B. Berthold 2007-04-07
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Anyone can put the their life on paper, but few such endeavors are worth reading. A fine memoir must come alive, must breathe, must sweat, must bleed, must become flesh and blood and acquire a `life` beyond that of its creator. A memoir worth reading (more than once) must become a Frankenstein. Reinaldo Arenas` supremely moving and magical autobiographical journey has become just that, a freakish, terrifying and stunningly gorgeous creation that will carry the memory of its creator well into the future. If Arenas had never written anything else, `Before Night Falls` would have been enough to rocket its author into the pantheon of literary greats.
When I first devoured this book more than ten years ago, it gripped me like some nagging fever. I just couldn`t put it down, nor put its collection of macabre images and revealing epiphanies out of mind. Coming back to it once again, I was amazed that its power and pathos can still hold the reader spellbound. And what exactly is the secret of its magic? The answer lays with Arenas`s unflinching desire to lay himself bare before the reader, completely shorn of the disingenuous veils through which we all like to see ourselves and be seen by others. Arenas makes no such attempt to airbrush his forty-seven years of life into a pretty portrait for posterity. Instead, he gives us what was and nothing more.
But was, was truly a life lived to the full. As full as possible within the Island prison of Fidel Castro. When the first page begins with little Reinaldo expelling a painful and ferocious stomach worm (the result of too much dirt eating!), the die is cast. Page after page, Arenas documents his impoverished upbringing within the wilds of Eastern Cuba. With his stark and matter-of-fact diction, Arenas shades nothing. Yet, through the very simplicity of his language, the images of his magical youth do achieve something of that overused phenomenon within Latin American letters, `magical realism.` Whether describing his lonely and forsaken mother, superstitous grandmother or lecherous grandfather, Arenas` tiny familial world comes alive like that of a Marquez novel. And everpresent throughout are the forces of nature, the rich, luxurious island fauna, the extremes of rain and sun and especially, the powerful and mysterious Caribbean. Throughout his life, the sea remained a mythic and revered instrument of freedom for Arenas, always enticing and prodding him to abandon his island prison, which he eventually did in 1980 with the Mariel exodus.
And in a book where the forces of nature play a central role, sexuality is omnipresent. Arenas` homosexuality was central to who he was as a man and as a writer, and he lived a life many would deem promiscuous at the very least. With seering intensity and unmatched candor, Arenas catalogues his sexual history like few have done before. From the group encounters with his childhood playmates (even a few animals) to the legions of encounters and partners in adulthood, Arenas leaves no stone unturned in documenting the importance of sex in his life. Yet, Arenas` lusty descriptions of his extraordinary erotic life are neither strictly prurient nor solely for voyeuristic thrill. Instead, one feels the palpable, if albeit transitory, joy that the erotic held for Arenas. While some parts of the book will be hard going for the puritan, the arm-chair psychotherapist will have a field day constructing theories as to the source of Arenas` grandiose appetites. Yet, Arenas` makes no excuses nor explanations for his behavior, rather he documents what was, without blinders, without shame.
Like in Kundera`s Czechoslovakia, Arenas` Cuba was/is a place of profound spiritual, emotional and physical suffering. A place where the `state` forced its way into every perimeter of human existence. Sexual expression, along with artistic expression, was the only way of asserting any individual autonomy. But even this was/is controlled and oppressed by the all-compassing arms of Castro`s revolutionary state. Arenas suffered persecution and torture for both his uncompromising sexual autonomy and for his individual artistic voice. Branded a `degenerate` and `counter-revolutionary,` Arenas paid a heavy price for his refusal to conform. Some of `Before Night Falls` most endearing and moving passages involve Arenas` internment in the infamous `El Morro` concentration camp.
While the constant references to the Cuban literary milieu and its inhabitants can confuse the reader (who informed on who!), they never wholly detract from the fluidity of the narrative nor from the power of the voice locked within. `Before Night Falls` is like a boulder rolling down a steep cliff. With each page, it only gains in intensity and ferocity.
With Arenas`decision to end his richly lived and endured years, `Before Night Falls` comes to an abrupt stop. But not end, for this is truly an unfinished work. Arenas` spirit stays with the reader long after the last word is digested, feverishly waiting for his country to catch up with him.
Arenas` last words say it best, `Cuba will be free. I already am.`
