Requiem for an Insomniac Power
Shortly after the decade of the 1950s opened and not long before it closed, we saw the emergence of two fundamental poetry collections, as much for the rigor of their language as for their spirit of modernity. Elena y los elementos, by Juan Sánchez Peláez, and Los cuadernos del destierro, by Rafael Cadenas, were affiliated, perhaps for distancing themselves from the poetic modes of the time, with the genealogy of Ramos Sucre. But in fact Sánchez Peláez was coming from his Chilean experiences and his devotion to surrealism and Cadenas from a vast reflection on the poetic task, a voracious reader like the man from La torre de Timón, and what was singular in them, as with the latter, consisted in having jumped the barricade.
Since 1945, the poet Carlos Augusto León, an old disciple of Ramos Sucre, had highlighted, in his essay Las piedras mágicas, the importance of his work, and even Mario Briceño Iragorry, in the new edition of Lecturas venezolanas (a volume with a cover that looked like a Mantilla elementary school book and was quite conservative in its selection) had included “Geórgica,” defining Ramos Sucre’s poetry as excessively learned: “He has been classified as nebulous because of the originality of his diction and because of the motives of his writings.”
The decade of the 50s meant a slow but growing revision of the poetics of the Cumaná native, at a time when the popular poet par excellence was his countryman Andrés Eloy Blanco. Articles by José Ramón Medina (who would eventually write the prologue for his Obra completa, volume 73 of Biblioteca Ayacucho) and by the young writers Juan Calzadilla and Juan Angel Mogollón, enthusiastic conversations by others like Adriano González León and Rafael José Muñoz, and lastly, the irruption of the literary group Sardio, where he was esteemed as a master, and critics like Guillermo Sucre, José Balza and Eugenio Montejo soon afterward, consolidated the prestige of Ramos Sucre, at the same time as that of Guillermo Meneses and, later on, Julio Garmendia in fiction.
The belief exists, denied by the testimonies of newspapers in the 20s, that Ramos Sucre lived cloistered in his tower. The truth is Trizas de papel was published, poem by poem, in a newspaper of the era, and the same occurred, though not in its entirety, with La torre de Timón. As for “Granizada,” it appeared successively in Elite. Ramos Sucre likewise collaborated with the magazine that served as a banner for the Generation of 28 (válvula) and, according to a reference by Jóvito Villalba, he was the center of attraction in Plaza Bolívar, when he would leave his office at the Consulate, for the students who imbibed from him knowledge that was inaccessible by any other means. Against popular belief, he even had a few imitators, not always blessed in the poetic adventure.
The month of June (and also July) of 1930 demonstrated that he was read more than was imagined, although not everyone understood the depths of his visions, with the exception of Pedro Sotillo, Fernando Paz Castillo, the strange Gabriel Espinoza and, of course, Enrique Bernardo Núñez, in Panama at the time, who would produce the extraordinary La galera de Tiberio. The insomniac’s suicide, predicted by what was written in his last letters, was reflected –according to Luis Beltrán Guerrero– by the poet of the Viernes group, Otto De Sola, in his “Oda a José Antonio Ramos Sucre”: “That revolver in Geneva was not evil.”
The poetry of Ramos Sucre has been studied a great deal since the 60s. Writers such as Francisco Pérez Perdomo, who composed a prologue for one of his editions, and Angel Rama, who landed in Venezuela in the 70s and who also researched Rufino Blanco-Fombona, have analyzed his inner and outer world, just as José Ramón Medina and Fernando Paz Castillo, and Eugenio Montejo, Elena Vera, Pérez Huggins, Oswaldo Larrazábal, Gustavo Luis Carrera y Pedro Beroes have done.
Tomás Eloy Martínez’s vision is notable and the analytical incursions of Salvador Tenreiro are of the highest order and, more recently, those of Víctor Bravo, who classifies his work “as a poetics of evil and pain,” referring to Leopardi and giving equal weight to “evil and the aesthetics of modernity,” Baudelaire at the vanguard.
When his remains arrived in La Guaira, I was seeing the light of this world. An existential paradox, that unites my condition of pure and simple mortal, with an immortal dead man. Unfortunately, I have no memory of that day.
{ Jesús Sanoja Hernández, Papel Literario, El Nacional, 6 December 1998 }
Showing posts with label Jesús Sanoja Hernández. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jesús Sanoja Hernández. Show all posts
6.09.2007
Jesús Sanoja Hernández, el periodismo como estirpe / Ramón Hernández
Jesús Sanoja Hernández, Journalism as a Lineage
The streets of the center of Caracas and a few corners in La Candelaria are going to miss him with his impeccable guayabera shirt and his brown leather briefcase, which has survived a thousand battles and is covered with scratches. That’s where he kept his Caribe brand notebook, with the drawing of the Indian chief printed on faded blue, the edges worn from use and his notes with handwriting like that of an undisciplined boy, attentive to dates, names and words in their exact meaning and sense; as well as a half-written book of poems. Jesús Sanoja Hernández, the one with the prodigious memory, abandoned journalism. Death, that inveterate and punctual editor, ambushed him and didn’t let him finish another page.
