FUNDAÇÃO MALCOLM LOWRY

FUNDAÇÃO MALCOLM LOWRY

Este blogue foi criado com o intuito de unir a comunidade lowryana de todo o mundo, a fim de trocar ideias e informação sobre o autor, promover a organização de conferências, colóquios e outras actividades relacionadas com a promoção da sua obra. Este é o primeiro sítio trilingue feito no México sobre o tema. Cuernavaca, México.


Malcolm Lowry Foundation


This blog was created to comunicate all lowry scholars, fans and enthusiastics from around the world in order to promote the interchange of materials and information about the writer as well as organize events such as lectures, colloquiums and other activities related to the work of the author. Cuernavaca, Mexico.


FONDATION MALCOLM LOWRY

Ce blog a été crée dans le but de rapprocher la communauté lowryenne du monde entier afin de pouvoir échanger des idées et des informations sur l'auteur ainsi que promouvoir et organiser des conférences, colloques et autres activités en relation avec son oeuvre. Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexique.

domingo, 24 de abril de 2011

MALCOLM LOWRY: DEBAIXO DO ÁLCOOL O VULCÃO É MUITO MAIS SUPORTÁVEL

É pouco vulgar tanto movimento no zócalo. O centro do principal jardim da cidade está ocupado por dezenas de pequenos pavilhões que evocam algumas das mais ilustres linhagens de Cuernavaca cujos familiares ultimam as decorações. No chão, pétalas de cempasúchitl desenham alegremente caveiras a sorrir, fingidos túmulos ao longo da praça evocam vultos da cultura nacional, no lado norte colocam-se as catrinas apresentadas a concurso em mais um Dia dos Mortos. Uns quarteirões a oeste, subindo pela Rua Hidalgo e passando pela Catedral chegamos à Avenida Morelos. No Centro Cultural Universitário também a azáfama é grande: são onze da manhã e está prestes a começar o segundo congresso internacional dedicado a Malcolm Lowry e à sua obra mais conhecida, Debaixo do Vulcão: um louvor à decadência, à solidão, à embriaguez, um manual de autodestruição, um retrato pouco piedoso da violência que pode atingir a condição humana? Ou, para muitos leitores, entre os quais assumidamente se inclui o autor destas linhas, uma lenda literária, uma das obras maiores do século XX.


NASCE UM ESCRITOR

Clarence Malcolm Lowry nasce a 28 de Julho de 1909 em Wallasey, no condado de Cheshire, Inglaterra, no seio de uma família burguesa. É o mais novo dos quatro filhos de Arthur Lowry, rico comerciante de algodão em Liverpool, com propriedades no Egipto, Peru e Estados Unidos, exemplo de páter-famílias trabalhador, dedicado aos preceitos do protestantismo, valores com que educa os filhos, mas que o benjamim, por rebeldia, não acolhe. Preferirá as leituras de Melville ou Conrad Aiken e, em 1927, com 18 anos, suplica ao pai uma viagem ao Oriente. O inquieto Malcolm, agora aprendiz de lobo-do-mar e ajudante de fogueiro, embarca então no navio de carga S.S. Pyrrhus, iniciando uma viagem de seis meses que o levará de Liverpool ao Canal do Suez, Xangai, Japão e Vladivostoque e que estará na origem de Ultramarina. De volta a casa, as aulas em Cambridge já haviam começado, estando o ano escolar, por consequência, perdido. Malcolm bebe como um velho marujo, o que naturalmente preocupa o pai, abstémio e atento ao comportamento do jovem. Por isso, decide matriculá-lo num colégio tido por rigoroso, em Bona, na Alemanha, até começar novo ano lectivo.

No regresso a Inglaterra toma contacto com um livro que será determinante na sua decisão de se dedicar à escrita. Na leitura de Blue Voyage, de Conrad Aiken, escritor norte-americano a viver em Inglaterra, Lowry julgou encontrar a chave de uma estrutura romanesca moderna aliada à grandiosidade da escrita. Aiken passará a ser, a partir de agora, a sua referência; Malcohol, assim chamado pelo mestre, vai com ele para o continente americano, aproveitando para se dedicar com muito entusiasmo a Ultramarina. No Outono de 1929, Malcolm regressa a casa e entra finalmente na Universidade de Cambridge: a par dos estudos, vai revendo o romance. Um dia descobre, perplexo, um livro cujo protagonista é um rapaz socialmente bem instalado que decide experimentar a dureza da vida a bordo. O paralelismo de The Ship Sails On com a história que está a escrever é óbvio; decide por isso ir à Noruega conhecer o seu autor, Nordahl Grieg, que o incentiva a acabar a obra, finalmente publicada por Jonathan Cape, que viria a ser o seu editor em Inglaterra, em 1933.

A sua fama de bebedor e os escândalos em que se envolvia iam aumentando. Contrariado e com algum receio, o pai autoriza-o a passar uns tempos em Paris com a condição de frequentar a Sorbonne. Afinal, Malcolm tinha concluído o curso de Filologia Inglesa e a viagem de certa forma constituiria um prémio. Em França, não vai às aulas, mas a sua conduta não sofre grandes reparos, aprendendo a língua francesa e entregando-se à leitura de Rimbaud e Baudelaire.


O CASAMENTO COM JAN GABRIAL

Na Primavera de 1933 vai com o casal Aiken passar uns tempos a Espanha, a viver então a Segunda República. Provou a aguardente, não poucas vezes em demasia, e chegou a ter problemas com a Guardia Civil andaluza, despertando nos Aiken o desejo de o recambiar para Inglaterra. Até que o milagre aconteceu: no dia 19 de Maio conhece e perde-se de amores por Jan Gabrial, uma bela jornalista norte-americana que estava de férias em Granada (também Yvonne e Geoffrey, de Debaixo do Vulcão, se conheceriam nesta cidade). Jan vai a caminho de Paris (está com um amigo francês), simpatiza com o escritor mas resiste a um romance. Malcolm fica despedaçado, a bebida é o seu refúgio, as autoridades espanholas começam a perder a paciência. No regresso a casa passa por terras lusas, chegando a Londres no final de Maio e ficando vários dias hospitalizado para proceder à desintoxicação de um corpo cheio de aguardente espanhola e, quem sabe, portuguesa.

Em Outubro, Jan, acabada de chegar à capital inglesa, encontra Malcolm casualmente numa sala de espectáculos com o mesmo nome do local onde se haviam conhecido meses antes – o Alhambra Palace. A paixão renasce, desta vez correspondida, acabando triunfalmente e sob o romantismo parisiense em casamento pouco tempo depois, em 6 de Janeiro de 1934. Apesar do casamento, Lowry continua a beber, fazendo com que Jan vá perdendo, gradualmente, a paciência. Estavam casados há pouco mais de um mês quando a mulher parte de férias com uns amigos pela Europa, deixando-o em Paris. Ainda se reencontraram algumas vezes antes de Jan regressar aos Estados Unidos, onde a família a esperava, deixando um marido perdido de álcool e de dor. No entanto, Malcolm não desiste, arrepende-se, considera possível uma reconciliação. Parte para Londres, onde logo apanha um barco para Nova Iorque. Reconquista Jan, alugam um pequeno apartamento em Manhattan e aí vivem juntos durante cerca de um ano.


DO AMOR À LOUCURA, COM O ÁLCOOL PELO MEIO

Em Nova Iorque, Lowry continua a trabalhar num romance que o envolve há alguns anos, In Ballast to the White Sea, e que acabaria por desaparecer no incêndio da sua futura casa em Dollarton (Canadá), tendo sido salvas apenas algumas das mais de duas mil páginas. Pouco se sabe desta obra, o argumento gira à volta da incapacidade de amar e do… alcoolismo, levando-nos, inevitavelmente, a concluir que, tal como acontecera com Ultramarina, o escritor não resiste a colocar no papel as experiências por que passou e a ficcionar, no fundo, a sua própria existência.

Separado mais uma vez de Jan, Malcolm acede a ser internado num hospital para tratamento psiquiátrico. No final de Maio de 1936, após duas semanas de terapia, profundamente impressionado com o que viu, começa a escrever um conto chamado Delirium on the East River. A história trata de um homem com problemas conjugais causados pelo alcoolismo que é internado num hospital psiquiátrico. Mais uma vez, Lowry recorre às suas vivências para fonte de inspiração literária. Como ele trabalhava exaustivamente cada obra, não admira que o conto fosse crescendo e rapidamente se transformasse numa novela. Alguns meses passados daria origem a The Last Address, acabando por assumir, poucos anos depois, o título definitivo: Lunar Caustic.

Em Setembro retoma a relação com Jan Gabrial. Defensores de que a mudança é benéfica, decidem viajar para Los Angeles, onde era fértil o trabalho de guionista e Lowry esperava ser contratado pela MGM. Mas as coisas não correram como esperavam, o trabalho não apareceu, os dólares estavam a acabar. Lembraram-se então de que no México, ali ao lado, a vida era muito mais barata. E quando, no final de Outubro de 1936, o S.S. Pennsylvania aportou em Acapulco, desembarcaram em solo mexicano dois passageiros muito especiais.


MÉXICO!

Chegar ao México em vésperas do Dia dos Mortos é viver uma experiência singular. As ruas estão adornadas com papel colorido recortando caveiras e esqueletos, uma imensidão de vendedores prepara apetitosos tacos, burritos, quesadillas e, sobretudo, tamales, vendem-se flores como nunca, de preferência amarelas, as crianças comem risonhas caveiras de açúcar. Os mariachis tocam com outro vigor entre o rebentamento dos foguetes, as pessoas aderem à festa, a morte sabe a chocolate. Um ambiente destes, com um clima que nada tem do rigor das ilhas britânicas e tão diferente do mundo a que estava habituado, não podia deixar de impressionar e, mais, seduzir Lowry.

Depois de uns dias na capital mexicana, o casal chega a Cuernavaca, alugando uma casa com piscina e jardim na Rua Humboldt, nº 62. A cidade, a recuperar ainda da Revolução, não é grande mas já ganhou a designação de “Cidade da eterna Primavera”, motivando capitalinos (a menos de duas horas de viagem, na época) e turistas norte-americanos a construírem ali a sua casa de férias. E tem outra coisa que muito agrada ao escritor: 57 bares!

Lowry começa aqui a escrever a primeira versão de Debaixo do vulcão, que irá desenvolver durante todo o ano seguinte. Em Dezembro de 1937, Jan abandona-o em definitivo e Lowry vai afogar a dor para Oaxaca, onde, haviam-lhe dito, se faz o melhor mescal. Nesta cidade conhece Juan Fernando Márquez, o amigo mexicano que irá inspirar as figuras do Dr. Vigil e de Juan Cerillo. É muito fácil supor que tenha conhecido todos os lugares onde pudesse molhar a garganta, incluindo, naturalmente, a cantina El Farolito, que transplantará para a literatura. Devido à bebida ou porque foi confundido com um militante comunista gringo, como sustenta, a verdade é que Lowry passa o Natal na cadeia.

