Like Stalin, Trujillo ruled by turning his rage without warning against his subordinates.-- Publisher's Weekly on Vargas Llosa's novel which pitted itself against the world, only to find that the United States is responsible for San Dominican industry keeping San Dominicans on San Dominican soil
Llosa's interviews on public television still give one pause, make a failed writer take a step back; as well written as The Feast of the Goat is, the assassins bookmarked to return to Urania's opening, her guilt ridden survival, all Llosa really does is confirm politics is a blood sport, a corrosion of any ideal about human governance. Dominicans and Haitians may no longer electrocute each other for amusement-- or is shock therapy only a dirty little secret in New Delhi?-- but the island of two weakling states which both have seats in Manhattan, a pretense toward sovereignty when both are still entirely colonial, illustrates basic geopolitical lies. If one examines things too closely, the notion of a patriotic national identity has fissures world over, and might still be cause for alarm in India, China, even Putin's imperial cult-- but there are strong states juxtaposed against mere contrivance, and this is why Lkosa pisses me off. He takes (a) reader through a historical xenophobic hell, for what exactly? Am I supposed to condemn Eisenhower and JFK for allowing Trujillo to repress socialist collectivism only to wind up with developing world paternalism, in 2010 and beyond, suckling on humane capitalism, patting Indians and descendants of the African diaspora on the head?
I am not envious. I cannot do everything, and Latin American literary gamesmanship I examine, with jaundice. Urania's anguish, the indignation of Trujillo's killers, this means little. I actually identify more with Trujillo's pain, in Llosa's conception of it, than with the humanists who have to carry the valise of his legacy for the rest of their lives. It is more Llosa's ego, and the doors it opened in Hollywood for his relatives to make rip off monster movies, much like Henry Winkler's dramatic irony in Vancouver merely confirms Mel became an entrenched victim of Jewish liberalism, that intellect which is so superior to the rest, and though Winkler is a league or two removed from my Jamesian associates, his satirical undercutting in The Imposter is the best episode of Dead Man's Gun, which can be overly strident-- but Winkler, as executive producer, is toying with our memory of Fonzie as the otherwise harmless variation of Italian bling. I was such a naive girl, not realizing Jewish men were aping Italiano to make fun of it, and also to hide themselves. God forbid people like Winkler or Falk or Nimoy display any orthodoxy after the cataclysms in Europe. This is the secular liberalism Gibson came up against, and took a beat down from the establishment. Far be it for spastic to judge, as a crippled Jewish princess did it to her too, but watching Winkler's peddler learn assertion, using his skills at reading to undercut machismo, represents a subtle, mostly victorious argument against virility, against the necessity for violence to achieve grace. Minority anarchists are doomed to the sidelines, suspecting we're right despite the price involved, and knowing it. There is a time when murder is righteous, even if effeminate behavior is clever enough to evade Satanical burrowing. My femininity was hurt by orthopedic surgery, already challenged before Steele cut into me as a girl. Pubic area was never tidy, well behaved and cupped nicely in the vaginal area, as is the median for such things.
Butch bitches would classify it as intersex, but fuck that. I'm mad I have to get old, to die, with so little to show for what walkers did to me. Oh, men. They fuck me, but wanting me is another matter. Unlike the dykes, who may correctly intuit my submissiveness without also reading my revulsion at enslaving myself to a regressive infantile nurturing. I have plotted these points, and rejected them, but it doesn't mean I'm not pissed, and know I'll be subjected to more advances, if I survive long enough. I hope I get lucky enough to really hurt the next woman. I want to send a message, let them be on the receiving end of surgical cuts that destroyed my esteem. Now I need to close my lost round with The Freeman and dust my ego.
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