The narrative technique that I like is to fracture stories and never develop them fully.
Ricardo Piglia

In 1993 Ricardo Piglia, the renowned author of Respiración artificial (1980), published La Argentina en pedazos, a singular text resulting from his earlier collaboration with the graphic art magazine Fierro, which contains illustrated versions of key pieces of Argentine literature. Throughout the book, Piglia introduces the legacy of this publication, a periodical of superb artistic quality, winner of the 1985 prize as the leading monthly of its kind in the Salón del Cómic y la Ilustración in Barcelona, Spain, and discusses its portrayal of national identity as a cultural entity with a consciousness born, literally, of a process of fragmentation, given the substantial contribution of the migratory influx to the formation of the country's character. The accounts involved range from the postulation of the quintessential Argentine duality--civilization vs. barbarism--in earlier works of the nineteenth century, to the tales of Uruguayan storyteller Horacio Quiroga, with their xenophobic depiction of Italian newcomers in the early twentieth century, or the work of Julio Cortázar and his demonization of the cabecitas negras, the masses launched to the limelight of national politics during the Peronist era; together they posit harsh, starkly pessimistic renditions of some crucial episodes in Argentine history.

My purpose is to argue that, within such a layout, lies a new understanding of Argentina's order and Latin America's cultural outlook, a proposal which, by means of enhancing its fragmentary nature, pretends to be more inclusive. In other words, by combining the dynamics of two dissimilar representational formulas, prose and graphic art, a pair of intrinsically disparate genres, Piglia manages to put forward an alternative approach for the depiction and explanation of the essence of Argentine identity. His juxtaposition of words and images, of written and graphic text, leads to a dialogue that surfaces over the cracks, the fissures, of a plural society, a people which, despite bearing traces of a rich, distinct, multicultural past, have become one where inattention and collectiveness prevail, conforming to the dictates of a stolid, dreary reality. Unlike earlier theorists of national idiosyncrasy--e.g., Arturo López Peña and his famed Teoría del argentino (1958), Martínez Estrada and his philosophy of Argentine melancholy, or Ortega y Gasset's eminent digressions on the subject--Piglia seeks for the roots of the nation in the interstices of the grand established discourses of Argentine narrative. That is why, in order to deal with a matter of uneven nature, he proposes a theory whose foundation lies elsewhere, somewhere within the limits imposed by generic representation, between the framing of the storyboard and rhetorical ambivalence. To deal with a population beleaguered by economic crisis, military repression, warring conflicts, and neoliberal policies, canonical categorization does not suffice. Piglia prefers to validate a theory of the Argentine soul by unconventional methods, emphasizing discontinuity, enhancing the lack of commitment of the word with the elusiveness of the image.

His proposal is compelling; he manifests his understanding of identity as an interactive, evolutionary process, fruit of the type of communication resulting from the savoring of messages publicized by the modern media. In a fashion akin to the late theories of cultural anthropologist Néstor García Canclini in Consumidores y ciudadanos: Conflictos multiculturales de la globalización (1995), Piglia emphasizes the social responsibility of the reader as consumer, as a functional member of the market, and as maker and supporter of a select national imagery. In short, what Piglia proposes is that, by embracing or condoning the newly fashioned versions of cultural identity proposed by the media, consumers play an active role in the process, thus his interest in a rendition of a national discourse via a more up-to-date mechanism. Despite the solidity of Canclini's arguments, founded on the many cultural practices embraced by diverse societal segments in order to conquer a political voice, that is, a position of authority within the general public, this contention denotes a quandary: what is the reason behind Piglia's emphasis of fragmentary representation?