Os problemas com as autoridades mexicanas estavam apenas a começar, a polícia começava a reparar no inglês que só bebia e provocava desacatos. A 18 de Março de 1938 expirava o visto que o autorizava a permanecer no país, facto que não preocupou muito Malcolm Lowry. O problema é que, nesse mesmo dia, o Presidente Lázaro Cárdenas nacionalizou as companhias petrolíferas, originando um conflito diplomático com a Inglaterra. A partir dessa data, Lowry estava não só em situação ilegal, como não era, por ser inglês e um bebedor incorrigível, particularmente desejado. Por isso não causou estranheza o facto de meses depois, a poucos dias de fazer 29 anos, ser metido à força num comboio rumo a Nogales, fronteira com os Estados Unidos.


DEBAIXO DO VULCÃO E… MÉXICO, OUTRA VEZ

Em Los Angeles procura Jan, que arranjara entretanto novo companheiro. Através de amigos, conhece uma ex-actriz, Margerie Bonner, com quem casa, indo viver para Vancouver, depois de ter sido expulso dos Estados Unidos. No Canadá alugaram uma pequena cabana junto ao mar. Lowry trabalhará a terceira versão de Debaixo do Vulcão, que o editor Jonathan Cape considera muito espessa e confusa, apesar de ter partes com grande brilhantismo e de grande comoção. Recusada, portanto.

É nessa altura que Malcolm Lowry começa a perceber o que escreve como um projecto mais global, com uma grande ambição literária, a que chamou “A viagem que nunca termina”. À maneira de A Divina Comédia de Dante Alighieri, o projecto assentaria numa trilogia que desse a conhecer o Inferno, o Purgatório e o Paraíso. O Purgatório seria Lunar Caustic; o Paraíso, In Ballast to the White Sea; e o Inferno, Debaixo do Vulcão, naturalmente.

No dia 7 de Junho de 1944 um incêndio destruiu a cabana onde viviam. Correndo risco de vida, Margerie conseguiu salvar a quarta versão do manuscrito e alguns poemas, perdendo-se o resto da obra em que Lowry vinha aos poucos a trabalhar. Aceitam a ajuda de um amigo, que lhes disponibiliza a sua casa em Toronto. É do outro lado do Canadá, mas não havia alternativa. Na noite de Consoada desse ano, Lowry considera acabado o romance em que está envolvido há quase oito anos.

No início do novo ano o casal regressa a Dollarton com o intuito de reconstruir a cabana e em Fevereiro o escritor recebe a notícia de que o pai morrera. Apesar das constantes críticas que Arthur Lowry permanentemente fazia ao filho pela sua opção de vida, não aceitando o facto de ele, ao contrário dos irmãos, preterir o mundo dos negócios, a verdade é que nunca deixou de lhe proporcionar uma mesada de 100 dólares. Em Junho, Lowry envia o manuscrito ao editor, pega no que lhe coube em herança, aplica parte na recuperação da casa e o casal decide viajar até ao México.

Em Dezembro de 1945 está no Hotel Canadá, na Cidade do México, onde anos antes se hospedara com a primeira mulher. Seguem para Cuernavaca, ficando numa casa na mesma Rua Humboldt. Numa viagem a Oaxaca em busca do amigo Fernando, Lowry recebe a notícia de que morrera baleado num bar, algures em Tabasco, para onde o enviara o banco onde trabalhava. A Lowry não resta mais do que homenageá-lo numa obra em que tem vindo a trabalhar, Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend Is Laid, tida como a continuação de Debaixo do Vulcão.

Em Março, o casal decide ir passar uma temporada a Acapulco. As autoridades reclamam a Lowry uma pretensa multa que ficara por pagar aquando da sua primeira passagem pelo México. O casal está sem passaportes, Margerie, temendo perdê-los, deixara-os guardados em casa, em Cuernavaca. Lowry contesta os 50 pesos da infracção, envolve-se num processo kafkiano e, em Maio, acaba de novo por ser expulso de um país que ama profundamente. Antes, a 6 de Abril, recebera uma dupla de boas notícias: tanto Jonathan Cape, em Inglaterra, como a editora norte-americana Reynal and Hitchcock publicariam Debaixo do Vulcão.

O resto pertence, já se sabe, à História. Regressa ao Canadá, à sua casa de Dollarton. Em Nova Iorque, os excessos dos festejos da publicação do livro acabam em internamento. Lowry e Margerie decidem fazer uma viagem pela Europa, que ela não conhecia, e da qual resultam novas hospitalizações em França e Itália. No regresso a casa, Lowry trabalha com a determinação que a pausa na bebida consente. Em 1952 assina um contrato com a prestigiada Random House, o que lhe permite receber uma mensalidade para finalizar, entre outras obras, Lunar Caustic e Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend Is Laid. No dia 27 de Junho de 1957, Margerie e Lowry discutem violentamente. Amedrontada com as ameaças de morte, Margerie passa a noite em casa de vizinhos. Na manhã seguinte, ao entrar em casa, encontrará o corpo do escritor no chão, tendo ao lado uma embalagem de barbitúricos vazia e uma garrafa de genebra em pedaços.


QUAUHNAHUAC HOJE

Se para os amantes da literatura é imenso o legado de Debaixo do Vulcão, o que nos resta da Quauhnáhuac de 1937? Os elementos geográficos, naturalmente, ainda estão lá: O Popocatépetl, ligado pela Passagem de Cortés ao Iztaccíhuatl, repousa adormecido há dois anos, quando se deu a sua última erupção. A cidade perdeu nestes 70 anos muitas das características da obra. As ruas continuam a ser estreitas e sinuosas mas já não são azinhagas de terra batida. O Jardim Morelos ainda é o centro da cidade, os casais apaixonados ainda procuram a cumplicidade da sombra dos louros e ao lado, no Jardim Juárez, no coreto que Porfirio Díaz mandou vir da Europa, podemos ouvir a fanfarra municipal às quintas e domingos. Em frente, o imponente Palácio de Cortés, outrora residência do conquistador construída sobre as ruínas de uma pirâmide, é o mais velho edifício civil do país e alberga hoje o Museu Cuauhnáhuac. Nas paredes do primeiro andar estão alguns dos mais conhecidos murais de Diego Rivera.

O Hotel Casino de la Selva, onde no romance um ano depois o Dr. Vigil e Jacques Laruelle recordam os trágicos acontecimentos, já não existe. Com a proibição do jogo no México, o casino entrou em declínio. Em 2001, a sua iminente destruição suscitou um amplo debate na sociedade mas acabou por ser derrubado para dar lugar a mais um supermercado do grupo Comercial Mexicana. Os murais do hotel de que fala a obra de Lowry estão conservados e integrados no novo Centro Cultural Muros. O caminho-de-ferro também já não serve a cidade. O edifício da estação, longe do centro, junto à grande Avenida Plan de Ayala, e a caminho dos lugares romanceados de Tomalín ou Parían (onde fica o célebre El Farolito), acompanhou a degradação do lugar. Não muito distante, o barranco de Amanalco, onde o corpo de Geoffrey Firmin se perdeu para sempre, continua a intimidar. O Cine Morelos, que exibia o filme Las Manos de Orlac que tanto incomodava o ex-cônsul, ainda funciona, não na Avenida Revolución, que a obra refere e em cujo nº 8 o Dr. Vigil tinha consultório (não há, de resto, memória, em Cuernavaca, de uma rua com esse nome), mas na Avenida Morelos.

O Jardim Borda, casa de Verão do Imperador Maximiliano e onde Emiliano Zapata e Porfirio Díaz deram grandes banquetes, está recuperado e foi posto ao serviço das artes. A poucos metros, na parede da Catedral, Inocêncio III continua a proteger S. Francisco de Assis. Finalmente, a casa onde ficou na segunda viagem, na Rua Humboldt (a mítica Calle Nicaragua), permanece de pé graças aos esforços dos admiradores do escritor em Cuernavaca e da Fundação Malcolm Lowry. Hoje tem o nº 17, em frente termina a Rua Bartolomé de las Casas. Na obra é a casa de Laruelle, que ostenta o célebre “no se puede vivir sin amar”, e nela está instalado o Hotel Bajo el Volcán.

Debaixo do Vulcão é consensualmente considerada uma das grandes criações literárias do século XX. Não é uma obra fácil, a sua leitura não é linear, tendo vários níveis interpretativos, e, porque Lowry era bastante místico, imensas referências ocultas e cabalísticas (a célebre carta a Cape de 2 de Janeiro de 1946 demonstra-o bem), tendo sempre suscitado, também por isso, um amplo e por vezes difícil debate. A Fundação Malcolm Lowry promove o autor e a sua obra, e à sua volta milita um contingente de indefectíveis admiradores nos quatro cantos do mundo. Octavio Paz considera que o tema principal da obra é a expulsão do Paraíso; Lowry, na carta atrás referida, vai mais longe: “Por cada mil escritores que podem criar personagens convincentes até à perfeição apenas um dirá algo de novo sobre o fogo do Inferno. E o que eu digo é algo de novo sobre o fogo do Inferno.” Malcolm Lowry, autor de uma das grandes obras da Literatura, sabia do que falava.

Marcelo Teixeira, Lisboa

DEBAIXO DO VULCÃO

Alguém atirou um cão
morto às profundidades
Malcolm Lowry

I
Malcolm
Lowry: vivo
mal como Lowry,
bebo
bem como Mal-
colm, como
mal como
Malcolm
come:
álcool
Malcolm, al
coolm.
Ó
alcolmalcolm

II
Ó frígida
tequilla
no sopé do vulcão
por onde
o vulnerável cão
do espírito
ladra
e lavra
a essência
recôndita
do álcool:
conte-a
a bebidíssima
exigência

III
do meu
último copo,
sempre o último,
cante-a
o ex-tinto
vulcão
e por instinto
o vulnerável
cão,
ou plante-a
o próprio Lowry,
frágil,
entre lava
e neve:

IV
tépido mescal
para inventar
a mescaligrafia
gémea do som
ou da sombria
pauta musical
onde as notas florescem
em breves,
compactas corolas,
e hastes
que sobem, descem
esguiamente
os degraus
dum jardim,

V
enquanto
os índios passam
depressa
mas de pedra,
ficam
antepondo-se
ao norte
que fabrica
os países
com vidro,
com vinho, com visões
de videiras vitais
debaixo
do vulcão,

VI
ó tépida tequilla,
existe ainda
o amor
e o vulnerável cão
do espírito
que lavra
cada palavra
oculta
por pudor
e a ladra
inutilmente
dentro
da garganta
vazia,

VII
frígido mescal
como um galope
na floresta
de vinho e vidro,
filtro
litro a litro,
animal,
animais,
e mais e só
o dorido espírito
do álcool,
Malcolm,
entre neve
e lava:

VIII
os índios passam,
bebo, ficam,
na sombria
pauta musical,
e o vulnerável cão
do amor
sossega pelo menos
um instante,
enquanto
os índios
sobem, descem
esguiamente
os degraus das pirâmides.

Carlos de Oliveira in Micropaisagem, 1968.

Escritor português, nasceu em Belém do Pará (Brasil) a 10 de Agosto de 1921. Depois de a família regressar a Portugal, vai estudar para Coimbra, em cuja universidade estuda Ciências Histórico-Filosóficas. Nesta cidade estabelece amizade e convívio intelectual e ideológico com Joaquim Namorado, Fernando Namora ou João José Cochofel, também estudantes, que viriam a ser escritores com grande reconhecimento. Tendo por base um olhar neo-realista, combina uma preocupação de intervenção social com um apurado exercício reflexivo do processo da escrita. As suas obras mais conhecidas são Uma abelha na chuva e Finisterra. A sua obra poética está reunida sob o título Trabalho poético. Morreu em Lisboa no dia 1 de Julho de 1981.

