Selected Writings of César Vallejo

Selected Writings of CÉSAR VALLEJO

WESLEYAN POETRY

publication of this book is funded by the

BEATRICE FOX AUERBACH FOUNDATION FUND

at the Hartford Foundation for Public Giving

Selected Writings of

CÉSAR VALLEJO

Edited by JOSEPH MULLIGAN

WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY PRESS

Middletown, Connecticut

Wesleyan University Press

Middletown, CT 06459

www.wesleyan.edu/wespress

© 2015 Wesleyan University Press

All rights reserved

Manufactured in the United States of America

Designed by Richard Hendel

Typeset in Arnhem by Tseng Information Systems, Inc.

Wesleyan University Press is a member of the Green Press Initiative. The paper used in this book meets their minimum requirement for recycled paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Vallejo, César, 1892–1938.

[Works. Selections. English]

Selected writings of César Vallejo / edited [and translated]

by Joseph Mulligan.

pages cm.—(Wesleyan poetry series)

Includes bibliographical references and index.

Summary: Selected Writings of César Vallejo has all the best writing of a major Spanish modernist—provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-0-8195-7484-8 (cloth: alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-8195-7525-8 (ebook)

1. Vallejo, César, 1892–1938—Translations into English. I. Mulligan, Joseph W., 1981– editor, translator. II. Title.

PQ8497.V35A2 2015

861′.62—dc23      2014048342

5 4 3 2 1

publication of this book is funded by the

BEATRICE FOX AUERBACH FOUNDATION FUND

at the Hartford Foundation for Public Giving

Front cover: César Vallejo in Nice, 1929, by an unknown photographer. Image courtesy of Gladys Flores Heredia. (Original image from the archive of the National Library of Peru.)

