centre in English Studies and a geo­graphical centre in North America—describing approvingly the “increasing importance and leading role of North America (and therefore English Studies) for interdisciplinary research in medi­evalia.”19 As with its English parentage, the sought-out expansion of the North American termino­logy and paradigms to other traditions, like Germany’s Mittelalter-Rezeption turned Mediävalismus; and France’s move from Modernités médiévales to Médiévalisme, can be associated with territoriality and hegemony.20 The question of the termino­logy of Medi­evalism and its defence is thus another correlated matter for attention when we are postcolonizing the field.

Another History of “Medi­evalism”

Not only are the British foundations and examples a staple of our area, the termino­logy in use is also central to this Anglocentrism. As Emery and Utz state introducing their collection of key critical terms, regardless of the exact date and authorship of the term, “it is in the Anglo-Saxon world and through English culture and language that ‘medi­ evalism’ was coined.”21 To define the term in his first editorial to Studies in Medi­evalism 19  Utz, “Resistance,” 168.

20  See Utz “Medi­evalism—Mittelalterrezeption—Médiévisme,” n.p.; and Vincent Ferré “Medi­ evalismo. Na França,” forthcoming. 21  Emery and Utz, “Making Medi­evalism,” 2.

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in 1979, Workman used Ruskin’s mid-nineteenth century separation of the periods of architecture as “Classicism, Mediaevalism, Modernism.”22 Discussions of the termino­ logy in English thus like to employ the Old English Dictionary (OED), which divides the definition of medi­evalism in three: “the system of belief and practice characteristic of the Middle Ages”; “mediaeval thought, religion, art, etc.”; and “the adoption or devotion to mediaeval ideals or usages.”23 As Utz explains, the first two definitions are associated with Medi­eval Studies; while the third evokes, for the Anglicist, the British Medi­eval Revival, a time of remembering and often reenacting the Middle Ages between 1750–1918 when the meanings of Romanticism and Medi­evalism were virtually interchangeable.24 Medi­evalism as a term in English disappeared in the 1920s, until Workman and Kathleen Verduin institutionalized it with congress sessions and their new journal in the 1970s. As academic founder, Workman had to make space for his new field and termino­ logy by disassociating Medi­evalism from the almost interchangeable cultural purview of Romanticism, by contrast to the better-known realm of Classicism, and by explaining the relationship and difference of Medi­evalism from the established discipline of Medi­eval Studies. Workman’s first definitional battle against Romanticism was won during his tenure as Studies in Medi­evalism editor. The battle with Classicism, on the other hand, seems never to have been fully hashed out. We may take Workman’s interview in the festschrift of the late 1990s as an example. In this interview, he speaks of Classical Studies but makes no special mention of Classicism as the afterlife or continuing creation of Greco-Roman Antiquity. Moreover, while Medi­eval Studies and Medi­evalism are open-ended processes of creation, Classical Studies (without Classicism) is not associated with a process of creating Antiquity but rather symbolized by the study of Celtic Irish survivals of the Greek traditions recorded in Homer—even opening a “unique window” to Neolithic culture.25 Among the field’s still unacknowledged theorizations, the most remarkable defence of “Medi­evalism” has been the battle mounted by practitioners against its use as Medi­eval Studies. This is remarkable because Medi­evalism as Medi­eval Studies and the term “medi­evalists” for scholars of Medi­eval Studies, continues in use within and without the English language; because this meaning is found in the OED, and because Workman and the field he instituted eventually diverged. In his first 1979 Editorial, Workman defined medi­evalism studies as the study of the “scholarship” that created the Middle Ages, the study of “ideals and models” derived from the Middle Ages, and the “relations” between them.26 Some of us, in fact, started working on neomedi­evalism as a form of cultural history through a scholarly or historio­graphical lens. Workman 22  Workman, “Editorial,” 1979, 1. According to John Ruskin in the current OED, “Classicalism, extending to the fall of the Roman empire; Mediaevalism, extending from that fall to the close of the 15th century; and Modernism” (OED, accessed October 24, 2020). 23  Utz, “Resistance,” 154.

24  Utz, “Resistance,” 154.

25  Workman, “Speaking,” 446–47. 26  Workman, “Editorial,” 1979, 1.



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explained further his ideas regarding Medi­eval Studies in the 1997 programmatic piece “Medi­evalism Today,” where he noted that “in 1994, after…fifteen years without apparent effect, everybody suddenly discovered medi­evalism.”27 By now, he considered that historio­graphy and the questioning of Medi­eval Studies’ future, were “a natural part of our province [of Medi­evalism].”28 However, in 1994 the historio­graphical self-reflection was happening more distinctly outside Studies in Medi­evalism. In Workman’s own estimation, it was this renewed interest in disciplinary historio­graphy beyond Studies in Medi­evalism which had allowed him to progressively abandon his views of Medi­evalism as a “modest ancillary” of Medi­eval Studies.”29 After decades of conceptual subordination to Medi­eval Studies, then, the “relations” noted in the 1979 editorial become “reciprocal,” allowing Workman to reach his definition of Medi­evalism as a process of creation.30 As others noted, and as “reciprocal” implies, Workman never conflated the two, yet following in his footsteps, the final validation of the field has been the seizure of Medi­eval Studies as the scholarly branch of Medi­evalism. This was asked rhetorically in 2011: “Could it be that medi­ evalism and medi­eval studies might become coterminous at some future moment?”31 Ute Berns and Andrew Johnston identified also in 2011 that it looked as though “medi­ evalism…were on the brink of an intellectual take-over.”32 I have written on several occasions that Medi­eval Studies is always a form of Medi­ evalism; but it bears asking if it is only a form of Medi­evalism. As rhetorical questions go, the answer, of course, is “no.” While Medi­eval Studies always evidences a set of underlying ideo­logies and presuppositions we can study and interpret, considering it as only Medi­evalism would be reductive and a disservice to historical investigation. It can even cross into scholarly narcissism, where there is only “us” inventing the past or “us” analyzing how others invented the past. The conflation of Medi­eval Studies and Medi­evalism is also a disservice in that it leads to a lack of theoretical differentiation, and with it, to the idea that any form of engagement with the medi­ eval is essentially like all other forms of that engagement. If any form of study, use, or re-creation is equally “medi­evalism,” there is no theoretical differentiation to be made between archival investigation and “banal” use in social media or memes.33 Workman never crossed this line of complete equality between Medi­eval Studies and the “banal,” but that is the point to which we have arrived with the apparent celebration of the demise of Medi­eval Studies’ distinctiveness. Perhaps this celebration should be 27  Workman, “Medi­evalism Today,” 31. 28  Workman, “Medi­evalism Today,” 31. 29  Workman, “Medi­evalism Today,” 31.

30  As he continues to explain in this 1997 piece, it was the renewed historio­graphical interest that also led him to develop his simpler, well-known definition of “medi­evalism as the continuing process of creating the Middle Ages” (Workman “Medi­evalism Today,” 30). 31  Richard Utz, “Coming to Terms,” 109.

32  Berns and Johnston, “Medi­evalism: A Very Short Introduction,” 97.

33  For “banal” medi­evalism, see Elliott, Medi­evalism, Politics and Mass Media.

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less jolly, because its natural progression is the separation of “Medi­evalism” from any knowledge or even interest in the medi­eval past. It seems a blind spot to assume that those doing work in medi­eval reception are or have been medi­evalists at some point in their life. This is erroneous especially for computing and media, even if the illusion is sustained by the existence of related panels in Medi­eval Studies conferences. The fact that scholars of neomedi­evalism may never have studied the medi­eval past should bring things into a different focus. After all, what will happen to “Medi­evalism” when a sizable group of practitioners have no training and perhaps no interest whatsoever in the historical Middle Ages? That is really the nexus out of which new media Neomedi­ evalism stems: the progressive, ongoing severance of the link of “Medi­evalism” with Medi­eval Studies and thus the historical Middle Ages itself. It is a progression of the field out of earlier disciplinary constraints, and even the advent of a self-conscious disciplinary understanding coming into its own. Following Workman’s battles for the establishment of Medi­evalism Studies as distinct from Romanticism, equal to Classicism, and reciprocal with Medi­eval Studies, those maintaining his legacy have continued the effort of defending the term Medi­ evalism that he instituted. The battles that have besieged the field since the 1970s have been in great measure termino­logical and against alternative uses of the term: a reductive and erroneous conflation of Medi­evalism with Romanticism, the alleged misappropriation by renowned scholars of Medi­eval Studies under the banner of a New Medi­evalism, the alternative Neomedi­evalism of Umberto Eco, and most recently a possible splintering in an electronic-based contingent that also named itself Neomedi­ evalism. In the next section I will propose a return to Neomedi­evalism, although not in the terms of the twenty-first century electronic-based memo (Medi­eval Electronic Multimedia Organization). Instead, I propose that we opt for Umberto Eco’s “Neomedi­ evalism” as a more self-explanatory termino­logy and leave Medi­evalism for Medi­eval Studies, as it continues to be used in much of the world, including the English-speaking world. While adopting Neomedi­evalism will not resolve fully the core definitional and theoretical problems of this “middle period,” it will carve out a more defined contour and resolve some of our long-lived battles against termino­logical blurriness and perceived usurpations.

A Return to Neomedi­evalism

Workman picked “Medi­evalism” because it seemed fitting and was apparently available. In hindsight, we may say it was neither. When looking at the North Atlantic academy from elsewhere, “Medi­evalism” seems to have a confirmed meaning and subject; but the term’s usage “remains under negotiation” and scholars note its “imprecision” and its “inchoate,” “disparate,” and “diffuse” subject matter.34 Its lack of semantic availability is especially attested by the confusion it creates vis-à-vis Medi­eval Studies for anyone except scholars engaged with medi­eval receptions. Working in the field tends

34  Utz, “Global Phenomenon,” n.p.; Diebold, “Medi­evalism,” 254n1; Colette, “Review of The Middle Ages after the Middle Ages,” 465.



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to involve a constant explanation that “medi­evalism,” according to those of us studying medi­eval afterlives, is not to be confused with the study of the historical Middle Ages. But “medi­evalism” was an idiosyncratic choice made by Workman, who bequeathed us a confusing and imprecise term; and one that is regularly employed across the world to mean Medi­eval Studies. In Spanish, for instance, the word medi­evalismo may appear to be an adoption of the North American term, but it is a direct correlation to Medi­eval Studies.35 While the struggling relationship with Medi­eval Studies shows the lack of availability of the term “Medi­evalism,” we may say that the term was also not appropriate. This seems evident in the unwieldy expression “medi­evalism-ists.” Our field has been able to rationalize a conflation of Medi­eval Studies with Medi­evalism, but not the moniker “medi­evalist.” As this nomenclature goes, if scholars of Medi­eval Studies are medi­evalists, then scholars of Medi­evalism Studies are “medi­evalism-ists.” The awkwardness of the term is a good example from which to recognize problems with termino­logical fit, and the attempt to maintain the distinction shows itself as a testament to the power of tradition. In recognition of the many problems that Workman’s term bequeathed the Anglophone field, David Matthews in the conclusion to his Medi­evalism: A Critical History notes how much simpler it would have been if the English-language tradition had used neomedi­evalism from the start: If “medi­eval,” originally the neutral alternative to “gothic,” had had a longer history, then in the 1840s the word “neomedi­evalism” might have been coined instead of “medi­ evalism.” Much might have been simplified thereby. Just as we understand the relation of neoclassicism to classicism, we might today have a termino­logy which drew a clear distinction between medi­evalism (meaning phenomena of the Middle Ages) and neomedi­ evalisms, referring to recreations after the Middle Ages.36

It is time to choose otherwise and return to Neomedi­evalism as a simpler and better integrated termino­logy for the field as a whole. As we can see through the cognate Neoclassicism, the term helps separate Neoclassicism from classical Antiquity and Classicism. In our area, it would help us separate between Neomedi­evalism on one hand, and the Middle Ages and Medi­evalism (Medi­eval Studies) on the other. It would also simplify references of scholars: medi­evalists study the Middle Ages and neomedi­ evalists study its later constructions, redeployments and re-creations. The first return to the term Neomedi­evalism was in the proposal by Carol L. Robinson and Pamela Clements that there was a “neo” form of “Medi­evalism” allied to electronic media that merited new nomenclature.37 Explaining their choice, Robin35  Scholars of medi­eval Iberia do Iberomedi­evalismo, and “The State of Medi­eval Studies” or an analysis of the “current trends in medi­eval studies” are translated as “El nuevo medi­evalismo” and “Tendencias recientes del medi­evalismo español” (see Aurell, “El nuevo medi­evalismo,” and Aurell, “Tendencias”). For a very recent and, to my knowledge, first adoption of Workman’s termino­logy in Spain, see the dictionary entry “Medi­evalismo” (Gonçalves Soares and Sanmartí�n Bastida). 36  Matthews, Medi­evalism, 165.

37  One of the most significant critiques of this position is Amy Kaufman’s “Medi­eval Unmoored,”

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son and Clements describe earlier uses of this term, which started in the 1970s in International Relations with Hedley Bull’s 1977 The Anarchical Society. They also discuss Umberto Eco’s coinage of Neomedi­evalism in his engagements with “hyperreality” in newspaper essays from the 1970s, translated into English as Faith in Fakes and then the better-known Travels in Hyperreality (1986).38 Robinson and Clements chose Neomedi­evalism because, as Workman had done in the past, it seemed to be available. According to them, “Eco’s neomedi­evalism and Workman’s medi­evalism seem to describe similar phenomena” and “Eco’s definition of neomedi­evalism is not much different from Leslie Workman’s definition of medi­evalism.”39 The recognition of their similarity is used to determine that since we already have a name for that which Eco designated, Eco’s term Neomedi­evalism is available to be acquired for their own proposition. Medi­evalism and neomedi­evalism are indeed similar in their purview; yet the point is not that we can use Neomedi­evalism for something different than Workman’s Medi­evalism, but that we have all been doing Neomedi­evalism all along—memo, Eco, the Workman collective.40 By following the North American termino­logy we have instead inherited a problem of nomenclature that only now, due to the exponential growth of the field and the opportune fissure created by Robinson and Clements, has productively come into dispute. There are, however, criticisms laid at Neomedi­evalism’s door. Matthews continues his proposition above by stating that one cannot neatly divide between the two stated domains. Indeed, a better parsing of the distinction he makes is to rephrase it as one between Medi­eval Studies (the study of phenomena found in the historical Middle Ages), and Neomedi­evalism (any re-creation of “the medi­eval,” including the study of medi­evalist scholarship). The domains are difficult to separate because scholarship partakes of both aspects of the division. The study of the past engages with phenomena found in the Middle Ages but in the very act of engaging with these phenomena it both re-creates the Middle Ages and, like any human endeavour including our own, has its own underlying ideo­logical underpinnings and subsequent effects. If we return where she notes that electronic neomedi­evalism tends to be homogenizing, often causing “all of the Middle Ages to be absorbed completely into a Western notion of the medi­eval: knights, European castles, court ladies, Christian spirituality” (8). As she intelligently remarks, this “Neomedi­ evalism, despite its lofty promises, is in danger of colonizing the past as effectively as Renaissance, Restoration, and Victorian Europe colonized the rest of the world” (8). 38  The most significant essay of the collection is “Dreaming of the Middle Ages,” which provides a rather incoherent but extremely influential list of “ten little Middle Ages.” It merits noting that the French group dedicated to medi­eval afterlives chose to rename itself “Medi­evalism” instead of “Neomedi­evalism,” in part due to Eco’s negative positioning of medi­eval afterlives as fakes. See Vincent Ferré’s Linhas interview. 39  Robinson and Clements, “Living with Neomedi­evalism,” 59.

40  In the fierce discussions that ensued about the appropriateness of Neomedi­evalism, it is noticeable that it was only the traditionality of “Medi­evalism” that kept it as the core term from which memo had to show its divergence and newness. Why should this alleged new term be accepted? What does it add to our established field? My point is that there is nothing “new” because “Medi­evalism” has always been Neomedi­evalism.



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to one of the founding myths of the Medi­evalism field, we can note that Norman Cantor’s Inventing the Middle Ages was acceptable to Medi­eval Studies because despite its shock value, it was a recognizable work of historio­graphy. Scholars of medi­eval afterlives may choose to call this “scholarly” or “academic” neomedi­evalism—maintaining our own lists of “little Middle Ages”—but calling it historio­graphy or disciplinary history is straightforward and comprehensible. It is useful to keep in mind that this entanglement is not unique to Neomedi­evalism but happens to any field that includes a self-reflective facet. Any field of study has the possibility of self-reflexivity and any form of scholarship can become in time the matter of historio­graphy. Our own study of scholarly neomedi­evalism can become the subject of historio­graphy in the future, because such a process is inherent to scholarship: what we are doing today will be part of disciplinary history tomorrow.41 Returning to our main point, why revert to using the term Neomedi­evalism? What I am proposing here is that the term has particular advantages as a postcolonial answer to the examined Anglocentric hegemony, and to the problematic continuation of a confusing term driven by the North American academy. In non-hegemonic parts of the world, the field of neomedi­eval redeployments and their study should not merely follow the English language academy but both stake its own claims and become central by advancing the field as it rethinks its foundational categories.

Back to America

What is “the medi­eval” in Ibero-America? What sort of work does it do? Until recently, our field understood itself as mainly intra-European and as a heavily if not exclusively British and “Commonwealth” field, i.e., centred on the British Isles and the former British colonies. We were not sufficiently aware of how much or in what ways nonEuropean and particularly non-Anglophone locations had engaged with the Middle Ages. Postcolonial and global medi­evalisms were established explicitly with the volume Medi­evalisms in the Postcolonial World: The Idea of “The Middle Ages” Outside Europe, co-edited by Kathleen Davis and myself in 2009. Despite its promising and innovative character, however, the area has continued to be an understudied intellectual domain. As the first collection of essays dedicated solely to Ibero-American case studies, the aim of the current volume is to open the question regarding what were “the Middle Ages” in these southern locations and to what uses they could be put. We recognize as scholars that the medi­eval is a construct: not a set of immutable characteristics but a set of tropes built locally for particular reasons and with particular effects. As a field created around the English language, North American and British examples 41  Eschewing this innate specularity can take us into a termino­logical spiral. For instance, if I understand correctly, due to the several self-reflective definitional engagements published in SiM, there has been a proposal to start a new field of medi­evalistics to study the study of scholarly neomedi­evalism (Haydock, “Excluded Middles,” 19). For a similar interpretation see Clements and Robinson, “Neomedi­evalism Unplugged,” 196–97.

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worldwide, Workman’s Medi­evalism Studies constructed what is today a recognizable group of elements for the medi­eval that it studies. Yet those elements chosen within hegemonic disciplinary cores are inventions, similar to how elements identified as medi­eval in peripheries and other locations “without a Middle Ages” are inventions.42 Moreover, following the instituted Anglocentric perspective, the field continues to be perceived as mainly a realm of nostalgic and reactionary visions of the medi­eval. We are still struggling then, as a field, to find examples that equilibrate the geo­graphical as well as the ideo­logical spans of neomedi­evalism. There is general agreement that a topic like “the Middle Ages” does not have a given ideo­logical valence, yet we are still lacking a varied enough panoply of uses that can corroborate that belief. Was the medi­eval in Ibero-America about knights and castles, collecting folk ballads, building neogothic structures? It is clear that framing the question in this way, and searching for equivalences in the Americas, is to search for specific tropes developed elsewhere instead of searching for “the medi­eval” as it was redeployed in and for Ibero-America.43 As noted, in the nineteenth century neither nostalgia for a lost medi­eval past nor a medi­eval national origin can seamlessly explain Ibero-American engagements. This collection extends our understanding of the medi­eval and its uses in the Americas to the twentieth and twenty-first centuries; and with this expansion opens our field to unexpected approaches that provide much-needed alternatives, many of them progressive examples, of re-utilizations that escape the by-now standardized estimation of neomedi­evalism as allied to nationalism, nostalgia, xenophobia, origin stories, elitism, and white Christian identity. The collection starts with Hernán G. H. Taboada’s examination of the category of the Middle Ages itself in “The Criollo Invention of the Middle Ages,” discussing the understanding of this historical category among the Criollo populations that created Latin America, i.e., the descendants of European colonization that led the revolutions of independence in the 1810s–1820s and created nation states out of a colonial Spanish America. Due to an inter-imperial Black Legend, early modern Spain was considered “medi­eval” by its political enemies when it colonized the Americas.44 The idea that Latin America had continued a living Middle Ages during its colonial period and still after independence became a commonplace for liberal Criollos after the second half of the nineteenth century. Taboada examines how this category for the understanding of Latin America was seldom used by Criollos until late in that century. He shows the extent to which the Middle Ages is not a period or a set of components but directly a superimposition of an idea that gets reutilized by particular groups at particular times. Taboada thus opens the volume with a crucial issue: the very question42  For further discussion, see Altschul and Grzybowski “Em Busca dos Dragões.”

43  As readers will notice, most essays in the collection engage with Argentina and Brazil. At this early stage, however, it is not possible to explain why. The overall question about neomedi­evalism in the twenty plus different countries that make up the Spanish and Portuguese speaking Americas needs more research before scholars can address even the question of whether certain areas of the subcontinent have been the site of greater interest in the medi­eval period. 44  Altschul, Politics of Temporalization, 21–38.



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able existence of the medi­eval in locations that “didn’t have a Middle Ages,” he does so by examining its early absence from the Criollo imaginary and describing the ins-andouts of its meaning and the extent to which the category itself had to be constructed. The essay sets the tone for the unfamiliar territory of Ibero-American Middle Ages that the volume will continue to traverse. A location that has been severely understudied, and even been dislodged from studies of Latin America centring on Spanish speaking areas, is Brazil. The volume thus continues with three contemporary essays on the former Portuguese America, starting with Mário Jorge da Motta Bastos’s “A Militant and Peasant-Based Medi­eval History in Brazil.” Bastos examines the question of whether the Middle Ages can be truly about Brazil and discusses the surprising and unknown case of the use of the Middle Ages by the Marxist-oriented movement of Brazilian peasants without land, the Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra (mst). The mst opened and now manages its own centres of education where tens of thousands of students have received degrees, and where medi­eval history is taught by volunteers like himself. Bastos offers a timely demonstration of a progressive use of the Middle Ages in the midst of disciplinary doubts about even the possibility of engaging with the improvement of societal conditions, instead of reifying elites and the politics of xenophobia and nationalism. In contrast to the elite-based Middle Ages we have come to know, the mst teaches medi­eval history in acknowledgement of the struggles fought by the oppressed majority, and because true medi­eval history must be peasant history to be medi­eval at all. Bastos offers the unexpected example of a Middle Ages that is unrelated to the ivory tower we have learned to believe is our only truthful academic home, with an eminently practical function for “the Middle Ages” as a social good. Clí�nio de Oliveira Amaral continues the focus on Brazil by analyzing the presence of medi­eval religion in “Neomedi­evalism and the Hagio­graphy of Valdemiro Santiago.” Amaral examines one of the major new neopentecostal religions in existence in Brazil today, the Worldwide Church of God’s Power (wcgp), examining in particular the selffashioning of Apostle Valdemiro Santiago de Oliveira as leader, missionary, and instrument of God in his bloodless “hagio­graphy” O Grande Livramento / The Great Deliverance. He analyzes how the Apostle of this contemporary Protestant religion founded in 1998, now with more than six thousand temples worldwide, reestablishes the enchanted world of medi­eval Catholicism, including a world divided in good and evil, the personification of Satan, and the manifestation of the marvellous on earth, including the miracle of being physically carried by angels who speak in tongues. Amaral shows how the symbolic capital of medi­eval sanctity is harnessed through neomedi­ eval realignments by a new religion in search of authority, and with the example of wcgp shows broader possibilities for examining the manifold and current neomedi­ eval moves that continue to be exhibited in religious organizations. The volume’s third essay on Brazil, by Luiz Guerra, examines contemporary uses of the Middle Ages in the political arena: “The ‘Middle Ages’ in the Brazilian Presidential Elections of 2018.” Guerra’s is a trailblazing essay on contemporary political medi­ evalism that was almost prophetically written before the 2018 Brazilian elections and analyzes what has become the persistent use of the Middle Ages by supporters of now

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President Jair Bolsonaro. The essay brings to the fore, once again in this collection, how much “the medi­eval” is not a set of given components stemming from an historical Middle Ages but an invented category that is attached to specific chosen elements for its own uses and needs at a particular time. The next cluster of essays moves to the sole Ibero-American neomedi­eval writer of international renown, the Argentinian Jorge Luis Borges. The essays as a whole show how much the multicultural and multilingual past of the Iberian Peninsula, as well as the complex and multi-leveled histories of “the medi­eval” in a non-national context, could be skillfully redeployed and resignified by a remarkable writer. We start with “Averroes in a Midcolonial and Inter-Imperial Cordoba” by Maria Ruhlmann. The essay is a masterful work of postcolonial neomedi­evalism analyzing Borges’s “Averroes’s Search” as an exquisitely crafted deliberation on midcoloniality in the Hispanic world—a world whose longue durée shows constant and simultaneous processes of colonization and decolonization. Attentive to Borges’s almost clockwork intricacy, Ruhlmann analyzes the North African colony of Cordoba, its pidgin Castilian romance, and Averroes’s mysterious red-haired slave as a cypher for a midcolonial Argentina and as an intricate rejection of hispanismo, the early twentieth century Spanish attempts at renewed cultural imperialism in its former American colonies. The article continues to show scholars of neomedi­evalism an unfamiliar panorama of “the Middle Ages,” which in Ibero-America cannot avoid the eight centuries in which Iberia was inhabited or ruled by Muslims; and the unexpected uses that can be made of this “medi­eval” with an inherent Muslim component. Heather Sottong continues the analysis of Borges and his contemporaries in “Hypermedi­evalizing and De-Medi­evalizing Dante: Leopoldo Lugones’s and Jorge Luis Borges’s Rewritings of Inferno V.” Sottong masterfully analyzes Borges’s story “La intrusa” as a neomedi­eval answer to Leopoldo Lugones’s politically efficacious official definition of Argentina as epitomized by gauchos and life in the pampas. Sottong shows how Borges rewrote Lugones’s early neomedi­evalist and hypermedi­evalizing story “Francesca”—where Lugones underscores Dante’s medi­evality—in light of Lugones’s later beliefs in an Argentina defined by gauchos. Borges, rejecting the xenophobic nationalism fostered by gaucho identity, portrayed the two enamored brothers as gaucho drunkards and masculinist frontier brigands who sexually abuse their “Francesca” and finally murder and bury her in the open pampas. Engaging with the more complex environment of Hispanic multicultural societies and their competing origin stories, Sottong shows the extent to which neomedi­evalism was used not only to establish links to Europe as in Lugones’s “Francesca,” but also in mordant and antixenophobic ripostes like Borges’s “La intrusa,” both similarly engaged with the pressing political and cultural matters of their time. The section on Borges closes with M. J. Toswell’s wide-ranging “Borges and Kennings,” in which Toswell expertly shows how the Scandinavian kennings were a cypher for all of Borges’s use of metaphor and his constant search for crafted intricacies of meaning. Known as one of the foremost language artificers, Borges engaged throughout his long literary career with the kennings and their meaning as both the height of encryption and as tedious calcified metaphors that were nevertheless the core of liter-



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ary art and part of Borges’s continuing reflections on eternity, circularity, and labyrinthine time. Toswell’s analysis shows not only the extent of non-identitarian neomedi­ evalist engagements in Borges’s long literary life, but how much “the medi­eval” is an essential element for the understanding of any of Borges’s manifold writings, however much they were or were not openly connected with medi­eval chrono­logy. The volume closes with two stimulating engagements with gender and race in neomedi­eval literature and comics, starting with Juan Manuel Lacalle’s “Memory, Desire, and Sexual Identity in El unicornio, by Manuel Mujica Lainez.” Lacalle’s essay on the Argentine Mujica Lainez’s novel El unicornio shows how his retelling of the medi­eval French story of the fairy Melusine allowed Mujica Lainez to engage with and express homosexual desire in an epoch of social repression and homophobia. Melusine, a fairy-human hybrid living under an interdiction to never disclose her true identity, is examined in light of Mujica Lainez’s closeted homosexuality and his known autobio­graphical tendencies. In the retelling of Melusine’s loneliness, the immortal fairy falls in love with a man while re-embodied as a man herself, allowing Mujica Lainez to express same-sex desire. Melusine’s fear of being discovered and her loneliness due to these imposed interdictions likewise manifest Mujica Lainez’s dejection over the emotionally taxing and long-lived prohibitions on homosexual love established by the norms of society. In our field’s ongoing search for non-reactionary utilizations of “the medi­eval,” and in contrast to better known nationalist and identitarian uses, this Argentinian engagement provides a necessary example of a more progressive use of the Middle Ages as a time-space from which to sympathetically critique social repression. Our last essay engages with twenty-first century neomedi­eval ­graphic novels and their functions. Rebecca De Souza’s “The Reconstruction of Medi­eval Gender and Race in Argentinian Graphic Novels: Rewriting and Visualizing the Cid” examines two unstudied ­graphic novel adaptations of the medi­eval Poema de mio Cid, written in 2012 and 2018, that oppose the identity politics of the original text to depict instead a chauvinistic Middle Ages in Argentina. De Souza examines their identity categories, showing how these twenty-first century Argentinian ­graphic novels reconfigure gender and race by denying women’s agency and depicting a crusading “Reconquest” ethos that contradicts the importance of family and multicultural cooperation present in their medi­eval original. De Souza masterfully examines the reasons for rewriting, in twenty-first century Argentina, a dark Middle Ages for their erstwhile colonizers, and demonstrates that the dark Spanish Middle Ages was necessary for the country to maintain a neoliberal myth of progress and favourably compare its bleak present to a bleaker past. De Souza likewise reveals that in Argentina this dark Middle Ages is neither strictly xenophobic nor a parallel to the North Atlantic alt-right. It has instead an additional utopian component, whereby making the medi­eval period seem worse serves to generate a sense of “social hope” for improvement in an Argentina that is struggling with growing economic inequality and the polarization of gender and racial identities. As this introduction and the chapters in this volume propose, Neomedi­evalism needs to more fully come into its own by diversifying its centres of gravity, expanding

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geo­graphically, and examining what “the medi­eval” has meant in the different presents, locations and mediums in which it has been redeployed, in Ibero-America and beyond. Much is yet to be done, even to engage with the many other countries that comprise Ibero-America and which here, despite the attempts of the editors, became a volume focused on Argentina and Brazil. As Iberoamerican Neomedi­evalisms nevertheless evinces, being global in our perspective is to be open to what “the medi­eval” has signified outside its usual components and to investigate what “the Middle Ages” has meant outside North Atlantic geo­graphies. As Amy Kaufman pointedly notes, perhaps one day neomedi­evalism will “recognize a multiplicity of Middle Ages” and even dream of “multiple, global Middle Ages.”45 Perhaps this collection and the examples of unfamiliar neomedi­evalisms that it brings to the fore may expand the dreams and multiplicities of those of us cheering on a truly global neomedi­evalism studies.

45  Kaufman, “Medi­eval Unmoor,” 9.



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Works Cited and Further Reading

Altschul, Nadia R. Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge: Postcoloniality and the Transatlantic National Epic. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012. —— . Politics of Temporalization: Medi­evalism and Orientalism in Nineteenth-Century South America. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2020. —— , and Lukas Grzybowski. “Em Busca dos Dragões: a Idade Média no Brasil.” Antíteses (Londrina) 13, no. 25 (2020): 24–35. Aurell, Jaume. “El nuevo medi­evalismo y la interpretación de los textos históricos.” Hispania: Revista Española de Historia 66, no. 224 (2006): 809–32. —— . “Tendencias recientes del medi­evalismo español.” Memoria y Civilización 11 (2008): 63–103. Berns, Ute, and Andrew James Johnston. “Medi­evalism: A Very Short Introduction.” European Journal of English Studies 15 no. 2 (2011): 97–100. Bull, Hedley. The Anarchical Society: A Study of Order in World Politics. London: Macmillan, 1977. Cantor, Norman. Inventing the Middle Ages: The Lives, Works, and Ideas of the Great Medi­ evalists of the Twentieth Century. New York: Quill/William Morrow, 1991. Clements, Pamela, and Carol L. Robinson. “Neomedi­evalism Unplugged.” In Studies in Medi­ evalism XXI: Corporate Medi­evalism, edited by Karl Fugelso, 191–205. Cambridge: Brewer, 2012. Colette, Carolyn P. “Review of The Middle Ages after the Middle Ages in the English-Speaking World by Marie-Françoise Alamichel and Derek Brewer; Medi­evalism in Europe II, Vol. VIII: 1996 by Leslie J. Workman and Kathleen Verduin.” The Modern Language Review 95, no. 2 (2000): 465–66. Dagenais, John, and Margaret R. Greer, “Decolonizing the Middle Ages: Introduction.” Journal of Medi­eval and Early Modern Studies 30, no. 3 (2000): 431–48. Davis, Kathleen, and Nadia R. Altschul, eds. Medi­evalisms in the Postcolonial World: The Idea of “The Middle Ages” Outside Europe. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009. Diebold, William J. “Medi­evalism.” Studies in Icono­graphy 33 (2012): 247–56. Eco, Umberto. Faith in Fakes: Travels in Hyperreality. London: Vintage, 1986. —— . Travels in Hyperreality: Essays. San Diego: Harcourt, 1986. Elliott, Andrew B. R. Medi­evalism, Politics and Mass Media: Appropriating the Middle Ages in the Twenty-first Century. Cambridge: Brewer, 2017. Emery, Elizabeth, and Richard Utz. “Making Medi­evalism: A Critical Overview.” In Medi­evalism: Key Critical Terms, edited by Elizabeth Emery and Richard Utz, 1–10. Cambridge: Brewer, 2014. Ferré, Vincent, “Le Médiévalisme dans l’oeuvre de Tolkien,” interview by Clí�nio de Amaral, Linhas: núcleo de estudos sobre narrativas e medi­evalismos, October 14, 2020, https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=rYEK86QAjWg. —— . “Medi­evalismo. Na França, o giro de 2009.” Translated by Clí�nio de Amaral. Antítesis 13, no. 26 (2020): 13–23. Fitzpatrick, KellyAnn. Neomedi­evalism, Popular Culture, and the Academy. Cambridge: Brewer, 2019. Gonçalves Soares, Ana Rita, and Rebeca Sanmartí�n Bastida. “Medi­evalismo.” In Diccionario hispánico de la tradición y recepción clásica, edited by Francisco Garcí�a-Jurado, 484–92. Madrid: Guillermo Escolar, 2021.

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Haydock, Nicholas. “Medi­evalism and Excluded Middles.” In Studies in Medi­evalism XVIII: Defining Medi­evalism(s) II, edited by Karl Fugelso, 17–30. Cambridge: Brewer, 2009. Kaufman, Amy S. “Medi­eval Unmoor.” Studies in Medi­evalism XIX: Defining Neomedi­evalism(s), edited by Karl Fugelso, 1–11. Cambridge: Brewer, 2010. Kenney, Alice P., and Leslie J. Workman. “Ruins, Romance, and Reality: Medi­evalism in AngloAmerican Imagination and Taste, 1750–1840.” Winterthur Portfolio 10 (1975): 131–63. Marsden, R. “Medi­evalism: New Discipline or Scholarly No-Man’s Land?” History Compass 16 (2018): 1–9. Matthews, David. “Middle.” In Medi­evalism: Key Critical Terms, edited by Elizabeth Emery and Richard Utz, 141–47. Cambridge: Brewer, 2014. —— . Medi­evalism: A Critical History. Cambridge: Brewer, 2015. Mayer, Lauren S. “Dark Matter and Slippery Words: Grappling with Neomdievalism(s). In Studies in Medi­evalism XIX: Defining Neomedi­evalism(s), edited by Karl Fugelso, 68–76. Cambridge: Brewer, 2010. Robinson Carol L., and Pamela Clements. “Living with Neomedi­evalism.” In Studies in Medi­ evalism XVIII: Defining Medi­evalism(s) II, edited by Karl Fugelso, 55–75. Cambridge: Brewer, 2009. Toswell, Margaret Jane. “The Tropes of Medi­evalism.” In Studies in Medi­evalism XVII: Defining Medi­evalism(s), edited by Karl Fugelso, 68–79. Cambridge: Brewer, 2009. Utz, Richard. “Medi­evalism is a Global Phenomenon: Including Russia” The Year’s Work in Medi­evalism 32 (2017): n.p. —— . “Resistance to (The New) Medi­evalism? Comparative Deliberations on (National) Philo­ logy, Mediävalismus, and Mittelalter-Rezeption in Germany and North America.” In The Future of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance: Problems, Trends and Opportunities for Research, edited by Roger Dahood, 151–70. Turnhout: Brepols, 1998. —— . “Coming to Terms with Medi­evalism.” European Journal of English Studies 15 no. 2 (2011): 101–13. —— . “Medi­evalism—Mittelalterrezeption—Médiévisme.” In Perspicuitas, https://www.unidue.de/perspicuitas/medi­evalism.php, accessed November 30, 2020. Verduin, Kathleen. “The Founding and the Founder: Medi­evalism and the Legacy of Leslie J. Workman.” In Studies in Medi­evalism XVII: Defining Medi­evalism(s), edited by Karl Fugelso, 1–27. Cambridge: Brewer, 2009. Workman, Leslie. “Editorial.” Studies in Medi­evalism 1, no. 1 (1979): 1–3. —— . “Editorial.” Studies in Medi­evalism 5 (1993): 1–4. —— . “Modern Medi­evalism in England and America.” In Mittelalter-Rezeption V: gesammelte Vorträge des V. Salzburger Symposions, edited by von Ulrich Müller and Kathleen Verduin, 1–23. Göppingen: Kümmerle, 1996. —— . “Medi­evalism Today.” Medi­eval Feminist Forum 23, no. 1 (1997): 29–33. —— . “Speaking of Medi­evalism: An Interview with Leslie J. Workman.” Interviewed by Richard Utz. In Medi­evalism in the Modern World: Essays in Honour of Leslie J. Workman, edited by Richard Utz and Tom Shippey, 433–49. Turnhout: Brepols Publishers, 1998.

Chapter 2

THE CRIOLLO INVENTION OF THE MIDDLE AGES HERNÁN G. H. TABOADA Middle Ages, this period of great vices and heroic virtues, of ignorance, energy, and universal havoc.1

It was a late nineteenth-century commonplace to compare the societies, material culture, mentality, and institutions of Spanish and Portuguese America, before and after Independence, with those of the European Middle Ages. While at the beginning of the century foreign visitors made the comparison, soon Latin American intellectuals began drawing parallels between the Crusade and the Conquest, and between European feudalism and the situation created by the existence of extensive land holdings in Latin America. Here, I am not interested in the several implications that the comparison elicits, but in tracing the origins of the Middle Ages as a new category in the Latin American imaginary. Such a category was central for the post-Enlightenment construction of philosophies of history in northern Europe, that is, for the very construction of the idea of Modernity.2 Proof of this centrality is the special attention that the Middle Ages has received as an historio­graphical concept. The incorporation of this new category into the Latin American imaginary during the time of the declarations of independence in the subcontinent is not a minor point. Nevertheless, only the idea of feudalism, which is central in discussions of Marxist and dependentista explanations, has been the object of research.3 I investigate here other approximations to the Middle Ages found in Criollo thinkers in the first decades of the century, discerning the particular importance of the 1820s–1830s as the fulcrum, however inconsistent, of the incorporation of the idea of the Middle Ages in the Latin American imaginary.

1  Lorenzo de Zavala, Ensayo histórico, 10.

2  For discussion see, among others, Voss, “Le problème du Moyen Â� ge”; Dufays, “Le ‘moyen-âge’ au dix-huitième siècle”; Grafton, “Middle Ages”; Heers, La invención de la Edad Media; Sergi, La idea de Edad Media; Guerreau, El futuro de un pasado; and Ferguson, The Renaissance in Historical Thought.

3  Chiaramonte, “Génesis del ‘diagnóstico’ feudal”; Roig, “Domingo Faustino Sarmiento,” and the articles of Altschul and Beckmann cited later.

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American Enlightenment and the European Middle Ages In Spain, the rejection of the Middle Ages was not as intense as in other European countries. Spanish Humanists appreciated some aspects of continuity with their medi­ eval past, as can be seen, for example, in the 1545 Historia imperial y cesárea authored by Pedro Mexí�a. This positive appreciation of the Middle Ages was felt even centuries later. During the eighteenth century, a historicist again extolled medi­eval constitutions and opposed them to Bourbon absolutism.4 This tendency extended into the nineteenth century: the French invasion of Spain in 1808 was frequently compared with the Moorish one of 711, and the call to resist it was likened to that of Pelayo resisting the Islamic Conquest in Covadonga. The same strand of Spanish patriotic propaganda fondly remembered the Goths’ monarchy, later taken over by Islamic troops, and even used some archaic language.5 It is possible that the perception of Spain as backward and even “medi­eval” when compared to northern Europe prevented endorsement of the condemnation prescribed by Enlightenment thinkers. Instead, Spanish thinkers may have seen a golden epoch in their medi­eval past. It could also be argued that the Reconquista, a term that began circulating in the eighteenth century, provided the foundational episode of Spanish identity and unity. Whatever the specific reason, the category of the Middle Ages remained nonessential in Spain, and thus its use in the Hispanic world was limited and late compared to other European nations. In other languages, analogous terms and their adjectives—medium tempus, Middle Ages, Moyen Âge—began appearing in the fifteenth century, but in Spanish, they are registered only at the end of the eighteenth.6 The term “feudalism” arrived very late as well, a copy from French, and tellingly began in the context of the fight against the Napoleonic invasion of Spain in 1808.7 4  Hocquellet, “Du consensus populi,” 85; Breña, “El primer liberalismo español.” 5  Rí�os Saloma, La Reconquista.

6  The literature on the subject and the dictionaries inform us that the idea vaguely appeared among the Italian humanists as “medium tempus,” “media aetas,” and other similar words, taking definite shape in the work of the historian Christophe Keller (Cellarius), who compiled a special volume of his universal history (1676) on the “Middle Ages.” The word in German is documented early, in the sixteenth century; in English and French “Middle Ages” and “Moyen Â� ge” appeared in the seventeenth; the adjective “medi­eval” later: in English in 1827, in French in 1874. In Spanish, a search in the electronic database Corpus diacrónico del español shows a very limited use of the word “Edad Media,” and this only from the end of the eighteenth century in writings of the enlightened Jovellanos and a mention in Capmany (early American mentions do not appear). The adjective “medi­eval” (and its variant “medioeval”), in English registered about 1827, had to wait in Spanish until 1876 and the work of Benito Pérez Galdós (Real Academia Española online; accessed February 24, 2018). Alonso (Enciclopedia del idioma, s.v. “Edad”) contains a mention in a poem by Luis de Góngora published in 1627, information that repeats Dufays, but I have been unable to find it in this edition of Góngora on Google Books. 7  The Real Academia Española registers the first examples in the polemical tracts of Fray Francisco Alvarado, denouncing Napoleon Bonaparte, who he says invaded Spain “to redeem us from what he calls feudalism”; the first usage in the Americas is from the Cuban José Marí�a Heredia in 1823 (accessed February 6, 2018).

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21

In the Spanish American domains, medi­eval imagery appeared after the Conquest. The main characteristic of this medi­eval imagery in early Spanish America was the idea of a continuation of martial deeds in the New World, like those carried out by medi­eval predecessors. Conquistadors repeatedly position the wars against the Moors as heroic deeds that prefigured their own and frequently identify their ancestors from among Goths and Reconquista heroes, as well as from Crusaders. Italian epics as well, particularly the very admired and imitated epics of Tasso and Boiardo, made the crusaders particularly alluring to Conquistadors. Somewhat incongruously, mention of feudal domains, and the adjective “feudal” itself, also appears in documents from Colonial times. As medi­eval laws were still applicable in Spain and their colonies at the time, medi­eval law codes like the Siete Partidas, the Fuero Juzgo, and the Leyes de Toro appear frequently on Latin American bookshelves. Likewise, volumes on Spanish history, like that of Juan de Mariana (1602), on which was built the official history of eight centuries of struggle against the Moors, are also found in Latin America.8 We even know of an eighteenth-century intellectual born in Lima (now Peru) called Pedro de Peralta y Barnuevo, who identifies with medi­eval ancestors in his history of Spain: La historia de España vindicada (1730). The book was left unfinished, and covers only the centuries until the conversion of king Goth to Catholicism, in which he sees, according to the official version of prefiguration, the beginning of a brilliant era of “the most potent monarchy of the Christian world.”9 This practice of extolling medi­eval feats and of considering the conquest of America as a continuation of them was part of a deep respect, as in Spain, for the medi­ eval legacy. Medi­eval codes were valid as a source of law, and Scholasticism continued to have a place in American universities, even after expulsion from European ones, although later liberal intellectuals exaggerated that presence.10 In consequence, many twentieth-century scholars, like Ricardo Levene, Manuel Giménez Fernández, or Carlos Stoetzer, argue that the mental makeup of Spanish American independence originated in traditional Catholic medi­eval ideas, not in Enlightened ones.11 There were also efforts to combine medi­eval and Enlightenment heritages for Latin America: Criollos were familiar with the thesis of the Spanish historian Francisco Martí�nez Marina, who extolled medi­eval Spanish institutions as a precedent of modern representative ones; his volumes were also standard in Latin American libraries.12 Echoes of the positive view of the Middle Ages common in Spain are also found used by Criollos in the first American journals. They parroted the anti-Napoleonic narrative and the stories about the Spanish revolt and the Cortes of Cádiz, including its 8  The historio­graphical work of the Jesuit Juan de Mariana (1535–1624) is considered central in the building of the official image of Spain’s past until the nineteenth century, including the image of the heroic Spanish Middle Ages (Rí�os Saloma, La Reconquista, 69–76). 9  Peralta y Barnuevo, La historia de España vindicada, col. 1644.

10  For instance, Ingenieros, La evolución de las ideas argentinas, 1:22.

11  For instance, Stoetzer, El pensamiento político, 1:108, 1:128, 1:152, 2:30. 12  Stoetzer, El pensamiento político, 1:139.

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supposed medi­eval precedents.13 Anti-Napoleonic influence can later be perceived in the adaptation of the formula “three centuries of despotism”; the Independence party used the term to describe the centuries after the Spanish conquest, but it was initially coined in Spain to refer to the three centuries that passed since the 1521 battle of Villalar, when Castilian noblemen lost their medi­eval liberties to the absolutist king Charles V.14 Another proof of the Criollo generally positive view of the Middle Ages in Spain can be seen in the prestige that medi­eval Goths could still evoke at the beginning of the nineteenth century. In 1817, for instance, in New Spain (Mexico), the Indian sculptor Pedro Patiño Ixtolinque made a plaster bas-relief of The Proclamation of King Wamba, a Goth king who reigned 672–680 and tamed several rebellions.15 This shared Spanish-Spanish American favorable view of the Middle Ages was nevertheless changing as part of more general historical debates. The most famous example of these was the polemic of Criollos against some European Enlightened authors concerning the history of America, though the polemic also reached other fields and was reflected in the “losing of the prestige of faraway histories, from the Renaissance or the Middle Ages.”16 The German traveller Alexander von Humboldt was among the thinkers who perceived this dwindling influence. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, he discovers that “the glory of Don Pelayo and the Cid Campeador has penetrated even to the mountains and forests of America; the people sometimes pronounce these illustrious names, but they form no other notions of their existence, than that of heroes belonging to some vague period of fabulous times.”17 Years later, in 1831, the Mexican intellectual Lorenzo de Zavala would complain that Spaniards had not even taught “their sons their ancient history full of famous deeds and noble records.”18 Historio­graphical novelties from northern Europe that provided a different vision of the Middle Ages also started to spread gradually in the Americas. The writings of Voltaire, William Robertson, and Edward Gibbon circulated widely. Voltaire’s sharp criticism of the Middle Ages and William Robertson’s notions on the dark centuries and their end, as reflected in his 1769 History of the Reign of the Emperor Charles V, became very popular. Edward Gibbon’s 1776 History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire repeatedly showed up in Latin American library catalogs; it was among the books confiscated from the members of the revolutionary Inconfidência Mineira in 13  El Peruano from Lima in Peru, edited under the viceregal government in the first years of a free press, copied journals from Cádiz to extol medi­eval precedents. Nevertheless, this was not a prominent feature, as can be seen in a general overview of its articles. 14  Breña, “El primer liberalismo español, 71–72, 84.

15  The sculpture can be seen in the National Museum of Art in Mexico City.

16  Zermeño, “Historia/historia,” 1784. Enlightenment authors like Cornelius De Pauw, William Robertson, and Guillaume-Thomas Raynal debased the nature, history, and societies of America; Criollo authors responded. See the classic discussion by Gerbi, La disputa del Nuevo Mundo, and now Cañizares-Esguerra, How to Write the History of the New World. 17  Humboldt, Personal Narrative 1:289.

18  “Enseñado a sus hijos su antigua historia llena de hechos famosos y de recuerdos nobles” (Zavala, Ensayo histórico, 1:38).

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Brazil in 1789. Gibbon’s popularity is further revealed in the attempts of the Venezuelan patriot Francisco Miranda to meet the historian when he travelled through Switzerland, and in the fact that in 1809 the Viceroyalty of New Spain finds it necessary to explicitly forbid both the English original and the French translation of Gibbon’s text.19 Proof of the influence of this new Northern European negative view of the Middle Ages is found in the different meaning of “Crusade” apparent in the debate between the official Spanish historian Juan Bautista Muñoz and a Rio de la Plata Jesuit called Francisco Iturri. Muñoz refers sarcastically to the then still popular comparison between the Crusades and the conquest of America. In 1789, Iturri criticized Muñoz’s sarcasm, and although he was reluctant to “decide if the Crusades, and the wars against infidels in the four centuries that followed, were just or unjust, in line or not with the essence of Christianity,” he was prone to defend them.20 What is particularly striking here is that Iturri speaks about the Crusades in the plural and as a series of episodes of the past; that is, he follows the French and English usage. In the Spanish domains, it was instead common to speak about the Crusade as a still admired ideal and one for which alms were regularly collected in the present. Another example from the end of the eighteenth century is found in a Peruvian journal (El Mercurio Peruano), which exhibited, when reviewing an academic event, the new negative conception of the Middle Ages as a dark age that ended when the immigration of Greek literati resurrected the arts. This theory is now rejected, but it had been proposed as a significant revelation under the authority of the 1688 Polyhistor, a Latin work by the German historian Daniel Georg Morhof. According to the Peruvian publication, “Europe, after having been seemingly dormant for many centuries, wakes up in the year 1453 when the tyrannical oppression of the Turks brings to Italy the treasures of precious monuments of ancient Greek wisdom.”21 Interestingly, a different cause for the end of the Middle Ages is mentioned in another article in the same periodical, authored by the Peruvian scientist Hipólito Unanue, according to whom “The Discovery of America was the origin of a general revolution in the political system, sciences and even in arts.”22 I shall return below to this idea of the American conquest as the end of the Middle Ages, and how the Criollos were at first reluctant to extol the European, that is Columbian, discovery. The hesitation shown by a clergyman like Iturri when defending the Crusades, and the idea of a renaissance of the arts in a Lima periodical, reveal how new historio­ 19  Ferreira Furtado 353; Diario de México, August 24, 1809.

20  “Decidir si las Cruzadas, y las guerras contra infieles en los cuatro siglos que le siguieron, fueron justas o injustas, conformes o disconformes a la esencia del cristianismo” (Iturri, Carta segunda, 61–63).

21  “La Europa después de haber estado como adormecida durante muchos siglos, vuelve en sí� cuando en el año de 1453 la opresión tiránica de los Turcos hace transferir a la Italia los preciosos monumentos de la antigua erudición de los griegos” (Mercurio Peruano, 8:281, August 29, 1793); note that Morhof was a forerunner in using the concept of the Middle Ages. 22  “El descubrimiento de América causó una revolución general en el sistema polí�tico, en las ciencias y hasta en las artes” (Unanue, “Peregrinación,” 373).

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graphical concepts were becoming widespread. The ancient division of times into seven periods (Augustine), or into four empires (Book of Daniel), had began to lose its grip. The schema of Bossuet, according to which the Christian empire of Charlemagne was the apex of history, continued to hold some authority, but it was combined with the now-familiar division of history into three periods, in which Antiquity and Modernity are primary, with the dark Middle Ages merely found between them.

Independence and Goths

During the second half of the eighteenth century and the first half of the nineteenth, fragments of a European discourse about the Middle Ages began to appear and to affect some venerated symbols of Spanish Antiquity like Gothic ancestry. They were connected with the wars of Independence, partly because of a stronger Northern European influence at the time, but primarily because of the need for pro-Independence propaganda to separate Criollos from Spaniards. At any rate, the Catholic and traditionalist ideas that according to some scholars were the main inspirations for pro-Independence thinkers did not lead Criollos to the recovery of a medi­eval legacy, as had happened among Spanish intellectuals. There is in fact a misalignment between the medi­eval legacy recovered by Spanish intellectuals and the use of that legacy by pro-independence thinkers in America. An example is the aforementioned work by Martí�nez Marina, prominent in Criollo libraries and extensively quoted by writers like the Cuban Félix Varela, clergyman and member of the constitutional Cortes of Cadiz. 23 But Martí�nez Marina said little about America, and his focus on remote Gothic legal precedents for representative institutions could not elicit too much attention on this side of the Atlantic. As argued by an anonymous pamphlet published in Tarragona in 1810, even in Spain Gothic legislation could be considered far from helpful for the present day. 24 The lack of importance of medi­eval Spanish precedents for American pro-independence thinkers can be similarly observed in a Cádiz journal republished in a Lima periodical.25 There the author puts in the mouth of the Comunero leader Juan Padilla, executed in the sixteenth century, a long discourse of anachronistic enlightened language, where Padilla not only positions Greece and Rome as his inspirations but where, notably, the traditional liberties of medi­eval Castile, the focus of Spanish intellectuals in the Cadiz Cortes, are absent. The distance of the American independence period from the medi­eval history of Spain continued to grow larger. In Mexico the medi­eval world extended into the remote past, to the foundational periods, and that dark period began finding its name: Edad Media. I found an early reference to the Middle Ages in an article published in 1812 in the Royalist journal Gaceta del Gobierno de México, which rejected “this barbarity of the Middle Ages with which Bonaparte menaces the whole of Europe”; and 23  Varela, Observaciones sobre la constitución política, 2:32. 24  Garriga, “Cabeza moderna, cuerpo gótico,” 112n48.

25  El Peruano, May 29, 1812, 393–98.

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where the lower-case letters and single mention show the trivial importance held by the Middle Ages.26 I have not found additional mentions of the Middle Ages in Mexico until the 1820s, when it became popular. It was, however, part of the vocabulary of the educated foreigners who visited Latin America. Humboldt uses the terms “feudal” and “medi­eval” and makes comparisons stating, for instance, that “the situation of the inhabitants of New Mexico is similar, in several aspects, to the peoples of Europe in the Middle Ages,” and that “all the vices of the feudal government have passed from the one hemisphere to the other.”27 The French writer Gaspard Mollien follows suit when he claims that the conquistadors were similar to the Goths and the Vandals;28 Goths were usually brought up as illustrious Spanish ancestors, but in Mollien’s account they are a contemptuous lot. As in the case of Mollien, in European writings the negative view of the Middle Ages was becoming more popular. The French Revolution had officially “abolished feudalism”; and the much-quoted abbé Dominique de Pradt accused the German invaders of imposing the feudal system. The term “feudal,” popularized by the anti-aristocratic propaganda of the time, was repeated by these and other authors who were assiduously read by Criollos.29 Termino­logy created for the European past, like “feudal,” was therefore extended to America and adapted to local needs. It is worth clarifying that the allusions to a “feudal” past were not allusions to the Franks, Burgundians, or Saxons but exclusively to that group of Barbarians who invaded Spain. That is the Vandals, previously held in disrepute, but also the Goths who, in former centuries in the whole of Europe and especially in Spain, held broad prestige as ancestors of royal or aristocratic families, a prestige they were now losing. If in the northern European countries the barbarians became symbolic of uncivil times and poor taste, in Spanish America the word “Goth” was used as both a noun and an adjective to refer to Spaniards. In Venezuela, New Granada, Rí�o de la Plata, and Cuba, from the Independence wars on, the term became a synonym for “royalists,” and later, in republican times, for “conservatives.” Nowadays, in Venezuela, Goth is a derogatory term for stubborn people.30 An illustrative example of these derogatory uses of the term “Goth” is provided by the Mexican friar Servando Teresa de Mier. He describes the inhabitants of Madrid as the most Gothic people in Spain because of their vile parlance, and characterizes the friars who go to Mexico from Spain as ignorami, “authentic Goths just arrived from the north.”31 Another example is a poem written about 1825 by the Ecuadorian poet José 26  “Aquella barbarie de la edad media a que Bonaparte amenaza reducir toda la Europa” (first page of Gaceta del Gobierno de México, April 14, 1812). I tentatively point to this example of the term in Spanish America from searching http://www.hndm.unam.mx/, created by the National Library of Mexico. The site collects Mexican hemero­graphy from its beginnings and has a search function that has helped me locate references to the Crusades, as discussed earlier in this chapter. 27  Humboldt, Political Essay, 3:101, 2:122, 3:101.

28  Mollien, Voyage dans la république de Colombia, 1:154. 29  See Aguirre Elorriaga, El abate de Pradt.

30  Martha Hildebrandt, La lengua de Bolívar, 275–77.

31  Mier, Historia de la revolución de Nueva España, 1:284–85.

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Joaquí�n de Olmedo, celebrating that people “now despise Gothic mores.”32 The sentiment was widespread. Remembering colonial times, the New Granadan historian José Manuel Restrepo conceded that “in the principal cities there was some luxury, but a Gothic luxury, consisting of golden decoration or similar.”33 In 1817, a Chilean periodical includes a note that calls Royalists “those Vandals” and a poem that mentions “the barbarous Celts / the furious and greedy Vandals / and the upstart Goths.”34 In 1821 the Gaceta de Bogotá argued that if the royalists call themselves Spaniards, then “we are authorized and somewhat forced by gratitude to call them Goths, Vandals, Saracens, and Moors,” thus assimilating Goths with Moors.35 In a similar assimilative fashion, another Chilean periodical speaks in 1821 about “Saracens-Vandals.”36 Additional examples of this widespread use can also be seen in theatre reviews. À� propos the 1805 theater play Don Pelayo, a Buenos Aires journal saw “the fights between Goths and Moors as a war between two types of ferocious fanatics.”37 And the Goths were even worse, because the Moors “loved letters and wise men, as is demonstrated by the abbe Andrés.”38 This is a reference to the universal history of literature written by the Jesuit Juan Andrés, a pioneering work published in Italian between 1782 and 1799, in which he dismisses the Middle Ages, and finds in the Arab invasion the origin of European literature. Instead of the earlier glorious ancestors, in America corrupt monarchs of Gothic times were remembered, for instance, to condemn the Spanish king Ferdinand VII, “whose stupidity, licentious life and other vices are superior to those of the Witizas and Rodericks.”39 If the Crusades, plural and pushed to the past, as we have seen, were criticized, so was the so-called Reconquista, which came to be seen as negative along with the expulsion of Jews and Moors since 1492. In Peru, for instance, this negative take on the Reconquista was the view of conservative Lorenzo de Vidaurre; a perspective that in 1825 was shared by the liberal José Cecilio del Valle in Central America.40 These were signs of a broad movement of historical revisionism, confirmed by the fact that the royalists also used a language dismissive of the Goths.

32  “Ya las costumbres góticas desprecia” (Olmedo, Poesías completas, 120). 33  Restrepo, Historia de la revolución de la República de Colombia, 33n.

34  Colección de antiguos periódicos chilenos, 80 (quoting the Gazeta de Santiago de Chile, August 16, 1817), and Quesada Sosa, La poesía de la emancipación, 357. An 1823 poem also speaks of “fierce Vandals” (Quesada Sosa, La poesía de la emancipación, 420).

35  “Estamos autorizados y en cierto modo obligados por gratitud a llamarlos godos, vándalos, sarracenos y moros a los españoles” (Colección de antiguos periódicos chilenos 9:175, quoting the Gazeta ministerial de Chile, June 9, 1821).

36  “Sarra-vándalos” (Colección de antiguos periódicos chilenos, 3:119, 3:141, quoting Viva la Patria extraordinaria, May 15, 1817 and June 4, 1817). 37  Biblioteca de Mayo, 9:235, 8140–41, quoting El centinela, November 3, 1822.

38  Henrí�quez, Escritos políticos, 130, quoting the Chilean El Monitor Araucano, September 1813.

39  Colección de antiguos periódicos chilenos 7:65, quoting Gazeta ministerial de Chile, August 7, 1819.

40  Taboada “La Reconquista,” 131–32.

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For instance, royalists equated patriots to Goths, as barbarians, turbulent, and few in number; and even associated Goths with the Arab invaders of Spain.41 Analogous ideas of a negative and dark Middle Ages appear more consistently in the writings of Simón Bolí�var, who possessed solid knowledge of Enlightenment thought and an ability to use it to construct an original interpretation of his Latin American milieu.42 His abundant letters and the ability to explore them with electronic searches allowed me to discover his use of the adjectives “feudal” and “gothic” to refer to archaic institutions that he rejects.43 As such, he was dismissive of legislators who had piled “ruins of monstrosities in order to build a Greek edifice on a Gothic foundation on the brink of a crater.”44 And moreover, “citizens are very fussy and reject Gothic architecture,…what they want is a constitutional architecture, a legal geometry, an exact and scrupulous symmetry.”45 He complains of those times when: “philosophy switched off her lights and the people venerated pieces of wood they called a throne and a bit of metal they called a crown; they want those Gothic institutions that worked when there were no laws or morals to work among the rivers of light that now illuminate the dungeons making visible their repulsive filth, and that set the chains ablaze to make them more unbearable to men. The time of force has passed, my friend, and is replaced by one of reason governing through the rule of law.”46 Those considerations explain his rejection for the Carolingian symbols that characterized Napoleon Bonaparte, whose crown he deemed “a miserly thing of Gothic style.”47 We can detect the same mood in another wealthy and patriotic Criollo, who also travelled and wrote abundantly: Vicente Rocafuerte. Born in Guayaquil, Ecuador, he writes to his fellow Americans: “Happy America, rejoice for having broken the rough 41  Garcí�a, Documentos históricos mexicanos, 2:338; Heredia, Memorias del regente Heredia, 139n.