Carlos de Oliveira es un escritor portugués nacido en Belém do Pará, Brasil, el 10 de agosto de 1921. Cuando su familia regresó a Portugal fue a Coimbra en cuya Universidad estudió ciencias histórico-filosóficas. Allí estableció amistad y relación intelectual con Joaquim Namorado, Fernando Namora y João José Cochofel, que también eran estudiantes y que llegarían a ser escritores muy reconocidos. Teniendo por base una mirada neo-realista, combina su preocupación de cambio social con un fino ejercicio reflexivo del proceso de escritura. Sus obras más conocidas son Uma abelha na chuva y Finisterra. Su obra poética está reunida bajo el titulo Trabalho poético. Murió en Lisboa el 1 de julio de 1981.

Interview with Chris Ackerley

Q: Where did Lowry live in the first time he came to Cuernavaca?

A: He lived on the other side of the zacualli, near the calle Salazar. In the book it’s close to Maximilian’s house.

Q: Is Yvonne real?

A: We don’t know many things in the volcano because of the day of the death, she has a spiritual dimension, she’s a figure that’s part of this world and part of something else. He lives in a world of his own imagination and Yvonne is real but also she isn’t, maybe his wife who has come back but she may be a figure of the day of the death, because in this day the death people visit de living ones. The perspective is Consul’s one, so we can’t be sure how real this figures are and that includes Yvonne, for us she is real but for him is partly a phantom. He just can’t believe she’s there of in part he doesn’t want to take the responsibility for his drinking.

Q: Where is the Parian and the Farolito, were there such places in real life?

A: My talk was called: the geography of imagination, the real world is changed by Lowry to create a fictional world where many things happen. Firstly Tomalin and Parian do exist, but near Oaxaca, not near Cuernavaca. Secondly there are towns like Amecameca and Tetela which are in the right place near Cuernavaca, so one landscape is yuxtaposed on the other, then we have three problems: Chapultepec is too close, Tomalín and Parian are in Oaxaca and Amecameca and Tetela are too far, but in the right place near the volcanoes and the right distance for the trip in the bus, Tomalin would be Yautepec or Cuautla.

Q: Where was the dying Indian?

A: First the bullthrowing is in Chapultepec, but it’s too close and the dying Indian should be in an isolated place. It’s changed or put farther at about a distance like Yautepec, or an hour’s time journey in the bus, then brings the volcanoes closer and finally names the towns Tomalin and Parian (in real life in Oaxaca, as well as Nochtitlan) which are Tomalín a very small town and Parian a rancheria and the Farolito half an hours walking.

Q: What elements are taken from the Oaxaca landscape into the Quauhnáhuac’s?

A: He brings also the Farolito in Oaxaca to his imaginary world in Parian, as he does with the virgin of Solitude from Oaxaca also.

Q: “Lowry is not describing a place, but constructing one, a Mexico of the mind” says Ronald Walker, what do you say?

A: He is mostly right, but when he constructs a place he has an objective, he didn’t invent things but changed things he saw, Lowry constructs a Mexico of the mind, but it comes from the real one. The interesting thing is how Lowry constructs a “Mexico of the mind” because he always works from something given to create his own fictional world.

Q: What do you think about the Casino de la Selva is being built down to construct a supercenter?

A: It is always tragic when something associated with a great work of literature disappears, but it’s particularly sad how something as important as the Casino de la Selva is replaced by a supermarket.

Q: Did Lowry want to see things from an Indian point of view?

A: No, because the book has no other choice than telling the story from a European perspective because Lowry and the Consul are Europeans in Mexico, but I think Lowry is sympathetic to much of Mexico. However the Consul is very aware that his position in Mexico is compromised and for instance he’s trading in the black market with silver and so several times he sees himself as a modern day conqueror exploiting the country as the Spaniards do and one way to look at his death is as a kind of a sacrifice for that sin or crime.

Q: Is it good that Lowry didn’t write the prologue in which he declared his sympathy to Mexico?

A: It is better not to have a prologue or anything from the author, it’s better to trust the book.

Q: What day was November 2nd 1938?

A: In the book it’s a Sunday 1938. There was a red cross at some point, but again it’s thematic important because the dying Indian doesn’t have help.

Q: Will you still work with the volcano?

A: As a result of the conference and for walking around Cuernavaca again, I want to develop my talk into a monographic book in which I will look at the way these transformations were made. It would be a fascinating study in the creative imagination to see how Lowry constructed his fictional world out of different places of the real one.

Q: “But the name of this land is hell?”

A: First it’s colourful, second, sympathetic to his imagination of a place between heaven and hell to place this battle. Third because many elements of Mexican past shape themselves into a gigantic tragedy of betrayal.

Q: How did you find Cuernavaca, is it very different from 1982?

A: It’s been twenty years since I was last here and I don’t want to pass other twenty years to come again, many things were in 1982 have disappeared. In 1982 I was younger, I didn’t know Lowry’s work that much, coming now has enriched the experience and my understanding of Lowry’s world. He captures that sense of place.

Q: Did you find anything new in this visit?

A: I have found more facts, have corrected many of my earlier mistakes, have a better sense of the physical and the fictional landscape, so the visit has been valuable. I have taken so many other photos and have discovered many other photographs such as the Bella Vista’s in other books and so, I am very thankful to all of you.

Interview with Chris Ackerley
November 2002

Interview with Sherrill Grace

Q: Do you think Lowry could have really finished “The Voyage…” It was a titanic enterprise and it took him nearly 10 years to complete one book.

A: He could have finished it if he has had good health and a stable home. the point is that he had neither. His drinking increased after 1953 when he lost his contract with Random House and he lost his cabin at Dollarton; it was downhill after that and I do not believe he ever established himself properly and productively in England. so, under the real circumstances of his last 7 years or so, the answer is no he was not able to complete it. Remember: he died young and IF he had lived and been well, yes he could have done it.

Q: Was it good for Mexico’s image Lowry didn’t published “La Mordida”?

A: I don't think "Mexico's image" (whatever that is!) would have suffered from La Mordida. I do think it was not ready for publication and would not have helped Lowry's image.

Q: What is the relationship between Lowry and Mexico? Some say he didn’t understand what was going on around him, some others say it was the opposite.

A: Lowry and Mexico is a complex question. He understood some things and did not observe or appreciate others. My view is that he appreciated a deep and complex humanity in Mexico, that he marvelled at the history, the complex layers of culture, and the physical beauty. He also hated the "authorities"—but he hated them everywhere, nowhere more so than in England—which he despised--and in Vancouver which he loved and loathed. Mexico spoke to his own humanity and to his deep sense of fair play, I feel. He saw the country as the victim of some of the worst "white" and European aggression and greed, thus Mexico became for him the perfect stage upon which to castigate western failings, his failings, United States failings, and always —British failings and snobbism.

Q: “But the name of this land is Hell. / It’s not Mexico of course, but in the heart.” What does this mean?

A: It means just what it says: we make our hells ourselves by being cruel, lacking in compassion, by being aggressive, hypocritical, greedy, unforgiving. No se puede vivir sin amar.

Q: Did Lowry believe in reincarnation? I have the impression he had a kind of a personal religion.

A: Not that I am aware. His personal spiritual beliefs were very strong but they were not in reincarnation. He believed in the human spirit, in the natural world, in the best aspects of Christianity—love and forgiveness and gentleness and tolerance.

Q: What did Mexico give him to push him to write such a mystique novel?

A: Mexico stimulated his imagination insofar as it provided the perfect stage for his great drama of suffering and failure—and great promise, always great promise. It placed him at a useful distance from Anglo culture—whether in England or the USA (and god knows he would be critical of Canada when he got here!) —and thereby allowed him to see clearly what was wrong with the world he came from--the West, Europe. Lowry was postcolonial in many ways and despised imperialism, empires, the rape of the so-called 'new world.' The contradictions of Empire were right in his face in Mexico.

Q: After being deported he threw up a curse upon Mexico, it couldn’t have been different, he suffered very much in that process. What do you think?

A: I think his "curse" as you call it was a pose. More Lowryan theatrics. He cursed the ugly bars in Vancouver, the behaviour of his family--philistines as far as he was concerned—etc. etc. Mind you he had a very frightening experience which he had not really sought out--as he certainly had in the 30s, when his constant drinking caused his own trouble.

Q: García Márquez says that one of the authors who influenced him too much was Malcolm Lowry, what do you say about it?

A: Goodness knows what Marquez meant. Possibly he felt that Lowry's vision and style were so strong that —like the armadillo— he would pull a person who came under his influence right along with him. Faulkner has had something of that kind of influence on younger writers, as had Joyce. But in the last analysis Marquez is very different from Lowry, Marquez has his own unique voice so he used and then got away from Lowry's influence.

Q: What do you think about the mystery of his death, did he commit suicide?

A: I think his death may well have been intentional —whether suicide or not I can't say. No one can. We may never know exactly what Margerie's role was on that night but he had been violent towards her in the past —and to Jan— and he was violent that night.

Q: How important was Margerie’s collaboration for the final draft of Under the Volcano?

A: In my view Marjorie was essential to UV and all Lowry's work, perhaps not so much as a collaborator but as a sounding board who could advise him, often very wisely, against longeurs. And she was essential for all the practical aspects of typing and re drafting and revising.

Q: You say that alcohol is a metaphor for “human isolation and collapse of western culture”, what are the main sins or errors of the western culture, does that include abortion?

A: Good grief! What do I think the main sins are? or what do I think Lowry thought they were? see my answers to the above questions #3 and #4. Abortion? why do you ask? Because of the Consul's nasty accusation of Yvonne? You must remember that that kind of vitriol was fairly standard cliched misogyny in Lowry's day. Lowry would have been the worst of all possible parents —he was a child himself always. for myself— of course abortion is not a sin. It is a great sin to bring children into the world and exploit or abuse them or populate the world with starving children. Children deserve to be wanted and cherished and women have the right to have children or not--as they choose.

Q: How important was for Lowry’s vision of Mexico, and for his writing to have had a really close Mexican friend like Juan Fernando Márquez?

A: I cannot answer this because I have no real idea how close a friend this man really was.

Q: What’s the relationship between the landscape and the situation of the feelings of the characters?

A: this is a huge subject and would take hundreds of words to deal with. The four main characters have very different perceptions of the Mexican landscape and they are symbolic as much as experiential.

Q: Was there a moment when Lowry (Firmin) really wanted to become a Mexican subject or is he just using the story of William Blackstone for romantic purposes?

A: No. Blackstone is a thematic motif. He fled so-called gringo civilization because he loathed it. Therefore, he becomes a sign of critique and opposition to that culture.

Interview with Sherrill Grace
Held during The Malcolm Lowry International Colloquium 2002

Interview with Sherrill Grace

Q: Do you think Lowry could have really finished “The Voyage…” It was a titanic enterprise and it took him nearly 10 years to complete one book.

A: He could have finished it if he has had good health and a stable home. the point is that he had neither. His drinking increased after 1953 when he lost his contract with Random House and he lost his cabin at Dollarton; it was downhill after that and I do not believe he ever established himself properly and productively in England. so, under the real circumstances of his last 7 years or so, the answer is no he was not able to complete it. Remember: he died young and IF he had lived and been well, yes he could have done it.

