Roberto Arlt
Roberto Arlt was an Argentine writer born Roberto Godofredo Christophersen Arlt in Buenos Aires on April 2, 1900. His parents were both immigrants: his father Karl Arlt was a Prussian from Posen (now Poznan in present-day Poland) and his mother was Ekatherine Iobstraibitzer, a native of Trieste and Italian speaking. German was the language commonly used at their home. His relationship with his father was stressful, as Karl Arlt was a very severe and austere man, by Arlt's own account. The memory of his oppressive father would appear in several of his writings. For example, Remo Erdosain (a character at least partially based on Arlt's own life) often recalls his abusive father and how little if any support he would give him. After being expelled from school at the age of eight, Arlt became an autodidact and worked at all sorts of different odd jobs before landing a job on at a local newspaper: as clerk at a bookstore, apprentice to a tinsmith, painter, mechanic, welder, manager in a brick factory, and dock worker.
His first novel, El juguete rabioso (1926) ("Mad Toy"), was the semi-autobiographical story of Silvio, a dropout who goes through a series of adventures trying to be "somebody." Narrated by Silvio's older self, the novel reflects the energy and chaos of the early 20th century in Buenos Aires. The narrator's literary and sometimes poetic language contrasts sharply with the street-level slang of Mad Toy's many colorful characters.
Arlt's second novel, the popular Los siete locos (The Seven Madmen) was rough, brutal, colloquial and surreal, a complete break from the polite, middle-class literature more typical of Argentine literature (as exemplified, perhaps, by the work of Jorge Luis Borges, however innovative his work was in other respects). Los lanzallamas (The Flame-Throwers) was the sequel, and these two novels together are thought by many to be his greatest work. What followed were a series of short stories and plays in which Arlt pursued his vision of bizarre, half-mad, alienated characters pursuing insane quests in a landscape of urban chaos.
During his lifetime, however, Arlt was best known for his "Aguafuertes" ("Etchings"), the result of his contributions as a columnist - between 1928 and 1942 - to the Buenos Aires daily "El Mundo". Arlt used these columns to comment, in his characteristically forthright and unpretentious style, on the peculiarities, hypocrisies, strangeness and beauty of everyday life in Argentina's capital. These articles included occasional exposés of public institutions, such as the juvenile justice system ("Escuela primaria de delincuencia", 26–29 September 1932) or the Public Health System. Some of the "Aguafuertes" were collected in two volumes under the titles Secretos femeninos. Aguafuertes inéditas and Tratado de delincuencia. Aguafuertes inéditas which were edited by Sergio Olguín and published by Ediciones 12 and Página/12 in 1996.
Between March and May 1930, Arlt wrote a series of "Aguafuertes" as a correspondent to "El Mundo" in Rio de Janeiro. In 1935 he spent nearly a year writing as he traveled throughout Spain and North Africa, on the eve of the Spanish Civil War. At the time of his death, Arlt was hoping to be sent to the United States as a correspondent.
Worn out and exhausted after a lifetime of hardships, he died from a stroke on July 26, 1942. His coffin was lowered from his apartment by an operated crane, an ironic end, considering his bizarre stories.
Arlt has been massively influential on Latin American literature, including the 1960s "Boom" generation of writers such as Gabriel García Márquez. Analogues in English literature are those who avoid literary 'respectability' by writing about the poor, the criminal and the mad: writers like William Burroughs, Iceberg Slim, and Irvine Welsh. Arlt, however, predated all of them. He is widely considered to be one of the founders of the modern Argentine novel; among those contemporary writers who cla
“Lo que yo quiero, es ser admirado de los demás, elogiado de los demás [...]. Pero esta vida mediocre... ser olvidado cuando muera, eso sí que es horrible [...] sin embargo, algún día me moriré, y los trenes seguirán caminando, y la gente irá al teatro como siempre, y yo estaré muerto, bien muerto... muerto para toda la vida.”
“Me tembló el alma. ¿Qué hacer, qué podría hacer para triunfar, para tener dinero, mucho dinero? [...] comprendí que nunca me resignaría a la vida penuriosa que sobrellevaban naturalmente la mayoría de los hombres”
“Es inútil. El vacío auténtico, como un blindaje, acoraza su vida. Se detiene junto a una silla, la toma por el respaldar, hace ruido con ella golpeando las patas contra el piso; pero este ruido es insuficiente para desteñir el vacío teñido de gris. Deliberadamente hace pasar ante sus ojos paisajes anteriores, recuerdos, sucesos; pero su deseo no puede engarfiar en ellos, resbalan como los dedos de un hombre extenuado por los golpes de agua, en la superficie de una bola de piedra. Los brazos se le caen a lo largo del cuerpo, la mandíbula se le afloja. Es inútil cuanto haga para sentir remordimiento o para encontrar paz. Igual que las fieras enjauladas, va y viene por su cubil frente a la indestructible reja de su incoherencia. Necesita obrar, mas no sabe en qué dirección. Piensa que si tuviera la suerte de encontrarse en el centro de una rueda formada por hombres desdichados, en el pastizal de una llanura o en el sombrío declive de una montaña, él les contaría su tragedia. Soplaría el viento doblando los espinos, pero él hablaría sin reparar en las estrellas que empezaban a ser visibles en lo negro. Está seguro que aquel círculo de vagabundos comprendería su desgracia; pero allí, en el corazón de una ciudad, en una pieza perfectamente cúbica y sometida a disposiciones del digesto municipal, es absurdo pensar en una confesión. ¿Y si lo viera a un sacerdote y se confiara a él? Mas, ¿qué puede decirle un señor afeitado, con sotana y un inmenso aburrimiento empotrado en el caletre? Está perdido, ésa es la verdad; perdido para sí mismo.”
“Se ha inventado casi todo pero no ha inventado el hombre una máxima de gobierno que supere a los principios de un Cristo, un Buda. No. Naturalmente, no le discutiré el derecho al escepticismo, pero el escepticismo es un lujo de minoría... Al resto le serviremos la felicidad bien cocinada y la humanidad engullirá gozosamente la divina bazofia.”
“The problem is, you can't tell people these things. They'll think you're crazy. And I say to myself: What can I do with this life inside me? I'd like to give it ... to make a present of it ... to go up to people and tell them: You need to be joyful! You know? You have to play at being pirates ... to build cities of marble ... to laugh ... to set off firecrackers”