Amid the tasks of poet, journalist, historian, teacher and conversationalist he wove a quotidianness that tied him to the country and to Caracas, the city he adopted as his own. Without fearing the setbacks of the political struggle nor the mistakes, he made many friends and he wrote about everything human that sparked his curiosity; nor did he draw back from the limits of the divine, if he found a witness, a fact or a date that gave him a clue.
He was born in Tumerero, at the entrance to El Dorado, in the state of Bolívar, on June 27, 1930. He went to elementary school there and came to the capital for high school. The journey lasted eight days, and he made it in six stages he never forgot. Once high school was over, he began studies in Economy at the Universidad Central de Venezuela, but prisons and exile interrupted that vocation. In 1946 he published his first article in Válvula, and from that point onwards he was never able to pull himself away from the outlet of journalism, sometimes as part of his political obligations, other times as a means of living and always because of his noble historian’s zeal for the quotidian.
In 1963 he graduated from the Escuela de Letras, but he already had a more valued and permanent title, the book La mágica enfermedad, which earned him the prize at the Valencia Poetry Biennial. He never stopped writing verses, but he didn’t summon a press conference when he finished one and he was always reluctant to publish them; it was a task for his inner being. Humble and attentive to details, he handled each chapter of contemporary events like a surgeon and he shared it: during afternoons of thirst, with beer; Saturdays with a scotch.
Imbued in the world of the academy, in literature and in political quarrels, journalism was his tool for combat, and he had to disguise his writings with other names in order to elude police persecution and censorship: “Edgar Hamilton,” “Marcos Garbán,” “Martín Garbán,” “Juan Francisco Leiva,” “Eduardo Montes,” “Manuel Rojas Poleo,” or “Pablo Azuaje.”
His work as a researcher and historian is dispersed in books, newspapers, magazines and anthologies, but his conversations and teachings are already a part of the hallways of newspaper offices and the rugged paths of newspaper archives, where his presence, tied to his Caribe notebook, demonstrated every day that journalism is made of work and passion, but without forgetting the poet one carries inside.
{ Ramón Hernández, El Nacional, 9 June 2007 }
The streets of the center of Caracas and a few corners in La Candelaria are going to miss him with his impeccable guayabera shirt and his brown leather briefcase, which has survived a thousand battles and is covered with scratches. That’s where he kept his Caribe brand notebook, with the drawing of the Indian chief printed on faded blue, the edges worn from use and his notes with handwriting like that of an undisciplined boy, attentive to dates, names and words in their exact meaning and sense; as well as a half-written book of poems. Jesús Sanoja Hernández, the one with the prodigious memory, abandoned journalism. Death, that inveterate and punctual editor, ambushed him and didn’t let him finish another page.
Amid the tasks of poet, journalist, historian, teacher and conversationalist he wove a quotidianness that tied him to the country and to Caracas, the city he adopted as his own. Without fearing the setbacks of the political struggle nor the mistakes, he made many friends and he wrote about everything human that sparked his curiosity; nor did he draw back from the limits of the divine, if he found a witness, a fact or a date that gave him a clue.
He was born in Tumerero, at the entrance to El Dorado, in the state of Bolívar, on June 27, 1930. He went to elementary school there and came to the capital for high school. The journey lasted eight days, and he made it in six stages he never forgot. Once high school was over, he began studies in Economy at the Universidad Central de Venezuela, but prisons and exile interrupted that vocation. In 1946 he published his first article in Válvula, and from that point onwards he was never able to pull himself away from the outlet of journalism, sometimes as part of his political obligations, other times as a means of living and always because of his noble historian’s zeal for the quotidian.
In 1963 he graduated from the Escuela de Letras, but he already had a more valued and permanent title, the book La mágica enfermedad, which earned him the prize at the Valencia Poetry Biennial. He never stopped writing verses, but he didn’t summon a press conference when he finished one and he was always reluctant to publish them; it was a task for his inner being. Humble and attentive to details, he handled each chapter of contemporary events like a surgeon and he shared it: during afternoons of thirst, with beer; Saturdays with a scotch.
