When the manifesto of Martín Fierro impugns the “false values” of “our intellectual nationalism,” what is intended? Is the text alluding to Lugones’s seeming mystification? In what looks less like a serious prise de position than a provocative jab at Lugones, with whom he also polemicized on aesthetic issues, Marechal demanded that we “forget about the gaucho” (Martín Fierro 34, 5 October 1926). Or does the manifesto impugn the tendency of the academic elite to imitate European models too closely? Is it perhaps simply an anarchic rejection of empty rhetoric? “Tradition, Progress, Humanity, Family, Honour are now nonsense,” writes martinfierrista Raúl Scalabrini Ortiz toward the end of the decade in a famous essay titled El hombre que está solo y espera (101) [The Man Who Is Alone and Waits/Hopes]. Or does the manifesto express an inchoate nationalism that deplores economic colonization by British capital with the acquiescence of the Argentine landed oligarchy?18 All these elements — and more — jostled and clashed among the contestatory martinfierristas, who lacked any coherent ideological program as a group and argued with each other as much as they rebelled against their seniors. In Book Two, chapter 2 of Adán, the mock heroes get into a tempestuous argument about Argentine national identity — upon what values it should be grounded — in an episode that will repay the reader’s close attention.
In that same violent discussion, the problem of criollismo gets an airing. With the phrase criollismo urbano de vanguardia, Beatriz Sarlo aptly synthesizes the motley ideological-aesthetic program of martinfierrismo (105). Nothing is surprising about the conjunction of the terms “urban” and “vanguard”; rather, it is criollismo that distinguishes the Buenos Aires avant-garde from its international context. Criollo was in colonial times the term for those of Spanish blood born on American soil, but came to mean simply “native to the Americas.” (The English and French cognates — Creole and créole — tend to be associated with the Afro-Caribbean.) In Argentina the term gradually acquired a more specific identitary thrust, somewhat comparable to the Québécois de souche of French-speaking Canada; the criollos were old-stock Spanish American Argentines, as opposed to indios on the one hand or immigrants on the other. But this ethnic distinction was destabilized by the massive influx of immigrants, both internal and foreign, into late-nineteenth-century Buenos Aires. The cultural movement of criollismo contained elements of class struggle as well. According to Adolfo Prieto, criollismo became a discursive site where competing social groups attempted to defend or establish their legitimacy. For the ruling Argentine elite — and their ideological representatives such as Lugones — the appropriation of rural, gaucho discourse was a way of keeping at bay the unnerving presence of the poor lower-class immigrants thronging to the capital and spilling outward from there. For rural Argentines displaced from country to city, it was an expression of nostalgia and an alternative to rebellion against the impositions and demands of modern (sub)urban life. And for foreign immigrants, adopting criollista cultural expression was a sort of fast track to cultural citizenship in the new country (Prieto, El discurso criollista 18–19). In Adán Buenosayres, for example, we meet Tissone, a son of Italian immigrants, who, although he has never set foot outside the city of Buenos Aires, handily makes his living doing a schtick as a payador or gaucho minstrel.
An urban criollista avant-garde, then, is a strange hybrid. In Europe, the avant-garde that looks to the technological city of the future normally turns its back on local autochthonous tradition. Not so the martinfierristas, even though their attitude toward an increasingly artificial and mediatized criollismo was ambiguous and conflicted. Marechal stages this conflict at the wake of Juan Robles, mud-stomper and “good old boy,” in Book Three, chapter 2, an episode that particularly delighted Cortázar (22b). As Prieto puts it, Marechal’s send-up of popular suburban criollismo brilliantly brings a long-lived cultural movement to a close (El discurso criollista 22). But parody always enacts a sort of homage as well, and the colourful gallery of cultural types and stereotypes populating this and many other episodes of Adán Buenosayres add up to a celebration of Argentine popular culture and its expressive forms. Why else would the epigraph to the novel’s first chapter be constituted of verses from a sentimental tango?