42  I found quotations from the electronic version of the previously dispersed writings of Bolí�var at http://www.archivodellibertador.gob.ve/escritos/inicio.php, which allows searches of individual words. Nevertheless, these pages contain many small mistakes. Given the ease of finding the documents from the letters of Bolí�var here mentioned, I give only the basic data (sender, place, and time). Where possible, I have used earlier English translations. Unfortunately, this site has suffered repeated interruptions to access. 43  For “feudal” see Bolí�var, Jamaica Letter, September 6, 1815.

44  “Escombros de fábricas monstruosas para edificar sobre una base gótica un edificio griego al borde de un cráter” (Bolí�var, Letter to Santander, San Carlos, June 13, 1821). 45  “Los ciudadanos están muy cosquillosos y no quieren nada de arquitectura gótica, ni razón de estado, ni circunstancias, lo que desean es la arquitectura constitucional, la geometrí�a legal, la simetrí�a exacta y escrupulosa” (Bolí�var, Letter to Santander, Guayaquil, April 29, 1823).

46  “Que la filosofí�a apague sus luces para que los pueblos tributen superstición a unos trozos de leña que llaman trono y a un poco de metal que llaman corona; quieren que esas instituciones góticas que serví�an cuando no habí�a leyes ni moral, sirvan ahora en medio de torrentes de luces que están iluminando los calabozos para que se vea su inmundicia atroz y encendiendo las cadenas para hacerlas más insoportables a los hombres. Fue ya el tiempo de la fuerza, amigo, y le ha sucedido el de la razón gobernando por las leyes” (Bolí�var, Letter to Sucre, Cuenca, September 21, 1822).

47  Lomné, “Révolution française et rites bolivariens,” 167; Perú de Lacroix, Diario de Bucaramanga, 64.

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scepter of barbarian Gothic ignorance, for having deleted even the traces of the fatal feudalism,” and for having left in the past the “Gothic march of aged monarchies,” that “with their barbarous feudalism are modern institutions, daughters of the religious fanaticism and stupid ignorance of the Goths and Vandals.” By contrast, the institutions of Greece and Rome are “based on common sense, universal reason and human nature, are convenient to every century and every place on the globe.”48 He likewise mentions the “renaissance of sciences and arts,” and his hostile portrayal of Charlemagne describes him as “a sort of savage, that made an idol of the Papacy that he himself embellished and enriched”; a Papacy that became a terror to the people out of ambition. Rocafuerte’s source of authority for these notions is “the opinion of the savant M. Villemain, held in his course of the history of the Middle Ages.”49 Rocafuerte’s mention of his source, the French writer Abel François Villemain (1790–1870), is especially useful. Although Rocafuerte did not use the term “Middle Ages,” preferring to reference a Gothic era, his attitude, like that of Bolí�var, is different from those vague criticisms referred to above about the rude language, ignorance, poor taste, and barbaric luxury of medi­eval Spain or Colonial times. More precisely, both Bolí�var and Rocafuerte describe the Gothic centuries as a definite period of human history, which is seen as a chain of alternating periods of luminosity and darkness, with the eras of liberty, virtue, enlightenment, and happiness corresponding to the fortunate beginnings in Greece and Rome, and times of darkness coinciding with the Gothic centuries of fanaticism, when pieces of wood and metal were called thrones and crowns.

Light and Darkness in History

According to Rocafuerte, decadence—a problem already invented by the eighteenth century—began when the northern barbarians invaded the south. He reasons that “Christianity would have reformed the institutions of Rome following its principles of liberty and equality, and resuscitated the glorious republican system, had the Goths, the Vandals and all those northern savages not flooded Europe. They brought barbarism, slavery, ignorance, and cruelty.”50 The consequence was a “darkness that began expanding from the fifth century on, and that in the tenth enveloped the world in a night as dense as it was melancholic,” in which a warrior spirit dominated and the sciences were forced to take refuge in monasteries.51 Similarly, in 1812, the Chilean 48  Rocafuerte, El sistema, 14, 15, 20, 92.

49  Rocafuerte, Ensayo 19.

50  “El admirable cristianismo hubiera mejorado las instituciones de Roma y conforme a su espí�ritu de libertad e igualdad hubiera hecho revivir el glorioso sistema republicano, si los godos, los vándalos y todos esos salvajes del norte no hubieran entonces inundado la Europa. Trajeron consigo la barbarie, la esclavitud, la ignorancia y la crueldad” (Rocafuerte, El sistema, 29–30). The following para­graphs go on to discuss this barbarism, slavery, ignorance, and cruelty. 51  “las tinieblas que empezaron a extenderse desde el siglo v y que en el x envolvieron al mundo en una noche tan densa como melancólica” (Rocafuerte, El sistema, 30).

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writer Camilo Henrí�quez thinks of Scholasticism as a “new and ugly yoke to reason,” an idea that he reiterates a few years later in an article in El Nacional of Buenos Aires, noting how “It was a dense night when the chain leading…to the formation of wealth and civilization was broken; it was a night in which men stopped referring to their nature and instead drew the lessons of their politics, economy, and morals from the heart of tigers.”52 A more informed later article signaled more precisely the economic and social reasons for the fall of the Roman Empire: “The Romans, debased because of their excessive opulence, could not withstand the robust cohorts of Huns, Goths, Vandals, Alans, and Suevi that, constrained in their arid north, descended as hungry wolves on the fertile south. The Goths, imposing their military power in the Iberian Peninsula, took for themselves two-thirds of its lands. Thus landowners, turned into colonized peoples, had to pay significant sums to the conquerors, who became rich with easily won wealth and abandoned themselves to magnificence and then to all the vices of luxury.”53 Then the Arabs, continues the article, showed up, opening an era marked by abundant population, wealth, culture, and magnificence, both in Islamic and Christian regions. Those elements also appear in a discourse made in Panama by the Peruvian Manuel Lorenzo de Vidaurre. At the opening of a congress aimed at the union of the new republics he stated that “when the barbarians invaded the most valuable part of Europe, they divided two-thirds of its lands among themselves. They could not cultivate them because of their dimensions, and because their only concerns were to kill and to enjoy life. Agriculture arrived in Spain with the Moors.”54 Lorenzo de Vidaurre occasionally references the Neapolitan economist Gaetano Filangieri as his source. He was particularly impressed with Filangieri’s observations on the shortcomings of big estates, although most of the condemnations of feudalism are due to its despotic character, and the inequality it created. This condemnation is echoed in the wording used by Chilean legislators when they belatedly abolished noble titles and ranks in order to “expel the miserly remnants of the feudal system that has ruled Chile,” or in that used 52  “Nuevo y odioso yugo a la razón” (Henrí�quez, Escritos políticos, 77–79). “Una opaca noche, en que se rompió la cadena que nos conduce desde las necesidades mutuas de la especie humana y los medios naturales de proveerlos hasta la formación de la riqueza y la civilización; fue una noche en que los hombres dejaron de consultar su naturaleza y sacaron del corazón de los tigres las lecciones de su polí�tica, su economí�a y su moral” (Biblioteca de Mayo, 10:263, 9458, cf. 8529, quoting El Nacional (Buenos Aires), March 31, 1825).

53  “Envilecidos los romanos por su suma opulencia, no pudieron resistir a las robustas cohortes de los Hunnos, Godos, Vándalos, Alanos y Suevos, que no cabiendo en el árido Septentrión se dejaron caer como lobos hambrientos sobre el fértil mediodí�a. Los Godos, al fijar su militar dominación en la pení�nsula ibérica se apropiaron de las dos tercias parte de sus terrenos. De este modo los propietarios transformados en colonos tuvieron que pagar gruesas mercedes a los conquistadores hechos ricohombres, rentados a poca costa, se entregaron a la magnificencia y por último a todos los vicios del lujo” (Semanario de Agricultura, January 5, 1803; January 12, 1803).

54  “cuando los bárbaros ocuparon la parte más preciosa de la Europa, repartieron entre sí� las dos tercias partes del terreno. No lo podí�an cultivar bien por su extensión, y porque asesinar y gozar eran sus únicas ocupaciones. La agricultura vino a la España con los moros” (Vidaurre, Plan, 429n119).

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by the Mexican writer Carlos Marí�a de Bustamante, who felt impelled to express his “humble thanks to the Heavens for the disappearance of feudalism from our sight, and let us make vows of cursing it (if possible) even three times a day, so that we do not again see its head, fiercer than Medusa’s.”55 These vague statements about the general despotism of the feudal system highlight the intelligence of the few, such as Vidaurre, who saw the division of land as its central characteristic. Metaphors of darkness, night, and slumber were also used to depict colonial times. As Vidaurre says, the medi­eval night ended when the Crusades “awakened Europe from the shameful dream to which superstition and fanaticism had confined her…the dew of Asia resuscitated in the European nations the arts, commerce, science, and industry that were before entirely abandoned.” This idea is derived from the History of Charles V by William Robertson. With the Scottish historian, the Limaborn writer in 1810 evokes a history in which liberty was reborn in a communal Italy, where “the hateful name of slave and master” was abolished, and ordinary people began “to abandon its debasement” and to diminish the power of nobility, defined as being “of the offspring of those chiefs of bandits that the north threw, because its soil could not sustain them; they came to steal properties, and especially freedom from the south of Europe.”56 That the Crusades began a rebirth of freedom was repeated by the Mexican José Marí�a Luis Mora, who also references the authority of Robertson when comparing them to the conquest of America: “The Crusades had religion as their main objective and chief goal, and the conquest of the territories seized by Muslims as a secondary one; the expeditions of the fifteenth century were directed principally to conquest and secondarily to the progress of religion; both had the same outcome: the progress of civilization, the diffusion of commerce, and the growth of public wealth.”57 55  “Miserables reliquias del sistema feudal que han regido en Chile” (Colección de antiguos periódicos chilenos, 4:223, quoting Gazeta de Santiago de Chile, November 29, 1817). “Humildes gracias al cielo de que desapareció de nuestra vista el feudalismo y hagamos propósito de maldecirlo (si es posible) hasta tres veces cada dí�a, que no le veamos su cabeza más fiera que la Medusa” (Abispa de Chilpancingo, no. 5, 32). 56  “Despertaron la Europa del vergonzoso sueño en que la habí�an sepultado la superstición y el fanatismo […] el rocí�o de Asia hizo revivir en las naciones europeas las artes, el comercio, las ciencias y la industria antes enteramente abandonadas”; “el odioso nombre de esclavo y señor,” “comenzó el pueblo a salir de su abatimiento” y a disminuir el poder de la nobleza, “de los hijos de esos capitanes de bandidos que arrojó el norte, por no poder mantenerlos en su suelo: ellos vinieron a robar al mediodí�a de la Europa las propiedades, y lo que es más la libertad” (Vidaurre, Plan, 77).

57  “Las Cruzadas tení�an por objeto y fin principal la causa de la religión y por secundario la conquista de los paí�ses ocupados por los musulmanes; las expediciones del siglo quince se dirigí�an principalmente a las conquistas y secundariamente a los progresos de la religión; unas y otras tuvieron el mismo resultado, a saber el progreso de la civilización, la difusión del comercio y el aumento de la riqueza pública” (Mora, México y sus revoluciones, 2:175–76). Outside Robertson, the idea of a major role of the Crusades in the rebirth of freedom was also suggested by several French and German authors: Voss cites Méhégan, Cournand, Condorcet and Schlözer (Voss, “Le problème du Moyen Â� ge,” 338).

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Not everyone admired the Crusades, however. As mentioned above, Francisco Iturri was skeptical about them; and when the Portuguese invaded Uruguay in 1816, a Buenos Aires journal, obviously hostile, speaks about a “new Crusade.”58 Another journal, Mexican, refers to “those times when the princes abandoned their estates to conquer Syria,” and this for criminal, far from religious motives.59 These motives were enumerated among the examples of fanaticism; it was asserted that “the fury of the Crusades destroyed innumerable people, and like today it would be preposterous to resuscitate this spirit; it is also foolish to judge those men by the ideas that today rule the world.”60 Pedro Gual in 1825 similarly protests “the barbarous principles that feudalism and the Crusades brought to the laws of nations.”61 The Caracas-born intellectual Simón Rodrí�guez saw them as a vicious enterprise and, like the Inquisition, as an outcome of the alliance between throne and shrine.62 Likewise, the Crusades were not appreciated by our much-quoted Rocafuerte, who, inspired by John Quincy Adams, considers not them but the Reformation as the movement that awoke the world from its shameful slumber.63 Rocafuerte, with several philosophers of the time, did not see Christianity as a key factor contributing to decadence during the Middle Ages; but he was nevertheless a partisan of Protestantism, which explains his preference to see it as the end of the Middle Ages. In Catholic America, this positive view of the Reformation could not become a widely held belief. Catholicism underpins another chrono­logy, that proposed by the Argentinian priest Juan Ignacio Gorriti. Exiled in a hamlet near Cochabamba, without books, he proposes a continuation of the Catholic Bossuetian conception of history and society, but his writings also reflect some appreciation of Protestantism. He suggests that the defeat of popular sovereignty “was perhaps the worse consequence of the ills brought to southern Europe by the northern barbarians.”64 Gorriti sees the commencement of recovery under Louis XIV, who protected the sciences which, in the end, overturned the king’s intentions and signaled the end of feudalism. The Crusades, the Reformation, and Louis XIV were frequently mentioned; oddly, this is not the case with the discovery of America. As noted above, Unanue does refer 58  Biblioteca de Mayo, 7:6332, quoting La Crónica Argentina, October 10, 1816, and December 8, 1816. 59  “Aquellos tiempos cuando los prí�ncipes dejaban perder sus Estados por irse a conquistar la Syria” (La Abispa de Chilpancingo, no. 12, 173).

60  “El furor de las Cruzadas destruyó innumerable gente, y así� como en el dí�a serí�a el colmo de la ridiculez querer resucitar el espí�ritu que entonces hubiera, sí� es una necedad querer juzgar a aquellos hombres por las ideas que hoy gobiernan el mundo” (page 1 of El Nivel (Guadalajara), July 14, 1825; and page 4 of El Sol, October 13, 1827).

61  “Máximas bárbaras que introdujo el feudalismo y las Cruzadas en las leyes de las naciones” (Epistolario de la Primera República, 185; letter of Pedro Gual to Simón Bolí�var, April 11, 1826). 62  Rodrí�guez, Luces y virtudes sociales, 171.

63  Rocafuerte, El sistema, 30.

64  “Fue quizás la consecuencia más funesta de los estragos causados en el mediodí�a de Europa por la invasión de los bárbaros del norte” (Gorriti, Reflexiones sobre las causas morales, 69).

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to it, although briefly and in passing, as spurring significant changes in Europe. Similarly, although he explicitly positions the discovery as a cause for change, the Central American intellectual José Cecilio del Valle suggests that the feat of Columbus was coeval with the end of the times of darkness in Europe and with the “renaissance of letters.”65 Rocafuerte, in the meantime, explicitly argues that the discovery was less critical than the Reformation. The idea that the emergence of America in the European landscape marked the end of European medi­eval barbarity was to be welcomed by Criollos sometime later, and it is, to this day, quite widespread. Yet we do not see this notion in the pamphlets that the prolific Carlos Marí�a de Bustamante composed on Columbus in 1836, and, in a valuable antho­logy of Mexican opinions on the Discovery, this idea only appears in 1845 in the writings of Eulalio A. Ortega.66 This delay could have been due to the content of rather pro-Indian patriotic propaganda, which thought of the European invasion as bringing feudalism and a “fifteenth-century spirit” to America.67 Referring once again to Filangieri’s observations on the failings of large estates after the division of land by northern barbarians, Vidaurre notes that the conquistadors had divided the land “the same as in feudal times.”68 This observation is crucial because it represents the embryo of the widespread notion of the “feudal diagnostics” of Latin American inequality and all the social problems derived from it.

The Evolution of Societies

Picking here and there we could reconstruct a set of ideas about the Middle Ages prevailing among eighteenth and nineteenth-century Latin American intellectuals. If there is a difference from Europe, it is the general condemnation of the Middle Ages and the lack of those friendly voices that always existed in Europe. Another difference is the scarcity of mentions. Even after perusing a sizeable collection of documents, I found that the Middle Ages are mentioned only a few times, by the few authors I repeatedly mention throughout this chapter. This was not only because the Middle Ages were alien to our history; Classical Antiquity, equally alien, is ubiquitous in Criollo reminiscences, comparisons, and even icono­graphy. By contrast, the Middle Ages are mentioned as little as the Orient, China, or Russia. Not only were the Middle Ages despised, they were also ignored. In the meantime, in early Romantic Europe, discussion of the Middle Ages was obligatory. As a demonstration of its rare currency, in the quoted example of Bolí�var discussing Gothic laws, his secretary miswrote boticas for góticas, a significant mistake.69 The rarity of the Middle Ages is also apparent in a Chilean nineteenth-century joke ridiculing the

65  “El renacimiento de las letras.” The idea appears in a discourse by a European scholar that José Cecilio del Valle translates, but does not seem to approve (Valle, Obras, 211, 229). 66  Ortega y Medina, La idea colombina del Descubrimiento, 21–25. 67  Monteagudo, Memoria sobre los principios políticos, 28–29.

68  Vidaurre, Plan, 429n119.

69  See the note ad loc. in the Bolí�var website mentioned above.

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pedantic outburst of a Chilean lady and her ignorant husband. She refers to the “northern barbarians of the Middle Ages,” an allusion that her husband corrects by saying that the barbarian Araucanian Amerindians were in the south, not in the north; when she insists that she is talking about the Middle Ages, he responds that among Araucanians there were old and young people. This poking fun at the ignorance of the Chilean middle classes reveals just how obscure the idea of Northern “barbarians” still was.70 Despite this obscurity, some traditional symbols were still revered. Bolí�var rejects Gothicism, but he nevertheless remembers its military feats, the conquest of Jerusalem by Crusaders, and the fight against the Moors; a political mention useful to his soldiers that is also less critical about the wars against the Moors.71 The Peruvian press eulogized Bolí�var by comparing him to Constantine and Charlemagne, which surely did not please him, but at least he was not compared to the Gothic symbo­logy he abhorred, to which other rulers were already attached.72 In terms of other traditional medi­eval symbols, Agustí�n de Iturbide in Mexico, the ephemeral (1821) emperor Agustí�n I, organized a crown ceremonial copied after that of Charles I in 1530 and that of Napoleon Bonaparte in 1804, that is, with neomedi­eval elements such as the scepter, ring, mantle of velvet, noblemen, and even the anointing with the holy chrism.73 The Haitian court of King Henri Christophe likewise developed Medi­eval-African-Caribbean paraphernalia.74 Also a traditional symbol, Gothic ancestry, although rejected among Criollo intelligentsia, was still much appreciated by important families who were attached to their ancient roots. For instance, a warrior of Las Navas de Tolosa was found among the ancestors of the Bolivian president Andrés Santa Cruz; and according to the legend of the Colombian family Arboleda, they descend from a French nobleman called Arbalet who took part in the Reconquista.75 In his 1847 Memoirs, the Colombian historian José Antonio de la Plaza says that he is “convinced of the futility of distinguishing amongst aristocrats,” and claims that he does not care if he was a descendant of “a famous captain of Pelayo, or an indolent landowner of Roman times, or from a feudal serf of the Middle Ages, or a converted Moor or Indian”; but he nevertheless reviews his family history from the time of Anagildo, king of the Goths.76 Genealogical trees, coats-of70  Blest Gana, Martín Rivas, 88.

71  Taboada, “De la España africana.”

72  On page 54 of El Sol del Cuzco, March 5, 1825.

73  Details in Gómez-Huerta Suárez, “Iturbide ‘el breve.’” The liberal Lorenzo de Zavala thought that in the new imperial court, they “were asked very serious questions about the holy oil, and they would even give half the rent of the Crown to have a part of the ampoule of St. Remigius” (Zavala, Ensayo histórico, 1:175). 74  Cole, Christophe, king of Haiti, 191–92.

75  Crespo, Santa Cruz, el cóndor indio, 18; Lofstrom, La vida íntima, 70.

76  “Persuadido como el que más de la futileza de las distinciones nobiliarias” y que de descender “de algún famoso capitán de don Pelayo, o de algún indolente propietario del tiempo de los romanos, o de algún siervo enfeudado de la Edad Media, o de un moro o indio convertido” (Amaya Fernández, Despierten al progreso, 24–25).

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arms, and allegations of blood purity abound in these nineteenth-century family legends. Even in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, these symbols are not entirely irrelevant. We must not exaggerate the dimensions of the early use of the Middle Ages in Latin America. As we have traced them, a set of symbols and references that we attach to the Middle Ages were used in imperial propaganda until the beginning of the Independence movement. Yet when independent intellectuals adhering to Enlightenment criticism viewed them, they considered them alien to their democratic and American world and synthesized them under the name “feudal.” In his detailed analysis, José Carlos Chiaramonte makes it clear that during the decades following the declaration of Independence, the term “feudal” is used to signify the absence of a central government, elitist ownership of the land, and unproductive class differences. The use of the term “feudal” in the first decades after Independence, he submits, “was secondary and different from the one that will be observed at the end of the century, meaning that [at the beginning of the century] it did not aim to define a form of society, or a characteristic historical period of the past or of the present of some countries.”77 Rather, “feudal” was one of the perpetual faces of despotism that Vidaurre, with his characteristically acute intuition, aligned with other examples from Egypt, China, and Rome,78 and that in 1826 the Venezuelan intellectual Antonio Leocadio Guzmán classified among the regimes built on blood.79 However, nothing could prevent this abolished feudalism from a resurgence, as some intellectuals began to predict. They considered that the fall of the colonial order would lead to a new medi­eval era of division and darkness. This ominous forecast was made as early as 1808 in New Spain by the pro-independent friar Melchor de Talamantes;80 later, Bolí�var claimed in 1819 that “America, when becoming separate from the Spanish monarchy, found itself as the Roman empire when that enormous mass fell to pieces amid the ancient world. Each dismembered portion then formed an independent nation, in accordance with its situation or its interests; the difference being that those members established their former associations anew.”81 Likewise, when informed about the Independence of Guatemala, Vidaurre said he was not surprised, because the situation reminded him of the fall of the Roman empire, 77  “Fue secundario y distinto del que se observarí�a a fines del siglo, en el sentido que no se trataba de definir con él una forma de sociedad, una etapa histórica caracterí�stica ya fuera del pasado, ya del presente de los paí�ses” (Chiaramonte, “Génesis del ‘diagnóstico’ feudal,” 23). 78  Blanco y Azpurúa, Documentos para la historia, 10:433, 10:436. 79  Blanco y Azpurúa, Documentos para la historia, 360, 370, 364. 80  Garcí�a, Documentos históricos mexicanos, 7:391, 7:466.

81  “Al desprenderse la América de la Monarquí�a Española, se ha encontrado semejante al Imperio Romano cuando aquella enorme masa cayó dispersa en medio del antiguo mundo. Cada desmembración formó entonces una nación independiente conforme a su situación o a sus intereses; pero con la diferencia de que aquellos miembros volví�an a restablecer sus primeras asociaciones” (Bolí�var, “Discurso de Angostura,” 1819).

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when “every province began breaking from the Roman yoke, and the whole empire disappeared.”82 The debates on a constitution for Great Colombia created the occasion for new medi­evalist comparisons. In 1827, the representatives of Bogotá asked Simón Bolí�var: “Will we, the organizers of the nineteenth-century social order, repeat the doings of the Vandals, the Goths, and the Visigoths who in the tenth and following centuries established a feudal order?”83 The theme also appears in the 1829 Meditaciones colombianas of Juan Garcí�a del Rí�o, who thinks, however, of the American states as “differing from those that were formed after the dismembering of the Roman empire, when the barbarians of the northern forests fell through the world from near-polar regions, in a gloomy and terrible night.”84

Concluding Remarks

The doubts and incoherencies that we observe confirm that during the nineteenth century, Latin Americans did not entirely understand the nature of the Middle Ages — a lack of clarity that explains why this concept was inconsistently used. A notion born within European culture, its American appropriations were erratic. I believe that a definition only began to be found in the generation after Independence, when classics of medi­eval history that had been rare in Criollo libraries became popular—for example, Simonde de Sismondi and Prosper de Barante. This was a generation influenced by the Romantic French thought of the Restoration and best exemplified by the History of Civilization in Europe by François Guizot (1828), a book that was also a basic reference for the generation of 1837 in Argentina. Some Catholic thinkers in the generation after Independence eventually adopted these classic works of medi­eval history along with some ideas of Chateaubriand and elements of Neo-Gothic architectural and funerary art. Paradoxically, there were also poems, novels, and plays in which Crusaders, Norsemen, and medi­eval castles reappeared when authors could have instead paid more attention to the indigenous Amerindians or Mestizos with whom they interacted daily.85 More significant than these sporadic literary pieces was the way in which the 82  “Comenzó una provincia rompiendo el yugo romano y desapareció el imperio” (Vidaurre, Cartas americanas, 324).

83  “Nosotros, los organizadores del orden social en el siglo xix, ¿haremos el mismo oficio de los vándalos, godos y visigodos que fundaron el feudalismo en el siglo x y siguientes?” (Blanco y Azpurúa, Documentos para la historia, 14:695).

84  “diferentes de aquellos que se formaron de la desmembración del poder romano, cuando descendieron de las inmediaciones del polo los bárbaros que habitaban las selvas del norte y sumieron el mundo en una noche lóbrega y espantosa” (Garcí�a del Rí�o, Meditaciones colombianas, 378). 85  Examples of writings with medi­eval themes, generally about the Crusade or Reconquista include: the medi­eval legends and poems written in Chile by the Spanish liberal José Joaquí�n de Mora in the 1820s, and many plays such as La vuelta del cruzado (1838) by Ramón de Palma (Cuba); El templario (1838) by Francisco Javier Foxá (Cuba); Herman o La vuelta del cruzado (1842) by Fernando Calderón (Mexico); El cruzado (1842) by José Mármol (Argentina); El poeta cruzado

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Middle Ages began to be presented in the new French philosophies of history read by the 1837 generation. It was in these writings that the idea and even the name took its final form. If there is an author to be singled out, it is the Argentinian Domingo F. Sarmiento (1811–1888), whose interpretation of Argentina is usually seen in its “Orientalist” dimension,86 but which also had a “medi­eval” one. Born in the antiquated and poor surroundings of San Juan in Argentina, he read avidly everything he could find, prominently books by French authors. Later he was exiled in Chile, where he championed an intellectual movement among other Argentinean exiles, aimed at adopting modern ideas and institutions to lead a second, now cultural, Independence movement. Sarmiento and his circle abandoned the Enlightenment’s candid faith in free Greek and Roman institutions and ridiculed their forefathers’ attempts at imitating them. Instead, they discovered, based on Victor Cousin or François Guizot, that modern society was a product of a very long history of social processes, and of different legacies, among which one could find that of the robust races of the north, who had supposedly planted the seeds of civilization. One of the exiles, Vicente Fidel López, wrote in 1845 an ambitious Memoria sobre los resultados generales con que los pueblos antiguos han contribuido a la civilización de la humanidad (Memory of the general results with which ancient peoples contributed to the civilization of humanity), a sort of philosophy of history largely drawn (or copied) from French authors. The same year, with similar inspiration, Sarmiento published his immensely influential Facundo, a mix of bio­graphy, novel, historical interpretation, and political manifesto. In it, he proposes that the key to Latin American poverty, civil war, and instability is its social legacy, indebted to Spanish medi­eval institutions, and heavily dependent on the vocabulary of feudalism and the Middle Ages.87 Sarmiento’s vigorous interpretation became very popular and was instrumental in the adoption of a liberal and Eurocentric view of American history and society, adapted to Latin American elites, now firmly allied to the world system centred in the North Atlantic. Accordingly, our evolution was made to fit European models: reading about Merovingians, Jeanne d’Arc, Ghibellines and Guelphs in communal Italy, and the perfidious Venetian government, Latin Americans concluded that our evolution stagnated in the past, and that we lived in a sort of feudal Middle Ages.

(1851) and El templario o Los godos en Palestina (1855) by Manuel Nicolás Corpancho (Perú); and the novel by Soledad Acosta de Samper, Las dos reinas de Chipre (1878–1879). 86  For instance, Civantos, Between Argentines and Arabs, 31–51.

87  Roig, “Génesis del diagnóstico feudal”; Beckman, “Trobadours and Bedouins”; Altschul, “Writing Argentine Premodernity.”

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La Abispa de Chilpancingo 1821–1823. México: Instituto de Estudios Parlamentarios Eduardo Neri, 1998. Aguirre Elorriaga, Manuel. El abate de Pradt en la emancipación hispanoamericana (1800– 1830). Buenos Aires: Huarpes, 1946. Alonso, Martí�n. Enciclopedia del idioma. Madrid, Aguilar, 1968. Altschul, Nadia R. “Writing Argentine Premodernity: Medi­eval Temporality in the Creole Writer-Stateman Domingo F. Sarmiento.” Interventions: International Journal of Postcolonial Studies 16, no. 5 (2014): 716–29. Amaya Fernández, Carlos Eduardo. Despierten al progreso: las Memorias para la Historia de Nueva Granada (1850) de José Antonio de la Plaza (1807–1854). Bogotá: Universidad de Los Andes, 2012. Beckman, Ericka. “Troubadours and Bedouins on the Pampas: Medi­evalism and Orientalism in Sarmiento’s Facundo.” Chasqui 38, no. 2 (2009): 37–46. Biblioteca de Mayo: Colección de obras y documentos para la historia argentina. Buenos Aires: Senado de la Nación, 1960. Blanco, José Félix, and Ramón Azpurúa. Documentos para la historia de la vida pública del Liber­ tador. 15 volumes. Facsimile of the 1875 edition. Caracas: Presidencia de la República, 1977. Blest Gana, Alberto. Martín Rivas (novela de costumbres político-sociales). 1862. New ed., Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1977. Breña, Roberto. “El primer liberalismo español y su proyección hispanoamericana.” In Liberalismo y poder: Latinoamérica en el siglo xix, edited by Iván Jaksić and Eduardo Posada Carbó, pro­logue by Natalio Botana, 63–88. Santiago: fce, 2011. Cañizares-Esguerra, Jorge. How to Write the History of the New World: Histories, Epistemo­ logies, and Identities in the Eighteenth-Century Atlantic World. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001. Chiaramonte, José Carlos. “Génesis del ‘diagnóstico’ feudal en la historia hispanoamericana.” In Formas de sociedad y economía en Hispanoamérica, 15–95. México: Grijalbo, 1983. Civantos, Christina. Between Argentines and Arabs: Argentine Orientalism, Arab Immigrants, and the Writing of Identity. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2006. Cole, Hubert, Christophe, King of Haiti. New York: Viking, 1967. Colección de antiguos periódicos chilenos. 20 vols. Santiago: Imprenta Universitaria, 1951. Crespo, Alfonso. Santa Cruz, el cóndor indio. México: fce, 1944. Dufays, Jean-Michel. “Le ‘moyen-âge’ au dix-huitième siècle: contribution à l’étude de la ter­ mino­logie et de la problématique d’ʽépoque intermédiaire.’” In Études sur le xviii siècle, edited by Roland Mortier and Hervè Hasquin, 125–45. Bruxelles: Université de Bruxelles, 1981. Epistolario de la Primera República: Estudio preliminar por la Fundación John Boulton. 2 vols. Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1960. Ferguson, Wallace K. The Renaissance in Historical Thought: Five Centuries of Interpretation. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1950. Ferreira Furtado, Júnia. “Seditious books and libertinism in the Captaincy of Minas Gerais (18th Century Brazil): The Library of Naturalist José Vieira Couto.” Revista Complutense de Historia de América 40 (2014): 113–36. Garcí�a, Genaro. Documentos históricos mexicanos. 2 vols. Facsimile of the 1910 edition. México: inehrm, 1985. Garcí�a del Rí�o, Juan. Meditaciones colombianas. 1829. 2nd ed. Bogotá: Biblioteca de Cultura Colombiana, 1945.

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Chapter 3

A MILITANT AND PEASANT-BASED MEDIEVAL HISTORY IN BRAZIL: FANNING THE SPARK OF HOPE MÁRIO JORGE DA MOTTA BASTOS

It is time for professional historians to renounce the solitary comforts of our offices and promote a history that engages with social realities and can be a tool for political intervention in the present, as well as a beacon for the future. My appeal is directed especially to those who address remote societies in space or in time: to promote a type of history that is engaged in the social struggles of the present and to preserve our field against current trends that systematically and progressively threaten its substance, density, meaning and raison d’être. Despite personal devotion to past temporalities, I contend that historians should invest all their efforts and passion into building an alternative future to the dark approaching horizon that is being shaped, a product of the swift degradation of our living conditions. I likewise contend that this attitude necessarily requires the promotion of a militant and anti-capitalist history. I will start by making clear a known point. Our reigning proposition commands historians to practise our craft in a rigorous manner. Yet an implicit side of that proposition is that our craft must be unpretentious and aseptic, a so-called technical knowledge purified of political passion and inclination. This implicit belief is unshaken despite our knowledge that all established scholars are biased. Some may be openly pro-establishment, denouncing “conspiracies,” and supporting, for instance, the so-called clash of civilizations or the many kinds of “historical revisionism.” 1 These might in fact be worth a measure of respect for doing this openly. Many, as examined by Josep Fontana and Julio Aróstegui, do it implicitly, hiding from readers the epistemo­l ogical and theoretical perspectives that shape their intellectual production. 2 Moreover, almost all involved find it easier to denounce as ideo­logical only history that is explicitly anti-hegemonic. The proposition of this chapter is therefore not new or “alternative,” although it might not be as fashionable as it once was, at least not since the celebration of the triumph of 1  See Huntington Clash of Civilizations. Regarding historical revisionism, Holocaust denial is the most widely known version. See also Melo and Monteiro “Os ciclos” for discussion of the “Demono­ logy” attributed to communism in the recent revisionist approach of the Russian Revolution of 1917.

2  The Catalan historian Josep Fontana denounces the conservative “political economy” today, which is based on an understanding of history that prevailed through many centuries. Julio Aróstegui criticizes the absence of critical theoretical reflection on the (historical) discipline by historians.

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capitalism and Francis Fukuyama’s so-called end of history. 3 In order to produce a history that offers an alternative tomorrow—an alternative to the “wasteland” that is our ongoing future—the rigorous practice of the craft is a sine qua non. This remark should assuage the purists. But the elaboration and production of historical knowledge must not only be done with great care; an historical knowledge for the future must also go beyond established academic boundaries and be a form of social activism. Still, historians do not need to cease being historians to involve themselves in politics, nor do they need to split their existence between the professional and the activist. Let us start at the beginning.

(Medi­eval) History in Brazil: Beginnings, Rise, and Development of the Field It was only in 1934 that the first institution of higher education offering Medi­eval History was created in Brazil: the University of São Paulo (USP). It was supported in its creation by scientific missions from Germany, Italy, and especially France. Fernand Braudel, Claude Lévi-Strauss, Roger Bastide, and Jean Gagé all taught at USP. Jean Gagé, a scholar of classical antiquity, supervised in the early 1940s the first Brazilian theses on the Middle Ages. The first teaching position in Medi­eval History was created in the 1950s.4 Since its beginnings, then, both History and Medi­eval History in Brazil were heavily influenced by the French tradition, explaining why the French approach remains hegemonic in Brazil today. As an example, most courses in Brazil take “medi­ eval ‘France’” as the axis of reference for all the Middle Ages; and the study of culture and mentalities was, and continues to be, vigorously pursued. Together with French academic dominance, pioneer studies of the Iberian medi­eval past were also produced by some scholars as an attempt to understand the historical background of Brazil. But the full development of Medi­eval History in Brazil happened only in the 1980s, and is again directly related to the “newest fashion from Paris” that reached the Brazilian historical mindscape: the third Annales generation and the promotion of nouvelle histoire. At that point a “new French mission” reached Brazilian shores, headed by Jacques Le Goff, Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, and Georges Duby, among others. These medi­evalists awoke in students the passion for a “mythic” Middle Ages, filled with dreams, witches, and marvels. At the end of the 1980s, the first graduate studies program in Ancient and Medi­eval History was created at the Universidade Federal Fluminense in Niterói, Rio de Janeiro; and today there are already dozens of programs and centres for these studies. Every year, the doctoral theses on the Middle Ages can be counted in the hundreds. A Brazilian association for medi­eval studies (Associação Brasileira de Estudos Medievais—ABREM) was founded in 1995, and at its peak had around five hundred 3  See André Lahóz for Francis Fukuyama’s overthrowing of Clio; and Jean Chesneaux for the relation between history and activism. 4  Franco Júnior et al., “Historio­graphie et médiévistique.”



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43

members. Every two years it holds an international congress of medi­eval studies, its thirteenth edition taking place in 2019.5 As a result, in recent decades there has been a perception of a thundering victory for the promoters of Medi­eval History in Brazil. They look to, first, the growth of undergraduate and graduate courses throughout the country; the proliferation of research groups right across Brazil; the high number of national and international academic events every year in different states; and, finally, the presence of eminent international medi­eval experts in Brazil, while Brazilian professionals take part in international events abroad. The feeling of triumph produced a sense of stability, and the hard fight against those who doubted the relevance of the area seemed to be over. I frequently remind my readers of a prediction that still echoes among Brazilian medi­evalists, despite the fact that it was overturned by the course of events. In the late 1970s a famous and respected Brazilian academic stated that a university in Brazil would never produce a medi­evalist.6 She thought it was a field of study foreign to Brazilian reality on many levels. Forty years have passed since this statement and now Brazil has hundreds of medi­evalists trained in postgraduate programs across the country. However, “our medi­evalism” has never overcome some hidden distrust and even open opposition. Why was the relevance of medi­eval studies in Brazil put into question? 7 Some argue that this type of history and its problems, methods, and questions do not belong to Brazil. After all, “we did not have a Middle Ages,” some would say! Brazil “was brought into history” in the “first wave of globalization” during the colonial expansion of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. This would explain our subaltern insertion in a “new world order” that was in formation. The premise is that each nation should take care of “its own past.” Such a view is very narrow. It limits humanity’s global heritage—the sum of all human experience on Earth—to the nation-state that controls the archives and sources, imprisoning history within national borders. Others who oppose the study of the medi­eval past in Brazil have denounced it as a misuse of human resources and (even worse) a waste of scarce research grants and budgets. Universities are the true hub for academic development in Brazil, a reality even more striking for the humanities. There is nothing in Brazil that resembles the research centres that are so common in Europe. Hence, almost all scientific research is done by university professors and constrained by the difficult access to all kinds of material support. The scarcity of university funds gives rise to fierce disputes over the also-limited research grants and scholarships offered in fewer and fewer numbers by government agencies. Under so many restrictions, and according to the logic previously stated, why should Brazilian taxpayers’ money fund the writing of “someone else’s history”? On the other hand, however, if professors are limited to just reproducing a knowledge that they are unable to generate, then the Brazilian academy will 5  Bastos and Pachá, “Por uma negação.”

6  See Linhares, “Apresentação,” 11.

7  See Bastos, “Quatro décadas” and “La Historia Medi­eval en Brasil.”

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be doomed to fulfill the secondary role that international organizations prophesy for Brazil—i.e., the acquisition of knowledge produced elsewhere and disseminated in simplified booklets adapted to our subordinate condition. Despite the earlier sense of victory then, it is clear that the field might be confronting a new challenge. At the very least, the effectiveness of medi­eval studies in the contemporary world is under suspicion. It has been a long time since a medi­evalist like Georges Duby was part of the académie française (1970–1992); or since Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie wrote a medi­eval history book that became a worldwide bestseller. The first person to note that backwards trend was probably the French scholar, Alain Guerreau. At the beginning of the millennium, he gave a pessimistic evaluation of (French) medi­eval studies which, in his opinion, was going through its worst crisis since the arrival of nouvelle histoire. Since then, the scenario—in Brazil at least—seems to have grown worse, following the very accurate evaluation that Nadia Altschul produced ten years ago: “As a working premise, I find that we can hardly escape the fact that the Middle Ages is not placed today on the pedestal where it was placed during the nineteenth century [and during the twentieth, I may add], and that we cannot therefore avoid the recognition that our period does not set the intellectual framework or provide the language of dialogue most valued in current scholarly exchange.”8 Medi­eval scholarship has shown many reactions to this lack of centrality, and these challenges may be one of the reasons why history as a field is in a constant state of self-reflection. Or, as Maria de Lurdes Rosa and André Bertoli would say, Medi­eval Studies are prone to having an “identitarian introspection.”9 There are many and diverse initiatives dedicated to the evaluation and renovation of the field, as well as many efforts to legitimize its importance, practice, and perspectives.10 It would be possible to frame these initiatives as the celebration of “peripheral medi­evalities” by the European and North American centres of discussion, which have now discovered medi­eval studies from Brazil and other “peripheral areas.” Already in 2002 medi­ evalists linked to the CNRS head office at Auxerre, led by Eliana Magnani, promoted an international event of one week, where the hosts learned about medi­eval studies produced in Brazil and Argentina. This landmark meeting was the first effective effort by Europeans to approach the Latin American periphery of medi­eval studies. Three other events in São Paulo (2003), Madrid (2005), and Buenos Aires (2006) completed the initiative and crystallized in the book Le Moyen Âge vu d’ailleurs. More recently, Portuguese medi­evalists also attempted to bring Brazilian medi­evalists closer in a congress on “Portugal Medi­eval visto do Brasil: Diálogos entre Medi­evalistas Lusófonos” (Medi­ eval Portugal as Seen from Brazil: Dialogues Among Lusophone Medi­evalists).11 It is 8  Altschul, “Postcolonialism,” 594.

9  Rosa and Bertoli, “Medi­evalismos irmãos,” 248.

10  See, among others, the application of postcolonial theory by Kathleen Biddick, Jerome Cohen, Nadia Altschul and Kathleen Davis, and Simon Gaunt (see citations at end of this chapter). See also Rosa and Bertoli, “Medi­evalismos irmãos,” 248n1, for a long list of studies dedicated to the topic. 11  It gathered Brazilian scholars of medi­eval Portugal and Portuguese medi­evalists, and took place on January 12–14, 2012, in Lisbon, Coimbra, and Sta. Maria da Feira.



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important to highlight the apparent contradiction of a medi­eval studies that, amidst a crisis, seems to be expanding through latitudes that did not have a Middle Ages “of their own.” The situation in Brazil is somewhat similar in its self-reflexiveness, and although recent, Brazilian medi­eval studies also count a good number of publications dedicated to (re)assessments of its own production.12 What might be the reason for the recurrence of such self-assessments? A systematic need for legitimacy? The demand for a reason for studying “that past”? Are these demands more severe in “peripheral” regions studying the Middle Ages? Maybe the challenge is indeed greater in the peripheries. Not only for medi­eval studies but for all the humanities, which lose public funding as global science grows closer to the logic of capital reproduction. In Brazil, it is crucial to highlight that the government recently tried to delimit the teaching of history solely to national history, suppressing the Middle Ages and Antiquity from the school curriculum. Likewise in Argentina, medi­evalists led by Carlos Astarita had to face the Minister of Science and his proposal to suppress the funding of research dedicated to medi­eval studies at conicet (the National Scientific and Technical Research Council). The argument was that the study of medi­eval times was superfluous to the country’s needs, since it did not belong to Argentina.13 The question is more complex, since even those to whom that past ostensibly belongs are currently rejecting its study. Since its utterance in 2003, the statement of the then Secretary of Education of the United Kingdom continues to echo: “I don’t mind there being some medi­evalists around for ornamental purposes, but there is no reason for the state to pay for them.”14 It might be possible that this mindset is shared even by European history students. In February 2007, Joseph Morsel, with the collaboration of Christine Ducourtieux, tried to answer French students’ recurring questions about the purpose of the study of the (French) Middle Ages.15 Even Europeans who could learn medi­eval history as their own past do not find the contemporary meaning of “that past” relevant to them. If students who walk along medi­eval streets on their way to classes in medi­eval buildings question the validity of medi­eval studies, how can we make sense of such study in the “New World,” where this past is more distant and immaterial? In our bourgeois societies of the third millennium we increasingly recognize ourselves only in projections of the future, and fragmented memories seem to be enough to satisfy individualized demands for identity. Historicity and the past seem to live only in novels and electronic games that celebrate a world lost or one that never was, filled with half-human-half-beast-like creatures that are less feasible than the exis12  See Franco Júnior et al., “Historio­graphie et médiévistique”; Pedrero-Sánchez, “Los estudios medi­evales”; Macedo, “Os estudos medievais”; Nogueira, “Velhos temas”; Coelho, “Breves reflexões”; Silva and Silva, “Os Estudos Medievais”; Magnani and Almeida, “Ê� tre historien du Moyen Â� ge”; Asfora et. al, “Faire l’histoire du Moyen Â� ge”; and Almeida and Silva, “Le Moyen Â� ge et la nouvelle histoire.” 13  Astarita, “El ministro Barañao.”

14  D’Ancona, “You Have To Be a Medi­evalist.”

15  Morsel and Ducourtieux, L’histoire (du Moyen Âge).

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tence of extra-terrestrials. The historicity of distant times seems to belong to realities disconnected from the formation of contemporary times. Such a perspective is clarified in the evaluation of medi­evalist developments in Australia. Matthew Chrulew highlights how the central element of neomedi­evalism in Australia does not follow the heritage of British colonialism but nostalgia for the fantasy of an idealized knightly past: “it is part of Australia’s larger participation in a global semiosphere driven by the American culture industry, where nostalgia tends on the whole to be more eclectic. Here medi­evalism recreates fantasy as a substitute of history, a surrogate site gratifying the unscrupulous desire for the past.”16 Likewise, to Louise D’Arcens the neomedi­ evalist idiom of Australian gamesters is “a populist mélange of Tolkienism, New Age paganesque, and urban ‘Goth’ aesthetics,” and it generates and perpetuates “a virtual Middle Ages that is both everywhere and nowhere.”17 With such a trend, history either transmutes itself into literature and evasion or it decays. But is it not possible that this general feeling of “the real” as superfluous is a product of our inability to identify the present with any past, and especially with the remote past?

Forms of Legitimization

The main forms of legitimizing medi­eval studies are initiatives focused on making it present. Already in 1930, this strategy was presented by John Matthews Manly at the fifth annual meeting of the Medi­eval Academy of America, where he noted that: “the infinitely various and fascinating period we roughly call the Middle Ages must not be neglected. It lies close to us. In it arose many of our most important institutions. Our social life, our customs, our ideals, our superstitions and fears and hopes—came to us directly from this period; and no present-day analysis can give a complete account of our civilization unless it is supplemented by a profound study of the forces and forms of life, good and evil, which we have inherited from it.”18 Similar perspectives underpin the legitimacy of medi­eval studies in Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, Mexico, Brazil, Australia, and even Taiwan.19 In Brazil, the medi­eval origins of our colonial past were discussed by historians like Nelson Werneck Sodré and Alberto Passos Guimarães. This line of thinking established that the Portuguese colonial system was feudal and considered that its remains were responsible for Brazil’s underdevelopment. These ideas would not survive long enough to influence the effective start of Brazilian medi­ eval studies in the late 1980s. This impermanence is the main reason why Maria de Lurdes Rosa and André Bertoli could consider the rejection of a nationalist perspective as a strong point of Brazilian medi­eval studies: “One of the great advances of Brazilian [medi­eval studies]…is its emancipation from the obligation to study medi­eval Portugal 16  Chrulew, “‘The Only Limitation,” 225–26.

17  D’Arcens, “‘The Past is a Foreign Country,’” 325.

18  Freedman and Spiegel, “Medi­evalisms Old and New,” 683. 19  Bastos, “Estabelecidos e outsiders.”



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as a ‘country of origin.’ Not an easy step, since the legitimacy of the field through the study of ‘colonial origins’ is almost ‘natural.’”20 Nevertheless, in Brazil some manifestations that could be described as “medi­eval heritages”—especially in the area of mentalities or culture—are used as arguments to promote seminars, congresses, study and work groups, as well as to request institutional and financial support. In the northeast of Brazil, many popular celebrations of music and genres of literature like “Cordel Literature” have been studied for medi­ eval roots and as retellings of medi­eval texts, or at least references. As studied by Ana Marcia Alves Siqueira, “Cordel Literature” shows a full Carolingian cycle transposed to the cangaço epic.21 A very fruitful sub-field of studies of neomedi­evalism in Brazil is thus through literature.22 In this area, many works highlight the survival of themes from medi­eval literature and mytho­logy, often hybridized with local culture. I consider that such perspectives mainly take the longue durée perspective too far, and instead of providing a broader interpretation merely identify medi­eval elements in an isolated, unconnected, and even inaccurate fashion. On the other hand, the demand that these studies fulfill for the identification of a medi­eval heritage in Brazil (and elsewhere) is connected to the need to validate the importance of that past. This need for validation is even more acute for universities of peripheral countries, where expanding global markets impose ever-growing demands to provide only technical training and to prepare individuals to work productively under a capitalist system. Parallel to these demands, diminishing funds for public universities, and therefore for research, barely hide the aim to transform them into mere centres for dissemination of knowledge produced elsewhere, a process that would also make it easier to privatize them. Central countries are no strangers to the imposition of a market logic over universities, but in the case of countries like Brazil, the World Trade Organization explicitly holds that they should reduce investment in research and seek the privatization of their universities.23 Let me propose now a different path for the legitimacy of the medi­eval past in our present, by providing a current example of social activism relevant to the historian’s craft in Brazil.

Medi­eval Times from the Perspective of the Peasantry

Most historians would agree that our craft fulfils a social function. Historical knowledge answers a demand for society’s self-knowledge and is always a sounding board for the yearnings of society, no matter how isolated an historian pretends to be. Environmental issues make us fear the destruction of the planet? Historians can consider the transforming relations of humans and nature and uphold the institu20  Rosa and Bertoli, “Medi­evalismos irmãos,” 249.

21  Siqueira, “O Ciclo Carolí�ngio.” Cangaço was a form of social banditism found in the northeast of Brazil in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. 22  Muniz, “Os Estudos de Literatura Medi­eval,” 205.

23  Borges, “Regulation of Brazilian Higher Education,” 966.

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tion of Environmental History. Are gender relations one of the main questions of our time? Historians can give the concept temporal depth through the History of Gender, and help us think how the categories of “male” and “female” have been socially constructed. These are straightforward examples of how our activity has an undeniable social background. Locating ideas and issues in time is a core skill of historians, and every history is produced for the present and aiming at a future. In societies fractured by class structures, it is unavoidable that any type of historical knowledge is also characterised by class positions and contradictions, which are then projected onto the society studied. Even the most austere of historians thus produces engaged history. The problem does not lie in the inevitable production of engaged history but on the strength of the denial. As already noted, this denial leads to the accusation that other types of history are militant and ideo­logically contaminated while, alternatively, hegemony is achieved through the imposition of naturalized paradigms and the disqualification of dissenting perspectives. In history, time is generally thought of as an arrow pointing to our present, a present viewed as the inevitable ending stage. But either in the past or in the present, history and politics always converge. The past is inevitably the basis for political action in the present and, moreover, the definition of “past” is part of a political project that always includes the future. The socially engaged historian must therefore subvert the notion of an inevitable present, retrieving in the past the many alternative futures that were buried by the dominant imposed trend. Historical knowledge is thus a politics for the future, an arena of struggles for truth in which the past is also embattled and appropriated.24 To start discussing my example of social activism for the historian’s craft, let us consider one of the many books produced by agribusiness to educate children throughout Brazil. These are used because the investment of agribusiness in primary and secondary levels of education is growing, mainly through actions by its two main entities: the National Service of Rural Learning (senar) and the Brazilian Association of Agribusiness (abag).25 abag have been active mostly in primary education, either through the distribution of teaching material or by the promotion of contests such as written compositions, which are aided by public school teachers. According to Rodrigo Lamosa, the private hegemonic apparatus of abag is dedicated to making some recent changes in agriculture look natural, desirable, and palatable.26 Specifically, abag highlights how due to the development of science and techno­logy a certain form of land management based on the use of agro-chemicals (or agro-toxins) and transgenic seeds is simply inevitable. Therefore, the propaganda presented in these primary school books disguised as educational texts turns the development of agriculture since the Agricultural Revolution into steps leading to agribusiness. In these “educational” materials, agribusiness becomes the climax of millennia of rural life 24  Frosini, “A ‘história integral,’” 43.

25  Serviço Nacional de Aprendizagem Rural—senar (https://cnabrasil.org.br/senar/); and Associação Brasileira do Agronegócio—abag (https://abag.com.br). 26  Lamosa, Educação e agronegócio, 35–77.



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Figure 3.1: Flag of the Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra—Brasil (Movement of Landless Rural Workers). Courtesy of Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra—Brasil (mst), available at http://www. mst.org.br/.

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and of the development of agriculture. Agribusiness, however, is quite the opposite, leading to a concentration of land ownership, historical expropriation of lands from anonymous peasants, soil infertility, natural degradation, and more. As Walter Benjamin expresses in poetic language that inspires my title here, “Historical materialism wishes to hold fast that image of the past which unexpectedly appears to the historical subject in a moment of danger…The only historian capable of fanning the spark of hope in the past is the one who is firmly convinced that even the dead will not be safe from the enemy if he is victorious. And this enemy has never ceased to be victorious.”27 These beautiful words by Benjamin highlight that the “past” is always disputed, and that the struggle for the past happens, within history, in any “present” that tries to appropriate it. The daily lives of ordinary men and women were forgotten by the kind of history done over decades and centuries. They were thought of neither as subjects nor agents of history. The almost inaudible echoes of these historical subjects are apparently almost lost in the night of time, seemingly so faint that is it not possible to recognize ourselves in them. However, it is possible to pierce the veil and collect the richness of human experience from the layers of oppression and resistance against it. And we must overturn this historical development to force open the possibilities of other futures. History needs to be contemporary, because it can and must be an element of current struggles fought by many minorities, and especially of struggles fought by the oppressed majority. In Brazilian public universities, mainly in the Humanities, during the last decades there has been a growing dialogue between academia and social movements. The democratization of access to universities was one of the reasons why the popular layer of society could convey some of its own demands to the universities. Among these associations, the Landless Rural Workers Movement (Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra, mst) occupies a prominent place. 27  Benjamin, “On the Concept of History,” 391.

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The mst reunites different workers, among them generations of peasants that were expropriated from their lands and rural workers in precarious conditions. Their situation is complicated both by historical landowning concentration and by the recent expansion of agribusiness and transgenic latifundia. The mst is present today in twenty-four out of twenty-six Brazilian estates, and 350,000 families have achieved ownership of their own small plot of land through their organization and struggle. Those small settlements are considered the first step in the direction of agrarian reform.28 Acting against landholding concentration, mst occupies lands that are unproductive, are unclaimed or lying waste, or have fake ownership certificates from large landholders; the mst is trying to compel the judiciary system to acknowledge the social meaning of property. Through these means, settlements have developed familybased agriculture, which is also based on a cooperative system that follows agro-eco­ logical standards. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, mst started its steps as an institution. Among its demands is the end of latifundia, which in Brazil started with the Portuguese colonization in the sixteenth century under the system of Captaincies: colossal territories donated by the Portuguese crown to noblemen and maintained in a hereditary way. The agrarian politics of the corporate–military dictatorship between 1964 and 1985 had both preserved the latifundia and defended their mechanization. Together with mechanization, it had built hydropower plants like Itaipu in Paraná, which in turn led to a large expropriation of small landowners. The subsequent level of unemployment made the situation worse. Slave rural work “reemerged” and attempts to join the industrial expansion fostered rural depopulation. The industrial sector, however, was not capable of absorbing this workforce. For many families the only alternative was to follow governmental projects for populating inhospitable areas in the north and south-centre of Brazil where they could not continue family agriculture. Meanwhile, big transnational companies were settled in the newly denationalized Brazilian countryside, especially in the south, and both land concentration and social exclusion increased.29 This was the context in which peasant occupations emerged in 1979, when hundreds of small farmers occupied unproductive estates in the south of Brazil. Two years later, peasants settled a large area in the same region, considered the symbolic act marking the mst’s foundation. Besieged by army troops, the occupation was widely discussed in the news and many entities joined the “landless” in acts of solidarity. Once they congregated in assembly, they created a newsletter. This newsletter was the origin of the mst newspaper, which is used internally but also as a form for seeking support from civil society. In this historic issue, the occupiers present themselves: We are more than five hundred families of small farmers that used to live in this area (Alto Uruguai), as small tenants, landholders of indigenous areas, daily labourers, sharecroppers, households, partners etc. This way we can live no longer, since it brings insecurity and many times there is nothing to eat. We don’t want to go to the city, because we

28  http://www.mst.org.br/.

29  Morissawa, A História da Luta pela Terra, 122.



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don’t know how to work there. We raised ourselves in the rural labour, and this is what we know.30

In 1984, a first national meeting was set and the mst was founded with three main objectives: fight for land, fight for agrarian reform, and fight for social change in Brazil. ‘Struggle for land in the land’ was a motto that defined a political act: occupying unproductive lands to settle families encamped in the area.31 In the following years the movement flourished in many estates and regions throughout Brazil. At the beginning of this decade, mst counted ninety thousand families (approximately 400 thousand people), living for many years under plastic tarpaulins throughout more than one thousand mobile encampments in almost every region of Brazil. These encampments are the first phase in the struggles for land, and occupiers are usually threatened and victimized by the big landowners and the institutions of the Brazilian state. These mobile encampments are also part of an experience of collective and communitarian organization. They are followed by work groups that guarantee their daily lives by providing education, food, security, cultural and religious activities, and more. One of the essential activities sought by the movement is the formal education of their members, since one of the consequences of extreme poverty is high levels of illiteracy.32 Their struggle for primary and secondary education also led to the development of schools, the continuous training of teachers, and the development of methodo­ logies and didactic strategies compatible with their reality. The data is remarkable: at the beginning of the current decade there were 2250 public schools at encampments and settlements throughout the country; 300,000 rural workers were studying, about 120,000 of them children and teenagers. More than 350,000 people have concluded courses, among them in literacy, primary and secondary school, higher education, and technical education. More than four thousand teachers were trained in the movement, and the total number of teachers on encampments and settlements is around ten thousand. Every year, there were around twenty-eight thousand students and two thousand teachers involved in literacy classes. The challenge to connect continuous education and daily political acts was the cornerstone of these itinerant schools, as they wander around the settlements. The consequence of this educational process was the articulation of links between the movement and many public universities around the country. There are currently more than five thousand mst rural workers attending approximately one hundred regular programs of study in more than fifty higher education institutions. They range from technical, secondary-level courses (like Managing Co-operatives, Community Health, Teaching, and Agroeco­logy) to higher education or specialized courses (like Pedagogy, Languages, Literature, Agrarian Sciences, Agronomy, Veterinary Medicine, Law, Geo­graphy, History). To solidify this relationship, there is since 2010 a national event called “University Event in Defence of Agrarian Reform.” During this event, the 30  “O Embrião do MST.” Boletim Sem Terra (http://www.mst.org.br/nossa-historia/70-82/).

31  Morissawa, A História da Luta pela Terra, 200.

32  Described under the heading of Education on its website (http://www.mst.org.br/educacao/).

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Figure 3.2: View of enff buildings, Guararema, São Paulo State. Courtesy of Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra—Brasil (mst). This and further images available at https://mst.org.br/2020/01/24/conhecaa-escola-nacional-florestan-fernandes-ha-15-anos-formando-militantes/.

mst promotes agricultural fairs and organizes conferences, also taking people from academe to the peasant settlements, and promoting visits and joint work. The movement also created the Escola Nacional Florestan Fernandes (hereafter “enff,” see figure 3.2 below).33 Based in São Paulo, the enff offers a wide range of courses, seminars, and workshops, including at the undergraduate and postgraduate levels. It was built between 2000 and 2005, with the voluntary work and effort of around a thousand landless workers and sympathizers. It was funded by selling the book Terra with photos by Sebastião Salgado, text by José Saramago, and music by Chico Buarque. Funding was also provided by working class bodies around Brazil, Latin America, and many parts of the world, and the enff is currently funded by voluntary contributions from members of the association and friends of the school. The school has a group of five hundred voluntary lecturers from many universities all over the country and around the world. These lecturers offer development courses, seminars, special classes, and workshops especially designed for activists. Until now, more than twenty-four thousand people have taken part in courses, seminars, conferences, and visits there; they come from both urban and rural social movements, from all over Brazil, Latin America, and from African countries. The joint work of mst and the university is very important. The effort is a necessary counter-hegemonic measure, vital for the survival of the Brazilian public university.34 33  See “Dez anos de ENFF” (“Ten years of enff, a dream built by many hands”), https://www. intersindicalcentral.com.br/dez-anos-de-enff/#.X8d9_9vgrOQ. 34  Leher, “Movimentos Sociais,” 11.



