Part 2: "Volume II"

Inmate I: I read in an article once that you Chileans don't like Baroque literature—something about it being too noisy. You sure are a quiet bunch.
Inmate II: Is that so? And you Argentinians just love it, right? If you're any metric to go by, I'd say you're all loud and obnoxious.
Inmate I: You—just because the Idealist isn't here, you think you can turn this salon into a debate hall?!
Inmate II: You started it …
Julio: Enough! Stop squabbling and post your work so we can read it.
Julio: If you ask me, you're simply more interested in rhythm than form. Spanish is a rich language, one that is inherently expressive, ever-changing, and artistic—much like Baroque literature.
The typically quiet man's words douse the argument like a cold splash of water, sending the group into a rare moment of calm.
Roberta: Haha! All jokes aside, I do miss them. Ever since those mad members left La Sociedad, we've had far fewer breakthroughs in stream-of-consciousness writing.
Roberta: I, for one, would gladly discuss the "aesthetic value" of stream-of-consciousness composition.
As this new topic surfaces, the inmates' voices begin to rise once again.
Dores: It was a most unusual literary salon, full of emotionally charged statements and biased opinions.
Dores: But I didn't mind it. In fact, my feeling was quite the opposite. The inmates give me an incredible feeling. Not one of them saw themselves as a prisoner stripped of their freedom.
Dores: A group of literature enthusiasts coming together in an abandoned prison and collaborating to build an ideal nation ...
Dores: It felt as though it was the result of some kind of pact. But in reality, it was clearly a government-run prison.
???: Everyone, quiet down! I have something to announce.
An unfamiliar voice cuts off the clacking typewriter in Dores's mind.
A woman walks out from the far end of the darkness and steps into the center of the salon, stopping before the whiteboard and podium.
Octavia: Mr. Idealist entrusted me with hosting the literature salon. He left a letter under a stone in the corner stating that he had a personal matter to attend to.
Octavia: For this session, I will now announce our next research topic—
Octavia: "Fiction's Duality in Reflecting Reality and the Self."
Heavy gasps, turned heads—an uproar spreads through the audience. Clearly, this wasn't the topic they were expecting.
She raises the letter in her hand in a gesture for silence.
Octavia: Like-minded fellows, aspiring writers ... Since the turn of the century, the names that once shook the literary world have gradually faded into obscurity.
Octavia: Literature's been shoved aside in the world of art. People attend theaters, cinemas, and even art galleries to enjoy paintings and sculptures, but few can finish a book.
Octavia: What is left for us to do? When families are torn apart and our nations are ravaged by tyranny?
Octavia: Let stories be our weapon! They should be the sword that cuts through the bloody truth! The beacon that lights our way forward!
The audience falls into silence.
García: You could try writing a Latin American War and Peace. And we could continue with our original salon topic. The two aren't mutually exclusive.
García: I've spent the whole month preparing for the topic the Idealist previously proposed.
García: If you insist on changing the subject, then I'm afraid I'll have to take my leave.
Roberta: Ms. Octavia, forgive me for interrupting, but this isn't the topic we agreed on.
Roberta: Everything you've said … we just can't do that! We haven't even figured out things for ourselves yet.
Julio: Octavia, it's an interesting topic, it is. But perhaps we can talk about it another time.
Julio: Besides, don't forget the reason you're in here in the first place—for preaching that "the novel is a weapon."
Inmate I: Yeah, if it weren't for your rich daddy, you'd be on the gallows, not standing here preaching to us.
Another prisoner stands, his voice clear.
Inmate III: You've completely missed Ms. Octavia's point! A great writer should be like an obsessive gravedigger, digging up the rotting flesh of social realism from the grave of our times!
Inmate III: Only this vast crucible is worthy to be the host of our literature!
Dores: At that time, Mr. García looked visibly resistant as Mr. Julio issued stern reminders and Ms. Roberta attempted to mediate.
Dores: More and more members joined the debate, and voices both for and against Ms. Octavia's proposal emerged. It didn't take long for La Sociedad to split into two camps.
Dores: That was when I realized I needed to do something—to get this derailed literary salon back on the tracks.
Dores: Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm Dores, from São Paulo. I'm a writer, and I mostly write under the name "Urd."
Octavia: Urd? That name sounds familiar.
Octavia: Have you written for UTTU? Are you the Urd in UTTU? Wow, I never imagined we'd be welcoming such an honored guest today! I thoroughly enjoyed your piece titled The Tin Soldiers of São Paulo.
Dores: It's an important part of my visit to hear all the ideas and opinions, if you'll pardon my intrusion.
Octavia: Then, tell me, Ms. Urd, what are your thoughts on today's salon topic?
A difficult question, one involving preference, a creative stance, and a political alignment.
A scale that is never easily balanced. However, the answer has never been the most important part of such questions.
Dores: In these restless times, literature has been overlooked, forgotten, pushed to the edges of the world ...
Dores: Much like Ushuaia.
Some fall into deep thought, others nod in agreement, and a few look puzzled. The audience is largely unaware that the topic has already shifted.
Dores: To most, this prison at the end of the world is a distant, cold place. Perhaps even a place of hopelessness.
Dores: When a prisoner is first sent here, I cannot help but imagine that the first thing they feel is a stagnant pool of water and a calm, quiet despair.
She seizes this chance to guide the literary salon back from the muddy trenches of ideology.
She recalls the days of typing while looking out over the river, boats, and palm trees. Words are honest. They have no capacity to lie.
Dores: I came here to gather material for my next book. I plan to record everything I experience in this place—faithfully.
Octavia: And what kind of work are you planning to write? A nonfiction piece, I presume? About Comala Prison?
Dores: Its theme is "Fate."