Imbued in the world of the academy, in literature and in political quarrels, journalism was his tool for combat, and he had to disguise his writings with other names in order to elude police persecution and censorship: “Edgar Hamilton,” “Marcos Garbán,” “Martín Garbán,” “Juan Francisco Leiva,” “Eduardo Montes,” “Manuel Rojas Poleo,” or “Pablo Azuaje.”
His work as a researcher and historian is dispersed in books, newspapers, magazines and anthologies, but his conversations and teachings are already a part of the hallways of newspaper offices and the rugged paths of newspaper archives, where his presence, tied to his Caribe notebook, demonstrated every day that journalism is made of work and passion, but without forgetting the poet one carries inside.
{ Ramón Hernández, El Nacional, 9 June 2007 }
6.08.2007
Jesús Sanoja Hernández (1930-2007)
According to the newspaper Tal Cual, the poet, historian and journalist Jesús Sanoja Hernández died this morning. Sanoja Hernández was a Professor at the Universidad Central de Venezuela and until recently he wrote an excellent weekly column for El Nacional, which offered a historical context for Venezuela’s chaotic political situation. He was in the middle of writing a history of 20th century Venezuela.
In the early 1950’s, Sanoja Hernández was part of a group of young writers who edited the magazine Cantaclaro, which included the following statement regarding its philosophical stance: “The Cantaclaro magazine group participates in a militant democratic leftist orientation... the intellectual is under the obligation to exercise social pedagogy, in tune with his era and immersed in the reality of his medium... art should be a translation of man and his human drama... the American intellectual should begin by valuing the national tradition...” (cited in Rafael Arráiz Lucca, El coro de las voces solitarias: Una historia de la poesía venezolana, Grupo Editorial Eclepsidra, 2003) The Cantaclaro group was dissolved when its members were forced to go into hiding because of their opposition to the dictatorship of General Marcos Pérez Jiménez. In the late 1950s, Sanoja Hernández was the founder and central ideologist of the literary group Sardio, which included writers such as Rafael Cadenas, Oswaldo Barreto, Manuel Caballero and José Barroeta. He published one book of poetry, La mágica enfermedad (1969), which Rafael Arráiz Lucca describes in his history of Venezuelan poetry:
“As we can see, the title is published many years after it was written, in the interim Sanoja endured the dust of jail and the silence of exile, in his fight against the military dictatorship of Pérez Jiménez. His collection of poems is inverse to his journalistic work: if the latter is marked by eloquence and light, the poems give voice to the darkest interiority, not only in their grammatical sense but also ontologically. He descends to the depths of the psyche and returns with his hands full of signs that the writing itself seeks to decipher. All metaphorical facility is exiled: there are no easy similes, there are no canonical grammatical connections, everything embarks on the free investigation of the word’s expressive possibilities. This book, which announced a very unique work, remained alone in Sanoja’s bibliography, as much as his friends and readers might suspect that more is hidden in the files of the historian and journalist.”
The following is one of his poems, which I translated earlier this year:
Bad Dream
Compressed through moments in a spatial casket
and crossing through myself amidst heroic stitching,
I fly through Atlantics of drowsy tints and herbs.
My inferior position wounds itself, sinks into a malaise
and if it tries to shake itself, already bitten by an electric science,
it lifts pleasure up to the inert and grazes the superfluous
with a gust of failure, with the perturbed hand of a mage,
with an entirely impetuous cornering of impulses.
I sniff the electronic thread and pull out sensitive planks
with tearful flutes. Cezanne knocks himself down, in cubes.
The upper light hoists itself the island breaking into Picasso.
Madonna with a face drenched by the copper shine, satanic.
*
Mal sueño
Agarrotado por momentos en un cajón espacial
y cruzando por mí mismo entre surcidos heroicos,
vuelo por Atlánticos de tintes y yerbas somnolientas.
Mi posición inferior se hiere, húndese en una molestia
y si intenta sacudirse, mordida ya por una ciencia eléctrica,
levanta el goce hasta lo inerte y roza lo superfluo
con ráfaga de fracaso, con perturbada mano de mago,
con todo un irreflexivo arrinconamiento de impulsos.
Huelo el hilo electrónico y saco afuera tablas sensitivas
con flautas llorosas. Túmbase Cezanne, en cubos.
Alzase pura luz de arriba rompiéndose en Picasso la isla.
Madona con el rostro empapado por el brillo de cobre, satánica.
