Zama by Antonio Di Benedetto
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Somebody Stop Me

It seems to me that there are two contradictory ways in which Di Benedetto wants us, or at least allows us, to interpret Doctor Don Diego de Zama. On the one hand he is a weak, ambitious, Walter Mitty-ish fantasist who feels himself victimised by the rules of late 18th century Spanish colonialism. On the other hand he is the courageous, competent, champion of heroic ideals, a kind of Quixote of the pampas, who is determined to live up to his full potential in life.

This contradiction is the “duel” he fights in his head. He is simultaneously a failure and a success and he can’t decide which, if either, constitutes his authentic character. Regardless, what this internal conflict does show is that Zama is a man of some kind of conscience, a neurotic conscience certainly, but nevertheless with a reflective sense that is both historical and prospective.

Other things being equal, it is at least possible that Zama’s conscience could have matured with age and brought him some sort of psychological or spiritual equilibrium. But other things are never equal. Zama is what would be classified by some as an Objective Introvert (in the psychological typology of Carl Jung, for example). That is, although he is self-aware, he is also acutely sensitive to those around him. His primary judgments about himself come from elsewhere - his family, superiors, social betters, anyone he considers admirable. So Zama muses that :

“… [I cannot] modify what [I] once was. Should I believe I was predestined by that past for a better future?… I saw the past as a shapeless, visceral mass, yet still somehow perfectible. It had its noble elements but among them I couldn’t help but recognize something—the main thing—that was viscous, unpleasant, and elusive to the grasp, like the intestines of a freshly disemboweled animal. I did not repudiate this element but accepted it as part of myself, possibly an indispensable part, even if I’d played no role in bringing it into existence. I hoped, rather, to be myself, at last, in the future, by dint of what I might become in that future. Perhaps I believed I was that man already, living in accordance with the image that awaited me further ahead. Perhaps this present Zama who claimed to resemble the Zama to come was built upon the Zama who once was, copying him, as if timidly venturing to interrupt something.”

Poor Zama. But, being a fellow Objective Introvert, I can confirm that Zama is, although in highly exaggerated form, the salt of the earth. Or, to put the matter less subjectively, he is the world’s cannon fodder. The domains of industry and commerce, of war and policing, of government and administration, couldn’t do without him. He is the perfect subordinate: loyal, attentive, hard-working, aspiring to get on by getting on with the boss, the perennial grey suited Organisation Man. He is, in other words (and I mean this is the kindest way possible), more or less insane. And he is a good century too early for appropriate therapy. Poor Zama.

Poor Zama. The only defence an Objective Introvert has against the world is the choice of those he has around him and whom he admires. He doesn’t know this, is of course, but their opinions are what drive him. Wrong people, then wrong judgments, and then you’re toast, mentally soeaking. So Zama is right to consider his past as shaping his future. He’s even right to want to limit what things he pays attention to:

’Acknowledging my own impassioned disposition, I must shun all stimuli that are contrived or deliberately pursued. There is no excuse when instinct has forewarned us but we do not heed the warning… I must not even lay eyes on them so as not to dream of them and render myself susceptible and bring about my downfall.”

But, poor Zama, he doesn’t have a clue that the the shaping of his personality done in the past has been done, and is still being done, not by his actions but by his associations, his relationships. And the maniac is still involving himself in the same associations and relationships he always has - those who purport to be better than he is. So by his (middle) age he is trapped. There is no escape as he waits helplessly for his own Godot, the illustrious viceroy, to appreciate him fully and give him the posting he deserves, away from the primitive plains of Paraguay to the boisterous ado of Buenos Aires.

Poor Zama. It ain’t going to happen. And even if by some fluke it does, Zama’s insanity would continue unabated. He would fixate on new aspirations, positions even higher up the social ladder, honours and titles for his valour in service to the sovereign. When the arbiter of worth lies elsewhere, there is always the need to get confirmation of one’s value through those who are perceived to have more of it. Those of lesser value - one’s subordinates, employees, even peers (he has no friends) and family members - don’t really exist for Zama except as abstractions. They may be treated badly as a matter of natural justice.

Poor Zama. He has become a snob, a racist, a misogynist, blatant social climber. His conscience has become a mere luxury in which he indulges from time to time. Otherwise it is silent, and he is ruthless. His inherent sensitivity, therefore, emerges as a constant self-pity and paranoia which justifies everything he does. There is no functional difference between Zama’s state of mind and an addiction to heroine. As he feeds it, the addiction becomes more demanding. The results are predictable.

Poor Zama. Hell, poor me!

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