CHENNAI : Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the legendary Colombian author who died in 2014, had left explicit instructions about an incomplete novel, among his papers in five drafts — he asked his children to destroy it. Marquez had been working on it off and on for many years, even having read excerpts from it at public events, but decided during his final years, following the onset of dementia, to leave it unfinished — and certainly not to be released. A decade after his demise, his sons have chosen to override this directive, En Agosto Nos Vemos, translated into English as Until August by Anne McLean, has just been published.
The truth is that few pieces of art, especially when committed to print, celluloid or some other fixed medium, age well. Within one’s own career, most artists will have a change of sentiment regarding earlier work, abandon projects mid-way, regret what was released, attempt do-overs, and so on. When it comes to a work in progress, the choice to let something go is never taken lightly. Marquez had enough clarity of thought even during cognitive decline that this particular manuscript wasn’t up to the mark. It was a simple enough wish from a master of the craft, but one that it appears has been struck down through sheer greed from his heirs.
Why didn’t Marquez destroy his work himself, if he was so keen to not have it be read? We can only speculate, but the answer may be incredibly simple: that thought, and all its attendant finalities, must have hurt.
The manuscript was in an archive at the Ransom Center in Texas, USA. It’s common for eminent writers to bequeath drafts, notes, juvenilia and correspondence to institutions, where they may remain of interest to niche scholars in the future. Marquez’s archive was acquired for USD 2.2 million from his family posthumously, not donated or willed to them directly by him. His sons have been nonchalant about their decision, saying: “Yes, it was a betrayal. But that’s what children are for.”
Until August has not had a positive critical reception, but everyone from the classical poet Virgil to the modern surrealist Franz Kafka had similar requests defied — to different effects. Artistic value alone is not what matters, but the artist’s sovereignty. This is a concept that is already compromised by artistic industries, which is why choices made, where choices are possible, must be honoured. The public can consume other things.
This week, Michael Ondaatje will release a new book of poetry — his first in 26 years, and a return to the literary form with which he began his life as a writer. I cherish Ondaatje’s work. There’s something about the title of this collection, The Year of Last Things, that feels deliberate. At 80, and known for long lacunae between publications, Ondaatje may understandably be contemplating the valedictory stage of his career.
To be able to choose one’s swansong, to rest — permanently — on one’s laurels is not a graceful privilege that many artists have, for life and death have their own vagaries, their own sway. No one — not kin, not patron, not aesthete — should have a right to unsettle those last wishes.
Sharanya Manivannan
@she_of_the_sea
The columnist is a writer and illustrator