In the early 1950’s, Sanoja Hernández was part of a group of young writers who edited the magazine Cantaclaro, which included the following statement regarding its philosophical stance: “The Cantaclaro magazine group participates in a militant democratic leftist orientation... the intellectual is under the obligation to exercise social pedagogy, in tune with his era and immersed in the reality of his medium... art should be a translation of man and his human drama... the American intellectual should begin by valuing the national tradition...” (cited in Rafael Arráiz Lucca, El coro de las voces solitarias: Una historia de la poesía venezolana, Grupo Editorial Eclepsidra, 2003) The Cantaclaro group was dissolved when its members were forced to go into hiding because of their opposition to the dictatorship of General Marcos Pérez Jiménez. In the late 1950s, Sanoja Hernández was the founder and central ideologist of the literary group Sardio, which included writers such as Rafael Cadenas, Oswaldo Barreto, Manuel Caballero and José Barroeta. He published one book of poetry, La mágica enfermedad (1969), which Rafael Arráiz Lucca describes in his history of Venezuelan poetry:
“As we can see, the title is published many years after it was written, in the interim Sanoja endured the dust of jail and the silence of exile, in his fight against the military dictatorship of Pérez Jiménez. His collection of poems is inverse to his journalistic work: if the latter is marked by eloquence and light, the poems give voice to the darkest interiority, not only in their grammatical sense but also ontologically. He descends to the depths of the psyche and returns with his hands full of signs that the writing itself seeks to decipher. All metaphorical facility is exiled: there are no easy similes, there are no canonical grammatical connections, everything embarks on the free investigation of the word’s expressive possibilities. This book, which announced a very unique work, remained alone in Sanoja’s bibliography, as much as his friends and readers might suspect that more is hidden in the files of the historian and journalist.”
The following is one of his poems, which I translated earlier this year:
Bad Dream
Compressed through moments in a spatial casket
and crossing through myself amidst heroic stitching,
I fly through Atlantics of drowsy tints and herbs.
My inferior position wounds itself, sinks into a malaise
and if it tries to shake itself, already bitten by an electric science,
it lifts pleasure up to the inert and grazes the superfluous
with a gust of failure, with the perturbed hand of a mage,
with an entirely impetuous cornering of impulses.
I sniff the electronic thread and pull out sensitive planks
with tearful flutes. Cezanne knocks himself down, in cubes.
The upper light hoists itself the island breaking into Picasso.
Madonna with a face drenched by the copper shine, satanic.
*
Mal sueño
Agarrotado por momentos en un cajón espacial
y cruzando por mí mismo entre surcidos heroicos,
vuelo por Atlánticos de tintes y yerbas somnolientas.
Mi posición inferior se hiere, húndese en una molestia
y si intenta sacudirse, mordida ya por una ciencia eléctrica,
levanta el goce hasta lo inerte y roza lo superfluo
con ráfaga de fracaso, con perturbada mano de mago,
con todo un irreflexivo arrinconamiento de impulsos.
Huelo el hilo electrónico y saco afuera tablas sensitivas
con flautas llorosas. Túmbase Cezanne, en cubos.
Alzase pura luz de arriba rompiéndose en Picasso la isla.
Madona con el rostro empapado por el brillo de cobre, satánica.
1.24.2007
Mal sueño / Jesús Sanoja Hernández
Bad Dream
Compressed for moments in a spatial casket
and crossing through myself amidst heroic stitching,
I fly through Atlantics of drowsy tints and herbs.
My inferior position wounds itself, sinks into a malaise
and if it tries to shake itself, already bitten by an electric science,
it lifts pleasure up to the inert and grazes the superfluous
with a gust of failure, with the perturbed hand of a mage,
with an entirely impetuous cornering of impulses.
I sniff the electronic thread and pull out sensitive planks
with tearful flutes. Cezanne knocks himself down, in cubes.
The upper light hoists itself the island breaking into Picasso.
Madonna with a face drenched by the copper shine, satanic.
*
Mal sueño
Agarrotado por momentos en un cajón espacial
y cruzando por mí mismo entre surcidos heroicos,
vuelo por Atlánticos de tintes y yerbas somnolientas.
Mi posición inferior se hiere, húndese en una molestia
y si intenta sacudirse, mordida ya por una ciencia eléctrica,
levanta el goce hasta lo inerte y roza lo superfluo
con ráfaga de fracaso, con perturbada mano de mago,
con todo un irreflexivo arrinconamiento de impulsos.
Huelo el hilo electrónico y saco afuera tablas sensitivas
con flautas llorosas. Túmbase Cezanne, en cubos.
Alzase pura luz de arriba rompiéndose en Picasso la isla.
Madona con el rostro empapado por el brillo de cobre, satánica.
Jesús Sanoja Hernández (Ciudad Bolívar, 193o), La mágica enfermedad, Monte Ávila Editores, 1997.
Compressed for moments in a spatial casket
and crossing through myself amidst heroic stitching,
I fly through Atlantics of drowsy tints and herbs.