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I propose that this link might also offer the identity that Medi­eval History still seeks in our country. It may answer the main question that recurs in our field—how is Medi­ eval History about Brazil?—while also articulating the already stated need to link historical practice with activism and social investment. I am not alone in these beliefs. The academic history research group I am a part of is dedicated to the study of precapitalist societies: Ciro Cardoso Centre for Pre-Capitalism Research (CCCP–Prék, or Prék for short).35 This centre assembles experts in Antiquity, the Middle Ages, early modern societies, and others. The members of Prék share the premise that the societies they study are all agrarian and peasant-based; and that they collectively store centuries of diverse and rich peasant experience. Prék acknowledges the centuries-long existence of agrarian societies in which the peasantry was and is an essential social actor, and a vital historical agent in these societies’ formation, crystallization, and transformation. Prék also shares the belief that acknowledging the identities and differences of immense and rich peasant experiences in history is an important element of current peasant struggles.36 Memory is a core element of history, and the intent is that history might actively broaden (peasant) social memory. Peasantries must know and take ownership of their own history. The project thus aims to address societies of agrarian character comparatively in their manifold historical experiences. It is attentive to the structure of households and villages in society, to their cultural and religious expressions, and to their forms of production and reproduction. It also engages with the forms of domination experienced by peasants and the forms of resistance that the peasantry has developed throughout history. These are steps to support a history of the peasant world that can unveil the protagonist character of the peasantry and be a cornerstone for action in the present and a support for their (and our) hopes for the future. Highlighting the historical specificities of the present is a condition for the understanding that, among other radical transformations, capitalism displaces the basis of the existence and reproduction of European western societies. This trend continues all over the globe. This process encompassed the famous Enclosures, widely known as primitive capital accumulation.37 This accumulation produced a massive expropriation of the peasantry, the advent of the bourgeois form of property, and the constitution of an industrial society, oriented by the logic of the production of commodities. In the context of the advent of capitalism, the fate of the peasantry seemed sealed, this entire mode of existence doomed to disappear. It was expected to disappear in a twofold process: first the peasantry’s traditional forms of existence would be incompatible with the radical demands of the new system; then the peasantry would be transformed into a rural proletariat. Thousands of years of existence were turned to dust. From these ashes arose new relations, conditions, and forms of existence that followed the 35  The Centro Ciro Cardoso de Pesquisa do Pré-Capitalismo is a research centre linked to the Fluminense Federal University and brings together professors and students from different universities (dgp.cnpq.br/dgp/espelhogrupo/9475196537517524). 36  See https://anatomiadomacaco.wordpress.com.

37  Marx, “The Secret of Primitive Accumulation.”

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demands of the reproduction of capital. This process has been examined in brilliant studies like E. P. Thompson’s work dedicated to the emergence of industrial society.38 Many current capitalist societies, especially peripheral ones like Brazil, if examined with the “typical devotion of archaeo­logists,” will still reveal traces of pre-capitalist structures that were subverted and swallowed up by the advent of capitalism. These were agricultural societies based on different types of agrarian systems where 90–95 percent of the population lived in the countryside, producing for direct consumption, and based on the organization of family(ies) and communities. Their relations were kin-based, local, and with a stable and traditional base of existence. The majority of these pre-capitalist societies were marked by hierarchies and social division due to articulations between peasant production and elite extraction of surplus. There was wide diversity in their organization, and in the autonomy and forms of submission of the peasantry, as well as in the many levels of elite control over the peasantry. But who were those peasants? The definitions of peasantry are controversial, making it an elusive object. Yet classic authors like Teodor Shanin, Eric Wolf, and Alexander Chayanov offer common elements in their definitions.39 The main peasant attributes according to them are: stable access to the land, in the form of property or the right of usufruct; labour as mainly labour from the family; a subsistence economy with irregular or permanent links to market(s); and a degree of autonomy in agricultural management: in other words, the peasant takes the essential decisions about what to cultivate, how to farm, how to use the surplus, and so on. Each of these elements expresses itself as having an “economic” nature. However, they are part of a bigger set of dynamic knowledges and practices that go beyond economics, therefore changing in time, despite the prejudices that associate backwardness, absence of culture, and lack of civility to the peasantry. The peasantry as a social actor has been present for millennia, yet mentions in historical documents remain infrequent. Moreover, most of the documents where historians find the peasants’ own “voice” are located only in agrarian societies of the nineteenth century. Before then, peasants were referred to only by other actors. The peasantry is therefore a hidden element in the historical record. Either they are not in the narrative, or they are not portrayed as real historical agents. This is one of the reasons some medi­evalists assert the impossibility of writing a medi­eval history of the peasantry. Personally, I’d say that if it is not possible to write a history of the peasantry in the Middle Ages, then it is not possible to write any history of the Middle Ages at all.40 Without its peasant and agrarian base, the Middle Ages are nothing but an epiphenomenon, lacking the vital core. A latent part of that world, the peasantry manifests itself throughout the documents, even if in distorted and fragmentary form. They are hidden because the perspective of the historical sources is the perspective of the ruling classes, and their 38  Thompson, Customs in Common.

39  Shanin, “A definição de camponês”; Wolf, Peasants; and Chayanov, The Theory of Peasant Economy. 40  It would only be possible if the focus were on very specific questions, with very limited results.



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social conditions are considered natural. As Pierre Bourdieu propounds, “every order must establish the naturalization of its own arbitrariness.”41 The naturalization of elite elements leads to ingrained confusions: between exploitation and reciprocity, between free concessions and extraction achieved through fear of potential violence, between spontaneous submissiveness and subordination promoted by social pressures. As E. P. Thompson proposes, daily existence is full of situations that reaffirm the established order.42 All human cultural development is based on the productive knowledge that underlies our existence and reproduction. Hence, the first historical condition required for the existence of the peasantry is the invention of agriculture. This famous process, the Neolithic or Agricultural Revolution, happened around ten thousand years bce and received its name from the archaeo­logist Gordon Childe.43 It brought about agriculture and animal breeding as fundamental activities in the (re)production of human communities. From predators, human beings turned into producers, the only species (along with some ants) capable of transforming nature and acting on it to provide its own livelihood. While the knowledge and practices developed for agriculture are a required condition for the development of the peasantry, they are not sufficient. It led to social differentiation and social inequality that splits human communities. Labour in land was a form of specialization of labour and an expression of the social division of labour that stemmed from a process of subalternization of “rural workers.” As previously noted, every classic definition of peasantry mentions the manifold forms of surplus extraction. This extraction is systemic and daily and sustains the material existence of the landholding ruling classes, which are organized in different ways throughout history. Overturning the images previously projected about remote past societies is a vital step of analysis for social activism in the historian’s craft. It is necessary to scrutinize societies’ dominant systems of auto-representation, such as their subliminal model of social harmony in which a happy reciprocity is established between “pitying clerics,” “honoured knights,” and “humble peasants.” At the most immediate and specific level, we need to emphasize and re-establish that agriculture is the work and the art of peasants the world over, a work that started around twelve thousand years ago and continues to be creatively developed. Knowing how to farm and being able to do it is a considerable part of what made us human. As described by Grain.org: It is an activity that requires different skills and branches of knowledge. Among them: pruning, grafting, shearing, taming, domesticating, spinning, weaving, tanning hides, salting, drying, fermenting, producing and repairing many tools, selecting plants and animals, forecasting weather, timely cutting wood, knowing the right moon for sowing, pruning and harvesting. These are just some of the most common tasks. Under different social, economic, cultural, and environmental conditions, people the world over built their knowledge to such sophistication and skill that it is hard for us to value it in its full extent.44

41  Bourdieu, Outline, 174.

42  Thompson, Folklore.

43  Childe coined the term Neolithic Revolution in 1923 (Childe, What Happened in History, 21). 44  Anon., “La agricultura,” 4.

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Figure 3.3: Flag of peasant movements worldwide. Courtesy of Via Campesina and Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra— Brasil (mst). See further at https:// mst.org.br/tag/via-campesina/.

The context most celebrated by medi­evalists as the climax of medi­eval western civilization is the period between the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries.45 At this time, Europe was flourishing in architecture and intellectual life, and filling landscapes with cathedrals and universities. However, this expansion cannot be detached from a thriving agriculture, fostered by changes to the agrarian systems and new techniques and tools of production. These enhancements and innovations in the field were not fortuitous but were an answer to limits imposed by nature or social exploitation. They were a product of centuries of observation, reflection, experimentation, and trial and error by the peasantry, like any other human practice or knowledge. The eco­logical and genetic work done by peasant hands and peasant brains has no parallel in the history of humankind. None of the modern genetic enhancements would be possible without the domestication, diversification, and improvement originated by peasants throughout the planet.46 So, the aim of the (Medi­eval) History here proposed is the following: that the many Josés and Franciscos, the many landless peasants of Brazil, know about Elisha and Cambra. In 619, the enslaved Elisha was accused of material damage to the patrimony of his master and he fled his captive status. In 656 the enslaved peasant Cambra gained a portion of land from his master and settled his small family in it.47 Why should these struggles be lost in the remote past? It is important that landless peasants like the survivors of the April 17, 1996, slaughter of Eldorado dos Carajás in northern Brazil, which resulted in the deaths of nineteen peasants, know about the free but impoverished Elisha and Cambra, both of whom were also repressed by the ruling power and rebelled against the Asturian kingdom in the middle of the eighth century. They can also profitably learn about the Stellinga peasants whose revolt happened one hundred 45  Duby, Rural Economy and Country Life.

46  Anon., “La agricultura,” 6.

47  Bastos, “Questões sobre Classes.”



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years later, and who lived independent from the Saxon aristocracy of the region for years.48 As Peter Linebaugh highlights, we need a holiday in honour of Wat Tyler, one of the leaders of the (English) Peasants’ Revolt of 1381.49 Let him be remembered by his fellows, the current peasants of the world whose “hearts have not become brute,” according to the famous appeal by François Villon.50 Peasants are still a dynamic social force, despite all predictions. This is a recognizable reality, especially in peripheral countries, in which, despite their agricultural productivity, the peasants are the biggest victims of misery and hunger—paradox of paradoxes! These countries are the main areas for landholding concentration and for the spread of agribusiness, but also for active opposition to the tangible subsumption of land and agriculture to capital. Peasants are organized in many associations, some of them international like La Vía Campesina (The Peasants’ Way or Path). In them, peasant communities reveal their tenacity in the struggle for access to land and the preservation of their communitarian life and village solidarity, assuming the condition of protagonists in their resistance to amplified forms of capital reproduction. La Vía Campesina calls itself: an international movement bringing together millions of peasants, small and medium size farmers, landless people, rural women and youth, indigenous people, migrants and agricultural workers from around the world. Built on a strong sense of unity, solidarity between these groups, it defends peasant agriculture for food sovereignty as a way to promote social justice and dignity and strongly opposes corporate driven agriculture that destroys social relations and nature.51

La Vía Campesina was founded in 1993. Today it comprises around two hundred local and national organizations in eighty-one countries across Africa, Asia, Europe, and the Americas, and touches around two hundred million peasants. It sees itself as an autonomous, plural, multicultural, and political movement that demands social justice while being independent of political parties and any economic connection. Recent decades have nevertheless been marked by the systematic murder of rural leaders in struggles over land ownership—expropriation of land, appropriation of areas inhabited by native population, quilombola52 lands, and more. The numbers are staggering. Small farmers, quilombolas, and native populations are the main victims; forgotten by public land demarcation and agrarian reform, they are paying with their lives for the struggles they face. 48  Wickham, “Espacio y sociedad,” 48.

49  Linebaugh, “Class Justice,” 175. 50  Villon, “Ballade,” 175.

51  “The International Peasants’ Voice” (https://viacampesina.org/en/international-peasantsvoice/).

52  Contemporary descendants of formerly enslaved black people, who fled the slave system and built their own community: the quilombos. The quilombos were built in distant, relatively inhospitable areas of Brazil. Such communities are still fighting for land ownership for the areas in which they live. They also struggle to preserve their culture and traditions.

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As I have argued above, the future of the university as we know it in Brazil depends on creating links with social movements like these. Without anti-establishment social movements, the defence of a university that is public, critical, and independent will remain a weak and possibly unfeasible project. Connecting critical sectors of the university with social movements improves those social movements by providing them with more systematic and scientifically–based knowledge for their problems and for the questions they seek to answer. Interaction with social movements likewise reinforces the strength of scholars with critical views in academia, and empowers them to fight for a public and autonomous university when faced with aggressive countermoves.53 As a reciprocal project valuable for both, linking academic history and social movements is simply vital. The “tribe” of historians, however, seems to be more oriented to ceremony, genuflecting respectfully to the myths and worldviews of the hegemonic elites of yesterday and today. Strangely, history then becomes a distraction from daily horrors instead of a tool for their unmaking. This trend might in fact be stronger among medi­evalists. As a medi­eval historian from a remote society in a peripheral country myself, I am more a bearer of aspirations for the future than a tributary to a vision from the past.54 After all, I fear that what is at stake, in the face of escalating daily and global miseries promoted by a system that encourages human and environmental degradation at a unique and historically incomparable speed, is nothing less than the survival of our species.

53  Leher, “Movimentos,” 10.

54  Bernardo, “Propostas,” 1.



Works Cited

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Almeida, Néri de Barros, and Marcelo Cândido da Silva. “Le Moyen Â� ge et la nouvelle histoire politique au Brésil.” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome—Moyen Âge 126 no. 2 (2014): 57–79. Altschul, Nadia R. “Postcolonialism and the Study of the Middle Ages.” History Compass 6, no. 2 (2008): 588–606. Anon. “La agricultura: sus saberes y cuidados,” GRAIN (2009): 4–7. http://www.grain.org/ es/article/entries/1201-la-agricultura-sus-saberes-y-cuidados; accessed April 22, 2022. Aróstegui, Julio. La Investigación Histórica: Teoría y Método. Barcelona: Crí�tica, 1995. Asfora, Wanessa Colares, Eduardo Henrik Aubert, and Gabriel de Carvalho Godoy Castanho. “Faire l’histoire du Moyen Â� ge au Brésil: fondements, structures, développements.” Bulletin du centre d’études médiévales d’Auxerre 12 (2008): 89–103. Astarita, Carlos. “El ministro Barañao y la historia medi­eval.” Página 12, February 28, 2017. https://www.pagina12.com.ar/22812-el-ministro-baranao-y-la-historia-medi­eval; accessed April 22, 2022. Bastos, Mário Jorge da Motta. “Questões sobre Classes, Dominação e Conflitos Sociais na Alta Idade Média.” Sociedades Precapitalistas 5, no. 1 (2015): https://www.sociedadesprecapitalistas.fahce.unlp.edu.ar/article/view/SPv05n01a05. —— . “Quatro décadas de História Medi­eval no Brasil: contribuições à sua crí�tica.” Diálogos 20, no. 3 (2016): 2–15. —— . “Estabelecidos e outsiders na medi­evalí�stica contemporânea.” Revista Ágora 26 (2017): 107–21. —— . “La Historia Medi­eval en Brasil. Investigación, Enseñanza y Acción Polí�tica.” Sociedades Precapitalistas 6, no. 2 (2017): https://www.sociedadesprecapitalistas.fahce.unlp.edu. ar/article/view/SPe019. Bastos, Mário Jorge da Motta, and Pachá, Paulo Henrique de Carvalho. “Por uma negação afirmativa do ofí�cio do medi­evalista!” Anais Eletronicos do IX Encontro Internacional de Estudos Medievais: O oficio do Medi­evalista, edited by Claudia Regina Bovo, Leandro Duarte Rust, and Marcus Silva da Cruz, 506–15. Cuiabá: ABREM, 2011. Bauman, Zygmunt. Liquid Modernity. London: Polity, 2000. Benjamin, Walter. “On the Concept of History.” In Walter Benjamin. Selected Writings. Vol. 4, 1938–1940. Translated by Edmund Jephcott and others. Edited by Howard Eiland and Michael W. Jennings, 389–411. Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 2006. Bernardo, João. “Propostas para uma Metodo­logia da História.” História Revista 11, no. 2 (2007): DOI: 10.5216/hr.v11i2.9006. Available at https://www.revistas.ufg.br/historia/ article/view/9006; accessed on April 22, 2022. Biddick, Kathleen, “Decolonizing the English Past: Readings in Medi­eval Archaeo­logy and History.” Journal of British Studies 32 (1993): 1–23. Borges, Maria Creusa de Araújo. “Regulation of Brazilian Higher Education: The Techno­logical Innovation Act and the Public–Private Partnership Act.” Educação e Pesquisa 41, no. 4 (October to December 2015): 961–73. Bourdieu, Pierre. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977. Chayanov, Alexander. The Theory of Peasant Economy. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1966. Chesneaux, Jean. Du passé, faisons table rase? À propos de l’histoire et des historiens. Paris: Maspero, 1976. Childe, Gordon. What Happened in History. London: Pelican, 1942.

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Chrulew, Matthew, “‘The Only Limitation is Your Imagination’: Quantifying the Medi­eval and Other Fantasies in Dungeons and Dragons.” In Medi­evalism and the Gothic in Australian Culture, edited by Stephanie Trigg, 223–40. Turnhout: Brepols, 2005. Coelho, Maria Filomena. “Breves reflexões acerca da História medi­eval no Brasil.” In Atas da VI Semana de Estudos Medievais, edited by Andréia Cristina Silva, and Leila Rodrigues da Silva, 29–33. Rio de Janeiro: PEM, 2006. Cohen, Jeffrey J., ed. The Postcolonial Middle Ages. New York: Palgrave, 2000. D’Ancona, Matthew, “You Have To Be a Medi­evalist to Understand New Labour,” The Tele­ graph, May 11, 2003. https://www.tele­graph.co.uk/comment/personal-view/3591146/ You-have-to-be-a-medi­evalist-to-understand-New-Labour.html; accessed April 22, 2022. D’Arcens, Louise. “‘The Past is a Foreign Country’: The Australian Middle Ages.” Revista de Poética Medi­eval 21 (2008): 319–56. Davis, Kathleen, and Nadia R. Altschul, eds. Medi­evalisms in the Postcolonial World: The Idea of “The Middle Ages” Outside Europe. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009. Duby, Georges. Rural Economy and Country Life in the Medi­eval West. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1998. Fontana, Josep. Análisis del pasado y proyecto social. Barcelona: Crí�tica, 1982. Franco Júnior, Hilário, Leandro Duarte Rust, and Mário Jorge da Motta Bastos. “Historio­ graphie et médiévistique brésilienne: une approche d’ensemble.” In Le Moyen Âge vu d’ailleurs: Voix croisées d’Amérique latine et d’Europe, edited by Eliana Magnani, 39–52. Dijon: Editions Universitaires de Dijon, 2010. Freedman, Paul, and Gabrielle M. Spiegel. “Medi­evalisms Old and New: The Rediscovery of Alterity in North American Medi­eval Studies.” The American Historical Review 103, no. 3 (1998): 677–704. Frosini, Fabio. “A ‘história integral’ desde a perspectiva dos subalternos: contribuição para uma teoria marxista da história.” Crítica Marxista 37 (2013): 27–46. Fukuyama, Francis. The End of History and the Last Man. London: Penguin, 1992. Gaunt, Simon. “Can the Middle Ages Be Postcolonial?” Comparative Literature 61, no. 2 (2009): 160–76. Guerreau, Alain. L’Avenir d’un passé incertain. Quelle histoire du Moyen Âge au XXIe siècle? Paris: Seuil, 2001. Guimarães, Alberto Passos. Quatro Séculos de Latifúndio. 1963. Rio de Janeiro: Paz e Terra, 1981. Huntington, Samuel P. The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order. London: Penguin, 1996. Ladurie, Emmanuel Le Roy. Montaillou, village occitan de 1294 à 1324. Paris: Gallimard, 1975. Lahóz, André. “A história venceu: Francis Fukuyama joga a toalha.” Revista Exame, January 22, 2016, https://exame.abril.com.br/revista-exame/a-historia-venceu/; accessed April 22, 2022. Lamosa, Rodrigo. Educação e agronegócio: a nova ofensiva do capital nas escolas públicas. Curitiba: Appris, 2016. Leher, Roberto. “Movimentos Sociais, padrão de acumulação e crise da universidade.” Anais da 37ª Reunião Científica da Associação Nacional de Pós-Graduação e Pesquisa em Educação (ANPEd). Florianópolis: ANPEd, 2015, https://anped.org.br/sites/default/files/trabalhode-roberto-leher-para-o-gt11.pdf; accessed April 22, 2022. Linebaugh, Peter. “Class Justice. Why We Need a Wat Tyler Day.” Why the Middle Ages Matters: Medi­eval Light on Modern Injustice, edited by Celia Chazelle, Simon Doubleday, Felice Lifshitz, and Amy G. Remensnyder, 169–82. London: Routledge, 2012. Linhares, Maria Yedda Leite. “Apresentação.” In Modo de Produção Feudal, edited by Jaime Pinsky, 11–13. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1979.



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Macedo, José Rivair. “Os estudos medievais no Brasil: tentativa de sí�ntese.” Reti Medi­evali— Rivista 7, no. 1 (2006): DOI: https://doi.org/10.6092/1593-2214/2006/1. http://www. serena.unina.it/index.php/rm/article/view/4652; accessed on April 22, 2022. Magnani, Eliana, ed. Le Moyen Âge vu d’ailleurs: Voix croisées d’Amérique latine et d’Europe. Dijon: Editions Universitaires de Dijon, 2010. Magnani, Eliana, and Néri Barros Almeida. “Ê� tre historien du Moyen Â� ge en Amérique latine au début du XXIe siècle: enquête.” In Être historien du Moyen-Âge au XXIe siècle, 71–92. Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2008. Marx, Karl. Capital, vol. 1, part 8, chap. 26: “The Secret of Primitive Accumulation.” https:// www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1867-c1/ch26.htm; accessed April 22, 2022. Melo, Demian Bandeira de, and Marcio Lauria Monteiro. “Os ciclos de revisionismo histórico nos estudos sobre a Revolução Russa.” Revista Direito e Práxis 8, no. 3 (2017): 2256–94. Morissawa, Mitsue. A História da Luta pela Terra e o MST. São Paulo: Expressão Popular, 2001. Morsel, Joseph, and Christine Ducourtieux. L’histoire (du Moyen Âge) est un sport de combat… Réflexions sur les finalités de l’Histoire du Moyen Âge destinées à une société dans laquelle même les étudiants d’Histoire s’interrogent. Paris: LAMOP—Laboratoire de Médiévistique Occidentale de Paris, 2007. Published online at https://hal-paris1.archives-ouvertes.fr/ halshs-00290183/fr/; accessed April 22, 2022. Muniz, Márcio Ricardo Coelho. “Os Estudos de Literatura Medi­eval no Brasil.” Aedos 2, no. 2 (2009): 203–12. Nogueira, Carlos Roberto F. “Velhos temas, novos objetos: os estudos medievais no Brasil de hoje.” In Caminhos da História, edited by Osvaldo Coggiola, 29–37. São Paulo: Xamã, 2006. Osborne, John. “Some Reflections on Medi­eval Studies in Canada.” Florilegium 20 (2003): 11–13. Pedrero-Sánchez, Maria Guadalupe. “Los estudios medi­evales en Brasil.” Medi­evalismo 4, no. 4 (1994): 223–28. Rosa, Maria de Lurdes, and André Bertoli. “Medi­evalismos irmãos e (menos) estranhos? Para um reforço do diálogo entre as historiografias brasileira e portuguesa sobre Portugal medi­eval.” Revista Portuguesa de História 41 (2010): 247–89. Shanin, Teodor. “A definição de camponês: conceituações e desconceituações—o velho e o novo em uma discussão marxista.” Revista NERA 7, no. 8 (2005): 1–21. Silva, Leila Rodrigues da Silva and Andréia Cristina Lopes Frazão da Silva. “Os Estudos Medievais no Brasil e a Internet: uma análise do uso dos recursos virtuais na produção medi­ evalista (1995 a 2006),” História, imagem e narrativas 2, no. 4 (April 2007): 35–58. Siqueira, Ana Marcia Alves. “O Ciclo Carolí�ngio na Literatura de Cordel Nordestina.” In Atas da VIII Jornada de Estudos Antigos e Medievais e I Jornada Internacional de Estudos Antigos e Medievais. O Conhecimento do Homem e da Natureza nos Clássicos, 1–13. Maringá: Universidade Estadual de Maringá, 2010. Sodré, Nelson Werneck. Formação Histórica do Brasil. Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, 1979. Thompson, Edward Palmer. Customs in Common: Studies in Traditional Popular Culture. London: New Press, 1993. —— . Folklore, Anthropo­logy and Social History. Brighton: Noyce, 1979. Villon, François. “Ballade of the Hanged Men.” In François Villon, Poems: A New Translation, translated by David Georgi, 175–78. Illinois: Northwestern University Press, 2013. Wickham, Chris. “Espacio y sociedad en los conflictos campesinos en la Alta Edad Media.” El Lugar del Campesino. En torno a la obra de Reyna Pastor, edited by Ana Rodrí�guez, 33–60. València: Universitat de València y CSIC, 2007. Wolf, Eric R. Peasants. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1966.

Chapter 4

NEOMEDI­EVALISM AND THE HAGIO­GRAPHY OF VALDEMIRO SANTIAGO: NEOPENTECOSTAL SANCTIFICATION CLÍNIO DE OLIVEIRA AMARAL*

In 1998 Valdemiro Santiago de Oliveira founded the Igreja Mundial do Poder de

Deus or Worldwide Church of God’s Power (hereafter wcgp) and has been its leader ever since. The goal of this study is to foreground the “medi­eval” elements found in his religious discourse. I aim to show how his book O grande livramento1 (hereafter referred to as The Great Deliverance) uses discursive features commonly found in medi­eval hagio­graphies to promote the sacralization of his image and, consequently, develops his own hagio­graphy. The issue goes beyond the use of the Middle Ages as a pretext to discuss topics from the present. The production and circulation of a religious discourse that harks back to early Christianity can have a symbolic effect in a country with deep Catholic influences like Brazil. The wcgp is a Neopentecostal church that uses hagio­graphical discourse drawn from the Middle Ages as a way to sacralize its leader. Here, our focus is not on intentionality but rather on the hypothesis that in a culture such as Brazil’s that is marked by Christianity the use of a rhetorical strategy based on a medi­eval-inspired narrative confers legitimacy on those who construct such narratives. Therefore, our theoretical approach employs neomedi­evalism, defined as the appropriation and reception of the Middle Ages. According to Francis Gentry and Ulrich Müller, one of the four distinct models of medi­eval reception is precisely the “political-ideo­logical reception of the Middle Ages” which means that “medi­eval works, themes, ‘ideas’ or persons are used and ‘reworked’ for political purposes in the broadest sense, i.e., for legitimization or for debunking.”2 In this study, our primary focus will be the medi­evalizing political and ideo­logical appropriation used by Santiago de Oliveira to legitimate his image in The Great Deliverance. Valdemiro presents himself as a man who was persecuted and became a “martyr”—like the early Christians—thriving both religiously and financially due to his *  Professor of Medi­eval History at the Universidade Federal Rural do Rio de Janeiro in Brazil; member of the Núcleos de estudos sobre narrativas e medi­evalismos (Linhas; Research Centre for Narratives and Medi­evalisms), and coordinator of the Laboratório de estudos dos protestantismos (LABEP; Research Centre for Protestantism Studies). I thank Professor Altschul for her helpful contributions to this text. The text has been translated into English by Giselle Botelho. 1  Oliveira, O grande livramento.

2  Gentry and Müller, “The Reception of the Middle Ages in Germany,” 401.

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privileged relationship with the sacred. Valdemiro, after all, succeeded in becoming an “Apostle” of his church and according to Forbes Magazine in 2013 was considered the second wealthiest religious leader in Brazil with an estimated net worth at US$220 million.3

A Brief Overview of Valdemiro and the wcgp

Although some facts about Valdemiro can be found on the official website of his church, and he has published several books, not much information can be found about his life. This care with the narratives available about him shows an intriguing degree of intentionality regarding the elaboration of his own image. The foundation of his church gets associated with the life-story of its founder who, as stated in his bio­graphy, was predestined by God to found it. Valdemiro was born in Cisneiros, a district of Palma in the Brazilian state of Minas Gerais. He came from a poor family with many siblings, and had little access to formal education. At the age of twelve his mother died, and he had a difficult adolescence. Nonetheless, at sixteen he was saved by Jesus Christ. The way in which his story is told draws attention to themes dear to medi­eval hagio­graphies. The little information we have on Valdemiro links him to themes of predestination and mission that are commonly found in many medi­eval hagio­graphies.4 As such, “a strong desire to become a great preacher burned in his heart moving him to embrace this ministry before he was even eighteen years old, and this desire has guided every decision in his life.”5 Since his adolescence, and although he did not know why, he felt impelled to spread the Christian faith; and the desire in his heart made him go to Africa, a place he considered miserable and sinful due to the presence of Islam. In the text of the history of his church, another reference linking his life to the signs of God’s providence and commonly found in medi­eval hagio­graphers is the idea that “his dedication to the works of God and his faith in Jesus Christ have resulted in signs that are present in his ministry up to this day.”6 Signs of divine providence are shown in a series of supernatural manifestations: dream revelations, visions, miracles, prophecies, and other phenomena that are sacred interventions in the life of the saint to guarantee he is living a purpose-driven life determined by God. In Valdemiro Santiago’s case, this purpose was to found the wcgp and to convert people around the world to Christianity. On the official website of the church, two paramount life events are mentioned in one para­graph: Valdemiro’s break with the Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus (the Universal Church of the Kingdom of God) founded in 1977 by Bishop Edir Macedo; and 3  D’Alcântara, “A auto-hagiografia elaborada por um santo,” 37.

4  Amaral, A construção do discurso de santidade do Infante Santo em Portugal, 108–9.

5  “Um desejo de ser um grande pregador do evangelho incendiou seu coração, que o moveu para a chamada ministerial, que começou ainda antes dos dezoito anos de idade e direcionou todas as decisões de sua vida.” https://impd.org.br/institucional (accessed April 22, 2022). 6  “Sua dedicação à Obra de Deus e a fé em Cristo Jesus resultaram em sinais que acompanham até hoje seu ministério.” https://impd.org.br/institucional (accessed April 22, 2022).



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the constant persecutions and attacks on his life that he continues to experience. Reference to the Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus is important because this is the largest Brazilian church associated with the third wave of Pentecostalism, to which the wcgp also belongs.7 This image of Valdemiro as persecuted man and martyr is frequently displayed. Among the many reported attacks on his life, in 2017 one took place during a service in Brás, a neighbourhood in São Paulo, in which he claims to have been stabbed in the neck. Hours later, while still in the hospital, he recorded a video asking people to pray for the assailant, stating that he had forgiven him. After this episode, a ceremony took root. The bloody shirt from the attack was exposed for worship as a relic with the power to conduct the transitus from the human world to the supernatural. Since then, a great number of miracles, demonic exorcisms, and supernatural healings have taken place in the presence of this relic. As with the other attacks on his life, God intervened to save him; and after the attack he revealed himself strengthened, providing material proof of his privileged relationship with the sacred in that, in this case, God gave his blood thaumaturgic powers. The multiple episodes of persecution and the divine work of God in his favour moved Valdemiro to found the wcgp in 1998. According to his hagio­graphical story, The Great Deliverance, however, what happened in 1996 while he was in Mozambique was crucial for the foundation of his church and, we may add, for the process of sacralization of his image. The wcgp was officially established in the city of Sorocaba on March 3, 1998, as if it had been predestined. In 2008, only ten years after its foundation, Valdemiro Santiago was already a hit in the media and able to rent twenty-two hours of airtime on the television station Rede 21.8 Since then, the number of temples (churches) founded both nationally and internationally has risen substantially. In 2019, the church had an estimated six thousand temples in Brazil and elsewhere, mostly in South American countries with shared frontiers and in Africa.9 As we see from its website’s description of its largest temple, the wcgp is a large religious movement: “Launched in 2011, the Worldwide City of God’s Dreams is one of Apostle Valdemiro Santiago’s dreams which came true, a temple where would be a city indeed. With the capacity of 150,000 people in 240,000 [square] metres, it’s considered one of the five biggest temples of the world.”10 I will use neomedi­evalism as a theoretical framework to study this religious movement from Valdemiro Santiago’s The Great Deliverance, his own hagio­graphy, written 7  See Campos, Teatro, tempo e mercado, and see also Proença, Sindicato de mágicos.

8  D’Alcântara, “A auto-hagiografia elaborada por um santo,” 37.

9  “[A] Igreja Mundial do Poder de Deus conta com cerca de 6.000 templos divididos entre Brasil e demais paí�ses do mundo.” https://impd.org.br/institucional (accessed April 22, 2022).

10  “Inaugurada em 2011, a Cidade Mundial dos Sonhos de Deus é um dos sonhos realizados do Apóstolo Valdemiro Santiago, de um templo que fosse como uma verdadeira cidade. Com capacidade para cento e cinquenta mil pessoas, em um espaço de duzentos e quarenta mil metros, é considerada um dos cinco maiores templos do mundo.” https://impd.org.br/institucional (accessed April 22, 2022).

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during his lifetime. In it Valdemiro appropriated commonplaces of medi­eval sanctity such as the enchantment found in medi­eval “religion,” e.g., the presence of the marvellous, predestination, divine signs of providence, the missionary life, imitatio Christi, and the war against Muslims, among others.11 Through these commonplaces, he established a body of symbolism capable of legitimizing his position and of sacralizing his church.

An Enchanted Twentieth-Century World: Valdemiro Santiago’s Hagio­graphy

The Great Deliverance tells the story of Valdemiro’s boat capsizing on the African coast, and it highlights the existence of an enchanted world marked by battles between God and Satan. Interestingly, a boat indeed capsized at the time in Maputo Bay, five hundred metres from the shore. According to the The Great Deliverance, however, the episode happened in the high seas, forcing the pastor to swim for about seven hours while surrounded by sharks and barracudas. According to his story, the devil tried to kill him several times during this trial, but angels intervened and saved him. Of importance for us here is not the accuracy of the story but rather the construction of the narrative, which presents key elements of medi­eval sanctity. Tellingly, even though the capsizing episode was reported in the mass media, the marvellous version became the dominant one.12 To define hagio­graphy as writing that is devoted to saints or to holiness is too simplistic.13 Hagio­graphies indeed include the lives and passions of saints (Vita/Passio) but these are not the only existing types of writing through which saints’ lives are known; they are also known through calendars, martyro­logies, inscriptions, liturgical books, litanies, hymns, icono­graphies, and more.14 Despite not being a literary genre in its own right, hagio­graphy has patterns; the lives of saints, for instance, are based on the imitation of Christ and other biblical figures.15 Saints’ lives, then, are not to be read as “realistic,” but as models to be followed in the pursuit of edification. Aside from the Bible and Christ—the “fixed” foundations of medi­eval hagio­graphy—the models to be followed are supplemented with additional ideals of sanctity that vary with the times. For each historical period, it would be possible to establish recurring topoi in the discourses of holiness. Such topoi are stereotyped, and, to examine sanctity we have to consider them as they appear in different historical times. In the Middle Ages, hagio­graphers frequently focused on nine stereotypical elements, emphasizing one or more of the following: first, being born of God; then, the birth, generally involving elements of the marvellous, such as the presence of divine 11  Amaral, A construção do discurso de santidade, 118–30. 12  “Bispo da Universal escapa de naufrágio,” 5.

13  Philippart, “L’hagio­graphie comme littérature,” 11.

14  De Gaiffier, “Hagio­graphie et historio­graphie,” 140. 15  Goullet, “Introduction,” 8–22.



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signs of providence; next, the saint being a prodigy intellectually or spiritually; fourth, the devil constantly plotting against the saint(s) to deflect them from their paths— with people often appearing as the devil incarnate, i.e., the saints’ enemies; fifth, the saint displaying many virtues and attributes; sixth, the saint’s life being exemplary, commonly marked by practical acts of charity, alms, and especially miracles—these being proof of their attributes or their virtue having received from God the power to perform supernatural acts; seventh, their life being marked by suffering, being humiliated or belittled, and their spirituality characterized by struggle between body and spirit, and the transitory aspect of the material; eighth, at times, a tension between the demands of the world and a desire to leave it; and finally, the saint usually learning of approaching death through a vision.16 Valdemiro’s hagio­graphy encompasses the first seven of these.17 The text recounts the story of his life, emphasizing the periods of persecution and the way God has intervened to save him and guarantee his missionary and evangelizing works. Despite Satan’s numerous attempts against his life, having survived the boat capsizing is his greatest victory in defeating “Satan.” A dichotomy exists, from the preface onwards, between those elected by God and the philistines, that is, between Valdemiro’s followers and Muslims, Catholics, and members of the Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus.18 The idea of ecclesia is evoked— and recreated—as the wcgp takes over its function, reestablishing at the end of the twentieth century the conception of continuous war between God and Satan. St. Augustine’s conceptions of the world being divided into opposite and asymmetrical parts are brought back: God and Satan, good and evil, the spirit and the flesh.19 Consequently, the world is, once again, divided into two poles. Within this polarization, man appears as a weak element, unable to escape from his sins. Yet, there is a way to escape from this miserable fate: to accept the principle of authority (auctoritas) established by the church (ecclesia). The end point of The Great Deliverance is to institute the wcgp as ecclesia through a leader blessed with gifts, restoring a Manichean Theo­logy discarded by the Catholic church at the end of the Middle Ages: in sum, the wcgp rediscovers dualism. In a strict sense, the doctrine of dualism is about reality consisting of two opposing domains (good versus evil) with the individual impotently placed between them.20 Although the authors Rahner and Vorgrimler claim that the incarnation doctrine has been able to eliminate this dualist view, we should highlight that the wcgp does not follow this premise but insists on the works of demons and the presence of evil attempting to take men away from the Kingdom of God. 16  Goullet, “Introduction,” 17–18. For examples of medi­eval saints’ lives see the Legenda aurea of Jacobus de Voragine.

17  I add below to my quotations from Valdemiro’s hagio­graphy a note linking the citation to one of Goullet’s nine items. This is to show how essential passages can be linked to medi­eval narratives.

18  A citation (1 Samuel 17:41–52) is present in the preface of The Great Deliverance, as reference to David’s victory over Goliath. See Oliveira, O grande livramento, 6. It is a triumphal ode that encompasses thanksgiving and a victory hymn with a messianic end. 19  Guerreau, “Feudalismo,” 447–52.

20  Rahner and Vorgrimler, Petit dictionnaire de théo­logie catholique, 138.

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As for the connection between the wcgp and the notion of ecclesia, some aspects should be explained: the wcgp is not the only church to establish a Manichaean war between God and Satan on Earth. This is a common aspect of Pentecostal and primarily Neopentecostal theo­logies such as the wcgp’s, even if it is not exclusive to them. The Catholic Charismatic Renewal, for instance, a movement that started in the 1960s in the United States, also advocates some aspects of Pentecostal theo­logy, primarily the relationship with the Holy Ghost and the literal interpretation of biblical texts. The underlying point of those movements relates to charisma in its medi­eval conception, i.e., that after the baptism of the Holy Spirit, some special gifts are bestowed upon the individual (Acts 2:1–4).21 The movement itself dates to the twentieth century but its origins can be traced to the Middle Ages, with theo­logical foundations linked to the interpretation of Paul (1 Corinthians 12:4–11). The gifts bestowed by the Holy Spirit are the word of wisdom, the word of knowledge, the word of faith, gifts of healing, the working of miracles, interpreting prophecies, and speaking different kinds of tongues. The version that became popular in the last centuries of the Middle Ages was the trilogy of visions-revelations-prophecies based on Thomas Aquinas, which fell into disuse at the end of the Middle Ages. The Catholic Charismatic movements as well as the Protestant movements brought it back.22 As an example of this renewed dualism, the narrative of The Great Deliverance insists on presenting the dichotomic world. As such: with Apostle Valdemiro Santiago it was not different: he, through faith and the anointing power of God over his ministry, has overcome battles against everyone and everything that stood in his way. He did not crumble when facing hardships; on the contrary, he believed in God and loved Him with all his heart and soul. Many times, when human eyes could no longer see, he overcame the Indian Ocean, through faith—swimming against the current, facing the most dreadful species of sharks; he challenged the law of gravitation when he fell off the eighth floor of a building when working in construction. Even though he was a preacher, he worked in civil construction. And he survived many attacks on his life that Satan plotted against him.23

In the presentation of the book, Valdemiro also mentions the specific divine actions that worked in his favour: “Over the next pages, the reader will be able to board a boat and get to know the dangers of capsizing, face marine creatures in high seas, swim among sharks, witness the presence of angels, be ambushed by assassins, travel along a minefield and see the car blow up, and also drive on a busy avenue, crash the car and roll over. The reader will also get to know the providence of God, the acting of God and see how He saves us and empowers us to do His work.”24 Valdemiro describes how many times God has saved his life and highlights how despite his weaknesses God protects him for he is the elected one to carry out His work. There is a citation from the book of Psalms in the introduction that is relevant to this Neopentecostal 21  Barnay, “Charismatiques,” 120.

22  Vauchez, “Charisme,” 121.

23  Netto, “Prefácio,” 6. The passage refers to several plots of the devil to kill him (item 4 on the list).

24  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 10. The passage mentions the works of the devil and the suffering Valdemiro experienced (items 4 and 7).



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context (Psalm 91:10–14).25 The evoked symbolic circuit points to the Psalms regarding divine protection given to the righteous and, at the same time, assumes that the believer, Valdemiro, will experience afflictions even though God will deliver him. The insertion of the Psalms seeks to infuse the narrative with a timeless notion: even though the capsizing took place in 1996, the evoked hymns bring Valdemiro’s afflictions closer to the Old Testament as well as the New, drawing a strong connection between them. It is worth mentioning the way in which the Psalms and the Bible are interpreted by the Neopentecostals, who disregard allegorical dimensions and use them instead in a literal and utilitarian way. The passages are taken from their specific contexts, regardless of exegesis, and are “updated,” that is, they are adapted to the present time.26 The historical dimensions of the biblical text are ignored, and the Bible is presented as irrefutable evidence that the human story has already been written. This means that any episode from the present can be found in the Bible as an example or as a revelation of the future, as predestination or as prophecy. Consequently, the Neopentecostal way of reading the Bible reshapes the medi­eval conception of auctoritas: the Bible becomes the sole instrument of salvation as well as the only source of legitimate knowledge for those who desire Heaven; and is also the only effective weapon against the works of Satan on Earth. Although Valdemiro is illiterate, he is a religious man who has learned about biblical themes his whole life. Not only are these topoi important in Neopentecostal church narratives but the Neopentecostal church also offers an informal undergraduate degree in theo­logy and Valdemiro is believed to have taken several of its courses while he was bishop in his old church (the Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus). Besides using biblical narrative, the main point here is that he has learned to interpret it in the Neopentecostal style. This manner of interpretation, similar to the church in the Middle Ages, is grounded on the idea of biblical authority, but without the use of biblical exegesis. The use of Psalms in The Great Deliverance evokes a medi­eval condition in which the biblical narrative has unquestioned authority. The Bible is used as a direct allusion to Valdemiro’s own life, regardless of exegesis, and The Great Deliverance updates the biblical story by changing characters to include him. For instance: “I used to live in a place far away from civilization as a child, a place of few opportunities. In fact, all the locals lived under the same circumstances, without much hope. I never thought I would write a book, but, as the Bible says: ‘He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash-heap’ (Psalm 113:7).”27 Valdemiro mixes his image with David’s as a character commonly used in the Middle Ages,28 and by citing the Psalms he reinforces his own predestination. The story of King David is the story of Valdemiro, 25  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 13. See also “Psaumes,” 1154–56.

26  Carvalho, “Informações sobre A leitura Neopentecostal da Bí�blia”: private communication to author, August 2, 2018.

27  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 14. His intellectual capabilities are mentioned as a gift from God, since he had limited access to formal education (item 3). 28  Vauchez, A espiritualidade na idade média Ocidental, 13.

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with no distinctions regarding time or persons, corroborating a cyclical time in which the Bible narrates all human history past and future. The reasoning is medi­eval in that it subsumes history to theo­logy: any piece of knowledge / story has credibility as long as it is grounded in biblical texts, overruling human power and consigning it to tradition (auctoritas). The social imagery represented in hagio­graphy thus requires “a situation of religious unanimity and compliance” similar to that required in medi­eval times.29 Valdemiro also quotes a psalm linked to the Passover festivals, which is the first psalm of Hallel (the six psalms 113–18) and states that, by God’s will, a miserable person can do everything—reinforcing the medi­eval notion of human weakness that can only be altered by God. Valdemiro experienced much hardship before his encounter with Jesus. As he relates, however, he encountered him at a very young age and was progressively “bestowed with the blessing of supernatural faith, until one day I received His calling to do his work and win souls. I obeyed.”30 Soon after he started his ministry, he watched a news report about poverty in Africa. The images touched him to a point that he prayed to God to allow him to spread the Gospel in that area. Besides the allusion to the Psalms, this returns us to the topic of predestination, as once again he mentions how at a still very young age, he felt impelled to save the African continent. Valdemiro thus alludes to an anointing by God, a topic close to the medi­eval imaginary. Proclaiming himself anointed by the Spirit confers on him a moral credibility that transforms him into a model of virtues and attributes and, at the same time, represents his own life as an unquestionable example of his privileged relationship with God, confirmed by the supernatural actions described in his story. In the chapter “Great Deliverance,” the biblical quotation used as an epi­graph (Isaiah 43:1–3) serves as an anticipation of the afflictions he will experience.31 The passage corresponds to scenes that will follow: namely, that God will protect his elected from the waters (allusion to the boat capsizing) and from the fire (allusion to the minefield, where despite the explosions he was not harmed). As he describes: “On May 21, 1996, two pastors and I decided to go fishing after we had secured a boat for the charitable organization that the church—the ministry to which I belonged at that time—supported due to great need.32 / There, crowds would come to us asking for help, for food.”33 He explains that the boat was anchored at a club whose manager was “a religious man from a very radical cult,” thus portraying Muslims as members of a terrorist cult,34 and continues by describing their antagonism to his mission: 29  Gomes, “A igreja e o poder: representações e discursos,” 44.

30  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 14. The passage attests to his intellectual knowledge of theo­logy (item 3), and his privileged relationship with the supernatural (item 6). 31  Although the book consists of other chapters, I analyze only the first chapter, given its central role for understanding hagio­graphy in the text as a whole. 32  He was a bishop in the Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus.

33  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 17–18. His charity is praised (item 6).

34  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 18. They were enemies of faith associated with the devil to put an end to his missionary work (item 4).



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“We had performed great baptisms. I remember having baptized over four thousand and five hundred people—over one thousand were Muslims and converted to Christ. This bothered a lot of local religious leaders, the hotel manager included [who was in charge of Valdemiro’s boat]. Still, we could not have imagined that they would sabotage our boat.”35 As Valdemiro claims, one of the two screw-shaped tubes in the back of the boat was removed to sabotage them.36 After sailing for some time, they felt the boat heavier than usual but continued into high seas. When they were about twenty kilometres from shore, the boat started sinking. There were four people in it: Valdemiro, two pastors, and a musician. According to his story, when they realized the boat would sink, they “asked God to show us the way.”37 This is a common Pentecostal and Neopentecostal expression that conveys how regardless of circumstances God will come to the aid of humanity. Here, the notion of ecclesia comes to the rescue as human power is disregarded and human capabilities surrender to the workings of Providence. There were not enough life jackets for all of them, and the boat could not support their weight. Valdemiro gave the life jackets to his companions and said he would swim to find help. He acted this way, even though he claims he had no idea where he was, because he was certain that God would save him. His image corresponds to the idea of a righteous man whose wisdom comes from God: “I started to swim randomly, asking God to show me the way and allowing myself to be guided by His Spirit.”38 As he moved away from the boat, he started to remember the news report about killer sharks in these cold waters: The devil himself was working to kill me, since he comes to steal, kill, and destroy (John 10:10); it was a way to stop my ministry. I am sure it was an elaborate attempt of the enemy, but when we trust in God, when we place our lives in God’s hands, Satan’s attempts to destroy us glorify the name of God, the Almighty God who guides us and protects us daily. “We know that all things work together for the good of those who love God, those who are called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28).39

This narrative plot places Valdemiro at the centre of the war between man and Satan. In an attempt to thwart God’s work, Satan helps the plan of Muslims to kill the missionary. This is visible in two of the biblical passages quoted above. The first refers to the works of Satan and how he tries to destroy righteous men. The allusion to the text of Romans is telling because it shows a reelaboration of the notion of sanctity itself through martyrdom—but a form of martyrdom without bloodshed, as described by 35  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 19.

36  Muslims associated with the devil attempt to kill Valdemiro (item 4).

37  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 19.

38  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 21. The narrative highlights his virtues, his exemplary life, and the Holy Spirit’s miracles (items 5 and 6). 39  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 22. Devils work to kill him (item 4).

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the Bollandists.40 In analyzing the topic, Delehaye claims that the theme of this biblical text in chapters five to eight is that of perseverance in the face of tribulations. By insisting on his display of perseverance, Valdemiro is alluding to a theme that in the Middle Ages was the very origin of the cult of saints. The certainty that Christ had suffered at the hands of heathens to save mankind drives Christians to witness their own faith during hardship. This is one of the key elements of his hagio­graphy: that Valdemiro could only bear these torments because Christ was with him. How could such an overweight man (153 kg) otherwise swim for hours in rough seas, surrounded by sharks, and not be harmed? According to his testimony, time went by very fast. After he had been swimming for about two hours, he noticed a very large shark swimming around him. He cried out to God, in tears, praying for deliverance. The presence of tears while clamoring evokes the intensity of his relationship with the supernatural, a notion that is associated with the internalizing of faith that had grown stronger at the end of the Middle Ages.41 What he clamored for was not himself: he appealed for those who had been blessed by his ministry and had stayed on shore;42 he prayed for the poor souls in the African continent:43 “The devil was certainly there, for the Bible says, through Peter the Apostle, that Satan is represented by demons. But the enemy is only one and is not omnipresent. Oh, no! Our Lord, He is Omnipresent, which means that he is everywhere at all times. I repeat, not Satan! He is around us twenty-four hours a day, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour (1 Peter 5:8) but represented by millions of demons. / At that moment, the Devil’s demons would tell me ‘you won’t be able to escape, this is your end.’”44 The devil’s personification is also present in medi­eval imagery. After the CounterReformation, the representation of saints in hagio­graphies was altered due to critiques of marvellous elements. Since then, the debate about sanctity and the “proper” way to write hagio­graphies has been closely related to the works of the Belgian Bollandists who developed, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, a “scientific method” for the study of hagio­graphy.45 These Jesuit scholars who rewrote the story of the first Christian martyrs disregarded what they considered the naï�ve language of medi­eval people, e.g., the personification of the devil, the presence of the marvellous, and especially the notion of an enchanted religion. They believed that a “scientific” method was needed to promote the virtues of the saints. For the Bollandists, the way Valdemiro personifies the devil in his hagio­graphy would be considered a medi­evalizing aspect that devalues his virtues as a saint. 40  Delehaye, “Martyr et Confesseur,” 37.

41  Adnès, “Larmes,” 298.

42  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 24. In this text, his virtues and miraculous works in converting souls are explored (items 5 and 6). 43  References to his virtues, supernatural doings, and affliction (items 5, 6, and 7).

44  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 24. Devil’s works (item 4). 45  See Peeters, “L’œuvre des Bollandistes.”



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The quotation from Peter’s epistle (1 Peter 5:8–11) is also related to the medi­eval theme of affliction and suffering common in hagio­graphies of medi­eval martyrs. This passage should be linked to the text of Romans concerning the idea of perseverance in the face of hardships (Romans 5:1–7). It is unlikely that these texts were chosen randomly. Valdemiro’s emphasis on perseverance indicates that as the main references in recounting his affliction, he clearly turned first to the concept of martyrdom in the history of Christianity. The numerous narratives describing his patient nature are linked to his intention to accentuate his condition as a humble and suffering imitator of Christ, conferring upon himself an exemplary character. His position as a missionary required him to live an exemplary life. Christ would help him. As a result, all of those who heard his testimony would be compelled to follow him and themselves give testimony of their faith. In the Middle Ages, the virtue of patience corresponded to martyrdom without bloodshed. Notwithstanding Valdemiro’s torment and the plots against his life when at sea, God intervened to save his life. Displaying his patience is another way to correlate his sanctity to martyrdom without bloodshed. According to St. Gregory, some martyrs were not harmed by fire or iron because they stood with true determination.46 Martyrs are also those who show compassion for the pain of others and are willing to carry their burdens in spirit, loving their enemies—characteristics adapted to the image Valdemiro created for himself. The aforementioned words of Satan filled Valdemiro with fear as they reminded him of the time he had lived in Recife, a place known for shark attacks. In addition to remembering the news reports about shark attacks, he knew that the Indian Ocean is a breeding area for sharks. He was in desperation and could hear Satan’s words saying he would not survive: “They [the sharks] would get closer and swim around me as if I were their prey. They would watch me, disappear for a few minutes, and then return…/ However, the Holy Ghost provided me with extraordinary comfort. I could clearly hear God’s voice reminding me of this biblical passage: ‘When thou passes through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.’ (Isaiah 43:2).”47 The devil’s voice was immediately replaced by God’s, testifying to the Biblical promises that he was not alone in his suffering. He continues his testimony, declaring his faith had been strengthened as well as his body: “‘Lord, close the sharks’ mouths just like you closed the lions’ when Daniel was thrown in the den. I know I am not worthy of uttering Daniel’s name, I know I am too little in comparison to him, but I believe in Your Word, in Your promise, I know that you, Lord, will deliver me.”48 As in the Middle Ages, the evocation of the Bible causes an atemporal effect whereby characters seem to overlap. By evoking Daniel, the pastor mixes his image with Daniel’s, 46  See Gregory the Great, Dialogues, bk. 4, chap. 29.

47  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 25. Devil’s words; perseverance; virtue; suffering (items 4, 5, 6, and 7).

48  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 25–26. The narrative explores his conversation with God (item 7).

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a prophet who was persecuted and saved by God’s divine intervention.49 After quoting Daniel, the sharks disappear but Valdemiro keeps swimming against the current. He swims for hours without moving and he does not give up because he knows the tides change periodically. After three hours, he is still certain the tides will change, and he will finally reach the beach. However, after he realizes he has been swimming in circles, he is desperate to return to the sinking boat but cannot see it. At this point, a shark appears near him and “that’s when God, Himself, acted—there is no other explanation.”50 He is adrift in the water, nothing to point him towards the right direction, until God shows him a white tower. Why would a white tower show him the way? White is related to divine light; God Himself is represented by it: his angels and messengers are white as well.51 He rejoices in seeing the tower and is full of hope, but suddenly feels acute pain in one of his legs, caused by cramps. He cannot use it to swim.52 He nevertheless continues to pray to God and invoke Jesus. Then, the Holy Spirit speaks to him: “And I wonder, why are people so important to you? Why do you even think about them? Why do you care so much about humans? Why do you even notice them? But you made them almost like gods and crowned them with glory and honour. You put everything under their control…(Psalm 8:4–6). / When the Holy Spirit told me that God had put everything under my control, I thought: Although the sea looks much bigger than me, it is not! In the name of God and through His power, the sea and the sharks shall obey me.”53 This is a reference to the angels in Yahweh’s commission. Its insertion in the text is not unintentional; it is rather an anticipation of the climax of his narrative, when he loses control of his cramped limbs and is “raised” by angels and taken by them to the beach. Valdemiro states that although he said he had left the sharks behind, he had not; he knew he was approaching an area full of them. He continues declaring that his faith was being tested,54 and that he arrived at this conclusion when he cried out to God, hoping for the cramps to cease: “I tried to move my legs but my whole body ached. Then, I saw myself surrounded by jellyfish and my eyes started to burn like fire. I also remember that a piece of my flesh detached from my own body, leaving a severe and unusual wound on my right leg exposed to the salt; it burned. Today, more than six years later, I still have a small scar. / I suddenly saw a shark coming towards me, but the beast twisted away after getting very close.”55

49  Gerard, “Daniel,” 243–48.

50  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 25–26. Allusion to suffering and divine intervention (items 6 and 7). 51  Pastoureau and Simonnet, Le petit livre des couleurs, 57.

52  The narrative explores the miraculous appearance of the tower and Valdemiro’s affliction (items 6 and 7). 53  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 27. Divine intervention to control the sea and sharks (item 7).

54  He knew his faith was being tested—showing his intellectual and spiritual understanding (item 3).

55  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 28–29. Emphasis on his suffering (item 7).



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Despite being in a great deal of pain, he was approaching the tower. But there was yet another adversity to overcome: breakers. The beach was full of rocks and the waves broke over them. Consequently, he had to swim a bit more until he looked up: and realized that part of the beach was very calm, there were no waves breaking. I decided to go that way and found an uninhabited islet called Portuguese Island, very close to another island known as Inhaca Island. As I got closer and closer to the island, I was more hopeful. However, I still cried out to God and kept thinking about my companions who had stayed on the boat. I had trouble breathing and a lot of cramps, but I could not stop thinking about my family or God’s people. I even remember screaming at the sea to reprimand it and the tides immediately changing in my favour. It was God’s powerful hand that provided me with great deliverance! After that, I reminisced about the most relevant moments of my life in God’s ministry. I preach the Gospel—which I love to do—and will continue to do so until I die, no matter what, because I was called to preach. It is only by God’s power that I can help people and bless them. The following verse came to my mind: “The LORD’s angel builds a camp around his followers, and he protects them” (Psalm 34:7).

I used to talk about angels who were sent to protect and free us, but, in my former ministry, my spiritual leader would tell us not to believe anyone who claimed having seen an angel in its physical form. Thank God I now belong to God and to the Worldwide Church of God’s Power! Known as the ‘the church of miracles,’ at the wcgp visions of God’s things are recognized as the Lord’s revelations to our hearts. In the past, I was told not to believe an angel could appear to our rescue. – The deliverance comes but you will not see any angels—they said.

Nonetheless, I did believe it, and after so many experiences, I concluded: ‘God delivers. But no one will see angels, is that something from the past?’ Everyone is entitled to find their own conclusions.56

The psalm chosen in this passage highlights the symbolism of the fate of the righteous versus that of the impious. The topic found in verses 2–11 is that of grace, also evoked in The Great Deliverance. Valdemiro insists on the work of angels and, at one level, this is a way to maintain distance from the Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus, and even to justify why he left it. It means that Edir Macedo, the founder of the Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus, is wrong: he claimed that angels could not appear before people even though they came to Valdemiro’s rescue, as attested by his hagio­graphy. At another level, the symbolism evoked through the appearance of such messengers should also be taken into consideration.57 Present throughout the text are topics like the persecution by evil, Valdemiro’s virtues, and the works of the marvellous, like dialogues with God, the devil, and with angels. The narrative elaborated is full of medi­eval enchantment, evoking symbols that always interweave his life with the world of medi­eval sanctity. As such, when he reaches the sand, a wave sweeps him away: 56  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 30–32. Predestination, rescue in Africa, divine calling to preach there, and God’s miraculous doings are highlighted (items 1 and 6). 57  Feuillet, Vocabulaire du Christianisme, 8.

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I have not mentioned yet that I was carrying in my mouth a bag with two computers and a GPS—that is why my lips were cut. Unfortunately, I was forced to abandon them a few metres from the beach because my mouth became completely numb, paralyzed. I abandoned it and yelled at the top of my lungs: – My God! Save me! Rescue me! In the name of Jesus!

Then, I woke up, as if I had fainted for a few seconds. I had a presentiment that it had been a while, and when I regained consciousness I was in the arms of two men. – Who are you?, I asked them.

I received no answer. I had goose bumps all over my body, a weird feeling I had never experienced before. One of them went into the water, grabbed my bag which, besides the equipment, had my wallet and all my documents. I asked them again to identify themselves and tell me which language they were speaking. Although they were strangers to me, they answered, in Portuguese: – You can speak in your language. We understand you.

I did not know how I could possibly thank them. Already up, I insisted: – Who are you?

– Do not utter a word!, they said. You are tired and you will be rescued.58

The climax of the hagio­graphy happens when Valdemiro is no longer able to swim. The most telling aspect of the text is the allusion to speaking in tongues, a central element in Neopentecostal theo­logy and related to the actions of angels. As Valdemiro explains their presence, “Those angels were in the water with me because a person in my former physique would not have been able to swim for seven hours straight if not for God’s aid.”59 He ends the narrative on the greatest miracle he has ever witnessed, declaring, “I am sure the Lord sent his angels to deliver me.”60 After this episode, it is presumed that it was God’s divine intervention that turned the pastor into Apostle Valdemiro Santiago de Oliveira, the title he chose for himself after he founded the church in 1988. This hypothesis is based on our analysis of the discourse used in his hagio­graphy, which was written and published after the foundation of wcgp. As with the quotation of psalm verses that were liturgically correlated to the perseverance of the righteous, he used similar mechanisms for the insertion of other biblical passages related to medi­eval sanctity. Valdemiro, in fact, appropriated key elements of early medi­eval hagio­graphies, from which the concept of sanctity itself evolved over time. At the beginning of Christian history, twelve apostles witnessed Christ’s resurrection. At that time, the purpose of the witness was to testify that Jesus did not lie when he proclaimed himself the son of God. When the apostles saw the risen Christ, they testified that Jesus was the Messiah. As Jesus was sentenced to death because of his 58  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 32–33. The text puts emphasis on his suffering and the marvellous works of the angels to save him (items 6 and 7). 59  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 34. 60  Oliveira, O grande livramento, 35.



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declaration, the apostles’ lives were at risk. Like Jesus after resurrection, they would have to face the human tribunals that condemned Christ. This inaugurated a generation of testimony, such as Tertullian’s, declaring faith in the resurrection of the Son of God.61 In a symbolic way, Valdemiro’s journey to Mozambique and his affirmation “I am a Christian!” corresponds to the apostles declaring their faith in the Son of God. This is how the leader of the wcgp was born. All the biblical passages chosen by him, especially the one from Romans, clearly emphasize the importance of sacrificing one’s life as a counterpart and imitation for Jesus’ sacrifice. He concludes the chapter portraying himself as a sinner and thus referring to the theme of imitatio Christi.62 Besides humility and perseverance as the themes that marked the end of this testimony, the topic of predestination is also highlighted. The description of his adversity creates a metatext through which his saga as a predestined man can be seen: predestined to preach in Africa, it was there, like the apostles, that he was able to testify to his faith by declaring “I am a Christian” and himself become an apostle. Even the quarrels with his former church (the Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus) were part of a divine plan for the reinstitution of ecclesia in the wcgp. He introduces the notion that his apostolate was born of a shipwreck that tested his faith, as when the faith of martyrs was tested in the time of persecution—an episode commonly part of saints’ lives in the Middle Ages. He also emphasizes that to found wcgp he would experience much affliction, like a boat sailing in a storm that had to be saved by God’s divine intervention; in other words, the allegorical vision of a poorly administrated Church redeemed by the foundation of wcgp.63 It is important to mention that the acquisition of the boat as well as its purpose are both connected to the theme of charity and underlined by the metaphor aligning fishing with converting souls and with God’s aid.64 Jesus considered Peter a fisher of men. Again, if we consider the themes found in the hagio­graphy, and the way they are interwoven with the establishment of sanctity in the Middle Ages, we find that Valdemiro interwove his image with that of a medi­eval saint in an attempt to create symbolic capital. This symbolic capital sacralizes the establishment of his church, his afflictions, persecutions, and tests of faith at the hand of the devil, which eventually conceived an Apostle who continues to show proof of God’s election. In conclusion, we can state that the main structuring elements of The Great Deliverance show themselves to be appropriations of medi­eval hagio­graphies. Even though the narrative on the boat capsizing refers to an episode that took place in 1996, if we removed all textual references to the twentieth century, we would find a medi­eval hagio­graphy marked by the war between God and Satan, the presence of the marvel61  De Gaiffier, “Sujets généraux,” 8–9.