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments xv

Introduction xvii

Note on This Edition lxxiii

List of Translators lxxvii

BOOK ONE: 1915–1919

From Romanticism in Castilian Poetry

Introduction 3

Critique of Romanticism 4

From The Black Heralds

The Black Heralds 16

The Spider 16

The Poet to His Lover 17

Dregs 18

The Black Cup 18

Imperial Nostalgias 19

Ebony Leaves 21

Autochthonous Tercet 22

Huaco 24

Dead Idyll 24

Agape 25

The Voice in the Mirror 25

Our Bread 26

The Miserable Supper 27

The Eternal Dice 28

Distant Footsteps 28

To My Brother Miguel 29

Januneid 30

Epexegesis 31

Articles and Chronicles

With Manuel González Prada 33

With José María Eguren 35

Abraham Valdelomar Has Died 37

Letters

To Óscar Imaña, January 29, 1918 38

To Óscar Imaña, August 2, 1918 40

To Manuel Natividad Vallejo, December 2, 1918 41

Dedication of a Copy of The Black Heralds to Friends in Trujillo, July 1919 43

BOOK TWO: 1920–1923

From Trilce

I. Who’s making all that racket 47

II. Time Time 47

IV. Two carts grind our eardrums down 48

VI. The suit that tomorrow I wore 48

IX. I sdrive to dddeflect at a blow the blow 49

X. Primary and final stone of groundless 50

XIII. I think about your sex 50

XVII. This 2 distills in a single batch 51

XVIII. Oh the four walls of the cell 52

XX. Flush with the beaten froth bulwarked 52

XXIII. Estuous oven of those my sweet rolls 53

XXV. Chess bishops upthrust to stick 54

XXVIII. I’ve had lunch alone now 55

XXX. Burn of the second 56

XXXI. Hope between cotton bawls 56

XXXVI. We struggle to thread ourselves through a needle’s eye 57

XXXVIII. This crystal waits to be sipped 58

XLII. Wait, all of you. Now I’m going to tell you 59

XLIV. This piano journeys within 59

XLV. I lose contact with the sea 60

XLIX. Murmured in restlessness, I cross 61

L. Cerberus four times 62

LII. And we’ll get up when we feel 62

LV. Samain would say 63

LVI. Every day I wake blindly 64

LVII. The highest points craterized 65

LVIII. In the cell, in what’s solid 65

LXI. Tonight I get down from my horse 67

LXIII. Dawn cracks raining 68

LXV. Mother, tomorrow I am going to Santiago 68

LXVIII. We’re at the fourteenth of July 69

LXX. Everyone smiles at the nonchalance 70

LXXI. Coils the sun does in your cool hand 71

LXXIII. Another ay has triumphed 71

LXXV. You are dead 72

LXXVII. "It hails so hard, as if to remind me" 73

From Scales

Northwestern Wall 74

Antarctic Wall 75

East Wall 77

Doublewide Wall 78

Windowsill 79

Beyond Life and Death 80

The Release 85

Wax 92

From Savage Lore

Chapter 1 102

Chapter 2 104

Chapter 3 106

Chapter 4 108

Letters

To La Reforma, August 12, 1920 113

To Óscar Imaña, October 26, 1920 113

To Gastón Roger, December 1920 114

To Óscar Imaña, February 12, 1921 115

To Óscar Imaña, June 1, 1922 116

To Antenor Orrego, 1922 116

To Manuel Natividad Vallejo, June 16, 1923 117

To Carlos C. Godoy, Esq., June 16, 1923 118

To Víctor Clemente Vallejo, July 14, 1923 119

To Carlos Raygada, September 15, 1923 120

Articles and Chronicles

The Blue Bird 121

La Rotonde 122

Cooperation 124

BOOK THREE: 1924–1928

Articles and Chronicles

Paris Chronicle 129

Spain in the International Exhibit of Paris 134

Modern Man 137

Between France and Spain 139

The Need to Die 142

The History of America 143

The Assassin of Barrès 145

The Poet and the Politician 148

The State of Spanish Literature 150

Da Vinci’s Baptist 151

In Defense of Life 154

A Great Scientific Discovery 155

Latest Scientific Discoveries 157

The Idols of Contemporary Life 159

Avant-Garde Religions 161

Against Professional Secrets 164

The New Disciplines 167

Life as a Match 170

Artists Facing Politics 172

Contribution to Film Studies 174

Madness in Art 175

The Passion of Charles Chaplin 177

Invitation to Clarity 179

Proletarian Literature 180

Colonial Societies 183

The Psychology of Diamond Specialists 185

Literature behind Closed Doors 186

Vanguard and Rearguard 188

Anniversary of Baudelaire 190

The Masters of Cubism 191

Tolstoy and the New Russia 193

From Art and Revolution

The Revolutionary Function of Thought 196

The Work of Art and the Social Sphere 197

Grammatical Rule 198

Poetry and Imposture 199

Tell Me How You Write and I’ll Tell You What You Write 199

Universality of Verse for the Unity of Languages 200

Aesthetic and Machinism 200

Autopsy of Surrealism 201

New Poetry 205

The Image and Its Syrtes 206

The Mayakovsky Case 207

Regarding Artistic Freedom 210

My Self-Portrait in the Light of Historical Materialism 211

From Against Professional Secrets

From Feuerbach to Marx 213

Explanation of History 213

An animal is led 214

There exist questions 214

The Head and Feet of Dialectics 214

The Death of Death 214

The Motion Inherent in Matter 215

Individual and Society 215

Negations of Negations 216

Reputation Theory 221

Noise of a Great Criminal’s Footsteps 223

Conflict between the Eyes and the Gaze 224

Languidly His Liqueur 225

Vocation of Death 226

From Toward the Reign of the Sciris

1. The Other Imperialism 229

2. The Seer 231

3. The Peace of Túpac Yupanqui 236

4. An Accident on the Job 239

5. Byzantium, West Longitude 241

From Moscow vs. Moscow

The Final Judgment 245

Death 247

From The River Flows between Two Shores

Act 1, Scene 1 264

Act 1, Scene 2 264

Act 1, Scene 3 275

Letters

To Pablo Abril de Vivero, May 14, 1924 294

To Pablo Abril de Vivero, May 26, 1924 295

To Alcides Spelucín, July 1924 296

To Pablo Abril de Vivero, October 19, 1924 297

To Pablo Abril de Vivero, November 5, 1924 298

To Juan Larrea, March 12, 1926 299

To Ricardo Vegas García, May 15, 1926 300

To Juan Larrea, July 26, 1926 300

To Alcides Spelucín, September 14, 1926 302

To José Carlos Mariátegui, December 10, 1926 302

To Emilio Armaza, December 10, 1926 303

To Pablo Abril de Vivero, July 24, 1927 303

To Luis Alberto Sánchez, August 18, 1927 305

To Pablo Abril de Vivero, September 12, 1927 305

To Pablo Abril de Vivero, October 19, 1927 308

To Rafael Méndez Dorich, February 17, 1928 309

To Pablo Abril de Vivero, March 17, 1928 309

To Pablo Abril de Vivero, April 26, 1928 310

To Pablo Abril de Vivero, October 19, 1928 310

To Pablo Abril de Vivero, December 27, 1928 311

Notebooks

Entries from 1926–1928 313

BOOK FOUR: 1929–1935

From Human Poems

Good Sense 317

I Am Going to Speak of Hope 318

No one lives in the house 319

Height and Hair 319

Hat, Overcoat, Gloves 320

Black Stone on a White Stone 320

And don’t say another word to me 321

It was Sunday in the clear ears of my jackass 322

Today I like life much less 322

Epistle to the Passersby 323

The Hungry Man’s Rack 324

Considering coldly 325

Idle on a stone 326

Paris, October 1936 328

And if after so many words 328

Telluric and Magnetic 329

The miners came out of the mine 331

From Reflections at the Foot of the Kremlin

8. Literature: A Meeting of Bolshevik Writers 333

9. The Day of a Stonemason: Love, Sports, Alcohol, and Democracy 336

14. Film: Russia Inaugurates a New Era on the Silver Screen 355

From Russia Facing the Second Five-Year Plan

What Is the Workers’ Club? 360

Workers Discuss Literature 360

The Mechanical Landscape 362

Art and Revolution 363

Dialectics and Manual Labor 364

Articles and Chronicles

The Lessons of Marxism 367

The Youth of America in Europe 369

Megalomania of a Continent 371

The Economic Meaning of Traffic 373

New Poetry from the United States 374

Buried Alive 377

From Warsaw to Moscow 380

Mundial in Russia 381

Mundial in Eastern Europe 383

Three Cities in One 385

Latest Theater News from Paris 387

An Incan Chronicle 389

The Incas, Revived 390

From Tungsten

Chapter 1 398

Paco Yunque 426

From Brothers Colacho

Act 1, Scene 1 439

Act 1, Scene 2 452

Letters

To Néstor P. Vallejo, October 27, 1929 468

To José Carlos Mariátegui, October 17, 1929 468

To Gerardo Diego, January 6, 1930 469

To Gerardo Diego, January 27, 1932 470

To Juan Larrea, January 29, 1932 471

Notebooks

Entries from 1929–1935 473

BOOK FIVE: 1936–1938

Articles and Chronicles

Recent Discoveries in the Land of the Incas 485

The Andes and Peru 487

Man and God in Incan Sculpture 489

The Great Cultural Lessons of the Spanish Civil War 491

Popular Statements of the Spanish Civil War 493

The Writer’s Responsibility 496

From Human Poems

Today I would like to be happy willingly 501

Poem to Be Read and Sung 501

The tip of man 502

My chest wants and does not want its color 503

I stayed on to warm up the ink 504

The peace, the wausp, the shoe heel, the slopes 505

"Confidence in glasses, not in the eye" 506

Alfonso: you are looking at me 506

Chances are, I’m another 508

The Book of Nature 508

The anger that breaks the man into children 509

Intensity and Height 510

Guitar 510

The Nine Monsters 511

A man walks by with a baguette on his shoulder 513

The Soul That Suffered from Being Its Body 514

Let the millionaire walk naked, stark naked! 515

The fact is the place where I put on 517

In short, I have nothing with which 518

The Wretched 519

Sermon on Death 521

From Spain, Take This Cup from Me

I. Hymn to the Volunteers for the Republic 523

III. He used to write with his big finger in the air 527

IV. The beggars fight for Spain 529

VIII. Back here, / Ramón Collar 529

X. Winter during the Battle for Teruel 531

XII. Mass 532

XV. Spain, Take This Cup from Me 532

From The Tired Stone

Act 1, Scenes 1–6 534

Act 2, Scenes 1–2 549

Letters

To Juan Luis Velásquez, June 13, 1936 560

To Juan Larrea, October 28, 1936 561

To Juan Larrea, January 22, 1937 562

To Juan Larrea, June 11, 1937 563

To Luis José de Orbegoso, March 15, 1938 564

Notebooks

Final Dictation 566

Notes 567

Selected Bibliography 591

Index 597

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The materialization of this book would never have been possible without the dedicated work of the contributing translators: Clayton Eshleman, Pierre Joris, Suzanne Jill Levine, Nicole Peyrafitte, Michael Lee Rattigan, William Rowe, Eliot Weinberger, and Jason Weiss. Without their good will and expertise, this publication of so many pages of previously untranslated texts and the compilation of preexisting translations would still exist only as an idea. My deep gratitude to them for sharing this vision and making it a reality.

Special thanks are due to Clayton Eshleman, who suggested I take on this project. He was its first supporter and provided crucial suggestions regarding the structure of the book. My thanks as well go to Pierre Joris, who, for the past ten years, has been my mentor and an invaluable guide in my search for an understanding of poetics and translation.

