[Marxism] Speaking of Marta Harnecker

[Louis Proyect <lnp3@xxxxxxxxx>]

(A brief excerpt from Roberto Bolaño's "By Night in Chile" that I will be 
reviewing for Swans. Told in the first person singular by a Catholic priest 
on his death-bed, it is the story of how the intelligentsia accommodates 
itself to evil. Here the priest reminisces about teaching Marxist theory to 
Pinochet and his top aides, who needed to know their enemy better.)

Behind us I could hear the muffled voices of the generals talking about 
Marta Harnecker. A delicious perfume given off by clumps of flowers was 
wafting all through the gardens. A bird called out and straight away, from 
somewhere within the walls or from an adjoining property, a bird of the 
same species replied, then I heard a flapping of wings that seemed to rip 
through the night and then the deep silence returned, unscathed. Let's take 
a walk, said the general. As if he were a magician, as soon as we stepped 
through the window-frame and entered the enchanted gardens, lights came on, 
exquisitely scattered here and there among the plants. Then I talked about 
The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State, which Engels 
wrote on his own, and the General nodded at each stage of my explanation, 
now and then asking a pertinent question, and from time to time both of us 
fell silent and looked at the moon sailing on alone through infinite space. 
Perhaps it was that vision that gave me the nerve to ask him if he knew 
Leopardi. He said he didn't. He asked who Leopardi was. We stopped for a 
moment. Standing at the window, the other generals were looking out into 
the night. A nineteenth-century Italian poet, I said. If I may be so bold, 
sir, I said, this moon reminds me of two of his poems: "The Infinite" and 
"Night Song of a Wandering Shepherd of Asia". General Pinochet did not 
express the slightest interest. Walking beside him I recited what I knew by 
heart of "The Infinite". Nice poetry, he said. In the sixth class everyone 
was present again: General Leigh struck me as something of a star pupil, 
Admiral Merino was a fine and, above all, a friendly conversationalist, 
while General Mendoza, true to form, remained silent and took notes. We 
talked about Marta Harnecker. General Leigh said that the young woman in 
question was intimately acquainted with a pair of Cubans. The admiral 
confirmed this report. Is that possible? said General Pinochet. Can that be 
possible? Are we talking about a woman or a bitch? Is this information 
correct? It is, said Leigh. Suddenly I had an idea for a poem about a 
degenerate woman, and I made a mental note of the first lines and the 
general drift that night while talking about Basic Elements of Historical 
Materialism and going back over some points from the Manifesto that they 
still hadn't properly grasped. In the seventh class I talked about Lenin 
and Stalin and Trotsky and the various rival schools of Marxism around the 
world. I talked about Mao and Tito and Fidel Castro. All of them (except 
General Mendoza who wasn't there for the seventh class) had read Basic 
Elements of Historical Materialism, and when the discussion started to flag 
we went back to talking about Marta Harnecker. I remember we also discussed 
Chairman Mao's military accomplishments. General Pinochet said that the 
really gifted strategist in that part of the world was not Mao but another 
Chinaman, whose unpronounceable names he mentioned, but of course I forgot 
them straight away. General Leigh said that Marta Harnecker was probably 
working for the Cuban secret service. Is this information correct? It is. 
In the eighth class I talked about Lenin again and we examined What Is to 
Be Done? and then we went over Mao s Little Red Book (which General 
Pinochet found very simple and straightforward), and then we came back to 
Basic Elements of Historical Materialism, by Marta Harnecker. In the ninth 
class I asked them questions about Harnecker's Basic Elements. Overall, the 
answers were satisfactory. The tenth class was the last. Only General 
Pinochet came. We talked about religion rather than politics. When it was 
over, he gave me a gift on behalf of himself and the other members of the 
Junta. I don't know why, but I had expected the goodbye to be more 
personal. It was rather cold, though perfectly polite of course, in strict 
accordance with state protocol. I asked him if the classes had been useful. 
Of course, said the general. I asked if I had lived up to their 
expectations. You may go with a clear conscience, he assured me, you've 
done a splendid job. Colonel Perez Latouche accompanied me home. When I got 
there, at two in the morning, after driving through the empty streets of 
Santiago, reduced to geometry by the curfew, I couldn't get to sleep and 
didn't know what to do. I started walking up and down in my room while a 
rising tide of images and voices crowded into my brain. Ten classes, I said 
to myself. Only nine, really. Nine classes. Nine lessons. Not much of a 
bibliography. Was it all right? Did they learn anything? Did I teach them 
anything? Did I do what I had to do? Did I do what I ought to have done? Is 
Marxism a kind of humanism? Or a diabolical theory? If I told my literary 
friends what I had done, would they approve? Would some condemn my actions 
out of hand? Would some understand and forgive me? Is it always possible 
for a man to know what is good and what is bad?


Louis Proyect
Marxism list: www.marxmail.org 


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