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The Dream of the Celt: A Novel, by Mario Vargas Llosa
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A subtle and enlightening novel about a neglected human rights pioneer by the Nobel Laureate Mario Vargas Llosa
In 1916, the Irish nationalist Roger Casement was hanged by the British government for treason. Casement had dedicated his extraordinary life to improving the plight of oppressed peoples around the world―especially the native populations in the Belgian Congo and the Amazon―but when he dared to draw a parallel between the injustices he witnessed in African and American colonies and those committed by the British in Northern Ireland, he became involved in a cause that led to his imprisonment and execution. Ultimately, the scandals surrounding Casement's trial and eventual hanging tainted his image to such a degree that his pioneering human rights work wasn't fully reexamined until the 1960s.
In The Dream of the Celt, Mario Vargas Llosa, who has long been regarded as one of Latin America's most vibrant, provocative, and necessary literary voices―a fact confirmed when he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2010―brings this complex character to life as no other writer can. A masterful work, sharply translated by Edith Grossman, The Dream of the Celt tackles a controversial man whose story has long been neglected, and, in so doing, pushes at the boundaries of the historical novel.
- Sales Rank: #884592 in Books
- Published on: 2012-06-05
- Released on: 2012-06-05
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.29" h x 1.20" w x 6.46" l, 1.32 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 368 pages
Review
“In the star-studded world of the Latin American novel, Mario Vargas Llosa is a supernova.” ―Raymond Sokolov, The Wall Street Journal on Mario Vargas Llosa
“Vargas Llosa speaks in his own voice, sees through his own eyes. His vision is unique. His genius is unmistakable.” ―Eugenia Thornton, The Plain Dealer (Cleveland) on Mario Vargas Llosa
“The bold, dynamic and endlessly productive imagination of the Peruvian novelist Mario Vargas Llosa, one of the writing giants of our time, is something truly to be admired . . . As with any great writer, [he] makes us see clearly what we have been looking at all the while but never noticed.” ―Alan Cheuse, San Francisco Chronicle on Mario Vargas Llosa
“Generous in friendship, unfailingly curious about the world at large, tireless in his quest to probe the nature of the human animal, [Vargas Llosa] is a model writer for our times.” ―Marie Arana, The Washington Post on Mario Vargas Llosa
“[Vargas Llosa] is a worldly writer in the best sense of the word: intelligent, urbane, well-traveled, well-informed, cosmopolitan, free-thinking and free-speaking.” ―Merle Rubin, Los Angeles Times on Mario Vargas Llosa
“Mario Vargas Llosa has long been a literary adventurer of the very first order . . . [He], I am convinced, can tell us stories about anything and make them dance to his inventive rhythms.” ―Lisa Appignanesi, The Independent on Mario Vargas Llosa
About the Author
Mario Vargas Llosa was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2010 "for his cartography of structures of power and his trenchant images of the individual's resistance, revolt, and defeat." Peru's foremost writer, he has been awarded the Cervantes Prize, the Spanish-speaking world's most distinguished literary honor, and the Jerusalem Prize. His many works include The Feast of the Goat, The Bad Girl, Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter, The War of the End of the World, and The Storyteller. He lives in London.
Edith Grossman has translated the works of the Nobel laureates Mario Vargas Llosa and Gabriel García Márquez, among others. One of the most important translators of Latin American fiction, her version of Miguel de Cervantes's Don Quixote is considered to be the finest translation of the Spanish masterpiece in the English language.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Dream of the Celt, The
THE CONGOIWhen they opened the door to his cell, the street noise that the stone walls had muffled came in along with the stream of light and a blast of wind, and Roger woke in alarm. Blinking, still confused, struggling to calm down, he saw the shape of the sheriff leaning in the doorway. His flabby face, with its blond mustache and reproachful little eyes, contemplated Roger with a dislike he had never tried to hide. This was someone who would suffer if the British government granted his request for clemency."Visitor," muttered the sheriff, not taking his eyes off him.He stood, rubbing his arms. How long had he slept? Not knowing the time was one of the torments of Pentonville Prison. In Brixton Prison and the Tower of London he had heard the bells that marked the half hour and the hour; here, thick walls kept the clamor of the church bells along the Caledonian Road and the noise of the Islington market from reaching the prison interior, and the guards posted at the door strictly obeyed the order not to speak to him. The sheriff put handcuffs on him and indicated that he should walk behind. Was his lawyer bringing him good news? Had the cabinet met and reached a decision? Perhaps the sheriff's gaze was more filled than ever with the anger he inspired in him because his sentence had been commuted. He walked down the long passageway of red brick blackened by grime, past the metal doors of the cells and the discolored walls where every twenty or twenty-five paces a high barred window allowed him to glimpse a small piece of gray sky. Why was he so cold? It was July, the heart of summer, there was no reason for the icy cold that gave him goose bumps.When he entered the narrow visitors' room, his heart sank. Waiting for him was not his attorney, Maître George Gavan Duffy, but one of his assistants, a blond, sickly looking young man with prominent cheekbones who dressed like a fop and whom he had seen during the four days of his trial, carrying and fetching papers for the defense lawyers. Why, instead of coming in person, had Maître Gavan Duffy sent one of