Tomgram: Eduardo Galeano, Monster Wanted
By Eduardo Galeano
Posted on November 2, 2017, Printed on November 2, 2017
http://www.tomdispatch.com/blog/176346/ ;
[Note for TomDispatch Readers: If you've never read a book by Eduardo
Galeano, believe me, your life has been lacking. Read his first book, read
his last book, read something he wrote anyway. I offer you the Engelhardt
guarantee: you won't regret it. Start, if you wish, with his final volume,
Hunter of Stories, featured in today's post and then work your way back
through a writer to remember. Tom]
Im 73, which means that saying goodbye for the last time is increasingly a
part of my life. Today, with the deepest regret, Im bidding a final
farewell at TomDispatch to one of the more remarkable writers Ive known,
Eduardo Galeano. I initially got involved with him in the early 1980s. I was
a young editor at Pantheon Books and, on some strange impulse, decided to
publish Genesis, the first volume of his Memory of Fire trilogy, based on no
more than a few sample passages translated by the remarkable Cedric
Belfrage. Call it intuition when it came to a book that had already been
rejected by a number of U.S. publishers. (Admittedly, at the time I proudly
thought of myself as the editor of last resort in New York publishing.)
That modest decision launched me on the print journey of a lifetime.
This was back in the days many of you wont remember when a book was
translated and edited, often over long distances, without benefit of the
Internet or email. Belfrage had been exiled to Mexico during the McCarthy
years, so he and I worked together in the old-fashioned way: by mail. (I
wouldnt meet him until years later: a little grey-haired gent with a cane
who -- I was still young enough to be staggered by the thought -- had
covered Hollywood for the British press in the silent film era.) It took
forever to produce Genesis, though the process had a certain beauty to it.
That first volume came out to modest attention and reviews, but its life and
influence and that of the whole Memory of Fire trilogy would continue to
grow in a way that only books could in those years and perhaps even in
these. Eduardo was the most dramatic and beautiful of writers and he caught
history -- the history of these continents and of so many of the
half-forgotten figures who struggled for what truly mattered -- in a unique
fashion, often in little passages of hardly a page or more. (I can still
remember reading some of the more wonderful of them to my children as they
were growing up.) I once wrote of him, You somehow take our embattled world
and tell its many stories in ways no one else can. How true.
It took me years to meet Eduardo, since I travel nowhere, though he voyaged
endlessly. (A friend of his once told him, If its true what they say about
the road being made by walking, you must be the commissioner of public
works.) Never have I met a man of more charisma who seemed less aware of
it. Being with him was an experience because people regularly approached him
to tell stories about their lives that were... well, theres only one word
for it: Galeano-esque. I saw it happen.
Ive featured his work many times at this site, always with the deepest
pleasure. This, I suspect, is the last time for both of us. The passages
below are from his final, touching volume published by Nation Books, Hunter
of Stories. And so, let me take this opportunity, one last time, to say
goodbye, Eduardo, and thank you for everything, especially for the worlds
you captured forever in words. Tom
A Visit to Heaven and Hell
Mapping Planet Earth
By Eduardo Galeano
[The following passages are excerpted from Hunter of Stories, the last book
by Eduardo Galeano, who died in 2015. Thanks for its use go to his literary
agent, Susan Bergholz, and Nation Books, which is publishing it next week.]
Free
By day, the sun guides them. By night, the stars.
Paying no fare, they travel without passports and without forms for customs
or immigration.
Birds are the only free beings in this world inhabited by prisoners. They
fly from pole to pole, powered by food alone, on the route they choose and
at the hour they wish, without ever asking permission of officials who
believe they own the heavens.
Shipwrecked
The world is on the move.
On board are more shipwrecked souls than successful seafarers.
Thousands of desperate people die en route, before they can complete the
crossing to the promised land, where even the poor are rich and everyone
lives in Hollywood.
The illusions of any who manage to arrive do not last long.
Monster Wanted
Saint Columba was rowing across Loch Ness when an immense serpent with a
gaping mouth attacked his boat. Saint Columba, who had no desire to be
eaten, chased it off by making the sign of the cross.
Fourteen centuries later, the monster was seen again by someone living
nearby, who happened to have a camera around his neck, and pictures of it
and of curious footprints came out in the Glasgow and London papers.
The creature turned out to be a toy, the footprints made by baby
hippopotamus feet, which are sold as ashtrays.
The revelation did nothing to discourage the tourists.
The market for fear feeds on the steady demand for monsters.
Foreigner
In a community newspaper in Barcelonas Raval neighborhood, an anonymous
hand wrote:
Your god is Jewish, your music is African, your car is Japanese, your pizza
is Italian, your gas is Algerian, your coffee is Brazilian, your democracy
is Greek, your numbers are Arabic, your letters are Latin.
I am your neighbor. And you call me a foreigner?
The Terrorizer
Back in the years 1975 and 1976, before and after the coup détat that
imposed the most savage of Argentinas many military dictatorships, death
threats flew fast and furious and anyone suspected of the crime of thinking
simply disappeared.
