Selected passage: pp. 49-51, five letters – “April 11, 1935 […] December 11, 1936 […] stuffed with anchovies. Thank you. C.”

In Cristina García’s Dreaming in Cuban, the narrative is constructed through several points of view that shift from an omniscient third-person narrator to a first-person narrator, giving the voice to different characters. While the third generation of the Del Pino family is contemplated with a direct first-person narration (Pilar, Luz, Ivanito), the story of the two first generations is told in the third-person (Celia, Lourdes, Felicia). However, Celia’s letters to Gustavo are a form of first-person narration and they constitute an important mechanism, which allows the reader to fully understand central elements of the story. In the selected sequence of letters, the difference of tone and register, expressed through metaphors, vocabulary and textual coherence, reflects Celia’s feelings towards other characters and the alterations in her state of mind.

The letter of April 11, 1935 (p. 49), written by Celia during her honeymoon, starts with a list of mundane facts about the location and the weather, and changes into a poetic love letter, with metaphors concerning her relationships with Jorge and with Gustavo. Even though there is an abrupt change in the subject, from “It hasn’t rained a single day since we’ve been here” to “Jorge makes love to me as if he were afraid I might shatter” (p. 49), the textual coherence is still present due to the fact that both sentences correspond to the same general topic, the honeymoon (and love). The letter finishes like many of the letters, namely, with a love note such as “I am still yours, Celia”, or “I love you, Celia” (p. 50).

Such love note is not found in the end of the letter of January 11, 1936 (p. 50), the most succinct and objective letter among all the ones Celia wrote to Gustavo. The lack of adjective in the greeting and the lack of any kind of complement in the only sentence, “Gustavo, I am pregnant” (p. 50), can be seen as a reflex of Celia’s perspective towards her pregnancy. Concerning the greeting and the salutation, the absence of adjectives and of words that express emotion can be interpreted as a sign that Celia wants the focus to be on the message, on the main phrase, because that is what is important, urgent. On the other hand, in the main sentence, the absence of adjectives and details can be interpreted as a sign of absence of care and love (for the child). Indeed, as the following letter (August 11) reveals, Celia does not desire this child at all.

The general tone of disdain present in the letter of August 11, 1936 (p. 50), is expressed by means of a negative vocabulary related to the baby. The opening metaphor used to describe the fact that she is pregnant, “a fat wax grows inside me”, portrays the baby as an inanimate being and contrasts with the sentence in the next paragraph, “the baby lives in venom” (p. 50), in which the baby is portrayed as a creature that lives, therefore is alive. The disparity and lack of coherence found in these affirmations can also be observed throughout the letter, especially if compared with the letter from April 11 (p. 49). In this letter of April, there are no linking words between the sentences and the subject changes abruptly, but the sentences all fit in the same general theme and this gives coherence to the text. However, in the letter of August 11 (p. 50), the coherence is less evident, it is necessary to follow Celia’s thoughts to find the connection between the subjects. Twice, on the first and on the second paragraphs, the narration goes from one subject to another completely different, “it’s looting my veins […] from the heat” and “the baby lives on venom. Jorge has been in Oriente […]” (p. 50), announcing a change in Celia’s metal health and reasoning.

The extended metaphor present in the letter of September 11, 1936 (p. 50), starts with “the baby is porous” and evolves into the idea of porosity, of letting things through or absorbing them. The image of the porous baby consuming its own shadow, followed by its lack of shadow, can be associated with the figure of the devil or with the supernatural (in western culture), as it is the capacity of reading thoughts, what gives a tone of anguish and fear to the letter. The extended metaphor finishes with “she reads my thoughts, Gustavo. They are transparent”. The vocative “Gustavo” in the end of the sentence works as a way of calling for attention, maybe calling for help, and reinforces the feeling of concern and anxiety generated in Celia by the baby.

The letter of December 11, 1936 (p. 50-51), is the one that puts in evidence the gravity of Celia’s mental health. Through the use of the pronoun they – “they’ve hung gold stars in the hallways” (p. 50) – it is possible to assume that Celia is being taken care in some kind of sanatorium (as it becomes clear throughout the book). Furthermore, the letter starts with a description of the Christmas decoration in the hospital and it suddenly switches to a list of facts and events that do not have a real connection, or follow a real logical sequence. The letter presents then little coherence in both textual and phrasal levels: “they flay my skin and hang it to dry. I see it whipping on the line. The food is inedible” (p. 51). The lack of lexical and semantical coherence observed in these sentences is indicative of Celia’s mental state, that is the one of a person that is in an asylum.

The change in the style and tone of the letters, combined with the different enchainment of subjects and sentences, follow the development of the story and of Celia’s personal transformation: as her mental health declines, so does the coherence in her letters. These letters cover a critical moment in Celia’s life, that starts in her honeymoon and finishes with the birth of Lourdes and her confinement in the asylum, which means that all of her hopes to one day live with Gustavo – “I’ll sail to Spain, to Granada, to your kiss, Gustavo” (p. 50) – are over. Moreover, the letters are an important part of the story and of the plot, revealing the character through her own words and thoughts.

Reference:

GARCIA, Cristina. Dreaming in Cuban. New York: Ballantine Books, 1993