Q: Was it good for Mexico’s image Lowry didn’t published “La Mordida”?

A: I don't think "Mexico's image" (whatever that is!) would have suffered from La Mordida. I do think it was not ready for publication and would not have helped Lowry's image.

Q: What is the relationship between Lowry and Mexico? Some say he didn’t understand what was going on around him, some others say it was the opposite.

A: Lowry and Mexico is a complex question. He understood some things and did not observe or appreciate others. My view is that he appreciated a deep and complex humanity in Mexico, that he marvelled at the history, the complex layers of culture, and the physical beauty. He also hated the "authorities"—but he hated them everywhere, nowhere more so than in England—which he despised--and in Vancouver which he loved and loathed. Mexico spoke to his own humanity and to his deep sense of fair play, I feel. He saw the country as the victim of some of the worst "white" and European aggression and greed, thus Mexico became for him the perfect stage upon which to castigate western failings, his failings, United States failings, and always —British failings and snobbism.

Q: “But the name of this land is Hell. / It’s not Mexico of course, but in the heart.” What does this mean?

A: It means just what it says: we make our hells ourselves by being cruel, lacking in compassion, by being aggressive, hypocritical, greedy, unforgiving. No se puede vivir sin amar.

Q: Did Lowry believe in reincarnation? I have the impression he had a kind of a personal religion.

A: Not that I am aware. His personal spiritual beliefs were very strong but they were not in reincarnation. He believed in the human spirit, in the natural world, in the best aspects of Christianity—love and forgiveness and gentleness and tolerance.

Q: What did Mexico give him to push him to write such a mystique novel?

A: Mexico stimulated his imagination insofar as it provided the perfect stage for his great drama of suffering and failure—and great promise, always great promise. It placed him at a useful distance from Anglo culture—whether in England or the USA (and god knows he would be critical of Canada when he got here!) —and thereby allowed him to see clearly what was wrong with the world he came from--the West, Europe. Lowry was postcolonial in many ways and despised imperialism, empires, the rape of the so-called 'new world.' The contradictions of Empire were right in his face in Mexico.

Q: After being deported he threw up a curse upon Mexico, it couldn’t have been different, he suffered very much in that process. What do you think?

A: I think his "curse" as you call it was a pose. More Lowryan theatrics. He cursed the ugly bars in Vancouver, the behaviour of his family--philistines as far as he was concerned—etc. etc. Mind you he had a very frightening experience which he had not really sought out--as he certainly had in the 30s, when his constant drinking caused his own trouble.

Q: García Márquez says that one of the authors who influenced him too much was Malcolm Lowry, what do you say about it?

A: Goodness knows what Marquez meant. Possibly he felt that Lowry's vision and style were so strong that —like the armadillo— he would pull a person who came under his influence right along with him. Faulkner has had something of that kind of influence on younger writers, as had Joyce. But in the last analysis Marquez is very different from Lowry, Marquez has his own unique voice so he used and then got away from Lowry's influence.

Q: What do you think about the mystery of his death, did he commit suicide?

A: I think his death may well have been intentional —whether suicide or not I can't say. No one can. We may never know exactly what Margerie's role was on that night but he had been violent towards her in the past —and to Jan— and he was violent that night.

Q: How important was Margerie’s collaboration for the final draft of Under the Volcano?

A: In my view Marjorie was essential to UV and all Lowry's work, perhaps not so much as a collaborator but as a sounding board who could advise him, often very wisely, against longeurs. And she was essential for all the practical aspects of typing and re drafting and revising.

Q: You say that alcohol is a metaphor for “human isolation and collapse of western culture”, what are the main sins or errors of the western culture, does that include abortion?

A: Good grief! What do I think the main sins are? or what do I think Lowry thought they were? see my answers to the above questions #3 and #4. Abortion? why do you ask? Because of the Consul's nasty accusation of Yvonne? You must remember that that kind of vitriol was fairly standard cliched misogyny in Lowry's day. Lowry would have been the worst of all possible parents —he was a child himself always. for myself— of course abortion is not a sin. It is a great sin to bring children into the world and exploit or abuse them or populate the world with starving children. Children deserve to be wanted and cherished and women have the right to have children or not--as they choose.

Q: How important was for Lowry’s vision of Mexico, and for his writing to have had a really close Mexican friend like Juan Fernando Márquez?

A: I cannot answer this because I have no real idea how close a friend this man really was.

Q: What’s the relationship between the landscape and the situation of the feelings of the characters?

A: this is a huge subject and would take hundreds of words to deal with. The four main characters have very different perceptions of the Mexican landscape and they are symbolic as much as experiential.

Q: Was there a moment when Lowry (Firmin) really wanted to become a Mexican subject or is he just using the story of William Blackstone for romantic purposes?

A: No. Blackstone is a thematic motif. He fled so-called gringo civilization because he loathed it. Therefore, he becomes a sign of critique and opposition to that culture.

Interview with Sherrill Grace
Held during The Malcolm Lowry International Colloquium 2002

The geography of imagination




First, let me express my pleasure in being here. I was last in Cuernavaca 20 years ago, to gather information for my annotation of Under the Volcano, which was published in 1984 as A Companion to Under the Volcano. [Show copy of the book] I will be interested to note how many things have changed in these past 20 years, and to see what is still here today. One thing my Companion tried to do was to rescue things from Lowry's world before they disappeared into the mists of the past. At the University of British Columbia, in Vancouver, where many of Lowry's manuscripts are kept, there is also a set of photographs taken by a visitor to Cuernavaca in 1949. Some of these I shall show you, as they indicate how quickly a world can be lost.

I have entitled my talk "The Geography of the Imagination in Under the Volcano." I want to look at how Malcolm Lowry transformed the literal landscape of Cuernavaca into the literary landscape of Quauhnahuac. And by "Quauhnahuac" I mean the fictional town of Under the Volcano, something that is the creation of an artistic imagination working upon the world he saw around him, but also transforming it into something else, not simply an artifact but a cosmos, that is, a world with its own imagined unity, its laws and locations, which both reflect our world yet exist independently of it. As we move through these slides, I shall try to depict not only the literal geography, but also the thematic use that is made of it. And because this is a big topic, I shall make reference mostly to Ch. 1. In his "Letter to Jonathan Cape" in 1946, Lowry responded to the charge that the "Mexican landscape was heaped on in shovelfuls". I would say rather, that this chapter more than any other sets in motion the rhythms of the land.

I want to do several things in this talk. Firstly, I will show you a map of the fictional Quauhnahuac. I drew this 20 years ago. Next, I will show some slides that illustrate things in Cuernavaca that Lowry saw and put into his novel. Then, I will discuss other features of Mexico that have become part of the fictional town of Quauhnahuac even though they have come from somewhere else in the real world. Finally, I will look at some of the literary and artistic techniques that Lowry used to create his landscape. I will bring all these things together by following the route that Jacques Laruelle takes in Chapter 1. Let me add that it is a unique experience to do this in the actual town in which the novel was set, and I hope as we walk through the town later that we can verify some of these things.

Firstly, here is Lowry's Quauhnahuac, his fictional town. [Show slide of the town's name]. Most of you will know that the name means in Nahuatl something like "near the trees", or wood, and the glyph depicts a talking tree. The Spaniards corrupted this to "Cuernavaca", or "Cow's Horn". However, the action in Lowry's novel begins at the Casino de la Selva, [slide 2, Casino de la Selva] which Lowry of course associated with Dante's "dark wood", the literary detail works hand in hand with the geographical. Let me show you the map [Display transparency of map on overhead projector]. The thing to note about this is that what we see here is the town of Cuernavaca, but many things have been changed. The map is a mixture of the real town and the fictional town, as we can see if we follow Laruelle after he leaves the Casino. I shall point to the places I mention.

Before we set off, let me show you something that shows how Lowry changed his world. Perhaps I should call it social geography, rather than physical [show anís de mono slide]. You will recall that in the book the label depicts a devil with a pitchfork. You can see here that the original shows a monkey, although he is admittedly he is very demonic. Lowry did something similar to his landscape, that is, he took the original and adapted it to his symbolic purposes.

The first distinct place Laruelle stops at is the station [show slide 4, the Station]. You will see here oil tankers, which is a reminder of the political situation in 1938, when foreign international companies condemned Mexico, and there is even a dog. Laruelle then crosses what were once open fields [point to route on map], but which now are crowded suburbs. Somewhere near here is the brewery, [slide 5, the Brewery]. Notice the tall tree in front of the brewery. [point]. In Chapter 4 the Consul likens the Valley of Mexico to Kashmir, and refers to the "turbaned trees" to make his point. This is one way of linking the geography of Mexico with that of India. He passes a model farm, which has long gone, and goes by the prison, as Hugh and Yvonne will in Ch. 4 [show slide 6, the Prison; point to location on the map]. This is a 1949 photo, but it conveys something of the presence of the prison in the novel, the sense of being watched [point to the mirador]. This was once a park that belonged to Maximilian, but the first chapter shows how the shadow of the prison and brewery now broods over it, and these details in turn enforce the theme of the Consul's drinking, and thus of his inevitable decline. That is, the geography is also historical, and thematic.

Laruelle now visits, he says, the former casa of Maximilian, [point to casa on map]. I took a photo of it in 1982. [show slide 6] It was then a botanical centre and herbal museum. However, Lowry turns it into a ruined palace. He does so very simply, by moving from across town the Borda Gardens [point to map, indicate movement]. In other words, he needed the casa for his story but the setting was not dramatic enough. So he rearranged the features of Curenavaca to meet the demands of his fictional Quauhnahuac. Here are two slides of how it looked in Lowry's time [show slides 8 and 9]. And here is another, taken by me in 1982. [Show slide 10] It has the right depressing tone. but I took the photo because of the bird in the middle. I thought it was a vulture, the first I had seen in Mexico, but it turned out to be a duck.

Here are some photos taken in the Borda Gardens on a previous day of the Dead. [Show slides 11, 12, 13] In the last slide there is a notice. No prizes for guessing what it says. Yes: Le Gusta Este Jardín Que Es Suyo? ⁄Evite Que Sus Hijos Lo Destruyan! Now, this notice was not there in Lowry's time. Rather, he saw one like this in a park in Oaxaca, and he brought it to his Quauhnahuac. He did the same thing with the Farolito. There was a Farolito in Cuernavaca [show slide 14], but Lowry's model was the one in Oaxaca [show slide 15] Oddly, you cannot place the Farolito on the map. Perhaps Lowry had not visualized the geography closely enough. That is, it does not have a physical grounding in the place. And you will not find on this map the Church for the Virgin for those that have nobody with, because that is also in Oaxaca [show slides 16, 17 and 18]. There is no hint in the novel where this church might be. However, the bells heard by the Consul in Ch. 5 come from the cathedral in Cuernavaca [point to place on map]. Lowry's geography of Quauhnahuac is a composite picture, not simply a mirror.