Orlando Rojas, a Paraguayan exile, answered his telephone in Buenos Aires.
Every day a voice repeated the same thing: Im calling to tell you youre
going to die.
So you arent? Orlando asked.
The terrorizer would hang up.
A Visit to Hell
Some years ago, during one of my deaths, I paid a visit to hell.
I had heard that in the underworld you can get your favorite wine and any
delicacy you want, lovers for all tastes, dancing music, endless pleasure...
Once again, I was able to corroborate the fact that advertising lies. Hell
promises a great life, but all I found were people waiting in line.
In that endless queue, snaking out of sight along narrow smoky passages,
were women and men of all epochs, from cavemen to astronauts.
All were condemned to wait. To wait for eternity.
Thats what I discovered: hell is waiting.
Prophecies
Who was it that a century ago best described todays global power structure?
Not a philosopher, not a sociologist, not a political scientist either.
It was a child named Little Nemo, whose adventures were published in the New
York Herald way back in 1905, as drawn by Winsor McCay.
Little Nemo dreamed about the future.
In one of his most unerring dreams, he traveled to Mars.
That unfortunate planet was in the hands of a businessman who had crushed
his competitors and exercised an absolute monopoly.
The Martians seemed stupid, because they said little and breathed little.
Little Nemo knew why: the boss of Mars had seized ownership of words and the
air.
They were the keys to life, the sources of power.
Very Brief Synthesis of Contemporary History
For several centuries subjects have donned the garb of citizens, and
monarchies have preferred to call themselves republics.
Local dictatorships, claiming to be democracies, open their doors to the
steamroller of the global market. In this kingdom of the free, we are all
united as one. But are we one, or are we no one? Buyers or bought? Sellers
or sold? Spies or spied upon?
We live imprisoned behind invisible bars, betrayed by machines that feign
obedience but spread lies with cybernetic impunity.
Machines rule in homes, factories, offices, farms, and mines, and also on
city streets, where we pedestrians are but a nuisance. Machines also rule in
wars, where they do as much of the killing as warriors in uniform, or more.
The Right to Plunder
In the year 2003, a veteran Iraqi journalist named Samir visited several
museums in Europe.
He found marvelous texts in Babylonian, heroes and gods sculpted in the
hills of Nineveh, winged lions that had flown in Assyria...
Someone approached him, offered to help: Shall I call a doctor?
Squatting, Samir buried his face in his hands and swallowed his tears.
He mumbled, No, please. Im all right.
Later on, he explained: It hurts to see how much they have stolen and to
know how much they will steal.
Two months later, U.S. troops launched their invasion. The National Museum
in Baghdad was sacked. One hundred seventy thousand works were reported
lost.
Stories Tell the Tale
I wrote Soccer in Sun and Shadow to convert the pagans. I wanted to help
fans of reading lose their fear of soccer, and fans of soccer lose their
fear of books. I never imagined anything else.
But according to Víctor Quintana, a congressman in Mexico, the book saved
his life. In the middle of 1997, he was kidnapped by professional assassins,
hired to punish him for exposing dirty deals.
They had him tied up, face down on the ground, and were kicking him to
death, when there was a pause before the final bullet. The murderers got
caught up in an argument about soccer. That was when Víctor, more dead than
alive, put in his two cents. He began telling stories from my book, trading
minutes of life for every story from those pages, the way Scheherazade
traded a story for every one of her thousand-and-one nights.
Hours and stories slowly unfolded.
At last the murderers left him, tied up and trampled, but alive.
They said, Youre a good guy, and they took their bullets elsewhere.
***
Quite a few years ago now, during my time in exile on the coast of
Catalonia, I got an encouraging nudge from a girl eight or nine years old,
who, unless Im remembering wrong, was named Soledad.
I was having a few drinks with her parents, also exiles, when she called me
over and asked,
So, what do you do?
Me? I write books.
You write books?
Well... yes.
I dont like books, she declared.
And since she had me against the ropes, she hit me again: Books sit still.
I like songs because songs fly.
Ever since my encounter with that angel sent by God, I have attempted to
sing. Its never worked, not even in the shower. Every time, the neighbors
scream, Get that dog to stop barking!
***
My granddaughter Catalina was ten.
We were walking along a street in Buenos Aires when someone came up and
asked me to sign a book. I cant remember which one.
We continued on, the two of us, quietly arm in arm, until Catalina shook her
head and offered this encouraging remark: I dont know why they make such a
fuss. Not even I read you.
Eduardo Galeano (1940-2015) was one of Latin Americas most distinguished
writers. He was the author of many books, including the three-volume Memory
of Fire, Open Veins of Latin America, Soccer in Sun and Shadow, and The Book
of Embraces. Born in Montevideo in 1940, he lived in exile in Argentina and
Spain for 12 years before returning to Uruguay in 1985, where he spent the
rest of his life. The passages in this post are excerpted from his final
book, Hunter of Stories, translated by Mark Fried and about to be published
by Nation Books.
