There is a romanticized image of the quixotic Latin American revolutionary who places the ideals of equality and freedom above all else, willing (even eager) to fight and die at the hands of their capitalist enemies. Everything justified by the cause, zero tolerance of abuse, the class war must be armed and fought in the streets. This revolutionary, argues Mario Vargas Llosa in various ways throughout Sables y utopias, is as dangerous as its antithesis, the corrupt military dictator; it is a stance that has distanced him from the Latin American left over the course of his career, but one that is worth taking the time to understand.
MVL condemns the hypocrisy inherent in the view that the violence of another group is evil, while violence for one’s own cause is merely a means to an end. He values freedom above all else, and sees democracy as the best available system to ensure it. He cherishes the rule of law, art and culture, reason and individualism. He sees all forms of collectivism as a threat to freedom. For most of his career, the collectivist danger took the form of fascism and communism; today, it is nationalism and religious fundamentalism. MVL’s political thought as presented in this book—especially mid-career—holds itself above party politics and manages to firmly adhere to the principle of openness above all else. In the best essays of the book, he has the ability to honestly interrogate political questions on a moral plane and to invite the reader to leave their comfortable zones of “left” or “right;” he is a thinker you must be willing to actively engage with.Latin America has been characterized by artistic genius and political turmoil, and both are arguably symptoms of the same utopian tendencies. In the final section of the book, which comprises essays on Latin American literature and art, Vargas Llosa writes of Jose Lezama Lima that, like Proust, Joyce, or Flaubert, he set for himself the impossible goal, “to enclose in a book an entire world that isin itself endless, to imprison something that has no beginning and no end.” It is, intentionally, an impossible proposition, destined to fail, the result of grand artistic ambition and the futile search for transcendence. Yet it has inspired great novels like Lezama Lima’s Paradiso, Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake, and Musil’s The Man Without Qualities; one could also include here some of Vargas Llosa’s own best novels. But, when this futile quest for universality is taken out of the creative realm and into the political one, it can inspire disastrous ideologies that permit violence, poverty, corruption and greed. Vargas Llosa includes ideology among the great diseases of Latin America; he renounces, in fact, all ideology, and asks only that society agree on “rules of the game” that will allow dissent and diversity to peacefully coexist.
The essays in the book are organized first in five thematic sections, then chronologically within each section. The first part, “The Plague of Authoritarianism,” begins with a largely autobiographical essay that tells of MVL’s relationship with Peru as he matured politically. Many of the essays in this section are letters or articles protesting censorship or the denial of freedoms: a protest of General Juan Velasco’s shuttering of the magazine Caretas in Peru in 1975; a letter to Argentina’s president Jorge Videla in 1976 informing him that PEN International (of which MVL was president) would be publishing its report “The Persecution of Artists, Intellectuals and Journalists in Argentina;” a remonstrance to both Alberto Fujimori for closing Peru’s congress and the fearful Peruvian citizenry who resigned itself to his decision (“Return to Barbarity?” 1992). “Toward a Totalitarian Peru” (1987) is a reaction to Alan Garcia’s decision to nationalize Peru’s banks: “There is no democracy that can survive such an exorbitant accumulation of economic power in the hands of political power.” His essay written on the occasion of Pinochet’s death, “Funeral for a Tyrant,” is a particularly meticulous refutation of those who continue to argue that Chile’s prosperity and stability came because Pinochet was willing to “make the necessary sacrifices.” MVL emphasizes that Chile’s prosperity didn’t happen because of Pinochet’s bloody dictatorship, but rather in spite of it: “Because there is no real progress without freedom and legality, or without clear support for reforms from a public convinced that the sacrifices being asked for are necessary if they want to emerge from stagnation.” Adroitly, he manages here to both condemn Pinochet’s military dictatorship and to criticize Allende’s government, which, although democratically elected with 33% of the vote, imposed extreme socialist reforms with less than majority support.
Ever present in this book is Vargas Llosa’s disillusionment with the Cuban experiment, and its second part, “The Rise and Fall of Revolutions,” is where we see this process documented. In 1967 MVL wrote “Chronicle of Cuba” (I) and (II). In the first, he acknowledges the many problems the new country faced, but was optimistic about its future precisely because of the regime’s fomentation of culture and of tolerance of dissent: “Cuba has demonstrated that Socialism is not at odds with creative freedom.” In the second, he relates his visit to Cuba, where he and other visiting artists met a Fidel Castro who impressed with his willingness to answer questions and admit mistakes. MVL argues for fair-mindedness in criticism of Cuba: “The Cuban revolution can be subjected to much criticism, but it is immoral and intolerable for dissenters or enemies of the revolution to omit… its countless, overwhelming successes.”