62  In the last pages of the chapter, Valdemiro also explains how he was humiliated by his colleagues from the Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus. Yet that was part of God’s plan to test his faith; all disagreements and even the rupture with the Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus were divine acts of God to forge his character, allowing him to grow in his faith and found the wcgp. 63  Feuillet, “Navire,” 77.

64  Feuillet, “Pêche,” 87.

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lous, Manichaeism, and the power of the church as unquestionable truths. We can also add to Valdemiro’s testimony the element of predestination and his missionary work; in other words, the hero of The Great Deliverance seems to follow the steps of many medi­eval martyrs as he travels great distances to spread the Gospel and put an end to idolatry. Using neomedi­evalism to analyze the discourse of religious leaders is, as we can see, a vast and fruitful area still to be explored. This study is just a sample of the possibilities this approach can provide. With the example of Valdemiro Santiago’s self-fashioning as a bloodless martyr in The Great Deliverance, we observe how a new Brazilian Protestant religion like wcgp reworks for purposes of self-legitimization an image of sanctity that was quotidian in the Middle Ages. This self-legitimizing political use of the medi­eval and its revival of an enchanted world has substantial impact on the now, whereby what was once “medi­eval” has become contemporary, with wcgp members today also able to experience miracles, speak in tongues, and be physically saved by angels.



Works Cited

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Adnès, Pierre. “Larmes.” In Dictionnaire de spiritualité, ascétique et mystique et histoire, edited by Marcel Viller et al., 9:287–303. 20 vols. Paris: Beauchesne, 1953–1995. Amaral, Clí�nio de Oliveira. A construção do discurso de santidade do Infante Santo em Portugal. Os indícios da ‘criação’ de um santo dinástico. Saarbrücken: Novas Edições Acadêmicas, 2016. Barnay, Sylvie. “Charismatiques.” In Christianisme: Dictionnaire des temps, des lieux et des figures, edited by André Vauchez, 120. Paris: Seuil, 2010. “Bispo da Universal escapa de naufrágio.” Folha de São Paulo, May 23, 1996. https://www1. folha.uol.com.br/fsp/1996/5/23/cotidiano/32.html. Campos, Leonildo Silveira. Teatro, tempo e mercado: organização e marketing de um empreendimento neopentecostal. Petrópolis / São Paulo: Vozes / Simpósio Editora e Universidade Metodista de São Paulo, 1977. D’Alcântara, Thamires Chagas. “A auto-hagiografia elaborada por um santo: a exemplaridade da fabricação de santidade na obra “O grande livramento” de Valdemiro Santiago” (bachelor’s thesis, Universidade Federal Rural do Rio de Janeiro, 2017). De Gaiffier, Baudouin. “Sujets généraux. Réflexions sur les origines du culte des martyres.” In De Gaiffier, Études critiques d’hagio­graphie et d’icono­logie, 7–30. Subsidia Hagio­graphica 43. Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1967. —— . “Hagio­graphie et historio­graphie. Quelques aspects du problème.” In De Gaiffier, Recueil d’Hagio­graphie (1967–1977), 139–96. Subsidia Hagio­graphica 61. Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1977. Delehaye, Hippolyte. “Martyr et Confesseur.” Analecta Bollandiana 39 (1921): 20–49. Feuillet, Michel. “Navire.” In Lexique des symboles chrétiens, edited by Michel Feuillet, 77. Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 2004. —— . Vocabulaire du Christianisme. Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 2000. Gentry, Francis G. and Müller, Ulrich. “The Reception of the Middle Ages in Germany: An Overview,” Studies in Medi­evalism 3, no. 3–4 (1991): 399–422. Gerard, André-Marie. “Daniel.” In Dictionnaire de la Bible, edited by André-Marie Gerard, 243–48. Paris: Laffont, 1989. Gomes, Francisco José Silva. “A igreja e o poder: representações e discursos.” In A idade média, edited by Maria Eurydice de Barros Ribeiro, 33–60. Brasí�lia: UNB, 1997. Goullet, Monique. “Introduction.” In Les saints et l’histoire. Sources hagio­graphiques du Haut Moyen Âge, edited by Anne Wagner, 8–22. Paris: Bréal, 2004. Gregory the Great. Dialogues, edited by Adalbert Vogüe. Sources Chrétiennes 254. Paris: Cerf, 1978. Guerreau, Alain. “Feudalismo.” In Dicionário temático do Ocidente medi­eval, edited by Jacques Le Goff and Jean-Claude Schmitt, 1:437–55. 2 vols. Bauru: EDUSC, 2002. Igreja Mundial do Poder de Deus (Worldwide Church of God’s Power). “História da Igreja.” https://www.impd.org.br/institucional; accessed April 22, 2022. Netto, Geraldo. “Prefácio.” In Valdemiro Santiago de Oliveira, O grande livramento, 5–8. São Paulo: Igreja Mundial do Poder de Deus, 2009. Oliveira, Valdemiro Santiago de. O grande livramento. São Paulo: Igreja Mundial do Poder de Deus, 2009. Pastoureau, Michel and Dominique Simonnet. Le petit livre des couleurs. Paris: Panama, 2005. Peeters, Paul. L’œuvre des Bollandistes. Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1961.

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Philippart, Guy. “L’hagio­graphie comme littérature: concept récent et nouveaux programmes?” Revue des Sciences Humaines 251 (1998): 11–39. Proença, Wander de Lara. Sindicato de mágicos: uma história cultural da Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus (1977–2007). São Paulo: Unesp, 2011. “Psaumes.” In Dictionnaire critique de théo­logie, edited by Jean-Yves Lacoste, 1154–56. 3rd ed. Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 2007. Rahner, Karl and Herbert Vorgrimler. Petit dictionnaire de théo­logie catholique. Translated from Germany by Paul Démann and Maurice Vidal. Paris: Seuil, 1970. Vauchez, André. “Charisme.” In Christianisme: Dictionnaire des temps, des lieux et des figures, edited by André Vauchez, 121. Paris: Seuil, 2010. —— . A espiritualidade na idade média Ocidental: séculos VIII a XIII. Rio de Janeiro: Zahar, 1995. Voragine, Jacobus de. La Légende Dorée. Edited and translated by Alain Boureau, Pascal Collomb, Monique Goullet, Laurence Moulinier, and Stéfano Mula. Paris: Gallimard, 2004.

Chapter 5

THE “MIDDLE AGES” IN THE BRAZILIAN PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS OF 2018: THE LEFT, THE RIGHT, AND THE CENTRE LUIZ GUERRA

Before I start, let me mention two important caveats. The first is that this piece

was written before the final results of the Brazilian elections of 2018, before we knew the results (so nothing here is meant to be predictive); this chapter should be read as an analysis of the electoral context as it was and the use during this election of a “medi­ eval past.” The second point is that while I personally strongly oppose Jair Bolsonaro, this chapter is not intended as a piece of propaganda and so I aim to be as impartial as possible. Despite being one of the greatest electoral processes in the world, the Brazilian elections of today are still relatively new. Brazil’s political tradition has been heavily marked by the use of force and violence, and by the strong presence of the Armed Forces which, from time to time, has destabilized republican and democratic structures.1 The first Brazilian Republic was founded via a coup d’état by the military in 1889, with few connections to the civilian republican movement. From 1889 to 2018 we have seen attempted, sometimes successful, seizures of power; most notably the Military Regime of 1964 to 1985. During this period the electoral and representative system was restricted and controlled by the military, and high executive positions were no longer elected but nominated, with regular elections for all positions only re-established in 1988. Therefore, the electoral process in 2018 is supported by barely thirty years of recent democratic tradition. However, the elections of 2018 attracted international attention not because of some anniversary, but instead for the blatant polarization of the political spectrum. Sailing on the same recent neo-conservative winds as the USA and parts of Europe, with riots and protests not unlike those seen in Charlottesville, Brazil has given birth to its most recent fascist-like political candidate: Jair Messias Bolsonaro. The polarization is so extreme that international agencies, celebrities, and politicians who manifest any dislike or distrust for Bolsonaro have been, in almost “cold warlike” hysteria, labelled as “communists”: Roger Waters, Madonna, The Economist, the New York Times, 1  In terms of military presence, see Rodrigues Barbosa, Militares e política no Brasil. On the influence of the military in politics after the Military Regime see Souza, “Entre dados e controvérsias.” For their influence prior to the coup of 1964, see Oliveira, A configuração do Sistema nacional. For a “recent” example of destabilization in the 1950s, see Starling and Schwartz, Brasil: uma biografia, 412–17.

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Marine Le Pen, Jon Oliver, and most notably Francis Fukuyama—all communists in the eyes of Bolsonaro’s most exalted supporters.2 Despite the notoriety of this election, and its worldwide attention, there is another aspect of it which has remained mostly unseen: the constant utilization of medi­eval images and themes. This facet of the political dispute has been mostly neglected because of two main reasons related directly to the ambivalent nature of medi­evalism: first, because the best-known type of medi­evalism (the use of the Middle Ages as a derogatory term for bad politics) is almost naturalized; and second, because the other type (the exaltation of a medi­eval past) was rarely seen, until this election, outside of very niche groups.3 We shall here attempt to see how these so-called Middle Ages reflect themselves in the political disputes of twenty-first century Brazil, and how the past is constructed according to the present. The Middle Ages are not a strange presence to Brazilians. Neomedi­evalism is so widely spread that we could easily adapt Richard Utz’s anecdote about Atlanta to Belo Horizonte or any major Brazilian city: “medi­eval” restaurants, hotels, music groups, and other attractions, we have them all.4 But despite being ever-present in our daily lives, the Middle Ages are widely recognized as a foreign past. They are not accounted as part of our history, and are not seen as our past, only briefly taught in schools as a medium or transition between Classic and Modern European times. Some authors do, indeed, argue for the Middle Ages, more specifically the “Portuguese” Middle Ages, to be interpreted and taught as a period of Brazilian history since we are supposed to be “descendants” of the Portuguese.5 Leaving aside the many possible criticisms, this is the view of a very small strand of like-minded historians and educators. The contrary view is much the more prevalent. As recently as 2015, the Middle Ages were almost entirely removed from our basic curricula, based on research claiming that students already knew enough about them.6 This caused a notable reaction from medi­evalists and classics scholars, although it led to an even more divisive response amongst other historians.7 2  For more than a century anti-communism has been a powerful political force inspiring fervent militancy in defence of the traditional order against the “revolutionary threat,” which in many situations achieved great repercussions. See Motta, “O anticomunismo no Brasil,” and On Guard against the Red Menace.

3  Alt-right and conservative Catholics and Neo-Charismatics who are enthusiasts for a medi­eval past may name themselves “medi­evalists.” These groups usually congregate on the internet via Facebook or Whatsapp. One such group is Medi­eval Guido MXCVII.

4  For this anecdote see Utz, “Past, Present and Neo.” Belo Horizonte (numbering two and a half million inhabitants), the capital of Minas Gerais state, has at least five medi­eval themed restaurants and pubs, and also two regular medi­eval fairs. All of this exists in a city that was planned and constructed in 1897 as a symbol of a republican and positivist project of power (see Passos, “A formação urbana e social”). 5  Macedo, “Repensando a Idade Média.”

6  Cerri, “Parecer para o texto preliminar.” This was one of the nine opinions on which the BNCC (Base Nacional Comum Curricular) decision was based.

7  “Carta da ABREM sobre a Base Nacional Comum Curricular” by the Associação Brasileira de Estudos Medievais.



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Despite its lack of “importance” in the educational curricula, the medi­eval is still a theme of high interest in Brazil. Albeit pale in comparison to the recent fascination with the Middle Ages in pop culture and media—which even spawned a medi­eval telenovela or soap opera, Deus Salve o Rei—the presence of the medi­eval in political posters, flyers, videos, and similar has also increased. In the dominant Brazilian political mytho­logy, the Middle Ages and the medi­eval are synonyms for fear, obscurantism, irrationality, and anarchy, not unlike the stereotype of the “Dark Ages.”8 As an example, the cartoonist André Dahmer created in 2017 a series of politically critical cartoons called “Medi­eval Brazil” in which he depicted with irony the prejudices and retrogressive aspects of the current government (see figure 5.1 below).

The structure of André Dahmer’s “Medi­eval Brazil” is simple: most of the cartoons have about three to four panels which contain a dialogue between two characters, and this usually follows a format of simple images with the criticism centred on the text. The protagonists are always depicted dressed as knights, specifically the stereotypical image we usually call a “Crusader.” Despite the outfits and frequent presence of castles in the background, the cartoon is not supposed to be set during the Middle Ages but in contemporary Brazil, with the characters present-day Brazilians who have embraced their supposedly medi­eval practices and prejudices (as in figure 1, cartoon 3). The dialogue itself often contains modern elements, such as motorcycles, smartphones, television, and the internet (cartoons 1, 2, and 4), and is centred on contemporary debates. The artist also depicts his “Crusaders” as somewhat ignorant, or even oblivious, to the reasons or fundamentals behind their actions (cartoon 2); they are represented as mindless and driven only by notions of hate and faith, and are often not worried about the rational consequences of their actions, even when those are counter-productive to their own objectives (cartoon 3). Racism, religious prejudice, sexism, militarism, and puritanism are presented as medi­eval attributes, which are supposedly taking over the modern and more enlightened individuals, returning them to the Dark Ages. Contemporary angsts and solutions are projected into the Middle Ages, together with prejudices and values that cannot be so simply transferred, and events which are more typical of other historical periods (e.g., sixteenth-century witch hunts) are labelled as medi­eval (cartoon 2).9 Complementary to that, the Dark Ages are not only seen as conservative, but also as apolitical and sometimes even anti-political, with politics being directly associated with an idea of modernity. As Leandro Rust points out, the postulate that fixes politics as the result of a secularization process—and therefore 8  I am using political mytho­logy in the sense of Raoul Girardet, Mitos e mito­logias políticas.

9  The witch hunts of popular imagination were post-medi­eval and happened mainly in Protestant regions. By saying there were no witch hunts in the Iberian peninsula, I do not deny inquisitorial persecution, only that it was distinct and undertaken by different agents. See Paiva, Bruxaria e superstição; Paiva, Baluartes da fé; Roper, Witch Craze; Trevor-Roper, The European Witch-Craze; and Levack, The Witch-Hunt in Early Modern Europe.

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October 16, 2017: “Let me log onto the internet to curse some feminist bitches”; “Better still: curse some feminist black bitches!”; “Man, I don’t speak with blacks.”

October 9, 2017: “What did this witch do to deserve being burned?”; “I don’t know. I only clicked the link and started to burn her, together with the lads”; “I also want to burn her a little.”

October 10, 2017: “Who are you shooting at?” “People who do not want a medi­eval Brazil”; “You risk hitting people who do want a medi­eval Brazil”; “So what? We are many.”

October 9, 2017: “Shall we go and ride our motorbikes and beat up some gays?”; “Sorry, man. I set aside my day to invade and destroy Umbanda Terreiros (meeting places)”; “No problem, dude. Jesus always comes first.” Figure 5.1: Cartoons by André Dahmer.



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reaffirms an anti-political nature for the Middle Ages—is still almost a “categorical imperative” in historio­graphy.10 This view is far from exclusive to the works of André Dahmer. It is a widespread and highly popular perception amongst political cartoons and satires, and is also endorsed by some scholars. Consequently, it is also highly reproduced, from memes to posts to pictures, the range and impact of which are almost impossible to estimate. It is the most recurrent type of “political medi­evalism” in current Brazil: the progressives seem bound to the idea that we as a society are becoming each day more medi­ eval. If on one side of the political spectrum calling someone “medi­eval” is an insult, on the other side—the one usually referred to as “medi­eval”—it can, sometimes, be a compliment. The more conservative groups aligned with the right and usually of a very vocal religious affiliation have embraced the medi­eval soubriquet as a symbol of a glorious time, untainted by the “degenerations” of modernity and laicity.11 This is often based on the assumption that the Middle Ages were “the Golden Age of Christianity” and is usually followed by extremist behaviour against other religions, such as antisemitism and Islamophobia, and even protestants are often referred to as “heretics.”12 Despite this, most Catholic authorities in Brazil and worldwide, such as the Brazilian National Bishops Conference, do not affiliate themselves with this discourse, and will often condemn it. As a result, many of these groups identify themselves as Sedevacantists and claim that many bishops and even the pope are “infiltrated communists.”13 Albeit more common in Europe, the use of a medi­eval past to justify extremist or oppressive behaviour, similar to that described by Patrick Geary in The Myth of Nations, was not unheard of in Brazil; but it was also never a big part of the dominant political mytho­logy. Its uses and appearances have not been the most common in selfdepictions of the far-right and the more conservative sectors during recent decades.14 The main example, until recent events, was perhaps the use of medi­eval symbols by 10  Rust, “História, Mitos Polí�ticos e Idade Média,” 419–27.

11  The “degeneration” of modernity is a common topic on internet forums, videos, and websites; some examples can be found in the “Medi­eval Guido MXCVII” Facebook site (see December 22, 2017; January 19, 2018; April 11, 2018; and November 15, 2017).

12  Examples of antisemitism can be found in the blog of “Apo­logistas da Fé Católica” on June 8, 2018; February 10, 2018; May 19, 2018; and on the Facebook pages of “Papa Urbano II Deus Vult” on December 9, 2017, and “Medi­eval Guido MXCVII” on December 22, 2017. Examples of Islamophobia can be seen on “Papa Urbano II Deus Vult” on November 7, 2017, and March 25, 2018; and on “Medi­eval Guido MXCVII” on December 20, 2017. 13  Sedevacantism is a position held by some traditionalist Catholics. It argues that the present pope is not a legitimate occupier of the Holy See because of the church’s embrace of the “heresy of modernism” and, in most cases, it stipulates that for the lack of a valid pope the Holy See has been vacant since the death of Pope Pius XII in 1958. See Appleby, Being Right, 257, and Marty and Appleby, Fundamentalisms Observed, 88.

14  This can be seen in representations of the Military Regime. In this period the Middle Ages were not a common image and more “national” topics were often preferred. See Motta, “A ditadura nas representações verbais e visuais.”

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Figure 5.2: Front page of the newspaper Opinião in a dossier about the tfp—depicting a crusading knight holding a banner: “Increpa illos dure” (Reprimand Them Severely). The text below, to the left, reads: “Who does the tfp fight against.” Available at: memorialdademocracia.com.br/publico/image/12707; accessed on April 22, 2022.

the tfp—Tradição Família e Propriedade (“Tradition, Family and Property”)—a conservative and Catholic group that fits the Sedevacantist criteria above.15 The tfp chose a golden “lion rampant” as its symbol, sporting a red cross in its mane and standing before a crimson background, and exerted significant influence in Brazilian politics during the 1960s and 1970s. Even though the group still exists and now has nuclei all over the world, its influence is much diminished. Its members

15  “Tradição Famí�lia e Propriedade” is a Catholic conservative society founded in Brazil in 1960 by Plí�nio Corrêa. It has expanded and opened cells in many countries, from Poland to the United States.



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Figure 5.3: Knight Templar with Brazilian flag and text “God, Country and Family.” “Templários da Pátria.” Posted on July 30, 2018. Available at facebook.com/ TemplariosDaPatria/; accessed on April 22, 2022.

propose a restoration of Catholic values and a return to the “golden times of Christian Civilization” (the Middle Ages), and are notorious for medi­eval allusions in their vestments, ceremonies, and overall visual identity.16 The tfp and its “medi­eval” connections are a vast subject. Here I will mention a flyer from around 1961 that can be considered the personification of their medi­eval aspirations (figure 5.2). In it, we have again a figure dressed as a Knight-Crusader, donning a greyish tunic with a sword and a shield at its waist. The shield is clear white (possibly an evocation of purity) and at its centre lies the crest of the tfp, the golden lion. The knight holds with both arms, stretched in a cross-like silhouette, a streamer containing the Latin phrase: Increpa illos dure (“Reprimand them severely,” a quotation from the First Epistle to Timothy), a clear allusion to the objectives of this society. The style of the image also draws heavily from late medi­eval illuminations and early modern illustrations. But is this “medi­eval” imagery really medi­eval? Are these really evocations and reclamations of medi­eval values? Or only projections of contemporary ideas and ideo­ logies travestied as medi­eval scapegoats for present-day prejudices? The dates of most of our examples suggest that the boom of medi­eval imagery in Brazilian politics is a recent phenomenon; or at least that it has gained significantly 16  For a return to the “golden times” of Christian civilization, see the blog entry of February 19, 2018, on the tfp’s website. As an example of clear allusions to a “medi­eval” past, see the photo­ graph of Plí�nio Corrêa giving a speech in São Paulo on June 22, 1984. Members present wore red capes, berets, and halberds, and the golden lion of the tfp stands tall, embroidered in a red flag. A more recent example can be seen in the North American tfp protesters on May 17, 2009, on the campus of the University of Notre Dame, praying in response to a scandal.

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more notoriety and space in the current public debate. In lieu of the almost arcane images and practices centred on the groups seen above, political medi­evalism in Brazil today achieves increasing notoriety on social media, and we have much more widespread material in the form of memes and posts. Medi­evalesque images have also seen a significant spike with the electoral process of 2018, usually associated with the candidate Jair Bolsonaro and his supporters. Bolsonaro has about eight million followers on the internet, and the pages which endorse him with neomedi­evalism on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and YouTube range from ten thousand to one million followers; some of the most famous are: “Corrupção Brasileira Memes” (over one million followers on Facebook and 32,200 on Instagram), “Medi­eval Guido mxcvii” (47,594 followers on Facebook), and “Sanctos Memes Templários” (24,080 followers on Facebook).17 These new images share, unsurprisingly, many common themes with those used by the tfp and many other conservative movements around the world, such as those seen in the protests of Charlottesville, or the early Ku Klux Klan and their “white knights.”18 Those themes usually circle around ideas of bellicosity and purity and are witnessed through the employment of heraldries to represent their groups and the use of standards, tabards, shields, and armour. The figure of a Knight-Crusader is often the embodiment of such values, mixed with patriotic and national symbols. Figure 5.3 above, from the Facebook page of “Templários da Pátria” (Templars of the Homeland), shows us a supposed Knight Templar in armour donning a white tunic with a red cross (posted July 30, 2018). He bears a sword in his right hand and a massive flag on his left; behind him are the impaled bodies of his many enemies on what seems to be a dusty battlefield. Almost ironically, the flag he carries is not “medi­eval,” nor from the time or place of the Crusades, but the republican flag of Brazil, created in 1889 as a symbol of modernity and positivism.19 Above the knight, the phrase “Deus, Pátria, Famí�lia” (God, Country, Family), dating from at least 1932 was the motto of Brazilian Integralism, a Catholic affiliated fascist-like movement. Unlike the tfp, the Brazilian Integralists themselves did not make much use of medi­eval images or idiosyncrasies, preferring uniforms and other military symbolism. Regarding this presence of the Integralist motto, we can infer that it points to a re-reading of an already existing reactionary discourse, but this time presented to us in “medi­eval costume.”20 The image offers a foreign past reclaimed as an emblem of patriotism. 17  The follower numbers above are from April 22, 2022; in most cases they are growing. The original “Corrupção Brasileira Memes” was banned from Facebook (on July 25, 2018) for providing fake news.

18  Many pictures and articles about right-wing protesters wearing shields and “medi­eval” crests can be found around the internet. See also articles in The Public Medi­evalist such as Sturtevant, “Leaving ‘Medi­eval’ Charlottesville” and Elliot, “A Vile Love Affair.”

19  It still maintains the same colours and a similar shape to the previous imperial flag. See Carvalho, “Bandeira e Hino.”

20  Their current profile picture—which doubles as their logo—is a white crest against a green background, containing depictions of a Templar knight, a Templar cross, and the same motto “God, Country, Family”; published on Facebook June 4, 2018.



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The image of the Templar used by progressives like André Dahmer—a representation of mindless faith and obedience to a violent and persecutionary cause, a Crusade against minorities and other groups—is here portrayed as the mirror opposite: a symbol of faithful dedication to a noble cause, a pious and brave warrior who goes against his time, a bastion of values and morality, a paladin. This fixation with the Templars is nothing new. Peter Partner in 1982 already delved into the mythos surrounding these alt-right groups: their frequent association with the ideal of order—in opposition to magicians—the idea that Crusades are related to the defence of a right, and also the emergence of “Neo-Templar” groups in nineteenth-century Europe.21 More recently, also, the frequent association between Templar imagery and extreme conservative movements—specially Islamophobic ones—has been examined by many scholars.22 These connections claimed the spotlight and the attention of the mass media when Anders Breivik—the person responsible for the 2011 attacks in Norway—claimed to be affiliated with “the Knights Templar.”23 Brazil is no exception, the proliferation of self-styled “Templar” groups and institutions has grown significantly in recent years, even expanding beyond the more traditional Catholic circles. This growth has given birth to almost schizophrenic neomedi­ evalisms such as the “Templar Church of Christ in Earth,” whose message can be found on YouTube.24 However, it is interesting to notice that, while in most European and North American cases the Templars are evoked as a symbol of antagonism to the steady growth of Islam, in Brazil—where this religion is still numerically low—the depicted enemies of the Templars are not only Muslims but also often the “heretic” (in many cases Protestants), the “leftist,” the “macumbeiro” (derogatory term used to refer to practitioners of Afro-American religions), those engaged in “communism” and “social justice.”25 21  Partner, Murdered Magicians.

22  Some examples are Koch, “The New Crusaders”; and Davey et al., “The Mainstreaming.”

23  See the article in The Independent, “Anders Breivik Questioned about ‘Knights Templar’ Group.” For connections between Crusader and Templar imagery, the far right and terrorism, see Wollenberg, “The New Knighthood.” 24  An anachronistic chimera of sorts, the “Templar Church of Christ in Earth” is a neo-charismatic Protestant church founded on November 11, 2011, by Walter Pereira da Silva. Third-wave Charismatic Protestants in South America, claiming to continue the legacy of a European, and more specifically Catholic, religious order from the twelfth century, is one of the best examples of how neomedi­evalism can obliterate history, authenticity, and historical accuracy in ways that look illogical and almost ludicrous, if not scary.

25  Islamophobia is a constant in these groups, but usually not their main focus. The idea of a new Crusade against Islam is very present as well. See the Facebook pages of “Cavaleiros Templarios da Opressão” on June 18, 2017; and “Papa Urbano II Deus Vult” on August 21, 2018. For some examples of Templars being depicted focused against these other “enemies” see the posts on “Desenhista que Pensa” on March 6, 2017; and “Papa Urbano II Deus Vult” on December 13, 2017 and October 4, 2018. Data on Brazilian demo­graphics and religious growth can be accessed through the website of the Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estadí�stica.

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Figure 5.4: Facebook profile-page picture of the “Cavaleiros Templários da Opressão,” depicting Jair Bolsonaro as a crusader. Published on August 10, 2017 (https://www.facebook.com/ CavaleirosTemplariosdaOpressao/; accessed on April 22, 2022.

Figure 5.5: Former Facebook profilepage picture of the “Cavaleiros Templários da Opressão.” Published on August 10, 2017 (https://www.facebook.com/ CavaleirosTemplariosdaOpressao/; accessed on April 22, 2022.



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Amongst such self-styled Templar groups is the aforementioned “Templários da Pátria,” whose first cell was founded on July 2, 2018, in Rio de Janeiro state—and a second on September 2 in Pernambuco state. The group describes itself as a “Patriotic, Conservative Catholic, Anti-Communist and Anti-Globalist” movement, and has expressed explicit support and endorsement for Jair Bolsonaro.26 The traditional Templar imagery of their “coat of arms” and Integralist motto was discussed above (figure 5.3).27 They are far from the only Brazilian “Templars.” The “Templários da Pátria” are in fact one of many “internet Templar” groups, but one of the best organized, with uniforms, formal memberships, presence in protests, radio programs, and other events.28 The majority of the other “Templar” groups are congregations of mostly anonymous people around social media and forums, without formal organization out of the network. It is important to highlight as well that none of these groups is structured as Orders or Priories nor have they any public affiliation to any international Neo-Templar groups or structures: they are not “chivalric orders” nor do they claim to be. There are, in fact, at least six alleged “Templar orders” in Brazil, which follow hierarchical structures with ranks and titles like “Prior,” “Grand-Master,” “Knight” and “Dame,” and with formal ceremonies and documentation for acceptances and investitures.29 They are not, however, the focus of this piece. The “Templários da Pátria” are, also, not the only “internet Templars” to explicitly campaign for the candidate Jair Bolsonaro; in fact, most (non-academic) medi­evallythemed internet groups in Brazil have, to some degree, expressed support for the candidate.30 Another such group is the “Cavaleiros Templários da Opressão” (Knights Templar of Oppression), an online community of around fifteen thousand followers that self-describes as a “Far-right page geared to satire.” Despite this name, most of their content is unrelated to the Middle Ages or any medi­eval-like imagery; instead, their focus is on memes about the current political scene that oppose the agenda and demands of the progressive left. Nevertheless, they still produce apo­logetical content about the Middle Ages, especially about the Crusades, often contemporalizing them. Their current profile picture on Facebook (figure 5.4) is the perfect amalgam of their contemporary positions and their “medi­eval” denomination. In it, the candidate Jair Messias Bolsonaro is depicted as a Templar, wearing sunglasses and plate armour and 26  This endorsement can be seen through many of their Facebook posts. See examples of Bolsonaro depicted as a Templar knight on October 25, 2018; October 11, 2018; and September 30, 2018. 27  This crest is present on all original images and publications made by the group, as well as stamped on the green t-shirts used as uniforms by members. 28  For example, “Templários da Pátria,” October 30, 2018.

29  The six are the “Ordo Templum Domini”; the “Ordo Supremus Militaris Templi Hierosolymitani” (OSMTH); the “O.S.M.T.H. BRASIL: Grão Priorado de São Jorge”; “O.S.M.T.H. Gran Priorado Brasil: Cavalaria Espiritual São João Batista” (CESJB); “Gran Priorato Templário do Brasil: Cavalaria Espiritual São Francisco de Assis” (GPTB); and the “Gran Priorato Templário do Brasil: Cavalaria Espiritual São Francisco de Assis.” All claim to be the true representatives of the Knights Templar in Brazil, and to be autonomous and independent Orders. 30  On the other hand, many medi­evalists and other scholars have opposed Bolsonaro as presidential candidate.

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wielding a sword in one hand and a flag/standard in the other. Behind him we can see a Brazilian flag, a fortress, and the tips of many spears, suggesting an army. The allusions are clear: the candidate is represented as the personification of the values defended by these groups; dressed for war and with sword in hand he is a brave warrior who leads by example, who is not afraid of taking the front while holding his flag. He stands between his country (referenced by the flag behind him) and his enemies, guarding the fortress of his nation, backed by his followers flocking as a massive army to help him. The apparently incongruous sunglasses are a clear evocation of the meme “deal with it,” used as retort in response/provocation to someone’s disapproval.31 The result is an already extinguished twelfth-century military Order, an 1889 positivist republican flag and a 2010 internet meme, all evoked together under a single name and “cause,” in what is, perhaps, the quintessence of neomedi­evalism in the Brazilian presidential elections of 2018. The previous profile picture of “Cavaleiros Templários da Opressão” also merits our attention. In it, again, we have captain Jair Bolsonaro depicted as a Templar knight, donning a sword, a shield, a set of armour, and his meme sunglasses, but unlike the previous images, this one focuses not on what he is supposedly protecting, but against what/whom he is fighting. Again, the figure of the Crusader is used as an allegory for the virtuous defender, but here his enemies are not the Saracens or the infidels, but the main enemies of the Brazilian “internet Templars”: Communism, Nazism, Feminism, and the Workers Party (his main adversary in the elections), all of whom he faces head-on with his brandished sword.32 The group’s message is clear: complete and even violent opposition to these so-called “enemies” of virtue, society and tradition, and an apo­logy (in the sense of a justified explanation) for their supposedly “medi­eval” values. It is almost ironic that the Middle Ages, which we Brazilians do not recognize as belonging to our history, is a central point in a discourse—which 31  Created in 2010, this meme became highly popular in political propaganda around 2014. It evokes an older animated GIF which originated on the Something Awful comedic website and forum (www.somethingawful.com), which depicted a dog with said sunglasses and the phrase “Deal With It” (as seen at: knowyourmeme.com/photos/52812-deal-with-it). Its association with Bolsonaro goes far beyond this electoral process as well, dating from his days as a congressman, when he was notorious for scandalous, polemical, and borderline criminal positions and phrases. This behaviour earned him the sobriquet “o Mito” by his supporters, originated from the internet slang “mitar,” which was used in conjunction with this meme. The literal translation of “Mito” is “Myth,” but the meaning here would be better represented as “the Legend” or “the Legendary.” As a result, Bolsonaro is often depicted with the “deal with it” glasses as one of his symbols. More about the history of this meme and its usage can be found at: knowyourmeme.com/memes/deal-with-it.

32  The use of the swastika, and all mentions of Nazism by these “internet Templars” and Bolsonaro`s supporters deserves to be carefully explained. As mentioned before, the polarization in Brazil resulted in some political and factual distortions such as labelling Francis Fukuyama a communist. This “attribution” was extended to more people, including Adolf Hitler himself. In the eyes of this group, the Nazis were communists, a misconception based on the word socialism in National Socialism. What could have been, at first, an innocent mistake, has been instrumentalized by many far-right leaders and movements to associate the political left (and especially the Workers Party) with the Nazis.



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Figure 5.6: Image posted on the Facebook page of the group “Medi­eval Guido mxcvii.” Posted August 27, 2018. https://www.facebook. com/MEDIEVAL.GUIDO; accessed on April 22, 2022.

has gained prominence in these elections—about preserving tradition and returning to more “virtuous” times. Despite not claiming a Brazilian “medi­eval” past for themselves, these groups claim to be descendants of the “Christian Civilization” and heirs to its pious and knightly protectors, bound to “defend” and restore/preserve it against the deviations of modernity and laicity. Out of all the neomedi­evalist images produced in the Brazilian presidential elections, the most famous is probably the one above (figure 5.6). It was posted and shared by many “medi­eval” pages over September 2018, making it almost impossible to determine its origin. However, it is safe to say that it was posted at least a couple of times by the group “Medi­eval Guido mxcvii”—which has a large page self-describing as “a humour page, about RPG, Christianity, curiosities and history about the Middle Ages with the aim of integrating those interested in the subject and undoing the myth of the ‘Dark Ages.’”33 In the image Jair Bolsonaro is again depicted as a Templar, riding his horse towards the right (perhaps an intentional detail to suggest his political leanings); he has a shield by his side and holds a flagpole. Instead of the republican flag seen in the previous images, the flag hanging from his flagpole is that of the Brazilian Empire (1822–1889), a symbol still much employed by monarchist groups. Another important detail in this image is the pope, who blesses the Crusader from the skies: he has the face of a famous deceased Brazilian far-right politician named Enéas, to whom Bolsonaro is sometimes considered an heir. 33  The oldest reported appearance of this image on the internet can be found at: www.ocarcara. org/bolsonaro-no-roda-viva/, posted July 31, 2018.

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This image, however, is not new to the political uses of neomedi­evalism; it is, in fact, the last in line in a series of appropriations and re-readings of a single original picture.34 From Donald Trump in the United States, to Andre Poggenburg in Germany, many right-wing leaders and politicians have been depicted in this style by their supporters.35 The ideals of virility, strength, bravery, and bellicosity are, again, condensed in metaphors around these representations, and the figure of the Crusader/Templar is, as before, associated with the cause of defence and restoration.36 Overall, these images are all very similar (and not unlike those we analyzed here). The reference of a meme, similar to the use of sunglasses in the previous figures, is also present in the form of the “pope” who blesses the Crusader from the clouds: the figure depicted there is not any historical or fictional pope but an internet meme/character named Pepe the Frog.37 This character has been extensively associated with the far-right since 2015 (and has even been used by the official public profiles of politicians such as Donald Trump), and has been frequently employed by extremist and violent groups (usually anti-Semites and white supremacists), having in 2016 been classified as a hate symbol by the Anti-Defamation League.38 As this comparison shows, Bolsonaro’s depiction is far from original or a specific Brazilian phenomenon. Moreover, this new phenomenon of neomedi­evalist images being employed in the Brazilian political campaign, despite its specificities, is not an isolated event but part of a much more widespread phenomenon. However, there are a couple of notable distinctions among these images that are worth mentioning here. The first one is the fact that the candidate Bolsonaro was represented holding not the current Brazilian flag, but the Imperial flag, which recalls a monarchical past and shows a lesser affiliation with the democratic and republican traditions (the other 34  Again, we cannot determine the source of the first picture, but an unaltered version of the original is at www.wanhuajing.com/pic/1509/2310/2149483/1_640_878.jpg.

35  Pictures for each of these leaders were first seen on the following dates: September 26, 2016; January 30, 2017; May 30, 2017; and September 30, 2017, respectively.

36  Even when the depicted politician is a woman—like Marine Le Pen—the style of representation is the same, still mobilizing the same attributes: just adding a female face over the same masculine Templar body. Strength here can also be associated with youthfulness (and even the previously mentioned virility) with some of the politicians, especially Bolsonaro and Poggenburg, being depicted with a younger appearance than they had when the images were made.

37  The meme started to spread around 2008, inspired by the character Pepe from the comic series Boy’s Club (2005) by artist Matt Furie. It gained notoriety around 2014, when it began to be employed by celebrities and digital influencers. The meme’s association with the alt-right began with the presidential campaign of Donald Trump, when a Malaysian artist posted on 4chan, on July 22, 2015, a drawing of Pepe as Trump overlooking a wall on the US border. On October 13, 2015, Donald Trump retweeted an image of himself as Pepe, which attracted, within sixteen months, 11,000 likes and 8,100 retweets. Later, in 2016, after Trump’s victory, the meme was mobilized in France for Marine Le Pen. Matt Furie responded to this with disappointment, claiming that he had no affiliation with “this weird racist version” of his character. More about the meme’s history and recorded uses can be found at: knowyourmeme.com/memes/pepe-the-frog. 38  For more on Pepe’s connections to alt-right movements see Nagle, “The New Man of 4chan,” and Morais, “Sob o esplendor.”



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politicians were depicted with the current, and democratic, flags of their nations); this also speaks to the large number of monarchists who supported the candidate.39 The second is the absence of Pepe the Frog, who was, in fact, edited out and changed to Enéas, which may indicate this specific meme’s lack of popularity in Brazil, but also points to Bolsonaro’s association with the deceased politician as a form of legitimacy with certain groups. At this point we can return to the notion of ambivalence while analyzing these images. As we have just observed, the idea of the Middle Ages as the opposite of modernity, in the stereotype of the “Dark Ages,” is not incompatible with nostalgic views of the period used by right-wing groups. The anti-political medi­eval period seen in André Dahmer’s work is still present here through a different angle. Bolsonaro is represented not as a candidate or a politician but as a warrior; and the images contain many references to leadership and strength, although none to what is usually associated today with traditional (“modern”) politics. Therefore, modernity is still seen as the polar opposite of the anti-political Middle Ages, although here (in these images) the values are inverted in a nostalgic lens, with modern being the “bad” opposite, and the Middle Ages the “good” one. Instead of a “Dark Ages” we seem to have here the deployment of a “Dark Enlightenment.” The dichotomy presented here, between “modern” and medi­eval, is reinforced by the fact that Jair Bolsonaro, and some of the other candidates associated with these political neomedi­evalisms, presents himself as anti-political, alleging an innate corruption in the political system and claiming not to be a politician, instead proposing to restore the nation to a previous, purer, and more glorious past. The Middle Ages are the metonymy of this past, a time of the supposed apogee of occidental civilization, and therefore reclaimed as a basis for this discourse; while modern political structures are viewed as untrustworthy when convenient to do so. Thus, we can say that the idea of modernity as a political time and of the Middle Ages as an anti-political one is compatible with the more common “Dark Ages,” but also with the notion of a glorious medi­eval past versus a “Dark Enlightenment,” with a mix of disdain and distrust for “modern politics” an important element of this view. Both stereotypes, despite being opposites, are centred on these quite similar ideas. In fact, they almost seem to be two faces of the same coin, with both sides mobilizing almost the same points and characteristics, but associating different values and judgements to them: while to most of the progressive left the oppressive Templars persecuted and burned the progressive witches because of their free thinking ways, the conservative right does not deny it; in fact, they retell the same myth but with different values, as the conservative and valorous Templars who burned and persecuted the degenerate witches to protect society. The Middle Ages seem to exert this fetish-like fascination, always divided between attraction and repudiation: the place of ignorance, fear, violence, and persecution, but also magic, freedom, and honour. Those who abhor the Middle Ages as oppressive nevertheless find mystical and inspirational

39  It is worth mentioning here that one of Bolsonaro’s original options to become Vice-President was the Crown Prince of Brazil. See the editorial in Veja entitled “Bolsonaro revela.”

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Figure 5.7: Image published on “Medi­eval Guido mxcvii”; lower image courtesy of the Templar Festival of Tomar (http://www. festatemplaria.pt/pt/tomar/).

elements there to resist the persecutions; and those who adore it as a glorious past likewise find the medi­eval origins of “modern corruption” to be fought against. Returning to the Brazilian political context, and the steadily growing presence of the Middle Ages in it, we can conclude that those two distinct views of the period—the progressive and the conservative—are in fact retro-feeding each other. Every time that the left mobilizes medi­eval imagery to criticize the far-right, they, instead of denying it, identify themselves with it, changing the derogatory label into a positive one. Likewise, every time the far-right tries to reclaim a medi­eval past for themselves as a glorified ancestry, like the Templars, the left attempts to mobilize an opposite past as a symbol of ancient resistance, like witches. Like chicken-and-egg, it is impossible to determine which came first in Brazilian politics. We can exemplify this co-dependent aspect with the image above (figure 5.7). In this meme, produced and published by “Medi­eval Guido mxcvii” on Facebook, we see the linking of two unrelated images. The first is a street graffito which reads “we are the grandchildren of the witches you weren’t able to burn”; the second shows a photo of some Templar knights holding torches from the Templar reenactment festival of Tomar in Portugal. Published on the conservative Medi­eval Guido site, the allusion is that the supposed descendants of the Templars are ready to finish burning off the supposed descendants of the witches, producing an interpretation where the images depend on each other to generate the desired sense. The Knights Templar were not responsible for hunting or burning



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witches. As scholars we already know this, but what we should also highlight against the perception that the right-wing deployments are uneducated is that the creators of the meme above—and many of the new “internet Templars”—may actually know this as well. This detachment from the “real” historical past should not be simply blamed on ignorance; it should instead be related to the specifics of this type of neomedi­ evalism where both left and right dispute the meaning of a medi­eval past that they both desire in order to mobilize the past as a contemporary political instrument. If we consider definitions of neomedi­evalism, it has often been noted how this type of neomedi­evalism is not preoccupied with historical accuracy, nor with what scholars have established as the “real” Middle Ages.40 Instead, it creates a pseudo-medi­eval past that is neither new nor original—but appropriates known historical symbols and events to give them new contemporary meanings: just like the standard of St. Maurice (a black saint) was used by white-pride supporters in Charlottesville in Virginia and the reenactors from Tomar unknowingly became a meme of hate speech in Brazil. Current definitions of neomedi­evalism also note that it “playfully obliterates history, authenticity, and historical accuracy,” replacing its historical references with imagery already detached from the “sources.”41 However, “playfully” should be understood here as a component of neomedi­evalism itself, and not of its connotations and implications. The webpage Medi­eval Guido purportedly aims to spread historical knowledge about the Middle Ages, and it also has many posts deconstructing misconceptions about the period like the witch hunts. It is unlikely that its creators were simply oblivious to the anachronistic nature of the meme. They were, however, being playful with it, knowingly employing the misconceptions and even embracing them for the sake of the meme itself, or, as they would say on the internet, “just for fun.” This by no means exempts the meme from all the political connotations we have delineated throughout this essay. In fact, it might even add another one: since through its “playful” and relaxed façade neomedi­evalism may wittingly, or unwittingly, shield itself from criticism when expressing its deeper and more serious connotations. Memes are playful and funny by their very definition, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t take them seriously, since they are one of the most prolific and widespread forms of language employed today, and therefore not to be dismissed. Just like the idea of Donald Trump as President of the USA was just a joke in 2015, and in 2016 Jair Bolsonaro was just a source of “funny” memes, the associations between neomedi­ evalism and conservatism may now look like more than just buffoonery. Maybe it is time for us, for scholars, to start taking “funny” and “playful” things more seriously. 40  See Utz’s definition of neomedi­evalism as “neither an original nor the faithful copy of an original, but entirely ‘Neo’” (Utz, “Past, Present and Neo”). This also recalls Robinson and Clements’ original definition, which points to the trauma which emerged when postmodernism further separated medi­evalism from its desired object (Robinson and Clements, “Living with Neomedi­evalism”). A single definition of neomedi­evalism seems hard to establish but, as Fitzpatrick points out, one of the merits of neomedi­evalism is its perpetual invitation to being defined “(Re)Producing (Neo) Medi­evalism”). I have therefore used Richard Utz’s definition as a starting point. 41  Utz, “Medi­evalitas Fugit,” 36.

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Works Cited

Internet and Media Sources Anon. “Anders Breivik Questioned about ‘Knights Templar’ Group.” The Independent, April 18, 2012. Apo­logistas da Fé Católica. https://apo­logistasdafecatolica.wordpress.com. Cavaleiros Templarios da Opressão. https://www.facebook.com/CavaleirosTemplariosdaOpressao/. Dahmer, André. “Brasil Medi­eval,” 2017. https://twitter.com/malvados/. Desenhista que Pensa. https://www.facebook.com/desenhistaquepensa/. Deus Salve o Rei. Globo Network, January 9 to July 30, 2018. Editorial. “Bolsonaro revela que preferia ‘prí�ncipe como vice.” Veja, November 13, 2019. https://veja.abril.com.br/politica/bolsonaro-revela-que-preferia-principe-como-viceno-lugar-de-mourao/. Medi­eval Guido mxcvii. https://www.facebook.com/MEDIEVAL.GUIDO/. Sanctos Memes templários @ PapaUrbanoIIDeusVult. https://www.facebook.com/PapaUrbanoIIDeusVult/. Templários da Patria. https://www.facebook,com/TemplariosDaPatria/. Tradição Família e Propriedade. https://www.tfp.org.br.

Scholarly Research

Associação Brasileira de Estudos Medievais. “Carta da ABREM sobre a Base Nacional Comum Curricular (BNCC).” November 24, 2015. web.archive.org/web/20160116063806/http:// www. abrem.org.br/images/Carta_da_ABREM_sobre_a_BNCC.pdf; accessed April 22, 2022. Appleby, R. Scott. Being Right: Conservative Catholics in America. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995. Carvalho, José Murilo de. “Bandeira e Hino: o peso da tradição.” A Formação das Almas: O imaginário da República no Brasil, 109–28. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1990. Cerri, Luí�s Fernando. “Parecer para o texto preliminar do componente curricular História para a Base Nacional Comum Curricular.” http://basenacionalcomum.mec.gov.br/images/ relatorios-analiticos/Luis_Fernando_Cerri.pdf; accessed April 22, 2022. Davey, Jacob, Erin Marie Saltman, and Jonathan Birdwell Herman. “The Mainstreaming of Far-Right Extremism Online and How To Counter It: A Case Study on UK, US and French Elections.” In Trumping the Mainstream: The Conquest of Democratic Politics by the Populist Radical Right, edited by Lise Esther Herman and James B. Muldoon, 23–53. London: Routledge, 2018. Elliot, Andrew B. R. “A Vile Love Affair: Right Wing Nationalism and the Middle Ages.” The Public Medi­evalist, February 14, 2017. https://www.publicmedi­evalist.com/vile-love-affair/ Fitzpatrick, KellyAnn. “(Re)Producing (Neo)Medi­evalism.” In Studies in Medi­evalism XIX: Defining Neomedi­evalism(s), edited by Karl Fugelso, 11–19. Cambridge: Brewer, 2010. Geary, J. Patrick. O Mito das Nações: A invenção do nacionalismo. São Paulo: Conrad, 2008. Girardet, Raoul. Mitos e mito­logias políticas. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1987. Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estadística (IBGE). http://www.ibge.gov.br/. Koch, Ariel. “The New Crusaders: Contemporary Extreme Right Symbolism and Rhetoric.” Perspectives on Terrorism 11, no. 5 (2017): 13–24. Levack, Brian P. The Witch-hunt in Early Modern Europe. London: Routledge, 2006. Macedo, José Rivair. “Repensando a Idade Média no Ensino de História.” In História na Sala de Aula: conceitos, práticas e propostas, edited by Leandro Karnal, 109–25. São Paulo: Contexto, 2004.



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Marty, Martin E., and R. Scott Appleby. Fundamentalisms Observed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994. Morais, Renata Lemos. “Sob o esplendor: mediação sombria e a ascensão de Trump.” Esferas 6, no. 11 (2017): 129–38. Motta, Rodrigo Patto de Sá. “A ditadura nas representações verbais e visuais da imprensa: 1964–1969.” Revista Topoi 14, no. 26 (January–July 2013): 62–85. —— . “O anticomunismo no Brasil: ontem e hoje.” Revista de História da Biblioteca Nacional 121 (November 2015): n.p.; available on https://www.academia.edu/23648486/A_ tradição_anticomunista_no_Brasil_ontem_e_hoje. —— . On Guard against the Red Menace: Anti-Communism in Brazil, 1917–1964. Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2020. Nagle, Angela. “The New Man of 4chan.” The Baffler 30 (2019): 64–76. Oliveira, Nilo Dias de. A configuração do Sistema nacional de repressão no governo JK (1956 a 1961). São Paulo: PUC-SP, 2013. Paiva, José Pedro. Baluartes da fé da disciplina: o enlace entre a Inquisição e os bispos em Portugal (1536–1750). Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade de Coimbra, 2011. —— . Bruxaria e superstição num país sem “caça às bruxas,” 1600–1774. Lisboa: Notí�cias, 1997. Partner, Peter. The Murdered Magicians: The Templars and Their Myths. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982. Passos, Daniela Oliveira Ramos dos. “A formação urbana e social da cidade de Belo Horizonte: Hierarquização e estratificação do espaço na nova capital mineira.” Temporalidades 1, no. 2, (August–December 2009): 37–52. Robinson, Carol, and Pamela Clements. “Living with Neomedi­evalism.” In Studies in Medi­ evalism XVIII: Defining Medi­evalism(s) II, edited by Karl Fugelso, 55–75. Cambridge: Brewer, 2009. Rodrigues Barbosa, Jefferson, Leandro Pereira Gonçalves, Marly de Almeida Gomes Vianna, and Paulo Ribeiro da Cunha. Militares e política no Brasil. São Paulo: Expressão Popular, 2018. Roper, Lyndal. Witch Craze: Terror and Fantasy in Baroque Germany. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006. Rust, Leandro. “História, Mitos Polí�ticos e Idade Média: Entrevista com Leandro Rust. Temporalidades 10, no. 1 (2018): 419–27. Schwartz, Lilia Moritz, and Heloisa Murgel Starling. Brasil: uma biografia. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2015. Souza, Silmaria Fabia de. “Entre dados e controvérsias: a influência dos militares na criação e institucionalização de uma polí�cia federal brasileira.” Master’s thesis, Universidade Federal de Minas Gerais, 2015. Sturtevant, Paul B. “Leaving ‘Medi­eval’ Charlottesville.” The Public Medi­evalist, August 17, 2017. www.publicmedi­evalist.com/leaving-medi­eval-charlottesville/. Trevor-Roper, Hugh. The European Witch-Craze of the 16th and 17th centuries. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1990. Utz, Richard. “Past, Present and Neo.” In Humanistic Perspectives in a Techno­logical World, edited by Richard Utz, Valerie B. Johnson, and Travis Denton, 139–40. Atlanta: School of Literature, Media, and Communication, Georgia Institute of Techno­logy, 2014. —— . “Medi­evalitas Fugit: Medi­evalism and Temporality.” Studies in Medi­evalism XVIII: Defining Medi­evalism(s) II, edited by Karl Fugelso, 31–43. Cambridge: Brewer, 2009. Wollenberg, Daniel. “The New Knighthood: Terrorism and the Medi­eval.” Postmedi­eval 5 (2014): 21–33.

Chapter 6

AVERROES IN MID-COLONIAL AND INTER-IMPERIAL CORDOBA MARIA RUHLMANN

Twentieth-century scholarship on the Iberian Middle Ages commonly includes references to Latin America, and these references are frequently found in the writings of Spanish scholars. The two most cited Spanish medi­evalists of the twentieth century are Américo Castro (1885–1972) and Claudio Sánchez-Albornoz (1893–1984). Both explicitly acknowledged that they thought of their projects as being highly relevant for Latin America. This region did not exist in the minds of medi­eval Iberians, and its place in studies of this era is a product of the controversial positioning of Latin America as a peripheral extension of Spain. Once independence severed the political knot tying Spain with Latin America, some scholars, hispanistas, emphasized and strengthened other forms of bonds that, in their minds, still linked Iberia and Latin America. The central claim of this mentality, hispanismo, is that a common spirit inspires every single nation whose first language is Castilian Spanish. Hispanismo situates Madrid, the metropole, in a privileged position to draw the contours and characteristics of the purportedly great Hispanic spirit. The most visible vector uniting Spain with its former colonies is the Castilian language, which thus becomes the most potent manifestation of an assumed shared legacy and soul. Because of the centrality of the Castilian language to the hispanista project, the Middle Ages, the era in which this common language is born, comes to the fore as a Romanticized origin myth for Spain and, more broadly, for the Hispanic spirit that supposedly continued to thrive in Latin America. When hispanistas write about the Middle Ages, they cast Spain in the role of primus inter pares among the nations of the Spanish-speaking world. Naturally, anti-hispanistas counter this ideo­logy in their writings about the Middle Ages. One such anti-hispanista was Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges (1899–1986). This article will explore how his 1939 story “La busca de Averroes” (Averroes’s Search) challenges hispanismo. Although set in twelfth-century al-Andalus, the story alludes to the incipient version of Spanish spoken in the streets of Iberia.1 The first para­graph notably mentions that “Averroes” feels “Spain.” The mention of Spain and of the Spanish language in a story written in Spanish is far from incidental—an aspect of the tale that has not received the scholarly attention it deserves. This area of study has not been explored in-depth, largely because Latin American approaches to the Iberian Middle Ages themselves have been overlooked. The rea1  Borges, Collected Fictions, 236. Citations from “Averroes’s Search” are from the translation included in Borges, Collected Fictions. All other translations are mine unless otherwise stated.

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sons for this omission are varied. In her volume Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge (2012), Nadia Altschul explains that hispanismo is partly responsible for this scholarly gap.2 Ironically this blind spot has not allowed Latin Americanists to explore the various and multifaceted ways in which many Latin American accounts of the Middle Ages are not totally in concert with traditional hispanista approaches and how, in other cases, they are in open opposition. Altschul’s volume concentrates on the nineteenthcentury grammarian and politician Andrés Bello (1781–1865).3 She shows how postcolonial anxieties permeated Bello’s medi­eval Iberia, and how hispanismo was manifest in some of the studies published on him. This article on “Averroes’s Search” brings to light one of the ways in which the conversation about hispanismo and medi­evalism continued during the twentieth century. To develop my arguments, I will draw from Altschul’s insights on Latin American resistance to pro-imperial medi­evalisms. I will also rely on Laura Doyle’s concept of “inter-imperialism,” on Christina Civantos’s notion of “transcoloniality,” and on Jeffrey J. Cohen’s idea of “midcolonial” communities.4 I read Borges’s story as a critical meditation on the inter-imperial relationship between the medi­eval Islamicate empire and the modern Spanish one, of which hispanismo is a late offshoot. This inter-imperial analysis, in turn, illustrates Cohen’s idea that because there is no clear boundary between pre- and post-colonial eras, societies live in a midcolonial situation. Midcolonial communities, according to Cohen, exist in layers of empires that sometimes even coexist in one territory. In this case, the midcolonial community would be the imaginary Cordoba where the story is set, and also Buenos Aires, where images and notions of the Islamicate empire coexist with those of the Spanish one. My arguments also draw from what Civantos calls transcoloniality, insofar as they bring to light nonEuropean colonizations and nodes of power. As Civantos, Cohen, Doyle, Altschul, and other postcolonial theorists propose, my analysis blurs the distinction between the Middle Ages and modernity to work within a longue durée approach to literary history.

Hispanista Medi­evalisms

Studies on Borges’s anti-hispanismo concentrate on the essays that explicitly denounce hispanista ideo­logy. The piece which is most often cited is “Las alarmas del Doctor Américo Castro” (The Alarms of Doctor Américo Castro) (1941). The essay is a biting review of one of Castro’s more controversial books: La peculiaridad lingüística rioplatense y su sentido histórico (The Linguistic Peculiarity of the River Plate and its Historical Significance) (1941; revised 1960). The Linguistic Peculiarity epitomizes the symbiotic relationship between hispanismo and medi­evalism. Castro unfavourably compares the Spanish spoken in Buenos Aires to the “proper” form of the language spoken in Castile. A scandalized tone condemns the abhorrent state of linguistic anarchy in which the inhabitants of Buenos Aires have fallen—they had failed to adhere to Castilian norms 2  Altschul, Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge, 208. 3  Altschul, Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge, 5.

4  Doyle, “Inter-Imperiality,” 243; Cohen, Medi­eval Identity Machines, 19.



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and were overly influenced by “foreign” immigration. His allusions to Spain’s history at a time at which this country had not yet stumbled upon the Americas are revealing. At one point, Castro mentions the anachronistic inclusion of the famed twelfthcentury Arabic-speaking scholar Averroes (1126–1198) in the nineteenth-century novel El moro expósito (The Foundling Moor) (1834) because its author, the Duque de Rivas (1791–1865), loved Cordoba so much that he wanted to include any figure that would help celebrate it.5 In The Linguistic Peculiarity, Castro insists that the consequences of the Middle Ages were so formidable that their ripple effect could still be felt centuries later, in Latin America. For Castro, the personality forged in Spain during the tenth century was so forceful that it was not even affected by the conquest or the enlightenment.6 Castro thus manages to place tenth-century Spain—its personality at least—in twentieth-century Buenos Aires. Many of the other political émigrés who had been forced to cross the Atlantic after the Civil War of 1936–1939 also position the Iberian Middle Ages as the origin of Latin America. As has been noted by Altschul, Pedro Grases (1909–2004) was one of them. He moved to Venezuela and became a central authority on Bello. Echoing Castro, Grases affirms that the “European Middle Ages is the source and soul of American civilization,” and that it is in this particular historical era where one should look for the “roots” of America, which are thus “more remote” than the ones to be found in the colonial centuries.7 He lauds Bello because, as demonstrated by Altschul, several of the Venezuelan’s ideas “echoed Grases’s own hispanismo.”8 Bello, however, did show some resistance to imperialistic ideas, which are studied by Altschul as “Occidentalist resistances.” One such resistance was his proposal of a particularly Hispano-American spelling system, different from the Castilian (imperial) one. Borges familiarized himself with Bello’s spelling at an early age. This is exemplified in a note he pens as a rebel thirteen-year-old. Borges writes: “Me estoi volviendo mui haragán i tengo un odio profundo a ese farsante de Ciserón i a las raí�ces cúbicas aljebraicas” (I am getting sluggish, and I feel a deep hatred for that phony Cicero and Algebraic cubic roots).9 Following Bello’s instructions, young Borges replaces ys with is and gs with js. Evidence of phonetic spelling was also found in letters penned by the family matriarch and in other private papers of the Borges family during the 1910s and 1920s.10 Borges grew up in a family in which Bello’s idea of a Spanish for the Americas had had a profound influence—so deep that they had decided to adhere to Bello’s ortho­graphic rules which, although popular in the 1910s and 1920s, never became standard in Argentina. The seed for his questioning whether Americans’ Spanish was 5  Castro, La peculiaridad lingüística rioplatense, 44.

6  Castro, La peculiaridad lingüística rioplatense, 45, 61.

7  “Edad Media Europea es fuente y alma de la civilización americana,” “raí�ces,” “más remotas” (Grases, “Estudio Preliminar,” cxv, quoted in Altschul, Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge, 136).

8  Altschul, Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge, 139.

9  Paez, “Cartas de hace un siglo.”

10  Paez, “Cartas de hace un siglo.”

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different from the Castilian language was planted early in Borges’s life. Three decades after his rebellious letter, when he writes “Averroes’s Search,” this thorny issue still permeates his outlook.

