This article’s title is, of course, a provocation and not entirely original. In the preface to his avant-garde masterpiece Altazor (1931), Vicente Huidobro famously wrote that “The four cardinal points are three: South and North.” Later, self-proclaimed anti-poet Nicanor Parra transformed the line into, arguably, the most memorable reflection on Chilean literature ever written: “Chile’s four great poets / are three: / Alonso de Ercilla and Rubén Darío.”
Parra’s version is brilliant thanks to its intertextual playfulness, as he respects the earlier structure and irrationality while changing the theme towards a questioning of literary canons and Chile’s so-called Great Four — a list typically featuring Gabriela Mistral, Pablo Neruda, Pablo de Rokha, and Huidobro himself.
But the true stroke of genius lies in the third verse, as neither Ercilla nor Darío were Chilean. Alonso de Ercilla (1533-1594) was a Spanish soldier who fought in the colonial war against the indigenous Mapuche people, which inspired his epic poem La Araucana. Rubén Darío (1867-1916) was born in Nicaragua and lived in numerous Latin American countries during his life.
There is a powerful underlying argument. Ercilla’s text has long been considered the starting point of Chile’s literary history, and his admiration-filled descriptions of Mapuche leaders Caupolicán, Lautaro, and Colocolo were instrumental in the construction of its national identity. Darío only spent a few years in the country, but he went on to become the most important figure of modernismo, a key literary movement throughout the Spanish-speaking world and beyond.
In just three verses, Nicanor Parra effectively destabilized the very notion of national literature, and his poem continues to pose relevant questions to this day.
Not so long from now, nobody will wonder who the four great poets of Chile, or Spain, are.
The idea that each nation has its own literature remains widespread, reinforced by school curricula around the globe. Decade after decade, students in Spain have had to memorize comprehensive lists of significant Spanish authors and their works —oftentimes, without even reading them — under the assumption that a part of their identity somehow rests there. The experience probably resonates with readers who grew up in diverse parts of the world.
This ingenious form of pedagogical torture can be traced all the way back to German philosopher Herder and his notion of the Volksgeist, used by nineteenth-century Romantics to argue that literature was the expression of a nation. What followed was the creation of literary canons, that is, lists of authors considered the best of their respective countries of origin. In the process, some writers were canonized for posterity; others, entirely forgotten. At times, the criteria had more to do with biographical factors than artistic production. Nationalistic discourses favored homogeneity: authors of foreign origin or belonging to ethnic minorities were often excluded, while female writers were generally ignored.
Shakespeare and England, Cervantes and Spain, Goethe and Germany, Dante and Italy… The list goes on and on. When one thinks of American literature, the first names that come to mind are probably the likes of Poe, Whitman, Twain, Faulkner, which paints a rather limited picture of US society and its alleged national spirit. A more representative list would include, for example, Gloria Anzaldúa, whose Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (1987) remains one of the most unique and fascinating books ever written in the United States. But would Anzaldúa want to see herself in such company? It seems doubtful, as she identified as Chicana and mestiza, whereas her literature intermixes English, Spanish, and Nahuatl in a conscious effort to dismantle the US-Mexico national divide.
Spain presents similar dilemmas. I discovered Parra’s poem reading a speech by Roberto Bolaño, who was born in Chile but spent his youth in Mexico and half of his life in Catalonia. To which country should he be ascribed, especially considering how he characterized literature and exile as “two sides of the same coin,” and nationalism as “dreadful”?
This question continues to haunt us with ever greater intensity. The writers behind some of the most acclaimed and best-selling works in Spain in recent years were born elsewhere. Gabriela Wiener — author of Undiscovered (2021) — is from Lima but lives in Madrid, a city that Ecuadorian-born writers María Fernanda Ampuero —Cockfight (2018) — and Mónica Ojeda — Jawbone (2018) — call home too, as does poet and activist Yeison F. García López, from Cali, who identifies as Afro-Colombian-Spanish. Born and raised in Mexico, Juan Pablo Villalobos — Down the Rabbit Hole (2010) — has resided in Barcelona for over two decades. Peruvian Boom novelist Mario Vargas Llosa obtained Spanish citizenship in the early nineties.
The Latin American case is paradigmatic: currently, over one million Madrid residents were born there. However, other nationalities have a significant presence in the Iberian Peninsula as well. Award-winning Moroccan authors Najat El Hachmi —The Last Patriarch (2010) — and Mohamed El Morabet migrated to Spain at a very young age and have adopted Catalan and Spanish respectively as their writing languages, instead of their native Amazigh. Some of the most important writers of Equatorial Guinea have been exiled in the former metropole since decades ago, including Juan Tomás Ávila Laurel —By Night, the Mount Burns (2009) — and Donato Ndongo-Bidyogo, author of the classic Shadows of Your Black Memory (1987). Hyperpop artist and writer Chenta Tsai Tseng was born in Taiwan.
Many of them would refuse, with good reason, to be labeled as “Spanish authors.” But their literary impact here is undeniable on multiple levels, including the contemporary surge of autofiction and long-overdue debates regarding decolonization. Will such authors be eventually remembered or forgotten? How many will be canonized in future textbooks?
It may be time to abandon traditional notions of “Spanish literature” altogether and start talking about “literature in Spain” instead. This shift would entail a different focus, one that looks at the texts produced, distributed, and read in this part of the world, regardless of their author’s citizenship or even language (by the way, let us not forget the role of literary translators in all this). Publishers and readers already seem unconcerned with such artificial divisions, whereas institutions are taking steps in similar directions.
I have resisted the temptation to conclude with a new version of Nicanor Parra’s anti-poem, as it would be a vain effort. Not so long from now, nobody will wonder who the four great poets of Chile, or Spain, are.
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