This optimism changed in 1971, as it did for many socialist intellectuals who were invested in the Cuban revolution, when Castro forced Heberto Padilla to sign a “confession” and to publicly renounce his book. MVL penned a letter, signed by dozens of international writers and artists, asking Castro to rectify the situation (“Letter to Fidel Castro”). In “Letter to Haydee Santamaria” (1971) he informs the director of the Casa de las Américas that he is resigning from its magazine’s committee, saying Fidel’s treatment of Padilla was “the negation of what made me embrace the Cuban revolution’s cause from the start: its decision to fight for justice without losing respect for the individual.” His disillusionment with socialism and the conviction born of it—that social justice cannot be accompanied by loss of freedom—is one that he has maintained ever since. In “Nicaragua at the Crossroads” (1985), MVL seems to still not have given up hope that some form of socialism was viable. He is fairly tolerant of both the Sandinistas’ oppressive tactics and their willingness to compromise their philosophy in order to remain in power. This comfort stems from the hope that the Sandinistas’ Marxism will evolve into something better, “because it is a tragic fact that freedom and equality have a harsh and antagonistic relationship. True progress is not reached by
sacrificing one of these impulses…but rather by achieving a tense equilibrium between these two ideals that repel each other intimately. But, until now, no socialist revolution has managed this.” “The Good Terrorists” (1998), takes issue with the U.S. media’s portrayal of the MRTA in Peru as moderate terrorists in comparison with Sendero Luminoso. “The Other Side of Paradise” (1998) takes on the Zapatistas and Subcomandante Marcos, whose spectacle of revolution only confused and slowed down Mexico’s democratization by lending legitimacy to the PRI government. In “Down With the Law of Gravity!” (2001), MVL likens the call to halt globalization to a line by Agusto Lunel: “We are against all laws, starting with the law of gravity.” Globalization cannot be halted, he writes, and its challenges must be faced reasonably. Part three of the book, “Obstacles to Development: Nationalism, Populism, Indiginismo, Corruption;” is the shortest and includes proportionally more essays written in the 21st century. In this section Vargas Llosa’s writing reaches its most strident, but he essentially remains true to hisprinciples. Although these essays are for the most part well reasoned, a look at the subjects in MVL’s cross hairs will illustrate why some left-wing camps reject him. There is Hugo Chavez’s drastic reforms and regression to national populism. There is the anti-Chilean sentiment supposedly in solidarity with Bolivia that, says MVL, is Chavez and Co.’s rejection of Chile’s economic policy. There are the protests in Arequipa that put a stop to the privatization of two electrical companies. And there is Evo Morales’ brand of indigenous racism. MVL’s treatment of Evo Morales is one place where he fails to maintain his civilized and balanced manner; his attempt to discredit Morales using racial justifications feels contrived:
"Nor is señor Evo Morales an Indian, properly speaking, though he was born to a very poor indigenous family and as a child he herded llamas. It’s enough to hear his good Spanish with its round "erres" and sibilant sierra 'eses,' his astute modesty…an his studied and wise ambiguities, to know that don Evo is the emblematic Latin American criollo, lively as a squirrel, a tedious social climber, with vast experience in manipulating men and women acquired in his long tenure as a leader of cocoa leaf growers and a member of the labor aristocracy."
This is a sarcastic personal attack in lieu of relevant criticism of Morales’ policies or philosophy, and it is the kind of thing that occurs more often in MVL’s later writings. It is disappointing from a writer who generally, though you may disagree with him, invites you to engage with him in the name of genuine inquiry. It’s almost as if he has found an instance of successful collectivism in Evo’s grassroots movement that conflicts with his own ideas, and he has to resort to name-calling. Part four, “Defense of Democracy and Liberalism,” is where we get the clearest picture of Vargas Llosa’s particular brand of Liberalism, and where he plainly discusses the foundational tenets of his thought. In “Winning Battles, but not the War” (1978), he elaborates on his repudiation of ideology of all kinds, offering the startling examples of Borges (who defended Argentine and Chilean dictatorships) and Cortázar (who distinguished between crimes committed by a socialist country and those of a capitalist or imperialist country). Learning and ideas are no defense against violence in the name of ideology, writes MVL. Rather, he agrees with Camus that the only moral capable of making the world livable is the one that is willing to sacrifice all ideas each time they collide with life, though it is the life of one person. A distrust of ideas is vital; so too is the awareness that definitive victory against injustice is impossible, but the battle must be fought every day. Finally, Vargas Llosa’s call to re-invent political language to return to words the “precision and authenticity they have lost, in large part due to generalizations and the stereotypes and issues of ideology,” seems to me particularly pertinent to the U.S. political culture today.