Leaving Maximilian's casa, Laruelle crosses the barranca [show slide 19]. This is the Abyss, Dante's Malbolge, the chasm within the heart of man. This is at the very point where Cortés and his men crossed, as is depicted on the walls of the Cort\és Palace [show slide 20]. When he arrived in Cuernavaca, Lowry found himself in a symbolic landscape perfect for the novel. For example, there were mine shafts of old iron mines beneath the town. Like the barrancas, these could suggest the realms of the demonic, a world with hell below, and heaven above, and a battle for the soul of man somewhere between. This is the world of Marlowe, Milton and Goethe. The volcano is an emblem of this battle. But the volcanoes in Cuernavaca were not quite perfect. They look good in the pictures: Popocatepetl, the warrior prince [show slide 21]; Ixtaccihautl, his bride who died, [show slide 22]; and in this aerial shot an image of both volcanoes, and of the pass over which Cortes came to destroy Tenochtitlán [show slide 23]. However, if you look for the volcanoes you may not find them. Lowry has moved them from the Cerro Tlaloc, 75 kilometers away, much closer to Quauhnahuac, so that they can brood over the town, the snowy peaks symbolising man's aspiration, but the fiery heart an emblem of the Inferno.

Crossing the barranca, Laruelle heads towards the Zócalo, the centre of town. Here, my map is misleading [point to Calle Humboldt]. It reads, the Calle Humboldt, as in Cuernavaca, but in the book it is the Calle Nicaragua. Why did Lowry make this change? I have a curious suggestion, and it concerns volcanoes. The Panama Canal goes through Panama, as you know; indeed, Lowry wrote a story called "Through the Panama". But an alternative proposal was through Nicaragua. This didn't happen, because of a postage stamp from Nicaragua, one that depicted an active volcano and ruined that country's chances. The Calle las Casas [point to map] becomes in the book the Calle Tierra del Fuego. Here the connection with Hell is more clear, through its resemblance to a scorpion. But if you look at the map [point to little side-street], you will see a little road making a detour from the Calle Humboldt to Las Casas. This road does not exist in Cuernavaca. Lowry has added it to the geography of the town for two reasons. Firstly, in Dante's Divine Comedy, the damned always turn to the left, as Lowry's characters do in Chapter 7 when they take this path. Secondly, Yvonne suggests that they should take this path because she wants to AVOID meeting Jacques Laruelle, and instead, by a cruel trick of the gods, they meet Laruelle coming up that path.

Here is the Consul's house [point to map]. This is in the fictional Quauhnahuac. However, in the real Cuernavaca Lowry's bungalow was at the other end of the street [indicate on map]. Why did Lowry make this change? Partly because he wants M. Laruelle to pass by it on his walk, to see the light that has been burning for a year, and to liken the garden to Eden, after the expulsion of Adam; but also because in Cuernavaca this was the wealthy area, the area in which the ambassadors and diplomats owned their residences. Lowry also exaggerates the steepness of the street. [slide 24] As you can see, it is neither steep nor tortuous. Yet Lowry in the novel wishes to draw parallels to the Via Dolorosa, the road to Golgotha, as part of his attempt to mythologize the Consul's sufferings. So, in the fictional town, the road is steeper. In like manner, on the opening page of the novel, the town is said to be on a hill. This is because in books like Pilgrim's Progress that is where truth is said to reside.

Here is Jacques's zacuali. [point to location], the house (now a hotel) in which Lowry stayed when he came back in 1946. Here are two photographs which suggest how it has changed, [slides 25 & 26], and you might like to compare them with the hotel today. "Zacuali" is a curious word. Lowry found it in a book by Louis Spence, a book which discussed the parallels between the myths of the Old World and those of the New. One such myth was the myth of the flood, a myth of destruction. Laruelle's world is also pitched on the eve of destruction, in 1939 as the world is about to explode into war, and his house will not be a refuge. This is where Laruelle and Yvonne committed adultery, and in Chapter 7, inside this very house, Yvonne is suddenly haunted by the thought of aborted babies, a little row of chained statues 3 [show slide 27]. This is part of the Cortés Palace, and the figures are no longer there. I suggest that Lowry's imagination moved them from the Palace, and replaced them inside Laruelle's house, as one of the objects he has plundered from Mexico, but cannot take home to France.

So let us now move down the Calle las Casa towards the Zócalo. But first we must stop at the Cortés Palace [slide 28]. But between 1526 and 1529, just after the Conquest, it consolidated the Spanish hold upon the new territory. As you all know, the balcony of the Palace is covered by the murals of Diego Rivera, depicting the history of Morelos from the pre-Conquest [show slide 29] with scenes of exploitation and brutality, [show slide 30], until the liberation by Zapata, on his white horse. (The photo I took of this in 1982 did not work, so I am back to take another). The conquest functions for Lowry as a metaphor of greed and betrayal; it is fascinating to read Under the Volcano with an awareness of this underlying theme.

I have a number of other slides depicting aspects of the Conquest, from both here and Tlaxcala, if we have a further opportunity to see them. But here are just a few. Firstly, the pyramid at Cholula, the largest in America, [show slide 31] which acts in the book as another mystical link between the Old World and the New World (as you will recall, the Consul is writing a Great Book, and that book of secret knowledge deals with the mystery of Atlantis as a key to understanding. But for Laruelle it signals betrayal. He remembers visiting it with Geoffrey and Yvonne, presumably after the affair but before the Consul had found out about it. But in 1919 Cholula had been the scene of a different betrayal, when Cortés massacred 3,000 Cholulan Indians. The geography, the history of Mexico, and the present day are all part of one giant process of betrayal. Here's another emblem of the same thing. In Chapter 2, as the Consul and Yvonne are climbing this hill which Laruelle has just descended [point to Las Casa on the map], they see signs saying !BOX!, for boxing matches to be held at the Jardín Xicotancatl. There is no such Garden in Cuernavaca. However, a central plaza in the city of Tlaxcala is named after the warrior prince Xicotancatl [slide 32] whose statue dominates the plaza. He too was betrayed and murdered by Cortés. Again, the Jardín Xicotancatl cannot be located on this map, for the good reason that it is not part of the real town, but only the fictional one.

The centre of the town is the Zócalo [point to it on the map]. This is where Yvonne arrives in the morning, in Chapter 2, at the Bella Vista [show slide 33]. This slide is very poor, but you can see the difference between now and then. Yvonne sees there many things which are important to the novel. Here is the little grocery store called "Peegly Weegly", [point to the map], a name that makes Yvonne cry. I do not have a photo of this, and would very much like to get one. But she also sees some things that probably were never there. For example, the ferris wheeel, [show slide 34], perhaps the most important emblem in the novel of the Infernal Machine. Yet in 1982 when I came here this Big Wheel was in a small park, quite some distance from the Zócalo, and I am not sure that it was ever really in the centre of the town. Yvonne also sees an equestrian statue, said to be that of the turbulent Huerta. Now, Huerta is like Díaz, a disgraced politician, and I do not think there is a statue of him anywhere in Mewxico. But on the road in from Mexico City, and some of you may have seen this, as I did in 1982, there is a splendid equestrian statue of Zapata [show slide 35]. I would like to confirm the date that it was erected, but I suspect that, again, Lowry may have moved it from the real location into the centre of the town, where it gains great symbolic force [show slide 36] because the rider Huerta is replaced in Yvonne's imagination by the Consul, another drunk who has disregarded his duty, and in his route to destruction rides over all in his way, as the horse released by the Consul will later ride over Yvonne.

In the novel, Laruelle finally makes his way to the Ciné Morleos, which is said to be directly opposite the Borda Gardens. [show slide 37]. This is curious. In the real Cuernavaca, the Cinema Ocampo was on the Zócalo, but I suspect Lowry wanted to acknowledge the real Borda Gardens, the ruins of which he had moved to the Casa Maximiliano. On the back of the Borda Gardens I found this sign [show slide 38]. It is, of course, a cure for influenza, but Lowry decided to call it an insecticide. I do not know if the sign is still there today. Perhaps we can check this out later.

In the cinema, as you will recall, Laruelle finds the letter from the Consul hidden in the book of Elizabethan plays. This allows him to evoke a different kind of geography, a Northern Paradise which is an escape from the Inferno of Mexico. Here are some images of that vision. Firstly, the cool northern waters near Vancouver, where Lowry wrote most of the novel [show slide 39]; the house that he would build there [slide 40]; the pier [slide 41]; and the fishing-boat with a mast like a giraffe [slide 42]. But eviction from this paradise was never far away, and across the bay was a SHELL oil-refinery [show 43]. The letters S-H-E-L-L could be read at night from where the Lowrys lived, but one day, the story goes, the S was extinguished and the night was filled with a vision of H-E-L-L, Hell. Lowry, even after he left Mexico, remained caught in a vision of damnation, whose monument is this novel.

But one final curiosity. You will see on the map that the road running north from the Zócalo is the Avenida Guerrerro. In the novel it is called the Avenida de la Revolución. It was not until after I left Cuernavaca in 1982 that I appreciated the reason for this change. This is not Lowry's homage to Mexico's Independence, but rather another instance of an important motif. Laruelle began, as did this talk, at the casino de la Selva [indicate on map, and trace the path]; then he walked across the fields to the Casa Maximiliano, he crossed the barranca; then walked up the Calle Nicaragua, past his own house, then past the Cortés Palace and Zócalo, to reach the theatre. Later in the day, in Chapter 8, a bus, perhaps the same one that Laruelle sees in Chapter one, a year later, departs from near the Cortés Palace, and makes its way north, past the old market, and the Quo Vadis funeral parlour, which as you can see is on a different street (it seems that Lowry could not resist changing the street maps to include the detail), and finally going past the Casino de la Selva, and so describing a giant circle, a revolution. Or, to put it another way, Laruelle's walk in 1939, one year later, completes the circle begun in 1938, and brings the book to its conclusion. As I must this talk. Thank you.

Chris Ackerley, Otago University, New Zelanda, 2002

La Geografía de la imaginación


En primer lugar quiero decir que es un placer estar aquí. La última vez que estuve en Cuernavaca fue hace veinte años para reunir información que me sirviera para mis notas a Bajo el volcán, las cuales fueron publicadas en 1984 con el nombre de El compañero de “Bajo el volcán”. Me gustaría investigar cuántas cosas han cambiado en estos veinte años y ver cuáles se han conservado. Algo de lo que mi libro quiso hacer fue rescatar algunas cosas del mundo de Lowry antes de que se perdieran en la bruma del pasado. En la Universidad de British Columbia, en Vancouver, donde se conservan muchos de los manuscritos de Lowry, existe también un grupo de fotografías tomadas por un turista en Cuernavaca en 1949, algunas de las cuales les mostraré, pues ellas indican qué tan rápidamente un mundo completo se puede perder.

He titulado mi ponencia “La geografía de la imaginación en Bajo el volcán” porque me gustaría inquirir sobre cómo Malcolm Lowry transformó el paisaje literal de Cuernavaca en el paisaje literario de Quauhnáhuac. Y con “Quauhnáhuac” me refiero al pueblo ficticio de Bajo el volcán, aquello que es la creación de una mente artística trabajando con el mundo que ve a su alrededor, pero transformándolo también en algo más, no solo un artefacto, sino en un cosmos, es decir, un mundo con su propia unidad imaginaria, sus propias reglas y lugares, que, por un lado refleja nuestro mundo y por otro es independiente del mismo. Mientras viajamos a través de estas fotografías, trataré de describir no sólo la geografía literal, sino también el uso temático que de esta se hace, pero como este es un tema muy amplio, haré referencia principalmente al capítulo I. En su “carta a Jonathan Cape” de 1946, Lowry respondió a los cargos que lo acusaban de que “el paisaje mexicano estaba acumulado a paladas”. Yo diría en cambio que este capítulo, más que cualquier otro, pone en movimiento los ritmos del escenario.