The Context of Borges’s Averroes

The opening sentences of “Averroes’s Search” invite the reader to imagine the vast geo­ graphical and intellectual space that in the twelfth century united al-Andalus, Egypt, Persia, and Arabia. We learn that (Borges’s) “Averroes” is devoted to his “beloved” home city of Cordoba and that he considers it “as bright as Baghdad or Cairo.”11 We also learn that he is writing, in Cordoba, to rebut a philosophical treatise written in Persia. This first para­graph also clarifies that “Averroes” thought of himself as descending from the desert peoples of Arabia. Later in the story, the insertion of Averroes’s Cordoba within the vast region that was then controlled by the Islamicate empire is made even more transparent. The tale regards three different journeys which had connected one point of the empire to another. One of the intra-empire trips was completed by “Averroes” himself, who had journeyed to Morocco. At this point in history, Morocco was the seat of the Almohad rulers of al-Andalus. Another of the trips conjured up by the story was taken by Abd al-Rahman, who during the eighth century had travelled to al-Andalus from his hometown in Syria. He established the Umayyad dynasty in alAndalus, which governed a large portion of the Iberian Peninsula for nearly three centuries. The third voyage is recounted by one of the characters, a businessman who had travelled from the far east of the empire, China, to the far west, al-Andalus. These three journeys illustrate, respectively, how intellectual, political, and business relationships created a dense network of connections within the Islamicate empire. The geo­graphy included in the story stretched from Cordoba to China to al-Andalus, and included in its path Iraq, Syria, the Arab Peninsula, Egypt, and Morocco.12 This frame of reference of Borges’s Andalusi characters was far from unusual. 11  Borges, Collected Fictions, 235. “querida…no menos clara que Bagdad o que el Cairo” (Borges, “El Aleph,” 582).

12  Most specialists overlook the Andalusi setting of “Averroes’ Search.” A few scholars do refer to it, including: Civantos, The Afterlife of Al-Andalus; Cantarino, “Notas sobre las influencias árabes”; Bell-Villada, Borges and His Fiction; and Balderston, “Borges, Averroes, Aristotle.” Christina Civantos argues that in “Averroes’s Search,” “as occurs in other Orient-themed texts by Borges, the Orient functions as a figure for absolute difference. Even in the setting of al-Andalus, famed for its East–West cultural contact or convivencia, the impermeability or untranslability of Muslim cultures prevails” (68). Vicente Cantarino maintains that nothing in the story is historically accurate, including the chrono­logy of the writings of Averroes and the mention of the harem (Cantarino, “Notas sobre las influencias árabes,” 55). Bell-Villada argues that “[e]verything in the narrative, from the city of Córdoba to Averroës’s dictionaries, is set up before us only so that all may eventually vanish” when in the last para­graph Borges confesses that he has failed to really understand Averroes (Bell-Villada, Borges and His Fiction, 179). According to Bell-Villada, this drastic evaporation highlights the extent of Borges’s inability to really capture “medi­eval Arab scholarly culture, even to the point of using cliché descriptions thereof” (Bell-Villada, Borges and His Fiction, 179). Thus, “Averroës’s search and failure are taken by Borges as symbolizing his (Borges’s) own limitations, his ultimate failure as



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The clear sense of competition, which can be detected in “Averroes” situating Cordoba on a par with Baghdad and Cairo, was not unusual either and echoes a welldocumented characteristic of this Cordoban polymath and of other Andalusis like himself. Several examples of this trait are provided by one of Borges’s avowed sources for the tale: the nineteenth-century French Orientalist Ernest Renan (1823–1892). In his famed Averroes et l’averroïsme (1852) Renan recounts that in his Republic Plato had maintained that Greeks were the more intellectually privileged society; in his commentaries, Averroes observes that Andalusis should take that place.13 This sense of Cordoba’s intellectual exceptionality also comes to the fore when Averroes compares Cordoba with Seville. According to him, if a sage died in Seville and his books needed to be sold, one should head to Cordoba. Conversely, if a musician died in Cordoba, his instruments would find buyers in Seville. For Averroes, Cordoba could also claim the best possible climate. In his Colliget he maintains, against Galen, that the most beautiful of climates is the fifth one, which, predictably, includes his beloved Cordoba.14 Renan also tells us a revealing anecdote about Averroes. The story is about the sage’s mutable relationship with the caliph Yaqub al-Mansur (1160–1199), who was then governing al-Andalus from Morocco. This caliph first protected Averroes, then banished him, then invited him back. Al-Mansur ruled from 1184 to 1199, and Borges’s tale thrice alludes to the relationship between him and “Averroes.” “Averroes” first recalls with gratitude that al-Mansur had sent him a dictionary from Tangiers; he then discusses with other characters the ruler’s incomparable virtuosity; finally, he mentions a trip to Morocco, which housed the seat of the reigning dynasty of al-Mansur. Renan writes that Averroes composed a treatise on animals, and in his description of the giraffe, he comments that he had once seen one in the land of the “king of Berbers.”15 Averroes failed to adorn the designation of the ruling caliph in the formulas and praises which were customary at the time. Unlike the dinner party of Borges’s tale, in which the ruler’s incomparable virtues were lauded by “Averroes,” the historical Averroes simply mentions him as the king of Berbers. In order to excuse himself, the Cordoban claims that he had written about the “king of the two continents,” that is, of Africa and al-Andalus.16 The reason for the confusion was attributable, according to Averroes, to the fact that the two expressions are only distinguished by diacritical points. This narrative illustrates the ambivalence which characterized Andalusis’ feelings towards the neighbouring Moroccans and reveals the supposed truth of a charge that Andalusis often leveled against Moroccans: that their knowledge of Arabic was limited at best. It also exposes doubts about Averroes’s (and Andalusis’) loyalty to artist and intellect” (Bell-Villada, Borges and His Fiction 178). Balderston asserts that “what is at stake” in the tale is the “intellectual rigor” with which Borges recreates Averroes’s “mental world” and “not the minimal references to the local color of Moslem Spain—the fountain, the harem and so forth—” (Balderston, “Borges, Averroes, Aristotle,” 204). 13  Renan, Averroes, 41. 14  Renan, Averroes, 41. 15  Renan, Averroes, 20. 16  Renan, Averroes, 21.

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the Almohad al-Mansur who—however limited his Arabic—was still ruling over alAndalus. Renan’s anecdote also exemplifies how the position of the Iberian Peninsula within the Islamic empire was, and had always been, extremely complex. Most of the army that conquered the peninsula during the eighth century was not composed of Arabs, but of Amazigh peoples (commonly known as Berbers) who had been colonized by Arabic-speaking Muslims. From the very beginning, Andalusis had Amazigh elements in their society, which they had to live with. Initially, the centre of the empire was definitely located in the East, and more specifically in Baghdad, which explains why to Borges’s Averroes the city epitomizes brightness and splendour. However, particularly during the time of the Umayyads (756–1031), Cordoba flourished to become one of the largest and most important cities of the Mediterranean world and was much more populous than any European city. In 929 the Ummayyad Abd al-­Rahman III (r. 912–961) even declared Cordoba a Caliphate. The situation became more complicated when the Almoravids (1091–1146) and then the Almohads (1146–1269) ruled over the south of Iberia. In this context, the anecdote about the ambiguous way Averroes addressed al-Mansur reveals the mixed feelings Andalusis harbored for their Almohad rulers and the reluctance they showed when being pressed to acknowledge that they were ruling over both Africa and Al-Andalus. Andalusis’ sense of competition with Morocco, Baghdad, and Cairo is also hinted at when one of the characters swears that “there were no roses like those which bedeck the villas of Andalusia.”17 This time, it is Andalusi flora that is exceptional. This character evokes Averroes’s claims to Cordoba’s outstanding weather and first-class intellectual ambiance. “Averroes” and this character were reflecting a feeling among Andalusis that had, by that time, become a cliché. A highly influential Arabist occasionally cited by Borges, José Antonio Conde (1766–1820), quotes an Andalusi who finds it useful to characterize al-Andalus as “Syria in the generosity of its heaven and earth, Yemen or blissful Arabia in its temperament, India in its aromas and flowers, Hejiaz in its fruits and manufactures, Cathay or China in its beautiful and abundant mines” and “Adana in the profits from its shores.”18 To the writer, the list of analogues serves only to show that in the “career of their excellences” no other region “could surpass alAndalus” and that “in this competition al-Andalus tops all the regions of the East and of the West.”19 Ross Brann provides other examples in his article “Andalusi ‘Exceptionalism’” (2013). Brann writes that the historian Ibn Hayyan (d. 1076) and the cultural historian Ibn Bassan (twelfth century) “devote considerable space to praising Andalusi cultural achievement, implicitly or explicitly placing it on a par with their Eastern 17  Borges, Collected Fictions, 237. “no habí�a rosas como las rosas que decoran los cármenes andaluces” (Borges, “El Aleph” 583).

18  “es Siria en bondad de cielo y tierra, Yemen o feliz Arabia en su temperamento, India en sus aromas y flores, Hejias en sus frutos y producciones, Catay o China en sus preciosas y abundantes minas, Adena en las utilidades de sus costas” (Conde, Historia de la dominación, 22). 19  “las amenidades de España no las puede igualar o espresar el mas elegante discurso, ni en la carrera de sus excelencias hay quien se le adelante, que en esta competencia aventaja a todas las regiones de Oriente y Occidente” (Conde, Historia de la dominación, 21).



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rivals”20—just as Averroes did. Brann also cites the Granadian polymath Ibn al-Khatib (1313–1375), whose poems now decorate the walls of the Alhambra, the impressive palace that Borges visited twice. Al-Khatib lists exceptional features of Andalus: “God, may He be exalted, has endowed the country of al-Andalus with fertile lands and abundant irrigation, sweet foods and swift animals, bountiful fruits, plentiful waters, extensive dwellings, clothing of excellent quality, fine utensils; plenty of weapons, and pure air. He has endowed its people with whiteness in complexion, superior intellect, an aptitude for crafts, verve for the sciences, penetrating discernment, [and] cultural refinement mostly lacking in other lands.”21 Al-Khatib mentions how God endowed Andalusis with “whiteness in complexion.” Borges’s tale continually brings to mind the differences and similarities between Andalusis and their Eastern rivals identified by Brann and other scholars; one of these differences is their skin and hair tone. The narrator mentions a curious incident in which dark-haired women tortured one of the slaves of “Averroes,” who was redhaired. This scene evokes the complex ethnic connotations which different colours of hair elicit in the Arabic-speaking world of the time. Hair colour was a distinguishing point between the prestigious “Arabs” and Andalusis. We find the most illustrative example of the discord between red (Andalusi) hair and black (Arab) hair in the Ummayyad Caliph Abd al-Rahman III. He went down in history as the promoter of monumental Andalusi architecture and, as stated above, he proclaimed himself a caliph—an apparent distancing from Eastern authority. At the same time, he dyed his reddish hair black “to make himself look more like an Arab.”22 The Umayyads were particularly aggressive and elitist when asserting a superiority based on their desert origins, but they were not alone. The Nasrids of Granada also built a distinguished genealogy, even when many of them were also redheads. Some of the Nasrid kings painted on leather in the Room of Kings in the Alhambra have red hair. The founder of the Nasrids of Granada and builder of the Alhambra, Muhammad ibn Yusuf ibn Nasr (1195–1273) was also known as Ibn al-Aḥmar or “The Red One” because of his red beard—although he claimed, predictably, that his lineage could be traced to Muhammad himself. One of his successors, Muhammad V (1332–1362), also had a red beard. A fictionalized account of his life can be found in a novel tellingly titled La Leyenda del Rey Bermejo (The Legend of the Red King) (1890) authored by the Spanish writer and archaeo­logist Rodrigo Amador de los Rí�os (1849–1917). The Legend of the Red King is rife with the clichés that populate the literary cycle to which it belongs: the matter of Andalusia.23 The Foundling Moor, mentioned earlier, also belongs to this viral cycle. Many of the clichés of the matter of Andalusia can also be found in Borges’s tale: the pleasant music of chirping birds, the sweet whispers of the water from a stream, the 20  Brann, “Andalusi ‘Exceptionalism,’” 127.

21  al-Maqqari, Nafh, 1:125–26, translated by Brann. 22  Fletcher, Moorish Spain, 53.

23  Enrique Baltanás proposes the notion of the “matter of Andalusia” in La materia de Andalucía.

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palm tree, the lush orchards and gardens, the lovely roses, the slaves, the minarets, and the symmetric courtyards. Even those readers not acquainted with the intricacies of medi­eval history could well be familiar with the imagery included in Borges’s story, including the red hair. Like the Umayyads and the Nasrids, most Andalusi aristocratic families would try to include themselves in an Arab genealogy. James T. Monroe writes that “these Andalusians were ‘Arabs’ in culture and…group solidarity, though not always in race. Although they maintained the fiction of Arab descent, in actual fact, many of them had become fused with native blood through a long process of intermarriage with Andalusian women.”24 Some of these Andalusi women were not like the archetypical Arab beauty, but instead were of a light complexion, like the slave of “Averroes.” Like Borges’s Averroes, who thinks of himself as being of Arab descent, “the leaders of alAndalus were Arabs in the measure that they thought they were or wanted to be so. They were also Muslims, yet they considered themselves superior to the neo-Muslims of Peninsular stock.”25 The mention of a conflict between women with different hair colours, along with the comment on Andalusi exceptional roses, function as reminders of the fact that, in some aspects, Andalusis differed from “Arabs.” They also hint at what Brann calls the trope or motif of Andalusi exceptionalism. Brann posits that the motif of Andalusi exceptionalism is an integral part of “Andalusi cultural and historical self-definition” and that it was a way to assert an identity different from that of the rest of the Islamicate empire. 26 Although Andalusi exceptionalism was motivated by a need to distinguish itself from other regions of the empire, the reason for this sense of necessity is uncertain. As Brann points out, Andalusi exceptionalism could stem from “pride of place, provincialism, apo­logetic or defensive, or as authorizing a culturally powerful Andalusi identity in counterpoint to political weakness.”27 Monroe argues that in those specific cases in which neo-Muslim Andalusis who do not think of themselves of being of Arab extraction praise al-Andalus and criticize “Arabs,” they could also be reacting to the fact that, in some instances, they “were treated as second class citizens by an Arab aristocracy entirely absorbed with its concern for tribal honor as embodied in the glorious traditions of the pagan days preserved by Arabic poetry.”28 In this limited sense, and “[w]ith all due reservations,” Monroe qualifies, it could be said that theirs “was a battle for civil rights in which the prize to be gained was social equality.”29 The figure that embodies the friction between Arabs and non-Arabs in Iberia is an intellectual popularly known as Ibn Garcia (d. 1084), who was, like the tortured slave of “Averroes,” of light complexion. Monroe and other scholars think of him as a representative member of the Shuʻūbiyya, 24  Monroe, Shu’ubiyya, 3.

25  Monroe, Shu’ubiyya, 4.

26  Brann, “Andalusi ‘Exceptionalism,’” 122. 27  Brann, “Andalusi ‘Exceptionalism,’” 127. 28  Monroe, Shu’ubiyya, 1.

29  Monroe, Shu’ubiyya, 13.



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the originally Persian reaction to some Arabs’ sense of superiority which was then imitated by Andalusis.30 Spanish Arabists who write during Borges’s lifetime do not discuss the specific motives for the trope in terms of Andalusi exceptionalism, but they do have specific and controversial opinions about al-Andalus’ position within the Islamicate empire. Their theories are inspired by a number of beliefs and factors; one of those factors being, in many cases, hispanismo. The main underlying idea in hispanista medi­evalisms is that Spain was always an empire, or at the very least, was always destined to become one. In order to buttress the eternal-empire myth, hispanista medi­evalisms place the genuine soul of Spain in the reconquerors who, in their minds, simply went on to become conquistadors. This imperial positioning is sometimes insinuated in passing and sometimes developed in complete volumes. Among them we find the classic España invertebrada (Invertebrate Spain) (1922) by Spain’s most celebrated twentiethcentury philosopher José Ortega y Gasset (1883–1955)—an intellectual about whom Borges never had a nice thing to say. Another volume that reinforces the notion of the conquest as a continuation of the Reconquest is La Edad Media española y la empresa de América (The Spanish Middle Ages and the Enterprise of America) by Sánchez-Albornoz.31 This highly influential medi­evalist lived in Argentina for forty years, and taught at the University of Buenos Aires, where Borges was a professor for twenty years. The problem is not that Sánchez-Albornoz and Ortega y Gasset accentuate the certainly existing continuities between the Reconquest and the conquest of America; the problem is that rather than framing the Reconquest as an inter-imperial struggle, they frame it as one empire recovering its rightful possessions from a transitory interloper, who did not really influence Spaniards. Both Ortega y Gasset and Sánchez-Albornoz brush off the imprint of Muslims in the true Spanish soul. This underestimation of Eastern influence is accompanied by a corresponding exaggeration of the role of native Iberian culture in Andalusi poetic and philosophical output. Hispanista medi­evalisms therefore cast medi­eval “Spaniards” in one of the central roles empires typically claim for themselves: that of providers of culture and knowledge. This role overcompensates for the material loss of imperial possessions by reinforcing an imperial positioning in the plane of literary history. The specialist in Andalusi Arabic Federico Corriente detects a tendency to inflate Andalusi poetic achievements at the expense of the ones of the Islamicate empire in the most renowned Spanish Arabists of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Among them, we find one of Borges’s sources for “Averroes’s Search”: Miguel Así�n Palacios (1871–1944), who, Corriente reminds us, “attributes Christian roots to Islamic mysticism.”32 Corriente also perceives this penchant in Francisco Javier Simonet (1829–1897), “who tries to 30  Ibn Garcia is also studied as part of al-Šuʿūbiyyah by Goldziher (1850–1921), “Shu’ubiyya”; and Larsson, Ibn García’s Shuʻūbiyya Letter.

31  On the concept of the Reconquest see: Abilio Barbero and Marcelo Vigil, Sobre los orígenes sociales de la Reconquista; Alejandro Garcí�a-Sanjuán, “Rejecting al-Andalus”; Martí�n F. Rí�os Saloma, “La Reconquista”; and Manuel González Jiménez, “Sobre la ideo­logí�a de la Reconquista.” 32  Corriente, Poesía dialectal, 13–14.

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attribute all the achievements of al-Andalus to the ‘dominated race,’” and in Julián Ribera (1858–1934) and Emilio Garcí�a Gómez (1905–1995), both of whom trace the origins of Arabic Andalusi poetry to pre-existing native Iberian culture.33 According to Corriente, when evaluating their theories about Andalusi poetry, we should not lose sight of the fact that the loss of the last Spanish colonies “weighs heavily on the formation of the Spanish intellectuals of the first half of the twentieth century.”34 Corriente’s insight also applies to Borges’s tale, as this Argentine author and at least some of his readership were surely aware of the imperial implications of accounts about al-Andalus provided by the hispanista ideo­logy.35 Hispanista medi­evalisms avoid thinking of the Arab presence in the peninsula in terms of imperialism because this would imply that their ancestors were colonized peoples. When they ponder on precursors of the Spanish empire, hispanismo usually refers to the Roman one, not the Islamicate one. Sometimes, however, they have no option but to position al-Andalus as part of an empire, and sometimes, even, as an empire that could be compared to the Spanish one. The case of Garcí�a Gómez is illustrative. He is the leading Spanish Arabist of the twentieth century, and the myth of the eternal empire—one of the typical features of hispanismo—is clearly present in the preface to his enormously influential Poemas arábigoandaluces (Poems from Arab Andalusia). The antho­logy was first published in 1930; by the time “Averroes Search” was published in 1939, Garcí�a Gómez’s antho­logy had been reprinted several times. One observer notes that the Poemas arábigoandaluces had a “close relationship to…the literary movements of his time;”36 another one, more eloquently, that it “changed the landscape of Spanish poetry.”37 Many intellectuals of Borges’s generation, who Borges read and who read Borges, were very impressed by the poems. Among them we find Ramón Gómez de la Serna (1888–1963), Rafael Alberti (1902–1999) and Federico Garcí�a Lorca (1898–1936). Alberti reveals: “That book opened our eyes to all that Andalusian past, and brought it so close to us that it left me with a great preoccupation for those writers, those Andalusian writers, Arabs and Jews, born in Spain.”38 The impact could still be felt decades later. In 1970, Monroe hails the preface to the poems as “an introduction on the nature of Hispano-Arabic poetry which remains today one of the best essays of a general nature on the subject;”39 in 1993, a renowned Spanish Ara33  “Simonet, que intenta atribuir todos los logros de Alandalús a la ‘raza dominada,’ Así�n, que atribuye raí�z cristiana al misticismo islámico, y Ribera y Garcí�a Gómez que ‘hispanizan’ la poesí�a estrófica andalusí� como un desarrollo de una preexistente poesí�a autóctona” (Corriente, Poesía dialectal, 13–14). 34  Corriente, Poesía dialectal, 14.

35  “que algo o mucho tiene que ver con esto…la catástrofe del ‘98, que pesa como una losa sobre la formación de los intelectuales españoles de la primera mitad del xx” (Corriente, Poesía dialectal, 14). 36  Monroe, Islam, 203.

37  Franzen, Poems of Arab Andalusia, i.

38  Franzen, Poems of Arab Andalusia, ii. 39  Monroe, Islam, 205.



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bist describes it as “exquisite.”40 In this celebrated preface, Garcí�a Gómez describes al-Andalus’s ambiguous situation in the Islamicate empire in an equally ambiguous way. Trapped within the circular logic that characterizes myths, he has a hard time acknowledging that “Spain,” at one point of its history, was not an empire and that, instead, certain regions of Spain were colonies of North African rulers. Garcí�a Gómez begrudgingly admits that North Africans had organized an “empire.” 41 He stresses, however, that it was Iberia who gave poetry and civilization to the supposedly barbarous Africans. The Almoravids, he claims, invaded Spain with “veiled faces…to hide the shame of their barbarism.”42 According to him, during the Almohad period—the time when “Averroes’s Search” takes place—Spain was forced to “feed” the African “parasites” in order to “civilize” the “desert.”43 Garcí�a Gómez concludes that the poetry from the other side of the Gibraltar Strait was merely a Spanish “satellite.”44 Spain’s imperial and civilizing mission is thus rescued, even in the face of having been “colonized.” Garcí�a Gómez insists that, even if some areas of “Spain” had once not been the centre of an empire, and even if the Spanish empire had fallen to pieces, “Spaniards” had always been the imperial subjects who civilized others. He goes as far as to clarify that, to Spaniards, the Arabs from the East always represented “dark monstrosity.”45 If the thought of Spain as a colony was hard for him to swallow, the one of Spain as an Oriental colony was inconceivable. Garcí�a Gómez’s attitude to the either colonial or imperial position of medi­eval “Spain” is also revealed in his treatment of the role of Spanish and Arabic as imperial languages. This inter-imperial Arabic–Spanish connection is crucial to understanding the more profound insights of Borges’s tale, and Garcí�a Gómez was not alone in making it. In the seventeenth century, the Cordoban erudite Bernardo de Alderete (1565–1645) published the first official study of the history of the Spanish language: Del origen y principio de la lengua castellana (1606). He suggests that Spanish would be imposed in the Americas in the same way that Arabic was imposed in the peninsula after it was conquered. Garcí�a Gómez also draws an interesting parallel between Arabic as an imperial language in the peninsula and Spanish as an imperial language in the Americas when he comments on Arabic-speaking medi­eval Iberians borrowing images from Arabic qasā’id. The most representative images include the desert, camels, and camps abandoned by the loved one—precisely the sort of images that are evoked in “Averroes’s Search” as having originated in the centre of the empire in the East. Garcí�a Gómez notes that Latin Americans borrow from Spaniards in a similar way. He wonders: “What would remain of Latin American poetry if you were to remove 40  “exquisito” (Vallvé, “Homenaje,” 128).

41  “imperio” (Garcí�a Gómez, Poemas, 32).

42  “rostros velados…para celar el pudor de su barbarie” (Garcí�a Gómez, Poemas, 36). 43  Garcí�a Gómez, Poemas, 41.

44  “satélite” (Garcí�a Gómez, Poemas, 60).

45  “oscuramente monstruoso” (Garcí�a Gómez, Poemas, 28).

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their loans from Peninsular Spanish?”46 Garcí�a Gómez reminds us that Latin Americans “borrow” from Spaniards—just like Africans, they are at the receiving end of the equation. He does highlight the contributions of “Spain” to the culture of the Islamicate world. As mentioned above, he even explicates that “Spain” had to “civilize” the Africans. Garcí�a Gómez also observes that “Spaniards” had contributed zajals, a new genre, to the Arabic literary world.47 He fails to mention that Spanish poets had borrowed heavily from Latin Americans, especially after the modernista movement spearheaded by Rubén Darí�o (1867–1916). The reflections of Garcí�a Gómez summarized above do not serve to deepen our insights about the reasons why medi­eval Andalusis drew comparisons between themselves and other regions of the Islamicate empire, or why the historical Averroes does the same. They could have been driven simply by pride of place or provincialism; they could have been overcompensating for their political weakness; or, in some instances, they could have been fighting for social equality.48 What we do know is that at the time Borges writes “Averroes’s Search,” in the Spanish-speaking world inter-imperialism framed many of the discussions about the position of Andalusis vis-à-vis the Islamicate empire. Inter-imperialism allows us to recognize that when twentiethcentury Spanish medi­evalists theorize about the differences and similarities between al-Andalus and the empire to which it belonged, they are likely also meditating about the differences and similarities between Latin America and Spain. When these medi­ evalists are discussing al-Andalus’s relative importance within the Arabic speaking world, they are also discussing Latin America’s relative importance within the Spanish-speaking world. Consequently, for at least some portion of Borges’s readership, reading a tale about al-Andalus’s position in the Islamicate empire would evoke Latin America’s position in the Spanish one—especially when, as referenced above, the very first para­graph of the tale is careful to set the story in “Spain.” Borges’s Averroes conceives of “Spain” as a region where things would eternally remain in their allotted place, including the inferior position of the Spanish language. “Averroes” dismisses it as a “‘vulgar dialect” after he hears some children speaking in an early version of it. 49 The children, notably, are “half-naked.” In the Spanishspeaking world, rude dialects and lack of clothing evoke descriptions of Amerindians by conquistadors. The condemnation by “Averroes” of their dialect could reveal that he thought of those colonized peoples as inferior to him. In his well-ordered cosmos, Spanish definitively occupies an inferior position when compared to Arabic, a magnificent language with a centuries-old written tradition, which had extended its reach through a vast and powerful empire. The mention of Spanish is made in passing, and only to compare it to the star of the story: Arabic. 46  “¿Qué quedarí�a de la poesí�a hispanoamericana si le quitásemos sus préstamos de la española peninsular?” (Garcí�a Gómez, Poemas, 24). 47  Garcí�a Gómez, Poemas, 23.

48  Brann “Andalusi,” 127; Monroe, Shu’ubiyya, 13.

49  Borges, Collected Fictions, 236; “dialecto grosero” (Borges, “El Aleph” 583; the emphasis exists in the original).



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Andalusi Arabic/Latin American Spanish versus Arabian Arabic/Castilian Spanish

Because of the central role played here by the Arabic language, it is revealing that the story includes several reminders that, even though Arabic is the native language of numerous Cordobans, the language is not originally from the peninsula. This is cleverly illustrated when “Averroes” consults two dictionaries. One of them is the one authored by al-Khalil Ibn Ahmad al-Farahidi (718–786) during the eighth century. This is the first general Arabic dictionary; the ones that preceded it were specialized in either the Koran or in particular subjects, like plants or animals.50 According to al-Farahidi, the ultimate Arabic standard was the one spoken in the Arab desert.51 The other dictionary “Averroes” consults was written by Ibn Siddha (1007–1066), an Andalusi scholar. In the most widely available translation of “Averroes’s Search” Borges’s “Abensida” is translated as “ibn-Sinā.”52 However, the author of the Muhkam, a real book that the narrator mentions as being authored by the blind “Abensida” is Ibn Siddha, a blind grammarian from Murcia. His twenty-eight-volume dictionary is patterned after Al-Farahidi’s and became a significant source for later dictionaries.53 The first dictionary is closer to the cultural metropole (Arabia, Baghdad); the second is from the periphery. This is far from incidental; Ibn Siddha “attributed superiority to the non-Arabs at the expense of the Arabs.”54 He was a grammarian and an expert in the Arabic language, but this did not imply bowing to everything Arab. He was not rejecting Arab culture in its entirety. He was also not, however, willing to accept the superiority of Arabs over non-Arabs. At the time that “Averroes’s Search” is published, the question of where dictionaries and grammars were produced bred intense debates. According to Castro, the scandalous Argentine deviation from standard Spanish was partly due to the failure of the Castilian-based Real Academia Española to offer a respectable dictionary to the Hispanic world.55 To this, anti-hispanistas would answer that there is absolutely no reason why the entire Spanish-speaking world should share a single dictionary and that, even if that were the case, there is no reason why that dictionary should originate in Madrid. Castro’s call to improve the dictionary of the Spanish Academy was his way of addressing the criticisms of the Castilian dictionary voiced by anti-hispanistas like Borges. In several of the essays included in El idioma de los argentinos (The Language of Argentines) (1928), Borges disparages the dictionary of the Spanish Academy. He slights it as a “spectacular and deliberate obituary” of words and mocks how the Academy introduces it as “our envied treasure of picturesque, fortunate and expres50  Chejne, The Arabic Language, 44.

51  Suleiman, “Ideo­logy,” 13–14.

52  Borges, Collected Fictions, 236.

53  Chejne, The Arabic Language, 47.

54  Monroe, Shu’ubiyya, 11.

55  Castro, La peculiaridad lingüística rioplatense, 11.

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sive voices.”56 In another essay, he explains that certain words carry different connotations in different parts of the Spanish-speaking world—for instance, “envidiado” (envied) functions as a compliment in Spain, but not in Argentina. An essay included in the same volume dubs Bello’s Gramática as “highly intelligent.”57 With this allusion to Bello, Borges remarks on the initial sparks of the dictionary wars which emerged during the nineteenth century. Bello published the first grammar written in the Americas in 1847. Altschul points out that on the one hand, the Gramática is an Occidentalist project, “one that views the new republics as cultural continuations of Spain.”58 It does not stand, therefore, as “a project of emancipation.”59 On the other hand: The writing of a Castilian grammar in a former colony is nevertheless also a form of criollo resistance: instead of using a metropolitan grammar, Bello wrote a separate one for the Americas; and instead of advancing a direct transplantation of metropolitan usages, he purposefully modified Castilian language to suit…his American audience…He also introduced a simplified American spelling system—associated with proposals by Domingo Faustino Sarmiento—that defied the elitist norms of the Spanish Academy… Castilian was as much the criollos’ property as it was Spain’s.60

Not surprisingly, “Bello’s work was at first ill received in Spain” as “some patriotic resentment was created by the fact that a former colonial subject purported to instruct Spain about its own national language.”61 Bello’s Gramática is a Latin American classic, well known to Borges and many of his readers. Those readers of “Averroes’s Search” familiarized with hispanista medi­evalism can draw a parallel between Al-Farahidi’s dictionary, which posits the Arabic spoken in the Arab desert as the ultimate standard, and the Spanish Academy dictionary, which—at the time that Borges writes—does the same with the Spanish from Castile. The dictionary of the Murcian Ibn Siddha, meanwhile, could be compared to that of the Venezuelan Bello. The temptation to draw this parallel becomes even more powerful when we consider that the characterizing by “Averroes” of the incipient version of Spanish as a rude dialect is inserted precisely in the scene where he consults the two dictionaries, and even more specifically in the lapse of time which passes between the moments in which he consults each dictionary. Borges is not explicitly comparing Spanish with Arabic as Alderete and Garcí�a Gómez had done. Nevertheless, inserting a comment about Spanish in between the mention of two Arabic dictionaries invites the reader to make this comparison. The imperial versus decolonizing dictionaries illustrate how sometimes the same system that solidifies an empire, like lexico­graphy, carries with it the potential to

56  “espectáculo necrológico deliberado,” “nuestro envidiado tesoro de voces pintorescas, felices y expresivas” (Borges, El idioma de los argentinos, 141). 57  “inteligentí�sima” (Borges, El idioma de los argentinos, 15). 58  Altschul, Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge, 159. 59  Altschul, Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge, 160.

60  Altschul, Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge, 159–60 61  Altschul, Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge, 160.



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destabilize it. This paradox has been noted by Doyle.62 The parallel between Arabic and Spanish dictionaries also exemplifies inter-imperialism. This inter-imperialism invites us to consider the differences between imperial and Latin American Spanish in light of a debate included in the story, that centres on the differences between “imperial” and Andalusi Arabic poetry. The discussion takes place at a dinner party attended by “Averroes.” One of the guests rants at those outdated Cordoban poets who mimic pastoral images from the desert. Celebrating a well of water, he reasons, made sense to Bedouins but becomes ridiculous when expressed by poets who live close to the Guadalquivir, or Wadi al-Kabir (big river). As the narrator is careful to clarify, the objection was not original. A similar denunciation of the obsolescence of desert imagery is made, for example, in the following lines of an eighth-century poem: I am a person of high class, raised above others; Chosroes is the grandfather…, and Sāsān was my father… Never did he sing camel songs behind a scabby beast…63

This poem written by a blind Persian poet called Bashār ibn Burd (‎714–783) provides us with an illustrative example of medi­eval Shuʻūbiyya. His words would resonate with Ibn Garcia, who also refers to non-Arab Muslims as “descendants of Chosroes” who do not own “mangy camels.”64 Both Shu’ubiyya representatives say that their ancestors had a claim to prestige even if they were not Arabs and never sang camel songs. By contrast, Borges’s “Averroes” defends camel songs. In one such song a blind camel functions as a metaphor for destiny. “Averroes” opines that the metaphor works: destiny, as a blind camel, is simultaneously cruel and innocent. “Averroes” also cites the oft-quoted poem where Abd al-Rahman addresses a palm planted in Andalusi soil to reflect that, just like him, the palm is also a foreigner in al-Andalus. “Averroes” argues that the camel and the palm metaphors could still serve to meditate on Andalusi experiences and sorrows. He then confidently parrots the traditional opinion of the day: that the Bedouin poets of pre-Muslim times had said everything that is worth saying, and that the ambition to innovate metaphors was an unnecessary and illiterate banality. At the time, pre-Islamic poetry had become the paragon of Arabism. “Averroes,” it seems, would like to see the poets of al-Andalus as continuing a tradition born in the Arab desert. One of the many ways in which we can look at this complex and multifaceted Shuʻūbiyya debate is as revealing the conflicts created by the metamorphosis that language and poetry suffer when they are transported to another location, particularly through colonialism. Arabic-speaking Amazighs carried to the peninsula metaphors that were consistent with the specific geo­graphic context of the original Arabic-speaking colonizer. Metaphors that include palms, camels, or entail a deep appreciation for water are fitting examples and are alluded to in “Averroes’s Search” as paradoxically 62  Doyle, “Inter-Imperiality,” 340.

63  Allen, An Introduction to Arabic Literature, 37.

64  Monroe, Shu’ubiyya, 24.

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foreign, yet local, to Cordobans. At least originally they are, in a way, “imperial metaphors” crafted in the metropole. On the one hand “Averroes” stresses that Cordoba is as bright as Baghdad and Cairo and displays a reluctance to acknowledge North African imperialism. He has a hard time thinking of al-Andalus as a subordinated colony. On the other hand, he still thinks of himself as a full-fledged member of the then prestigious “Orient,” where poetry can only flourish if it fits within a classical Arabic mold, and where the “dialect” spoken by colonized peoples (Spanish) is duly scorned. Inter-imperialism invites us to consider the ambivalence of “Averroes” as reminiscent of Bello’s one. Pre-Islamic culture plays in “Averroes” a similar role to the one played by medi­eval culture in Bello. Bello was as eager to attach Chile to the Occident and to think of Chile as a continuation of (an Occidentalized) medi­eval Spain as “Averroes” was eager to think of al-Andalus as a continuation of the glorious traditions of the days of ignorance of the Orient. This desire for Occidentalization or Orientalization coexists with resistance to colonial powers: neither does Bello think of Chile as a colony of Spain nor does “Averroes” think of al-Andalus as a colony of Baghdad, Cairo, or Morocco. Unlike Bello, “Averroes” does not support innovations to the metropole’s language, but still, in both, we find an ambivalent resistance to colonization in the context of the aftermath of an empire’s fragmentation. Following this inter-imperial imprint even further, the readers of Borges’s tale could conclude that, if Bello’s resistance, as defined by Altschul is Occidentalist, the opposition of “Averroes” could be labelled as “Orientalist.” Because his resistance still works within the logic of the Orient(al empire) where it is assumed that the native language spoken by colonized peoples is inferior, his is an “Orientalist resistance.” Another characteristic shared by “Averroes” and Bello is their simultaneous status as colonized and colonizers. Both of them feel the need to resist imperial power because they are colonized—even if only at a cultural level—; yet, they consider themselves superior to those they colonize: the Spanish speakers in the case of “Averroes,” and the Amerindians in the case of Bello. As Altschul observes, Cohen’s idea of midcoloniality can help us understand how “decolonization in one realm may live side by side with active colonialism in the other.”65 Altschul suggests that “the idea of midcoloniality aids us in thinking of creoles’ struggle against Spanish colonialism as happening simultaneously with and without contradicting their colonialist encroachment on Amerindians and other subordinated populations.”66 The subordinated populations in the midcolonial “al-Andalus” Borges constructs are those half-naked children speaking the rude dialect in which he is writing this story. Both this rude dialect and Andalusi Arabic are pitted against the proper Arabic of the desert, which, without a doubt, wins the day in the story. The party ends with the other guests enthusiastically commending the vindication of the camel songs of “Averroes.” The scene that follows is the one referenced above 65  Altschul, Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge, 205. 66  Altschul, Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge, 205.



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where it is mentioned that a group of black-haired women had tortured a red-haired one; as in a play, the black-haired group performs the role of “Averroes” and the guests who applaud him; the lone red-haired one, the defeated Andalusi Shuʻūbiyya proponent. Moreover, these two Andalusi losses mirror the lexico­graphical mindset of “Averroes”: while he only mentions the Murcian dictionary in passing, he describes the one that constructs the Arabic of the desert as perfect. The support of camel songs, the assault on red hair, and the extolling of traditional Arabic lexico­graphy are chants of victory for the cultural domination of the Islamicate empire in the Iberian Peninsula. ***

The tables would turn. The colonized Spanish-speakers expelled Muslims, founded an empire, and transformed their “rude dialect” into a venerated imperial language. In one of the former colonies of that empire, seven centuries later, Borges writes “Averroes’s Search.” The context in which the story is written is the focus of the last several para­graphs. The narrator “Borges,” who throughout the text is far from invisible, gradually increases his visibility to finally address the reader directly. He confesses: “I felt that Averroes, trying to imagine what a play is without having ever suspected what a theater is, was no more absurd than I, trying to imagine Averroës yet with no more material than a few snatches from Renan, Lane, and Así�n Palacios.”67 The recognition confirms that the “Averroes” the tale depicts is the one that “Borges” creates in his own image. The intrusive narrator insinuates this mirror effect and this fictionality throughout the story. He mentions that “Cordoba” is an “instrument” (of his writing) and that at one point, “Averroes” realizes that he is “unreal.”68 The narrator also tells the reader that he is unable to describe the face that “Averroes” sees in the mirror because scholars do not know how he looked, and also because, readers can surmise, when “Averroes” looks in the mirror he would see only “Borges.” “Borges” even spells out that the “Averroes” he writes about is a symbol of the man he once was. The abundant and unmissable clichés also function as cues of the literary quality of the text. The adjectives “old” and “useless” applied to the unreal “Averroes” in the story are not meant to describe him so much as the combination of clichés that shape him.69 Just like “Averroes” finds clichéd camel songs valuable to weigh on Andalusi experiences, “Borges” finds a clichéd “Averroes” helpful to reflect on his use of a language that is not originally from the Southern tip of South America, but rather a transplant from the Iberian Peninsula. Borges filters Argentine’s linguistic experiences through clichés typical of the matter of Andalusia and the limited facts he learned from a few Arabists to fabricate a midcolonial and inter-imperial “Cordoba” extremely self-aware of its imaginary status.

67  Borges, Collected Fictions, 241. “Sentí� que Averroes, queriendo imaginar un teatro, no era más absurdo que yo, queriendo imaginar a Averroes, sin otro material que unos adarmes de Renan, de Lane y de Así�n Palacios” (Borges, “El Aleph,” 588). 68  Borges, Collected Fictions, 238. “irreal” (Borges, “El Aleph,” 585).

69  Borges, Collected Fictions, 238. “envejecido, inútil” (Borges, “El Aleph,” 585).

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However fictional this might be, for the split second we allow ourselves to suspend our disbelief we live in a fantasy world in which it would not be that outrageous to think of Orientalist resistances mirroring Occidentalist ones, or of anti-hispanismo as a Latin-American Shuʻūbiyya. It would not be ridiculous either to imagine peoples who are now considered colonized founding their own empire and, a few centuries later, deploying the same strategies used by their former colonizers. The invitation to imagine this role inversion is the most powerful decolonial gesture of “Averroes’s Search.”



Works Cited

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al-Maqqari, Shihab al-Din Ahmad ibn Muhammad. Nafh al-tib min ghusn al-Andalus al-ratib, edited by Ihsan ‘Abbas, Dar Sadir. 8 vols. Beirut: Dar al-Kitab al-ʻArabi, 1967. Allen, Roger. An Introduction to Arabic Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Altschul, Nadia R. Geo­graphies of Philo­logical Knowledge. Postcoloniality and the Transatlantic National Epic. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012. Balderston, Daniel. “Borges, Averroes, Aristotle: The Poetics of Poetics.” Hispania 79 no. 2 (1996): 201–7. Barbero, Abilio, and Marcelo Vigil. Sobre los orígenes sociales de la Reconquista. Barcelona: Ariel, 1974. Bell-Villada, Gene H. Borges and His Fiction: A Guide to His Mind and Art. Rev. first ed. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1999. Borges, Jorge Luis. Collected Fictions. Translated by Andrew Hurley. London: Penguin Viking, 1998. —— . “El Aleph.” In Borges, Obras completas, vol. 1, 1923–1949. Edited by Carlos V. Frí�as, 531–630. 2nd ed. Barcelona: Emecé, 1999. —— . El idioma de los argentinos. Buenos Aires: Seix Barral, 1994. Brann, Ross. “Andalusi ‘Exceptionalism.’” In A Sea of Languages: Rethinking the Arabic Role in Medi­eval Literary History, edited by Suzanne Conklin Akbari and Karla Mallette, 119–34. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013. Cantarino, Vicente. “Notas sobre las influencias árabes en Borges.” Hispania 52, no. 1 (1969): 53–55. Castro, Américo. La peculiaridad lingüística rioplatense y su sentido histórico. 2nd ed. Madrid: Taurus, 1960. —— . Origen, ser y existir de los españoles. Madrid: Taurus, 1959. Chejne, Anwar G. The Arabic Language: Its Role in History. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1969. Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. Medi­eval Identity Machines. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003. Conde, José Antonio. Historia de la dominación de los árabes en España; sacada de varios manuscritos y memorias arábigas. Barcelona: Española, 1844. Corriente, Federico. Poesía dialectal árabe y romance en Alandalús: Cejeles y xarajāt de muwaššaḥāt. Madrid: Gredos, 1997. Doyle, Laura. “Inter-Imperiality and Literary Studies in the Longer ‘Durée.’” PMLA 130, no. 2 (2015): 336–47. Fletcher, Richard A. Moorish Spain. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006. Franzen, Cola. Poems of Arab Andalusia. San Francisco: City Lights, 1989. Garcí�a Gómez, Emilio. Poemas Arábigoandaluces. 4th ed. Madrid: Espasa–Calpe, 1959. Garcí�a-Sanjuán, Alejandro. “Rejecting al-Andalus, Exalting the Reconquista: Historical Memory in Contemporary Spain.” Journal of Medi­eval Iberian Studies 10, no. 1 (2018): 127–45. Goldziher, Ignaz. “Die Shu’ubiyya unter den Muhammedanern in Spanien.” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 53 no. 4 (1899): 601–20. González Jiménez, Manuel. “Sobre la ideo­logí�a de la Reconquista: Realidades y tópicos.” In Memoria, mito y realidad en la historia medi­eval: XIII Semana de Estudios Medi­evales, Nájera, del 29 de julio al 2 de agosto de 2002, edited by José Ignacio de la Iglesia Duarte et al., 151–70. Logroño: Gobierno de La Rioja, Instituto de Estudios Riojanos, 2003.

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Grases, Pedro. “Estudio Preliminar.” In Andrés Bello, Obras Completas, vol. 7, Estudios filológicos. II: Poema del Cid y otros escritos, edited by Rafael Caldera et al., xv–cl. Caracas: La Casa de Bello, 1981. Grunebaum, Gustave Edmund von. Themes in Medi­eval Arabic Literature. Edited by Dunning S. Wilson. Collected Studies Series 133. London: Variorum Reprints, 1981. Larsson, Göran. Ibn García’s Shuʻūbiyya Letter: Ethnic and Theo­logical Tensions in Medi­eval al-Andalus. Leiden: Brill, 2003. Monroe, James T. Islam and the Arabs in Spanish Scholarship: Sixteenth Century to the Present. Leiden: Brill, 1970. —— . The Shu’ubiyya in al-Andalus. The Risala of Ibn Garcia and Five Refutations. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1970. Ortega y Gasset, José. España invertebrada. Bosquejo de algunos pensamientos históricos. Barcelona: Folio, 2007. “Para el asombro: un Borges rebelde con faltas de ortografí�a.” Clarí�n. 06/03/2006

Renan, Ernest. Averroès et l’Averroïsme: essai historique. 4th ed. Paris: Calmann–Lévy, 1882. Rí�os Saloma, Martí�n F. “La Reconquista: Génesis de un mito historiográfico.” Historia y grafía 30 (2008): 191–216. Sánchez-Albornoz, Claudio. La Edad Media española y la empresa de América. Madrid: Ediciones Cultura Hispánica del Instituto de Cooperación Iberoamericana, 1983. Suleiman, Yasir. “Ideo­logy, Grammar-Making and Standardization.” In In the Shadow of Arabic: The Centrality of Language to Arabic Culture: Studies Presented to Ramzi Baalbaki on the Occasion of His Sixtieth Birthday, edited by Bilāl Urfahʹlī� and Ramzī� Baʻlabakkī�, 3–27. Leiden: Brill, 2011. Vallvé, Joaquí�n. “Homenaje a Don Emilio Garcí�a Gómez.” Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia 190, no. 1 (1993): 128.

Chapter 7

HYPERMEDI­EVALIZING AND DE-MEDI­EVALIZING DANTE: LEOPOLDO LUGONES’S AND JORGE LUIS BORGES’S REWRITINGS OF INFERNO V HEATHER SOTTONG

Dante’s Divine Comedy is widely considered to be one of the most emblematic

works of the Middle Ages—a work that seemingly encompasses the medi­eval worldview in its depiction of the afterlife and whose influence reverberated through the centuries and, geo­graphically, far beyond Western Europe. In this chapter, I examine two twentieth-century Argentine adaptations of one of the most famous episodes of the Comedy— the story of Francesca da Rimini in Canto V of Inferno. Both Leopoldo Lugones and Jorge Luis Borges, two authors intent on developing Argentine national literature, wrote innovative adaptations of the tale. While Lugones accentuates and romanticizes everything medi­eval in his version, Borges eliminates medi­evalisms entirely by setting the tale on the Argentine pampas in the nineteenth century. I will discuss their individual motives for choosing to embrace or reject medi­evalisms in their rewritings of the Francesca episode in relation to their ideas on how to develop a uniquely Argentine literature. Before beginning, let us recall some details of Dante’s version of the story. We encounter Francesca and her lover Paolo (who remains unnamed) in the second circle of hell where the lustful are blown about by violent winds in punishment for their inability to control their passions. Francesca and Paolo in particular are guilty of adultery, although Dante does not explain to us the exact circumstances, which the reader is assumed to know—that Francesca was married to Giovanni Malatesta (“Gianciotto,” or “crippled John”) circa 1275, that she committed adultery with Paolo Malatesta, and that she and Paolo were both murdered by Gianciotto, most likely in the 1280s. Dante tells us only that Francesca was born where the river Po meets the Adriatic,1 that she and her lover are related by marriage,2 and that their killer will be punished in Caina (a place in lower hell named after Cain, who slew Abel) following his death. 3 The focus of the episode is on their unbridled love for one another and their consequential suffering in the afterlife. Francesca, with great rhetorical skill, tells the story of how they fell in love, seeking to win her auditor’s compassion. There are no details or place descriptions that might lead us to locate the story in the Middle Ages, other than the 1  “Siede la terra dove nata fui/ su la marina dove ’l Po discende/ per aver pace co’ seguaci sui” (Dante, Inf. 5.97–99). 2  “i due cognati” (Dante, Inf. 6.2)

3  “Caina attende chi a vita ci spense” (Dante, Inf. 5.107).

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fact that the two lovers succumbed to their lust while reading the story of Lancelot.4 Apart from this reference to a quintessential medi­eval tale, Francesca’s declarations of love could be described as timeless, and her and her lover’s subsequent suffering is eternal rather than linked to any temporal period. We must realize then that any medi­ eval imagery we might associate with the tale is not coming from Dante’s text itself. Now let us turn to Leopoldo Lugones’s short story “Francesca,” which was first published in Lunario sentimental (1909). 5 Lunario sentimental is Lugones’s third major work, after Las montañas del oro (1897) and Los crepúsculos del jardín (1905). In Lunario he seeks to revive and modernize poetry by radically reworking age-old poetic tropes of Western Europe—most notably, odes to the moon. Lugones, along with other modernista writers at the time, saw Western models as a point of departure upon which to affect innovations. The goal was to borrow exotic elements from other cultures and to rework archetypal patterns in unorthodox ways to produce a poetry unique to Latin America, ideally a poetry which would rival the classics of Old World Europe. In Lunario he employs unexpected metaphors and imagery and pointed irony to call into question traditional views of poetic beauty. The short story “Francesca” is the concluding piece of the collection, and he no doubt included it on account of its status as a classic Western love story. It is important to note, however, that “Francesca” lacks the shock value present in many of the poems that proceed it in the collection; rather it is a romantic, tender, innocent, and highly medi­evalized retelling of Dante’s classic. Lugones makes his reverence for the great Italian author clear from the outset of the book when he claims in the first poem that he learned his own verse from Dante, “Arduous and concise ancestor/Through whose Paradise/No pedant ever passed.”6 But he chooses to rewrite Francesca’s story in prose rather than poetry. In what follows, I will show how at every turn Lugones adds medi­eval elements and plays with the dichotomy of literary fiction versus historical reality. The protagonist of the story is a young man who finds himself in Forli and who plans to visit Rimini “because a visit to the hometown of Francesca fit right in with my program as a young traveller.”7 There are no markers to indicate that the young man is Argentine or from the New World. He may be European for all we know. But since the story is written in Argentine Spanish by an Argentine author, it is more likely than not that the protagonist is indeed intended to be Argentine. He meets an Italian student with whom he converses about the schedule of the train going to Rimini. The poor but “exquisitely courteous” Italian offers to sell him a parchment 4  “Galeotto fu ’l libro e chi lo scrisse/ quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante” (Dante, Inf. 5.137–38).

5  It was later included in a posthumous collection of his short stories entitled La estatua de sal (1985) as part of La Biblioteca de Babel series. 6  “Abuelo arduo y conciso,/ Por cuyo Paraí�so/ Jamás pasó un pedante” (Lugones, Lunario sentimental, 20).

7  “pues en mi programa de joven viajero, entraba, naturalmente, una visita a la patria de Francesca” (Lugones, Lunario, 343). All English translations from “Francesca” are mine.



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manu­script which he claims contains the true story of Francesca. The two young men are said to share a fervour for the medi­eval heroine, which is the basis for their fellowship (“confraternidad”). The unnamed protagonist claims to have acquired the manu­script without great enthusiasm since he is little inclined to historical investigations, but the moment it is in his hands, it has a special power over him, and he remains in Forli for seven days trying to decipher its pages. Lugones dedicates approximately one fourth of the tale to the detailed description of the thirteenth-century manu­script, which is the real protagonist of this section of the story. The deteriorated document is written in Latin, in beautiful gothic calli­graphy characteristic of the thirteenth century. It is graced by an intricate nine-sided signum tabellionis of the notary Balzarino de Cervis, dating June 12, 1292. Deciphering the text proves difficult due to its innumerable abbreviations and symbols which make the collaboration of a paleo­grapher indispensable. Although the medi­eval script is said to inhibit easy comprehension, the narrator calls it “precious” proof of the document’s authenticity. The paleo­graphic para­graph in which Lugones describes in detail the abbreviations and signs that make it datable to the supposed lifetime of Francesca is worth quoting: The o crossed by an oblique line that descends from right to left, signifying cum, a peculiar sign characteristic of the last years of the thirteenth century, at the beginning of which, just as the ones before and after, took on other forms; the 2, crowned by a b like an algebraic exponent (2b), meaning duabus, and adding by means of its presence one other fact, given that Arabic letters did not become common in Europe until the thirteenth century; the 7, represented by an A without the crossbar, as if to mark the said transition; the word corpus abbreviated to its first syllable and crowned by a 9 (cor9) and the word fratibus, abbreviated to ftbz with an a superimposed on the f and an i on the t; and amen to various signs that I omit here. I don’t want to forget the initials of our heroine, that F and that R, again so characteristic and similar to the handwritten PP of our calli­graphy, except for the crossbar that cuts them.8

So far in the story, we have not yet begun to know the content of the manu­script. The prolonged focus on the manu­script itself as a physical artefact produces various effects: first, it creates suspense; second, it sensationalizes the de-codification process; third, it stresses the fact that the medi­evalist/paleo­grapher is a vital and necessary link to the past; and, fourth, it emphasizes the authenticity of the manu­script. Lugones’s insistence on this historical record of Francesca’s existence is all the more noteworthy, given that no trace remains of the historical record that Dante the

8  “La o atravesada por una lí�nea oblicua que baja de derecha a izquierda, significando cum, signo peculiar de los últimos años del siglo XIII, al comienzo del cual, así� como en los anteriores y en los sucesivos, tuvo otras formas; el 2, coronado por una b a manera de exponente algebraico (2b) significando duabus, y agregando con su presencia un dato más, puesto que las cifras arábigas no se generalizaron en Europa hasta el siglo XIII; el 7, representado por una A sin travesaño, como para marcar dicha transición; la palabra corpus abreviada en su primera sí�laba y coronada por un 9 (cor9) y el vocablo fratibus abreviado en ftbz con una a superpuesta a la f y una i a la t; amén de diversos signos que omito. No quiero olvidar, sin embargo, las iniciales de la heroí�na, aquella F y aquella R tan caracterí�sticas también en su parecido con las PP manuscritas de nuestra caligrafí�a, salvo el travesaño que las corta” (Lugones, Lunario, 344–45).

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poet could have appropriated in telling the story of the lovers.9 It is wishful thinking, perhaps, that one day a medi­evalist might chance upon a parchment that will validate the historicity of Dante’s tale. There is a clear fascination in Lugones’s story with material realities that have survived from the time. The medi­eval world, which becomes tangible and decipherable through its fragments, is both enigmatic and worthy of investigation. Equal attention is paid to the paratext of the manu­script—two overlapping coats of arms that signify the union, achieved through marriage, of Francesca’s family with the Malatesta. In addition, in the margin of the text there are, as an apostille, two coats of arms: one in a wide almond shape, also characteristic of the thirteenth century, and the other rhomboidal, that is, a lady’s crest, except for some rare exceptions like those of the Visconti; but the Visconti were from Lombardy, and in the epoch of my document, they had only recently conquered the sovereignty of Milan. Furthermore, the two coats of arms were overlapping, which indicates marital union.10

As with the particularities of the script, this detail is intended to testify to Francesca’s historical reality. Perhaps the only thing we do know for sure about Francesca was that her marriage was political: born into the Polenta family that ruled Ravenna, she married Giovanni Malatesta, lord of Rimini. One can hardly think of something more markedly medi­eval to represent the union than the two coats of arms. From Old French, “cote a armer,” coats of arms were originally used to adorn the shields, helmets, and armour of knights so that the wearer could be easily identified in knightly tournaments. Heraldic designs came to be used among the western nobility in the twelfth century to denote the prestige of a family, publicly mark their property, provide commentary on their occupation, and trace family membership across time. Since this system of visual identification of rank and pedigree developed in the European Middle Ages, it is closely associated with courtly culture, Latin Christianity, and the crusades. Here the two coats of arms are said to be used “a manera de apostilla,” as an apostille to certify the authenticity of the document. At this point in the narrative, approximately one fourth of the way through, Lugones switches gears. After having provided the reader with meticulous details of its authenticity up to this point, he suddenly announces that he will not translate the actual contents of the document because the rough and curial Latin he claims would inhibit interest for the reader. He plans, therefore, to provide a retelling “as free as I please,”11 leaving the original at the disposal of the meticulous (the medi­evalists?) to be examined in “our National Library.” If we assume that the narrator is Argen9  See Teodolinda Barolini, “Dante and Francesca da Rimini.”

10  “Existen, además, en la margen del texto, a manera de apostilla, dos escudos: uno en forma de ancha almendra, caracterí�stico también del siglo XIII, y el otro romboidal, es decir, blasón de dama, salvo excepciones rarí�simas como las de algunos Visconti; pero los Visconti eran lombardos, y en la época de mi documento, recién conquistaban la soberaní�a milanesa. Además, los blasones en cuestión, se hallan acolados, lo que indica unión conyugal” (Lugones, Lunario, 345). 11  “tan libre come me plazca” (Lugones, “Francesca,” 346).



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tine, and that the national library in question is perhaps the Biblioteca Nacional de la República Argentina founded in 1810 by Mariano Moreno in Buenos Aires, then this is an interesting detail and also the key to interpreting how Lugones at that time felt that Argentines should go about interpreting, drawing upon, and building from the western medi­eval literary models—to acknowledge their authenticity and importance and to use them as a point of departure for innovation. His version of the Francesca story diverges greatly from Dante’s. In fact, Lugones transforms the adulterous love of Dante’s Paolo and Francesca into unconsummated, courtly love. Courtly love, or “fin’ amor,” is a medi­eval European literary conception of love that emphasizes nobility and chivalry and which began with the troubadour poetry of Aquitaine and Provence in southern France toward the end of the eleventh century. As we will see, Francesca and Paolo’s love affair as described by Lugones meets the primary criteria of courtly love elaborated by the poets of the Middle Ages. First and foremost, courtly love is a literary phenomenon, and as already mentioned, Lugones underscores the fictionality of the story by having the narrator proclaim that he will offer us a translation “as free as I please”. Second, it is a love which is noble, and which takes place in a courtly setting. When we first meet Francesca, she is standing in the window of a noble palace (“palacio solariego”), watching as the nuptial procession (“cabalgata nupcial”) arrives. It is a lady in waiting who points out to her the brave knight (“valeroso caballero”), whom she assumes to be her future husband. The knightly gallantry (“gallardí�a del caballero”) of Paolo is emphasized continuously throughout the tale. He is described as handsome, courteous, and a man of letters. Third, it was one of the assumptions of courtly love that the lady in question was married and unattainable. This means that the meetings between lovers had to be conducted in an atmosphere of secrecy and danger. The absolute discretion of the lover was indispensable if the honour of the lady were to be preserved. Francesa and Paolo, we are told, meet only during the light of day, when Giovanni is occupied with his black magic. In contrast to the beautiful and courteous Paolo, Giovanni is portrayed as a cruel hunchback and monster who takes advantage of her virginal faith (“su buena fe virginal”). Thus, we have the typical love triangle of courtly love—the courteous lover, the honorable lady, and the jealous husband. Fourth, courtly love is ritualistic. The lover/knight must follow elaborate conventions of etiquette, showering his lady with gifts and tokens of love such as songs, poems, bouquets, and sweetmeats. Paolo does this to make a solitary existence in the castle more enjoyable for Francesa, who appreciates his gifts and attentions on account of her refined sensibility: “Paolo thought up every way possible to make the young girl’s enclosure in the gloomy castle more tolerable. And his exquisite courtesy, as well as his dignified tenderness, melted the heart of the woman whose refined ways, still Byzantine from her natal city, had deepened her sensibilities.”12 Paolo is more than a knight—he is a troubadour: “Paolo was adept at composing enigmas, which the tastes

12  “Paolo se ingeniaba de todos modos para hacer a aquella juventud más llevadera su clausura en castillo tan lóbrego; y su exquisita cortesí�a, tanto como su grave ternura, derretí�an hasta las

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of the epoch had elevated to high literature.”13 The manu­script itself transcribes some of his enigmas written for Francesca. For example, “la cruz de amore”: ECATE NEMEA AMORE FURIE IMENE

And another which reads from left to right and also in a V: ANIME AMARO C U O R E14

These banal love crossword puzzles are a parody of the trobar clus, a complex and obscure style of poetry characterized by difficult language and metrical complexity and written for an elite audience, able to decode their meaning. A parallel is drawn here between the decoder of the enigmas and the decoder of the medi­eval manu­script (the narrator, the medi­evalist). Finally, Lugones’s tale corresponds to the tenants of courtly love while differing from Dante’s version in that Francesca and Paolo are not guilty of adultery: “Paolo and Francesca never had any relationship beyond exalted friendship. Even their hands were free of guilt; and their lips did nothing more than tremble and become pale in the sweet anguish of un-confessed passion.”15 Dante’s Francesca, on the other hand, is beyond a doubt guilty, as is evidenced by her just condemnation to the second circle of hell for all eternity. She may be a dazzling rhetorician who seeks to blame everything but herself for her fate—Love (“ch’a nullo amato amar perdona”), her gentle heart, and even a book—but she is still guilty, and it is questionable as to whether the pilgrim’s pity is warranted. In contrast, Lugones’s Francesca is Christ-like in her innocence. Instead of focusing on the climactic moment of Dante’s Vth Canto—the kiss (“la bocca mi basciò tutto tremante”)—Lugones emphasizes Francesca’s innocent, tearfilled eyes: “those black eyes like two swallows of the Passion. What sacrifice of tenderness plunged in the heroism of her silence.”16 The mention of Christ’s Passion here is another key to interpreting Lugones’s retelling of the Francesca story—Francesca is more akin to Dante’s Beatrice than to Dante’s Francesca. It was Dante, after all, who revolutionized the phenomenon of courtly love by heightening the spiritual element. heces el corazón de aquella mujer, en quien los refinamientos todaví�a bizantinos de su ciudad natal habí�an profundizado sensibilidades” (Lugones, “Francesca,” 349). 13  “Paolo era diestro en componer enigmas, que el gusto de la época habí�a elevado a un puesto superior de literatura” (Lugones, “Francesca,” 350). 14  Lugones, “Francesca,” 350–51.