I am grateful to Suzanne Jill Levine, who was an adviser on this project and, in addition to translating, provided feedback on the structure of the book and helped facilitate a collaborative review of the selection by Jorge Luis Castillo, Michelle Clayton, Efraín Kristal, José Antonio Mazzotti, Eliot Weinberger, and Jason Weiss, all of whom deserve my utmost thanks for their work toward developing a balanced range of writings.

I should also express my gratitude to Ernesto Livon Grossman, whose views on the Latin American experimental tradition—in a conversation that has lasted over a decade—have profoundly shaped the way I’ve come to frame Vallejo’s writings. My thanks are also due to James Sherry, who edited my translation Against Professional Secrets (Roof Books) and helped me see the trajectory of Vallejo’s previously untranslated prose.

A thousand thanks to Stephen Hart, who generously reviewed the biographical material of the introduction; Gustavo Faverón Patriau, whom I consulted on several occasions about problems in interpretation; Cory Merril, who helped determine the transliteration of Vallejo’s Russian vocabulary; and Odi Gonzáles, who analyzed and commented on Vallejo’s Quechua vocabulary, offering modern standard spellings.

Michael Lee Rattigan also deserves singular recognition for the magnitude of his contribution of previously untranslated magazine articles and letters and for his constant support and selfless dedication in our collaborative translation process. I must also thank poet and translator Mario Domínguez Parra, who, over the past three years, has weighed in extensively on some of the most intricate translation problems that arise in the texts presented here. His dedication to helping preserve the idiosyncrasy of Vallejo’s writing contributed in a major way to these translations and the notes that follow them. Finally, this volume would never have been possible without the support of my wife, Beatriz Sosa Matta, who has enthusiastically encouraged my work and shared in the discovery entailed by retracing Vallejo’s steps down his many winding roads.

Some of my translations have appeared in Literal Magazine, Jerome Rothenberg’s Poems and Poetics, and Asymptote Magazine. Some early versions of Michael Lee Rattigan’s translations appeared in the Black Herald. Eliot Weinberger’s contribution was first published in Sulfur. Clayton Eshleman’s translations have been widely published over the past fifty years, in magazines, journals, and a trove of books. We are grateful to the University of California Press for allowing us to reprint his most recent versions in The Complete Poetry (2007).

INTRODUCTION

César Vallejo is by far the most well-known Peruvian writer, yet he’s also the most obscure. Since his rise to fame in the mid-twentieth century, hundreds of books, essays, academic theses, and dissertations have been written on his poetry and literary persona. Numerous editions of his poems have appeared in the original Castilian and in translation, as comprehensive volumes and as anthologies.¹ With the stamp of his name, a line from his poems, or the titles of his books, magazines have been launched, conferences have been held, publishing houses have been formed, high schools have been created, and even soccer clubs have taken to the field. A survey of Vallejo’s complete writings, however, shows us that the poetry accounts for only one-sixth of the whole. For the past fifty years, Hispanic scholars, such as Jorge Puccinelli, whose argument I paraphrase, have embarked on the heuristic work of "tracing down and recovering the disjecta membra of a vast literary corpus, which proved vital, since to cut off the limb of a tree is to deprive it of life, which resides in the unity of the organism—it is to isolate a fragment from the whole to which it is inextricably bound."²

More often than not, Vallejo’s readers in English translation sever the tree limb and, onto an already truncated representation, they graft a contrived avant-garde branch, which they’re convinced belongs there because they’ve already seen it in his contemporaries. But can we blame these readers for this confusion, or must we, his translators, assume responsibility, since we’re the ones who’ve known enough to shudder at his poetry’s intensity, but out of professional interest or genric prejudice have consciously or unconsciously ignored the rest of his oeuvre? Few times in the history of Western literature has the representation of such a multifaceted figure been so one-dimensional.

The following compendium reconfigures César Vallejo’s oeuvre. It’s an opportunity to reformulate an understanding of the writings and persona of one of the most important literary figures of the twentieth century. In the following introduction, I sketch out Vallejo’s biography to show where and in whose company he was during specific historical moments and during the composition of certain texts, before moving on to characterize the works or collections of writings from which the selections have been drawn, with the aim of elucidating the oeuvre, specifying its publication history in relation to the author’s writing process, and synthesizing predominant aesthetic features that let us better understand his ideas. Finally, by way of conclusion, I offer some brief remarks on the English translation work that lies ahead.

1

High in the Andes of northern Peru, where the cordillera rises ten thousand feet above sea level in a distance of about 350 miles, in the Department of La Libertad there’s a place called Santiago de Chuco. On March 16, 1892, on Calle Colón 96 in that town, a forty-two-year-old mestiza named María de los Santos Mendoza Gurrionero (1850–1918), wife of Francisco de Paula Vallejo Benítez (1840–1924) and mother of eleven, gave birth to her twelfth and final child, whom she named César Abraham.³

Santiago de Chuco doesn’t only mark César Vallejo’s birthplace but also exposes his outlier status ab initio. Both his parents were born and raised in Santiago, and before it became the provincial capital (when it was still a district in the province of Huamachuco), his father had been governor. Additionally, his paternal grandparents were the Galician priest José Rufo Vallejo and his Chimú concubine Justa Benítez; and his maternal grandparents, the Galician priest Joaquín de Mendez and his Chimú concubine Natividad Gurrionero, placing young César in a typical context of mestizaje in the Andes.

Perched on the limb of the new millennium, many of us in North America or Western Europe struggle to imagine what it must have been like to live in Santiago de Chuco a century ago. Even a journey today to that highland town is likely to be misleading; for eyes accustomed to the comfort, commodities, and technologies of developed cities and countries, a journey to Santiago will feel like a trip back in time. But the truth is that this little mountain town has already modernized extensively. According to the 1940 census, in Santiago de Chuco many houses were still lacking utilities that had started to become mainstays in other less remote homes—utilities as basic as electricity and potable water. If we take into account that as late as 1940, out of 957 households, as few as 147 had running water, 130 had drainage, and a mere 2 had electricity, then we must imagine a Santiago in 1892 when Vallejo was born there quite a bit less modern.⁴

We must also be careful not to assume that La Libertad at large had dodged the European influence that so radically changed so much of South America. Out of the approximately forty-eight thousand people in the department, as many as forty-six thousand were mestizos, and about forty thousand over the age of five were proficient only in the Castilian language, while a mere seventy or so individuals knew Castilian and Quechua; no one in the census is said to have known only Quechua or any other indigenous language. Therefore, the Santiago where César Vallejo was born and raised, as Luis Monguío suggests, contained "biological, linguistic, and Indo-Hispanic cultural fusion that extends to the majority … [He] was born in neither the Andalusian nor the indigenous Peru, but in the mestizo, cholo Peru."⁵

So here we have Vallejo’s early stomping ground, a rural town of the Andes where the process of modernization seemed to lurk on the horizon but not fully arrive. Although there’s a lack of sufficient information to determine his early childhood education with detail and certainty, we do know that he was largely inspired by his grandfathers and, at an early age, is said to have wanted to follow in their footsteps and become a priest. We also know that he attended secondary school in Huamachuco, as Santiago didn’t have one, but apparently only in 1905 and 1906 and thereafter sporadically, probably coming in only to take exams, since his family couldn’t afford to send him full-time.