Quiero hacer varias cosas en esta charla. En primer lugar, Mostraré un mapa de la ficticia Quauhnáhuac que dibujé hace 20 años. Luego, mostraré algunas diapositivas que ilustran cosas en Cuernavaca que Lowry vio y puso en su novela. Después discutiré otras características de México que se han convertido en parte de la ficticia ciudad de Quauhnáhuac, aunque hayan venido de algún otro lugar del mundo real. Finalmente, examinaré algunas de las técnicas artísticas y literarias que Lowry usó para crear su paisaje. Analizaré todos estos puntos al mismo tiempo al seguir la ruta que Jacques Laruelle sigue en el capítulo I. Permítanme agregar que es una experiencia única hacer esto en el mismísimo lugar que la novela está ubicada y espero que más tarde, mientras caminemos por la ciudad, podamos verificar algunas de estas afirmaciones.

En primer lugar, tenemos aquí la Quauhnáhuac de Lowry, su ciudad ficticia. La mayoría de ustedes sabe que esto significa en náhuatl algo así como “cerca de los árboles o del bosque”, y el jeroglífico representa un árbol parlante. Los españoles distorsionaron esto en “Cuernavaca”, o “Cuerno de vaca”. Sin embargo, la acción en la novela comienza en el Casino de la Selva que Lowry desde luego asocia con el “oscuro bosque” de Dante, la referencia literaria va de la mano con la geográfica. Permítanme mostrar el mapa. Lo que hay que notar aquí es que lo que vemos es la ciudad de Cuernavaca, pero muchas cosas han cambiado. El mapa es una mezcla de la ciudad real y la de ficción, como podremos ver si seguimos a Laruelle después de salir del Casino. Mostraré los lugares que voy mencionando.

Antes de continuar, permítanme enseñarles algo que demuestra cómo Lowry cambió su mundo. Quizá debo llamarle geografía social en lugar de física. Recordarán que en el libro la etiqueta muestra un diablo con una horca. Como podemos observar aquí, en el original aparece un mono, aunque hay que admitir que es bastante demoníaco. Lowry hizo algo similar con su paisaje, esto es, tomó el original y lo adaptó con fines simbólicos.

El primer punto diferente en el que Laruelle se detiene es la estación del tren. Verán aquí los tanques de petróleo, lo que es un recordatorio de la situación política en 1938 cuando las compañías internacionales condenaron a México, e incluso aparece un perro. Laruelle luego cruza por lo que entonces era campo abierto y que ahora son populosos barrios. En algún punto cercano está la cervecería. Nótese el gran árbol frente a la cervecería. En el capítulo IV el Cónsul relaciona el valle de México con Cachemira y se refiere a los “árboles con turbante” para hacer su comentario. Esto es una forma de relacionar la geografía de México con la de La India. Luego pasa la granja modelo, que desapareció hace mucho tiempo, y pasa por la prisión, tal como Yvonne y Hugh lo harán en el capítulo IV. Esta es una foto de 1949, pero denota un tanto la imagen de la prisión en la novela, la sensación de ser observado. Alguna vez esto fue un parque perteneciente a Maximiliano, pero el primer capítulo muestra cómo las sombras de la prisión y la cervecería ahora se expanden sobre él y estos detalles refuerzan el tema de la forma como bebe el Cónsul y así, su inevitable caída. Esto es, la geografía es a la vez histórica y temática.

Laruelle ahora visita, según dice, la antigua Casa de Maximiliano. Tomé una foto en 1982. Era entonces un jardín botánico y museo de hierbas. Sin embargo Lowry lo convierte en un lugar ruinoso y lo hace de una forma muy simple, trasladando al otro lado de la ciudad el Jardín Borda. En otras palabras, necesita la casa para su historia, pero el escenario no era lo suficientemente dramático. Entonces él, reacomoda las características de Cuernavaca, para cumplir con las demandas de su ficticia Quauhnáhuac. Aquí tenemos dos imágenes de cómo era en tiempos de Lowry. Y aquí hay otra tomada por mí en 1982. Tiene el justo tono depresivo, pero yo la tomé por el pájaro que aparece en medio, creyendo que era un zopilote, el primero que veía en México, sin embargo resultó ser un pato.

Aquí tenemos otras fotografías tomadas en el Jardín Borda un día antes del Día de Muertos. En la última foto hay un anuncio. No hay premio por adivinar lo que dice, sí, “¿Le gusta este jardín que es suyo? / ¡Evite que sus hijos lo destruyan!” Ahora, este letrero no estaba ahí en tiempos de Lowry, en cambio encontró uno como estos en un parque de Oaxaca y lo transportó a su Quauhnáhuac. Lo mismo hizo con El Farolito. Había un Farolito en Oaxaca. Extrañamente, no pueden encontrar el Farolito en el mapa. Posiblemente Lowry no había visualizado la geografía lo suficientemente cerca. Esto es, no tiene una base física en el área. Además no encontrarán en el mapa a “La virgen de los que no tienen a nadie”, porque eso es también en Oaxaca. No hay indicios en la novela de dónde pudiera ubicarse esta iglesia, sin embargo el Cónsul escucha las campanas en el capítulo V, que provienen de la Catedral de Cuernavaca. La geografía que Lowry hace de Quauhnáhuac es una imagen compuesta, no simplemente un espejo.

Dejando atrás la casa de Maximiliano, Laruelle atraviesa la barranca. Este es el abismo, el Malbolge de Dante, la grieta en el corazón del hombre. Este es precisamente el lugar por donde Cortés y sus hombres cruzaron, tal como se muestra en el Palacio de Cortés. Cuando llegó a Cuernavaca Lowry notó que se hallaba entre un paisaje simbólico perfecto para su novela, por ejemplo, había pozos de viejas minas de hierro bajo la ciudad, y al igual que las barrancas, estos podían sugerir el reino de lo demoníaco; un mundo con el infierno abajo, el cielo arriba y la lucha por el alma de un hombre en algún lugar entre estos dos puntos. Este es el mundo de Marlowe, de Milton y Goethe. El volcán es en efecto un emblema de esta batalla, pero los volcanes en Cuernavaca no eran tan perfectos. Se veían bien en las fotos: Popocatépetl, el príncipe guerrero; Iztaccíhuatl, su prometida que muere, y en esta toma aérea la imagen de ambos volcanes y el paso por donde Cortés vino a destruir Tenochtitlán. Sin embargo, si ustedes buscan los volcanes es posible que no los encuentren. Lowry los ha transportado unos 75 kilómetros desde el Cerro Tláloc, trayéndolos mucho más cerca de Quauhnáhuac, de tal manera que pudieran dominar la ciudad; los nevados picos simbolizando las aspiraciones del hombre, pero el furioso corazón un emblema del Inferno.

Cruzando la barranca, Laruelle se encamina hacia el Zócalo, centro de la ciudad. Aquí mi mapa es engañoso, dice “Calle Humboldt”, como en Cuernavaca, pero en el libro es la “Calle Nicaragua”. ¿Por qué hizo Lowry este cambio? Tengo una sugerencia curiosa, y tiene que ver con los volcanes. El Canal de Panamá, como ustedes saben atraviesa ese país; (de hecho Lowry escribió un libro llamado Por el Canal de Panamá), pero una propuesta alternativa era “A través de Nicaragua”, lo cual no sucedió debido a una tarjeta postal que mostraba un volcán activo y esto dio al traste con las aspiraciones de Nicaragua. La “Calle Fray Bartolomé de las Casas” se convierte en el libro en la “Calle Tierra del Fuego”. Aquí la conexión con el infierno es más clara por su parecido con un escorpión. Pero si observan el mapa verán un pequeño atajo para ir de la calle Humboldt a Las Casas. Este camino no existe en Cuernavaca, Lowry lo añadió a la geografía de la ciudad por dos razones. En primer lugar, en la Divina Comedia de Dante, los condenados siempre giran a la izquierda, como los personajes de Lowry lo hacen en el capítulo VII cuando toman este mismo camino. En segundo lugar Yvonne sugiere que deben tomar este camino porque quiere EVITAR, encontrarse con Jacques Laruelle y en cambio, por una cruel trampa de los dioses, encuentran a Lauruelle subiendo por esta calle.

Aquí está la casa del Cónsul. Esta es la ficticia Quauhnáhuac, sin embargo, en la Cuernavaca real, el bungalow de Lowry estaba al otro extremo de la calle. ¿Por qué hizo este cambio? En parte porque quiere que M. Laruelle pase por ahí en su recorrido, para que observe la vela que ha estado encendida por un año y relacionar el jardín con el Edén, luego de la expulsión de Adán; pero también porque en Cuernavaca ésta era el área pudiente, la zona en la que los embajadores y diplomáticos tenían sus residencias. Lowry también exagera la pendiente de la calle, como pueden ver, no está ni tan empinada ni tan tortuosa. Pero Lowry en la novela quiere hacer un paralelo con la Vía Dolorosa, el camino al Gólgota, como parte de su intento por mitificar los sufrimientos del Cónsul. Entonces, en la ciudad ficticia, el camino está más inclinado. De la misma manera que en la primera página del libro se dice que el pueblo está construido en una colina, esto es porque en libros como Viaje del peregrino, de Bunyan, se dice que la verdad reside en ese tipo de lugares.

Aquí está el Zacuali de Jacques, la casa (hoy en día un hotel), en la que Lowry estuvo cuando regresó en 1946. Aquí tenemos dos fotografías que sugieren cómo ha cambiado y me imagino que les gustaría compararlas con el hotel actual. “Zacuali” es una palabra curiosa y Lowry la encontró en un libro de Louis Spence, obra en la se discuten los paralelismos entre los mitos del Viejo Mundo y los del Nuevo. Uno de esos mitos es el del diluvio, un mito de destrucción. El mundo de Laruelle también está justo en los albores de la destrucción, en 1939 el mundo está a punto de estallar en guerra y su hogar no será un buen refugio. Es aquí donde Laruelle e Yvonne cometen adulterio y en el capítulo VII, dentro de esta misma casa, Yvonne de pronto se aterroriza por imágenes de fetos que están siendo abortados, una pequeña línea de estatuas encadenadas. Esto es parte del Palacio de Cortés y las figuras ya no están ahí. Sugiero que la imaginación de Lowry las transportó del Palacio y las colocó dentro de la casa de Laruelle, como uno de los objetos que ha hurtado de México, pero que no podrá llevar a Francia.