his clerks?The young man looked at him coldly. Anger and disgust were in his eyes. What was wrong with this imbecile? He looks at me as if I were vermin, thought Roger."Any news?"The young man shook his head. He inhaled before speaking:"Regarding the petition for pardon, not yet," he murmured drily, making a face that made him look even sicklier. "It is necessary to wait for the Council of Ministers to meet."The presence of the sheriff and another guard in the small room irritated Roger. Though they remained silent and motionless, he knew they were listening to everything. The idea oppressed his chest and made it difficult for him to breathe."But considering recent events," the blond young man added, blinking for the first time and opening and closing his mouth in an exaggerated way, "everything is more difficult now.""Outside news doesn't reach Pentonville. What happened?"What if the German admiralty had finally decided to attack Great Britain from the Irish coast? What if the dreamed-of invasion had taken place and the Kaiser's cannon were at this very moment avenging the Irish patriots shot by the British in the Easter Rising? If the war had taken that direction, his plans would be realized in spite of everything."Now it has become difficult, perhaps impossible, to succeed," the clerk repeated. He was pale, and Roger detected his skull beneath the whitish skin of his complexion. He sensed that behind him the sheriff was smiling."What are you talking about? Mr. Gavan Duffy was optimistic about the petition. What happened to make him change his mind?""Your diaries," the young man hissed, making another disgusted face. He had lowered his voice and it was difficult for Roger to hear him. "Scotland Yard found them in your house on Ebury Street."He paused for a long time, waiting for Roger to say something.But since he had fallen mute, the clerk gave free rein to his indignation and twisted his mouth:"My good man, how could you be so stupid?" He spoke slowly, making his rage more obvious. "How could you, my good man, put such things on paper? And if you did, how could you not take the basic precaution of destroying those diaries before embarking on a conspiracy against the British Empire?"It's an insult for this fellow to call me "my good man," Roger thought. Ill-mannered because Roger was at least twice the age of this affected boy."Portions of those diaries are circulating everywhere now," the clerk added, calmer, though his disgust was constant, not looking at him now. "In the admiralty, the minister's spokesman, Captain Reginald Hall himself, has given copies to dozens of reporters. They're all over London. In parliament, the House of Lords, Liberal and Conservative clubs, editorial offices, churches. It's the only topic of conversation in the city."Roger did not say anything. He did not move. Once again he had the strange sensation that had taken hold of him many times in recent months, ever since that gray, rainy April morning in 1916 when, numb with cold, he was arrested in the ruins of McKenna's Fort, in the south of Ireland: this did not have to do with him, they were talking about someone else, these things were happening to someone else."I know your private life is not my business, or Mr. Gavan Duffy's, or anyone's," added the young clerk, making an effort to lower the fury that saturated his voice. "This is a strictly professional matter. Mr. Gavan Duffy wanted to bring you up to date regarding the situation. And prepare you. The request for clemency may be compromised. This morning there are already protests in some newspapers, confidences betrayed, rumors regarding the content of your diaries. The favorable public response to the petition might be affected. Merely a supposition, of course. Mr. Gavan Duffy will keep you informed. Do you wish me to give him a message?"With an almost imperceptible movement of his head, the prisoner refused. He turned immediately afterward, facing the door of the visitors' room. With his chubby face the sheriff signaled the guard, who unbolted the door and opened it. The return to his cell seemed interminable. During his passage down the long hall withthe rocklike walls of blackened red brick, he had the feeling that at any moment he might trip and fall facedown on those damp stones and not get up again. When he reached the metal door of his cell, he remembered: on the day they brought him to Pentonville Prison, the sheriff had told him that, without exception, all the prisoners who occupied this cell had ended up on the gallows."Could I take a bath today?" he asked before he went in.The fat jailer shook his head, looking into his eyes with the same repugnance Roger had detected in the clerk's gaze."You cannot bathe until the day of your execution," said the sheriff, relishing each word. "And, on that day, only if it's your final wish. Others, instead of a bath, prefer a good meal. A bad business for Mr. Ellis, because then, when they feel the noose, they shit themselves. And leave the place like a pigsty. Mr. Ellis is the hangman, in case you didn't know."When he heard the door close behind him, he lay facedown on the narrow cot and closed his eyes. It would have been good to feel the cold water from that spout invigorating his skin and turning it blue with cold. In Pentonville the convicts, except for those condemned to death, could bathe with soap once a week in that stream of cold water. And the conditions in the cells were passable. On the other hand, he recalled with a shudder the filth in Brixton, where he had been covered with lice and fleas that swarmed in the mattress on his cot and covered his back, legs, and arms with bites. He attempted to think about that, but over and over he kept remembering the disgusted face and hateful voice of the blond clerk decked out like a dandy whom Maître Gavan Duffy had sent instead of coming in person to give him the bad news.Copyright © 2010 by Mario Vargas Llosa
Most helpful customer reviews
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Five Stars
By M. Nebraska
Learned about an individual who made quite a difference in history
16 of 16 people found the following review helpful.