My inferior position wounds itself, sinks into a malaise
and if it tries to shake itself, already bitten by an electric science,
it lifts pleasure up to the inert and grazes the superfluous
with a gust of failure, with the perturbed hand of a mage,
with an entirely impetuous cornering of impulses.
I sniff the electronic thread and pull out sensitive planks
with tearful flutes. Cezanne knocks himself down, in cubes.
The upper light hoists itself the island breaking into Picasso.
Madonna with a face drenched by the copper shine, satanic.
*
Mal sueño
Agarrotado por momentos en un cajón espacial
y cruzando por mí mismo entre surcidos heroicos,
vuelo por Atlánticos de tintes y yerbas somnolientas.
Mi posición inferior se hiere, húndese en una molestia
y si intenta sacudirse, mordida ya por una ciencia eléctrica,
levanta el goce hasta lo inerte y roza lo superfluo
con ráfaga de fracaso, con perturbada mano de mago,
con todo un irreflexivo arrinconamiento de impulsos.
Huelo el hilo electrónico y saco afuera tablas sensitivas
con flautas llorosas. Túmbase Cezanne, en cubos.
Alzase pura luz de arriba rompiéndose en Picasso la isla.
Madona con el rostro empapado por el brillo de cobre, satánica.
Jesús Sanoja Hernández (Ciudad Bolívar, 193o), La mágica enfermedad, Monte Ávila Editores, 1997.
5.14.2005
El excremento del diablo / Jesús Sanoja Hernández
The Devil's Excrement
Since 1976, oil began to be for Venezuela something much different than what it had been since the time of Gómez, when its dazzling years were 1914 with the Zumaque I well, 1922 with Los Barrosos, 1943 with Medina's Ley de Hidrocarburos, 1948 with the halfandhalf and 1975 with the approval by Congress of the Ley de Nacionalización.
On that long road that united 1914 with 1976 not everything was written down in the dazzling journal. In 1925, for example, an oil strike broke out which Manuel Taborda has detailed with countless facts. He was a worker in the industry in Zulia at the time and later, in times of democracy and new dictatorship, he was a communist union leader. Moreover, Pérez Soto, who was a state president, addressed a dramatic letter to the tyrant in 1926 in which he denounced the illegalities of the oil companies and their lawyers. He called oil "devil's shit;" later on Pérez Alfonzo, at the end of the 70s, would call it "devil's excrement." Regardless, I say he's lived in Venezuela as though he were pastry fallen from the sky: manna!
If the nationalization of oil Carlos Andrés Pérez exhibited with pride at the foot of Zumaque I contributed toward unleashing the insanity of Venezuela saudita, which had actually broken out because of the third Arab-Israeli war, the Ley de Reversión in 1972 had been received with discomfort and even with rage by sectors of our bourgeoisie.
I still retain the memory of an all-powerful of that time and of subsequent years—previous, of course, to the triumph of Our Lord of the Outbursts—who reached the height of stupidity of taking over the screen to denounce the law, just when TV viewers were anxious to watch the decisive race of Cañonero II.
Well then, 30 years have passed since Congress—with laudatory interventions by Betancourt and Caldera—approved the Ley de Nacionalización. Since then, with price increases, as in Pérez's first term, and with crises like Black Friday, oil continues to be the economy's Toyota, which is what Luis Herrera called it once during his five years. And what is it today: excrement or manna? Yes, all those piles of money Chávez's government hands out like candy at a child's party are manna. We know, however, that all parties must end, while the last one to leave must turn out the light.
Chávez has turned oil not only into a source for financing his missions and supporting the political groups who back him, but also into a strategic weapon in his battle against "the empire." And, by the way, into the anchor for the economy and politics of Cuba, as well as a form of influencing those countries who are willing to join an integration different from the one proposed by the United States with the FTAA. Even more: oil is aiding the militarization of the country, which is being justified in its own way with the argument that we must prepare ourselves for the "asymmetrical war." This is where the militias and the hundreds of thousands who proclaim themselves as enthusiastic members of them come from.
But Venezuela is not Vietnam nor is it, despite the common denominator of oil, Iraq. The independence fighters of the Viet Minh got rid of the French (those of the "dirty war") in 1954, when Dien Bien Phu remained as a symbol of liberation. And they got rid of the "Yankees" in 1973.
We stopped fighting against foreign armies once we defeated Spain. The British-German blockade, in the era of Cipriano Castro, did not become a major event. The enemy was within, with Matos and the Libertadora. And as for Iraq, situated in those regions that have been the setting for multiple occupations and conflicts, their religion is not exactly Catholicism.
