The Improbable and the Analogous of Innocent Eréndira

. . . there’s not a single line in all my work that does not have a basis in reality. The problem is that Caribbean reality resembles the wildest imagination.

— Gabriel García Márquez, quoted by Emma Welton, The Guardian, (2014)

. . . a surreal quality, a rendering of the improbable and impossible as real, pervades [Márquez’s] work.

— William Kennedy (1973)

For Gabriel García Márquez, there was, as can be surmised from direct quoted material from the author himself, from others’ analysis of interview material, and from analysis of his fiction, more than one way of looking at reality. Our cultural grounding necessarily colours our perceptions of what occurs around us in our lives. If Márquez was witness to all manner of improbability being commonplace in his native South American surroundings, what separates that improbability from the analogous?

Kennedy (1973) refers to the abrupt response of Márquez regarding his questioning of the trail of blood scene in One Hundred Years of Solitude: Márquez dismisses both the question and the meaning of the blood with the brief statement that it was ‘an umbilical cord’ between mother and son, and nothing more. There are, perhaps, differentiations and comparisons to be made between the symbolic and the stance that everything that Márquez wrote had its basis in reality. The author is being disingenuous, of course: he’s playing with ideas, even if the origin of those ideas was something witnessed, felt or perceived.

Analogy sends the eponymous Eréndira, of Márquez’s The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Eréndira and Her Heartless Grandmother (1972), on her narrative way. The ‘wind of misfortune’ skulks within the tale throughout, affecting Eréndira’s shifting fortunes at certain key moments. At what point, though, in its register of imagery does the analogy give way to the possibility of improbability, to the magical realism of a different perception of reality? There is no easy delineation. The blur of imprecision presides.

Early on in Eréndira’s story, we see that she has no need to wind the clocks (which, ordinarily, consumes a large part of her servitude): Márquez seems to be making the suggestion that time operates in its own ways because the clocks don’t require her assistance, making a misfortune of her life (she goes on to burn the mansion down with a candle). It is as if time, not needing the clocks to be wound, has to rechannel, to repurpose itself.

Eréndira is so tired that she works as she sleeps. We often know this feeling ourselves, in our own lives, but Eréndira has to be abruptly and literally woken. She drops the tureen onto the rug as a result. Much later, her grandmother eats ‘enough arsenic to exterminate a whole generation of rats’, hidden in the mixture of a cake, and yet she still lives. These events are improbable but, in the manner of there being other ways of perceiving reality, still possible.

What though of the goats who commit ‘suicide from desolation’? What of the ingrained sounds embedded deep within the storm . . .?

Over the whistle of the storm and the lash of the water one could hear distant shouts, the howling of far-off animals, the cries of a shipwreck.

The settlement that surrounds the mansion where this scene takes place is ‘lost in the solitude of the desert’. Is it with the symbol of the conceivable or the sense of the perceivable that the cries of the shipwreck can be heard? Where do the analogy and the witness start and end?

In seeking to free Eréndira after her capture, or after her saving, by missionaries, her grandmother seeks the help of the local mayor. He’s found ‘shooting with an army rifle at a dark and solitary cloud in the burning sky . . . trying to perforate it to bring on rain.’ It is his sincere role, the ‘official duties’ by which he has purpose. We may have met people in our own lives blessed or hindered by such purpose and such ludicrousies of job description. Perhaps the end justifies the means in the fiction; perhaps Márquez once met this man.

Has Márquez, however, seen ‘oily blood, shiny and green, just like mint honey’, which he specifies a further three times in quick succession in describing the murder of the grandmother and the issue of her death? Could it be a trick of the light, an illusion of the perception, or does Eréndira’s grandmother represent something more, something else, something other? There is purpose in the green repetition.

There is purpose infused in the changing of the colour of glass, bottle and pitcher as Ulises, besotted with Eréndira, touches them. It is, his mother tells him, ‘because of love’: though the blur of perceived reality, infused with cultural belief, and the symbolic or the analogous, still readily merge here, we still have some semblance of an understanding. The improbable yet still faintly possible lingers, just, in reading that Eréndira (prostituted by her grandmother) is patiently waited for by ‘the endless wavy line composed of men [snaking through the city]’.

What, though, can we make of diamonds grown inside living oranges by Ulises’ father, ready to be smuggled over the border, or the woman in the city ‘who had been changed into a spider for having disobeyed her parents, who would let herself be touched for fifty cents so that people would see there was no trick’?

Perhaps we need comfort back in our own perceptions, in our own cultural worldviews. Contrary to some opinion, there is magical reasoning on the opposite side of the Atlantic, in the islands and heartlands of European thought: Márquez writes that Eréndira’s grandmother can find things out by dreaming them, and we can understand this from a position of faith and sometimes from direct experience. Similarly, it isn’t too beyond our beliefs to comprehend that Eréndira calls Ulises with her inner voice and how, in a distant place, on his orange plantation, Ulises has ‘heard’ that voice ‘so clearly that he was looking for her in the shadows of the room’.

So it is, or so it must be, that nothing is as set as sometimes it may seem. If we can be seen to comprehend, in part, in the magical reasoning of own cultural heritage, the possibility of the improbable, what then if anything separates that improbability from the analogous in Márquez’s writing?
 
 
References:

Kennedy, W. (1973), The yellow trolley car in Barcelona, and other visions, The Atlantic [Online]. Available from: https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1973/01/the-yellow-trolley-car-in-barcelona-and-other-visions/360848/ (Accessed December 24, 2017)

Welton, E. (2014), Gabriel García Márquez in quotes, The Guardian [Online]. Available from: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/apr/18/gabriel-garcia-marquez-in-quotes (Accessed December 24, 2017)
 
 

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