A devastating portrayal of colonial exploitation
By Gene H. Bell-Villada
Vargas Llosa never ceases to surprise his readers. He takes on big subjects--Peru in the 1950s, the Canudos rebellion in Brazil, the Trujillo dictatorship, Gauguin in Tahiti--and brings them to life on the page. In this, his latest novel, he reconstructs and depicts the horrors of rubber exploitation, with all its human cost, early in the 20th century, first in the Belgian Congo, later in the Amazon (as seen and reported on by Irish natinalist Roger Casement).
What is amazing is that, for the last 20 years, Vargas Llosa has been a frank libertarian, a defender of the capitalist "free" market who openly ridicules the welfare state and who, in his opinion pieces for the general press, invokes the likes of Hayek, von Mises, and Milton Friedman as his model ideologues.
And yet, when dealing with something so stark as this dark history, the author puts aside the standard, formulaic praise of capitalism for "creating wealth" (a darling phrase of libertarians, including Vargas Llosa himself) and instead shows the system at its most violent and inhuman. We see here Gulag-style slave labor, though under the control of Brits, Belgians, and white Latin Americans.
THE DREAM OF THE CELT may not be one of Vargas Llosa's very best works, but it still demonstrates his masterful objectivity as a novelist, his gift for telling a gripping, suspenseful story, along with an ability to transcend his libertarian dogma and get at the central truth of the events themselves. The book is a worthy successor to Joseph Conrad's HEART OF DARKNESS, with which it will inevitably be compared.
28 of 31 people found the following review helpful.
Roger Casement's struggle, against slavery and within himself
By John L Murphy
After a distinguished career with many historical novels exploring the human toll taken by political idealism, Mario Vargas Llosa follows his 2010 Nobel Prize for Literature with the lightly fictionalized life of Sir Roger Casement. Familiar more to Irish nationalists for his anti-slavery activism and his execution for actions which were judged traitorous to the British crown which had knighted him for his services as consul, Casement's reputation since his 1916 death after the failed Easter Rising has suffered. Before his hanging in a London prison, British intelligence released his "Black Diaries," full of not the humanitarianism which fueled his career uncovering the victims of the African and Amazonian rubber trades, but the "gloomy aureole of homosexuality and pedophilia" still debated from these fevered diaries as true, exaggerated, or invented--planted, grafted, or organic within the secret soul and clandestine identity of a lonely, driven Anglo-Irish activist for justice.
Situated often in Vargas Llosa's native Peru, where the core of this novel burrows into the depredations of colonialism owned by Britain and controlled by Peruvians far from the control of their capital or the law, the placement of Casement within late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century capitalism sharpens the author's portrayals of Latin Americans and Europeans complicit in raping the jungles, its women, and its resources. Vargas Llosa had run for president of his own struggling Third World nation; he shows a keen understanding of all sides in the debate over the fate of the "3 C's" of capitalism, colonialism, and Christianity.
Casement's early conversion-- from servant of the British Empire to at first its representative in uncovering human rights abuses and then its foe allied with the Reich as the Great War-- invited him to meddle in geopolitics where "England's difficulty is Ireland's opportunity." His transformation nestles this dedicated campaigner within the globalizing struggles of a century ago which spiral (offstage, subtly, and persistently) forward from the 1880s to WWI. Casement prefigures, in his determination to discover the truth, our own guilty complicity with an unjust world's order demand for ever-lower prices, ever-wider markets, and ever-greedier enterprises.