15  “Jamás hubo otra relación que una exaltada amistad entre Paolo y Francesca. Aun sus manos estuvieron exentas de culpa; y sus labios no tuvieron otra que la de estremecerse y palidecer en la dulce angustia de la pasión inconfesa” (Lugones, “Francesca,” 346).

16  “aquellos ojos negros como dos golondrinas de la Pasión, qué sacrificio de ternura abismaban en el heroí�smo de su silencio!” (Lugones, “Francesca,” 352).



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Prior to Dante, the love that a knight/troubadour felt for his lady might make him a better person by inciting him to fight in a crusade, but the lady figure in courtly love poetry was not associated with Christ himself until Dante’s Vita Nuova and The Divine Comedy. The irony then is that Lugones rewrites the story of Francesca according to Dante’s own innovations within the literary genre of courtly love poetry. He is at once hypermedi­evalizing the text and redoing Dante according to Dante. The result is innovative, but the text still possesses a decidedly Western European flair. Could the poems in Lunario and the short story “Francesca” be said to be uniquely Argentine? Not in an easily identifiable way. It was precisely this uniqueness that Lugones and other Argentine authors were looking to establish at the time via verbal play with foreign models. Just seven years later, in 1916, Lugones would completely reverse tactics, embracing the realism commonly rejected by modernista poets and turning to rural rather than cosmopolitan elements, poeticized with a patriotic rather than ironic tone. In one of his most famous texts, El payador, he seeks to establish a rural, gauchesque poem (Martín Fierro) as the national epic of Argentina. The publication of El payador (1916) coincided with the centenary of the Argentine Declaration of Independence (July 9, 1816). It was a time when nationalistic sentiments ran high, and a number of rituals, festivities, exhibitions, and monuments commemorated the occasion. It was also, as the historian Luis Romero has pointed out, a moment of cultural reevaluation, national affirmation, and the invention of new cultural myths. Lugones’s generation felt acutely the need to define “argentinidad.” Previously in Argentine literature, most notably in Sarmiento’s Facundo, the gaucho was an emblematic figure used to represent the “barbaric” nature of nineteenthcentury Argentina, if left uncivilized by European cultural ideals. Lugones performs an antithetical operation, painting a glorified picture of the gaucho, emblem of a former civilization threatened by European immigration. The striking reversal of the civilization/barbarism dichotomy has been noted by a number of scholars, including Carlos Altamirano and Beatriz Sarlo, who in their seminal essay “La Argentina del Centenario,” write: “The symbolic gaucho, the desert, the wagon are no longer the representatives of a ‘barbarous’ reality that must be left behind in the march towards ‘civilization’; rather, they are the symbols used to construct a national tradition that ‘progress’ threatened to dissolve.”17 Immigration, formerly associated with progress, had come to be seen as the new form of barbarism. Although it may seem surprising that the gaucho (a troublesome figure in the eyes of the founding fathers of the nation) could be chosen by many twentieth-century intellectuals as the symbol of Argentine national essence and gaucho poetry the expression of her people, we must remember that writers at the time sought a regional literary genre unique to Argentina alone. As 17  “El gaucho simbólico, el desierto, la carreta ya no son los representantes de una realidad ‘bárbara’ que hay que dejar atrás en la marcha hacia la ‘civilización,’ sino los sí�mbolos con los que se trama una tradición nacional que el ‘progreso’ amenaza disolver” (Altamirano and Sarlo, “La Argentina del Centenario,” 95).

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Á� ngel Rama points out, gaucho poetry developed without a European model.18 Instead it pretends to mimic Argentine rural orality and describe a gaucho-way-of-life which came to be seen as “traditional.” Lugones attributes a number of gaucho characteristics to their “Arab blood,” inherited from the Spaniards who had been living in close contact with the Moors. These traits were revived, he argues, on account of the desert landscape that proved so similar to their ancestral environment. As Christina Civantos has shown in her book Between Argentines and Arabs (2006),“the gaucho moro allows Lugones to map out a subject position that is at once separate from natives, Spaniards, other Latin Americans, and recent immigrants—an Argentine national subject.”19 He boldly declares this culturally hybidic plainsman to be the “proto-type of present-day Argentines,”20 and the payador, who poeticizes gaucho life, the most significant agent in the formation of the Argentine race: “The title I have chosen for this book is the name of the old errant singers who roamed our countryside looking for romances and laments, because they were the most significant figures in the formation of our race. Just as happened in Greek and Latin cultures, this phenomenon began with a work of beauty.”21 Here the payador is essentially a new and uniquely Argentine troubadour, thereby sidestepping the need for the medi­eval and European cultural models. In the first chapter of El payador, he explains that a race is defined by its epic poetry: “epic poetry is the expression of the heroic life of a race: of this race and of no other.”22 Hence, no epic poem from another culture can represent a new race. His selection of Martín Fierro as Argentina’s national epic accomplishes several important objectives. First of all, it is an attempt to immediately assuage the widespread anxiety regarding national identity, or rather the perceived lack thereof. One need look no further than its covers for the “secret to her [Argentina’s] destiny.” As he clearly explains in the 1916 pro­logue: “The aim of this book is to define from this angle epic poetry, to demonstrate that our Martín Fierro belongs to this genre, to study it as such, and to determine, simultaneously, on account of its natural characteristics, the formation of our race and its destiny.”23 In other words, all the answers to the questions which plagued the intellectuals of the turn of the century were to be found just within its pages. 18  Á� ngel Rama, Los gauchipolíticos rioplatenses, 236.

19  Civantos, “Lugones’s El payador and the Legacy of Moorish Blood,” 59.

20  Lugones, El payador, 126, 50, 51.

21  “Titulo este libro con el nombre de los antiguos cantores errantes que recorrí�an nuestras campañas trovando romances y endechas, porque fueron ellos los personajes más significativos en la formación de nuestra raza. Tal cual ha pasado en todas las otras del tronco greco-latino, aquel fenómeno inicióse también aquí� con una obra de belleza” (Lugones, El payador, 21).

22  “la poesí�a épica es la expresión de la vida heroica de una raza: de esa raza y no de otra alguna” (Lugones, El payador, 29).

23  “El objeto de este libro es, pues, definir bajo el mencionado aspecto la poesí�a épica, demonstrar que nuestro Martín Fierro pertenece a ella, estudiarlo como tal, determinar simultáneamente, por la naturaleza de sus elementos, la formación de la raza, y con ello formular, por último, el secreto de su destino” (Lugones, El payador, 22).



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Secondly, El payador is an assertion that Argentina is already a civilization on par with ancient Greece, whose epics he refers to as a model in his discourse on the function of epic poetry. Finally, because gaucho poetry has no European model, and because Martín Fierro was written in 1872, pre-influx of immigration, his definition of Argentine identity offers a point of convergence for the criollo citizens that excludes the culture of the immigrant population.24 As Rafeal Olea has argued, Lugones wanted to create a myth which would legitimize the power of the creole elite: “What actually happened was that the gaucho, ineffectual for the capitalist aims of the oligarchy of the 19th century, was used at the beginning of the 20th as an instrument of opposition towards the growing power of the immigrant masses.”25 In conclusion, with both Lunario sentimental and El payador, Lugones was seeking to establish a uniquely Argentine literature. While in the former book, his strategy for doing so involved embracing and innovating upon medi­eval models of Western Christianity, such as Dante’s Divine Comedy, in the latter he seeks to distance himself from said models and elevate the status of the gaucho, the uniquely Argentine errant poet of the pampas. In doing so he does not discard the medi­eval entirely, but rather employs it in a different way—via al-Andalus. Obviously his hyper-medi­evalization of the episode of Francesca stands in stark contrast with his later criollismo proscriptions of 1916. This did not go unnoticed by Jorge Luis Borges, who decided to parody what Lugones advocates in El payador by creating a version of the Francesca story that takes place on the pampas. Borges was well familiar with Lugones’s story “Francesca.” In fact, he wrote the pro­logue to the collection of Lugones’s short stories entitled La estatua de sal, in which “Francesca” was republished in 1985. In the pro­logue Borges acknowledges the various ideo­logical shifts of Lugones’s lifetime: “diverse sincerities of a man interested in the same problem, who gives, over time, contradictory solutions.”26 Although here Borges was referring to Lugones’s political fickleness (from anarchist, to socialist, to fascist), his observation can also be applied to the drastic shifts in strategy to be seen in his literary productions. Modernismo and criollismo, although contradictory tendencies, were at different times seen by Lugones as the ideal means for arriving at a uniquely Argentine literature. 24  As Rafeal Olea argues, “Al ubicar la esencia de la ‘argentinidad’ en un pasado preinmigratorio, al no sumar ninguna de las caracterí�sticas de los inmigrantes al acervo del ser nacional, Lugones expresaba en verdad un fuerte rechazo a las masas” (Olea, “Lugones y el mito gauchesco,” 324). Also see Altamirano and Sarlo, who share this opinion. They point out that Lugones’s advocacy of Martín Fierro affirms, “a través del mito del origen, el derecho tutelar de la elite de los ‘criollos viejos’ sobre el paí�s. Derecho que los recién llegados aparecí�an impugnando” [through the myth of origin, the guiding right of the elite “criollos viejos” over the country. A right that the recently immigrated seemed to challenge] (Altamirano and Sarlo, “La Argentina del Centenario,” 100).

25  “Lo que en realidad sucede es que el gaucho, ineficaz para los fines capitalistas de la oligarquí�a en el siglo XIX, es usado a principios del XX como instrumento de oposición a la naciente fuerza de la masa inmigratoria” (Olea, “Lugones y el mito gauchesco,” 323). 26  “las diversas sinceridades de un hombre a quien le interesa un mismo problema y que da, a lo largo del tiempo, con soluciones contradictorias” (Borges, La estatua de sal, 11).

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Before analyzing Borges’s parody, it is important to state that Borges himself went through a criollismo phase early in his career, when he felt that sticking to local themes was the surest way to create a unique national literature. His nationalistic 1926 essay, “El tamaño de mi esperanza,” is no less an exaltation of creoles and an exclusion of immigrants than Lugones’s El payador. In the opening, he addresses himself to a specifically creole audience. It is to the criollos that I wish to speak—to the men who feel their life and death inextricably linked to this land, not to those who think the sun and the moon are in Europe. This is a land of born exiles, of men nostalgic for the far-off and the foreign: they are the real gringos, regardless of their parentage. With them my pen does not speak. I wish to speak to the others, to our own boys attached to this earth who do not belittle the reality of this country. My topic today is the patria: her present, past, and future.27

The patriotism of this para­graph is not without the xenophobic tendencies common among many creole authors at the time. A more mature Borges, however, rejected the idea that Argentine authors should limit themselves to local themes. He confesses that his “happily forgotten” book Fervor de Buenos Aires does indeed abound in local colour and words such as “cuchilleros,” “milonga,” and “tapia.” But this he sees as a mistake of his youth, an overzealous attempt to appear Argentine. He later saw his earlier attempts at writing a uniquely Argentine type of literature as extremely artificial, and his change in opinion is also evidenced by his omission of “El tamaño de mi esperanza” (1926) and “El idioma de los argentinos” (1928) from Obras completas (1974). In 1951 in his essay “El escritor argentino y la tradición,” he countered Lugones’s arguments regarding gauchesque poetry and Martín Fierro. Originally prepared for a lecture given at the Colegio Libre de Estudios Superiores, in this essay he questions the validity of the so-called “problem” of the Argentine writer and tradition: “I would like to formulate and justify some skeptical proposals concerning the problem of the Argentine writer and tradition. My skepticism does not relate to the difficulty or impossibility of solving this problem, but rather to its very existence. I believe we are faced with a rhetorical topic which leads to pathetic elaborations, rather than with a true mental difficulty. I understand that we are dealing with an appearance, a simulacrum, a pseudo problem.”28 27  “A Los criollos les quiero hablar: a los hombres que en esta tierra se sienten vivir y morir, no a los que creen que el sol y la luna están en Europa. Tierra de desterrados natos de ésta, de nostalgiosos de lo lejano y lo ajeno; ellos son los gringos de veras, autorí�celo o no su sangre, y con ellos no habla mi pluma. / Quiero conversar con los otros, con los muchachos querencieros y nuestros que no le achican la realidá a este paí�s. Mi argumento de hoy es la patria: lo que hay en ella de presente, de pasado y de venidero” (Borges, “El tamaño de mi esperanza,” 11).

28  “Quiero formular y justificar algunas proposiciones escépticas sobre el problema del escritor argentino y la tradición. Mi escepticismo no se refiere a la dificultad o imposibilidad de resolverlo, sino a la existencia misma del problema. Creo que nos enfrenta un tema retórico, apto para desarrollos patéticos; más que de una verdadera dificultad mental entiendo que se trata de una apariencia, de un simulacro, de un seudoproblema” (Borges, “El escritor argentino y la tradición,” 267). Presented in 1951, the work was first published in 1953 in Cursos y conferencias.



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If the question of the Argentine writer and tradition is, as Borges says, a “pseudo problem,” then all attempts to resolve it must therefore be “pathetic.” Borges follows this pronouncement with a debunking of various theories, most notably that of Lugones. Borges refutes the assertions that Argentine literary tradition exists in gauchesque poetry and that Martín Fierro is for Argentines what the Homeric poems were for the Greeks, all the while taking great care not to slight Martín Fierro, which he calls “the most lasting work we Argentines have written.”29 Although he recognizes the literary merit of the work, he does not believe that it can be considered the canonical book of all Argentines. According to Borges, Lugones is making a nationalistic argument and erroneously seeking a national epic to fulfill the role of a Don Quixote or Divine Comedy. Even worse in Borges’s view are the conclusions of Ricardo Rojas, who claims that gauchesque poetry is a continuation or expansion of the poetry of the payadores. Borges sees this affirmation as fundamentally flawed. He suspects that Rojas made this “skillful error” in order to give the gauchesque poetry a popular basis. As Nicolas Shumway rightly points out, Borges’s intention was to “depoliticize the gauchesque for which Argentine nationalists were making quite extravagant claims.”30 In his book The Invention of Argentina, Shumway documents the transformation of the term gaucho into “a nationalist rallying cry that in this century has made gaucho synonymous with authentic Argentine.”31 He outlines the process by which the term came to label “one of Argentina’s principal guiding fictions.”32 Lugones’s El payador, of course, played a major role in this process. But where Lugones had argued for authenticity, Borges emphasized artificiality: “gauchesque poetry…is a literary genre as artificial as any other.”33 In Borges’s view, not only do nationalist theories such as that proposed by Lugones lead to erroneous conclusions as regards literature, they also greatly limit the creativity of authors: “the nationalists pretend to venerate the capacities of the Argentine mind but want to limit the poetic exercise of that mind to a few impoverished local themes, as if we Argentines could only speak of orillas and estancias and not of the universe.”34 Obviously, Borges finds the idea of limiting oneself to supposedly “Argentine” themes ridiculous. If Lugones himself had advocated this theory from the very beginning of his career, it would have greatly reduced his poetic oeuvre, and Lunario sentimental would not exist. What would happen, we might imagine, if his rewriting of Dante’s “Francesca” included nothing of the medi­eval and instead only rural Argentinian elements? Borges cleverly does just that in his short story “La intrusa” (The 29  Borges, “El escritor argentino y la tradición,” 267.

30  Shumway, The Invention of Argentina, 71. 31  Shumway, The Invention of Argentina, 70. 32  Shumway, The Invention of Argentina, 70.

33  Borges, “El escritor argentino y la tradición,” 268.

34  “los nacionalistas simulan venerar las capacidades de la mente argentina pero quieren limitar el ejercicio poético de esa mente a algunos pobres temas locales, como si los argentinos sólo pudiéramos hablar de orillas y estancias y no del universo” (Borges, “El escritor argentino y la tradición,” 271).

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Intruder, 1966), which, I argue, is both a rewriting of Dante’s Vth Canto and a parody of the ideas posited in El payador. As aforementioned, Borges wrote the pro­logue and selected the tales included in a 1985 edition of Lugones’s stories published under the title La estatua de sal for the La Biblioteca de Babel series. Although he was no fan of Lunario in general, he seems to have genuinely admired the story “Francesca,” of which he writes in the pro­logue, “In ‘Francesca’ Lugones dares to compete with the Vth canto of Inferno and the discovery of this adventure is an intimate tone.”35 Furthermore, Lugones’s story seems to have influenced Borges’s writing of the poem “Infierno V: 129,” which begins: They let the book fall, when they know that they are the ones in the book. (They will be in another, greater, but what can that matter to them.) Now they are Paolo and Francesca, not two friends who are sharing the savour of a fable. They gaze at each other with incredulous wonder. Their hands do not touch.36

The line “their hands do not touch” is likely inspired by Lugones story, which emphasizes three times that they do not touch, focusing specifically on their hands. 37 Whether Borges was conscious of this influence is difficult to say. What is without a doubt, however, is that in his second re-writing of the Francesca episode, “La intrusa,” Borges de-medi­evalizes Lugones’s version to create a nineteenth-century, Argentine adaptation that is devoid of courtly love and its conventions. “The Intruder” (1966) is the story of two rough and tumble brothers, Eduardo and Cristián, living on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. When it comes to women, they usually frequent whorehouses after one of their drunken outings, but one day the eldest brother Cristián brings home a girl, Juliana de Burgos, to live with them. Eduardo falls in love with her, and Cristián agrees to share her. This love triangle leads to dissention between the brothers, and they agree to sell her to a whorehouse to save their relationship. Both, however, continue to secretly visit her, until one day they run into 35  “En Francesca se atreve a competir con el canto V del Infierno y el hallazgo de esa aventura está en el tono í�ntimo” (Borges, La estatua de sal, 13). 36  Dejan caer el libro, porque ya saben   que son las personas del libro. (Lo serán de otro, el máximo, pero eso qué puede importarles.) Ahora son Paolo y Francesca, no dos amigos que comparten el sabor de una fábula. Se miran con incrédula maravilla. Las manos no se tocan (Borges, “Inferno,” 559).

37  First: “Ya no leí�an; y así� pasaron muchas horas, con las manos tan heladas sobre el libro”; second, “el llanto desbordó en gotas vivas—lo único que viví�a en ellos—sobre sus manos”; and finally “materialmente, no habí�an pecado, pues ni a tocarse llegaron” (Lugones, “Francesca,” 352–53).



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each other while waiting their turn. This leads them to buy her back, but her renewed presence in the house revives the former jealousies. In the end, Cristián kills her, and the brothers bury her together on the pampa. At first glance, it would seem that “La intrusa” has little to do with the Vth Canto of Inferno, but as has already been noted by Sylvie Davidson, the story is “diametrically opposed” to that of Dante.38 Both stories involve a love triangle. In the Vth Canto, two cousins are in love with the same woman, who loves the younger of the two in return. The jealously of the elder cousin, Giovanni, causes him to murder both Paolo and Francesca. In “The Intruder” we have two brothers in love with the same woman, mutually jealous, and she is the only one who loses her life. In Dante, lust overpowers reason, and in Borges fraternal bonds prove stronger than lust or love. The character of Juliana de Burgos is the antithesis of Francesca. In Dante, Francesca is the only figure who has a voice. She is the one who eloquently narrates her story and defends her point of view. In “The Intruder,” not only does Juliana have no voice, but she has virtually no control over anything that happens throughout. She is treated as a servant and whore who “attends both men’s wants with an animal submission.”39 Nothing is said of her reaction to the suffering she is forced to endure, and we know nothing of her feelings except that she had “a certain preference, probably for the younger man.”40 As Borges himself clarifies, Juliana is not a main character of the story: “Really there are only two characters: the two brothers. Of them, we are allowed to hear only what the elder brother says; it is he who takes all the decisions, even the last one.”41 Thus the elder brother, Cristián, takes on the role of Francesca who speaks on behalf of Paolo (Eduardo). The story is also clearly in opposition to Lugones’s “Francesca.” Lugones’s version of Dante’s story is a tender tale of innocent love, characterized (in the words of Borges) by “an intimate tone.” It is also markedly European, taking place in Italy and involving a medi­eval palimpsest, a castle, and a moonlit balcony. Borges, on the other hand, writes a callous tale of the cruelty of two “hard-bitten men living on the edge of Buenos Aires before the turn of the century.”42 Herein lies the key to the story: the idea behind Borges’s “The Intruder” was to re-write Lugones’s “Francesca” in accordance with Lugones’s nationalistic theories regarding Argentine literature. Lugones had proclaimed the gaucho to be the “archetype” of “argentinidad,” and Borges’s playful objective is to write a Francesca of the pampas featuring two gaucho outlaws. The story abounds in local colour to humorously “argentinize” this medi­eval Western love story by filling it with mate, horses, whorehouses, and hides. 38  Davidson, “Borges and Italian Literature,” 46–47. The connection between the Fifth Canto of Inferno and Borges’ “La Intrusa” has also been acknowledged by Chiappini, Borges y Dante; NovilloCorvalán, Borges and Joyce, 126; Nuñez-Faraco, Borges and Dante, 20. 39  Borges, “The Intruder,” 72.

40  Borges, “The Intruder,” 72.

41  Borges, Commentaries, in The Aleph and Other Stories, 278. 42  Borges, “The Intruder,” 68.

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The story starts off with the narrator’s explanation of how he first heard the story, “between one sip of mate and the next.”43 This mention of Argentina’s national drink immediately locates our story. Like Lugones’s narrator who confesses his version will be told “as free as I please,”44 the narrator of the “The Intruder” admits that he will “give in to the writer’s temptation of emphasizing or adding certain details.”45 These details serve to paint a picture of the way of life of the Nilsens. He begins by describing the meager dwellings of the two brothers. They live in a rambling old house of “unplastered brick,” “sleep in bare rooms on cots,” and own only one book, a worn Bible with names and dates written on the back flyleaf: “the roaming chronicle of the Nilsens.”46 In true gaucho fashion, their luxury consists in their freedom, and “their extravagances were horses, silver-trimmed riding gear, the short-bladed dagger, and getting dressed up on Saturday nights, when they blew their money freely and got themselves into boozy brawls.”47 The tale holds true to all of the characteristics of the gaucho outlaw, detailed in Sarmiento’s Facundo. The brothers are said to be “drovers,” “teamsters,” and “horse thieves,” and like Juan Quiroga Facundo, they have a propensity for gambling and violence, heightened by excessive drinking. They are hardly the noble picture of the gaucho promoted by Lugones. As regards their amorous habits, they usually satisfy themselves “in darkened passageways or in whorehouses.”48 Frequent reference is made to the rampant prostitution in the outskirts of Buenos Aires at the turn-of-the-century, including mention of the forbidden dance that is said to have originated in the brothels of poor neighbourhoods—the tango, the preferred pastime “at those dingy parties held in tenements, where suggestive dance steps were strictly forbidden and where, at that time, partners still danced with a good six inches of light showing between them.”49 It is a rough, chauvinistic society “where drudgery and neglect wear women out.”50 Far from showering their lady with poems and gifts, as was customary of the troubadour/lover engaged in courtly love, Cristián and Eduardo treat Juliana as a servant and sexual slave. When Cristián decides to share his possession (Juliana), he says to his brother: “if you want her, use her.”51 Rather than exalting their beloved lady, they view love as something which is shameful: “In tough neighbourhoods a man never admits to anyone—not even to himself—that a woman matters beyond lust and possession, but the two brothers were in love. This, in some way, made them feel ashamed.”52 43  Borges, “The Intruder,” 67.

44  “tan libre come me plazca” (Lugones, “Francesca,” 346). 45  Borges, “The Intruder,” 68. 46  Borges, “The Intruder,” 68. 47  Borges, “The Intruder,” 68. 48  Borges, “The Intruder,” 69. 49  Borges, “The Intruder,” 70. 50  Borges, “The Intruder,” 70. 51  Borges, “The Intruder,” 71.

52  Borges, “The Intruder,” 71; “En el duro suburbio, un hombre no decí�a, ni se decí�a, que una mujer



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These rough gauchos are incapable of dealing with feelings, and instead take them out on others: “on strangers, on dogs, on Juliana.” After selling her to the whorehouse, they go back to “their old life of men among men…to cardplaying, to cockfights, to their Saturday night binges.” In true gaucho fashion, they prize their horses more than anything else. Their excuse for eventually buying Juliana back from the madame is so as to not “wear out the horses” running back and forth to the whorehouse.53 The climax of the story takes place under a starry sky out on the pampa where our protagonists set out to bury Juliana’s corpse. The burial scene is worthy of any gauchesque novel. They pack up her body up with a bunch of hides, and once arrived at a secluded spot, Cristián throws down the cigar he has just lit and says matter-of-factly, “Let’s get busy, brother. In a while the buzzards will take over.”54 The tale ends in the middle of the pampa with the brothers embracing. Borges accomplishes multiple objectives in this brief tale. Instead of hyper-­ medievalizing Dante’s version, as Lugones had done in “Francesca,” he hyper-Argentinizes it, parodying and un-romanticizing the picture of the gaucho that Lugones had declared to be the “archetype” of the Argentine. He playfully pokes fun at Lugones’s nationalistic theories and his failure to have followed them in his retelling of the Vth Canto. His strategy here is reductio ad absurdum—establishing a claim by showing the opposite scenario in an extreme form; the point being made is that Argentines need not limit themselves strictly to local themes in order to appear Argentine. As he explains in “El escritor argentino y la tradición,” great authors such as Racine and Shakespeare are no less French and English, respectively, on account of setting their stories in different time periods and geo­graphical locations: “I think Racine would not even have understood a person who denied him his right to the title of poet of France because he cultivated Greek and Roman themes. I think Shakespeare would have been shocked if people had tried to limit him to English themes, and if they had told him that, as an Englishman, he had no right to compose Hamlet, whose theme is Scandinavian, or Macbeth, whose theme is Scottish. The Argentine cult of local colour is a recent European cult which the nationalists ought to reject as foreign.”55 To further prove his point he gives the now famous example of Gibbon, who in his Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire had remarked upon the lack of camels in the Koran. Borges believes the absence to be sufficient proof that the work is indeed Arabian: “It [the Koran] was written by Mohammed, and Mohammed, as an Arab, had no pudiera importarle, más allá del deseo y la posesión, pero los dos estaban enamorados. Esto, de algún modo, los humillaba” Borges, “La intrusa,” 1026–1027. 53  Borges, “The Intruder,” 73.

54  Borges, “The Intruder,” 74.

55  “creo que Racine ni siquiera hubiera entendido a una persona que le hubiese negado su derecho al tí�tulo de poeta francés por haber buscado temas griegos y latinos. Creo que Shakespeare se habrí�a asombrado si hubieran pretendido limitarlo a temas ingleses, y si le hubiesen dicho que, como inglés, no tení�a derecho a escribir Hamlet, de tema escandinavo, o MacBeth, de tema escocés. El culto argentino del color local es un reciente culto europeo que los nacionalistas deberí�an rechazar por foráneo” (Borges, Obras completas, 1:270).

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reason to know that camels were especially Arabian; for him they were a part of reality, he had no reason to emphasize them; on the other hand, the first thing a falsifier, a tourist, an Arab nationalist would do is have a surfeit of camels, caravans of camels, on every page.”56 It is for this very reason that Dante (unlike Lugones) does not need to put castles and palimpsests on every page of his Divine Comedy to be medi­eval. Similarly, Argentine authors are still Argentine, whether or not they have gauchos running across every page. Ultimately, Borges considered himself to be, like Dante, an author of the universe, and as such he believed that he and other Argentines had just as much a right to medi­eval themes as medi­eval Italian authors themselves. For this reason, he praised Lugones’s highly medi­eval reworking of Canto V, while satirizing El payador in his wildly original and “gauchesque” Francesca of the pampas.

56  “Fue escrito por Mahoma, y Mahoma, como árabe, no tení�a por qué saber que los camellos eran especialmente árabes; eran para él parte de la realidad, no tení�a que distinguirlos; en cambio, un falsario, un turista, un nacionalista árabe, lo primero que hubiera hecho es prodigar camellos, caravanas de camellos en cada página” (Borges, Obras completas, 1:270).



Works Cited

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Alighieri. See Dante. Altamirano, Carlos, and Beatriz Sarlo. “La Argentina del Centenario: campo intelectual, vida literaria y temas ideológicos.” In Ensayos argentinos. De Sarmiento a la vanguardia, edited by Altamirano, Carlos, and Beatriz Sarlo, 69–105. Buenos Aires: Centro Editor de América Latina, 1983. Reprinted from Hispamérica: revista de literatura 25–26 (1980): 33–60. Barolini, Teodolinda, “Dante and Francesca da Rimini: Realpolitik, Romance, Gender.” Speculum 75, no. 1 (January 2000): 1–28. Borges, Jorge Luis. Commentaries. In The Aleph and Other Stories, 1933–1969, Together with Commentaries and an Autobio­graphical Essay. New York: Dutton, 1978. —— . “El escritor argentino y la tradición.” In Jorge Luis Borges, Obras Completas. Edited by Carlos V. Frí�as. 267–74. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1974. —— . “El tamaño de mi esperanza.” In El tamaño de mi esperanza, 11–14. Buenos Aires: Seix Barral, 1993. —— . “Fundación mí�tica de Buenos Aires.” In Jorge Luis Borges, Obras Completas. Edited by Carlos V. Frí�as, 81. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1974. —— . “Inferno, V, 129.” In Jorge Luis Borges, Poesía completa, 559–60. New York: Vintage Español, 2012. —— . “La intrusa.” In Jorge Luis Borges, Obras Completas. Edited by Carlos V. Frí�as, 1025–28. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1974. —— . “La poesí�a gauchesca.” In Jorge Luis Borges, Obras Completas. Edited by Carlos V. Frí�as, 179–97. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1974. —— . “Leopoldo Lugones: Romancero.” Translated by Alfred Mac Adam. In On Argentina. Edited by Alfred Mac Adam and Suzanne Jill Levine, 57–59. New York: Penguin, 2010. —— . Nueve ensayos dantescos. Edited by Marcos Ricardo Barnatán. Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1982. —— . Pro­logue to Fervor de Buenos Aires. In Jorge Luis Borges, Obras Completas. Edited by Carlos V. Frí�as, 13. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1974. —— . Pro­logue to Leopoldo Lugones, La estatua de sal, 9–14. La Biblioteca de Babel 19. Madrid: Siruela, 1985. —— . Selected Non-Fictions. Edited by Eliot Weinberger. Translated by Esther Allen, Suzanne Jill Levine, and Eliot Weinberger. New York: Viking, 1999. —— . “The Intruder.” In Doctor Brodie’s Report. Translated by Norman Thomas di Giovanni, 67–74. New York: Dutton, 1972. —— . “The Mythical Founding of Buenos Aires,” translated by Alastair Reid. In On Argentina, edited by Alfred Mac Adam and Suzanne Jill Levine, 16–17. New York: Penguin, 2010. Borges, Jorge Luis, and Betina Edelberg. “Leopoldo Lugones.” In Jorge Luis Borges, Obras Completas en colaboración, 453–508. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1997. Borges, Jorge Luis, and Osvaldo Ferrari. Conversations, vol. 1. En Diálogo translated by Jason Wilson. 3 vols. London: Seagull, 2014. Chiappini, Julio. Borges y Dante. Rosario: Zeus, 1993. Civantos, Christina. “Lugones’s El Payador and the Legacy of Moorish Blood.” In Christina Civantos, Between Argentines and Arabs: Argentine Orientalism, Arab Immigrants, and the Writing of Identity, 53–59. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2006. Dante Alighieri. La Divina Commedia. Edited by Carlo Grabher. Firenze: La Nuova Italia, 1934–1936. —— . Inferno. Translated by Robert and Jean Hollander. New York: Anchor, 2002.

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—— . Purgatorio. Translated by Robert and Jean Hollander. New York: Anchor, 2002. —— . Paradiso. Translated by Robert and Jean Hollander. New York: Anchor, 2002. Davidson, Sylvie. “Borges and Italian Literature.” Italian Quarterly 27, no. 105 (Summer 1986): 43–49. Delaney, Jeane. “Making Sense of Modernity: Changing Attitudes toward the Immigrant and the Gaucho in Turn-of-the-Century Argentina.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 38, no. 3 (July 1996): 434–59. Galvez, Manuel. “¿Cuál es el valor del Martín Fierro?” Nosotros 10, no. 50 (June 1913): 257–64. Hobsbawm, Eric, and Terence Ranger. The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. Lugones, Leopoldo. El payador. Buenos Aires: Huemul, 1972. —— . “Francesca.” In Leopoldo Lugones, Lunario sentimental, 343–54. Buenos Aires: Gleizer, 1926. —— . Lunario sentimental. Buenos Aires: Gleizer, 1926. Novillo-Corvalán, Patricia. Borges and Joyce: An Infinite Conversation. London: Legenda, 2011. Nuñez-Faraco, Humberto. Borges and Dante: Echoes of a Literary Friendship. Berlin: Lang, 2006. Olea Franco, Rafael. “Lugones y el mito gauchesco. Un capí�tulo de historia cultural argentina.” Nueva Revista de Filo­logía Hispánica 38, no. 1 (1990): 307–31. Rama, Á� ngel. Los gauchipolíticos rioplatenses. Buenos Aires: Centro Editor de América Latina, 1982. Romero, José Luis. Breve Historia de la Argentina. Buenos Aires: Editorial Universitaria de Buenos Aires, 1967. —— . El desarrollo de las ideas en la sociedad argentina del siglo XX. México/Buenos Aires: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1965. Sarlo, Beatriz. Jorge Luis Borges: A Writer on the Edge. New York: Verso, 1993. Sarmiento, Domingo Faustino. Facundo. Buenos Aires: Losada, 1981. Shumway, Nicolas. The Invention of Argentina. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991. —— . Seven Conversations with Jorge Luis Borges. Translated by Clark M. Zlotchew. Philadelphia: Dry, 2010.

Chapter 8

BORGES AND KENNINGS M. J. TOSWELL

Kennings fascinated Jorge Luis Borges (1899–1986), both attracting and repelling him. Often described as a figurative circumlocution or a double metaphor in Germanic poetry (most commonly in Old Norse but also in Old English), the kenning is a highly stylized and artificial compound noun. Borges found kennings sufficiently intriguing in his early days as a creative thinker that he wrote and published a significant analysis of them. In that study, he placed them in the context of Old Norse and Old English poetry, but also brought to bear the Spanish poetic movements known as gongorismo or culteranismo (the rococo and aureate stylings of the Baroque period) and the modernism called ultraísmo, which had greatly appealed to the young Borges when he briefly lived in Madrid with his family. He reused the material from this piece repeatedly throughout his life, and developed it further in several projects. Borges cared deeply about kennings, and gave examples of them frequently in talks and conversations, demonstrating his knowledge and his liking for this stylistic quirk of early Germanic literatures. He put them in his poetry, as best he could.1 At the same time, Borges’s attitude to the kenning was remarkably contradictory. He describes the usage in one interview as “rather a weariness of the flesh to the poets themselves–at least to the Old English poets.”2 Old Norse poets, he implies, seemed to enjoy them more and certainly used 1  The earliest available study of Borges and kennings is Lynn and Shumway, “Borges y las Kenningar.” Lynn and Shumway note that this is Borges’s “tema favorito” (favourite subject) in medi­eval German literature, and focus on his use of or references to kennings in three poems. Also emphasizing Borges’s use of Germanic themes and ideas, mentioning kennings only tangentially, is Tyler, “Medi­eval Germanic Elements.” Tyler concludes that the element “mirrors cogently the English side of his ancestry, which has often been interpreted as his other self” (Tyler, “Medi­ eval,” 104), a slightly simplistic conclusion about this aspect of Borges’s oeuvre. Most importantly, Eirí�ksdóttir considers the details of Borges’s thinking about kennings as applied to his short stories near the end of her “Icelandic Sagas,” and throughout “‘El verso incorruptible.’” She considers the details of how Borges’s approach to kennings reflects Icelandic usage. 2  Borges, “The Art of Fiction,” 121. Borges did many interviews and conversations in his last twenty years. One of the best is “The Art of Fiction 39” with Ronald Christ, first published in The Paris Review. Among other reprints see Plimpton, Latin American Writers at Work. Borges would have undoubtedly been aware that the phrase “a weariness of the flesh” in English derives from Ecclesiastes 12:12 in the King James Version of the Bible, kept in some later versions. The context is advice to a young man including “of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh.” Borges was being a bit puckish, perhaps?

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them more. However, he also cites their “poignant quality,” and states they are “the first deliberate verbal delight of a literature governed by instinct.”3 His choice of goce here, which I have translated as “delight,” may be an example of deliberate borgesian double meaning; goce can also be “choice, preference, taste.” Kennings might be a delight, but they might also simply be a preference of the poet. Borges might just as easily be suggesting here that kennings were the first step away from a literature of instinct and towards a literature of artifice, or stylistic excess, rather than that they were a new elegance in the literature. Since he places kennings in the context of Spanish literary periods of excess and great artifice, his implication might be that kennings are a sign of excess in an otherwise fascinating poetic oeuvre. Or not. It may well prove impossible to determine what Borges really thought of kennings, despite his frequent comments on them, but it is nonetheless worth considering why this Argentinian poet, short story writer, prose stylist and essayist should have been so engaged by the literature of medi­ eval Germanic civilizations in general, and the kenning in particular. Borges’s fascination with Germanic literatures marched along with his love life and his apocalyptic thinking.4 After the early short works on kennings, expanded in his Historia de la eternidad, Borges prepared a mono­graph presenting Old Gothic, Old English, Scandinavian and Germanic literatures of the early Middle Ages to an Hispanic audience. His focus throughout was on plots and narratives, so he retold the stories of Beowulf, various Norse sagas, and the Nibelungenlied. He even told the tale of Grí�mur Jónsson Thorkelin and the first edition of Beowulf, briefly in the mono­graph, but also in an unpublished manu­script recently edited and translated; strikingly, even in this short piece about the editing travails of Thorkelin, Borges spares a long para­graph on the kenning. 5 In short, whenever the opportunity arose and sometimes when he shoe-horned an opportunity into being, Borges discussed the kenning. I propose that he did so for two reasons: first, to distance himself and his own literary output from his Hispanic and Hispanoamerican roots by highlighting a stylistic element that cannot be genuinely recreated in Spanish, a hole in the linguistic reality, a linguistic aporia in his own native language; and second, to repeatedly highlight a stylistic and structural device that at its heart must be both original and derivative, which can only achieve its objective of pausing the reader or listener by jolting the audience right out of the horizon of reception. That is, a kenning requires cognitive dissonance; it can only do its work of shocking the audience into a new mode of engagement with the text by driving the audience into thinking separately and outside the text. A kenning

3  “el primer deliberado goce verbal de una literatura instintiva” (Borges, Las Kenningar, 7). I cite the same useful comment in a different context in Toswell, “Borges, Old English Poetry,” 63.

4  I note this point myself in my introduction to the translation of Borges’s 1951 mono­graph Antiguas Literaturas Germánicas (Toswell, “Introduction,” 10). Garceau connects this interest with his love life more explicitly (Garceau, “Passing Over,” 300). Vásquez, Borges’s second collaborator on Germanic literatures, and more generally on the history of English literature, makes a similar point repeatedly and vehemently in her writings (Vásquez, Borges). However, modern scholars who speculate about Borges’s love life and its myriad complications do not seem to see the link: see Paoletti, Las novias de Borges, and, with a different approach, Sabino, Jorge Luis Borges. 5  Borges, “Thorkelin,” 465 kennings in the Spanish, 468 in the translation.



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can only work by not working. Borges discussed kennings so much because his life and his works moved in the same direction, and aimed to function in the same way.

The Concept of the Kenning

A kenning is perhaps best described, certainly for Borges readers, as a condensed metaphor; it is a metaphor in which neither the tenor nor the vehicle is provided, except through allusion. In studies of Old English the classic example is swanrad, the “road of the swan,” which means the place where swans generally travel, so a body of water of some kind. Properly speaking, swans tend to move on rivers, but the term does seem to apply more often to larger bodies of water, most commonly the ocean. Thus, even with this the most common example of the kenning, we already have some complexity of interpretation. Kennings appear quite commonly in Old Norse poetry; Borges spoke of them more in connection with Old Norse, but noted their appearance in Old English as well. He wrote a poem concerning Snorri Sturluson, in which Borges notes that Sturluson’s handbook for poets, nowadays commonly called the Poetic Edda was the principal source for Borges’s thinking about kennings. This is certainly the case, as many of the examples that Borges cites are drawn from Sturluson’s examples and lists. However, Borges also knew the basic scholarly literature about the kenning. His short story, “El Soborno” (The Bribe), first published in Libro de Arena (The Book of Sand) in 1975 involves an academic contretemps among three Anglo-Saxonists, one of whom has as his claim to fame a book entitled Toward a History of the Kenning. One of these scholars, having won the victory of attending a conference on the recommendation of the senior scholar in the field, remarks concerning the other’s work that “the Kenning book clearly shows that he has looked into not only the primary sources but the pertinent articles by Meissner and Marquardt as well.”6 Marquardt is Hertha Marquardt, who published Die altenglischen Kenningar in 1938, some time after Borges first became interested in kennings. This is the classic scholarly work on kennings, and Borges clearly knew it, though perhaps not firsthand. His mention of Meissner is even more interesting, since Rudolph Meissner worked out a relatively detailed taxonomy of Old Norse kennings, a classification still in use.7 It was published in 1921, which makes it more possible that Borges knew or knew about the work. However, in the short story Borges refers to the works of Marquardt and Meissner as articles, when both are mono­graphs published separately. He may not have realized this, or he might have known and been indulging in a borgesian double-blind approach. He does have them in the right order, as Meissner’s taxonomy of Old Norse kennings pro6  “sobre la Kenning demuestra no sólo el examen de las fuentes originales, sino de los pertinentes trabajos de Meissner y de Marquardt” (Borges, “El Soborno,” 80–81); and the translation, “The Bribe,” Collected Fictions. 469. The story demonstrates many intricacies of academic life, and cleverly includes the name of the real-life philo­logist at the University of Texas, Ramón Martí�nezLópez, and hints at the Old English expert at the same university, Rudolph Willard, by having the senior medi­evalist be Ezra Winthrop. 7  Meissner, Die Kenningar der Skalden.

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vided the model for Marquardt’s Habilitationsschrift, her classification and discussion of Old English kennings, and her comparative study in the last chapter. In any case, Borges is precisely correct in his references to scholarship on the kenning, and given that Marquardt’s study came out some time after Borges’ own first study in the field, he clearly paid attention to new developments. Interestingly, he never refers to the less scholarly but much easier exposition found in Hendrik van der Merwe Scholtz.8 Borges used only the good scholarship on the kenning. Scholars do not entirely agree on the definition of the kenning as a condensed metaphor, generally composed as one compound word. Partly this is because more complex layered double, triple, and even quadruple kennings exist in Old Norse, though not really in Old English, the definition of which requires greater flexibility. Partly also, some scholars also include periphrastic phrases or genitive noun + noun combinations if the usage is figurative or the referent is difficult to determine. Thus, for some a kenning can be any use of figurative language. Certainly, translating these compounds into Spanish always required periphrasis, so it would be reasonable had Borges taken this looser approach to the concept of the kenning. He did not; he seems to have hewed to the more abstruse and specific definition. Borges, then, was a purist about his kennings. One of his lectures at Harvard, published in The Craft of Verse, concerned patterns of metaphors. He explicitly introduces kennings as part of the “metaphors that seem to stand outside the old patterns,”9 and shortly thereafter discusses the kenning hronrad, which he decodes as “the whale road.” Borges says: “I wonder whether the unknown Saxon who first coined that kenning knew how fine it was. I wonder whether he felt (though this need hardly concern us) that the hugeness of the whale suggested and emphasized the hugeness of the sea.”10 For Borges, a kenning was a strange and wonderful idiom, one that brings a bout of uncertainty concerning meaning to the reader, and requires us to step outside the expected patterns. He concludes the chapter suggesting that “it may also be given to us to invent metaphors that do not belong, or that do not yet belong, to accepted patterns.”11 A kenning breaks the pattern of the expected image or figurative expression.

History and Trajectory of Borges’s Interest in the Kenning

The Paris Review provides a 1967 interview by Ronald Christ of Borges, near the beginning of which Christ asks what interested Borges about Old English and Old Norse poetry. Borges’s reply was typical of him: “I began by being very interested in metaphor. And then in some book or other—I think in Andrew Lang’s History of English 8  Merwe Scholtz, The Kenning. I suspect that Borges did have access to this mono­graph, as there are similarities to his own approach in the thematic lists of kennings and much discussion of what kennings might be: a particular form of figurative language, or of variation, or apposition. A modern approach to the problem is Quinn, “The ‘Wind of the Giantess.’” 9  Borges, This Craft of Verse, 35.

10  Borges, This Craft of Verse, 37.

11  Borges, This Craft of Verse, 41.



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Literature—I read about the kennings, metaphors of Old English, and in a far more complex fashion of Old Norse poetry. Then I went in for the study of Old English. Nowadays, or rather today, after several years of study, I’m no longer interested in the metaphors because I think that they were rather a weariness of the flesh to the poets themselves—at least to the Old English poets.”12 Borges here recounts some part of his own complicated relationship to the kenning in Germanic poetry. He cites Andrew Lang, and evidence elsewhere suggests that he did read Lang, but Lang does not discuss kennings. Lang’s focus is on telling the stories of Old English poems, and especially recounting legends and noticing heroes.13 But this statement in 1967 does reflect Borges’s complex relationship during most of his life to the notion of the kenning: it both fascinates and bores him, intrigues him and makes him exhausted. Also, it was connected with his thinking about heroes, since he made this link so effortlessly, assuming that he was correct about Lang. But, given that Borges himself did not give an accurate account of his own thinking about kennings, it seems best to work through some of his many references to this stylistic usage. Borges published a short piece about kennings in the new Argentinian periodical El Sur in its second year of operation entitled “Noticia de los Kenningar” in the section headed “Notas.”14 He was at this point settling into the intellectual world of Buenos Aires, and forming part of the editorial boards of several start-up journals. Sur was one of these, and one that proved to be more long-lasting than the others. Borges published a significant number of pieces in the nascent journal, of which this was one of the longer efforts. He begins with a remarkable conclusion, calling kennings “One of the most chilling aberrations recorded by literary histories is the enigmatic references or kennings of Icelandic poetry.”15 He gives examples from two well-known sagas (those of Grettir and Njal), then gives over fifty examples from Snorri Sturluson’s Poetic Edda to demonstrate the frequency and range of kennings in Old Norse poetry. He notes that he will not give examples of kennings of kennings (double and triple kennings, but then does, before turning to discussion of how kennings cannot be replicated in Spanish as it is a language without compounds. The article concludes 12  Borges, “The Art of Fiction,” 121.

13  Lang, History of English Literature, in three opening chapters discusses minstrels and stories, Christian poetry, and learning and prose. The structure does bear some resemblance to the pattern of presentation Borges used later in his Antiguas literaturas germánicas.

14  I have been unable to find the original publication, so the reference comes from https://www. borges.pitt.edu/1932, and the text from cervantesvirtual.com. This earliest version of the material does not appear to have been reprinted by Borges himself, perhaps because of some of the errors he made–most notably, referring to “los Kenningar” when the noun in Old Norse is feminine. Reference to this publication also appears in the separate collection, Borges, Borges en Sur 1931–1980, an edition of the pieces in Sur not published elsewhere in the Obras completas (sixty-five in the main text and the notes, and a further thirty-three that originally appeared in Sur and had been separately published elsewhere). The volume does form part of his Obras Completas, but it is very much a separate piece, with a different layout and approach. 15  “Una de las más frí�as aberraciones que las historias literarias registran, son las menciones enigmáticas o kenningar de la poesí�a de Islandia” (Borges, “Noticia de los Kenningar,” 202).

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with reference to Rudyard Kipling and some of his images that could not be re-created in Spanish, an oblique comparison of kennings to the metaphors of Lugones, and a postscript concerning both William Morris and ultraísmo, and dedicating the piece to Norah Lange.16 As a preliminary excursus on the kenning, the piece is a bit contradictory and inconclusive. As a demonstration of how Borges’s magpie brain was picking up pieces from different languages and epistemo­logies and fitting them together in startling new ways, it serves very neatly. Correctly retitled Las Kenningar (reflecting the feminine gender of the noun), Borges published a longer version of the same material as a bolletín by Francisco Colombo in 1933. Technically, this version could be called a book, but it is really a pamphlet of twenty-six pages. Interestingly, between mid-1932 and 1933, Borges learned more Old Norse in order to get the gender of kenningr correct. He has also learned that Old English has kennings, and provides some examples from Beowulf. Most of the material from the previous version recurs: Borges has the same opening material for just over two pages, the same comment that the kenning is predominantly a functional figure, as it defines objects, a better set of examples at much greater length and more clearly organized, but then the same concluding materials (somewhat intermingled with more examples) in the last two pages. However, Borges amplified his comparisons to Spanish authors, this time adding Gracián y Morales, the gongorista, quoting a lengthy passage to demonstrate the parallels between periphrasis and the use of kennings. He has better information on Snorri and on the explanation he provides of kennings in the Poetic Edda, notably in the Skáldskaparmál, a long prose text with many examples of poetic techniques, notably kennings. Borges takes many of his examples from the first half of the text, but he clearly read it all, and in this longer version provides more fully elaborated examples. Towards the end he begins to make a connection between kennings, heroes, and time. He discusses Beowulf with many examples, and then turns to the bestiary materials, specifically the whale (which remained close to his heart forever after), and then to The Battle of Brunanburh. He is particularly impressed by how the skalds and poets manipulate their material to produce complex symbols. The texts he uses are the stories of epic heroes who won battles, with monsters or with other men. And, he notes, el tiempo colaboró (time collaborated) with these poets, although in later times it was the Icelanders who held onto the complexities of the kenning, while in later generations in England these became fodder for unusual appearances, in George Chapman’s translation of the Odyssey or in a Germanicizing text such as the Word-Book of the English Tongue, and especially in Rudyard Kipling and in translations of the Thousand and One Nights.17 His conclusion here is that kennings “they relate to 16  For the links between kennings and ultraism in Borges, see Fernández Moreno, “‘Las kenningar.’”

17  Borges frequently referred to Chapman, to the Thousand and One Nights and especially to Kipling for their stylistic usages, but this is the only time I recall seeing mention of the Word-book of the English Tongue, a production by Charles Louis Dessoulavy in 1917. Borges must have looked at it quite recently, and in some detail as he gives a series of examples he found in entries, not as headwords.



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us this astonishment, they alienate us from the world.”18 It is this alienating, astonishing effect of the kenning that particularly intrigued Borges. In this early study, it is the last and most important point he makes, and the reason he spends so much energy thinking through how these peculiar metaphors worked both in Old Norse (as in his earliest piece) and now also in Old English, with episodic mentions of later Spanish and English literature.19 Three years later, in Historia de la eternidad, Borges republished this material with scant changes, and it is worth nothing that when Borges brought out the second edition of this collection of essays sixteen years later, he provided both Las Kenningar and an added essay on metaphors.20 It is here, I suggest, that kennings found their true home in Borges’s mind, in the midst of his most central thoughts about eternity and apocalypse, about the cycles and circles of human time. Edwin Williamson describes the 1930s, the entire decade, as “a bleak period for Borges.”21 He does note two essays that he considers central to understanding the literary ideas of Borges, but fails to focus on Historia de la eternidad, looking more at the experimental prose passages of Historia de la infamia (translated by Williamson as “A University History of Iniquity). In this book, however, Borges tackles eternity in five different essays, drawing from theo­logical, mystical, metaphysical, and rhetorical roots. He uses Albertus Magnus and Hegel for a literary interpretation of time in the title essay, Nietzsche and the Greek philosophers in “El tiempo circular,” and then puts in “Las kenningar.” The reworking in 1953 adds two more pieces on time and metaphor. Kennings were a way of fixing an image, particularly a dense and contradictory image, in time. The book is particularly interesting in that it was published by a small and somewhat unusual press in Buenos Aires, one that specialized in books for bibliophiles; it was not well received. Borges, though, highlighted it by placing it early in his Obras completas. However, the original failure of the book cut deep. Borges points out in the interview with Ronald Christ quoted above: 18  “nos dictan ese asombro, nos extrañan del mundo” (Borges, Las Kenningar, 24).

19  For an assessment of the quality of Borges’s understanding of Old Norse see Jónsdóttir, “Borges y la literatura islandesa medi­eval”; for a consideration of Borges’s adoption of other stylistic features of the saga (the unobtrusive narrator, for example), see Eirí�ksdóttir, “Borges’ Icelandic Subtext,” and for an argument that Borges’s approach to Snorri and use of Icelandic materials in his short stories are a false trail see, by the same author, “‘La Alucinación del lector.’” 20  Borges’s interest in metaphors is often discussed; for example, Garcí�a Ramos, La metáfora, elegantly places Borges’s metaphors in dialogue with theory trends of the twentieth century, and especially reception theory, but never mentions the kenning or discusses this little book of essays in any detail. Alazraki comes closer in his “Borges, or Style,” which focuses on Borges’s innovations in Spanish stylistic usage, and notes particular his willingness to use “the compressed metonymy… the ambiguous use of a modifier in its etymo­logical meaning as well as in its more normative use” (Alazraki, “Borges,” 331): these techniques recall the dense and riddling quality of the kenning. See also now Balderston, How Borges Wrote, which considers this essay at several points, especially at 198–209; Balderston is particularly impressed by Borges’ desire to leave possible translations open, and later to revise picking another option, and later to revise again with another translation option. 21  Williamson, “Borges in context,” 209.

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I remember I published a book…and at the end of the year I found out that no less than thirty-seven copies had been sold!…At first I wanted to find every single one of the buyers to apo­logize because of the book and also to thank them for what they had done. There is an explanation for that. If you think of thirty-seven people–those people are real, I mean, every one of them has a face of his own, a family, he lives in his own particular street. Why, if you sell, say two thousand copies, it is the same thing as if you sold nothing at all, because two thousand is too vast–I mean, for the imagination to grasp. While thirtyseven people–perhaps thirty-seven are too many, perhaps seventeen would have been better or even seven–but still thirty-seven are still within the scope of one’s imagination.22

Emir Rodrí�guez Monegal in his bio­graphy of the writer describes Borges’ procedure here as masking his disappointment in self-mockery.23 It is, of course. But it is also a commentary on number and focus, and a kind of reference to the important issues in the book. The notion of eternity for Borges offers reflections on space, time, number, and expression, and these are reflections that flow together for him. They are encapsulated in language that appears simple, even as this description of his readers appears simple and straightforward, but one level down the analysis hits complications. Yes, Borges is wounded by the failure of the book, especially since it explicates his central philosophy as a writer. He mocks his own failure in attracting only thirty-seven readers. And yet a level farther down he knows that thirty-seven attentive readers is a rare treasure, and a number that the mind can encompass. His mind cannot encompass a larger number, partly out of sarcasm, partly out of misery, partly out of imaginative failure, and mostly because the mind cannot enfold the many points of view of an infinite number of readers. For Borges, a reader is a personal thing, something to be cherished, and perhaps something that could never quite be understood. So also was a kenning, something that those thirty-seven readers all learned about and contemplated for its stylistic excess and thematic contradiction. Kennings are similarly at the core of Antiguas literaturas germánicas, written with the aid of Delia Ingenieros, prepared as Borges was fifty, and they remain at the core in the rethought version of this mono­graph more than a decade later, done with Marí�a Esther Vásquez and entitled Literaturas germánicas medi­evales.24 Here Borges introduced Old English, Old Norse, Old High German, and Gothic to an Hispanic audience; this text rapidly became the standard work in Spanish introducing medi­eval Germanic literatures. After some discussion of the history and language of each group, Borges commented on, summarized and in some cases wrote long paraphrases of the central 22  Borges, “The Art of Fiction,” 125–26.

23  Rodrí�guez Monegal, Jorge Luis Borges, 269. Rodrí�guez Monegal intriguingly describes the added piece on the metaphor as “a less rambling and more important piece” (Rodrí�guez Monegal, Jorge Luis Borges, 268).

24  Borges, with Delia Ingenieros, Antiguas literaturas germánicas; a translation into English is now available of this version: Borges, Ancient Germanic Literatures, trans. M. J. Toswell. The second version of this mono­graph is Jorge Luis Borges and Marí�a Esther Vásquez, Literaturas Germánicas Medi­evales; this is the version that Borges chose to include in his Obras Completas en colaboración, the last text in the collection and oddly dated as 1966. The passages on kennings are word-for-word the same in the later texts as in the earlier version.



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literary works in each language–notably, Beowulf, the Völsungassaga, and the Nibelungenlied. At the exact midpoint of the book is a long section of ten to fifteen pages on kennings, specifically Old Norse kennings. Earlier on, when he discussed what are usually described as Old English kennings, he presents them in terms of “the systematic use of purposeful periphrases.”25 Here Borges explicitly calls these synonyms a fashion of the poets, something that “over time became conventions.”26 In Old English, what he calls kennings when discussing Old Norse, becomes a metaphor. The usages may be “quite cold,” but it was expected by a good poet that the creation of such periphrases was encouraged.27 The structure of the section, the assessment of the role of kennings, and the examples all derive from the article and chapbook of two decades earlier here and recur a decade later. Interestingly, Borges has a slightly more positive view of the kenning in these texts, partly because he now knows that this kind of condensed metaphor occurs globally in many other literatures: “Analogous structures to the kenningar can be found by chance in all languages and all literatures.” 28 He provides examples from Arabic, Greek, Spanish, German, and many from modern English, offering an unusual collection of Rudyard Kipling, G. K. Chesterton, and the Religio medici of Thomas Browne. Borges seems almost happy about the conventional uses of the kenning, appearing as it does in many literatures. The usage in Old Norse he finds more complicated: “By contrast, the involuted game of metaphors in the poetry of the skalds gives a poignant quality to those few simple verses which interrupts the complexity of the context. When Egil Skallagrí�msson says to us, like Horace, ‘The tumulus (barrow, mound) of glory that I have lifted up will last forever in the kingdom of poetry,’ his words seem almost direct, and they are uniquely touching. The same occurs with this exclamation of Kormak, lost among the customary kenningar: ‘The stones will swim and the sea will hide the mountains, before a woman as beautiful as Steingerd is born.’”29 This para­graph really encapsulates Borges’s encounters with kennings; they were intellectually fascinating, but for him a metaphor had to arouse surprise or wonder rooted in genuine feeling. It could not be bloodless and striking; it had to incite true emotion or passion. Borges’s turn away from ultraísmo, which could be about splendid expression and startling imagery for its own sake, reflects this desire to find an emo25  “el empleo sistemático de determinadas perí�frasis” (Borges, Antiguas literaturas germánicas, 16). 26  “con el tiempo, llegaron a ser convencionales” (Borges, Antiguas literaturas germánicas, 17).

27  “muy frí�as” (Borges, Antiguas literaturas germánicas, 17); the long discussion appears at 87–95. It is remarkable how close this material is to the boletín of 1933. 28  “Formaciones análogas a las kenningar se hallan acaso en todos los idiomas y en todas las literaturas” (Borges, Antiguas literaturas germánicas, 93).

29  “El intrincado juego de metáforas en la poesí�a de los escaldos da, por contraste, un valor patético a los pocos versos sencillos que interrumpen la complejidad del contexto. Cuando Egil Skalagrí�msson nos dice: ‘El túmulo de gloria que he levantado durará para siempre en el reino de la poesí�a’, sus palabras parecen casi directas y conmueven singularmente. Lo mismo ocurre con esta exclamación de Kormak, perdida entre las kenningar habituales: ‘Las piedras nadarán y el mar ocultará las montañas, antes que nazca una mujer tan bella como Steingerd’” (Borges, Antiguas literaturas germánicas, 94–95).

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tional core, not simply a coruscating linguistic tour-de-force. Most intriguingly of all, however, Borges kept worrying at the kenning. He discussed kennings in his very first lecture on the history of English literature, and mentioned them even in a very constrained piece introducing English literature with Vásquez.30 In other words, through the most productive years of Borges’s career, from the time he was in his late twenties until his sixties when he won his first international award and became more a literary lion than a writer, Borges found kennings fascinating and intriguing–and, central to his consideration of the Germanic literatures he loved. Often conventional and thus uninteresting, they could also be striking and meaningful. As he entered the final stage of his career, Borges did not forget the kenning; it could almost be argued that he thought about it even more; references to the kenning abound in his professorial lectures, his conversations and dialogues, his short stories including “El Soborno” in 1975 (discussed above), and indeed in his own practice as a translator and reinterpreter of Old English and Old Norse. Borges discussed kennings, often as early as possible, in his talks and conversations with many interlocutors over the years, in his lectures at Harvard on The Craft of Verse in 1967–1968, and in his own practice and comments as a translator and reinterpreter of Old English and Old Norse. Very close to the end of his life, Borges together with his last collaborator, Marí�a Kodama, published a translation into Spanish of Gylfaginning from Snorri Sturluson’s Poetic Edda, the difficult and complex account of the whole of Norse mytho­logy.31 It has many kennings, some of which Borges and Kodama rendered in the text, and some in footnotes.32 One final example may suffice. Strikingly, in 1976 Borges contributed a short piece to The New Yorker on “The Kenning.” In fewer than two thousand words, Borges provides quite new material, beginning with alliteration as the fundamental feature of Old English verse, then discussing the oral origins of epic, and combining the two: “The themes of the epic are limited; alliteration forced the poet to coin synonyms. Like Greek, the Germanic languages led easily to the formation of compound words.”33 Borges disposes fairly quickly with the Old English use of kennings, noting that “poets came to feel that such figures of speech were burdensome, and with time their use began to diminish” and turning to the skalds, whose method was “dangerous and led to frigid aberrations.” Even the translation of Borges’ thinking about kennings is fraught with danger. Although this language of cold, and of aberration, is something 30  For the lectures see Borges, Borges Profesor, and Borges, Professor Borges, where the kenning is discussed at some length in the first class, entitled “The Anglo-Saxons. Genealogy of the Germanic Kings. Poetry and Kennings.” For the collaborations with Marí�a Esther Vázquez, see Borges, “É� poca anglosajona.”