It helps to remember Piglia's academic training is in history, and his fascination with the subject becomes obvious as one peruses La Argentina en pedazos. The book is, above all, a meditation on the role of history and the responsibility of the historian. As writers, historians are accustomed to dealing with fiction, and their work may be described as the retrospective considering of many possible worlds, a chore regularly involving speculation, linear thought, and a prolific imagination. It is evident that Piglia's goal is to posit and develop an alternate literary version of Argentine history, in other words, a chronology supported by his personal choice of examples of the Argentine cultural mainstream. Piglia's playfulness with history is well-known; Respiración Artificial, his most celebrated piece of work, is, after all, a judicious reflection on the interest of history. In Postmodernity in Latin America: The Argentine Paradigm (1994), his sound study of contemporary Argentine literature, Santiago Colás includes a detailed analysis of the book. During the time of the Proceso de Reorganización Nacional, Colás argues the military appropriated, above all, the discourse of historical representation, intervening directly in its production, putting forward a single vision of national and world order, while representing themselves as the only viable endpoint of a homogenized, Manichean national history and establishing their rule as the only possible present and, thus, the only source of all possible futures. For Colás, the decentralized nature of the regime's repressive structure "conferred on the violence an aspect of terrifying randomness whose ultimate effect was the shattering of whatever sense of collectivity might have survived the first round-up of intellectuals, leaders, and guerrilla; the Proceso foreclosed the possibility of an oppositional historical representation by fragmenting the social, by so suffusing social spaces with its terrifying authoritarian logic that all such spaces became radically privatized" (Postmodernity in Latin America 127). In plain terms, through the seemingly indiscriminate nature of their actions, the military severed the links between the private and public spheres of Argentine life. Piglia's response, as apparent in Respiración Artificial, was to strive to reëstablish this broken bond.

But, not only did the military threaten the population directly, intending to fictionalize reality in order to disguise repression, during the time of the Dirty War, a key factor contributing to the massive illusion of uniformity propounded by the junta was the substantial increase in the importation of best sellers as well as their ensuing success, conveying, through their foreign context and their disassociation and lack of interest for matters of national relevance, a sense of depolitization, internationalization and modernization welcome by the regime. That is, through their policy of self-censorship, which kept local publishing houses in constant fear, and their dominating posture, controlling the orientation of discursive relations within the country, the military fractured the social fabric of the population. In all, the renewed presence of a heavy component of unexacting literature from abroad was congruent with their arguments in favor of the "renovation" of Argentine literary tastes. Colás points out "the Proceso not only disappeared people, it disappeared history itself" (Postmodernity in Latin America 143). Throughout this pursuit, it is clear they also attempted a reformulation of the literary patrimony. Asinine policies, such as the vanishing of texts on Cubism, imagining them related to Cuban matters, and hence to left-wing ideologies, are well documented.

In La Argentina en Pedazos, on the other hand, Piglia enhances formal fragmentation as an evasive reply, a deceptive maneuver of sorts, against the totalizing operational logic resulting from the authoritarian tactics of the Proceso. Piglia wishes to debunk the notion of Argentine lifestyle suggested by the establishment, with the family and Christian virtue as only cornerstones, and with national identity as the consecrated offspring of Western civilization. La Argentina en pedazos is fragmentary in order to augment its odds of theoretical subsistence and elude discursive manipulation; its main object is to neutralize the idea of a nation born of the acceptance of a master narrative championed by the military, an artifice which, given the boundless complexity of the undertaking, was deemed to failure. Like Respiración artificial, it is Piglia's way of appropriating the literary tradition and propounding a noncanonical understanding of national literature. Emulating Maggi, his character in the novel, what Piglia fancies is to reconstruct the foundation of what may become the Argentine national cultural identity by looking at the margins of the orthodox, resulting in the presumably awkward partnership between an established novelist and an irreverent team of cartoonists. Still, whereas some of their choices for the book are customary elements of the canon, some others are not, and the graphic aspect, host to issues of an entirely different discipline, is definitely beyond the scope of the ordinary. Hence, the stories behind his substitute version of tradition are ones where, in agreement with Piglia's particular perception of the ancestry of power in Argentina (and I might add, in much of Latin America), the criminal element is blatant. Piglia maintains that, throughout Argentine history, the most consistent configuration of the discourse of power has been that of criminal fiction. According to this conjecture, Argentine and Latin American history may be viewed as a long list of crimes, and can, as a result, be narrated under the conventions of a criminal story, where, quoting Piglia, "En más de un sentido el crítico es el investigador y el escritor es un criminal". Consequently, most of the sequences in his work with Fierro entail, in one or another way, the transgression or infringement of the law or social conventions in the form of conspiracy, deception, or open violence frequently leading to death. This is not a unique concept; Ariel Dorfman, among several Latin American intellectuals, has argued that the tragic history of Latin America is such that even death takes on the aspect of creative act by which myth and memory and therefore resistant histories are activated. In a consistent approach, six of the eleven versions in Piglia's compilation, the works of Echeverría, Viñas, Quiroga, Borges, Puig, and Arlt, involve instances of explicit death.

