In 1992, the Woodrow Wilson Center in Washington, D.C. awarded Donoso one of its sought-after residencies, which came with the requirement that he develop a writing project. His proposal was to revisit a historical figure whose life seemed closer to fiction than reality: Sir Richard Burton, the British adventurer, translator, and explorer, famous for his ability to disguise himself and gain access to places hitherto off-limits to Westerners—in other words, a highly Donosian character.
Upon settling into Washington, however, his plan took a radical turn, and he began work on a novel in which he blended obesity, love, a murder, and the pitfalls of university life, which he could publish in 1995 as Donde van a morir los elefantes.
He lived in the U.S. capital from September of 1992 until June of 1993, often traveling to universities throughout the country to give lectures. This allowed him to boost his income, which became an obsession of his in his old age.
Below, we feature a selection of entries written during this time from his as-yet unpublished diaries
Cecilia García-Huidobro
***
Washington, D.C., October 12, 1992
Carlos Fuentes called to invite me to a “secret” lunch with him—he is put up at Senator Kennedy’s house, as he told me with the tone of a total “arriviste”—sadly on the very same day I was invited over by Ambassador Harry Brown and wife. I had to call him to décommander the Brown lunch because I am too keen to get the behind-the-scenes scoop on the Cervantes Prize, of which Carlos is absolute master this year.
Notebook 61, p. 157
Washington, D.C., October 14, 1992
I am saddened by María Pilar’s decrepitude. I feel tremendous compassion for her, but I must bear in mind that she brought this upon herself, and through her lack of work, her submissiveness to her parents and to me, her total lack of ability at any sort of work whatsoever, her drunkenness, the sinister shadows left by her parents, her total lack of will to do anything, even to take advantage of the indisputable opportunities—status, beauty in her way, top-tier people, taste, culture, all within her reach—that life has placed at her disposal. And despite all this, there she is: a rag, a tatter, a drunk old woman with little packages from the Pájaro. How bizarre how all things in life find their way into a pattern, a recognizable shape, and are nothing but the necessary pieces for the unintelligible puzzle that is my life—or all of our lives?
Notebook 61, p. 163
New York, October 20, 1992
Trip to New York to give a talk at NYU with Francisco Ayala, dinner, then quick trip back by plane. Present were Tila Dellapiane, Rodrigo García Loyer, Ayala’s daughter, Heloise Anderson (chaired the panel). All very mediocre, even Ayala, with his endless little ditty on the civil war and “Jeremiah’s exile!” Dinner long and dull: Ayala’s daughter (as I knew and feared) told me she is friends with the Rushins. I recall when last year, at Ayala’s house when they gave him the Cervantes Prize, I commented (quite ill-advisedly) that he was a mediocre writer, besides being very old (he is about Gene’s age!). I fear, given the hatred the Rushins harbor for us, that Gene or Francesca may say something to the daughter about what I said about him, and he will then vote against me when it comes time to give the Cervantes Prize within twenty days, which would then crush any chance I have of winning, which would be fatal since this is, I suppose, my last chance, and this would be the biggest prize of my life, if I get it.
Notebook 62, p. 1
Washington, D.C., October 20, 1992
Very likely María Pilar will arrive next Monday, which in a way I am very happy about (and which helps with my worry about her bad relationship with Pilarcita, which is a constant thorn in the side), but which in another way still scares me since she might easily collapse here due to her solitude and her having nothing to do, and then it might start all over again, and in her horrible, dark, private world she might revert to her alcoholic thirst which might destroy both her and me.