“Confessions of a Liberal” (2005) is MVL’s acceptance speech for the Irving Kristol Award, in which he explains what he means by calling himself a liberal. He acknowledges that he is not “liberal” like the U.S. left, though he hastens to add that he supports gay marriage and abortion rights, the separation of church and state, decriminalizing drug possession and relaxing immigration law. (Amusingly, this part was left out of the transcript the American Enterprise Institute published on its website.) Nor does he use the term as it often is in Latin America: derisively, to indicate that someone is “conservative or reactionary.” And while he is a supporter of a free market, he resists the idea that it is the “panacea for everything from poverty to unemployment, marginalization and social exclusion.” Instead, he aspires to a liberalism that holds freedom as its core value, and sees culture as what defines civilization, not economics. He admires the system in the United States because it has “the most open, functional democracy…with the greatest capacity for self-criticism, which enables it to renew and update itself more quickly in response to the challenges and needs of changing historical circumstances.” His argument, essentially, is for a global culture of freedom characterized by respect for the law and human rights.
The final section of the book, “The Benefits of Unreality: Latin American Art and Literature,” comprises critical essays about specific Latin American writers (García Marquéz, Borges, Cortázar, Paz) and artists (Botero, Szyszlo, Frida Khalo). This is the Vargas Llosa North American readers will be more familiar with: the learned and effusive literary man vitally committed to literature and ideas. We already know MVL wrote his doctoral dissertation on Garcia Marquéz, and reading the critical essay from 1967 is interesting more because it reminds us how extraordinarily groundbreaking (dare I say revolutionary?) the book was when it came out. The essay on Cortázar I found fascinating; it begins with the two authors’ meeting when they were both translators in Greece, and details MVL’s devotion to and esteem for the older writer’s wit and cultivation as well as his inimitable writing. MVL largely glosses over the distancing their political commitments must have caused as he moved rightward and Cortázar was reborn a committed socialist. That said, his description of hippie Cortázar who made MVL “take him to buy erotic magazines, and spoke of marihuana, of women, of revolution, like he used to talk about jazz and ghosts,” feels like a caricature of revolutionary Julio.
And finally, on page 449, a female artist merits mention. MVL spends much of his essay on Frieda Khalo explaining that her universal recognition and adoration by the art world and beyond could have been arbitrary, since it was brought about by Hayden Herrera’s excellent biography rather than her work itself, but in this case, she actually deserves the praise and acclaim. Though he works in a reference to Elena Poniatowski (female artist number 2!), its hard not to wonder if MVL’s critical framework has room for women.
As a group, the critical essays in the final section of the book tend to be more personal, to include MVL’s lived experience of the art he is analyzing. For a literary person, reading them is comfortable and will require a less intense engagement. Their placement at the end of the book is perhaps strategic, for with the political essays still echoing in your head, it’s easier to see how the political MVL and the creative one are the same—indeed, the word “freedom” occurs almost as often in these final essays.
Reading this book, I often wanted to talk with MVL, ask him questions that almost always begin with “But, what about…” For in spite of his condemnation of ideology, it can be sometimes difficult to escape the fact that Vargas Llosa himself has one. What should the foreign policy of a powerful, liberalized, democratic country look like? If the accumulation of economic power in political hands is dangerous, what of the danger when economic power outside of the government becomes so strong it can evade the government’s law? What does MVL have to say about China’s version of capitalist socialism? The answers to these questions are hinted at, and much of what he writes about is definitely relevant today. But much of the book’s interest is historical, since many of the events in Latin America that occasion its essays will be unfamiliar to North American readers. Interesting as well, of course, is getting as close as possible to the evolving political thought of one of the greatest writers of our time. It is a book that calls for something more than a 2-dimensional political reach, and will remind readers that politics is an actinoid field of intersecting—and at times contradictory—lines of understanding that emerges from cultural context and history.