However, aside from giving in to murder, intrigue, and delusions of paranoia, most of the accounts, delineating national variants of different genres--the short story, the novel, drama, and popular music--share other kinds of relevant characteristics: for example, their persistent referral, employing mixed formulas, to the instituted Argentine binarism, that of civilization and barbarism. The beginning strip, portraying Esteban Echeverría's masterpiece, "El Matadero," serves as origin to a compendium whose proposition is mainly based upon violent anecdotes, perhaps alluding to the Dirty War, perhaps insinuating its resolve to tamper with the language and the culture. As a founding narrative, "El matadero," although published posthumously, serves to underscore the common legacy of the young Latin American republics of the nineteenth century, a heritage signaling the emergence of a succession of shared attributes: a propensity for boom and bust economies which, starting with an age of caudillos, will lead to latter order and progress, followed by a new century where depression, populism, and rising nationalism will prevail. Its pictured equivalent hints subtly, through its omission of specific scenes of torture, at the ways of the government, honoring a practice which seems to have accompanied the Argentine state since the date of its inception. The following story, David Viñas's "Los dueños de la tierra," insists on injustice as a crucial component of Argentine, and for that matter, Latin American history. Indicting a torrid chapter of the making of the nation, the novel narrates the extermination of the indigenous population of the pampas during the latter part of the nineteenth century, denouncing the cruelty of the ruling classes, sponsors of the massive campaigns which, in order to conquer and populate the country, had to, quite brutally, dispose of the natives. Its illustrated side is more unabashed than its predecessor; the mutilated corpses of the indians lie on the ground, butchered and bathed in blood.

The succeeding narrative, Armando Discépolo's "Mustafá," the selection's only concession to dramaturgy, incarnates the criollo grotesque, which, together with Arlt, represents a distinct concern of an insecure literary past: the contemplation of idiomatic misery as an embodiment of lexical poverty and of poverty as violence, as evidence of the common belief of the immigrant's violation of the mother tongue. Piglia is particularly interested in depicting Argentine identity as the outcome of an illicit affair, born of a fondness for myths, reflected in the recurrent tendency to mythologize, so evident in Borges and other local authors; it is in this regard that Discépolo's piece excels, granted its scheming contention. "Mustafá" is, in terms of its argument, the most orderly, linear representation in the collection, since its purpose is to feature the pains at stake in the hazardous progress of the language. In short, the story's graphics, which are almost always narrowly fitted amid the characters' conversation, serve as excuses for the captions, the chief, significant element of the representation.

Julio Cortázar's contribution to the volume, the story titled "Las puertas del cielo," is a master work of demonization and character assassination, and a key exemplar of this author's deftness during an early reactionary phase. The purpose of the tale is to visit, to outline, the scenery of a popular dance hall, a site where the feared lower classes gathered to join in merry fun. Accordingly, the initial frame illustrates a microscope, since the object of the literary exercise is to dissect, to carefully examine, the workings and insides of the despised working classes, the cabecitas negras, which, much to the dismay of the Buenos Aires élite, became highly conspicuous with the ascent of peronismo, a phenomenon equally discernible in Mexican and Brazilian aristocracies during the Cárdenas and Vargas administrations. Together with Germán Rozenmacher's Cabecita negra, the other account in the group based on identical subject matter, these are texts where violence results from the transgression of established social boundaries, which prescribe that societal conventions must be left untouched, conforming to the dictates of the oligarchy. In terms of sheer aesthetics, "Las puertas del cielo" is the most distorted, least beautified cartoon strip, prone to enhance the misgivings of social deformity. The artist, in a stroke of fairness, has included the writer in the allegory, making him equally hideous to his peers in the ballroom. In the depiction of Rozenmacher's 1962 book, a similarly conciliatory effort is unveiled. Once again, illustrated representation has leveled the turf between the parties: in the accompanying segment, the physiognomy of the protagonist, a condescending petit bourgeois, in charge of disparaging remarks against the populace, bears a remarkable likeness to the features of the policeman who roughs him up, a clear member of the lower classes so steadfastly disdained. Thus, the rigidity of the sanctioned order, a stalwart ally of unchecked social injustice, appears slightly flawed. As expected, Piglia appears concerned with cases where a fair amount of distrust is patent, as in this story, where the cabecita negra, personified by the police officer, dares to question the merit of first impressions, so widespread in the realm of the bourgeoisie. The sense of distrust, on the other hand, simply contributes to ratify the air of intrigue.