31  Marí�a Kodama began as Borges’ student in Old English classes, and finished as a strong collaborator, wife, and now executor. See the interview with her in Martí�n Hadis, Siete Guerreros Nortumbrios, 191–201. Hadis’s book discusses quite different evidence from that adduced here, and follows a quite different trajectory which does not involve kennings, yet the conclusions are not dissimilar from mine here. 32  Borges and Kodama, La alucinación de Gylfi. 33  Borges, “The Kenning,” 35b.



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he uses throughout his life to refer to kennings, it still remains opaque, hard to decode. Borges provides several extended examples of kennings, his classics from the sagas, describes their functional quality but then calls them “verbal flowers.” His penultimate point seems almost to give his final thinking about kennings: “Kennings…are, or seem to be, the result of a mental process that looks for an accidental likeness. They answer to no particular feeling. They are the outcome of a deliberate combining process, not of a sudden discovery of hidden affinities. Mere logic may justify them, not human sentiment. / One more example, taken from “Beowulf.” It is the word ban-hus, or bone-house, whose meaning is the body. Logic justifies it, since the human skeleton inhabits the body; the mind rejects it, since our restless blood and sensitive flesh are more alive than bone.”34 To Borges, the notion of a “bone-house” is a frigid aberration, perhaps. But, his own analysis of this kenning reveals its fundamental attraction: it shocks and surprises, but also reveals. A body is a “bone-house” and in the Middle Ages might well have been destined for a charnel-house, and what is left after death is not blood and flesh, but bone—with the spirit gone. And yet, in his last point, Borges picks up a kenning from the Old English riddle of the nightingale, æfenscop “poet of the evening” and draws a parallel to Keats nine hundred years later. Kennings could well, as he says elsewhere, be poignant and elegant, not just bloodless and frigid.

Borges and Secret Medi­eval Germanic Knowledge

Anthony Burgess recounts how he and Borges conversed in Old English at a reception where Argentine officials were trying to determine if Borges was speaking seditiously.35 In his memoir, the only direct source for this oft-referenced conversation, Burgess at one point notes in jocular mode that Borges considered that he and Burgess shared the same name (as recounted to Burgess by Paul Theroux), and later Burgess relates an encounter with Borges at an international conference in Washington DC which celebrated both Shakespeare and the American bicentennial in 1976. Burgess speaks of “evident secret service men milling like fire ants” and closing in to listen to the conversation between Burgess and Borges for “possible words of disaffection.” To counter this surveillance, Burgess quoted the first line of “Caedmon’s Hymn” and Borges gave the next line, and they continued to the end of the poem “in linear antiphony.”36 Burgess in his memoir then congratulates himself on his courses taken with G. L. Brook. If the two men conversed further, Burgess does not provide any record. But he and Borges clearly delighted in bamboozling the Argentinian security contingent, and in using their secret knowledge of this medi­eval Germanic language to do it. Borges, one might suggest, was the ultimate insider while also being the ultimate outsider. 34  Borges, “The Kenning,” 36c. The piece refers to different scholarly analyses, and it is clear that Borges kept au fait with kenning research. 35  See Burgess, Little Wilson, 7.

36  Burgess, Little Wilson, 175–76.

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Kennings offer a similar trajectory. They require insider knowledge to decode, a sense of their structure and taxonomy. They make the audience member feel special and different. At the same time, the strangeness of the kenning and its rich tradition of shocking the audience, forcing a new perspective (and often a rather brutal one, such as simply referring to warriors in battle as food for ravens), can give rise to significant cognitive dissonance.37 Borges’s interest in the kenning, I propose, was neither seditious nor stylistic, but intellectual and perhaps spiritual. Given that he brought the kenning up at every opportunity in speeches, conversations, lectures, discussions of English literature, discussions of metaphors, it’s clear that for Borges the kenning was a live issue to be wrestled with.38 Unlike the themes and ideas of medi­eval Germanic literature that Borges transplanted into his poetry and his prose writings, the kenning because of its techne could not be evoked in Spanish. I believe that through many of his short stories and writings about life and death, about how to evoke eternity, about how to encapsulate all of human existence into one box or one word, Borges was exuberantly recreating the kenning in his own language and approach. His stories, perhaps, were kennings. He was, as so often he implied, trying to find a way to juxtapose everything and nothing, two entirely disparate elements, a whale and a road, and in so doing to embody meaning.39 One example will suffice at this point. One of the parables included in El Hacedor is “Parábola del palacio,” in which “el Emperador Amarillo” (the Yellow Emperor) shows the glories and wonders of his palace to a poet. At the end of the exposition: “It was at the foot of the penultimate tower that the poet (who had appeared untouched by the spectacles which all the others had so greatly marvelled at) recited the brief composition that we link indissolubly to his name today, the words which, as the most elegant historians never cease repeating, garnered the poet immortality and death. The text 37  A similar argument is Lois Parkinson Zamora, “Visualizing Capacity”; Parkinson Zamora discusses “levels of removedness” in Borges, arguing that an “essential disjunction between the real and the ideal, between image and essence, subtends all of Borges’ work” (Zamora, “Visualizing,” 35), and ends with a passage from his bestiary. The bestiary would repay more attention along the lines suggested by Parkinson Zamora and here.

38  This metaphor about Borges’s attitude to language appears elsewhere: see Lusky, “Jorge Luis Borges:” an elegant and short analysis of some short stories. 39  Although he never mentions kennings and was not at all interested in Borges’s Germanic medi­evalism, Alazraki makes arguments quite similar to mine in his La prosa narrativa. Alazraki spends considerable effort in his book analyzing Borges’s use of figures of speech of various kinds, specifically oxymorons, synecdoche, epistemo­logical metaphors, metonymy, and other kinds of substitutive elocutions. He concludes his analysis of Borges’s themes with “En resumen: una realidad inverosí�mil, contradictoria, ambigua, y, a veces, hasta absurda” [To summarize: a reality with no appearance of reality, contradictory, ambiguous, and at times, almost absurd]. Moreover, Alazraki points out, these are the ingredients of his irrefutable mystery (Alazraki, Prosa narrativa, 142–43). As such, although Alazraki would probably disagree, this approach tracks close to the tricky world of the kenning.



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has been lost; there are those who believe that it consisted of but a single line; others, of a single word.”40 A poet who can encompass an entire palace into one word or one verso (perhaps a line, but a poetic one): that poet is a Scandinavian skald who has created a kenning. Later in the story Borges explains the paradox: the world cannot have “two things that are identical” and so the palace disappeared, the poet was immediately killed by the emperor’s executioner, and no one was able to discover “the word for the universe.”41 These are the last words of the story, and they connect Borges’s conception of a word that encapsulates a wonder, the kenning, again to the universe. The kenning was a kind of nubbin in Borges’ mind: he kept rubbing at it intellectually, trying to encompass it, trying to find a way to enfold his conception of this poetic device into his language and his world. And, of course, had he succeeded, the result he confidently expected would have been evanescence and death.

40  (Borges, Collected Fictions, 318). “Al pie de la penúltima torre fue que el poeta (que estaba como ajeno a los espectáculos que era maravilla de todos) recitó la breve composición que hoy vinculamos indisolublemente a su nombre y que, según repiten os historiadores más elegantes, le deparó la inmortalidad y la muerte. El texto se ha perdido; hay quien entiende que constaba de un verso; otros, de una sola palabra” (Borges, “Parábola del palacio,” 127–28). El Hacedor was possibly Borges’s most significant collection for English-speaking readers; its first translation into English was given the title Dreamtigers, possibly a kenning which played with the fact that the hacedor, the “maker,” was in Borges’s mind the poet, the Anglo-Saxon scop (which translates as “shaper” or “maker”), the Old Norse skald. See Borges, Dreamtigers, and for more on this point, Toswell, “Borges, Old English,” 64–66. 41  “dos cosas iguales,” “la palabra del universo” (Borges, “Parábola del palacio,” 128)

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Works Cited

Alazraki, Jaime. “Borges, or Style as an Invisible Worker.” Style 9, no. 3 (1975): 320–34. —— . La prosa narrativa de Jorge Luis Borges: Temas—Estilo. Madrid: Gredos, 1983. Balderston, Daniel. How Borges Wrote. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2018. Borges, Jorge Luis. “The Anglo-Saxons. Genealogy of the Germanic Kings. Poetry and Kennings.” In Professor Borges: A Course on English Literature, edited by Martí�n Arias and Martí�n Hadis, translated by Katherine Silver, 1–7. New York: New Directions, 2013. —— . Antiguas literaturas germánicas, with Delia Ingenieros. Mexico / Buenos Aires: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1951. —— . “The Art of Fiction 39: Jorge Luis Borges.” Interview by Ronald Christ. The Paris Review 40 (Winter/Spring 1967): 116–64. —— . Borges en Sur 1931–1980. Edited by Sara Luisa del Carril and Mercedes Rubio de Socchi. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1999. —— . Borges Profesor. Edited by Martí�n Arias and Martí�n Hadis. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 2010. —— . “The Bribe.” In Collected Fictions. Translated by Andrew Hurley, 466–71. New York: Penguin, 1998. —— . This Craft of Verse. Edited by Călin-Andrei Mihăilescu. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000. —— . Dreamtigers. Translated by Midred Boyer and Harold Morland. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1964. —— . “É� poca anglosajona.” In Jorge Luis Borges and Adolfo Bioy Casares, Introducción a la Literatura Inglesa. In Obras completas en colaboración, 1:809–12. 2 vols. Madrid: Alianza, 1981–1983. —— . Historia de la eternidad, 1936. Madrid: Libro de Bolsillo, 1953. —— . “The Kenning.” Translated by Norman Thomas di Giovanni, in collaboration with the author. The New Yorker (January 26, 1976): 35–36. —— . Las Kenningar. Buenos Aires: Colombo, 1933. —— . Literaturas Germánicas Medi­evales. In Jorge Luis Borges, Obras Completas en colaboración. Edited by Carlos V. Frías and Sara Luisa del Carril, 861–977. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1979. —— . “Noticia de los Kenningar.” El Sur 6 (1932): 202–8. —— . “Parábola del palacio.” In Narraciones. Edited by Marcos Ricardo Barnatán, 127–28. Madrid: Cátedra, 1980. —— . Professor Borges: A Course on English Literature. Edited by Martí�n Arias and Martí�n Hadis. Translated by Katherine Silver. New York: New Directions, 2013. —— . “El Soborno.” In Libro de Arena, 135–47. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1980. —— . “Thorkelin y el Beowulf / Thorkelin and Beowulf.” Edited and translated by Joe Stadolnik. PMLA 132, no. 2 (2017): 462–70. —— , and Marí�a Esther Vásquez. Literaturas Germánicas Medi­evales. Buenos Aires: Falbo Librero, 1965. See also Snorri Sturluson Burgess, Anthony. Little Wilson and Big God, Being the First Part of the Confessions of Anthony Burgess. London: Heinemann, 1987. Eirí�ksdóttir, Sigrún Astrí�dur. “‘La Alucinación del lector’: Jorge Luis Borges and the Legacy of Snorri Sturluson.” Ibero-Amerikanisches Archiv 12 (1986): 247–60. —— . “Borges’ Icelandic Subtext: The Saga Model.” Neophilo­logus 71 (1987): 381–87. —— . “Icelandic Sagas and Archetypes in Jorge Luis Borges’ ‘Undr.’” In Essays on Hispanic Themes in Honour of Edward C. Riley, edited by Jennifer Lowe and Philip Swanson, 315–30. Edinburgh: Department of Hispanic Studies, 1989.



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—— . “‘El verso incorruptible’: Jorge Luis Borges and the Poetic Art of the Icelandic Skalds.” Variaciones Borges 2 (1996): 37–53. Fernández Moreno, Sergio. “‘Las kenningar’ (1933) de Jorge Luis Borges: la poesí�a escáldica islandesa en la encrucijada del ultraí�smo y la poesí�a barroca.” Philobiblion: Revista de Literaturas Hispánicas 4 (2016): 159–74. Garceau, Ben. “Passing Over, Passing On: Survivance in the Translations of Deor by Seamus Heaney and Jorge Luis Borges.” PMLA 132, no. 2 (2017): 298–313. Garcí�a Ramos, Juan Manuel. La metáfora de Borges. Madrid: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2003. Hadis, Martí�n. Siete Guerreros Nortumbrios: Enigmas y secretos en la lápida de Jorge Luis Borges. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 2011. Jónsdóttir, Margrét. “Borges y la literatura islandesa medi­eval.” Acta poetica 16 (1995): 123–57. Lang, Andrew. History of English Literature: From ‘Beowulf’ to Swinburne. London: Longmans, Green, 1912. Lusky, Mary H. “Jorge Luis Borges y su lucha con el lenguaje.” Cuadernos Americanos 190 (1973): 219–26. Lynn, Karen, and Nicolas Shumway. “Borges y las Kenningar,” Texto Crítico 28 (1984): 122–30. Marquardt, Hertha. Die altenglischen Kenningar: Ein Beitrag zur Stilkunde altgermanischer Dichtung. Halle: Niemeyer, 1938. Meissner, Rudolph. Die Kenningar der Skalden: Ein Beitrag zur skaldischen Poetik. Leipzig: Olm, 1921. Merwe Scholtz, Hendrik van der. The Kenning in Anglo-Saxon and Old Norse Poetry. Utrecht: Dekker & Van de Vegt, 1927. Parkinson Zamora, Lois. “The Visualizing Capacity of Magical Realism: Objects and Expression in the Work of Jorge Luis Borges.” Janus Head: An Interdisciplinary Journal 5, no. 2 (2002): 21–37. Paoletti, Mario. Las novias de Borges (y otros misterios borgeanos). Buenos Aires: Emecé, 2011. Plimpton, George, ed. Latin American Writers at Work: The Paris Review. New York: The Modern Library, 2003. Quinn, Judy. “The ‘Wind of the Giantess’: Snorri Sturluson, Rudolf Meissner, and the Interpretation of Mytho­logical Kennings along Taxonomic Lines.” Viking and Medi­eval Scandinavia 8 (2012): 207–59. Rodrí�guez Monegal, Emir. Jorge Luis Borges: A Literary Bio­graphy. New York: Dutton, 1978. Sabino, Osvaldo. Jorge Luis Borges: una nueva visión de ‘Ulrica.’ Madrid: Huerga & Fierro, 1999. Sigrún Astrí�dur Eirí�ksdóttir. See Eirí�ksdóttir. Snorri Sturluson, La alucinación de Gylfi. Edited and translated by Jorge Luis Borges and Marí�a Kodama. Madrid: Alianza, 1984. Toswell, M. J. “Borges, Old English Poetry and Translation Studies.” In Translating Early Medi­ eval Poetry: Transformation, Reception, Interpretation, edited by Tom Birkett and Kirsty March-Lyons, 61–74. Woodbridge: Brewer, 2017. —— . “Introduction.” In Jorge Luis Borges with Delia Ingenieros, Ancient Germanic Literatures. Translated by M. J. Toswell, ix–xii. Tempe: Arizona Center for Medi­eval and Renaissance Studies, 2014. Tyler, Joseph. “Medi­eval Germanic Elements in the Poetry of Jorge Luis Borges.” Readerly/ Writerly Texts 1, no. 1 (1993): 97–106. Vásquez, Marí�a Esther. Borges: Esplendor y derrota. Barcelona: Tusquets, 1996. Williamson, Edwin. “Borges in Context: The Autobio­graphical Dimension.” In The Cambridge Companion to Jorge Luis Borges, edited by Edwin Williamson, 201–25. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013.

Chapter 9

MEMORY, DESIRE, AND SEXUAL IDENTITY IN MANUEL MUJICA LAINEZ’S EL UNICORNIO JUAN MANUEL LACALLE

In 1965, the

Argentinian writer Manuel Mujica Lainez (1910–1984) published El unicornio (The Unicorn; though translated as The Wandering Unicorn), a historical novel presenting a romanticized and idealized vision of the Middle Ages.1 The Unicorn is structured in nine chapters that include several narrative episodes. The first chapter begins with a short pro­logue presenting the medi­eval legend of the fairy Melusine, who falls in love with a mortal, Raymond, and abandons the faerie world to live with him. Even though she asks him to avoid looking at her while she takes her Saturday baths, he spies on her and discovers her transformation into a partially ophidian body. The discovery ends in the escape of Melusine, who will return only sporadically to their castle and their children. The remaining chapters of the novel are dedicated to Melusine’s love and travels with the knight Aiol in search for the Holy Lance, a narrative that was entirely created by Mujica Lainez utilizing medi­eval elements and research.2 In the novel, the fairy Melusine is a first-person narrator who tells the story of an event in her life that took place towards the end of the twelfth century.3 This story that 1  The title of Mary Fitton’s 1983 English translation is The Wandering Unicorn. It does not always provide an exact translation of the original Spanish. I will use her version unless it misses important aspects of the original text, in which case I will include my own translation in the footnotes.

2  In the Cruz Chica Museum, in Córdoba, Argentina, former home of the author, over thirty notebooks of comprehensive notations and manu­script records belonging to Mujica Lainez are still conserved. These were the historical guide for the development and elaboration of his novels: specifically, he kept six notebooks for The Unicorn, almost all of them dedicated to the summary of René Grousset’s Histoire des Croisades et du Royaume Franc de Jérusalem (1934), and information related to medi­eval legends and arts. In connection with the sources that Mujica Lainez took for the Melusine story, Sandro Abate explains: “Her story will be narrated, like an interspersed tale, in chapter I of the novel, following almost verbatim the version of the legend provided by François Eygun in his book Ce qu’on peut savoir de Mélusine et de son icono­graphie (Poitiers, 1951), whose 43 pages had been read and profusely annotated with marginal notes by Mujica Lainez himself” (115; my translation). Then, Abate presents as argument a comparative table demonstrating correspondences between passages of both texts. As for the documentation used for the work with fairies, Ivonne Astorga’s Quand les fées vivaient en France (1923) is summarized in Mujica Lainez’s fifth notebook.

3  In the second notebook, entitled “Notes on the Middle Ages. Sketchbook for a novel,” in an entry dated December 31, 1962, the idea that the fairy was the narrator of the novel is mentioned for the first time: “I find the manu­script in the strange invisible Bookshop near the Botanical Museum

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Melusine recalls occurs between 1174 and 1187; therefore the context is the prelude to the third Crusade, and the action takes place in two main sites, France and the Holy Land. Her speech is like a memory or an autobio­graphy: “In the year I’m talking about, 1174,” she says in the first chapter; “at the board of the Leper-King, on that October evening of 1177,” she specifies in the sixth one.4 Several details interspersed through the novel also place us in a context close to the publication of the book, during the 1960s. Here are just two illustrative examples: “It was the dawn of literature, and a glance will confirm that most heroes and heroines were of royal birth…See Proust— he makes this very plain”; and “[w]e were in the Middle Ages, and prodigies seemed blessedly natural then, as natural as going to the moon does now.”5 The fairy’s quality of immortality and her role as narrator allow Mujica Lainez to advance a series of critical reflections about the society of his time, the sixties of the twentieth century (or, more generally, modernity), as well as some metanarrative comments. As will be discussed further, the immortal condition of the fairy Melusine enables her to recall events from the past through modern lenses with a degree of veracity accruing from her having been there as a witness.6 This chapter argues that the impossibilities of amorous concretion in The Unicorn, including of homosexual relations, are a consequence of the social imposition of a series of interdictions on the relationships between characters; and that the book’s condemnation of immortality is a reflection of the centuries-long permanence of inhibiting sociocultural conditionings that have censored transvestism and homosexuality in the framework of a love relationship.

[this common topic in historical novels of the ‘found manu­script,’ of course, was later scrapped]. It is a copy of the sixteenth, seventeenth, or maybe nineteenth century. It cannot be known, given the strangeness of calli­graphy. I have a hard time reading it, transcribing it, adapting it. Begin by referring to that finding. The manu­script commences with the account of the loves of the fairy and the Lord of Lusignan” (Abate, El tríptico esquivo, 108; my translation).

4  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 5, 209. “En la época que evoco—el año 1174—,” “reunidos alrededor del leproso, durante el festí�n de octubre de 1177” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 15, 283).

5  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 5–6, 15. “La mayorí�a de los grandes personajes de la naciente literatura fueron hijos de reyes…lo destaca Proust” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 16). “We lived in the Middle Ages, the unusual seemed blessedly natural then; our contemporaries (as do the present ones now, since everything is a matter of habit, for they stand before the possibility of a trip to the moon with the same calmness) used to intimate with the pyrotechnic of prodigies.” “Viví�amos en la Edad Media; lo insólito se revestí�a de bendita naturalidad; nuestros contemporáneos (como los actuales, pues todo es cuestión de costumbre, que con igual llaneza no se pasman ante la perspectiva de viajar a la Luna) intimaban con la pirotecnia de los prodigios” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 27). 6  In Genio y figura de Manuel Mujica Lainez, Jorge Cruz emphasizes on several occasions that immortality was one of the themes that most obsessed the author througthout his narratives (Cruz, Genio y figura, 163).

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From Present to Past

Mujica Lainez’s best-known text is Bomarzo, published three years before The Unicorn, which was memorialized thanks to the censored and banned opera version made in 1965 by the Argentinian classical composer Alberto Ginastera (1916–1983). Bomarzo is also a historical novel but it takes place in the Italian Renaissance. This novelistic group, named “The Elusive Triptych” by Sandro Abate,7 comes to an end with the 1974 The Labyrinth, set in sixteenth-century Spain. Two details about Mujica Lainez which are relevant here are the prominent place that writing bio­graphy occupies in his work, and his bonds with Paris, a city where he spent a good part of his life.8 Moreover, Mujica Lainez also works with the Middle Ages in other texts, like Royal Chronicles (1967), or The Beetle (1982), but they lack the historical elements present in this trilogy (therefore, the latter were also described as “anti-historical” novels).9 Historical novels with medi­eval themes are scarcer in Latin America than in Europe. The Unicorn is part of a group of novels that could be counted with one hand and to which belong the novels 1492: Vida y tiempos de Juan Cabezón de Castilla (1985) and El Señor de los últimos días: Visiones del año mil (1994) by the Mexican Homero Aridjis; La ciudad de los herejes (2005) by the Argentine Federico Andahazi; and Los perplejos (2009) by the Chilean Cynthia Rimsky.10 The majority of historical novels of Latin America do not engage with the Middle Ages but are set at the beginning of the sixteenth century, during the conquest, and at the beginning of the nineteenth century, during the wars of independence.11 Regarding the historical background, from a general perspective, we note an alteration in the structure of The Unicorn towards the second half of the book, during the expedition to the Holy Land, where the strong presence of the first person becomes unfocused and gives way to historical facts. Here, the onomastic proliferation of characters, places and political intrigues shapes a contextual and detailed reconstruc7  Abate, El tríptico esquivo, 15.

8  His texts address the lives of Louis XVII of France (Luis XVII, 1925), and the Argentine writers Miguel Cané (Miguel Cané, padre, 1942), Hilario Ascasubi (Vida de Aniceto el Gallo, 1943) and Estanislao del Campo (Vida de Anastasio el Pollo, 1947). He spent several stays in Paris, where he completed his primary education and had a governmental position in international relations. To delve into the contextual and bio­graphical aspects of the author, the texts by Jorge Cruz (Genio y figura) and Oscar Hermes Villordo (Manucho), both colleagues and friends of Mujica Lainez, and the “conversations” with Marí�a Esther Vázquez (El mundo) are invaluable. The bio­graphical is an important aspect, taking into account statements such as: “Perhaps The Unicorn is the book in which its author is reflected with the most authenticity and in which we could trace deeply autobio­ graphical elements” (Cruz, Genio y figura, 149). 9  In this case, the Spanish polysemy of the word “real” between “royal” and “real” should be considered. This set of novels related to the Middle Ages are opposed to the author’s earliest work, whose narrations are located in Buenos Aires. This movement could have a correlative in the other two major branches of the author’s writing: journalism (more linked to local space) and museums (which connect to European territory). 10  For discussion of Aridjis’ novels see Lacalle, “Del otro lado,” and Lacalle, “No hay peor.”

11  Lacalle, “Sobre hombros de gigantes.”

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tion that shows the author’s knowledge of medi­eval history. This complexity for the reader has its syntactic correlation by way of a powerfully digressive writing style. Mujica Lainez’s prose has been cataloged as Baroque and Mannerist, and he has been described as a late modernist writer.12 Although the novel was published in 1965, the author had had the idea since 1960.13 This is a period between two dictatorships in Argentina, which started in 1955 and 1966 respectively (both before the worst and last dictatorship, which began in 1976). The censorship context surrounding the dictatorships, added to conservative aspects of the time and the aristocratic social class to which the writer belonged, are significant because of the more or less veiled discussion of homosexuality that the medi­eval fairies allow Mujica Lainez to do through distancing, alterity, and ambiguity. “Medi­eval revisionism,” as we will observe in Mujica Lainez’s work, is a way in which authors can parse the problems of their present worlds, not only by incorporating the cultural diversity of medi­eval textuality into their writings, but also by ascribing to their medi­evalist texts an interpretation that is determined by ideo­logical and cultural parameters that are contemporary to them. The narratives of the present can thus redefine the cultural meaning of genders and sexualities in the past, and vice versa. Medi­eval alterity can be employed to comprehend the supposedly most radical contemporary alterities; in this case, those of Mujica Lainez himself in the 1960s. Therefore, his engagement with topics that are generally considered as “other” in the Middle Ages—such as homosexuality—act in a specular way.14 Before modern sexual alterities were accepted in the writer’s surroundings, he searches for these elements in the reservoir of medi­eval tales and characters, aided by the advantages that this temporal distance implies. As we will see, loving relationships between different characters and fairies who are ambiguously non-human and can take the body of the other sex, allow Mujica Lainez the freedom to put in the narrator’s voice the perception of certain situations and feelings that might shock the contemporary reader if they were represented in a more direct way. In this case, the medi­eval imaginary serves to mobilize a more diverse, open, permeable, and unprejudiced view of gender and sexuality than the one that dominated the reality of Mujica Lainez’s contemporary reader. As Tison Pugh points out, the temporal and spatial distance of medi­evalism could favour the treatment of gender heterodoxy: “[medi­evalism’s] potential queerness arises when acts of the present redefine the cultural meaning of genders and sexualities in the past, through a transtemporal and oscillating vision between yesterday and today. It also resides in the power of the past to destabilize modern conceptions of 12  Fernández Ariza, “El unicornio de Manuel Mujica Lainez,” 421. 13  Cruz, Genio y figura, 148.

14  The other side of the study of alterity is identity, another omnipresent and relevant issue in The Unicorn. I will not discuss it here, but from a more general perspective the thesis of Marí�a Cristina Pons is that all Latin American historical novels of the second half of the twentieth century search for a redefinition of identity (Pons, Memorias del olvido, 264). She also notes that these late twentieth-century historical novels were “nursed in the heat of disappointment caused by the failure of the liberating epic of the fifties and sixties” (Pons, Memorias del olvido, 20; my translation).

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gendered and erotic identities…the Middle Ages offers a playground in which one can reimagine the meaning of past and present constructions of desire.”15 In The Unicorn, the historical permanence of sociocultural problems that lead to the impossibility of speaking openly about homosexuality and transgender identity are reflected in the character of Melusine, both in her immortality and inability to fulfill her love, and in the sensory interdictions that surround the hybrid fairy characters.

Melusine and Medi­eval Sources: A Romanticized Vision

Around 1393, Jean d’Arras finished composing Mélusine ou La Noble Histoire de Lusignan, based on the oral traditions of the legend. There will be more versions, but we are interested in this one for the comment made by Melusine at the beginning of The Unicorn, when she refers to her marriage with Raymond: “[O]ur resplendent wedding festivities lasted a week—though reports of golden furniture and diamondembroidered tapestries are exaggerated. Jean of Arras invented them when he wrote my history in the fourteenth century, sparing no pains to flatter Jean, Duke de Berry and lord of Lusignan, who was his patron.”16 About this detail concerning the sumptuousness of the wedding, Melusine explains that the “luxuries” and the “exaggerations” described by d’Arras were due to her own magical abilities, but she did not want to reveal the extent of her faculties so soon. This is a clear example of Melusine’s exercise of authority as a narrator, a characteristic that, as we pointed out at the beginning, is used to give more credibility to her “authentic” version over others. Here Melusine corrects d’Arras’s text and denounces its inventive nature.17 The beginning of the story places us in Lusignan, where the narrator mentions that she will recount her life in the first pages, “a quite well-known story,” and stresses her fairy qualities, adding that any non-believer in fairies is still in time to drop the 15  Pugh, “Queer Medi­evalisms,” 210–11.

16  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 13. “La boda se desarrolló soberbiamente y los festejos duraron seis dí�as. Se ha hablado de muebles de oro y de tapices bordados con diamantes, pero esas son exageraciones de Juan de Arrás, novelista que, trazando mi historia en el siglo XIV para el duque de Berry, señor de Lusignan, juzgó discreto extremar los lujos inventados” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 25).

17  This procedure can also be observed in the case of the most extensive known variant of the legend of the eaten heart that The Unicorn develops in chapter four: “Various chroniclers…have told it of Gudrun the harper and of [sic] the Lord of Coucy. The original victim is denied the shuddering distinction of an undisputed horror of his own…The incident is notorious and will be familiar to those who have read anything about the troubadours, but the books are not necessarily accurate; this is the truth, untold before” (Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 136, 126). “Le han adjudicado diversamente la anécdota al arpista Guirón y al sire Coucy, sin dejarle a Guilhem, el verdadero inmolado, ni siquiera el pavoroso privilegio de la exclusividad…Cualquiera que haya leí�do algo sobre las vidas de los trovadores, recordará el caso celebérrimo. Pero esas biografí�as suelen fundarse en anécdotas apócrifas” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 189, 173). Interesting about these examples is the emphasis placed by Mujica Lainez on the degree of authenticity when working with medi­eval narratives that have a variety of versions and a closer link with orality.

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book.18 This warning allows Melusine to criticize the present widespread stances of “old-fashioned skepticism” and the “spiritual poverty” for everything that happens in the world and cannot be explained because its reasons escape us.19 According to her judgment, these are standpoints that would deprive us from learning matters of transcendental importance. This criticism is replicated when the identity of the narrator is revealed in the sixth page: “My name is Melusine, which should tell you all you need to know. But alas, at present it may not be enough. Indeed, what is enough these days, when students have to absorb so much abstruse and futile information that they have no time left for the fundamentals?”20 The counterpoint between the time of the narrative and the present of writing enables reflections about the changes that took place during the interval. The temporal distance between the narrated facts and the present can be reconstructed from several comments of the first-person narrator. At the beginning of the novel, when we remain unaware that it is Melusine who is talking, we read: “I could see the castle I had myself built centuries before.”21 The place that the fairy is given, as a “builder” and “architect,” has a metaphorical correlation with the work done on the construction and reconstruction of the past in the textual framework. Repeatedly, and playing with the episode of the bath in the legend of Melusine, medi­eval hygiene and cleanliness are highlighted in contrast to later times. In the same vein of appreciation for the medi­eval past, when she describes her meeting with Raimondí�n (Raymond), the son of the King of the Bretons, Melusine replies: “When I see men nowadays I can’t think what’s happened to them, for at that time, wherever you went, they were phenomenal. Contemporary literature is full of examples.”22 This valuing and difference is probably a product of the contrast made between the way of life in the twentieth century and the outdoor life of the Middle Ages, with a possible nostalgic correlation between the outdoor life of the author’s native Córdoba and his 18  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 3.

19  Some features of Mujica Lainez that could be related to his ideo­logical critiques of his present are his aristocratic life and position. Most of his representations of the aristocratic world are from a decadent point of view, as he relates the decline of the Argentinian upper class—it is worth remembering that during the 1940s and the beginning of the 50s, the policies of the Peronist government were focused fundamentally to the most neglected sectors of society—and his regular writing for La Nación, the newspaper associated with the Argentine elite, where he used to say that he wrote to run away from time.

20  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 5. “Me llamo Melusina y la sola mención de mi nombre deberí�a bastar. Pero no basta ¡ay! nada basta en un siglo como el actual en que los escolares deben aprender tantas cosas difí�ciles e inútiles que no les queda ya tiempo para las fundamentales” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 16).

21  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 1. “[M]y eyes, penetrating the fortress I had myself began to build centuries ago.” “Mis ojos, atravesando las piedras de la fortaleza que yo misma habí�a comenzado a construir, siglos atrás” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 11).

22  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 10. “Yo no sé qué pasa con los hombres actuales, porque en la época a la cual hago referencia—la literatura de entonces abunda en testimonios de ello—una se cruzaba con hombres hermosos en todas partes” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 22).

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present life in the city of Buenos Aires. Besides men’s beauty, another medi­eval aspect praised is adaptability, literary and historical, to the presence of the uncanny, which was seen as something natural due to an habitual encounter with it. As with these appreciations of the medi­eval past, numerous similar examples uncover a romantic and nostalgic vision of the Middle Ages, culminating in lines such as: “You may be sure that angels, as well as fairies, exist, as they did in the Middle Ages…though I will just add what I have said on many, many occasions: how things have changed!”;23 or when Melusine is telling the story of how she built the castle of Lusignan, and she concludes: “stupidly, regrettably, destroyed by Louis XIII and the Duke of Montpensier, but a marvel.”24 It seems that this sort of nostalgic and romantic perception is always linked with a dissatisfaction for the present. Hence, considering the context where the high bourgeoisie to which the author belonged is in decline, this nostalgia could be showing the search for past values, linked to lineage—yet a search not for any values or lineage but for those of a medi­eval French tradition dear to Mujica Lainez. The back and forth comparisons in time are constant in the story, and they always intend to emphasize the worsening of each situation, in line with the idea that everything was better in the “good old days.” The happiest time of Melusine is an uncertain time, and what comes closest to a golden age is the last quarter of the twelfth century. Yet despite the “good old days,” she comments at the end of the retelling of her legend that in the course of time she began to adapt herself to the trends of each era, leading her to lose track of the centuries. The life of this immortal being was thus reduced to the monotonous repetition of an infinite act: to the performing of the funeral scream, the heartrending “cry of Melusine” emitted by her each time one of her descendants passes away. What is still left for her, she says, is to devote herself to reading and learning history. It is in this resigned fashion that after retelling her own legend she decides to also narrate the story of the knight of the unicorn, Ozil, and his life with Aiol: “The fairy-story part is over…and I shall now tell this other story.”25 In this second original storyline, based on her “authentic” memories of the medi­eval past, Melusine bemoans the fact that she has not spoken to anyone since the twelfth century and emphasizes the need to speak about herself as an essential human quality.

23  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 4. “Que el sensible lector se convenza: hay, como en la Edad Media, hadas y ángeles…Aunque es justo que, al pensar fugazmente en ellos, copie aquí� la frase que he murmurado en ocasiones innúmeras: ¡todo ha cambiado tanto!” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 15). 24  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 14. “Nadie podrí�a imaginar hoy lo que fue, luego de las demoliciones imbéciles, insensatas, del duque de Montpensier y de Luis XIII” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 26). 25  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 22. “Mi cuento de hadas ha terminado… Ahora debo narrar otro” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 36).

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The Impossibility of Fulfillment According to Laurence Harf-Lancner, in the Melusinean narrative scheme, a being of a different nature is merged with a human.26 Everything seems to be happiness and bliss until the moment of transgression of a previously imposed interdiction.27 In the legend of Melusine, it is the prohibition against seeing her at a specific moment that Raymond fails to follow. According to this author in her classic Les fées au Moyen Âge, fairies are characters that witness the clash of two cultures, and they personify diverse representations of femininity in the medi­eval imaginary. Medi­eval literature presents a series of apparently contradictory images through fairies. Harf-Lancner identifies two main typo­logies: the Melusinean tales, where the fairy enters the world of the mortals, and the Morganean tales, where we find a hero stepping into the fairy world. In effect, the models are fundamentally distinguished by the movement of the mortal to the fairy world or vice versa.28 In the treatment and rewriting that Mujica Lainez conducts on the fairy characters, mainly on Melusine but also, to a smaller extent, on the male fairy Oberon from the ca. 1260 chanson of Huon de Bordeaux, we can observe how prohibitions concerning sight and speech are resignified in the plot of The Unicorn. The impossibility of a true romantic encounter, as demonstrated by these characters, is a consequence either of the breach or of the imposition of these interdictions, and the sentence to immortality is a reflection of the permanence of sociocultural conditioning over the course of centuries. Structurally, the story of Melusine’s bathroom and Oberon’s horn frame the whole adventure, since they respectively open and close the novel through raccontos of events of uncertain pasts, separate from the main narration. The source of the character Oberon, another fairy but in this case a male one, is explicitly mentioned when Mercator tells his story: it comes from Huon de Bordeaux. There, the first appearance of the king of Faerie coincides with the interdiction of speaking when the hero and his group need to cross a forest in the middle of their adventure. The encounters with humans in the stories of Melusine generally take place in a forest or near some source of water; these are also the places where Oberon and the knight Huon first meet. Fairies live halfway between the two worlds, in border areas, and these encounters themselves happen despite a prohibition to enter into contact with mortal beings. In the schematization of the story by Jean d’Arras, the moment after the fairy marries the mortal is when the future husband must accept the condition of an interdiction. This interdiction, in the different variants of the story, can be related to sight (not being allowed to see the fairy naked, for instance) or to asking a particular question. The violation of the condition leads to the end of the happy times. In a way, this violation represents the impossibility of definitive contact between both worlds and the inability of the fairy to fit in the human world, despite her will. 26  Harf-Lancner, Les fées au Moyen Âge, 85.

27  In the case of Melusine, she imposes respect for the interdiction on her husband Raymond, but ultimately the one who imposes the interdiction is her mother, the one responsible for the curse. 28  Harf-Lancner, Les fées au Moyen Âge, 77.

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Silence and blindness prevail in Oberon and in Melusine, respectively, by means of a secret, a taboo. We can link this taboo with the fact that Mujica Lainez had a clear need to talk about his sexuality in many of his fictions but, because of circumstances, he always did so in a veiled way. When asked directly about the autobio­graphical aspects of this novel, he agreed that Melusine could represent his own self.29 The transgression of the interdiction reveals the true nature of the fairy. The consequence of human incomprehension is the disappearance of the fairy from their life. It would seem, however, and this is more explicit in the case of Oberon and Huon, that the fairy is under some temptation to induce the mortal to break the interdiction. Firstly, Oberon tempts Huon and his men to say something when they enter the forest (so that they remain stuck in his world, in a rather Morganian gesture30) and then he reprimands Huon for unnecessarily calling for help with an oliphant. This unavoidable inadequacy between two universes presents a medi­eval outlook on images of desire that some critics highlight in relation to Mujica Lainez’s hybrid identity, duality and ambiguity.31 At the same time, in terms of alterity, the respect for the interdiction that was placed on the human character can also be interpreted as the possibility of accepting the other just as it is, without worrying about the strangeness of their conduct. Regarding Melusine, her disappearance is connected to the revelation of her true nature. It is also linked to her monstrous condition and to the taboo of 29  When Marí�a Esther Vázquez asks Mujica Lainez about the presence of autobio­graphical traces in the novel, he answers: “It could be. Critics see such curious things…It may be if one interprets in the sense that, like Orlando for Virginia Woolf, the fairy Melusine for me, when changing sex, allows one to see everything from different points of view; as a consequence, maybe psycho­ logically she looks like me. But I am not a fairy” (Vázquez, El mundo de Manuel Mujica Lainez, 100; my translation). Moreover, Villordo points out in his bio­graphy that Mujica Lainez’s sexuality is an aspect of his experience that was never entirely clear, although it was always ambiguous (Villordo, Manucho, 61). Besides, in terms of his sexuality, in 1964 Mujica Lainez is invited to the “Fiesta de las Letras” in Necochea (Buenos Aires) and is accompanied by Carlos Bruchmann. There, they meet their friend José Luis Lanuza, who relates that when he enters Mujica Lainez’s room at the hotel, he sees the bathroom door ajar and Bruchmann in the bathtub. Years later, when Lanuza reads the novel, he connects that episode with the scene of Aiol naked in the tub in the company of the fairy Melusine (Villordo, Manucho, 233). 30  In The Unicorn’s Morganian gesture the emphasis is placed on the nuance of the interdiction as curse: “Un embrujo incómodo, posiblemente armenio, estableció que los que contestaran al enano, si éste les dirigí�a la palabra, caerí�an bajo su poder, prisioneros, aunque Oberón no lo quisiera” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 285–86; my emphasis). “By a most inconvenient enchantment—Armenian, probably—anyone who answered him [Oberon] when he spoke was doomed to fall into his power, whether he would or no” (Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 211; my emphasis).

31  Fernández Ariza, “El unicornio de Manuel Mujica Lainez,” 409. Wilhite, “La metamorfosis de un hada,” 26. Valerie Wilhite proposes a parallel between the hybrid identity of the fairy characters and that of Mujica Lainez himself, an aristocrat who would unite rurality and the culture of the city, whose life takes place between France and Argentina, and who also was in search of his own identity as a writer (Wilhite, “La metamorfosis de un hada,” 26). On the other hand, Guadalupe Fernández Ariza, in line with the hybrid essence and the image of duality of the fairy figures, states that the “ambiguous being,” as the unicorn and the fairies are characterized, allows reflections about the construction of the I and the identity; a structure which underlies the myth of Narcissus and self-contemplation (Wilhite, “La metamorfosis de un hada,” 409).

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nudity. With regard to the breach of the pact, one last detail in the case of Melusine is that, in some variants of the story, what causes the breach is not the Saturday vision, but its further transmission and verbalization.32 Without wanting to dwell on the other variant, let us just remember that in the Morganean stories the interdiction is not connected to the nature of the fairy, but to the disobedience that breaks the acquired forgetfulness. The mortal being who penetrates the supernatural world, always a “he,” forgets for a period of time everything that preceded this part of his existence, and when he returns to the human world he becomes conscious of the elapsed time. Back to the temporality of human beings, he dies of sudden old age. Thus, the immortal penance is inverted, from the fairy to the human being. The intrusion of a foreigner in a world where he does not belong seems to be at the heart of the problem, in both versions of the narrative scheme. Tellingly, while in some story lines fairies hold back their lovers against their will, in The Unicorn Melusine and Oberon cannot fulfill their affective longings. Mujica Lainez does not tell the story of Melusine with her husband Raymond and their children, but her unrequited story with the young Aiol once she had fled her home. And in the case of Oberon, the one romantic affair added to the story and absent in the Huon cycle is also unrequited. Melusine’s and Oberon’s inability to achieve fulfilling love is a consequence of non-compliance on the humans’ side to follow a prohibition, but also of the interdictions that are placed on the fairies in order to separate two different worlds. Melusine and Oberon are both charged with the impossibility of navigating love within these restrictions and, in addition, are faced with living in solitude throughout their immortal life. Resignified over the centuries in such varied versions as the film Shrek, the Melusinean narrative scheme is found in The Unicorn with a special focus on the impossibility of affective and sexual fulfillment and the prohibition of a union between a fairy and a mortal. In Mujica Lainez’s text, after being watched when it was not allowed, Melusine is sentenced to never again being visible to another human being; this naturally includes her new love interest, Aiol. This impossibility of fulfilling love roams throughout the whole novel and is replicated and highlighted in other intertextualities.

Hybrid Ambiguity. A Fairy in a Man’s Body

To understand the personal and collective experience related to this text, analysis of the novel can be supplemented with the testimonies of Mujica Lainez himself and the repressive social context in which he was writing. The point argued here is that Mujica Lainez uses the legend of Melusine to channel the prohibition and censorship that existed at the time with respect to homosexual relationships. Some critics have also recognized this underlying meaning in The Unicorn. Jorge Luis Peralta, for instance, indicates that costumes are a recurring motif in the novel, and so are the moments of revelation of the “true” identities of several characters, whose names or appearances 32  Harf-Lancner, Les fées au Moyen Âge, 105.

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had been hidden from others. Peralta associates these hidings and revelations with the repression of homosexuality and the attempt at articulating erotic possibilities that escaped the rigid dominant morality of the mid-1960s.33 Mujica Lainez’s friend and bio­grapher Oscar Villordo also refers to Melusine’s pathos in certain episodes, noting that “her anguish recalls the painful condition of homosexual love, that of not being able to fully communicate with the other, since the attraction almost always occurs with a heterosexual.”34 These signs of subversion in a context that was hostile to sexual diversity never become fully-fledged, not even in the cases of other couplings like Oberon and Huon or Aymé and Aiol, developed in the fourth chapter “The heart consumed.”35 As noted above, the work with homosexuality is veiled, seen in the failed couples of MelusinAiol and Melusin-Agnès, and slightly more visible in the Huon-Oberon one.36 However, a defamiliarization effect is achieved, especially in the fifth chapter, “A Body for Melusine” (translated as “Human Shape”), when in order to accomplish her desire of having physical contact with Aiol and to remediate her exhaustion at being invisible to human beings, her mother gives her a new body, but that of a male knight. She will present herself as Melusin of Pleurs. This enables descriptions of the desire for a 33  Peralta, “Huellas de disidencia,” 199.

34  Villordo, Manucho, 256. My translation.

35  Aymé de Castel-Roussillon occupies the role of Ramón de Castell Rosselló in the novel’s version of the medi­eval legend of Guillem de Cabestany and the eaten heart. When this character appears again, but metamorphosed as a wolf, Melusine explains: “I swear by the holy Evangelists, by Merlin the magician, that it had been a wolf; when it was kissing and caressing Aiol, I know it was a wolf. Now it was Aymé of Castel-Roussillon” (Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 146). “[L]o juro por los Evangelios y por Merlí�n, el mago; estoy segura de que, cuando lo besaba a Aiol y lo acariciaba, habí�a sido, estrictamente, un lobo—, no era tal lobo sino un hombre,…Aymé de Castel-Roussillon” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 203). What had been suggested in chapter four here becomes more explicit.

36  In chapter six, “The leper-king,” Madame Agnès de Courtenay, mother of Baldwin IV, seduces Melusin (that is, Melusine in a man’s body) in Jerusalem: “I let her take my tunic off. Tapering fingers explored navel, chest, and legs, amorous whispers merged with the music of flute and drums and lute. I resorted to the old trick of thinking about someone else and though her mouth—and oh, that bosom!—was not Aiol’s, I did, by main force of imagination, manage to achieve some concrete reflex, so that her explorations were not disappointed. The body I had was Young, and since it reacted and functioned independently I lost, by one means and another, the second virginity of my long life. Once with Raimondin, and now to Madame Agnès” (Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 232). “[D]ejé que Madama Agnès me desvistiera. Sus largos dedos experimentados me recorrieron con entusiasmo, se enredaron en el vello de mis piernas y mis costillas y se detuvieron en la inocencia fraguada de mi ombligo. Me susurró muchas cosas dulces, algunas de ellas sopladas y jadeadas a mi oí�do, en la cadencia de la flauta, el pandero y el laúd. Yo eché mano del viejo procedimiento imaginativo de las subsituciones, y aunque nada diferí�a tanto como los labios de Madama Agnès y los de Aiol (y ¡qué decir de su pecho!), cierto afirmativo resultado reflejo obtuve, a fuerza de pensar, lo que colmó de alegrí�a a sus dedos indagadores. De ese modo, más mal que bien—pero la verdad es que mi cuerpo era tan joven que funcionaba y reaccionaba por su lado—, perdí�, por segunda vez en mi extensa vida, la virginidad: la primera, por obra de Raimondí�n; la segunda, por empeño de Madama Agnès” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 312). Both this quotation and the one in the last footnote are strategically placed at the ends of the chapters.

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masculine body from the point of view of a man, and discussions about the ambiguity of identities. Here some confusion and faux pas are lost in the English translation, as when Melusin (Melusine in the body of a man) claims to be cansada (“tired” inflected for feminine gender) and, quickly, corrects herself in light of Aiol’s shock: cansado (“tired” inflected for masculine gender).37 The originality of The Unicorn resides in this second moment in which Melusine occupies the body of a male human being. The punishment for disobedience of the interdiction and the subsequent impossibility of concretizing love is repeated here when Melusin decides to confess her love to Aiol, and she is transformed back into a fairy. The dual and hybrid figure of Melusine—the “ambiguous being” of a non-human female fairy in the body of a male knight, parallel to the ambiguous being of the unicorn—and the forbidden gaze that it invites allows us to reflect upon identity and the construction of self.38 Melusine is condemned to a life of constant metamorphosis and an immortality that takes her away from her dream of being mortal. In terms of construction and perpetuation of aristocratic lineage, the version of Jean d’Arras which underlies the novel uses the character of the fairy to compose the patrons’ own history-fiction that justifies their power. The core problem of lineage and its justification is a problem of events or people who, like Melusine, are not units but hybrid. This lack of unity, or duality of antithetical essences that the novel offers to reflect upon identity formation and the construction of the self is also manifest in Oberon, who is of crucial importance in the last chapters. This character shares numerous characteristics with Melusine in The Unicorn—some of them absent in the medi­eval versions of the Roman d’Auberon (1311) and the Huon de Bordeaux (ca. 1260)—and, in particular, he has a dual personality that is the opposite to that of the protagonist. Melusine, the main narrator, was first an opening storyline; Oberon, instead, appears first as a fictional character in a story told by the minstrel Mercator, and then becomes a real entity at the end of the novel.39 Oberon is perhaps the most clear example of hybrid 37  See an example of how this is solved by the translator (inevitably, the reaction is less spontaneous):   “What is it? Are you ill? I had leaned against Aiol as we left the church.  “Tired. I’m the weariest woman—.”  “Woman?”  “Man. Man, I mean. I’m so tired I don’t know what I’m saying”     (Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 228).

38  “There are many contradictory statements about the unicorn, because it is a contradictory animal…And to hunt it…[a] Syrian manu­script quoted by Astorg suggests the possibility of using a prostitute if no virgin can be found, or a boy dressed as a girl, for unicorns, like other individuals, have differing tastes” (Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 25; my emphasis). “El monoceronte es un animal ambiguo…Para cazarlo…Como los unicornios participan, a semejanza de los humanos, de gustos diversos, un manuscrito sirio citado por d’Astorg, propone la posibilidad, a falta de una virgen, de emplear una prostituta o un joven vestido de muchacha” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 40).

39  The minstrel Mercator had joined the group of Aiol from the beginning, and he refers to the story of Oberon and Huon (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 284–89). Oberon’s appearance as a real entity happens in the last chapter, “Oberon’s Horn” (“The Horns of Hattin”).

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identity and lineage in the text, not only because he is a fairy-dwarf but also because his mixed ancestry brings together different generic traditions about fairies.40 This character, son of Morgana and Julius Caesar, presents a Morganian characterization of fairies in his will to retain the humans in his forest, a characteristic present in the chanson of Huon de Bordeaux but intensified in The Unicorn. As Mercator narrates it, when the travellers wished to flee, the dwarf “spoke to Huon in French and promised to assist him in any peril if he would only reply. Huon, yielding to his persuasive voice and diminutive charm, answered without reflection—and thus made himself a prisoner in the palace, perhaps for years.”41 This captivity is also extended in The Unicorn with the banquet given to the group before they go their way; the banquet takes place in Huon de Bordeaux, but the captivity and subsequent events between Huon and Oberon found in the text of Mujica Lainez are absent from the medi­eval cycle. In Mujica Lainez’s text, Melusine says that her sister Melias had met Huon on the island of Inis Vitrin, and had wanted to love him, but in vain because “His [Huon’s] one topic was the dwarf Oberon.”42 By adding emphasis on the love bond between Huon and Oberon the author of The Unicorn draws a parallel between their bond and the one that Melusine has with Aiol after being incarnated in the body of a man and taking the personality of Melusin de Pleurs. The relationship between people of the same sex, implied in Melusine’s occupying a man’s body, is more explicit in the case of Huon and Oberon. In dialogue with the fairy, the dwarf laments: “Alas, Melusine, we have done almost the same thing, you and I. We have loved where love is impossible. Yet great love exists by virtue of impossibility. I, a fairy man, unhappily fixed my affections—or happily, perhaps, for there was happiness, surprisingly—on a brave and handsome man. You, a fairy woman trapped in a man’s body, fell in love with a brave and handsome youth. How could they love us, either of them—Huon of Bordeaux, Aiol of Lusignan?…We are condemned to solitude.”43 Linked to immortality, the text insists, the fairies are condemned to wait. Oberon gives his horn to Melusine when they say goodbye to each other “in gratitude for what 40  Lacalle, “Cruces,” 4.

41  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 211. “Los viajeros, al tanto del peligro que corrí�an, quisieron huir, pero Oberón los detuvo y habló con el paladí�n de Francia. Tan entusiasmado estaba, que le ofreció socorrerlo en cualquier alternativa, a trueque de que accediera a contestarle. Huon de Burdeos sucumbió ante la voz persuasiva, la gracia menuda del rey, su elegancia y su beldad de pequeño tí�tere y, sin pensarlo dos veces, también le habló, lo cual lo redujo en seguida a la condición de cautivo del palacio” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 286–87; my emphasis). 42  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 213.

43  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 220. “¡Ay, Melusina! Tu dilema es, hasta cierto punto, semejante al mí�o. Los dos nos hemos enamorado de un imposible. Pero, si bien se mira, todo con gran amor es imposible y en eso finca su grandeza. Yo, que soy un hombre-hada, tuve la desgracia, o la suerte (porque mi desgracia me ha hecho desconcertantemente feliz), de enamorarme de un hombre valiente y hermoso; tú, que eres una mujer-hada, estorbada por un cuerpo de hombre, te has enamorado de otro hombre, hermoso y valiente también. Ninguno de ellos, ni Huon de Burdeos ni Aiol de Lusignan, ha sido o será capaz de amarnos…Estamos condenados a la soledad” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 297).

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you tell me of his peaceful life in Inis Vitrin. I shall sleep better, knowing that.”44 Once they are separated, Oberon’s thought has its counterpart in Melusine, who states: “Yet Oberon, with his small stature, his lofty spirit, magical powers, and rank, at least knew where he was. He was a man, while I, who adored a man as he did, had a masculine outside and was a very feminine woman; my fairy rank was no comfort for my wretchedness and insecurity.”45 The listeners of the story that Mercator narrates may be thinking about the possession of Oberon’s wonderful objects, since they are knights of Baldwin’s court and position themselves in the role occupied by Huon in the chanson. But when Melusine talks with the fairy-dwarf in person, as a real entity within the novel, the interest lies instead in the empathy generated by their shared impossibility of concretizing their affective and sexual yearning. Furthermore, adding to this reflection upon the identity of the “self ” and queer desire, it was noted that the hybrid figure of Melusine has been employed since its medi­eval origins in Coudrette and Jean d’Arras for fashioning a collective lineage. In The Unicorn the allusions to this topic are numerous. From the outset, Melusine falls in love with her descendant, Aiol, because he reminds her of her husband, Raymond. As Oberon, Melusine also has human and fairy lineages; and kinship-related conflicts are at the heart of the story: Melusine and her two sisters take revenge against their human father king Elinas for not having fulfilled a promise to their mother, which causes their mother to unexpectedly unleash her curses against affiliation with humans. As Melusine muses: “I had to wait for Sigmund Freud to illuminate the motives behind my mother’s excessive reaction, and to show that she was in fact frustrated and revenging herself on me.”46 This maternal rage also reaches the monstrous children Melusine has with Raymond. Nevertheless, when Melusine is thinking about having another romantic rendezvous with Aiol, “a great-great-grandson of my great-great-grandson,”47 she does not seem affected by the incestuous prospect because “[a]n immortal shares the life of many earthly generations; the chrono­logy becomes confused and one develops a 44  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 221. “[E]n atención a lo que me has narrado sobre la calma existencia que lleva mi amado en Inis Vitrin. Ahora dormiré tranquilo” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 299).

45  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 222. “É� l era un hombre prendado de otro, y si bien con los menoscabos y las proyecciones que se inferí�an de su degradación de enano y de su enaltecimiento de espí�ritu, de pudiente hijo del sortilegio, no hay duda de que poseí�a el equilibrio propio de un hombre cabal, en tanto que yo, ví�ctima patética de otro hombre, era hombre por fuera y mujer por dentro, en la raí�z de mi naturaleza, lo cual suscitaba en mí� una inestabilidad que mi preeminencia fantástica no conseguí�a contrarrestar” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 300).

46  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 8. “Tuve que aguardar a que Sigmund Freud apareciera en nuestro oscuro mundo para comprender, en parte, los motivos de la reacción desproporcionada de la autora de mis dí�as, de su venganza loca que, ejercida sobre mí�, apuntaba en realidad a su destino frustrado” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 19). 47  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 32. “[Q]uien acaso fuera el chozno de su chozno” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 49).

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special code of morals.”48 In a similar vein, when Melusine starts following Aiol, she addresses the reader and explains that they must share the confusion of her state of mind to understand her reactions. Melusine goes through specific experiences that modify her identity or produce temporary alterations to her personality, and this is explicitly manifested on a sexual level. Towards the end, Melusine, still in a man’s body, falls unconscious in the heat of the battle of Hattin and awakens eight months later with Oberon at her side. She has transgressed the interdiction against communicating her true self to humans and turned back into a fairy, but she is not able to remember what happened. Afterward, she returns to Lusignan and goes back to her fairy form in order to write, years later, the story that we are reading in the form of a memoir. Almost like a loop, and as a cyclical conception of History, her first contact with Aiol and the itinerant group she joined at the beginning of the story has a rejuvenating effect that transports her to the past, both because of Aiol’s resemblance to Raymond and owing to the joy brought about by the minstrel’s stories. Following this circularity, in the first contact with Aiol after receiving the body of a man Melusine introduces herself: “I am Melusin of Pleurs. I too am young in knighthood.”49 Many are the occasions in which the fairy regrets her immortal penance and having lost her human form after Raymond watches her in her bath. Similarly, after the disastrous experience in Melusin’s body, turned as a fairy again, she goes back to Lusignan, where she writes her memoir. This immortal condition is of paramount concern, not only due to the impossibility of a romantic encounter. She can only find solace for her eternity in talking about herself: “I was extremely beautiful. I am sorry if this sounds like vanity, but talking about oneself is such a joy…. The day we stop talking about ourselves will be a sad one for we shall have lost the sense of our own eternity. The world will collapse in ashes.”50 Immortality, in fact, does not ensure physical perpetuity; quite the opposite: the reunion with her mother, which will give her the body of Melusin, awakens the following thought: “I observed…that she was showing her age, immortal though she was. If I needed glasses, my Mamma had put on weight and begun to stoop a little.”51 Melusine’s own desire to obtain a human body and be able to feel Aiol is also part of her quest to transcend the impediments of her immortal condition. 48  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 50. “El desorden cronológico propio de una inmortal, obligada a compartir la vida sucesiva de muchas generaciones, habí�a suscitado en mí� un distinto ordenamiento de las ideas morales” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 49). 49  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 175. A more complete translation would be “My name is Melusin of Pleurs. I’m also a knight and I still lack a past.” “Yo me llamo Melusí�n de Pleurs. Soy caballero también y todaví�a carezco de historia” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 239). 50  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 9. “Era muy hermosa. Perdóname la vanidad, lector, pero ¿cómo no ceder al placer incomparable de hablar de mí� misma?…El dí�a aciago en que dejemos de hablar de nosotros mismos, nos habremos quedado sin el sentido de nuestra eternidad y el mundo se derrumbará entre cenizas tristes” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 20–21).

51  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 154. “[N]oté…que el tiempo también ejercí�a sus estragos sobre mi progenitora inmortal, y que si yo tení�a que usar gafas, mi madre habí�a engordado y comenzaba a encorvarse” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 213).

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The emphasis on losing track of time, the absence of urgency, the belief that infinite life awaits after death, and the memory of the deaths that cling to her throughout: all these elements emphasize the curse of which Melusine is a prisoner. Her kisses are only breezes; her hands cannot stop others like the stone-carver Pons from falling to his death. The close contact that she achieves with Aiol takes place during the lapse of time in which she also encroaches on his dreams and memories, seeing and appearing through her magic, even though she herself realizes that she has crossed a boundary. This image, a view of her own reflection, is replicated in the sculpture started by Pons and in the carving Aiol starts to make in the wood. But now she is in the body of the boy Melusin of Pleurs. It would seem that her only shelter is to narrate events from a distant era of her past, allowing her to escape her present anguish: “this imitation of a past reality was torment to me, as though everything now were mere reflection, memory, with no more existence than a phantom has.”52 This is the reason for the almost frenetic and emphatic repetition that her version of the facts is always the true one. She is unable to intercede in the actions of her present, but her immortality allows her to ceaselessly reconstruct her past for the reader. The fairies’ immortality means that the curses suffered by the fairy characters accompany them to our present, as well as their pensive questioning of how much has changed or not regarding our ability to manifest openly the full diversity of human sexuality.

52  Mujica Lainez, The Wandering Unicorn, trans. Fitton, 82. “Ir por el mundo eternamente, remedando gestos pasados, como si cuanto yo hago fuera sombra, reflejo, recuerdo y espejismo y no lograra concretarse” (Mujica Lainez, El unicornio, 114).

