Rafael Chirbes was much more than the author of the acclaimed novel * On the Shore*. A few years before its huge post-crisis release, the Valencian writer foresaw, like no other, the imminent economic crisis that was looming. *Crematorio* is a sharp and, in some ways, terrifying portrait of the reality of a country. And also of its inhabitants.
Review of Crematorio, spiritual sequel to On the Shore
Entertainment novels and recognition novels
In an article responding to controversial statements made by Eduardo Mendoza in 1998, in which he claimed the novel was dead, Javier Marías saw fit to distinguish this noble art into two categories: the entertainment novel and the novel of recognition . This is neither the time nor the place to delve into the role of the former, as the label itself provides ample clues to its nature. Nor is it appropriate to put on the gloves and, like a chicken sexer, try to separate Shakespeares and Dostoevskys from Zafones and Falcones, with all due respect to the latter (seriously).
Yes, we would like to dwell on the definition that Marías offers of the second category. About her “capacity for representation”, Marías says the following:
"Through the novel we know that we knew what we did not know we knew until we read it formulated, represented or told."
Or as he said a year earlier in another article, in a less Marian-esque way :
"The novel does not tell what is known, but what is only known and at the same time ignored."
With Crematorio (Anagrama) , Rafael Chirbes published a landmark book in 2007, one whose greatness lies precisely in its capacity for recognition —a double recognition, if you will. Over time, Crematorio has earned its place in the history of Spanish narrative for having so meticulously captured two realities that are all too familiar: one circumstantial, the real estate frenzy that plunged Spain into the misery from which it now proudly claims to have emerged (and into which we will soon find ourselves once again), and the other constant: the complexity of human nature.
Crematorio has been fervently acclaimed (Critics' Prize) for its literary quality and for the lucidity with which it foresaw the ravine towards which the Spanish economy was heading ("We are like those Viennese, above all, in that we are on the edge of the abyss," one reads shortly after beginning).
Crematorium: in search of happiness with a real estate backdrop
While the narrative backdrop revolves around the burgeoning concrete jungle that has invaded our coastal towns, the main theme of this book is none other than humankind and its tumultuous relationship with others throughout the eternal quest, the endless search, for the holy grail of happiness. Something similar could be said of * On the Shore*.
The story begins and ends on the same day: the day of Matías's funeral, the brother of Rubén Bertomeu, a successful builder who, like Michael Corleone, tries to redeem himself , to leave behind a dark and criminal past to continue in his business cleanly, without getting his hands dirty anymore ("The time for dirty work is over, now is the time for clean work,[...] the right thing, nothing here, nothing there").
No more thugs, no more cocaine trafficking in the bellies of horses imported from Mexico.
Rubén Bertomeu, unforgettable character
Like any good bad guy , his ethical principles don't go much further than those of the law of the jungle, those of the self-made man full of justifications with which to sleep soundly with his conscience:
“You indiscriminately believe that everything that is from another era, even the darkest, is worthy of respect and should not be touched; In addition to being absurd, what you think cannot be good, or even healthy: not aspiring to go one step further than others have gone. Not doing: that is quietism, closure”.
Given how difficult it has been for the film and literary industries to innovate in the mafia genre (its most recent example being The Irishman , a continuation of the same old trope), Crematorio brought a breath of fresh air to the well-worn mafia genre thanks mainly to the charisma of Rubén Bertomeu: “I’m a builder. I like that jargon of slabs, formwork, props, rods, wire mesh, flooring, and bricks. I’ve always believed I was gifted for this trade. Everyone has a knack for something […] only compete in what you’re going to win.”
Despite leading a hectic life amidst a constant parade of non-places (he always travels by car and only abandons it to set foot in cloned buildings under construction, restaurants, and brothels) and non-people (he only feels love for his mother and his offspring), despite being the biggest bastard, he is the happiest of all the characters. And the portrait is so faithful, and the melody of misery that the others exude so familiar, it's frightening.
Rubén Bertomeu: a man, a thousand interpretations
The death of the brother is the excuse that allows us to delve into the psyche of the members of the Bertomeu clan, through whom we discover the particular vision that each of them has about Rubén , his ethics and his actions; about what his white concrete monstrosities have done to the landscape of the fictional Levantine city of Misent.
Through monologues and digressions on topics such as money, culture, politics, and literature , the reader pieces together a puzzle from which emerge the details that help to understand the personal circumstances of each of the unfortunate individuals gathered here. To understand their plight and how they arrived at this point.
To achieve this, Chirbes has perfected the continuous narrative style, free of dialogue and paragraph breaks, that he already employed in previous books and that is so reminiscent of José Saramago 's intermittent and aimless essays . However, he uses a more refined and complex style (greater polyphony) than the Portuguese author, as well as a much less naive sense of morality and ethics: in Crematorio, it is not so clear and obvious who the hero and villain are because such a distinction is absurd; in certain stories, it is absurd and hollow.
Of course, we could also compare Chirbes's technique with Fullner 's , but given our devotion to Fullner here , it's best not to. (RIP José Luis Cuerda).
The multiplicity of storytellers Crematorium
The different narrators ( one per chapter ) lead us through an endless series of regressions, past tenses (very occasional present), digressions, and memories.
Hardly anything happens (certainly much less than what you see in the excellent Canal+ series ). Although there are the inevitable allusions to the Civil War, the historical pedagogy focuses on the period of the first socialist governments.
“Collado, we did what we had to do, the classics of economics called that the primitive accumulation of capital, this country needed to form a class, and it had nothing to do with it; now the class closes the borders, the quota is open, it is time to ensure that there is not all that social mobility, that movement, that permeability between classes”.
Collado is quite a memorable character. A miserable, wretched man who embodies failure better than anyone else. He's one of the characters the reader can feel most invested in. One of the few normal characters. Collado is the driving force behind the novel's sparse action. We'd like to say something similar about the rest of the characters. But we can't.
Details: when is it too much?
The main criticism that can be leveled at Crematorio is that, at times, it tells too much. Too many details about too many characters. It paints a choral work, a canvas with many colors and nuances, yes, but there's hardly any interaction between them, just a parade of memories. Digressions in which each offers their version of events and of life. This book is interesting, but, like any good book, it demands something of the reader. Be warned.
We didn't start by quoting Marías for no reason. The Madrid native, who is used to reminding us in the EPS every chance he gets (we can just imagine him giving taxi drivers a lecture) that he published his first novel at 19, has been playing the same game for decades, that is, the juxtaposition of ideas, thoughts and approaches, all wrapped up in an endless cavalcade of digressions.
The various intellectual discourses that converge in Crematorio can occasionally become tedious, though they are far more engaging than those found in Mañana en la batalla piensa en mí or Los enamoramientos ( although this, of course, is a very personal preference that will vary according to the reader's tastes). The difference lies in the rich thematic variety and range of perspectives. In Crematorio , with so many narrators, the reader is compelled to form a judgment, take a stand, and reflect. To decide whose narrative to accept. To recognize themselves in the story.