This does not mean the novel's stuffed with set-pieces or talking heads. Substantial portions admittedly feel as if the print equivalent of a docudrama, full of staged re-enactments and voiceovers from letters and journals. While I was very familiar with the Irish content supporting this rather stolid narrative, Vargas Llosa takes a risk in conveying so much data in a rather unrelenting form of indirect first-person recollection to direct Casement's vast recall of names, dates, and events from his prison cell to us. The pace, ably and transparently translated by the skilled Edith Grossman, remains steady, no easy feat. Yet, less devoted readers may feel overwhelmed by the manner chosen to convey the information underlying Casement's missions over twenty years in the Congo, seven in Latin America, with another year in the Amazon and a year and more between rebel Ireland and wartime Germany.
The first section moves between Casement's last days in London and his upbringing in the North of Ireland in an Anglican family. Working for the explorer Henry Morton Stanley in Africa, Casement realizes the truth behind lies which gloss over the colonization and exploitation of the natives. As British consul, he rallies Europe against the Belgian Free State and inspires Joseph Conrad's exposé.
The Irishman's service for the King of England unsettles him; his Celtic background, stirred by his republican friends, rouses him against colonization closer to his own home. He tells his cousin: "In these jungles I've found not only the true face of Leopold II. I've also found my true self: the incorrigible Irishman." Casement reasons that "I've shed the skin of my mind and perhaps my soul."
However, Casement's diplomatic success exposes him to reprisals. He is stationed in Brazil, unhappily. Sir Edward Grey, the Crown's foreign minister, dubs Casement "a specialist in atrocities." Soon, the British-directed Peruvian Amazon Company draws him into another rubber-fueled "mythic cataclysm," as endured by the overwhelmed natives of another tropical realm. Beaten, enslaved, tortured, they suffer a similar fate.
Their stern taskmasters across the Atlantic "denied the obvious with the same boldness because all of them believed that harvesting rubber and making money was a Christian ideal that justified the worst atrocities against pagans who, of course, were always cannibals and killers of their own children." Casement, sent by the Crown, investigates conditions in Putumayo; his 1912 "Blue Book" on Amazonian malfeasance follows his successful African coverage. Revelations from the tropics of Peru precipitate the collapse of the Amazonian rubber industry--although the Western capitalists over in Asia rapidly find another opportunity for exploitation.
The intransigent and then insolvent Company--drawn deftly in its machinations--wants Casement's head, so he must flee Peru. In Washington D.C., he reflects on his sudden lurches from destitution to promotion. "Less than two weeks before he had been a poor devil threatened with death in a run-down hotel in Iquitos, and now, an Irishman who dreamed about the independence of Ireland, he was the embodiment of an official sent by the British Crown to persuade the president of the United States to help the Empire demand that the Peruvian government respond forcefully to the ignominy of Amazonia. Wasn't life an absurdity, a dramatic representation that suddenly turned into farce?"
Soon, arthritic and tired, the middle-aged Casement retires from the Foreign Service. Yet he cannot rest. The burgeoning Irish republican movement excites him, and he donates his wages once given for anti-slavery projects to the pro-Gaelic efforts against the Empire closer to his native land. Casement feels "castrated" by witnessing so much agony caused by native capitulation to imperialism. He determines to help the Irish cause, to ensure that his homeland does not succumb.
The close of the novel takes him to Germany, where he tries to recruit Irish prisoners taken after fighting for the British into a brigade "beside but not inside" the army of the Reich, to aid the German assault on Ireland which Casement is promised will come, given the upheaval of the war. When this invasion does not happen, Casement must rush back to try to stop the premature, doomed rebellion of his Dublin comrades at Easter 1916. His own Good Friday landing the other side of the Irish coast and his capture by the British serve as a sober denouement to his gamble to make history matter.
What is left behind in America, he learns only while facing execution for betraying the Crown, are his personal diaries. "A piece of negligence that the Empire would make very good use of and that for a long time would cloud the truth of his life, his political conduct, and even his death." Vargas Llosa sums up what may be Casement's erotic notations well; in an afterword the novelist reckons from his acumen that Casement "wrote certain things because he would have liked to live them but couldn't."
Vargas Llosa handles Casement's evocations of his moral struggles and the recollections of his sexual predicament with the same sensitivity. He conjures up sympathetic listeners in the priests who advise Casement over his decades of fighting injustice, and in Mr. Stacey, who turns from "fat jailer" to nuanced confidant in Casement's incarceration in Pentonville Jail. There, he is buried in unmarked dirt next to the path of the island's first imperialists, grim legions who marched up Roman Way and Caledonian Road through bear-infested forests two millennia ago. This concludes an epic novel via silent harbingers--recalling Heart of Darkness in its evocative framing story--of the British colonists in the footsteps of Stanley and Dr. Livingstone, among whom Casement's convoluted career began.
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