Notebook 62, p. 4
Washington, D.C., October 25, 1992
I was in New York on Friday, at Grove Press, doing a lengthy interview for Publisher’s Weekly with Marta Meštrović, granddaughter of the sculptor [Ivan Meštrović]: she almost fell out of her chair when I asked her about their kinship, as his is a name, due to his dark days as a U.S. public figure at the end of his life, that is now almost entirely forgotten. His best period was with the Viennese Secession. I know not how his bust in Bellas Artes, which is a thing of beauty, ever made its way to Chile. And I recall his presence in Duvronik (Marta tells me the mausoleum where he is buried was totally destroyed in the war). Bad atmosphere, very Chilean, at the embassy: this reinforces my opinion that Chilean people are the least interesting in the world.
Notebook 62, p. 4
Washington, D.C., October 26, 1992
I have to hurry up with this novel. The idea is too good; I must not let someone else, like Kurt Vonnegut or Carlos Fuentes, get his hands on it before I do.
Notebook 62, p. 10
Brown (Providence, Rhode Island), November 5, 1992
Today I did NOT get the Cervantes Prize. Very painful and very confused. Who the hell is this Cuban woman [Dulce María Loynaz] who got it, whom nobody has ever heard of? It would be absurd, at this late stage, to decide to “see the light” when it comes to prizes; I have known for years that they are nothing but lies, and when it comes to my own self-worth, they count for nothing. In two senses, they do count: first, for what they mean in terms of money, and second, for what they mean in terms of publicity. In these two senses I am hurt, and deeply so.
[…]
But it was nice, this same afternoon, to meet John Hawkes, the great, neurotic American novelist and a big admirer of mine. A friendly, frank, and confidential meeting (therapists, pills, etc.) and, though difficult, a real-life being. Also incredible meeting with Robert Coover; incredible above all for his Anglo-Saxon transparency in comparison to Oviedo’s embittered Indo-Spanish opacity; the amenability of Hawkes and Coover, the reticence and unfrankness of Ortega.
Notebook 62, p.13
Washington, D.C., November 11, 1992
Today I went out shopping with María Pilar, without her having asked me to, and spent a great deal of money, compulsively, which I do not have, on things for her at Jaeger. Sick? All of a sudden I believe so. Why do I do this? It has more to do with the clothes themselves than with her, with what they mean to me, the symbology, the semiology of clothes, and not just because I am reading The Fashion System by Roland Barthes—which I understand only very superficially—nor because I am going to write about this problem in Vidas paralelas1. Rather, this comes from before, from the costumes of childhood and adolescence, and all the problems and guilty feelings I have felt when it comes to all that. Now, and perhaps forever, but now I am more conscious of it, there is a strong element of pleasure not unrelated to the guilt I redeem in spending that which I cannot and must not on clothes for María Pilar (I spend only what’s fair on myself, and I never shop, besides for shirts), where I loosen the reins a little—more than what is strictly necessary, with no qualms when it comes to either over-spending or self-denial—but I go too far with María Pilar because I find in it a certain pleasure, not so distant from the redemption of shopping for her, as I did for my mother when I could.
Notebook 62, p. 20
Washington, D.C., November 27, 1992
All in all, this November in Washington has been one of the best months of my recent years, when it comes to work and personal and economic tranquility, when it comes to María Pilar and Pilarcita and social life. I can say, if this state of affairs persisted, I could spend the latter years of my life in great contentment, even despite how social life sometimes gives me so much trouble, especially lately due to my deafness, which gets worse by the day.
Notebook 62, p. 37
Washington, D.C., December 1, 1992
Last night we went to a dinner for Ricardo Lagos. Most intelligent and overwhelmingly well spoken. I like him especially because he is the first person—certainly the first man of politics—to refer to the danger inherent to Chilean triumphalism; I seem to recall that Foxley2 clung to said ship almost exclusively. He was very especially warm-hearted with both María Pilar and myself—I was the only one he named in his talk. Patricia Politzer was also there, but I found the ambiance, as is customarily true of gatherings of Chileans, quite offputting. I felt uncomfortable, without a proper place to be, as if stripped of my identity, basically becaue I cannot—nor do I know how to—function socially with them and among them. I do not belong, they do not recognize me, I feel profoundly uncomfortable and, what’s more, I don’t like them at all.
