Gonzalo Celorio (Mexico, 1948) describes his life in his latest book: That cologne of broken mirrorspublished by its publisher Tusquets. It’s on the shelf (I bought it Oravida bookstore with Argentinian roots in Madrid), before winning the most important award, the Cervantes. His books embrace the past and include Amor propio, Tres lindas cubanas, El metal y la escoria, Los apóstatas, or Mentideros de la Memoria. I sent a survey to its roots in Mexico.
–Many years ago, I asked you about your own question. First of all, about what you do to your mother. So you told me it’s difficult to ask him the “now question”. After all this time, if you were to tell him the most important news of your literary life, what would you say?
–It’s a shame that I haven’t been here for so many years, but even though it’s still too early, I would like to say thank you. appreciate. Because your love overcame the fairness that underlies the motto that governs the behavior of the twelve children you raised. “All my children are equal.” You realize early on that the 11th child’s unique weakness may be behind his strength. You would have liked to know the happy result of that special sensibility that has led me to receive this immense recognition, which I have not yet fully digested.
–And what about life itself? How would you describe the current state of the world?
–Your very reductive question can only be answered in an equally reductive way. I feel that the common denominator in the world is a fundamental polarization that eliminates the interregnum in which humanity lives and hopes for a period of transition.
–You have an excellent memory. Your latest book, That Heap of Broken Mirrors, is deep and thorough. Of all the things you remember here, what was the hardest thing to talk about?
–Make my clothes from the nude body that all autobiographical literature assumes.
–I’d like to introduce you to your first love, your first story, and the writers who came to you. Of all the writings that came out at that time, what is the most unforgettable one?
–The difficulty and urgency of writing.
–Name the person who first fulfilled your passion for writing. Gabriel García Márquez, Alejo Carpentier, Cortázar. They remain among the greats. What order are they in now? Who was following them?
–This question, like some of the previous ones, is so broad that it cannot be answered in anything other than a comprehensive and simplistic way. The three you mentioned still have similar benefits, but the reasons for their persistence are different. García Márquez has an uncanny ability for allegory and the galloping rhythm of prose. Alejo Carpentier appreciates the unnecessary yet vibrant richness of his language, and Julio Cortázar appreciates the endless bridges he continues to build for his readers, who, by crossing them, become co-authors of his work. From Latin American literature he followed first and foremost Jorge Luis Borges. I’ve found him to be the author I rely on the most and cite the most, both in prose and poetry. The title of my latest book is That mountain of broken mirrorscomes from his poem in which he defined memory, as does the poem titled “El metal y la escoria”. After, before, or at the same time, Juan Rulfo, Juan Jose Arreola, Jose Lezama Lima, Severo Sarduy, Carlos Fuentes, Juan Carlos Onetti, Mario Vargas Llosa, Augusto Monteroso, Alejandra Pizarnik, Jorge Ibarguengoitia, Luisa Valenzuela, Leila Guerriero… From Spanish: Luis Martin Santos, Antonio Muñoz Molina, Rosa Montero, Javier Cercas, Carmen Riera, Jesús Maruamaro…
Let’s not even talk about universal literature. Not applicable to this page.
–Cortázar was passionate. It seems to me that you have never met him. How do you think about talking to him now? And what about Gabo? What kind of conversations have you had over the past few years?
–The only time I met him was when he visited Mexico in March 1983, when I introduced him to UNAM, and I spoke briefly with him then and the next day in a large plaza in Coyoacán. But I met him in his story. There the most intimate Cortázar is inevitably revealed, the story of his childhood, his tenacious imagination, his eternal rebellion against all conventions. If I could talk to him now, I would probably ask him his opinion on the current situation in Cuba, and whether he would continue to defend the revolution, as he did when Fuentes and Vargas Llosa withdrew their support after the Padilla incident. I think your answer will be negative. Recent conversations with García Márquez are recorded in my book Mentideros de la Memoria.
–You say in your book of memories that your book is your voice. Voices are part of the beginning of those memories. What does pain mean in your life?
–One of the most severe pains I ever suffered was when I lost my voice after having a cancerous tumor removed from one of my vocal cords. At that moment, I thought that through writing I could say all that my voice would otherwise have to be silenced. Fortunately, my voice recovered after a while, but it didn’t last long as it had deteriorated significantly. But I think your question is not limited to the literal meaning of the word voice, but to its self-expressive value. I have dedicated all my writing to this point, to expressing my own voice. It’s not just a matter of style, it’s a matter of identity. That is, who I am, how I was able to overcome the maxim proclaimed by my mother that dominated my childhood: “All my children are equal.”
–Those of us who know you as a scholar, a public figure, and a reader feel that you have constant reason to grieve. How will Celario’s sadness disappear when this happens?
–When I read your question, I thought you would say that I had no shortage of reasons for joy, and you’re right. Grief has been bracketed, but when it happens, always motivated by loss, I drive it away through the discipline of writing, at least temporarily relieved by describing it.
–As a reader, my memories of the child’s adventures, which she was asking herself as an adult at the age of five, remain deep in my mind. Is that child still there?
–Of course, there are children as well. I have preserved the remnants of imagination and naivety from my childhood, without which I could not write or remember, but what adult child is he not alive? The adult questions I’ve been asking myself since childhood were born out of living with my older brothers. One of the results was that from childhood I used highly educated words that I could not understand, influenced by my older brother Miguel, whose pronunciation brought me uniqueness and approval.
–In your book, you say, “My childhood is gone.” Now you have received the letter that won the jackpot. That might help you bring back that boy who helped you write these words. “Play is the most serious thing a child can practice.” Is that vision of the past still valid?
–Yes, my childhood continues to live on in my writings as an adult. Writing is still a game that must be taken very seriously. Above all, writing involves unpredictability, opportunity, and challenge.
–You said, “I never imagined what writing would reveal to me.” What revelations about your life and the life around you have surprised you recently after these words?
–For me, writing serves a research function. I feed the novel I’m writing a set of data, and the novel itself “processes” and reveals things to me, the author, that I didn’t know before I wrote it. I became a reader of a novel that I had written myself, and I was amazed. What surprised me most about these revelations was who this stranger actually was, and that it was me too.
