Between the dreams of writers and the fleeting nature of fame, this is a reflection on the true value of literature in the face of oblivion, the commercialization of books, and the eternal purity of poetry.
By Maribel Félix Medina
HoyLunes – Last October, the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature was announced worldwide, and I believe that writers followed that news very closely, since, without a doubt, many of us dream that someday, when the spokesperson of the Swedish Academy makes the announcement, our own name will be pronounced.
We dream. We keep dreaming.
I have so many thoughts longing to escape my head that it hardly matters where I begin or end. I could say—and indeed I will—that many of my favorite writers (Borges, Antonio Machado, Federico García Lorca, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Gorky, Rulfo, Delibes, Matute, Virginia Woolf, and so on) never received it. But that, I’m sure, most of you already know. What I wish to express here is a reconsideration of the advantages—or disadvantages—of hearing your name spoken, in Swedish, on a certain October morning.
Some years ago, a commercial experiment was conducted in which an author who had once received none other than the Nobel Prize—the prize of all prizes—was rejected by a publishing house of the time, which deemed his manuscript out of place and out of date. Yes, indeed, as you read it: the time of the Nobels is not eternal. What was once glamour, glory, exquisite literature, may become—and indeed becomes—a forgotten number. If I were to ask an audience not particularly familiar with the list of Nobel laureates, I am certain that the vast majority could not name even ten of them—perhaps the most famous Spanish ones, and little more—not to mention those who had the immense honor of being among the first. Twenty, perhaps?
I’ll go even further: who among us owns at least one book by every Nobel laureate in Literature so far? I must admit that even I, who pride myself on a rather complete library (nearly 3,000 volumes), cannot claim as much.
Many writers who have earned such an honor eventually fade into obscurity. They become, as I mentioned before, mere numbers that curious people like me glance at from time to time—especially when a new name appears on the list every October. What I find incredible is that contemporary publishers rarely reprint their works, and in many cases, we readers must turn to second-hand copies when we are interested in a particular author or book. Literature has become pure commerce; I never tire of repeating it, both publicly and privately. Countless books are published for economic reasons alone, and truly shameful, poorly written works become bestsellers—often penned, in reality, by ghostwriters.
When it comes to poetry, we enter another world altogether. A few years ago, I had a curious experience when I became interested in a Polish poet who had won the prize twenty-five years earlier: Wisława Szymborska. Well, just so you know, I was very fortunate to find an anthology published by Fondo de Cultura Económica, whose highly engaging prologue was written by the great Mexican writer Elena Poniatowska. The edition, as you might imagine, was Mexican. And I’m sure some of you would like to know how many copies were printed—5.500. Yes, you read that right: a Polish poet who had received none other than the Nobel Prize in Literature just six years before, and yet, when I bought my copy around 2020, it was a book first published in 2002. If I look at the book, I can see that it continues to be reprinted, but at a very slow pace. Still, I believe we must be grateful—especially since we are talking about poetry, the Cinderella of literature.
Needless to say, today’s bestsellers can sell a million copies in just a few months. As an example, I would mention Spain’s famous “Premio Planeta”, which, after the Nobel, has been awarded for many years—with varying success in recognizing literary quality. Many of its winners have become like slot machines, and the literary merit, in some cases, leaves much to be desired.
As a poet myself, I cannot fail to mention that, in its early years, the Swedish Academy showed great favor toward poetry. The French poet Sully Prudhomme received the first Nobel Prize; two years later, another poet—a Norwegian named Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson—caught the jury’s attention. The following year, another poet, the Frenchman Frédéric Mistral, was honored, and so on. To this day, the Academy still occasionally dares to look poetry in the face. Around thirty poets, among them the Spaniards Juan Ramón Jiménez and Vicente Aleixandre, support the idea that the Academy takes pride in having among its laureates the finest poetry of the world—and that brings me joy, for poetic language will always be the purest, the truest. And that is not only my belief; it was also said by two great writers: the eternal Cervantes and the magnificent Colombian Gabriel García Márquez.
In any case, trying to discern the process by which Sweden elevates a new immortal to eternal glory is as difficult as it is impossible. On many occasions, and not only when the prize goes to a poet, Sweden often speaks of “poetic intention” and “high idealism”. One might then wonder: how does one write under such extraordinary premises?
Personally, of these more than one hundred years of awards, I cherish about a third of the writers—men and women—who have filled, in the most sublime way, my hours as a reader and lover of poetry. Among them are voices from Europe, the Americas, Asia, and beyond. What can we say, what can we think, when a new name is placed upon the literary Olympus? You already know, even if that name is merely added to an endless list and slowly buried in the oblivion that, someday, all of us will inevitably become.
#hoylunes,#maribel_felix_medin,
