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Editor’s
choice
JORGE POSADA
Explore (TACA's magazine), San José, Costa Rica.
November, 2003
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FEW READERS had heard of Cuban author Pedro Juan Gutiérrez
until his book Dirty
Havana Trilogy shook up the Spanish and Latin American
literary worlds in 1998. lts three sections of obsession-packed,
sex and rurn-soaked stories were steeped in misery and
set in a city where trying to survive is your only option.
Several years and books later, Gutiérrez once
again shows off his exceptional narrative skills in
the 16 tales of Carne de perro (Dog Meat),
bringing his so-called “Central
Havana Cycle” to a close.
Once again we start with a main character
in the throes of deep existential disappointment and
marked by unfulfilled
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desires to change his life. ln his attempts
to do so, he successfully seeks solitude by killing time on
the beach and swimming, immersing himself in rnusic as he hyperealistically
observes the dilapidated city. The main action—frequently
linked in certain stories—is minimal: his revolving-door
relationship with his wife, his growing erotic and affectionate
relationship with the affluent Miriam and his visit to his aging
rnother are all described in an increasingly arid tone, dominated
by short dialogue and brief, efficient introspection.
Although the book—like many
of his previous works—portrays a veritable zoo
of colorful and marginal characters, it’s not
just about local customs or bearing witness to a horrible
time in Cuba’s history. More than anything,
it’s a work committed to the only thing that
matters: the author and his cutting prose, which delve
implacably into the darkest corners of Havana’s
soul, those powerfully passionate regions that the
city’s residents have tried to understand for
generations.
At first glance, these stories
seem to be the most Bukowskian of all the books Gutiérrez
has written up to now. But if read objectively, as
should be done with all works of fiction, it seems
more like an very intimate diary. The stories are
autobiographical, full of disturbirig and cynical
images revealing an insane daily existence lived on
the edge. Challenging at times
and critical when it needs to be, the book is
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proof positive that good Cuban literature
doesn’t belong to any one group, but rather to real authors,
and Pedro Juan Gutiérrez clearly demonstrates this in
all of his novels.
Readers
are drawn to the narratives by their stark simplicity and
the desire to know more about these anonymous beings—creatures
of the night who may have never existed and that no one will
ever know—who wander through the pages. Ultimately,
Carne de perro is a work of enormous sadness in which the
most daring, genuine and kinetic Cuban writer of his generation
disrobes in front of his readers while making fun of everything,
including himself.
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