Notebook 62, p. 40
Washington, D.C., January 1, 1993
We went out to celebrate the New Year with the Biggses and U.N. Ambassador Juan Somavía and his wife at a mostly uninteresting Morrocan restaurant. Hello, Year ‘93. In October I will turn 69 and then there will be one year left till 70 and defining myself as an old man. This year, I wish:
- María Pilar does not start drinking again.
- I finish Vidas paralelas.
- My daughter loves me.
- I take a trip and, in 1994, return to the U.S. to spend four-and-a-half months at either Brown (it would be winter) or Colorado Springs, where I would make a lot of money. I am still, halfheartedly, stuck on Schnitzler.
Notebook 62, p. 89
Washington, D.C., January, 1993
I am reading Flaubert’s late diaries (Troyat’s biography is mediocre and for the greater reading public). I feel he and I are financially and emotionally alike.
Notebook 62, p. 107
Washington, D.C., January, 1993
I believe developing this theme as the central theme (and Ruby’s character as incarnation of U.S. excess, unintelligible, irrepressible, the obligation to “grow” and mistake useless, uncontrollable, shapeless swelling for growth, which is Ruby) might truly elevate this novel and give it all its strength and character, which could be and must be enormous. I am on the right track.
Notebook 62, p. 134
Washington, D.C., January 31, 1993
I am old. I notice it in how long it takes me to lie down, to take pills, to get things out of one trouser pocket and put them in another. Not forgetting keys, billfold, tissues, everything I once did unconsciously now requires mental application.
Notebook 63, p. 3
Washington, D.C., February 17, 1993
Reading in the paper the sensational reviews of The Crying Game3 with its resemblance to El lugar sin límites, I feel the violent urge to make another film. But how, with whom…?
Notebook 63, p. 19
Washington, D.C., February 19, 1993
I spent the morning taking care of the necessary annoyances, mostly for María Pilar, such as paying doctors’ and hospital bills, which is sapping me of tremendous mental and physical stamina. Not to mention costing me immensely, I have found. And I have not yet received certain horrendous bills like those from María Pilar’s psychiatrist. Last night (and the night before), for the first time in many years, I completely stopped taking my Altrivil, and I am now taking nothing at all for my nerves except half a fifteen of Dormoriol at night before bed. I am most pleased about this; this is the sort of satisfaction one can actually feel at my age. In any case, last night before bed, I felt panic at the thought that the pains and discomforts I am suffering in my legs and feet might be some pernicious, ancient form of AIDS, though I have no reason to fear such a thing. After all, said disease did not exist back then. Panic is panic, nothing more—a result of my stopping the antidepressants after taking them consistently and regularly for two years. We shall see how I evolve.
Notebook 63, p. 21
Washington, D.C., March 1, 1993
On Sunday we went to a psychoanalysts’ brunch—quite interesting, above all a gorgeous Peruvian Jewish woman married to the world’s ugliest psychoanalyst. And, the night before, we went for a rather entertaining meal at Jay and Mary Tolsons’. Though there was a good crowd, we did not go to Perry Crister’s, which I deeply regret. I sent Taratuta to Jane Kuczynski and Lee MacGarth: hopefully it will reach them. María Pilar is once again falling into depression. I no longer know what “depression” is for her; it seems she is always on the threshold—whether departing or arriving—of depression.
Notebook 63, p. 34
Washington, D.C., March 3, 1993
Now I must write, and it terrifies me just as before. How can it be that after so many years of doing the same thing, I still feel so afraid, the same vertigo, the same emptiness before the stairwell? In short, start with a description.