No one here would be willing to sacrifice himself to go to heaven. Nor do we have Kurds, Shiites and Sunnis engaged in internal disputes: only "escuálidos" and Bolivarians, the former who are already tired of fighting in electoral battles, and the latter who seem to be fighting amongst themselves.
More than being the result of his government's work, the phenomenon of high oil prices obeys external causes which, to the benefit and delight of Chávez, started to skyrocket just as he arrived in Miraflores.
Well-versed in readings and citations, he probably remembers that the time of fat cows is always, or almost always, followed by a time of "skinny cows." We should look no further, for instance, than what happened to Pérez during his second term. During the first, Venezuela was the Latin American bazaar and everything could be bought in pairs ("That's cheap, gimme two"). During the second, an increase in the price of gas (which had already been done by other governments without a single leaf moving) made the hills come down.
Chávez should prepare the country for another war: the one that would break out with the arrival of the "skinny cows." The asymmetrical one, if the United States were to commit the historic mistake of invading or participating in an interventionist adventure, would be difficult to accomplish successfully as a resistance operation. Unfortunately, there are too many people here who are hoping Washington will choose the hard line...Beyond words, the enemy is within.
{ Jesús Sanoja Hernández, El Nacional, 13 May 2005 }
Since 1976, oil began to be for Venezuela something much different than what it had been since the time of Gómez, when its dazzling years were 1914 with the Zumaque I well, 1922 with Los Barrosos, 1943 with Medina's Ley de Hidrocarburos, 1948 with the halfandhalf and 1975 with the approval by Congress of the Ley de Nacionalización.
On that long road that united 1914 with 1976 not everything was written down in the dazzling journal. In 1925, for example, an oil strike broke out which Manuel Taborda has detailed with countless facts. He was a worker in the industry in Zulia at the time and later, in times of democracy and new dictatorship, he was a communist union leader. Moreover, Pérez Soto, who was a state president, addressed a dramatic letter to the tyrant in 1926 in which he denounced the illegalities of the oil companies and their lawyers. He called oil "devil's shit;" later on Pérez Alfonzo, at the end of the 70s, would call it "devil's excrement." Regardless, I say he's lived in Venezuela as though he were pastry fallen from the sky: manna!
If the nationalization of oil Carlos Andrés Pérez exhibited with pride at the foot of Zumaque I contributed toward unleashing the insanity of Venezuela saudita, which had actually broken out because of the third Arab-Israeli war, the Ley de Reversión in 1972 had been received with discomfort and even with rage by sectors of our bourgeoisie.
I still retain the memory of an all-powerful of that time and of subsequent years—previous, of course, to the triumph of Our Lord of the Outbursts—who reached the height of stupidity of taking over the screen to denounce the law, just when TV viewers were anxious to watch the decisive race of Cañonero II.
Well then, 30 years have passed since Congress—with laudatory interventions by Betancourt and Caldera—approved the Ley de Nacionalización. Since then, with price increases, as in Pérez's first term, and with crises like Black Friday, oil continues to be the economy's Toyota, which is what Luis Herrera called it once during his five years. And what is it today: excrement or manna? Yes, all those piles of money Chávez's government hands out like candy at a child's party are manna. We know, however, that all parties must end, while the last one to leave must turn out the light.
Chávez has turned oil not only into a source for financing his missions and supporting the political groups who back him, but also into a strategic weapon in his battle against "the empire." And, by the way, into the anchor for the economy and politics of Cuba, as well as a form of influencing those countries who are willing to join an integration different from the one proposed by the United States with the FTAA. Even more: oil is aiding the militarization of the country, which is being justified in its own way with the argument that we must prepare ourselves for the "asymmetrical war." This is where the militias and the hundreds of thousands who proclaim themselves as enthusiastic members of them come from.
But Venezuela is not Vietnam nor is it, despite the common denominator of oil, Iraq. The independence fighters of the Viet Minh got rid of the French (those of the "dirty war") in 1954, when Dien Bien Phu remained as a symbol of liberation. And they got rid of the "Yankees" in 1973.
We stopped fighting against foreign armies once we defeated Spain. The British-German blockade, in the era of Cipriano Castro, did not become a major event. The enemy was within, with Matos and the Libertadora. And as for Iraq, situated in those regions that have been the setting for multiple occupations and conflicts, their religion is not exactly Catholicism.
No one here would be willing to sacrifice himself to go to heaven. Nor do we have Kurds, Shiites and Sunnis engaged in internal disputes: only "escuálidos" and Bolivarians, the former who are already tired of fighting in electoral battles, and the latter who seem to be fighting amongst themselves.
More than being the result of his government's work, the phenomenon of high oil prices obeys external causes which, to the benefit and delight of Chávez, started to skyrocket just as he arrived in Miraflores.