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Works Cited

Abate, Sandro. El tríptico esquivo. Manuel Mujica Lainez en su laberinto. Bahí�a Blanca: Editorial de la Universidad Nacional de Sur, 2004. Cruz, Jorge. Genio y figura de Manuel Mujica Lainez. 1977; 2nd ed. Buenos Aires: Editorial Universitaria de Buenos Aires, 1996. Fernández Ariza, Guadalupe. “El unicornio de Manuel Mujica Lainez: tradición literaria y constantes genéricas.” Revista Iberoamericana 58 (1992): 407–21. Harf-Lancner, Laurence. Les fées au Moyen Âge: Morgane et Mélusine. La naissance des fées. Paris: Champion, 1984. Lacalle, Juan Manuel. “Cruces genéricos y de materias narrativas. Motivos tradicionales en Le roman d’Auberon y Huon de Bordeaux.” Saga. Revista de Letras 8 (2018): 1–19. —— . “Del otro lado de la hoguera: una mirada crí�tica de la Inquisición a partir de 1492. Vida y tiempos de Juan Cabezón de Castilla, de Homero Aridjis.” Storyca 10 (2019): 47–63. —— . “‘No hay peor muerte que el olvido.’ La postergación del final en la novela histórica a partir de El señor de los últimos días. Visiones del año mil, de Homero Aridjis.” In A permanência do romance histórico: literatura, cultura e sociedade, edited by Edvaldo Bergamo, Rogério Max Canedo Silva, and Ana Mafalda Leite, 73–87. São Paulo: Intermeios, 2022. —— . “Sobre hombros de gigantes. Neomedievalismo y novela histórica”: un estudio teórico comparado (1965–2015).” PhD diss., Universidad de Buenos Aires, 2022. Mujica Lainez, Manuel. El unicornio. 1965; Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 2009. —— . The Wandering Unicorn. Translated by Mary Fitton. New York: Taplinger,1983. Peralta, Jorge Luis. “Huellas de disidencia homoerótica en El unicornio de Manuel Mujica Lainez.” Revista chilena de literatura 90 (2015): 197–222. Pons, Marí�a Cristina. Memorias del olvido. La novela histórica de fines del siglo xx. Mexico: Siglo xxi, 1996. Pugh, Tison. “Queer Medi­evalisms: A Case Study of Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” In The Cambridge Companion to Medi­evalism, edited by Louise D’Arcens, 210–23. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016. Vázquez, Marí�a Esther. El mundo de Manuel Mujica Lainez. Conversaciones con María Esther Vázquez. Buenos Aires: Belgrano, 1983. Villordo, Oscar Hermes. Manucho. Una vida de Manuel Mujica Lainez. Buenos Aires: Planeta, 1991. Wilhite, Valerie Michelle. “La metamorfosis de un hada: Melusina en las versiones medi­evales de Jean d’Arras y Coudrette y en El unicornio de Mujica Lainez.” Revista Forma 3 (2011): 23–32.

Chapter 10

REWRITING AND VISUALIZING THE CID: THE RECONSTRUCTION OF MEDI­EVAL GENDER AND RACE IN ARGENTINIAN GRAPHIC NOVELS REBECCA DE SOUZA

This essay compares

the modern rewriting and visualizing of the medi­eval Castilian epic Poema de mio Cid (PMC) in two as-yet unstudied Argentinian ­graphic novels: Cantar de mio Cid (2012) (CMC) written by Manuel Morini and illustrated by Ivan Jacob,1 and Mio Cid (2018) (MC) written by Alejandro Farias, illustrated by Antonio Acevedo and coloured by Nicolás Á� vila. Both are creative manifestations of neomedi­ evalism; a lens that is yet to be applied to Latin American comics. Here I understand neomedi­evalism in the same way in which Haydock previously defined medi­evalism, as “a discourse of contingent representations derived from the historical Middle Ages, composed of marked alterities to and continuities with the present.”2 Though scholars have attempted to distinguish medi­evalism from neomedi­evalism based upon to what extent a modern recreation of the medi­eval is “fictionalized” or “fantastical,” such as Richard Utz and KellyAnn Fitzpatrick,3 this distinction is ultimately untenable and imprecise, particularly when dealing with creative forms alien to the Middle Ages including cinema and ­graphic novels. An element of visual creativity or fantasy is unavoidable in g­ raphic novels, though the story might explicitly rewrite medi­eval precedent. Nadia Altschul has also made a cogent case for neomedi­evalism over medi­evalism in this volume, given its Anglocentric origins and confusing conflation with medi­eval studies. I thus consider these ­graphic novels neomedi­evalist recreations, though I nevertheless write as a medi­ evalist familiar with the earliest extant version of the story found in PMC. This article will therefore explore how this earlier text has been transformed as well as how its resultant recreations in the ­graphic novel form react to their modern Argentinian context of reception. This approach is informed by Gérard Genette’s framework of intertextual relationships: the earliest extant version of the PMC (ca. 1207) is explicitly denoted

1  The Poema de mio Cid is more commonly known as the Cantar de mio Cid in Argentina, following the title given to the poem by foundational Spanish philo­logist Ramón Menéndez Pidal. Here I refer to the medi­eval text as Poema de mio Cid (PMC), following Colin Smith’s edition (1972), and use Cantar de mio Cid (CMC) to refer to the 2012 g­ raphic novel only. 2  Nickolas Haydock, “Medi­evalism and Excluded Middles,” 19.

3  For Fitzpatrick, neomedi­evalism is “a form of medi­evalism: a post-medi­eval imagining or appropriation of the Middle Ages” (Fitzpatrick, Neomedi­evalism, xviii) which for Utz “most insouciantly obliterate history and historical accuracy and replace history-based narratives with simulacra of the medi­eval” (“Coming to Terms,” 107). See also Louise D’Arcens (“Introduction”) on this provisional distinction between the two terms.

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in both cases as the hypotext upon which the ­graphic novels are grafted, as hypertextual reworkings that have the capacity for transformation as well as imitation.4 The two ­graphic novels sit at the fascinating intersection of two sociocultural situations: as postcolonial afterlives of a colonizer’s literary history on the one hand, and ideo­logically transformed neomedi­evalisms on the other. They remember and recast a literary history that is not quite Argentina’s, but a history indelibly connected to the formation of the modern nation state. By rewriting and visually reimagining a canonical European text—already accessible in multiple editions printed in Argentina—in a novel, modern form, the authors and artists implicitly approach a new audience and even border on explicit didacticism. PMC is thus made accessible to a younger audience appealed by products of mass-cultural reproduction which mediate meaning through the familiar visual tropes and textual techniques of the comic book form. A tension does however emerge between the accessibility of CMC and MC to a twenty-first century Argentinian audience and their recourse to an inherently simplified reconfiguration of the story of the Cid of PMC, which involves a heightening of gender difference as well as a colonialist and Orientalist othering of Semitic identities. The ideo­logical content of the works is thus wholly modern and, I argue, legitimates a neoliberal myth of modern Argentinian ‘progress’ versus a purportedly ‘backwards’ Iberian Middle Ages, a trope that originated in Argentinian political discourse of the nineteenth century. Before assessing the content of the novels, it is necessary to situate them in their sociopolitical context—that is, twenty-first century postcolonial Argentina—and consider what role the Iberian and indeed the European Middle Ages has to play in this society and its cultural production. I will then consider the history and relevance of the ­graphic novel form itself, what status it holds in Argentina’s society and who might be the intended audience of these works, before engaging with the ways in which CMC and MC transform their hypotext(s) and how in doing so they mediate and process contemporary social and political issues.

Political, Literary, and Academic (Neo)Medi­evalisms in Argentina

The vision of the Iberian Middle Ages presented by CMC and MC is inflected by multiple literary, historio­graphical, and sociopolitical discourses formulated in Argentina from the nineteenth century to the present. Given the g­ raphic narratives recast a historical literary text of Argentina’s colonizer—a text so canonical that it often functions as metonymy for an entire period defined by intercultural interaction across religious and racial frontiers—it is essential to pay particular attention to the mechanisms of racial and cultural identity in Argentina as a post- yet also settler-colonial context and how this interacts with the reimagining of medi­eval Iberia in Argentinian modernity. The Iberian Middle Ages were in fact overtly denigrated in the political discourse of the post-independence era from 1816 onwards. Nadia Altschul has used settler post-colonial theory to demonstrate how for liberal reformers in nineteenth century Spanish America many of society’s ills were blamed on the “medi­eval remnants” of 4  Genette, Palimpsests, 26.



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colonization.5 Former Argentinian president Domingo Sarmiento (1811–1888) proposed Spain had “bequeathed to the colonies the medi­eval character it itself had at the time of the conquest,”6 and instead pursued the discursive formation of a unique Argentinian identity in his writings. As both Richard Gott and Altschul have shown, Argentina can and must be considered a white settler colonial society that sought the domination and extermination of indigenous peoples in the second half of the nineteenth century.7 Aní�bal Quijano takes a postcolonial perspective and argues for an epistemic dependency between Latin America and Europe, given the settler-colonists of Latin America’s Southern Cone asserted their multifaceted European identities and explicitly rejected “the identity associated with Latin America’s heritage and, in particular, any relationship with the indigenous population.”8 The promotion of a homogeneous, white-European formulation of Argentinian identity at the expense of the indigenous population was also attempted through the promotion of a national literary canon in the nineteenth century. José Hernández’s epic poem of over two thousand lines, Martín Fierro (1872–1879), is an erudite appropriation of the popular gauchesque genre of oral poetry narrated on the pampas. Nelson González Ortega deems it “an individual aspiration of nationhood on the basis of the unity of a common territory, language, religion and race,” one that excludes indigenous and black Argentinian citizens while romanticizing the lives of white peasant farmers.9 Martín Fierro has on several occasions tellingly been linked to PMC which was similarly attributed to an essential Spanish identity in nineteenth century nationalist academic discourse. Most notably Miguel de Unamuno insisted upon an analogy between the medi­eval “Reconquista” purportedly pursued by the Cid and the colonial war against the Mapuche Indians in the late nineteenth century, the obverse of which was the glorification of white gaucho identity insinuated by the poem.10 The racialization of Argentinian identity directly after independence and the refusal to reckon with this past until only recently implicitly influences the portrayal and consideration of the heterogeneous, multicultural Iberian Middle Ages in the ­graphic novels in question. Attitudes towards medi­eval Iberia and Spain more generally fluctuated into the twentieth century: Franco’s dictatorship saw a promotion and resurgence of reactionary hispanismo by conservatives in Argentina, though this cultural project was rejected by the majority.11 José de Diego summarizes the long history of Argentinian anti-his5  Altschul, “Medi­evalism in Spanish America,” 161. 6  Altschul, “Medi­evalism in Spanish America,” 155.

7  Gott, “Latin America as a White Settler Society,” 285–87; Altschul, “Medi­evalism in Spanish America,” 157–58. 8  Quijano, “Coloniality of Power,” 211.

9  González Ortega, “Literary Nationalism,” 184.

10  Unamuno declared approvingly that “aquellos gauchos son nuestros aventureros y el soplo que anima a ese poema hermosí�simo en su misma monotoní�a es el soplo de nuestro viejo Cantar de mío Cid, de nuestros primitivos romanceros” (Pagés Larraya, “Unamuno y la valoración crí�tica,” 358). 11  Rodrí�guez, “Los hispanismos en Argentina.”

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panismo, promoted by Borges amongst others in the twentieth century.12 Borges was himself a keen medi­evalist, though his interest lay—perhaps unsurprisingly—with Old English and Norse texts, the influence of which frequently found its way into his writing.13 Unlike other white settler writers—from the US, Canada, South Africa, and Australia, for example—Borges is however rarely considered from a thoroughly racialized postcolonial perspective,14 which is essential for decoding his neomedi­evalism and particularly his preference for its northern European manifestations. Borges did however engage with Iberian neomedi­evalism in his writing: interestingly he chose not to recreate literary legend but rather fictionalize an episode in the life of the twelfth-century Muslim Andalusi philosopher Ibn Rushd, in the short story “La busca de Averroes” (Averroes’s Search) (1947). Christina Civantos has convincingly argued that it exhibits an Orientalist conception of Islam and “the abandonment of any hope of knowing the other,”15 a telling indictment of postcolonial race relations in 1940s Argentina, and one that undoubtedly speaks to the author’s position as a postcolonial settler subject. The othering of medi­eval Iberia’s Semitic inhabitants as unknowable is thus not only evident in the two ­graphic novels to be studied here but even earlier in the most dominant figure of twentieth-century Argentinian literature. Maria Ruhlmann’s essay in this volume conversely argues that Borges’ story explores the interimperial relationship between the medi­eval Islamicate empire and the modern Spanish one, and thus rejects hispanismo. Ruhlmann proves that the Iberian Middle Ages are fertile ground for Argentinian writers to work through notions of midcoloniality and cultural imperialism, as they continue to be in the ­graphic novels of the twentyfirst century. Despite a growing anti-hispanismo in the literary sphere, Iberian medi­evalismo was founded as an academic discipline in Argentinian universities in the early twentieth century and continues to this day.16 The Instituto de Filo­logí�a was founded at the Uni12  De Diego, “El Hispanismo en Argentina.” Borges crafts a parodic yet scathing critique of both European and Spanish literary hegemony in his short story Pierre Menard: Author of the Quixote (1939). The story’s French narrator proposes that Cervantes’ masterpiece is in fact neither an inevitable nor necessary part of literary history. Roberto González Echevarrí�a has cogently summarize how the chief concern of Latin American literary production since the nineteenth century has indeed been “the issue of the uniqueness of Latin America as a cultural, social and political space from which to narrate” (González Echevarrí�a, Myth and Archive, 10). 13  Toswell, Borges the Unacknowledged Medi­evalist.

14  See, for example, Edward Watts’s use of settler postcolonialism as a reading strategy in post-independence American Literature, and Alan Lawson on the place of the settler subject in postcolonial theory (Watt, “Settler Postcolonialism”; Lawson, “Postcolonial Theory”). While Robin Fiddian’s recent Postcolonial Borges is an engaging study of Borges’s postcolonial subjectivity and how it manifests in attitudes towards collective identity-construction in his writing, neither Borges’s settler-colonial identity nor concepts of race, alterity and indigeneity are discussed as relevant contexts to his work (Fiddian, Postcolonial Borges). 15  Civantos, The Afterlife, 61.

16  See Gómez Moreno (Breve historia del medi­evalismo panhispánico, 143–48), for a chrono­logical outline of academic medi­evalismo in Argentina, both philo­logical and historical.



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versity of Buenos Aires in 1923, run initially by Américo Castro and later by Amado Alonso who went on to mentor the prominent Argentinian philo­logist Marí�a Rosa Lida.17 The academic study of medi­eval Iberia consistently confronted questions of race and national identity, both Spanish and Argentinian, beginning with exiled Spanish historian Claudio Sánchez Albornoz who arrived in Argentina in 1940 and soon took up a post at the University of Buenos Aires where he founded the journal Cuadernos de historia de España.18 Argentinian academics are interestingly conscious of the apparent incongruity of the field in a postcolonial context: Marí�a Rodrí�guez Temperley endeavours to explain “las causas del auge de los Estudios Medi­evales en ‘paí�ses-sinMedioevo.’”19 In the case of Argentina, Rodrí�guez Temperley suggests that medi­eval literature and legends arrived with the colonizers of the Americas: “before being shaped academically in the cloisters, medi­eval ideals were already part of American foundational narratives and the American imaginary,”20 a view espoused by historian Ricardo Rojas (1882–1957) who traced the importance of the study of medi­eval Iberia back to the colonization period. Rojas replaced the negative image of the period crafted discursively by Sarmiento in the previous century and instead referred to the fertile influence of medi­eval travel-writing on the Crónicas de Indias.21 Like Albornoz, Rojas ideo­logically linked the study of medi­eval Iberia to national identity formation in the present, though in this case it is Argentinian settler-colonial identity that is explicitly traced back to European literary culture at the expense of heterogeneous and, notably, indigenous elements. Both literary and academic discourses on the Iberian Middle Ages in the settler postcolonial context of Argentina in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries thus necessarily inflect any recourse to neomedi­evalism in its cultural production, as the example of Borges’s “La busca de Averroes” has shown. Race and national identity come to the fore in discussions and appropriations of Iberia’s multicultural past, though the Argentinian context clearly lacks the cultural baggage of politicized neomedi­evalism that is still prevalent in Spain, as noted by Alejandro Garcí�a Sanjuán amongst others.22 What Spain and Argentina do share is a systemic, politically-motivated refusal to publicly confront a past of intercultural existence and interaction. Spain is still in 17  Altschul, “On the Shores,” 163.

18  Albornoz’s historio­graphy is characterized by a positivist emphasis on Spanish identity, the purportedly essential roots of which he traced to the Visigoths in his 1942 work En torno a los orígenes del feudalismo. His views led to a debate with the US-based scholar Américo Castro, whose 1948 España en su historia conversely argues for the significance of the presence and interaction of Muslims, Jews, and Christians in medi­eval Iberia in forming a hybrid Spanish culture. 19  Rodrí�guez Temperley, “La edad media,” 221.

20  “antes de forjarse académicamente en los claustros, el ideario medi­eval ya formaba parte de los relatos fundacionales y del imaginario americano” (Rodrí�guez Temperley, “La edad media,” 223). 21  Rodrí�guez Temperley, “La edad media,” 224.

22  Garcí�a Sanjuán highlights the persistence of the dominant conservative Spanish narrative of “Muslim invasion” and “Christian reconquest” to describe the Middle Ages, what he calls “una bomba historiográfica” that has recently been appropriated by the extreme right-wing party Vox (Garcí�a Sanjuán, “Como desactivar una bomba historiográfica”).

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an incredibly slow process of Vergangenheitsbewältigung that often takes ten steps backwards with commemoration initiatives that either end up exploiting the heritage of sites such as Toledo for socioeconomic gain through tourism or vindicating one religious minority while continuing to marginalize another.23 Argentina for its part has consistently marginalized the indigenista novel in literary criticism preferring to reify national literary heritage on white settler texts such as Martín Fierro,24 and indeed has failed to confront the idea that it is a settler-colonial society.25 While attitudes towards Iberian (neo)medi­evalism at a political, literary and academic level in Argentina are influential on a national scale, this discourse is only a fraction of what might then go on to influence the production of neomedi­evalisms in the form of objects of mass or popular culture, to which the ­graphic novel can be ascribed. No critical work to date has investigated the presence of neomedi­evalisms in Argentinian mass culture which shares and deviates from the attitudes of “erudite,” academic medi­evalist discourse in important ways.

Popular Neomedi­evalisms in Argentina

While political, academic, and literary reflections on the Iberian Middle Ages are important for decoding its perception in contemporary Argentina, to understand the discourses influential in the formation of mass or popular cultural productions such as comic books and ­graphic novels, it is arguably more important to question how the Argentinian population has encountered neomedi­evalisms and, more specifically, PMC in recent decades. To find out what the European and Iberian Middle Ages mean for contemporary authors, artists, and audiences of Argentinian ­graphic novels their pedagogical formation serves as a useful starting point. Evidence from national and local curricula shows a homogeneous approach to European medi­eval history in schools, as well as a move away in recent decades in Argentina’s secondary school system from the compulsory study of peninsular Spanish literature. David Waiman’s recent doctoral thesis on the Middle Ages in history textbooks used in Buenos Aires schools until 2006 unveils how: “As secondary sources they recreate a traditional representation of the medi­eval world, focusing on great men and famous battles, churches and monasteries, and a world characterized by widespread violence.”26 Particularly interesting for the study of Iberian neomedi­evalisms is what Waiman acknowledges as a widespread tendency to confuse “ethnic questions with matters 23  Such as the recent repatriation initiative extended to the Sephardic Jewish diaspora; an invitation not extended to largely Muslim descendants of the similarly expelled moriscos. 24  Marí�a Nicolás Alba, “La narrativa indigenista en Argentina.”

25  Gott, “Latin America as a White Settler Society.”

26  “Van recreando a modo de complemento textual representaciones tradicionales del mundo medi­eval, centrándose en grandes hombres y grandes batallas, iglesias y monasterios y un mundo marcado por la violencia generalizada” (Waiman, La edad media en los manuales escolares bonaerenses, 29; my translation).



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of faith” when it comes to medi­eval Islam,27 as well as the reinforcement of “occidentalizing narratives” by focusing on Western Europe and thus diminishing the relative importance and presence of Islam in the Middle Ages.28 As for literary studies, the 1975 national Planes de estudio compiled by the Ministry of Culture and Education stipulated that the whole of the fourth-year literature course of the bachillerato be dedicated to peninsular literature, while Argentinian and Latin American literature was studied in the fifth year.29 However, in the 2015 education reform of Buenos Aires schools dubbed “La Nueva Escuela Secundaria,” enacted by president Mauricio Macri, the Ministry of Education makes only one subject compulsory for all students, “Historia de las ideas en la Argentina, Siglos xix y xx,”30 and for those who choose to study literature no texts, countries or regions are specified.31 This suggests autonomy is given to schools to decide the specifics of the curriculum. Anecdotally—and perhaps inevitably—the lack of a compulsory peninsular Spanish literature module has led to the decline in the teaching of PMC at a secondary school level, and if this is indeed the case it makes the perception of the Iberian Middle Ages, the epic and PMC more fragmented—there is no stable referent, only anecdote, legend, and popular neomedi­ evalisms serve to form a picture of the Cid in the minds of many of those who have come through the education system in recent years. When it is taught to school-age students PMC is accessible in dual-text formats produced in Argentina, such as the recent 2013 Colihue edition containing both a medi­eval Castilian and modern Spanish version by Leonardo Funes side by side. Collaborators Pablo Saracino and Manuel Abeledo also include a study guide in an appendix, which situates PMC generically by giving a detailed overview of the classical, French, German, and Spanish epic traditions,32 placing the work within a European rather than strictly Iberian context. The guide includes a series of “propuestas de trabajo” which include transcribing the poem from a folio, a commentary considering linguistic differences to modern Spanish and debating the historicity of PMC and exploring issues surrounding authorship and orality.33 Important for the present study is the encouragement the editors give students and teachers to engage with modern neomedi­evalisms in light of a reading of PMC, from critiquing the 1961 film El Cid, to discussing how the Cid is presented in art and sculpture and comparing the Cid of PMC to the heroes of other medi­evalist films.34 PMC is thus considered amongst a European panorama of medi­ eval literature and more recent neomedi­evalist cultural production in Argentina, even 27  “cuestiones étnicas con creencias de fe” (Waiman, La edad media en los manuales escolares bonaerenses, 157). 28  “narrativas occidentalizantes” (Waiman, La edad media en los manuales escolares bonaerenses, 163) 29  Planes de estudio, 19.

30  Diseño curricular, 33. 31  Diseño curricular, 14.

32  Funes, Poema, 140–50.

33  Funes, Poema, 180–83. 34  Funes, Poema, 183–88.

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from an education standpoint, which encourages the analysis of how the Middle Ages are represented today in recreative forms. A desire to engage with modern neomedi­ evalism and a decline in the study of the traditional text opens up an important gap for the two ­graphic novels to fill. Beyond school-age study Argentines do continue to encounter and engage with the European Middle Ages in mass and popular culture. They participate in and consume reincarnations of an unspecific European Middle Ages, evidenced by large communities of neomedi­evalism enthusiasts who congregate both on- and offline to plan generic ferias medi­evales.35 Generic forms of re-enactment even include tourist sites such as the curiously-named pseudo-medi­eval village Campanopolis which “conjoins diverse styles from the European Middle Ages to produce an eclectic individual style,”36 and El Castillo del Cómic in Capilla del Monte, a medi­eval revival-style museum dedicated to comics and popular culture from around the world. By recreating and engaging with both a generically Western European (though not necessarily Iberian) and fantastical Middle Ages through popular neomedi­evalisms, Argentines thus demonstrate a tension between the denial of an explicit link to the Iberian—and thus colonizer’s—past, and the vested interest in commemorating and identifying with a generic European history as a white settler nation. The generic Middle Ages embodied by neomedi­evalisms as diverse as re-enactments and architecture in Argentina means that the ­graphic novel adaptations CMC and MC clearly stand out for their decision to invoke medi­eval Iberian literary history. The two ­graphic novel recreations of PMC could thus be interpreted in a number of ways: – As nothing but creative, literary recreations of a far-away fictionalized legend motivated by both historical curiosity and a desire to connect to a shared—but generic—European past, akin to other Argentinian manifestations of popular neomedi­evalism. – As the inverse of the postcolonial: a modern neocolonial instance of hispanismo, so denigrated by Borges and his contemporaries and Argentinian nationalists alike. – As an aspect of transcultural and transnational cultural memory—established mechanisms in postcolonial theory—that has the ability to be both accepted and rejected by its target audience.

An analysis of MC and CMC will demonstrate that the first option is untenable, given the systematic adaptation of the earliest extant version of the legend. The second and third readings are more plausible given the way in which the ­graphic novels 35  Alonzo cites Game of Thrones and the King Arthur legend as inspirations for Argentinian ferias medi­evales, rather than any specifically Iberian legends or historic events (Alonzo, “El Auge de las Ferias Medi­evales”). Thousands are also members of Facebook groups which continually advertise events recreating neomedi­evalisms as broad as Tolkien and twelfth-century Aquitaine—see, for example, facebook.com/groups/256792171112086/. 36  “responde a estilos diversos del medioevo europeo unidos para producir un ecléctico estilo propio” (Campanoplis, campanopolis.com.ar/la-aldea/, “La Aldea: Descripción”).



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engage with or dismiss both their medi­eval precedent and contemporary contexts as objects of mass culture mediating national and colonial questions of identity formation.

History of the Form

Finally, before engaging with the texts themselves the question of genre must be addressed. Why have the four authors and artists in question decided to reconfigure PMC as a ­graphic novel specifically, and who is the intended and indeed resultant audience of these works? While the textual narrative of the g­ raphic novels can be more easily compared with the medi­eval PMC, their images are completely invented yet draws on a rich tradition of Argentinian, US, and European comic art. As noted above, CMC and MC are unusual as recreations of Iberian medi­eval literature and though comics are long-established in Argentina those based on the Iberian Middle Ages are very unusual. By contrast, medi­evalist comics have been commonplace in Spain for the best part of the twentieth and into the twenty-first century. After the emergence of the comic book proper in the 1930s, Franco’s regime banned US-influenced superhero comics. The only sanctioned material were historical—in fact fantastical and medi­evalist—comics such as El Guerrero del Antifaz (1944) by Manuel Gago, and Capitán Trueno (1956) by Victor Mora and Miguel Ambrosio Zaragoza, though neither attained popularity in Argentina.37 The Guerrero del Antifaz is half-Muslim—the son of a Castilian Countess kidnapped by a Muslim king—and dedicates his life to fighting Muslims to avenge his mother.38 Despite the demise of the dictatorship and its censorship, race and national identity continue to be prevalent themes in modern Spanish comics, such as the 2009 series Ibéroes: La guerra de las rosas by Iñigo Aguirre and Javier Tartaglia, which depicts Spanish superheroes avenging an attack by a group of Chinese immigrants. Jorge González del Pozo shows how it reinforces racist stereotypes and “markedly defines the limits of what is considered Spanish, creating an impermeability that does not allow for hybridization or the renewal of Spanish 37  Online research into their transmission attests to numerous obituaries marking the recent deaths of both Gago and Mora in Spanish newspapers, though none appear from Argentina.

38  See Ramón, “Capitán Trueno.” After the end of the dictatorship Spanish comic authors and artists continued to produce medi­evalist works based on legend, best exemplified by Antonio Hernández Palacios’ series of medi­evalist comics including Roncesvalles (1981), El Cid: La toma de Coimbra (1982) and El Cid: La cruzada de Barbastro (1984). Spanish critics have grappled with the recreation of the medieval in comics in recent years, such as Antonio Huertas Morales’s 2017 edited collection Edad Media Contemporánea, which features a short chapter on comic books but focuses on older comics, and Oriol Garcia i Quera’s article that simplifies the mechanisms of neomedievalism and hypertextual reproduction by reinforcing an impossible tripartite categorization based upon the extent to which historical comics reflect “historical truth,” making them either educational, for entertainment, or mixed (“El còmic i la història”). For an overview of Spanish medi­evalist comics produced in Spain until 2008 see Fernando Galván Freile, “La imagen de la edad media en el comic.” Galván does not however consider the comics to be in dialogue with contemporary sociopolitical concerns.

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identity.”39 “The limits of what is considered Spanish” continue to be drawn in the medi­evalist comics in question here, albeit from an Argentinian perspective.40 In Argentina comics have a similarly long history. The first books emerged in the 1930s and the Golden Age is considered to have been from the 1950s to the 1970s, best represented by the comic El eternauta by Hectór Germán Oesterheld, whose frequent critiques of the military dictatorships saw him imprisoned and presumed murdered. More recently Mauricio Espinoza has shown how since the 1990s artists “have engaged with the big, contentious issues of contemporary Latin America, including foreign intervention, loss of national sovereignty, political corruption, poverty, and insecurity.”41 Historical themes are commonplace in Argentinian works, though comic neomedi­evalism is rare. One atypical example is by the prominent twentieth-century cartoonist and humorist Oscar Conti (1914–1979)—pen name Oski—who created a parody of a medi­eval Italian medical treatise, Comentarios a las tablas médicas de Salerno (published in 1999). Oski thus recreates the European though not Iberian Middle Ages, a tendency common in popular Argentinian neomedi­evalisms. Conti and his contemporaries more frequently found inspiration in national rather than European history: he also published a Vera Historia de Indias (1958), contributed drawings to the film Primera Fundación de Buenos Aires (1959) and wrote El descubrimiento de América (1992). Jose Massaroli (1952–) created a series of comic bio­graphies of nineteenth-century Argentinian military men published in the conservative newspaper La Voz (1983), notably including a bio­graphy of Facundo Quiroga whose story Sarmiento also chose to retell over a century earlier to work through national identity formation predicated upon a white settler, Europeanized identity. Comics scholarship is also well-established in Argentina and Latin America more generally, with critical work having markedly political—even nationalist—foundations with the 1971 work Para leer al Pato Donald by Argentinian–Chilean Ariel Dorfman and Belgian Armand Mattelart which took a Marxist view of Disney’s comics as a form of cultural imperialism. More recent criticism and methodo­logical proposals have come from Jorge Catalá-Carrasco, Paulo Drinot, and James Scorer’s Comics and Memory in Latin America (2017) and Edward King and Joanna Page’s Posthumanism in Latin American Graphic Novels (2019), both of which establish an important precedent by linking the unique formal qualities of the g­ raphic novel to its production of meaning. Because of their combination of text and image and the particularly visceral reader experience that comes with the form’s materiality, the collections point firstly 39  “Delimita marcadamente los lí�mites de lo considerado español, creando una impermeabilidad que no permite la hibridación ni la renovación de la identidad Española” (González del Pozo, “Ibéroes,” 48).

40  In addition to the precedent for medi­evalist comics in Spain there is an extensive tradition of medi­evalist historical novels are commonplace (see Raquel Crespo-Vila, “La literatura medi­eval en la narrativa contemporánea”), and films and television series that depict the Iberian Middle Ages and its legends continue to be popular (evidenced by the new 2020 Amazon series El Cid). 41  Espinoza, “Neoliberalism in the Gutter,” 1.



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to the form’s ability to relate and trigger memories, as well as to interrogate the borders between non-human and human, both thematically and structurally. In addition to considering the ideo­logical significance of reworking the Iberian Middle Ages in CMC and MC, the following analysis proposes that meaning is also crucially conveyed through what is perhaps their most important formal aspect: the effect of both text and image on reader experience and the production of meaning. King and Page consider this under the banner of the “haptic turn” in comics studies, citing Karin Kukkonen who proposes that the page layout in comics and g­ raphic novels produces “particular embodied responses in the reader and as a result [intervenes] in the reader’s body schema.”42 Graphic novels can also convey meaning using images alone, as well as employ more traditional literary functions such as narrators and direct speech. The most startling way in which the g­ raphic narrative adaptations differ from the medi­eval PMC is in fact the preponderance of direct speech over narrative commentary. The form thus brings us closer to the characters in a way that the epic poem does not, as we become privy to more conversations, day-to-day activities and throwaway comments that build on or in some instances contradict the somewhat limited characterization offered by the epic poem or chronicle form. Lastly, there is a widespread acknowledgment of the efficacy of comics in pedagogy given their appeal to a younger audience.43 The haptic experience of reading a comic or ­graphic novel has been scientifically proven to aid memory and comprehension;44 a motive that is particularly pertinent for the two Argentinian reworkings of PMC. CMC in particular is explicitly targeted at a school-age audience: its publisher LatinBooks International designates it under their sub-imprint “Novel Gráfica +” together with other comic literary adaptations as diverse as Anne Frank’s diary, Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad, and Romeo and Juliet. Akin to the dual-text Colihue edition used in schools CMC also contains a study guide by way of an appendix, with a glossary of antiquated terms, an overview of the medi­eval PMC as well as “questions for debate” and “suggested exercises,”45 all of which focus on the figure of the Cid. MC meanwhile is an overtly cultural project which though aimed at a general adult audience hints at a pedagogical subtext given its context of production. Its colophon reveals that it is in fact a collaborative project between the publisher Loco Rabia and its sponsor CCEBA, the Centro Cultura de España en Buenos Aires. MC is thus an explicit neo-colonial intervention by the cultural wing of the Spanish state that seeks to support the dissemination of its medi­eval literary history in a former colony, though mediated by a writer and two artists from Argentina. The context of production and intended audience of these works inherently problematizes the didactic role of comics in history and/or literature, a role that is made 42  King and Page, Posthumanism, 8.

43  Comics as pedagogical tools have recently been advocated in the Spanish context by David Fernández de Arriba, whose 2019 Memorias y viñetas demonstrates how history teachers can use comics in the classroom. 44  Cohn, “Your Brain on Comics.”

45  “preguntas para debatir” and “propuestas de trabajar” (Morini, Cantar de mio Cid, 73–77).

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even more untenable given the extent to which CMC and MC creatively rework medi­ eval precedent, as they cannot be used uncritically as historical sources and instead ought to be read as modern Ibero-American neomedi­evalisms from which a presentist ideo­logy can be adduced given they demonstrate “marked alterities to and continuities with” the Iberian Middle Ages.46 In the analysis that follows I begin by exploring how CMC and MC depart from the source they claim to be using, focusing on their most dramatic transformation of the earliest extant medi­eval text: the portrayal of medi­eval gender relations and race relations.47 An intertextual analysis of the ­graphic novels with their purported hypotext PMC will reveal how the inevitable and selective abridgement of the epic has been dealt with by each novel, as well as how telling these silences are. Though as we have seen the European and Iberian Middle Ages—and indeed PMC itself—are far from consistently represented or transmitted in twenty-first century Argentina, it is still worth comparing the comics to the PMC of 1207, as while both divert from it markedly in places CMC and MC are organized into the same three cantares as PMC. Moreover, the paratextual material pertaining to both novels—prefaces, afterwords, chapter headings, and so on—points to a direct authorial engagement with a medi­eval source. Both are therefore overt rewritings of a hypotext and constitute premeditated forms of textual transformation. I then consider to what extent this transformation is inflected by contemporary sociopolitical concerns as well as other varied representations of the Iberian or European Middle Ages in Argentinian thought, literature, and culture. As products of mass culture, CMC and MC lack a stable referent or source: as well as PMC of 1207 they amalgamate a vision of the Iberian Middle Ages inflected by a limited Argentinian school curricula, other modern European and Latin American popular neomedi­evalisms, and the Cid in mass culture more generally—and so an archaeo­logical comparative reading with the medi­eval hypotext in mind is insufficient. It is necessary to interrogate all possible streams of influence—that is, the mechanisms of creative neomedi­evalism at play—in order to understand why CMC and MC present a new retelling of PMC and what ideo­logy this serves in the present. Here I draw on Frederic Jameson’s idea of the reification of art in mass culture and the utopian impulse of such artistic production.

Adapting the Epic: Silenced Women and Anachronistic Racial Oppositions

CMC and MC’s most notable transformations of their purported hypotext, PMC, is their systematic silencing of the significant roles played by Jimena, Elvira, and Sol in the medi­eval legend. In addition to the significantly reduced role of women they also 46  Haydock, “Medi­evalism and Excluded Middles,” 19.

47  Lauren Beck’s recent mono­graph also explores modern visual neomedi­evalisms that transform the legendary Cid. Beck similarly analyses the evolving portrayal of gender and race, though largely in Spanish and European contexts such as France and Germany, where the Cid becomes part of “the European project to orientalize Spain” (Beck, Illustrating El Cid, 190), and does not examine Cidian neomedi­evalisms in postcolonial Latin America.



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Figure 10.1: Front cover of Cantar de mio Cid. © 2012 Manuel Morini and Ivan Jacob, LatinBooks International.

take a polarized view of religious and racial identity by inflecting a sense of crusade and inherent ideo­logical opposition alien to the medi­eval PMC. From a postcolonial perspective the staunch focus on the Cid’s masculinity at the expense of his familial motivations interestingly creates an alternative to the dominant post-independence perception of Spanish colonialism which “posited a medi­eval Spanish mentality fossilized with the counter-reformation reign of Philip II (1527–1598), manifested mainly in theocracy and despotism, and which writers believed to have continued until their own presents.”48 Instead of conveying the Iberian Middle Ages as an era of ineffectual, emotionally driven despots, CMC and MC reframe the Cid as an overtly masculine, 48  Altschul “Medi­evalism in Spanish America,” 153.

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Figure 10.2: Jimena in Cantar de mio Cid. © 2012 Manuel Morini and Ivan Jacob, LatinBooks International.

unemotional crusading hero defined by his military exploits rather than loyalty to his family.49 Alternatively, both could be read as systematically polarized visions of the Iberian Middle Ages that are made consciously dissonant with twenty-first century discourses on gender and race, namely feminist and critical race studies, to ensure that the Middle Ages does not complicate a narrative of ideo­logical progress when it comes to identity politics. CMC takes for granted a conclusively masculine portrayal of the Cid’s life and milieu. Its blurb explicitly refers to PMC as a “legend and incarnation of the spirit of knighthood,”50 firmly focusing the axis of the plot on the Cid’s exploits as hero and thus downplaying the PMC’s equally prominent “sentimental nexus.”51 The front cover also supports this reading by featuring a stoic Cid holding a veiled Jimena dressed in white, denying her agency as well as reinforcing notions of women as chattel. A montage 49  The latter is deemed a defining facet of PMC by medi­evalist scholars (Caldin “Women Characters and the Limits of Patriarchy”). 50  “leyenda y encarnación del espí�ritu caballeresco” (Morini, Cantar).

51  E. Michael Gerli highlights PMC’s “inner universe that exists in consonance with social and political values” (Gerli, “Liminal Junctures,” 260).



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is superimposed below the couple of the Cid riding into battle with his retinue, one member holding a flag anachronistically featuring the Jerusalem Cross (figure 10.1). The silences in the plot attest to the near exclusion of female speech, agency and sentimentality. The opening excludes the PMC’s famed emotional opening of the Cid weeping before the gates of Burgos and his interaction with the nine-year-old girl, whose motivational speech in PMC foreshadows the importance of the feminine as a driving force behind the Cid’s military exploits. In CMC by contrast we join the Cid in the thoroughly masculine environment of the encampment outside Burgos where only Martí�n Antolinez spurs the Cid on with generic battle cries such as “Even to survive one has to battle.”52 While CMC includes the Cid entrusting his family to Abbot Sancho at Cardeña, his departure is thoroughly rewritten in a way that diminishes Jimena’s role. In PMC Jimena is fully conscious of the Cid’s political situation and necessary exile due to “envious courtiers” and notably uses the epic epithets to refer to her husband akin to his male retinue.53 She moreover takes an active role in the mass to bid farewell to her husband by delivering an eloquent and extensive prayer before the audience.54 In stark contrast the Jimena of CMC is oblivious to her husband’s situation, questioning helplessly “¿volverás?”55 A pious image of Jimena in white depicted in a near-prayer position is juxtaposed against two darkened panels of her embracing and then kissing the Cid (figure 10.2). The reader is thus urged to consider her as a pious, uninvolved and purely physical support to her husband, in contrast to the emotional and, crucially, religious role she plays in his successes in PMC. The Cid’s concern for his family is also omitted from CMC: after his first prominent battle at Alcocer the ­graphic novel excludes the pertinent detail of money being sent back to Cardeña for their care; his personal motives for success are thus continually subordinated to the idea of reconquest. The women are left out of the narrative until the Cid conquers Valencia; they are escorted by Minaya akin to PMC but all details referring to the careful preparations made and good treatment of the women are left out—a consistent thematic focus that is crucial to the sentimental ethos of PMC, as the Cid and his retinue’s treatment of Jimena, Elvira, and Sol are overtly juxtaposed to that of the Infantes de Carrión. Once the women arrive in Valencia Jimena’s dialogue with the Cid is excluded.56 Women are even denied involvement in the events that directly affect them in the story: the narrative omits the episode in PMC where the Cid discusses with Jimena the proposed marriage of their daughters to the Infantes de Carrión, skipping directly to the wedding ceremony. Jimena is later also denied an opportunity to speak before the daughters leave for Carrión.57 Elvira and Sol too are seemingly unable to voice their feelings, as their retorts to the Infantes at Corpes are 52  “Aún para sobrevivir hay que luchar” (Morini, CMC, 7). 53  “malos mestureros” (Smith, PMC, 10; lines 266–67).

54  Smith, PMC, 12; lines 330–65. 55  Morini, CMC, 11. 56  Morini, CMC, 39. 57  Morini, CMC, 56.

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excluded, as is Sol’s poignant discussion with Félez Muñoz who finds them after their abuse in PMC.58 CMC thus almost entirely silences female voices, thoroughly denies women any semblance of agency and expunges their decisive influence over the Cid in PMC. In addition to consistently reducing the role of women, CMC also anachronistically suppresses aspects of male characters that to a modern audience connote femininity, such as the attention to the aesthetic and appearance demonstrated by the Cid’s retinue as they enter Toledo for the Cortes in the third cantar.59 Though CMC overtly uses PMC by structuring its narrative into three cantares, that is largely where the similarities end. Thematically and in terms of ethos CMC entirely removes PMC’s sentimental nexus and as a result the plot arguably lacks coherence, with women silenced and relegated to their mere physical presence, rather than an emotional connection, the emotional climax of CMC and the girls’ abuse is lessened versus the source text. MC meanwhile differs from CMC in the fact that its audience is not explicitly young adult, though its patronage is undeniably Spanish and could thus be read as a neocolonial intervention. As a piece of “literary diplomacy” its portrayal of women and religious minorities is therefore less likely to reflect the sociopolitical climate of contemporary Argentina, given it is an overt presentation of the Iberian Middle Ages by the Spanish state. The Spanish influence is clear from the start with the writer Alejandro Farias crediting the anonymous author of PMC and listing himself only as the adapter “to the language of comics.”60 The art of MC is also black and white versus the bombastic, cartoonish colours of CMC, granting a more sombre and pseudo-historical tone to the work. Despite its political, diplomatic guise MC still falls foul to the same selective silencing of femininity as CMC. The nine-year-old girl is once again absent from the opening scene at Burgos and MC more explicitly removes the Cid’s familial motivation by excluding the episode of him entrusting his family to the abbot at Cardeña, and the women’s farewell, including Jimena’s prayer. MC interestingly reframes the Cid’s motivation as a religious one, for the Raquel and Vidas episode is followed immediately by the Cid’s dream vision of the Angel Gabriel.61 A full-page image of a vicious, pupil-less Gabriel superimposed upon a perspiring Cid jolts both the reader and the campeador into action, motivated by the idea of religious quest as in CMC (figure 10.3). The Cid’s characterization as a fearsome warrior is stressed over his role as father and husband. Visually the Cid is terrifying: the front cover depicts his battle stance, with dark, emotionless eyes beneath his helmet, an image repeated throughout the text (figure 10.4). The excision of important scenes involving women that ultimately constitute the Cid’s motivation all but destroys the PMC’s sentimental nexus. The decision to divert from PMC in this way is highly calculated, given MC follows minute details of PMC in other areas—for example, we are given the throwaway yet highly specific instruction 58  Smith, PMC, 86; lines 2786–98.

59  Smith, PMC, 94; line 3085 onwards.

60  “al lenguaje de la historieta” (Farias, MC, 5). 61  Farias, MC, 13.



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Figure 10.3: The Cid’s dream in Mio Cid. © 2018 Alejandro Farias, Antonio Acevedo, and Nicolás Ávila, Loco Rabia.

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by the Cid to Minaya, “you will go with two hundred men.”62 Like CMC, MC also omits the scene of Minaya bringing the Cid’s family to Valencia which underscores the importance of treating women well in PMC; a scene that is in purposeful ideo­logical opposition to the behaviour of the Infantes de Carrión. The omission of this idea in CMC and MC thus means the Infantes’ behaviour is implicitly not as thoroughly denigrated as in PMC. The Cid’s family appear for the first time much later in the story at Valencia, where Jimena is again denied any real direct speech, her emotions reduced to three words: “I’m afraid, Rodrigo.”63 Her minimized characterization is reinforced a few pages later when the Cid announces he is leaving to meet Alfonso: the cen62  “irás con doscientos hombres” (Farias, MC, 16; Smith, PMC, 16; line 441). 63  “tengo miedo, Rodrigo” (Farias, MC, 32).

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tral panel of the page depicts Jimena staring open-mouthed at the Cid questioning blithely “And us?” regarding the fate of her family;64 a cluelessness that could not be further from the stoic and politically-conscious Jimena of PMC. The Cid also overtly withholds the information regarding the marriage proposal from her until he returns from Castile. Jimena’s role is then once again diminished once the marriage is announced as her discussion with the Cid regarding the union is omitted. 65 The same fate befalls Elvira and Sol as in CMC: neither is granted any direct speech at the Corpes episode in MC. 66 Like CMC, then, MC avoids the domestic sentimentality that proves a crucial motivator for the Cid of PMC. Figure 10.4: Front cover of Mio Cid. © 2018 Alejandro Farias, It replaces the Cid’s familial Antonio Acevedo, and Nicolás Ávila, Loco Rabia. interactions with a stringent focus on battle and warfare throughout, preferring gruesome visualizations of conflict over narrative interventions, rewriting the medi­eval text (and thus medi­eval Iberian history for the Argentinian audience) as a masculinist tale of one man’s insuperable physical prowess. Alongside the rewriting of PMC’s female characters, both ­graphic novels significantly rewrite the characterization and role of the legends’ Semitic characters. An analysis of the Cid’s Muslim and Jewish enemies and allies in CMC and MC demonstrates that the authors and artists project a polarized and thus politicized depiction of religious minorities that is alien to the medi­eval hypotext of PMC. The systematic relegation of women to passive roles in CMC is directly connected to its portrayal of Semitic characters and the Cid’s interaction with them: without the familial motivation for the Cid to reverse his exile as in PMC, his exploits are justified by Morini and Jacob 64  “¿Y nosotras?” (Farias, MC, 40).

65  Farias, MC, 43.

66  Farias, MC, 60–61.



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Figure 10.5: Warfare in Cantar de mio Cid. © 2012 Manuel Morini and Ivan Jacob, LatinBooks International.

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to be religiously motivated crusades as the “fight against the Moor,”67 an ideo­logical justification absent from PMC. A subjective narrator reinforces a crusading ethos from the start, further underscored by the Cid’s retinue wearing evocative red and white outfits into battle, echoing the Jerusalem Cross featured on the novel’s front cover. The role of Raquel and Vidas, the Jewish moneylenders, is also heavily condensed in CMC. The two are dangerously visually caricatured reinforcing modern antisemitic stereotypes and are portrayed as more avaricious than in PMC. CMC then goes on to omit any hint of a friendly or reciprocal relationship across religio-cultural boundaries, such as the way in which Martí�n Antolinez refers to them respectfully as “my dear friends,”68 and Raquel’s request for a fur tunic from the Cid that the latter promises to fulfil. The Cid is not only visually depicted as a crusader but frames himself as one in direct speech: “I will declare Castejón a conquered city.”69 The g­ raphic novel moreover consistently removes any instances of clemency that the Cid grants to those he faces in battle, such as the freeing of the people of Castejón and granting them monetary rewards in PMC.70 The battle is instead depicted as incredibly bloody in CMC,71 though the Cid of PMC avoids gratuitous violence. An invented exchange is included in CMC between the Cid and Minaya with the former requesting his men to refer to him as “Sidi,” gesturing to his epithet’s Arabic origin. The exchange seems to be included only for Minaya to rebuke the Cid’s cross-border allegiances by retorting “Cid is better. It sounds more Christian,”72 reinforcing religious polarization. The characterization of Muslims also attests to the idea of a “religious war”—the citizens of Alcocer call the Cid and his retinue “infidels,” while the narrator then seemingly retaliates by anachronistically dehumanizing them in their death, killed by the Cid’s men “as in a mousetrap”.73 At Alcocer too the Cid frees captives in PMC,74 a detail unsurprisingly expunged from the crusading narrative of CMC. The narrator plays a decisive role in the reader’s experience of CMC: unlike the first-person juglaresque narration of an epic poem which includes the juglar’s first person voice akin to another character in the legend, a ­graphic novel’s narrator is visually imbued with authority by having its judgments in the privileged position of a highlighted box rather than the traditional comic speech bubbles granted to characters. The reader is thus visually and physically alerted to their presence and judgment in a way that grants the narrator an undue power to judge and conclude upon the events of the text. The narrator consistently reinforces religious polarization and conflict, claiming at Alcocer: “For three years, Alcocer was 67  “lucha contra el moro” (Morini, CMC, 12).

68  “los mios amigos caros” (Smith, PMC, 104).

69  “declaré a Castejón, ciudad conquistada” (Morini, CMC, 13).

70  Smith, PMC, 19; line 540. 71  Morini, CMC, 15.

72  “Cid es mejor. Suena más cristiano” (Morini, CMC, 22).

73  “infieles,” “como en una ratonera” (Morini, CMC, 18–19).

74  Smith, PMC, 21; lines 616–22.



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known as the City of the Cid. Its new name spread like wildfire among the villages of Al-Andalus.”75 There is also a marked absence of narratorial sympathy for the citizens of Valencia when they placed under starvation by the Cid’s retinue.76 Akin to its portrayal (or lack thereof ) of women, it is the silences that are most telling when it comes to CMC’s portrayal of Semitic characters and religio-cultural interaction. CMC notably excludes the entire episode of the Cid’s battle against the Count of Barcelona found in PMC, thus suppressing inter-Christian conflict—and indeed the detail that the Count of Barcelona as a Christian fought with Muslims in his retinue—in favour of a consistent presentation of the Cid as a crusading warrior. The only instance in which religio-cultural cooperation is hinted at is at the taking of Valencia where the Cid invites both Christians and Muslims to join his retinue. Yet the CMC narrator quickly exploits this as an opportunity to overtly denigrate the Muslim soldiers, calling them “reneguedes” who “are drawn by gold and fame.”77 Also absent is the battle against the King of Morocco at Játiva, likely because the king escapes in PMC—a detail that would destabilize the Cid’s image as invincible crusader. The most notable absence, however, is the character of Abengalbón who is entirely excised from the story, presumably because his vassalic relationship with the Cid would negate the narrative’s consistent opposition of Christian and Muslim. CMC thus transforms the Cid’s character and chips away at his mesura, making him treat Semitic characters more overtly harshly than in PMC. The anachronistic crusading ethos imbued in the story and the exaggeration of hostilities between religio-cultural groups is alien to the medi­eval text and context. MC also exhibits a crusading ethos, though as previously noted its sombre tone frames it as a pseudo-historical narrative. To that end the text is permeated in the first half by frequent full-page maps that delineate “Spanish territory” and “Moorish territory,”78 which centres the plot on the Cid’s “reconquest” of Andalusi territory, rather than returning to and providing for his family or regaining the king’s favour.79 While the narrator does not overtly denigrate the Cid’s Muslim enemy as in CMC, it is still notable that the Cid’s quest since leaving Burgos is defined by “enemies,” whereas in PMC the motivation to conquer towns and cities is largely economic and connected to his desire to return to his family. Battles are also referred to using subtly politicized language, with Minaya announcing to the Cid “the Moors invaded cultivated land” before the battle against King Yusuf.80

75  “Durante tres años, Alcocer fue la ciudad del Cid. Ese nombre comenzaba a serpentear como pólvora encendida entre los pueblos del Al-Á� ndalus” (Morini, CMC, 25). 76  See Smith, PMC, 38; lines 1178–80.

77  “renegados,” “acuden al oro y la fama” (Morini, CMC, 30).

78  “territorio español,” “teritorio moro” (Farias, MC, 15).

79  “territorio español,” “territorio moro” (Farias, MC, 15, 21, 24 and 28). 80  “los moros invadieron las huertas” (Farias, MC, 33).

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Figure 10.6: Map in Mio Cid. © 2018 Alejandro Farias, Antonio Acevedo, and Nicolás Ávila, Loco Rabia.



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The Cid’s mesura and respect for Muslims is, however, maintained in MC as he is shown sharing booty with the inhabitants of Castejón,81 and he moreover goes into battle with the Count of Barcelona unlike in CMC, underscoring the presence of internal conflict within the Spanish kingdoms. While Abengalbón is present in MC his role is greatly reduced, as he is not involved in the women’s journey to Valencia as in PMC. Raquel and Vidas are not visually caricatured and difference is not overtly underscored: they are depicted as tall and strong, concordant with PMC, though like CMC Raquel’s interaction with the Cid requesting a favour is left out, subtly reducing their cooperation and the Cid’s respect for his Jewish allies. Visually MC’s depiction of Andalusi soldiers is not as exaggerated as CMC: while their armour is understandably distinctive their facial features are not caricatured or superficially darkened as in CMC.82 However, MC’s thematic focus on battle scenes reduces the Andalusi armies to deindividualized masses in scenes of conflict throughout. Overall MC’s historical posturing makes it much closer to PMC than CMC, though this equally means that any diversion from the earliest manu­script that claims to have been used by the ­graphic novels’ creators is even more of a significant decision. A pattern is established in MC of a subtle and systematic erasure of the favourable depictions of Semitic peoples and their alliances with the Cid found in PMC. This is not as all-encompassing as in CMC, though rewrites the Cid as a warrior above all else.

Contemporary Identity Politics or a Utopian Vision?

The textual transformations discussed above clearly point to an at least partially shared ideo­logical objective in the transformation of the medi­eval PMC, which is all the more curious given the different publishers and intended audiences for CMC and MC. While the former could have consulted the latter prior to publication, MC’s close affiliation to PMC makes this unlikely. Both adaptations thus independently mediate similar ideo­logical concerns that resonate with twenty-first century Argentina. This stance contradicts the recent work on politicized (neo)medi­evalism by Andrew Elliott, who suggests that much literary or creative (neo)medi­evalism is somewhat depoliticized, “fictional depictions tend to wear their medi­evalisms openly on their sleeves” in comparison to the usage of the Middle Ages in political discourse; “those cases where the medi­eval finds itself exploited, like Joan of Arc, for political ends, to make a rhetorical point or to support an unquestionably modern ideo­logical position.”83 Yet the ­graphic novels come somewhere in between the distinction that Elliott is making. CMC and MC’s didactic imperative and postcolonial context mean that like all creative forms of (neo)medi­evalism the medi­eval is ideo­logically repurposed to serve a contemporary ideo­logy. We thus cannot absolve creative or literary reworkings of the medi­eval from politicization solely because their authors or audiences are not directly involved in politics as per the examples Elliott explores. Their engagement with present-day 81  Farias, MC, 20. 82  Farias, MC, 23.

83  Elliott, Medi­evalism, 5.

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concerns is moreover inevitable given the varied way in which European neomedi­ evalisms are encountered and transmitted in Argentina today. MC and CMC thus do not solely utilize the PMC as a source for their vision of the Iberian Middle Ages: as we have seen both PMC and medi­eval Europe have reached Argentines through varied sources from school curricula, educational editions to modern medi­evalist films. There are two possible readings of the politicization of identity categories in CMC and MC, and an explanation of both will unveil the most plausible. Firstly, they may be read as a reflection of an eternalized vision of gender and racial opposition predicated upon the marginalization of women and minorities, akin to the way in which the “Reconquista” has been appropriated by the far right in contemporary Spain. The authors and artists could thus be projecting an anachronistic view of PMC that tacitly legitimates gender inequality and racism in present-day Argentina. The present sociopolitical climate arguably makes this more likely: the emphasis of racial difference and de-emphasis of cooperation between Christians, Muslims and Jews found in CMC and MC could speak to growing Islamophobia and anti-Semitism since the turn of the century in Argentina, the country with the largest Muslim and Jewish populations in Latin America.84 The silencing of PMC’s women through the excision of important scenes and a reduction in their speech comes during the fourth wave of feminist activism in the country, best exemplified by the #NiUnaMenos movement founded in 2015 in response to growing levels of femicide. Activists have continued to convene annually on June 3, and claims have expanded to include rights for the LGBT community, women’s reproductive rights, and equal pay.85 Ignacio Aguiló’s recent study on the racialization of economic anxiety is particularly pertinent for the portrayal of racial and religious difference in these contemporary g­ raphic narratives. Aguiló has assessed the racialized politics of neoliberal policy in the face of the 2001 economic crisis in Argentina which was read through race by sectors of Argentinian society: “The crisis induced a preoccupation with questions of nationness and national belonging in Argentinians, which was partly crystallized through discourses of whiteness. Widespread fears of impoverishment and tangible experiences of social descent during this period were frequently framed as a process of blackening, ‘Africanisation’ and ‘Latin Americanisation.’”86 Aguiló’s analysis makes this reading more plausible: given the homogenization of race in the Iberian neomedi­evalisms of CMC and MC express similar anxieties to what 84  Isaac Caro has proposed that rising Islamophobia in Latin America’s southern cone is directly influenced by recent Islamophobic narratives in the European and American media (Caro, “Islamophobia in the First Decades,” 14). A prominent Islamophobic incident in 2018 saw two Muslim brothers detained and abused in custody as a result of false accusations by a neighbour (https://www.laizquierdadiario.com/Causa-armada-de-como-Bullrich-y-la-DAIA-les-arruinaronla-vida-a-los-hermanos-Salomon). Reports also attest to a marked increase of 107 percent in antisemitic incidents from 2017 to 2018 (https://www.jpost.com/Diaspora/Argentina-sees-107percent-spike-in-antisemitism-603445). In 2018 an incident at a football match in Buenos Aires saw fans chanting an antisemitic slogan. 85  Moseley, Protest State, 110.

86  Aguiló, The Darkening Nation, 3.



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Aguiló notes in twenty-first century cultural production and political commentary. Yet if this were indeed the case—that the authors and artists ideo­logically alter an extant text to imbue it with implicit support for the worsening conditions of women and minorities in Argentina in their work—they surely would have done so to a story that speaks more directly to Argentina’s present, rather than the remote cultural history of its erstwhile colonizer. By rewriting the Cid as a violent warrior with less regard for his family and alliances across racial and religious differences, CMC and MC reflect more on what the Iberian—and even more generally the European- Middle Ages mean for Argentines today, and how they should look back to them. I thus argue that CMC and MC rewrite the past to exaggerate its antitheses with the present. In the very same vein as Sarmiento in the 1800s, they appropriate the Middle Ages to create an ideo­logical foil for the twenty-first century. They seek to implicitly legitimate the myth at the heart of neoliberal policy: the idea of modern ideo­logical progress as a result of capitalist structures versus an inherently backward and morally corrupt past. A discursive reaffirmation of progress, of “mira lo lejos que hemos llegado,”87 comes at a time when Argentina is experiencing rising levels of poverty and social immobility as a result of the financial crisis in the early 2000s.88 Moreover, as mass-produced g­ raphic novels drawing on a multitude of sources in their production and audience they can be deemed elements of mass or popular culture. Fredric Jameson’s formulation of the reification of art in mass culture can be applied in this case, given both novels are clear examples of a repetition of cultural production with no stable source text; as we have seen, PMC alongside numerous variegated and unknowable neomedi­evalisms are brought to bear upon the g­ raphic adaptations.89 Both g­ raphic novels efface the old forms of derogatory anti-hispanismo postulated by thinkers of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, from Sarmiento to Borges, characterized by a vision of the Iberian Middle Ages as backwards and/or irrelevant to Argentina’s history, and in place of this ideo­logical position CMC and MC develop an uncomplicated, utopian vision of the European past to which the present—despite growing levels of misogyny and racism—compares relatively favourably. CMC and MC ultimately process social anxieties surrounding masculinity and race and present a utopian solution by presenting misogyny and racial opposition as historically foregrounded for a settler-colonial audience. Despite their mass appeal, they contain ideo­logical content and project “the optical illusion of social harmony” by uncomplicating the story of the Cid.90 In many ways this is a romantic (though exclusive) view of the medi­eval past: the ­graphic novels become a means to an end to communicate an easily resolvable conclusion on the Iberian Middle Ages—given in many respects the Cid functions as a metonymy for the entire period as the canonical text 87  “Look how far we’ve come” (my translation).

88  See Matí�as Cristobo who explores how neoliberal economic policies led to social immobility and rising poverty until 2009 (Cristobo, “El neoliberalismo en Argentina”). 89  Jameson, “Reification and Utopia,” 138.

90  Jameson, “Reification and Utopia,” 141.

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and symbol of the purported “Reconquista.” There is thus an element of social hope and idealization contained within these ­graphic novels. If the Cid’s story had remained entirely faithful to PMC, including the significant role of women and the Cid’s amicable relationships across religious and racial difference, it would perhaps be more uncomfortable today to look back and see how complicated and unessential categories of identity were in a period that are often decried as the “dark ages” or “los años oscuros” in both Anglophone and Spanish-speaking contexts. By presenting the story of the Cid as one that denies women’s agency and exalts Christianity, the Argentinian audience of MC and CMC can comfortably look back from an imperfect neoliberal present which becomes vindicated as undeniable evidence of progress.

Conclusions

An intertextual and visual analysis of Cantar de mio Cid and Mio Cid, which use both a pre-existing medi­eval hypotext and innumerable other neomedi­evalist transformations, has demonstrated that it is the silences, amendments and textual transformations that belie their reflection of contemporary sociopolitical concerns. The complex postcolonial context of CMC and MC means that their calculated silencing of women and their promotion of a crusading “reconquest” ethos reflects a new rewriting of the Iberian Middle Ages for the Argentinian audience that diametrically opposes the identity politics of PMC to twenty-first century standards that are being both eroded and demanded in Argentina. This is potentially a Utopian vision: a purposefully disparaging recreation of the medi­eval that makes the period and its actors seem worse in order to generate a “social hope” of progress for the Argentina of the present day, struggling with economic inequality and the growing polarization of gender and racial identities.



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