When I began reading regularly in the early 1980s, there were hardly any recent foreign books available. Among the few—very few—that could be found (and which were not, of course, from the socialist camp) was In Search of Lost Time in second-hand bookstores. That was probably the last Western book sold in Cuba. But Proust’s work was incomplete, as volume IV of the Alianza edition—Sodom and Gomorrah—had been consigned to a dark warehouse. Someone told me it had been pulped.
Unaware of this, this void seems to encourage the memory of many readers of the time. It is a question of recovering a lost and at the same time forbidden time, which perhaps explains, more than anything else, the fact that Sade, Nietzsche, Wilde, and Baudelaire—spiced up with the Kama Sutra—were the best-selling authors (in cheap editions, of course) during the last book fairs. Evil, always beyond…, finally makes its way. This search through the Index strikes me as more disturbing than the results of any official survey on the subject.
In times when there was no hint of the market we see today—in reality, a market for passing tourists and a few Cubans with money—other foreign books suffered a similar or worse fate. Some of the products confiscated during the nationalization of private bookstores never returned to circulation. Many personal libraries were thrown into trucks and catapulted God knows where. Mistreatment, burning, and storage in basements are the other side of the revolutionary book industry, with its long print runs that would later die of boredom. It could be said that for each of the 16 million copies that had already been produced by 1967, a good chunk of literature and knowledge in general was lost, either because foreign editions were not circulated or because of disinterest and censorship.
It is well known that dozens of classics were published, but after 1970 the company ceased to be up to the task, adjusting to the “new reader” it was creating: the reader of Cuban detective stories, Soviet heroes, and episodes of the Mambi rebellion.
It was possible to read Mann, Kafka, and Babel, it is true, but only excerpts from Joyce and Musil, while the third volume of Freud’s works was not published (and is still awaited). This deficit, which was widespread in other fields—philosophy, sociology, etc.—became more pronounced as the void of contemporary authors grew. Politics always consisted of “saving” the classics against modern authors, archaeology against culture in debate, while more than 70% of production was allocated to education, in accordance, of course, with the prevailing ideology.
In 1986, a poet friend of mine was assigned to work in a warehouse of censored books on Aponte Street. It was a curious attic, where books that did not meet the criteria imposed by the censors were confined, but also those of special interest to the government, which, of course, had to be kept informed. When my friend turned on the light and saw the gold mine, he began to tremble. Days later, he would take out, every so often, baskets covered with rubbish with the books safely tucked away at the bottom and leave them next to the brass box in the corner; at that moment, someone would grab them and carry on. The pleasure this gave him was incomparable.
There were piles of books from Siglo XXI, Fondo de Cultura, Lumen, Seix Barral, Plaza Janés, etc., which, we were told, were waiting for better times. Paz, Beckett, Solzhenitsyn, all of Marcuse, Dorfles, Althusser, Foucault, Lacan, Xirau, Labastida, and others who would make the list endless; even books by Cuban authors, including Ese sol del mundo moral (Siglo XXI), and the complete editions of Fuera de juego and Los siete contra Tebas. Soon people found out and, just like in Arlt’s fiction, a raid was planned. With that batch of banned works, we put together our small but already well-stocked libraries. Years later, they were still passing from hand to hand, contributing to the education of many of us, reinforced by the options available at the Carpentier Library.
The current market for foreign editions in Cuba first appeared at international fairs, later establishing itself in old bookstores and offices converted for this purpose. Grijalbo-Mondadori set up shop in the Palacio del Segundo Cabo, headquarters of the Instituto del Libro, while La Moderna Poesía opened its doors with modern and luxurious equipment. This “enlightened” journey also includes four other bookstores—two of which accept dollars—a library donated by the FCE, and the booksellers of the Plaza de Armas. Thus, the socialist strategy (which assumes the future market of utopia to finance its production) and capitalism converge.
Upon entering any of these bookstores—and I have been doing so with the spirit of an observer who rarely buys anything—one gets the somewhat strange impression that something has come to a standstill. It is not clear whether we are looking at a business in its trial phase or an abandoned branch. At La Moderna Poesía, for example, for almost two years I saw the same books on the same shelves, with no rotation or change whatsoever; they were, however, protected with three or more magnetic seals to prevent theft by, I suppose, people from the neighborhood. Unlike other stores where basic products are sold, in this one you can even ski down the uncluttered aisles. It’s obvious that a Bernhard for $15 and a Broch for $27—not to mention medical books and scientific literature in general—are unaffordable, except in the very long term. Even so, the cheapest items sell well: pocket books, the Ateneo edition of The Paris Review reportages, and certain Espasa Cape titles. In addition, best sellers and the yoga-cooking-self-help-esotericism package, which, incidentally, ferments Cuban sociality, find a market.
Grijalbo-Mondadori, which also started with prohibitive prices, has made quite a few discounts. However, it seems to have sold off its reserves and now has one less room, while local editions—Che, Afrocubanía, Identidad, and tutti quanti—are moving toward the center. The variety is limited to eight or ten titles by Lumen, everything by Umberto Eco, and a few other things. Needless to say, a number of inconvenient authors were missing from the outset, as agreed between the parties, including several Cubans published by this and other publishing houses. When prices fell, I was able to buy an excellent novel by Russian writer Vladimir Makanin, El pasadizo, one of the last Siruela books sold and, in my case, one of the few contributions the market has made to me, legally speaking.
Now, another phenomenon—though not the same—is that of book fairs. They are an opportunity to unload a burden that, coming from other markets, has generally reached its sales limit; more is sold for less, without much profit, but also without losses, and other dividends are at stake: contacts, contracts, etc. An eager crowd is compelled by the context, which offers discreet opportunities.
The 11th Fair [back in 2002] featured 53 exhibitors from 24 countries, who this time occupied about 40% of the space in the now Morro-Cabaña Military History Park, with its sinister memories. Fondo de Cultura sold out its breviaries (for one or two dollars), and although most of the titles were ten to twenty years old, for the reader it was a great leap forward in time. Authors such as Bloch, Wilson, and Starobinski, not to mention Bobbio and Steiner, are not only current here, but even futuristic. But the most sought-after items, of course, were the Sades and Nietzsches from Edimat, as well as others already mentioned. On the last day, I purchased Nabokov’s short stories (Alfaguara) for four dollars. Certainly, one saves during the season, making sacrifice, or rather deprivation, a pleasure.
And in the meantime, opportunities disappear. Ultimately, it is not the average consumer on the island who is counted on, but rather foreigners passing through or living there, and institutions of a certain solvency. La Moderna Poesía has just been restocked; there are new Anaya, Destinolibros, Galería Literaria, etc., but the trend remains the same; that is, they will leave as slowly as they arrived. I suspect that the future of the business will depend on internal economic changes that are not yet apparent. Despite this, the problem was getting ahead of the game. For the time being, people who read—and those who don’t—are retreating to more royal preserves.
And when you leave these emporiums, you perceive, just as Casal did in a 19th-century chronicle, a world in superimposition: you pass from fantasy (where the gaze flits without alighting) to reality as a carbon copy of Piranesi.