Nevertheless, when 1910 rolled around, the horizons of a now eighteen-year-old César began to widen as he moved from his highland hometown to the coastal city of Trujillo on April 2. There he enrolled in the Department of Humanities at La Universidad de La Libertad but didn’t even finish his first year on account of economic hardship, which led him to work for a stint in the Quiruvilca mines instead—an experience that eventually received literary expression in his novel Tungsten and his play Brothers Colacho. Desperately trying to carry out his studies, on April 11, 1911, he enrolled in the Department of Science at the same university but again dropped out for financial reasons, and this time found work from May to December tutoring the children of a wealthy land owner, Domingo Sotil.

César continued to live as a sort of rogue intellectual for the next few years, looking for a vocation. In 1912, for example, he took a job on a sugar plantation called Roma, nor far from Trujillo in the Chicama valley, which was owned by the Larco Herreras, one of the two big families (the other being the Gildemeisters) who had come to monopolize the sugar industry in Peru after the war of the Pacific. It’s not hard to imagine how strongly impacted the future champion of social justice would’ve been when he saw hundreds of peons arriving at the sugar estate at the crack of dawn and working until nightfall in the fields, with only a fistful of rice to live on.⁶ Vallejo was horrified by the way those workers’ lives were dominated by alcohol sold to them on credit, creating debts that rapidly accrued to the point that they’d surely outlive their debtors, and it was this hideous process [that] devastated him and lit a fuse that burned until 1928, the year he suffered the implosion that resulted in his inability to conform with social conditions for the rest of his life.⁷ We should also point out that Vallejo’s direct contact with these workers, who would’ve been native speakers of Quechua, can help explain where some of his surprisingly large Quechua vocabulary may have come from.

In 1913–14, Vallejo managed to reenroll in the Department of Humanities with the money he was earning from a job he’d landed teaching botany and anatomy at Centro Escolar de Varones in Trujillo. This proved to be a formative period in his life, since this return to the university also placed him in a literary environment that fostered his creative endeavors and shaped his artistic theories. The following year, he was adopted by Grupo Norte in the Trujillo counterculture, his bohemia as he referred to it fondly over the years. The group consisted of Eulogio Garrido, whose house was the central meeting place; Antenor Orrego Espinoza; Alcides Spelucín; Juan Espejo; Óscar Imaña; Macedonio de la Torre; Eloy Espinosa; Federico Esquerre; Leoncio Muñoz; Alfonso Sánchez Arteaga; Francisco Sandoval; Juan Sotero; and Víctor Raúl Haya de la Torre. During this time Vallejo started taking courses in law and switched jobs, giving preference to a position at Colegio Nacional de San Juan, where, as it turns out, he ended up teaching a young man by the name of Ciro Alegría.⁸ Complicating this adventure into Trujillo’s literary underworld was the terrible loss of César’s brother Miguel, who died in Santiago.⁹

Later that year Vallejo earned his licenciatura in philosophy and letters at La Universidad de La Libertad with his thesis Romanticism in Castilian Poetry, a sweeping survey that demonstrates remarkable critical skill and foresight. In the thesis Vallejo saw José Manuel Quintana as the father of revolutionary poets, praised José María de Heredia for his innovative Galician vocabulary and natural pomp, and disputed the claim that in the work of José Zorrilla romantic poetry reached its apogee, because it was in José de Espronceda’s El diablo mundo that the robust poetic temperament … exploded in a blast of asphyxia, thirsty for light and space. With the thesis out of the way, over the next couple of years Vallejo started publishing poems from The Black Heralds in magazines and had an affair with María Rosa Sandoval, who inspired several of his early love poems. This was when he started reading magazines like Cervantes, Colónida, La Esfera, and España, which were crucial resources that fostered his production of experimental poetry.

From July to December 1917 Vallejo had a love affair with Zoila Rosa Cuadra, whom he nicknamed Mirtho—a name that resurfaced as the title of a short story in Scales published five years later. In the midst of this relationship, on September 22, 1917, to be precise, the Lima magazine Variedades took interest in one of his poems. Like many young writers who emerge from the peripheries, Vallejo had initially been ignored, and when the professional critics of Lima deemed it unfashionable to disregard his youthful voice, they acknowledged his presence by using him as a punching bag. The Poet to His Lover, which he’d submitted to Variedades and simply initialed, was published, accompanied by a rather unflattering cartoon and the following note from Clemente Palma:

Mr. C. A. V. Trujillo. You too belong to the lot that comes whistling the ditty which we attribute to everyone who keeps trying to tune their lyrical wind bags, i.e., the youth that has been dealt a hand to write kitsch poetic rubbish. And said ditty should let you rest assured that we shall publish your monstrosity. You have sent us a sonnet titled The Poet to His Lover which, in all honesty, would be more appropriate for the accordion or the ocarina than for poetry. Your verses are noxious twaddle and, until you remove your piece of junk from the wastepaper basket, we shall see nothing else than the dishonor you have done to the people of Trujillo, and if one day your neighbors discover your name, they will find a rope and bind you to the tracks like a tie on the Malabrigo railroad.¹⁰

By 1918 Vallejo’s situation started to change dramatically. After moving to Lima, he began graduate studies in January in the Humanities Department of La Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos. The following month he met the visionary poet and founder of Colónida, Abraham Valdelomar, whom he came to see as one of the few guides for the literary youth of Peru. Since Vallejo was preparing for the upcoming publication of The Black Heralds, Valdelomar offered to write a foreword, but while visiting Ayacucho he tragically fell, broke his back, and died before he could do so. Vallejo delayed the release a few more months and printed the book with the biblical epigraph qui potest capere capiat (Matthew 9:12). In the brief time that the two men knew each other personally, Valdelomar managed to leave the kind of impression on Vallejo that only a mentor can and, aside from framing questions on the future of Peruvian poetry, one day in Lima Valdelomar introduced César to a young man by the name of Pablo Abril de Vivero, whose future in international diplomacy awaited him in Europe. No one could’ve imagined that this introduction would end up turning into the strongest of friendships (recorded in more than two hundred moving letters).