Entonces movámonos ahora por la calle de Las Casas hacia el Zócalo, pero primero debemos detenernos en el Palacio de Cortés. Entre 1526 y 1529, justo después de la conquista, éste consolidó el dominio de los españoles sobre los nuevos territorios, como ustedes saben, el balcón del palacio está rodeado por murales de Diego Rivera, que describen la historia de Morelos desde antes de La Conquista, con escenas de explotación y brutalidad, hasta la liberación por parte de Zapata, en su caballo blanco (la foto que tomé de esto en 1982 no funcionó, por ello aprovecharé para tomar una nueva). La conquista funciona para Lowry como una metáfora de la codicia y la traición, y resulta fascinante leer Bajo el volcán teniendo en mente la importancia de esto. Tengo bastantes otras fotos que muestran aspectos de la Conquista, de aquí y de Tlaxcala, si tenemos más adelante oportunidad de verlas, pero aquí tienen algunas. En primer lugar, la pirámide de Cholula, la más grande de América, que funciona en el libro como otra conexión mística entre el Viejo Mundo y el Nuevo (como recordarán, el Cónsul está escribiendo un Gran Libro), y ese libro de la sabiduría secreta trata del misterio de la Atlántida como una clave para el entendimiento. Pero para Laruelle esta pirámide simboliza la traición. Recuerda haberla visitado con Geoffrey e Yvonne, presumiblemente después del encuentro con ésta, pero antes de que el Cónsul lo descubriera. Sin embargo en 1919 Cholula había sido escenario de una traición diferente cuando Cortés masacró 3,000 indios originarios de esa ciudad. La geografía, la historia de México y el día de hoy, son parte de un gran proceso de traición. Aquí tenemos otro emblema de lo mismo. En el capítulo 2, mientras el Cónsul e Yvonne van subiendo por esta colina que Laruelle acaba de descender, ven un anuncio que dice “¡Box!”, que invita a una pelea que habrá en el Jardín Xicotencatl. No hay ningún Jardín con ese nombre en Cuernavaca. En cambio, una plaza céntrica en la ciudad de Tlaxcala fue nombrada en honor del príncipe y guerrero Xicotencatl, cuya estatua domina la plaza. Él también fue traicionado y asesinado por Cortés. Una vez más el Jardín Xicoténcatl no puede ser localizado en este mapa, por la sencilla razón de que no forma parte del pueblo real, sino del ficticio.

El centro de la ciudad es el Zócalo. Aquí es donde Yvonne llega en la mañana, en el capítulo II, en el Bella Vista. Esta foto es bastante mala, pero pueden apreciar la diferencia entre entonces y ahora. Yvonne ve muchas cosas ahí que son importantes para la novela. Aquí está la pequeña dulcería llamada “Peegly Weegly”, un nombre que hace llorar a Yvonne. No tengo una foto de esta y me gustaría mucho conseguir una. Pero también ve algunas cosas que probablemente nunca estuvieron ahí, por ejemplo, la rueda de la fortuna, quizá el símbolo más importante en la novela de la máquina infernal. Sin embargo, cuando estuve aquí en 1982, esta enorme rueda estaba en un pequeño parque, a una distancia considerable del zócalo y no estoy seguro de que alguna vez haya estado en el centro de la ciudad. Yvonne también ve una estatua ecuestre, se dice que es la del turbulento Huerta. Ahora, Huerta, al igual que Díaz, es un político caído en desgracia y no creo que haya ninguna estatua de él en ninguna parte de México. Pero en la carretera que viene de la Ciudad de México, y seguramente ustedes la han visto al igual que yo en 1982, hay una espléndida estatua de Zapata. Me gustaría confirmar la fecha en que fue erigida, pero supongo que una vez más Lowry la ha trasladado hasta el centro de la ciudad, donde adquiere una gran fuerza simbólica porque el jinete Huerta es sustituido en la imaginación de Yvonne por el Cónsul, otro borracho que ha incumplido su responsabilidad y en su camino hacia la destrucción va arrollando todo, al igual que el caballo liberado por el Cónsul lo hará sobre Yvonne.

En la novela, Laruelle finalmente toma el camino hacia el Cine Morelos, el cual se dice que está directamente frente al Jardín Borda. Esto es curioso, en la Cuernavaca real, el cine Ocampo estaba en el Zócalo, pero sospecho que Lowry quería hacer un reconocimiento al Jardín Borda, ruinas que había trasladado hasta la Casa de Maximiliano. En la parte trasera del Jardín Borda encontré este signo. Es desde luego un remedio para la influenza, pero Lowry decidió que era un insecticida, no sé si el anuncio este aún ahí, pero quizá lo podamos investigar más adelante.

En el cine, como recordarán, Laruelle encuentra la carta del Cónsul escondida en el libro de obras isabelinas. Esto lo ayuda a evocar un tipo de geografía distinta, un Paraíso al norte que representa el escape de Inferno de México. Aquí tenemos algunas imágenes de esa visión. En primer lugar, las frías aguas de Vancouver, donde Lowry escribió la mayor parte de la novela, la casa que construiría ahí, el rompeolas y la lancha de pescar con su mástil como jirafa. Pero la expulsión de este paraíso nunca fue una posibilidad remota y al otro lado de la bahía había una refinería de SHELL. Las letras de S-H-E-L-L se podían observar en la noche, pero un día, dice la leyenda, la letra S se apagó y la oscuridad se vio invadida con una visión del infierno (H-E-L-L). Lowry, aun después de salir de México, continuó siendo perseguido por la idea de la condenación, cuyo monumento es esta novela.

Una última curiosidad. Cómo verán en el mapa, el camino que va hacia el norte desde el Zócalo es la Avenida Guerrero. En la novela se llama Avenida de la Revolución. No fue hasta que dejé Cuernavaca en 1982 que descubrí la razón de este cambio. No es el homenaje de Lowry a la independencia de México, sino otra instancia de un motivo importante. Laruelle comenzó su camino, al igual que esta charla, en el Casino de la Selva, luego caminó por el campo hasta la Casa de Maximiliano, cruzó la barranca, subió por la calle Nicaragua, pasando por su propia casa, y luego pasó el Palacio de Cortés y el Zócalo hasta llegar al cine. Más entrada la tarde, en el capítulo VIII, un autobús, tal vez el mismo que Laruelle ve en el primer capítulo un año después, parte de algún lugar cercano al zócalo, toma el camino hacia el norte, pasa por el antiguo mercado y la funeraria “Quo Vadis”, que como pueden ver, está en una calle diferente. Parece que Lowry no pudo resistir la tentación de cambiar el mapa para incluir el detalle. Y finalmente sigue el camino hacia el Casino de la Selva y, de esta manera, describiendo un enorme círculo, una revolución, o, para decirlo de otra manera, el paseo de Laruelle en 1939, un año después, completa el círculo comenzado en 1938 y lleva el libro a su conclusión. Al igual que a esta charla. Gracias.

Chris Ackerley, Universidad de Otago, Nueva Zelanda, 2002

Traducción de Alberto Rebollo

Lowry & Debussy

“One serious intention was to write a work of art—after a while it began to make a noise like music, when it made the wrong noise I altered it—when it seemed to make the right one, finally, I kept it.” (Lowry, SC II 210)

This is a remark made by Malcolm Lowry in his long spectacular letter of January 1946 to his publisher in England, Jonathan Cape, but it is not the only moment in this letter when Lowry talks about Under the Volcano in terms of other arts than writing. Elsewhere in this letter, he tells Cape that his novel can be regarded as a kind of symphony, or in another way as a kind of opera—or even a horse opera. . . . It is a prophecy, a political warning, a cryptogram, a preposterous movie, and a writing on the wall. It can even be regarded as a sort of machine. (Sursum Corda I, 506)

Over the years, I have often pondered the synergy between Lowry and the other arts, and I have tried to trace his awareness of the sister arts and to locate other artists’ responses to him. But I continue to find new examples of both types of cross-artistic activity in popular and high-brow culture, and I continue to be somewhat dissatisfied with the explanations I have come up with to date. Therefore, when I was asked to participate in this conference, I decided to explore further some of my thoughts and speculations about Lowry and one particular confrère—Claude Debussy.

As my opening quotation makes clear, Lowry was deeply attuned to music and to the musical possibilities of language and narrative form. He played music, loved jazz, and followed classical music closely, listening regularly (when he could) to “Saturday Afternoon at the Opera,” and attending concerts and opera. He was, so the story goes, listening to Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring on the night he died. Contemporary “white” jazz was important to him, as the many references to Bix Beiderbeck, Ed Lang, and Joe Venuti in Volcano and Lunar Caustic demonstrate, and Lowry scholars have examined his use of jazz arguing for music/text analogies as well as tracing references (Epstein). Moreover, Lowry puts popular songs, hymns, and the round “Frère Jacques” to structural uses in all his work. For example, the children’s round is a key intertext in Volcano, and, in “Through the Panama” from Hear us O Lord from heaven thy dwelling place—the very title comes from the Manx fisherman’s hymn that is reproduced at the beginning of the volume—Frère Jacques functions as a leitmotif, a verbal/visual cue, and a thematic reference point. In a recent essay, Mathieu Duplay has pushed the musical mapping still further by examining Lowry’s references to opera, notably to Gluck, and by arguing for the importance of the “operatic paradigm” to our understanding of his prose (165). References to classical music and to composers are omnipresent in his work, from Gluck, Mozart, and Bach, to Alban Berg (notably Wozzeck in “Forest Path to the Spring”), Wagner, and Debussy. More often than not, Lowry’s references to operas are to works with themes that resonate for him; thus, Wozzeck is about marital infidelity and a husband’s murder of the thing he loves; Parsifal, with its dangerous, seductive Kundry and its search for the Grail, provides Lowry with a rich source of symbols and allusions in October Ferry to Gabriola, and references to Mozart, especially The Magic Flute, serve to underscore the magical or even cabbalistic aspects of life in Under the Volcano.

But a study of Lowry and music could well be a book, and I want to single out just one example of Lowryan musicality, an example that is not primarily a thematic influence or the source of some particular symbol or intertext. The comparison I want to make is between Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande and Lowryan narrative in Under the Volcano. I believe it is possible to argue that this particular opera demonstrates a special interrelationship of orchestration with dialogue/voice that is analogous with Lowry’s narrative form in all his fiction, but I will limit my comparisons to Volcano. First the opera.

Pelléas et Mélisande premiered in Paris in 1902. It took Debussy nine years to complete and it is based on Maeterlinck’s symbolist play. We know that Lowry was not only familiar with this work but that in September 1944, while staying in Ontario, he and Margery attended the Toronto premiere of Pelléas et Mélisande. In a letter to friends (Sursum Corda I, letter 198), Lowry writes that “in order to reestablish our awareness of reality, we . . . made an enormous pilgrimage [to Toronto] to see—what but Pelleas and Melisande [sic]?” In one sense this reference to “reality” is an in-joke; Lowry knows full well that this opera is anything but verismo. But there is another sense in which Lowry is not joking. He and Margery were in Ontario in the fall of 1944 because their little home on the foreshore at Dollarton had burned down, taking with it all their possessions and many of his manuscripts; to attend an opera was, for Lowry, a way of restoring some sense of order and reality to his otherwise shattered life. Predictably, Lowry was impressed with the opera’s themes of jealousy, betrayal, lost love, death, and darkness, and in an allusion to Volcano he tells his friends that he and Margery listened to the opera “in the middle of a dark wood, in the Massey Hall” (SC I, 464). I am certain that the many other parallels between the two works could not have escaped him: the love triangle (two half-brothers and a woman they both love); the ambiguous, troubled background of the woman; the strategic importance of the number 12; the rearing horse, the storms and forest; the view down into an abyss; flight through a dark wood ending in death; the crucial importance of silences; the cyclic imperative of the plot; the symbolic values of the characters; and the shifting scenic structure of scene and counter-scene that focusses on a single or a shared perspective.