Well-versed in readings and citations, he probably remembers that the time of fat cows is always, or almost always, followed by a time of "skinny cows." We should look no further, for instance, than what happened to Pérez during his second term. During the first, Venezuela was the Latin American bazaar and everything could be bought in pairs ("That's cheap, gimme two"). During the second, an increase in the price of gas (which had already been done by other governments without a single leaf moving) made the hills come down.
Chávez should prepare the country for another war: the one that would break out with the arrival of the "skinny cows." The asymmetrical one, if the United States were to commit the historic mistake of invading or participating in an interventionist adventure, would be difficult to accomplish successfully as a resistance operation. Unfortunately, there are too many people here who are hoping Washington will choose the hard line...Beyond words, the enemy is within.
{ Jesús Sanoja Hernández, El Nacional, 13 May 2005 }
7.26.2004
Caracas protagónica / Jesús Sanoja Hernández
Protagonistic Caracas
Protagonistic in 1908, in 1919, in 1928, in 1936, in 1945, in 1948, in 1958, in 1992, in 2002 and possibly in 2004, with the appearance of the days of the month dedicated to the emperor Augustus and its enigmatic signs. That emperor that Seignobos described after receiving power as having "ruled another 40 years and he had time to completely organize the new regime. His powers were those of an absolute king."
Why 1908? Because on December 19 Juan Vicente Gómez, from the balcony of the Casa Amarilla, pronounced those sadly famous words that would maintain a Caesar-like peace for 27 years: "Aha, the people are quiet." Even though this hadn't been the case in the preceding days, with meetings and street protests that allowed, precisely, his ascent to power.
Why 1919? Because the conspiracy that was supposed to erupt on December 31, 1918 was discovered and in January the soldiers and civilians who were involved in that attempt to defeat the tyrant were detained. The prisoners were subjected to tortures as horrible as being hung by their testicles and, so that it be known, there was not a daily, weekly or magazine that would dare mention such events. The dead were "good and dead" and the press survived under censorship.
Why 1928? Because a decade after the frustrated plot, civilians (primarily students) and soldiers rebelled, embarking on the adventure, at Miraflores and at San Carlos, just as impossible as at other times, to take Gómez out of power. Once again the tortures and once again the prisons while Caracas, the scene of the drama, entered the second decade of dictatorship along with the rest of Venezuela. There was no press to reflect that challenge, since freedom of speech had ceased to exist from the time Gómez assumed power. Or there was, but it was used by the dictatorship to justify repression.
The notice from minister Arcaya served as the obligatory newspaper headline: "Failure of an absurd movement with communist tendencies." Imagine: communists in April of the year 1928! Something like "Chavistas" before February 1992 or Gomecistas in the XIX century.
Why 1936? Because in February of that dawning year the city was shaken by the imposing demonstration demanding an open democracy and not a democracy with Gomecista legacies. That time the press, unwilling to be censored, supported these popular actions and López Contreras's government had to retreat temporarily.
The excellent columnist, Enrique Bernardo Núñez, exclaimed: "We are facing a revolution (...) The revolution is moving and it will not be contained by words. The structure in which the country lived until yesterday is now breaking." This was true but not completely, since twelve years later it tried to rearm itself with the militaristic decade, a parenthetical period, as anyone attempting to impose himself at the beginning of this XXI century would become.
Why 1945? Because the revolution that the author of La ciudad de los techos rojos spoke of reappeared with new signs. This time, the "civilian-military unity" that had failed in 1918-1919 and 1928 succeeded. Its highest leader, Betancourt, would affirm that October: "The fervorous support the people have given to the revolution legitimates it." Sadly for him, for Acción Democrática and for the country, his military allies at the time (Pérez Jiménez, Delgado Chalbaud et alter) did not believe the same thing and they launched a countercoup in 1948. Within three years, Caracas was wave and counterwave.
Why 1992? Because Chávez, a rifle shot away from Miraflores, was not able to consecrate himself as the hero of the Museo Militar. Rarely has Caracas passed from surprise to stupor as it did on February 4 and 5. The coup plotters did not die, as Morales Bellos demanded in a fire-quenching speech. The coup plotters survived and were able to triumph, 1999, in an unrepeatable civic act.
Why 2002? Because on April 11 a gigantic demonstration that left from Chuao toward Miraflores ended in a strange marriage between "the vacuum of power" and "the coup d'état." The so-called Bolivarian revolution survived that new "civilian-military" experiment, creating the possibility, albeit with many stumbles, of opening the road toward the revocatory referendum.