That May Vallejo’s spirits must have been high when he secured a teaching position at the prestigious Colegio Barrós. Yet here again we see the unfortunate pattern of hope and devastation continue to unfold: on August 8, 1918, María de los Santos Mendoza died of angina in Santiago. The death of his mother marked César for the rest of his life and became the inspiration of many compositions.¹¹ It’s difficult to emphasize enough the weight of this event on his writings. The mother figure seems to haunt the texts with absence, almost always appearing in spectral form, leading the author to contemplate union from divorce, to view wholeness from the fragment, and to conceive of being from the existential standpoint of orphanhood.

In October 1918 Vallejo rebounded from the tragedy and became romantically involved with a young woman named Otilia Villanueva, who appears to be the subject of many love poems in Trilce. According to Espejo, who was close to Vallejo during those years, the relationship lasted until August 1920. As it turns out, Otilia was the sister-in-law of one of Vallejo’s colleagues at Colegio Barrós, and when she was looking for commitment but he refused to marry her, he was scorned by the administration, since, in the eyes of aristocratic Lima, his failure to formalize the relationship diminished the dignity and social status of the young woman and her family. Vallejo was ultimately forced to resign in May 1919.

Yet, only a couple of months later, César saw his first major publication in print, The Black Heralds, released by Souza Ferreira in Lima on July 23, 1919. This forerunner of literary indigenism received a warm reception for its originality of style and thematic treatments of rural Peruvian life. Vallejo’s satisfaction with the monograph is reflected in two small but revealing documents: a dedicated copy of the book to his brothers in Trujillo (July 1919) and a second dedicated copy sent to his father in Santiago.¹² The Black Heralds was the crowning achievement of Vallejo’s literary youth, and after its release he lost his innocence, demolishing the limits of Hispanic literature rather than securing a place for his writing within those boundaries.

The sweetness of this literary success, however, didn’t last long, and on August 1, 1920, when Vallejo went to visit his brother in Santiago on the last day of the festival of Saint James, he got caught up in a town feud that had been fueled by the last elections. The general store of Carlos Santa María went up in flames, a bystander was shot, and two police officers were killed. Despite the fact that Vallejo had been helping the subprefect write up the legal report of the shooting, the Santa María family indicted him, Héctor M. Vásquez, Pedro Lozada, and fifteen others. Vallejo fled to Mansiche (on the outskirts of Trujillo), where he stayed with his friend Antenor Orrego. After being pursued for nearly two months, in a letter to Óscar Imaña from October 26, 1920, Vallejo started to recognize what was awaiting him: Maybe in a few days the case will be solved, and will be solved in my favor. I find it hard to believe. But, maybe … In that same letter he expressed his plans to travel abroad. On November 6 he was captured and imprisoned in Trujillo Central Jail, where he was held for the next three and a half months. In the dehumanizing conditions of that provincial prison—a dungeon that haunted him for years to come and saturated his next two books with the excruciating anguish of incarceration, the feeling of condemnation, and the imagery of confinement—Vallejo wrote some of his most celebrated experimental poetry.¹³ On February 26, 1921, with the help of his attorney, Carlos Godoy, in addition to a publicity campaign mounted by students at La Universidad de La Libertad and influential figures like poet Percy Gibson, César was released on bail.

Whether Vallejo was innocent or guilty remains to be proven with certainty, and several important factors must be taken into consideration. As Stephen Hart explains, Legal accounts show that—despite an adroit campaign mounted by the Trujillo intelligentsia in defense of the poet—Vallejo was directly involved in the events leading up to the destruction of the Santa María premises. In his reading of El proceso Vallejo by Patrón Candela, Hart reports that the proceedings indicate that Vallejo was at the front of the crowd that gathered in the main square that afternoon and was heard inciting others to take part in the mayhem. He was seen holding a revolver, and in much of the evidence for the prosecution, he is mentioned as the instigator.¹⁴

This new reading contradicts the traditional claim of his innocence and seems plausible, given Vallejo’s later commitment to social revolution; however, we must be careful not to confuse official records for irrefutable truth, since there’s certainly the possibility of bias in a case like this. For example, in a rural setting like Santiago de Chuco circa 1920, authorities would’ve sought a scapegoat at any cost (especially a bohemian cholo like Vallejo) to appease a member of the mercantile class or send a message to other bothersome miscreants of that irreverent counterculture. Furthermore, Vallejo had already started to garner renown as an emerging poet; so in the eyes of his provincial prosecutors, his move to the capital could’ve been perceived as class betrayal. Vallejo alluded to this prejudice in a letter to Gastón Roger, where he claimed he’d been indicted because he came from the heartland, and that in this provincial environment there was no way he’d receive a fair trial.

After his 1921 release, Vallejo returned to Lima and was appointed to a teaching position at Colegio Nacional de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. Leaving the prison experience behind him as best he could, he managed to publish a surprising number of important texts in a remarkably brief span. On November 15, 1921, his short story Beyond Life and Death won first prize in a competition organized by Entre Nous—a text subsequently published in the magazine Variedades on June 17, 1922, and finally placed in Scales. Then, in October 1922 César delivered a poetry manuscript to Talleres Tipográficos de la Penitenciaría in Lima, with a prologue by Antenor Orrego. The book was titled Bronze Skulls and, at the last minute, Vallejo slipped a correction sheet into the galley to change the title to Trilce, a word that he’d invented. Despite the great anticipation, in the months following the book’s publication, as Vallejo himself remarked in a letter to Orrego, only a handful of young still-unknown writers and several college kids have shuddered at its message. To put it bluntly, the book initially went unnoticed. Five months later, in March 1923, César delivered another manuscript to the same publisher, this time a collection of prose poems and short stories that had been composed during the same period as the texts of Trilce. This book was titled Scales and—never one to miss out on an opportunity to flaunt his youthful flair and so thematically rhyme this book with its predecessor—these Scales were to be Melographed by César Vallejo. Almost immediately after the publication of Scales, Vallejo’s other early prose fiction, Savage Lore, was included in La Novela Peruana, a biweekly edited by Pedro Barrantes Castro in Lima.

By the time this flurry of literary success was outlining an aura around the now thirty-one-year-old, his days in Peru were numbered, and his sights were set on the City of Light. Before he left, he signed on as a correspondent for the magazine El Norte, which his Trujillo friends were about to launch. He communicated with Enrique Casterot, also from Trujillo, who gave him the address of a Peruvian musician who, at that time, was living in Paris and going by the name Alfonso de Silva.¹⁵ Vallejo didn’t have the money for a grand European vacation, even if he intended on working while abroad, and he was only able to take the trip thanks to Julio Gálvez (Antenor Orrego’s nephew), who exchanged his own first-class ticket on the steamship Oroya for two third-class tickets, keeping one and giving the other to his friend.¹⁶ In the days preceding his departure, Vallejo was visited by his brother Néstor, who said good-bye in Lima. The day before leaving for Europe, César wrote to Carlos Godoy and said that he would’ve liked to stop in Salaverry to visit him in person, but the boat unfortunately didn’t pass through that port. He also asked his attorney to oversee the development of the case from August while he was out of the country and to mind the well-being of his family. Joined by the selfless Gálvez, Vallejo boarded the Oroya on June 17, 1923, and headed up the western coast of South America toward the Panama Canal, where the ship was to reach Atlantic waters and take its eastbound course.

