Luis Chitarroni - The No Variations - Diary of an Unfinished Novel

All in all, as strange as The No Variations will seem to readers, it’s not a book without precedent: in Spanish, for example, Mario Levrero’s La novella luminosa (The Luminous Novel), also makes use of the personal diary form to address the failure to write a novel; and in English, Cyril Connolly’s The Unquiet Grave —written under the pseudonym “Palinurus”—is another fragmentary hodgepodge of quotation, allusion, personal reflection, and so forth. Although, admittedly, neither of these two books is as challenging as The No Variations , I nonetheless resolved not to condescend to the reader by providing too many explanations or oversimplifications — to lead her as a toddler by the hand, as it were — for I believe it is an error peculiar to many writers today that they often underestimate the diligence and perspicacity with which readers will endeavor to unlock a challenging text. Moreover, I think the continued popularity of so-called “difficult” novels attests that while the aesthetic of difficulty is often an end in itself among affected writers, discerning readers know that not every difficult book should be dismissed as affected simply for being difficult. Having now read The No Variations several times in the course of translating and editing, I was continually amused by its author’s mock affectations, moved by his corybantic delight in language, and, despite the difficulty, I believe it has that quality proper to all fine literature, which Tertullian first noted of scripture: semper habet aliquid relegentibus , however frequently we read it, we shall always meet with something new.

I express my sincere gratitude to the author, Luis Chitarroni, for providing answers to my many “prayers” during the course of the translation, and for being so kind as to compliment the final result for its occasional “improvements” upon the original: he is a subtle god, but certainly not malicious. I also thank Jeremy M. Davies and the editorial staff at Dalkey Archive Press for their extraordinary insight in helping me to render faithfully into English this difficult though deeply rewarding text.

Darren Koolman, 2013

THE NAMES are the same ones that were around back in 1986, or possibly earlier (I can even recall an embarrassing note in some publication — I can’t remember which — referring to them as “The Shanghai Group”). Nicasio Urlihrt, Hilarión Curtis — anagrams. Oliverio Lester. Inés Maspero. Cora Estrugamou.

Strong names, weighty even, although admittedly less so than the ones I used in my novel El Carápalida (The Paleface). Calvino notwithstanding, there won’t be any lightness here.

Weighty, yes, grave even: like the leaden spirit of Enrique Luis Revol (I once defended him in a note on contemporary writers — although it was with little conviction, and only for the sake of argument). Must retrieve the book. Didn’t lend it to anyone. Probably moldering away on the back-shelf of some library.

Revol t against the Crepuscular Spirit in Modern Poetry (Pound)

An anthology collecting work published in Agraphia (Unwritten) [or Alusiva (Allusive)?], a journal exactly as old as me — since the first issue was published the day I was born — and to which, under various assumed names (pseudonyms, not heteronyms) I will of course be the sole actual contributor.

The anthology is edited by one Víctor Eiralis (a character I created for my book Siluetas —a collection of miniature biographies of authors both real and imagined — to introduce me to the works of his “shadow,” W. Gerhardie) at the behest of Antonio Arguimbau, proprietor of a publishing house that’s on the verge of being sold, and a compulsive womanizer to boot, who only agreed to publish it after he was seduced by Urlihrt’s second widow. Eiralis writes the preface. There’ll be an exchange of letters between editor and publisher inserted “by accident” at the back, as though to fill up space. Over the years, the original contributors will have become more or less famous, but at the time of their collaboration, none of the stories were signed. So Eiralis — a disgruntled drifter, typical among editors who’ve realized too late they’ve chosen the wrong profession — will have the invidious task of matching each story with its author. He happens to be the least suitable for the job, because he despises all of them.

Clausás. Julio Clausás

Lame: a lame anthology

Exergue: “Being familiar with many styles / he imitated all.”

??? Aldecoa Inauda, presumed ancestor (of Eiralis or Urlihrt?)

Kleptolalia / Cryptodermia

Chronology of Agraphia : 1958–1999

Ages [as of circa 1974]:

Nicasio 49

Elena 46

Oliverio 34

Luini 22

Portrait by Fantin-Latour, Coin de table ?

It’s likely that people of such disparate ages wouldn’t get along. Let the combination of disloyalties within the group provide insight into the secret/key to Agraphia : vengeance through anonymity, with a little help from plagiarism.

Aubrey

N. Urlihrt is short and stocky, but with a paradoxical softness; in fact, he’s very gentle, glib (in every sense of the word), full of nervous energy, but soft as a cotton ball on the outside. Avoid emphasizing this last aspect. Avoid making him look like an ass.

He writes in longhand. Born in 1913 or 1914? Make it 1913, like Dad. A year older than Cortázar and Bioy.

Eiralis isn’t tall. Need to make this clear from the outset. Is underfed, has all the hallmarks of undernourishment. Affects elegance to conceal indigence. Clothing: raincoat, checkered shirt, corduroy pants. Drinks Cubano Sello Verde. Campari. Bols gin. Domestic whiskey. Born in 1941?

Sabatani is tall. One of those lanky Italian types. He writes a short story called “Sircular Cymmetry” [not sure whether this text should actually appear in the novel], dramatizing the night Agraphia/Alusiva held its first meeting — without Urlihrt — as though this were as momentous as the night when, during a meeting of the Rosicrucians at Whitehall Palace, John Florio stood in front of an assembly that included the poet Philip Sydney, and translated some works by their honored guest, Giordano Bruno, about the possible existence of life on other planets, etc. (Details in Frances Yates, though sparse.)

Basilio Ugarte is very short. A sort of Juan-Jacobo Bajarlía. He has unusual eyes: pale blue, vacant — indicating (appropriately enough) both candor and malice. Fashion conscious. Small, insignificant, almost invisible: see the Bartlebyian short story “Janóvice” by Denevi … Does Beerbohm ever mention Enoch Soames’s height?

Oliverio Lester is taller than everyone except Sabatani, behind whom he likes to lurk, and in whose shadow he’s content to hide. As a clerk, or a beadle, or a beadle’s clerk (did I get the word “beadle” from Moby-Dick ?) — a bureaucrat through and through, in other words — he’s the pet pencil pusher at Agraphia/Alusiva —that bordello of letters. He shuffles along with his briefcase pressed close to his chest, arms crossed, in the same solemn attitude as a Native American (Iroquois?) carrying a peace pipe. Or were the Iroquois not a peaceful tribe? Let’s say the Sioux then.

Crossword bordello.

Edition/Sedition. Sounds like a stupid hippy slogan from the seventies.

According to Benito (a mutual friend of mine and Abelardo Castillo’s), one of them is a ufologist , like Borges, William Empson, and Benito himself. The first time I heard the word, I thought “ufologist” meant someone who played the euphonium in an orchestra. Ah, those good old hippy crackpots.