And 2004 arrived and August approaches with Caracas papered over with the Sí! and with the No! and amidst polemics of diverse signs. Two of these are the voting machines and the famous (ahead of time) fingerprint machines. Season of storms that could become hurricanes. The blessed or damned voting machines are on their way to making history.
Do you remember those they had reserved for the 1973 process? Those belonging to AVM that inflamed passions at the National Congress? And by any chance, do you remember those promised for the 28, 28, 28, transferred by art of magic from one day in May to another day in July 2000?
{ Jesús Sanoja Hernández, El Nacional, 23 July 2004 }
Protagonistic in 1908, in 1919, in 1928, in 1936, in 1945, in 1948, in 1958, in 1992, in 2002 and possibly in 2004, with the appearance of the days of the month dedicated to the emperor Augustus and its enigmatic signs. That emperor that Seignobos described after receiving power as having "ruled another 40 years and he had time to completely organize the new regime. His powers were those of an absolute king."
Why 1908? Because on December 19 Juan Vicente Gómez, from the balcony of the Casa Amarilla, pronounced those sadly famous words that would maintain a Caesar-like peace for 27 years: "Aha, the people are quiet." Even though this hadn't been the case in the preceding days, with meetings and street protests that allowed, precisely, his ascent to power.
Why 1919? Because the conspiracy that was supposed to erupt on December 31, 1918 was discovered and in January the soldiers and civilians who were involved in that attempt to defeat the tyrant were detained. The prisoners were subjected to tortures as horrible as being hung by their testicles and, so that it be known, there was not a daily, weekly or magazine that would dare mention such events. The dead were "good and dead" and the press survived under censorship.
Why 1928? Because a decade after the frustrated plot, civilians (primarily students) and soldiers rebelled, embarking on the adventure, at Miraflores and at San Carlos, just as impossible as at other times, to take Gómez out of power. Once again the tortures and once again the prisons while Caracas, the scene of the drama, entered the second decade of dictatorship along with the rest of Venezuela. There was no press to reflect that challenge, since freedom of speech had ceased to exist from the time Gómez assumed power. Or there was, but it was used by the dictatorship to justify repression.
The notice from minister Arcaya served as the obligatory newspaper headline: "Failure of an absurd movement with communist tendencies." Imagine: communists in April of the year 1928! Something like "Chavistas" before February 1992 or Gomecistas in the XIX century.
Why 1936? Because in February of that dawning year the city was shaken by the imposing demonstration demanding an open democracy and not a democracy with Gomecista legacies. That time the press, unwilling to be censored, supported these popular actions and López Contreras's government had to retreat temporarily.
The excellent columnist, Enrique Bernardo Núñez, exclaimed: "We are facing a revolution (...) The revolution is moving and it will not be contained by words. The structure in which the country lived until yesterday is now breaking." This was true but not completely, since twelve years later it tried to rearm itself with the militaristic decade, a parenthetical period, as anyone attempting to impose himself at the beginning of this XXI century would become.
Why 1945? Because the revolution that the author of La ciudad de los techos rojos spoke of reappeared with new signs. This time, the "civilian-military unity" that had failed in 1918-1919 and 1928 succeeded. Its highest leader, Betancourt, would affirm that October: "The fervorous support the people have given to the revolution legitimates it." Sadly for him, for Acción Democrática and for the country, his military allies at the time (Pérez Jiménez, Delgado Chalbaud et alter) did not believe the same thing and they launched a countercoup in 1948. Within three years, Caracas was wave and counterwave.
Why 1992? Because Chávez, a rifle shot away from Miraflores, was not able to consecrate himself as the hero of the Museo Militar. Rarely has Caracas passed from surprise to stupor as it did on February 4 and 5. The coup plotters did not die, as Morales Bellos demanded in a fire-quenching speech. The coup plotters survived and were able to triumph, 1999, in an unrepeatable civic act.
Why 2002? Because on April 11 a gigantic demonstration that left from Chuao toward Miraflores ended in a strange marriage between "the vacuum of power" and "the coup d'état." The so-called Bolivarian revolution survived that new "civilian-military" experiment, creating the possibility, albeit with many stumbles, of opening the road toward the revocatory referendum.
And 2004 arrived and August approaches with Caracas papered over with the Sí! and with the No! and amidst polemics of diverse signs. Two of these are the voting machines and the famous (ahead of time) fingerprint machines. Season of storms that could become hurricanes. The blessed or damned voting machines are on their way to making history.
Do you remember those they had reserved for the 1973 process? Those belonging to AVM that inflamed passions at the National Congress? And by any chance, do you remember those promised for the 28, 28, 28, transferred by art of magic from one day in May to another day in July 2000?
{ Jesús Sanoja Hernández, El Nacional, 23 July 2004 }
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