* * *

A little less than one month later, on July 13, 1923, to be exact, Vallejo arrived in Paris at 7 a.m. on the express train from La Rochelle. Filled with unreal expectations and a somewhat incomprehensible naivety regarding his personal finances, César tested the waters of Parisian intellectual life. Although most of his later poems didn’t reach the public until after his death, it was at this time that he started to write "extremely somber, straightforward, and deeply felt works [that] form a bridge between Trilce and the poetry Vallejo would write in the thirties when, having committed himself to Marxist ideology, he forced the teeth of the revolution into the gums of his personal life."¹⁷ His first steps took him from rue d’Odessa, where he was lodged in the Odessa Hotel, near the Gare de Montparnasse, over to Montmartre. A few days later he attended the Paris premiere of Maeterlink’s play The Blue Bird, produced by Cora Laparcerie, and to his dismay the warm response it received, as he says in El Norte, was the result of undeniable decadence in the sensibility, a consistent decadence, no longer the Byzantine hyperesthesia, but rather an alarming anesthesia (February 1, 1924). Vallejo also went to and wrote in El Norte about la Rotonde, where he gawked at that ambiguous hypogeum … a boisterous alveolus of cosmopolitan mange (February 22, 1924), a polyglot crowd that filled the salons, where he saw Japanese painter Tsuguharu Foujita, Belgian poet and playwright Maurice Maeterlinck, and Guatemalan critic Enrique Gómez Carillo, plus Tristan Tzara, Max Jacob, and Pierre Reverdy.

A couple of weeks after his arrival in Paris, Vallejo made use of the contact information that Casterot had given him back in Peru, and on July 28 (Peruvian Independence Day), he and Gálvez strode into the Peruvian Embassy looking for a man by the name of Alfonso de Silva. This, of course, was the first of many meetings between César and Alfonso, whose friendship during 1923 was essential to Vallejo’s adjustment to life in Paris as a young insolvent foreigner. In a letter to Carlos Raygada, Silva describes this initial encounter:

Having only previously known each other by sight and like-mindedness (which is, after all, the most important), we shook hands and began to chat. I offered to guide him around and help him out with whatever I could, and so we decided to get together the following day, not without having shared some champagne to toast to the missing Country. … The next day we met up as we had planned and took a stroll around Paris.¹⁸

In the short time they spent together, Silva taught Vallejo how to be poor in Paris, and Vallejo, whose spiritual genealogy can be traced back to Dostoevsky, became intimately acquainted with suffering. Eventually, César recognized how poverty had worn down his friend, and on September 15, 1923, he wrote to Raygada, begging him to purchase Alfonso a ticket so that he could return to Peru. Europe is like this, he explains. Sometimes it can give and other times it crumbles your soul from which it repossesses something that it gave and something it did not. Alfonso no longer has anything to take away from here. He must return.¹⁹

Watching Silva’s mental and physical health decline must have weighed heavily on Vallejo, whose conviction to support himself was tested by a brutal interwar economy and his own contumacious ideals. His letters to Pablo Abril de Vivero, which spanned the 1924–34 period, attest to the constant financial hardship that befell Vallejo in Europe. This, no doubt, explains part of what motivated Abril, around that time, to start pushing the paperwork to get César a grant to study law in Madrid.

When Vallejo reached Europe, he hit the ground not running but scrambling, working anyway as a correspondent with El Norte.²⁰ His first years in Paris, precisely the period least known in his biography (after his early childhood education), are punctually registered in his chronicles published in that paper launched only five months earlier by his Trujillan brethren. To the surface rose figures of Peruvian literature and history that proved capital in that century: Antenor Orrego, Víctor Raúl and José Agustín Haya de la Torre, Alcides Spelucín, Juan Asturrizaga, Eloy B. Espinosa, Óscar Imaña, and Macedonio de la Torre. El Norte was well received for its opinion columns, unusual in journalism of that era, and it was distinguished by its courageous editors and their commentary on national and international affairs and their campaigns in defense of the interests of the country and the department of La Libertad.

At the time when Vallejo entered the world of journalism, it had become fashionable to follow a model of light, frivolous, impressionist reading, whose formal expression was epitomized by the articles of Enrique Gómez Carrillo and Ventura García Calderón.²¹ Contrary to this decadent aesthetic sauna, Vallejo’s chronicles are more closely relegated to those of Alejandro Sux, Manuel Ugarte, José Carlos Mariátegui, and J. J. Soiza Reilly. In the early chronicles his writing still bears traces of Trilce and Scales, where the text includes a metanarration of its own creation and the author looks for the perfect turn of phrase, the unimaginable expressions that would astonish his unsuspecting readers. This, of course, changed considerably as Vallejo became more comfortable with the genre and started to take stronger stances and embrace the directness of his extraliterary prose.

The article Peruvian Literature: The Latest Generation, published just a couple of months after his arrival to Paris, is early proof of his lucid generational awareness that he reveals throughout his European chronicles, without becoming smitten by a false devotion to a system that attempts to explain everything in function of age.²² The search for generational identity and the identification of worthy role models emerged in multiple articles and chronicles in which Vallejo distinguished two key concepts in his work: indigenist will and indigenous sensibility. It’s by distinguishing these two tendencies that, five years later, he reformulated the question of the New in terms of autochthony that, in the proclamatory article Against Professional Secrets, he so eloquently laid out: Autochthony does not consist in saying that one is autochthonous but precisely in being so, even when not saying so.²³ Perhaps this authenticity is what he sensed in the then recently deceased Abraham Valdelomar, whose leadership he clearly recognized for his generation. Although it isn’t celebrated internationally to the same degree that it is in Peru, Valdelomar’s work paved the way for an entire generation to explore new literary modalities and to salvage from the past what was still useful.