Notebook 63, p. 48
Washington, D.C., March 9, 1993
Tiresome official lunch here at the Center. Jim Backer among the guests. Most official and most grandiose, and somewhat terrifying. They all strike me as Republicans, pro-Bush, entirely anti-intellectual, anti-artistic, concerned with politics, but even more so with policies and social sciences. But they are the ones in charge of the Smithsonian’s budget, and they are the ones who will be incensed when they find out I am writing a novel about a fat woman from the Midwest. We’ll see what happens when David Streitfeld’s article comes out.4 It might go completely unnoticed, just as it might become an outrage that destroys every venerable resource of the Smithsonian.
Notebook 63, p. 58
Washington, D.C., Friday, April 7, 1993
I am finishing the first version of the novel—triumphantly, I think. And this version will be done before I return to the Chile I hate/love so well.
Notebook 63, p. 119
Washington, D.C., April 23, 1993
Third nouvelle on songs of literature: a writer dies. His lone daughter remains, worshipping at his shrine. Letter from Princeton University, telling her they have a package of diaries and personal letters that her father left in their hands. She is baffled, for she thought they had been sold a long time before, in order to buy her the house where she was married. Now she sells them, for the good price she is told they’re worth, and accepts an eminent biographer’s proposition to write her father’s biography, making use of his papers. She forgets all about having granted this permission. It seems to her there are too many papers, they are too hard to read, and they are all about people she does not know who are of no interest to her. Her son goes into town and buys the book. He sits down beneath a tree to read it. He is horrified. It tells his admired grandfather’s most appalling secrets. He confronts his mother, telling her nothing. She can guess her father’s truth, which she always refused to contend with, the whispers she has heard and forgotten. She does not read the book. She gets in the car with a pistol to go and murder the author. The car crashes. They find that she shot herself, while the car was travelling at top speed, because she could not bear knowing what she knew.
Start with the starkest possible allusion to The Touchstones and The Aspen Papers.
Notebook 63, p. 135
Washington, D.C., April 29, 1993
Yesterday, back home, dark pee again. The beginning of the end? I feel my mortality, without a doubt. I would like to properly finish the fat lady’s novel before I die. Given optimal conditions, I would like to make more memories afterwards, if Death gives me time.
Notebook 63, p. 141
Washington, D.C., May 11, 1993
Mine was the generation of construction, of the recovery of the image and the word from the oblivion of exile. We could not live without writing, we could not write about the strange worlds in which we were marginal, we had to live somewhere and we lived in our reconstructions of now-inaccessible worlds. It was a matter of rebuilding with the word.
The new generation of novelists is the generation of deconstruction, of return: the towering buildings of the word/memory are sinking before the new writers, and they find they must deconstruct the political and economic theories that give us some semblance of stability.
Notebook 64, p. 8
Washington, D.C., June 7, 1993
Marcelo Chiriboga’s miserable flaw is his belief that the United States is the measure of all things, and if one is not absorbed into the United States mainstream, nothing one does is of any value. Talk about colonization and U.S. imperialism. Talk about the influx of the Empire’s “barbarians.” Talk about the invasion of green-cardless workers, talk about the thousands and thousands of our university profs who have exiled themselves so they can earn enough to eat, and because in the end, whatever their vision of political matters may be, the United States subconsciously continues being the measure of all things and if Japan is deforesting the woods of the south and cutting them down and exporting them and leaving the earth barren, the United States is importing cheap intellectual “labor”: the Latin American writers and professors who make their living this way. And, in turn, are deprovincialized, sophisticated to such an extent they can never return.
Notebook 64, p. 20
Translated by Arthur Malcolm Dixon
Notes:
1 Initial title of the novel Donoso was then writing, which was published as Donde van a morir los elefantes.
2 Alejandro Foxley, Minister of Finance of the government of Chilean president Patricio Aylwin, who was in Washington at the same time and spoke on Chile’s economic situation.
3 Film by director Neil Jordan that premiered in 1992 to major box-office and critical success, being nominated in six categories at the Academy Awards and winning the Oscar for best original screenplay in March 1993.
4 Interview published in The Washington Post.