Science fiction, a genre especially cultivated by Argentine readers, perhaps to a larger extent than in the rest of Latin America, is represented by one of Leopoldo Lugones's classic yarns, "Un fenómeno inexplicable," a fancy anecdote displaying an unequivocally esoteric fascination for things scientific. Through these bizarre reveries, or at least, through their relation to the implicated individuals, it is feasible to pose a theory of social differences. The masses, ignorant and unbeware of the potential of knowledge, are disposable, whereas those who deal directly with the advances and benefits resulting from science appear privileged. Stylistically, at a visual level, the images are the least organized ones in the series, indicating the likelihood of a concealed order; unlike the other pieces, this one rejects the adoption of a storyboard format, with its comfortably enclosed quadrilaterals. To deal with the text, the cautious reader will be forced to play detective, figuring out the correct order of the images in connection with the dialogue, rendering coherence to the plot as it progresses, much in the spirit of a scientific foray. In the hands of the cartoonists, Lugones's story serves the purpose of an interactive artistic proposal, and the argument, with its enigmatic resolution, attains the air of a caper, echoing its criminal lineage.

Like Discépolo's account, Horacio Quiroga's "La gallina degollada" deals with the usual apprehensions, with the presumed noxious, polluting effects of massive immigration, which are reflected, in this opportunity, in a matter of familial blood. The short story, characteristic of the author's despair during his stay in Misiones, evokes the reprehensive arguments of eugenics, shared by most of the places serving as destinations to the immigrants of the New World. In the drawings, the single hue departing from the traditional black and white coloring of the book are occasional, vibrant outbursts of red. Red is meant to signify the relevance of blood as a means of cultural and physical contamination, given the hypothetical deterioration of the fabric of Argentine society as an outcome of uncontrolled migration. As in the first story, the scene with explicit content, where the three witless brothers assassinate their lovely sister, is omitted. In a manner reminiscent of the Proceso, violence, although invariably present, is seldom included in a deliberate fashion.

"La Gayola," the sole tango noted, whose title comes from a seventeenth century Spanish term denoting a cage, is, as Piglia rightly points out, a story of betrayal, with tension resulting from the latent possibility of violence (that is, the fact that a scorned boyfriend, upon returning, may harm his ex-lover). Once again, it serves as an example of speech as an instrument of violence; the linguistic evolution of the tango lyrics, which will become increasingly arcane, bears the influence of lunfardo and colloquial overtones of the slang of the streets of Buenos Aires, harbingers of a nascent vernacular identity. Although a sex scene forms part of the account, the image appears next to a censored copy of itself, where the x covering the couple is made up of strips of photographic film, hinting at the visual quality of censorship for the masses. The pictorial representation, in the form of collage, demands, more than any other chapter in the book, a rupture with linear representation. The heavy use of montage, isolated images, and hovering phrases exacerbate the iconic value of the argument, supporting a surrogate, discontinuous view of events that markedly contrasts the smooth, flowing evolution of narrative, so becoming to arranged history.