In September 1924, around the time Vallejo was introduced to Vicente Huidobro and Juan Larrea, Costa Rican sculptor Max Jiménez generously allowed him to stay in his studio at 3, rue Vercingétorix, where César posed for Spanish sculptor José de Creeft, whose bust of the Peruvian has become iconic. Vallejo wrote about the sculpture and whether or not portraiture truly exists. I’m afraid you may say it does, he chides. "I’m afraid you may say it doesn’t, that the portrait is already an extinct artistic genre, an aesthetic species that, like the milodon in zoology or like the bone pfeilstrecker in Barbarian sculpture, now belongs to archaeology. But he uses the debate to wage a critique against ambivalence, since he’s most suspicious of those who lack the resolve to tell him whether the portrait does or doesn’t exist in art."²⁴

The following month, out of the blue, Vallejo suffered an intestinal hemorrhage and was hospitalized in la Charité hospital. Fifteen months in Paris and suddenly his life was flashing before his eyes. His stay in the hospital was long and drawn out, and during the fourth week, in a letter to Abril a fatalist Vallejo confessed his terrible suffering and confrontation with mortality:

There are hours more, perhaps much more sinister and terrible than the tomb itself. I didn’t know what they were until this hospital showed me, and now I’ll never forget them. In the process of recovery, I often cry for any reason at all. An infantile facility for tears keeps me saturated in an immense mercy for things. I often remember my house, my parents, and lost loves. One day I’ll be able to die, in the course of this hazardous life that has befallen me to live, and so I shall see myself, then just as now, an orphan of all family encouragement and even of love. But my luck has already landed. It’s written. I’m a fatalist. I think everything has been written.²⁵

A couple of weeks later, after the operation, César suffered a second hemorrhage, and this disturbing news he related to Abril in a letter written with a tone that testifies to the intensity of the spiritual challenge he was facing. With his life in peril, he claimed to believe in Jesus Christ again and insisted that he had rediscovered his religion, taking religion as the supreme consolation in life. Yes. Yes. There must be another world of refuge for the many on earth who suffer (November 5, 1924).²⁶ But neither two intestinal hemorrhages nor his recently rediscovered religion prevented him from discussing finances in that same letter. Vallejo explains that Mariano H. Cornejo, Peruvian minister to France in the 1920s, had begun a process to purchase him a ticket from Paris to Lima, but he wasn’t seriously considering a return to Peru, since Abril had all but secured his grant to study law in Madrid. Naturally, Vallejo didn’t want the ticket, but its cash value, on which he could survive until the grant came through—and this miraculously happened on March 16, 1925. It was three hundred pesetas per month and, although he never carried out formal studies, he diligently traveled to Spain in October 1925, July 1926, and June 1927 to collect his modest funds.

In 1925 Vallejo experienced a brief period of semistability when he started working in the Bureau des Grands Journaux Ibéroaméricains, a vast publicity organization directed by Alejandro Sux. Right around the time he took this job, he also began writing for the Lima magazine Mundial, headed by Andrés Avelino Aramburú.²⁷ All of a sudden Vallejo was no longer going to be writing articles for his bohemian friends in Trujillo, but for a vaster, more diverse readership. For this new audience, Puccinelli explains, Vallejo continued to mold the new writing of his chronicles and articles, allowing himself to explore the journalistic form only to "imperceptibly enter the same literary space as his prose poems and Human Poems, to which the articles and chronicles count as parallel texts. Thus, we see how the modality of journalism played a central role in the maturity of Vallejo’s later writings: [His] youthful concern for finding le mot rare is replaced by the search for le mot juste, and this transformation was organically impacted by his readings of Joseph Conrad."²⁸

As it turns out, Joseph Conrad had passed away one year after César Vallejo arrived in Paris. An extraordinary homage to Conrad appeared in the Nouvelle Revue Française (December 1, 1924), which, aside from a series of testimonies and critical studies, presented a selection of his works in French translation under the title L’art et la morale de Conrad éclairés par quelques citations. Over the course of his years in Paris, Vallejo gleaned this miniature anthology, translated his favorite phrases from French to Castilian, and scattered them throughout his own writings, allowing us to situate Conrad as one of Vallejo’s literary heroes.

In May 1926 César met a woman by the name of Henriette Maisse, and they became lovers in a relationship that lasted for about a year and a half. Soon after they moved in together at Hôtel Richelieu (20, rue Molière), the High Court of Trujillo issued a warrant for Vallejo’s arrest, making a return to Peru all the less likely. Later that year he took a brief trip to Spain to collect his grant money and, with coeditor Juan Larrea, he also launched the short-lived literary magazine Favorables-París-Poema. They put out the first of two volumes in July 1926. With a knack for agitation and a biting sense of humor, inside the cover of each copy they slipped a business card that read, In the event of a discrepancy with our attitude, Juan Larrea and César Vallejo request your most resolved hostility.

Aside from texts by the coeditors, Favorables-París-Poema contained contributions from Gerardo Diego and Tristan Tzara and even poems by Pierre Reverdy, translated by none other than Vallejo. Yet we must be careful not to imagine Vallejo completely integrated into European life with barely a foggy memory of his South American past. From Madrid in the middle of 1926, he made sure to stay in touch with Alejandro Peralta, a seminal figure of early twentieth-century Peruvian literature; Alcides Spelucín, Vallejo’s longtime friend from Trujillo who’d written El libro de la nave dorada; and even a young poet by the name of Emilio Armaza, who’d written a volume called Falo.²⁹ Additionally, the letters he wrote to Abril circa 1926–28 reveal a total change that starts operating in Vallejo’s conception of art, literature, and the function of the artist. This conceptualization would take a hard left, which is why in his writings one will find a tone that is more political than literary.³⁰

Back in Paris, in the winter of 1926, César Vallejo met Georgette Philippart, his future wife. The young girl’s mother, Mme Marie Travers, is said to have disapproved of the relationship. The following year, on March 10, Vallejo traveled again to Spain and again stayed for only a brief visit, which was also a parting of ways for him and Henriette, who moved out of Hôtel Richelieu. This was when César’s relationship with Georgette began to develop; however, on May 5, 1927, they got into an argument that sent him running back to Henriette with the hopes that she would forgive him, and she did. He left Hôtel Richelieu and went to live with her in Hôtel Mary. One month later he took yet another trip to Spain, where he was put up by Xavier Abril in his apartment on Calle de la Aduana in Madrid. There he met Juan Domingo Córdoba, who ended up traveling with him back to Paris just a few months later and whose accounts of their time together in Europe have proved to be essential material for the biographical study of our author.³¹

Vallejo’s health again declined in July 1928, and this time his doctor in Paris advised him to take a vacation in the country to recuperate. Accompanied by Henriette and Domingo Córdoba, he stayed at the house of Monsieur Nauty in Ris Orangis (Seine-et-Oise).³² He’d been in Paris for five years only to live a life of poverty and frustration. His success in literary publishing had been stunted by his open rejection of the prevailing trends. At a time when life was hard, his stubborn ideals made it harder. Yet, if the letters reveal sentiments of self-pity, nowhere in the writings of César Vallejo do we find a defeated attitude; a robust vivacity dominates his oeuvre—a gritty willingness to live and perhaps a perverse desire to suffer.

