After reading and reviewing Márquez’s Strange Pilgrims it seemed fitting to return to some of his earlier stories. In my previous review I had, after all, written that ‘reading Márquez is like coming home’. I stand by that, but now I qualify it with the following amendment: ‘reading Márquez’s more recent stories is like coming home’. It’s not that this collection as a whole is bad, it’s just that Márquez seemed in general to have turned a corner (on this evidence alone) at around or about the start of his forties (being around or about the late 1960s/early 1970s).
Innocent Eréndira and Other Stories is largely comprised of stories from 1947-1953 (Márquez being, therefore, around 19-25 years old when having written them). These offerings, in places, are reminiscent — for this reader — of some of Kafka’s Meditations: their unnamed characters and settings, and their introspective focus, are not the precursors of Strange Pilgrims we might expect. The strapline on the Penguin Books copy of Innocent Eréndira and Other Stories (2007; first published 1972) states: ‘These stories abound with love affairs, ruined beauty, and magical women.’ This is inaccurate. These stories abound with perspectives on death.
In retrospect, it perhaps cannot come as any great surprise that the running order of the book is such as it is. The first piece, The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Eréndira and Her Heartless Grandmother is a novella length story, but its date is more significant (1972). This is followed by the less successful The Sea of Lost Time (1961), and Death Constant Beyond Love (1970). Thereafter, the collection retreats to the late 40s and early 50s period of Márquez’s writing career. With the exception of the beautifully crafted Someone Has Been Disarranging These Roses (1952), these nine stories can best be described as experiments along the way.
There are flourishes of things still to come in these offerings, but by and large the early Márquez had greater words and ideas still inside him. By the time he writes Innocent Eréndira we see a shift in capability start to unfold, as glimmerings of writerly hope have done in earlier pieces such as Someone Has Been Disarranging These Roses and, to a lesser extent, the latter portion of Eyes of a Blue Dog (1950). The novella length work that is Innocent Eréndira is something Márquez is more adept at than the very short piece. He likes to unfold the story and there is engagement in this in the process. Márquez skilfully reveals the story and the characters: so much so that we forget that, actually, The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Eréndira and Her Heartless Grandmother is a tale encompassing some sordid form of child abuse (Eréndira, the teenager, is subjected to prostitution by her grandmother as a means of ‘paying off the debt’ that Eréndira has brought upon herself in an accidental fire).
Márquez drops in moments of what he’s later seen to embody — magical realism — for example, Ulises (Eréndira’s young love interest) turns glass objects to different colours just by touching them. Having offered us this glimpse of something interesting, however, Márquez doesn’t then follow through with it: leaving it to fester in the background and leaving the reader wondering if it will reappear at some stage. It doesn’t. It’s just a throwaway line. It needed nurturing.
In contrast, Márquez does have a particular predilection in this collection for certain favourite words or motifs: the adjective ‘phosphorescent’ is repeated in various stories (as it also tends to turn up in Strange Pilgrims, if memory serves correctly); Márquez also has a penchant for the lone cricket, the sensory appeal of cement, and the death-imbued violet. Whilst these are not negative observations (aiding the connection of elements of a body of work), the English translation read here does suffer from the repeated and distracting use of such words as ‘lighted’ or ‘unlighted’, instead of ‘lit’ and ‘unlit’. Indeed, it is to the American English translation (from the original Spanish by Gregory Rabassa) that particular irritations are levelled when encountering such colloquialisms as: ‘Boy, you’re asking a mint’, ‘Don’t be a tightwad’, and ‘Then beat it . . . you lowlife!’ (The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Eréndira and Her Heartless Grandmother). I wonder how the original Spanish phrasing played itself out.
The translator, perhaps, may also be at fault (though I shalln’t know without further research) for the repeated inability to cope with certain grammatical structures: for example, in The Third Resignation (1947), Márquez is attributed with ‘He would have liked to catch the noise . . .’ It is, though, more for the early Márquez to straighten out the incomplete sentences that do tend to crop up in his writing, e.g. ‘Like all hard blows against nature’s firm things.’ (ibid).
Some of Márquez’s shorter, earlier stories get lost completely from early on. The Night of the Curlews (1953) is, frankly, unfathomable with its repeated use of ‘we’ and its uncertain characters and place (it is not a wise story on which to end a collection that started with Eréndira herself); some stories in this collection lose their way part-way through a struggling piece, e.g. Bitterness for Three Sleepwalkers (1949); some stories here show early promise but then go astray, such as in The Sea of Lost Time (1961), in which — presumably — the lead character retreats under the sea to swim with the dead.
Eyes of a Blue Dog (1950) could easily have had its first two and a half pages removed: being, as they are, littered with ‘he said, she said’, ‘then this happened, then that happened’. What follows from that difficult beginning though is a story in which the reader can immerse: a tale of two people who meet only in dreams. Márquez is in a period of wavering capabilities. Dialogue with the Mirror (1949) includes the dense, impenetrable text that is:
There, under his fingertips — and after the fingertips, bone against bone — his irrevocable anatomical condition held an order of compositions buried, a tight universe of weaves, of lesser worlds, which bore him along, raising his fleshy armor toward a height less enduring than the natural and final position of his bones.
This all said, there are the linguistic flourishes in his early work that amount to some chronicle of a Márquez foretold: ‘That cold, cutting, vertical noise . . .’ (The Third Resignation, 1947); ‘She turned her face to profile and her skin, from copper to red, suddenly became sad’ (Eyes of a Blue Dog, 1950); ‘. . . then she paused on the threshold, coming halfway into the room after, and with the voice of someone calling a sleeping person she said: ‘Boy! Boy!’’ (Someone Has Been Disarranging These Roses, 1952).
It is this latter short story that particularly presses itself to my reading psyche: it did, and delicately so, back in 2009 when I first read this collection, and it does so again five years later. Perhaps the afterglow of that first read has shaped a preconceived notion that it would still be fine in its crafting, weight, and poise. This is an aside. What matters here on the second reading is that Someone Has Been Disarranging These Roses marks a significant point in this collection, coming at the end of the running order, and tarnished only slightly by the unfathomable The Night of the Curlews (1953). The narrator in the former tale is the boy in question, sought by the now grown woman who was party to the young child’s death some years beforehand. That the narrator, ghost, ethereal boy in question, is a child using adult language can be overlooked because the writing here is some of Márquez’s best in this collection.
Thereafter, save the issues already outlined in the chronologically subsequent stories, Márquez starts to build his characters and places. Senator Onésimo Sánchez appears here in Death Constant Beyond Love (1970) and also, later, and to a lesser extent, in The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Eréndira and Her Heartless Grandmother (1972). Márquez also describes Laura Farina here in the former story, come to sexually frustrate the ailing senator in order that he ‘straighten out’ her father’s ‘situation’: ‘Laura Farina sat down on a schoolboy’s stool. Her skin was smooth and firm, with the same color and the same solar density as crude oil, her hair was the mane of a young mare, and her huge eyes were brighter than the light.’ The Sea of Lost Time (1961), despite my aforementioned misgivings, does begin with the prospect of sensory place. Innocent Eréndira itself brings place, character, and the sensory together.
What Innocent Eréndira and Other Stories as a whole offers us is not Márquez’s best work: it does show us flashes of the writer he is to become, but it does also lay before us some dusty, sometimes confused and confounding Kafkaesque introspections perhaps best documented as experiments along the way. In this collection the ripening of Márquez’s long writing career comes to fruition somewhere after these early predispositions on the theme of death are passed.