A somewhat cynical perspective would come to classify the political literature of our time as a subgenre within humorous literature.
In part, because the possible transformation of reality with the few weapons of literature seems to us an increasingly naive wish;
and, in part, because our society accepts their criticism in a better way if it comes in the form of satire: a group catharsis whose final effect is usually “détente” through laughter.
Thus, a "provocative" literature begins to do so many times for the laugh.
I think this in line with
I just wanted to dance
the succulent first novel by Greta García (Seville, 1992).
García is a choreographer, theater director, dancer, clown, performative artist;
and this literary "piece" (with a lot of dramatic monologue) is won over by a stage drive.
But it is also an “idiot novel”, that type of dithyrambic narratives with protagonists who are a bit crazy and deceitful, lacking, sometimes stupid and sometimes too smart;
a literary family that would be related, for example, to the heroes of Samuel Beckett with those of Cristina Morales.
The protagonist of
Solo quiería bailar
is Pili, a dancer in her twenties, sentenced to 30 years in prison for something that is revealed, humorously, during the novel.
And the plot is simple: from a comic opening scene with Dr. Pina (“I stuck a toothbrush in my ass and now I can't get it out”), Pili becomes obsessed with returning to the doctor's office, to which She loves.
Meanwhile: the lives of prisoners, precarious and losers from birth (“a rich woman has to be a real slob to be in here”), the memories of her training as a dancer (“To for dance. To for something intangible. To for having a good role in a shitty end of course") and the trigger for his sentence ("To because I asked the Junta [de Andalucía] for Extraordinary Creation Aid").
It is also supported by García's talent for brief and somewhat orgiastic scenes or the wonderful dialogues between prisoners, virtues that once again refer to a dramaturgical dimension.
And by an intelligent rhythm, as euphoric as it is patient
Before plot, this is a
(“Tits and turnips and pussies and anuses”), something difficult to maintain for almost 200 pages, but sustained by the power of the protagonist: her Andalusian orality, her crazy humor and her impertinence, her disenchanted amorality and her sudden anger.
And also for García's talent for brief and somewhat orgiastic scenes or the wonderful dialogues between prisoners, virtues that once again refer to a dramaturgical dimension.
And by an intelligent rhythm, as euphoric as it is patient.
Also, there is something more prescient in his eschatology.
The literalness of Pili's idiocy shows a world that does not work with the precision that is expected.
She takes the correct steps to achieve an action;
For example, ask for a scholarship.
And if something dissonates, it's not her fault, but her own reality, more sloppy and vindictive.
"Descarte is to blame for everything or whatever that shittout is called with the machine body and the mind on the other side and the people who took notice of it, invented modesty and began to piss with the door closed and the bolt on ”, Pili spouts.
And he closes his reflection with lucidity, uniting two forms of plebeian utopia: that of the body and that of laughter.
“I want to think of those women from the Middle Ages with their black teeth and huddle together […] Well wise, well gorrinas.
I should be like that, a pig, and grunt all the time."
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