Boquitas pintadas, Manuel Puig's masterpiece of Bovarism, is, like most of his work, based on the tradition of the folletín, and consequently, its graphic equivalent is the one most resembling a typical Latin American fotonovela, like those readily available at newsstands. According to Piglia, Puig's method was the sentimental upbringing of the masses via the successful appropriation of popular formats. The inclusion of a mirror bearing Gardel's image, incorporating the suggestive smile of Argentina's most famed cultural icon to the process, is just a concession to this respect. In this instance, murder is incorporated as an additional element of the romance, leading to a cryptic resolution.

Lastly, there are stories by the two opposing archetypes of Argentine literature: Borges, the wistful erudite, and Arlt, the street-smart, crafty raconteur. Although "Historia del guerrero y de la cautiva" is a twist on the familiar theme of civilization vs. barbarism, its main purpose is to criticize the seductive capability of things uncivilized, proper, according to Borges, of a Latin American fate; its depiction equates savagery with heritage. "El rufián melancólico," in turn, relegates us to the domain of torture, stirring up memories of the ruthless ways of the Escuela de Mecánica. Accordingly, the graphics resemble a negative, where the shadows are exposed and what should be evident lies in darkness, a fitting way to end Piglia's version of Argentine history, alluding at the suffering of recent years. The predicament endorses an additional, subjugating presupposition: for Arlt, claims Piglia, economic well-being implies something murky. The rich are, by definition, criminals; they always hide something. Thus, capitalism, a system based on the accumulation of wealth, is, in essence, a criminal practice. Under this perspective, the huge inequalities prevalent in Latin America become, once again, a matter of infraction.

Each of the stories in this collection stands apart, contributing to the correct operation of a peculiar theoretical model: Piglia's odd understanding of the practices which constitute the core of the formation of a cultural identity. In all, each piece operates as a fractal, replicating, in itself, the social geometry of a larger order, regulated by violence and tragedy. For the Argentine author, the ideal reader is one who is produced by the text, and ideal texts are those which change our way of reading. Therefore, it is only understandable that Piglia has appealed to representation in a format that defies many of the dictates of conventional literature; his aim is to produce a new kind of reader or reading, with national essence as the context which decides appropriations and uses, transactions and barters, and where effacement and deformation (such as translation) play a significant part.

Although he fails to explain how to distinguish between the balancing mechanisms of the system and the alienating entertainment sponsored by profit-seeking multinationals, Piglia advocates for a society with a less élitist and a more egalitarian, brisk cultural agenda. Amidst an era of hybrid identities and transnational cultures, the question remains whether a redrawing of established methods would aid or simply contribute to informational delusion. The objective should be to locate the remote instances when policies have upheld massive cultural expressions and served as guardians of new trends. García Canclini himself, upon analyzing Mexico's society, concludes that such actions occasionally lead to massive incoherences. Following Piglia, if a new will is to exist, in order to consolidate Latin America's cultural domains further, an active integration of modern ways is critical. The dilemma lies in how to accomplish this, whether through the merger of authentic spaces of negotiation or some other valid exercise, as in the case of La Argentina en pedazos.

Bibliography

Colás, Santiago. Postmodernity in Latin America: The Argentine Paradigm. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1994.
Ferman, Claudia. Política y posmodernidad: hacia una lectura de la anti-modernidad en Latinoamérica. Coral Gables, FL: Iberian Studies Institute, 1993.
García Canclini, Néstor. Consumidores y ciudadanos: Conflictos multiculturales de la globalización. México, DF: Grijalbo, 1995.
Hernández, María del Carmen, Joseph Urgo, and Beatriz Vegh. "An Interview with Ricardo Piglia." The Faulkner Journal. Ada, OH: Ohio Northern University, 1985.
Kaplan, Marina. "Between Arlt and Borges: An Interview with Ricardo Piglia." The New Orleans Review. New Orleans: Loyola University, 1989.
Piglia, Ricardo. Crítica y ficción. Cuadernos de extensión universitaria, serie Ensayo. Santa Fe, Argentina: Universidad Nacional del Litoral, 1986.
----------. La Argentina en pedazos. Colección Fierro. Buenos Aires: Ediciones de la Urraca, 1993.
----------. Respiración artificial. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1988.