Last week I finished reading Fogwill’s Cuentos completos (Complete Short Stories). I’m not a fan of compilations and much prefer to read short stories in the books they were originally published, for reasons of stylistic coherence1. But I must say I was won over by this one. Fogwill was an intelligent writer, one with a huge range that goes from humorous to deep, and for all his cynicism and cocaine-happy first person narrators he was very sensitive and could really get into the mind of a character. This collection has to be one of the exceptions to the my maxim that “too much short story consumption in a single sitting can give you indigestion”. Perhaps because of the way it’s put together — and the non-chronological order was decided by Fogwill himself following what he mysteriously defines as “un orden de tonalidades y efectos” (an order of tones and effects) — the book works well and I highly recommend it to anyone who can read Spanish, since sadly it isn’t translated into English2.
I guess there are at times when having a writer’s complete oeuvre at hand is useful and this is one of them.
Rodolfo Enrique Fogwill (1941-2010) is the author of twelve novels (two posthumous), seven short story collections and seven collections of poetry. He won several prizes, including the prestigious Konex and the Argentine National Literature Prize, both in 2004. Before he became a full-time author he worked as an advertisement and market research executive, successfully running his own company — as Alan Pauls says, Fogwill “Lo tenía “todo”. Pero Fogwill quería ser escritor” (He had it all. But Fogwill wanted to be a writer). He became a writer indeed, much to the detriment of his finances. He became a remarkable writer too.
I exchanged some letters3 with Fogwill betweet late 2008 and his death in August 2010. The introduction came via a friend who was living in Paris at the time and was tasked with showing Fogwill around by whichever cultural institution brought him to the City of Light for a literary event. I will refrain from retelling the details of my friend’s adventures but let’s just say Fogwill lived up to the mischief of many of his narrators.
I can’t remember who wrote first but our epistolary exchanges started around a possible trip to London, which would have found me playing Doctor Gonzo to his Raoul Duke, if Duke were a tourist and Gonzo a tour guide in the West End. Eventually his trip became his son’s trip (I suspect Fogwill’s health was already an issue). I offered to show his son around too, even said he could stay at my place, and we continued to exchange friendly letters containing the kind of utilitarian information one exchanges when discussing a trip. Eventually, inevitably, the conversation shifted towards writing and I remember he mentioned his short story “Muchacha punk” (Punk Girl), adding that it takes place in London, asking if I had read it. Now I don’t really rate “Muchacha punk” that much because there are some spatial incoherences that tell me he might have written it using an A to Z (this is before Google Street View), and that for all his Anglophilia he didn’t know London very well. Not that I ever told him this. I just said I liked it very much.
In 2008 I had published my first book in Argentina, and since I didn’t know better I forced a copy on him. He acknowledged receipt, adding that he couldn’t promise me that he’d actually read it since he was very busy, which was a sincere putdown I have now adopted as my own; I still like the idea of my book in his studio. Around this time he stopped responding to my letters and a some months later I learned he was dead. I sincerely hope he didn’t read my book, not because I think it could have killed him but because now I truly believe he would have hated the contrived nature of it. One should never force one’s books into people one admires. Especially if the book isn’t very good.
Reading Fogwill’s Cuentos completos brought all of this back from wherever it was living in my mind. Regrettably our exchanges were lost many years ago, when I closed the email account I used to write to him — perhaps we should have written letters instead of emails. Perhaps. On the other hand, I still have my memories. I’m not sure I’d have any if our meeting in London had taken place.
I have already ranted at length about what the differences between what I call “short story books” and “short story collections, so I won’t bother you here again with this.
Fogwill’s books remain unavailable in English. The one exception, being his novel Los pichiciegos, published as Malvinas Requiem, in a translation by Amanda Hopkinson and Nick Caistor. Remarkably, Fogwill wrote the novel during the Malvinas War, in four of five nights; it was circulating before the conflict was over and he guessed many of the events that would come to light years later, particularly regarding the abuse of Argentine soldiers not by the British but by the Argentine officers.
Emails, but let’s call them letters because it’s more literary this way.