GENEALOGIES (RELIGIOUS, IDEOLOGICAL, LITERARY)
The young writer Cortázar was both disconcerted and excited by what he enigmatically called the diversa desmesura of Marechal’s novel (original Spanish version 23), its hypertrophic excess on various levels — perhaps its monstrous hybridity — which rationally he perceived as an inadequate matching of structural form to content but which intuitively the writer in him grasped as this novel’s aesthetic achievement, its “energetic push toward what is truly ours [in Argentine literature]” (24). As Ángel Rama put it, in Adán the forms of high culture meet those of popular culture in a parodic oscillation, with the net effect that the former are destabilized along with their philosophical underpinnings (216–17). By “high culture” one must understand the allusions not only to classical Greece and Rome, but also to the Bible — Northrop Frye’s “great code” — and to Catholic theology. Marechal himself insists that the “keys” to his novel are to be found in two parallel lines of thought stretching from Aristotle to Saint Thomas and from Plato to Augustine (Andrés 32); he interprets Adán Buenosayres as a Christian allegory, the soul’s odyssey through the world and its eventual homecoming in God (Marechal, “Las claves”). A Catholic-theological reading of the novel is certainly possible — Navascués’s narratological study and the introduction to Barcia’s scholarly edition are fine examples — but much of the novel’s material seems to overflow this ideological framework, to the point of rudely shaking or even damaging the frame itself. Argentine critic Horacio González once mused about the novel’s “comical,” “ironic,” or even “broken” Christianity.19 Even if one enlarges the Christian-epic reading to an ecumenical “metaphysical” interpretation, as Graciela Coulson does in order to account for the many allusions to non-Christian traditions, the essential problem only gets displaced, not resolved. Suffice it to say here that different readers, according to their cultural formation, will have different takes on Adán Buenosayres. As with all great works of literature, it is a novel that no single critical reading can exhaust.
Adam Buenosayres and his close friend and confidant, Samuel Tesler, are both “traditionalists” who move in a discursive world informed by such radical traditionalist authors as René Guénon, whose voluminous output includes the apocalyptic Le règne de la quantité et les signes des temps (1945) and who attempts to conflate the metaphysical systems of the world’s great religions in a single block that stands superior to the error of modern thought. The two “metaphysicals,”20 Adam and Samuel, make common cause against the positivist scientism of Lucio Negri. (The third “metaphysical” is the astrologer Schultz, who like Xul Solar could be described with the paradoxical term “avant-garde traditionalist.”) And yet, Adam will eventually rebuke Samuel for his Jewishness, invoking the hoary myths invented by medieval anti-Semitism. As in most traditional Catholic societies, a degree of anti-Semitism — a frightening term for us since the Second World War — was still quite normal in 1920s Argentine society. The Jews (mostly from Russia and Eastern Europe), along with the Italians, Galician Spanish, “Turks” (refugees of varying ethnicity from the crumbling Ottoman Empire), and so on, were cast as stereotypes in the popular imaginary; Marechal’s novel humorously sets those popular stereotypes on display. The Jews, the odd anti-Semitic incident notwithstanding, were in the mind of the Catholic criollo majority just one distinct minority among others. Nevertheless, the rise of Argentine Catholic nationalism, under the influence of a new outbreak of a very old virus emanating from Europe, was accompanied in some circles by a more virulent expression of anti-Semitism. Although the centuries-old prejudice was deeply racialized, the more thoughtful Catholic-nationalist intellectuals attempted to confine it to a religious question: the Jews’ failure to recognize Christ was a theological error from which they needed to be disabused. Manuel Gálvez, for example, professed his love for the Jews. This love, which he considered to behoove any good Catholic, did not, however, prevent his endorsing negative Jewish stereotypes (Schwartz 131–2). Gálvez — as well as Adam Buenosayres and perhaps even Marechal himself21 — could well be examples of what Máximo José Kahn in 1948 called “philo-Semitic anti-Jewishness,” referring to those who are philo-Semitic “by civilization” and anti-Jewish “by instinct” (Kahn 48).22 And yet, parsing this paradox further in his incisive but (deliberately?) enigmatic article, he opines that atheism is worse than philo-Semitic anti-Jewishness (57), even if the unbeliever seems to be on your side. Here he seems to refer to those liberals who waved the banner of anti-anti-Semitism as part of their anti-Peronist campaign, their negative philo-Semitism militantly expressing, within the perfectly polarized ideological field of the time, their hatred of Peronism and its supporters, which initially included the Catholic church.23 Adam and Samuel have their differences, but they are united against modern non-religious scientism. Both men locate themselves squarely in what Israeli historian Zeev Sternhell has called the tradition of the “anti-Enlightenment,” the many-faceted revolt against the Franco-Kantian Enlightenment that constitutes a second, parallel modernity (8).