By the end of 1928, the ethical dilemma that had taken hold of Vallejo erupted into an all-out crisis. Change had become a necessity—radical change: revolution! In a letter to Abril written on October 19, Vallejo explained that he was leaving that day for Russia. Although his health had improved and he’d recovered his strength, his sense of purpose in life had become turbid with doubt, and it was this desire for clarity that drove him to the land of the Soviet:

I feel (perhaps more than ever) tormented by the problem of my future, and it’s precisely with the drive to resolve this problem that I’m setting off on this journey. I realize what my role in life is not. I haven’t found my path yet, but I want to find it, and perhaps in Russia I will, since on this other side of the world where I live, things move on springs similar to the rusty wing nuts of America. I’ll never do anything in Paris. Perhaps in Moscow I’ll find better shelter from the future.

* * *

On October 19, 1928, César Vallejo stepped off a Paris platform and onto a train headed for Moscow. This was the first of three trips that he took in the next few years. Despite his high hopes for finding a long-term solution to the worsening crisis tearing him apart, none of his trips to that young USSR lasted very long and, on this first occasion, he was back in Paris as early as November 13, 1928. Yet it’s astounding how many people he managed to interview and how many locations he visited in what turned out to be just under one month’s time. These raw materials transformed into a trove of new articles, a political report, and two books of thoughts.

The highlight of this trip took place in Leningrad, in late October, when Vallejo attended a meeting of Bolshevik writers, which became the central topic of chapter 8 of Russia in 1931. Two of the writers there (Sergei Kolbasiev and Vissarion Sayanov) were mentioned in the Peruvian’s oft-contended article The Mayakovsky Case from Art and Revolution:

At a gathering of Bolshevik writers in Leningrad, Kolbasiev said to me, Contrary to what’s presumed abroad, Mayakovsky isn’t the greatest Soviet poet or anything of the sort. Mayakovsky is nothing more than a thespian hyperbolist. Before him are Pasternak, Biedny, Sayanov, and many others …

I knew Mayakovsky’s work, and my opinion was in absolute agreement with Kolbasiev’s. And, a few days later, when I spoke in Moscow with the author of 150,000,000, our conversation confirmed Kolbasiev’s judgment for all of eternity. In reality, Mayakovsky isn’t the greatest Soviet poet. He’s merely the most published. If one read more of Pasternak, Kaziin, Gastev, Sayanov, Viesimiensky, the name Mayakovsky would vanish from many radio waves.

For years, questions surrounding this meeting riddled Vallejo’s readers; however, thanks to Alexander Batrakov, director of the Centro Cultural Ruso in Lima, and the late Manuel Miguel de Priego, we know quite a bit about this meeting that, for Vallejo, proved quite important. It took place in the house of Sergei Adamovich Kolbasiev (1898–1937), a Russian writer on maritime topics and member of the literary group Ostrovityane (Islanders). In his autobiographical novels he recounts experiences of his service in the Red Fleet. He was the author of the poetry collection The Open Sea (1922) and numerous narratives: The Rules of Group Navigation (1935) and Tales of the Wartime Seascape (1936), inter alia. He was arrested in 1937 and died in jail that same year. Also at the meeting was Vissarion Mikhailovich Sayanov (1903–59), born in the village of Ivanushkinskaia, in modern-day Kirensk Raion, Irkutsk Oblast, author of the poetry collection Komsomol Poetry (1928), Contemporaries (1929), and The Golden Olyokma (1934), as well as the novels Heaven and Earth, I–IV (1935–54) and The Lena, I–II (1953–55). During World War II he was a frontline correspondent and wrote In the Battles for Leningrad (1943) and then The Nuremberg Diaries (1948).

In addition to Kolbasiev and Sayanov, the other writers at this meeting included Boris Viktorovich Lipatov, Wolf Yosifovich Ehrlich, and Ilya Ivanovich Sadofiev.³³ Lipatov (1905–54), born in Yekaterinburg, participated in the civil war, and from 1926 he wrote for the stage and the screen. Among his screenplays is Tri Soldata, which he adapted with Aleksandr Ivanov from John Dos Passos’s realist novel Three Soldiers (1920). He also wrote the screenplay Treasure of the Wrecked Vessel (1935), inter alia. Ehrlich (1902–37) was a Russian-Jewish poet who authored the collection Wolf Song and others that glorify the revolutionary orthodoxy. For his part, Sadofiev (1889–1965) began to publish his poems in Pravda during the prerevolutionary period. Then in 1917 he became an activist in Protekult: in the second half of the 1920s he became the president of the Association of Leningrad Poets (a position he held when Vallejo was visiting). He’s the author of the poetry collections Dynamo Verses (1918) and Simpler Than Simplicity (1925), as well as the short story collection The Bloody Staircase (1925), which is saturated with heavy revolutionary dramatics.

From this meeting in Leningrad, Vallejo seems to have confirmed a suspicion he’d been contemplating in an array of magazine articles, namely, that the prevailing schools of poetry—such as dadaism, futurism, surrealism, ultraism, and creationism—all contained a similar, if not identical, contradiction. They wanted to patent a technique by which new art was to be created. Vallejo recognized the problematic of aesthetic secularism and exposed the sociopolitical underpinnings of those avant-garde platforms that, by dint of excluding themselves from the problems they were addressing, actually reinforced the kinds of divisions that writers like Kolbasiev, Sayanov, Lipatov, Ehrlich, and Sadofiev were fighting to destroy. In the Peruvian’s eyes, the European avant-garde appeared as a cult of decadence, the sign of decrepitude, whereas the Latin American avant-garde was imported posture, the sign of insincerity and self-deceit; and just like the romantics had surged out of the worn-out neoclassical mentality, so too did the moderns need to eschew the personally amusing fin de siècle parlor games and produce socially responsible art to get out from under the rubble left by decades of war. The Leningrad writers confirmed Vallejo’s hypothesis that, at a time when modernism was fully coming into itself, there was a viable alternative to the avant-garde.

Upon his return to Paris, during this socialist shift that soon became evident in his writings circa 1928, Vallejo took special interest in the performing arts, first as critic and then as creator. His affinity for the stage and screen is unambiguous with just a glance at such articles as Avant-Garde Religions, Contribution to Film Studies, Vanguard and Rearguard, and of course his unforgettable homage to and defense of one of his major inspirations in the genre, The Passion of Charles Chaplin. This last article in particular was centered on The Gold Rush and explained how misunderstood the U.S. film pioneer was at that time. Russians exited cinemas teary-eyed with the belief that he was a realist; Germans considered him from an intellectual perspective; the English thought he was a clown; the French were sure he was a comedian; and, as for Chaplin’s compatriots,

[they have not] perceived, even at a distance, the profound and tacitly revolutionary spirit of The Gold Rush. I’m lying. In a subconscious way, perhaps, the