Lowry goes on in this letter to comment on what I see the deeper significance of this opera for him: he quotes two passages from the libretto as examples of “Debussey’s [sic] whole tone harmonies expressing such words” as Mélisande’s question—“Where are you going?”—and Golaud’s response—“I do not know . . . I am lost also” (SC I, 464). [1st music clip Act 1, scene 1 CD........] Whether he had simply read the program notes or had immediately grasped something unique about this opera, Lowry’s attention was drawn by its form, the relationship between music and words that has made this work so unique and influential in the 20th century (see Nichols and Smith). Central to that form (what Osborne has called the intimate “music-drama,” 10) is Debussy’s subordination of the words to “continuous symphony”; he argued that “People sing too much” in operas, and he wanted “short librettos, shifting scenes . . . diverse in setting and mood; characters not arguing, submissive to life, fate” (Porter 11). Silences are crucial to the opera, and the characters are elusive, symbolic, rarely connecting with each other in realistic, or even dramatically motivated ways. The mood, the mystery, and the sense of fate overhanging the somewhat abstract, minimal plot, are primarily conveyed through the music. It is Debussy’s music that talks to us, that tells us a story we can feel but never quite pin down.

Much the same can be said of Volcano (and Hear us O Lord), where characters and plot are fully subordinated to the continuous musical textures of Lowry’s metaleptic prose narration (exposition, description, imagery, symbolic tonalities, rhythmic phrasing, character motifs, onomatopoetic word choices, etc). Indeed, Lowry defended himself against charges that his character drawing was weak by insisting that he had “not exactly attempted to draw characters . . . there just isn’t room . . . the character drawing is not only weak but virtually nonexistent . . . the four main characters being intended, in one of the book’s meanings, to be aspects of the same man, or of the human spirit” (SC I, 500-501). Thus, in chapter 2, [transparency # 1] when Geoffrey and Yvonne are reunited and as they return to their home, we do not learn more about who they are and why they are seemingly estranged because they do not talk to or with but past each other in brief phrases, incompleted sentences, and silent gestures (which Lowry indicates with gaps and dashes):
“It’s a pity because—but look here, dash it all, aren’t you terribly tired,

Yvonne?”

“Not in the least! I should think you’re the one to be—“

— Box! Preliminar a 4 Rounds. EL TURCO (Gonazalo Calderón de Par.
de 52 kilos) vs. EL OSO (de Par. de 53 kilos).

“I had a million hours of sleep on the boat! And I’d far rather walk, only—“

“Nothing. Just a touch of rheumatiz.—Or is it the sprue? I’m glad to get the
circulation going in the old legs.”

— Box! Evento Especial a 5 Rounds, en los que el vencedor pasará al
grupo de Semi-Finales. TOMÁS AGUERO (el Invencible Indio de
Quauhnahuac de 57 kilos, que acaba de llegar de la Capital de la
República). ARENA TOMALÍN. Frente al Jardín Xicotancatl.

“It’s a pity about the car because we might have gone to the boxing,”
said the Consul, who was walking almost exaggeratedly erect.

“I hate boxing.”

“—But that’s not till next Sunday anyhow . . . I heard they had some
kind of bull-throwing on to-day over at Tomalín.—Do you remember—“

“No!” (Volcano 54)

Their fragments of speech are surrounded, carried away, lost amidst the portentous signs of aggression pressing in on all sides from an external world over which they have no control.

Dialogue in both works is basic, stripped down, and overpowered by the surrounding textuality. This subsuming of speech (represented speech in the novel; sung, emboded speech in the opera) occurs in other ways to—for example, through what I will call interludes. Consider this scene from chapter 2 of Volcano: when Geoffrey tries to make love with Yvonne as a gesture towards reconciliation, we are not given a description of the action or any dialogue between the husband and wife. Instead we have a very long prose interlude that conveys the emotion and thought of the Consul in hesitant phrases, long, right-branching, metaleptic sentences, and clauses that halt and then move forward only to stop abruptly against the punctuation (colons, long dashes, and ellipses). [transparency # 2]

But he could feel now, too, trying the prelude, the preparatory nostalgic phrases on his wife’s senses, the image of his possession, like the jewelled gate the desperate neophyte, Yesod-bound, projects for the thousandth time on the heavens to permit passage of his astral body, fading, and slowly, inexorably, that of a cantina, when in dead silence and peace it first opens in the morning, taking its place. It was one of those cantinas that would be opening now, at nine o’clock: and he was queerly conscious of his own presence there with the angry tragic words, the very words which might soon be spoken, glaring behind him. This image faded also: he was where he was, sweating now, glancing once—but never ceasing to play the prelude, the little one-fingered introduction to the unclassifiable composition that might still follow—out of the window at the drive, fearful himself lest Hugh appear there . . . (Volcano 92)

It is no accident that Lowry’s governing trope for his prose style at this point is, in fact, music. However, his medium is words and what follows is an evocation of the cantinas, with their sights and coarse sounds, that culminates in a stunning visual image—not of physical tenderness or sexual ecstasy but of the sunlight “falling like a lance straight into a block of ice” (93)—from which we must infer what is never presented, never stated, never embodied in the common modalities of fiction:

Debussy achieves a strikingly similar effect with his orchestral interludes which interrupt the dialogue but also continue the story in music and create a musical bridge between one scene and the next. For an example of what I mean, consider the closing speeches of Pelléas and Golaud from Act 3, scene 1, followed by the Interlude, and then the opening of the next scene with Pelléas and Golaud: [music clip 2—CD .....] In this so-called Rapunzel scene, Pelléas and Mélisande have been flirting at night; she has leaned from her tower window as he waits below; her long hair has fallen down and he catches it, refusing to release her. Suddenly Goloud enters; he is angry and calls them careless children. Speech stops abruptly, and the scene gives way to a gradually darkening orchestral interlude in which Debussy repeats motifs and phrases from earlier in the score. When the interlude ends we hear Golaud and Pelléas as they begin a frightening scene.

In both the novel and the opera, two characters confront each other before and after the interlude; there is great tension between them and a host of unspoken/sung explication, exposition, etc which the reader/listener must get, as it were, from the cadences, motifs, verbal and musical themes. Narrative meaning is evoked, suggested, implied, but not spelled out in extra chatter. Personally, I find this indirection, if that’s what it is, to be profoundly moving, haunting, and dramatic, as if larger forces—the fates, the gods—were controlling the story quite apart from what the characters think, say, or do.

For my third and final comparative example, I want to return to dialogue. In chapter 9 of Volcano, when Geoffrey and Yvonne have their one brief moment of rapprochment, it is conveyed in snatches of dialogue (strangely reminiscent, to my ears, of those passages from the libretto of Pelléas et Mélisande that Lowry quoted in his 1944 letter, or of the love scene between Mélisande and Pelléas in Act 4) their comments are pitched against the descriptions of tedium, silences, sudden bursts of noise, and the violence of the bull ring, which overwhelm and nullify the dialogue and any action that might—in other novels—follow from such a moment. Here is Lowry’s text: [transparency #3]

“Yvonne?”

“Yes, darling?”

“I’ve fallen down, you know . . . Somewhat.”

“Never mind, darling.”

“. . . Yvonne?

“Yes?”

“I love you . . . Yvonne?”

“Oh, I love you too!”
(Volcano 279)

And here is Debussy’s: [music clip #3—CD Act 4, scene 4.....]

My colleague, musicologist Vera Mizcnik, describes this moment as “the emptiest, lowest point in the drama.” The very same could be said of the hurried snatch of conversation between Yvonne and Geoffrey. And yet, it is a crucial moment in both texts; time is running out for both couples; the forces of death and darkness are rushing forward (Golaud approaching through the forest and the glasses of mescal lurking in the opening words of chapter 10); if this turning point is not seized, then all will be lost—as indeed it is. Pelléas will be killed/Geoffrey will drink those mescals; Mélisande will flee through a dark wood towards her death/Yvonne will stagger through a dark wood and be trampled to death just as Geoffrey is being shot. Love, in both texts, is doomed. Death and darkness prevail.

What I am trying to isolate through my three comparative examples—characterization through fragmented, silenced dialogue; prose or orchestral interludes; and the anti-dramatic crises—is not so much what is happening in the novel or the opera, but how it is being made to happen in words and music. The opera helps me to appreciate what Lowry was doing and why, for example, readers who expect characters in a novel might be critical or readers who want clear narrative action and motivation might be frustrated. The opera helps me to hear what the prose is and is not doing. By the same token, Under the Volcano has helped me appreciate Pelléas et Mélisande, an opera I initially found difficult, remote, intellectual, abstract). I came to it attuned to bel canto and verismo, but seeing it through Lowryan lenses helped me to stop missing arias, duets, and sung story. I realize that there are some large questions hovering over all I have said thus far—questions about the status and value of comparisons like this, questions about modernism and tradition, questions about how we derive meaning from words or music—but I am, mercifully, running out of time and must end.

I wish I could end this brief analysis with a discussion of an opera based on Lowry and his work. But I cannot. If such a work exists, I am unaware of it. The closest thing I know is Graham Collier’s jazz cantata The Day of the Dead. I can imagine such an opera, however, and it might be a bit like Gounod’s Faust, with its myth, magic, and temptations, and a bit like Bartok’s Bluebeard’s Castle, with its dark world of death and entrapment that images contemporary existence, and certainly a lot like Pelléas et Mélisande, where symbolism and orchestration carry an otherwise minimal plot, heightened but stripped down dialogue, and two-dimensional, fated characters. It would be set—absolutemente necessario—in Mexico and staged against a stylized set of the volcanoes. The soprano would end up dead—which must happen in opera—the tenor would die broken-hearted, and the baritone, not an outright villain—for neither Debussy nor Lowry created such villains—would suffer in darkness and fail. And the opera would end—as does Pelléas et Mélisande, as does Under the Volcano—with a reminder that the entire cycle will begin again: “Il faut qu’il vive, maintenant, à sa place. C’est au tour de la pauvre petite,” says Arkel; “Over the town, in the dark tempestuous night, backwards revolved the luminous wheel._______________________________” (Volcano 43).

My study of Lowry’s interest in the arts began in the late 70s with an exploration of his debt to expressionist film (see Grace, 1978, and Regression and Apocalypse). From this I moved to painting (see Grace 1990) and then theatre (Grace 2000). Others have paid considerable attention to Lowry’s love of music, especially jazz (see Epstein, and Collier) and, most recently, opera (see Duplay). My initial thoughts about Lowry and Debussy began when I was the Malcolm Lowry Professor, in Mexico, for 2000, and presented a lecture on “Lowry and the Sister Arts.”

It is a special pleasure to thank my colleagues Bryan Gooch, Vera Micznik, and Paul Stanwood for their assistance with Debussy’s opera. My thanks as well to Florence Hayes, Music Division, the National Archives of Canada, for locating production details for the Toronto premier of Pelléas and Mélisande in Massey Hall on 21 September 1944: Wilfrid Pelletier directed the Metropolitan chorus, with Bidu Sayao as Mélisande, Martial Singher as Pelléas, and Lawrence Tibbett as Golaud.

Sherrill Grace, UBC, 2002