On Brazilian Literature: Deadly Irony—or the Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas

by Julia Vaz

There were many ways that I could have picked to start this post. I could have begun with quotes from Susan Sontag or Harold Bloom praising Machado de Assis to the point that would make all of my words unnecessary. I could have chosen the classical “Brás Cubas is dead,” to intrigue you into adding the book to your shopping cart. 

Oìbito-do-Autor : The Death of the Author by Candido Portinari

Yet, The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas does not seem to need any help getting international sales with its new edition sold out on Amazon and Barnes & Noble in one single day. Besides, for the purpose of this column, my interest is slightly bigger than the masterpiece Machado created. Any review would be enough to convince you of just how incredible this book is—but I intend to help you understand that the importance of this narrative, initially ignored by the literary scene of its publishing period, goes beyond its intelligent and comedic prose to touch on core Brazilian, as well as universal, issues and values. 

On the other hand, it is really important that you know that Brás Cubas is dead. And even more importantly, Brás Cubas is “not exactly a writer who is dead but a dead man who is a writer”—meaning that our narrator breaks the fourth wall to reminisce on life from his grave (the “how” of this equation seems unimportant), giving him unlimited freedom to showcase the pettiness of his life, the emptiness of his existence, and his undeniable pessimism. His antipathy towards his past is evident throughout the whole book: small chapters that digress on subjects only vaguely connected to his story—and, of course, the fact that he inverts the order of memorialistic narratives and begins with his death.

Brás Cubas had an unremarkable life and that’s why Machado brilliantly takes his voice. As the son of freed slaves who did not have the means to complete proper study, many of his learning came informally with the help of surprising individuals; he learned Latin from his priest, French from a baker, and read every book he could find. When he rose to prominence, after writing many novels, working as a bureaucrat, and creating articles for various publications, he won a seat at ABL (Brazilian Academy of Letters)—but his picture erased his identity. By using tricks of light and shadow, Machado’s historical portrait deceived his color and features, and only very recently it was reassessed to accurately represent an author who used his voice to share his views on elitism, slavery, and politics through his extensive literary production. 

Veloìrio - Funeral by Candido Portinari

So what makes Memoirs special? Essentially, its inherent irony: while the narrator born into privilege has an unremarkable life, the writer who created him grew with poverty and racism, but was made eternal by history.

Instead of highlighting oppression and inequality by creating villains or angry manifestos, Machado turned to humor, because, in a certain light, the privileged society he criticizes is ignorant to the point of hilariousness; the fake eloquence and intelligence, how everything appreciated was an excuse to boost their own status. Therefore, he exposed the ridicule that was the bourgeoisie and its frivolous habits using a myriad of characters and reflections: a politician that was a delight, “a bit irritated by public ills but not despairing about curing them quickly,” a poet so eager to receive compliments that would cause Cubas to “speak to him of a thousand of different things - the latest ball in Catete, salon discussions, carriages, horses - about everything except his poetry or prose,” the more honest man our narrator ever encountered who “defended himself by saying that absolute veracity was incompatible with an advanced social state,” the rich man who dies negotiating the price of his house, and many others. His devotion to irony, present in every aspect of the book, from its actual constitution to characters and events, is tangible. By combining intense feelings to frivolous human interests, for example in the passage "Marcela loved me for fifteen months and eleven contos de reis," Machado creates an antagonism (love x monetary interest) worthy of laughter, reminding readers of the opposition our existence truly is. 

Machado’s debaucheries are timeless, but so is his style. His novel was considered the pivot of the Realistic movement in Brazil, marking an end to idealizations and sentimentalism. Clearly, Machado is not interested in romanticism, but his delivery also lacked the fundamental characteristics of the new literary school. 

Realism, more than anything, prioritized objectivity—but would you call a dead narrator that dedicates a whole chapter to a dialogue between Reason and Folly objective? In Posthumous Memoirs,  Machado attempts, and definitely achieves, deconstruction—of basic notions embodied in a society divided by class and of the novel format itself. In fact, Capistrano de Abreu, a famous Brazilian historian, questioned: "The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas is a novel?" While the plot is forgettable, easily summarized, and nor tragedy or comedy, its personality lingers. Thus, his criticism also encapsulates the literature of his time that functioned on rigid notions against marginalized voices and prose detached from a pre-cut European mold. 

O-Primeiro-Beijo - The First Kiss by Candido Portinari

For that reason, many consider Machado to be the first Brazilian Modernist. His style and themes reflected a freedom that would still take years for Brazilian authors to achieve. At his time, literature was still understood in waves. A literary school would rise and authors would develop works to reflect it. When The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas was published the idea of a "dead narrator" that humourly criticizes life itself was revolutionary. Moreover, its language was both popular and erudite. While he did quote elitist culture, his jokes about Brazilian society were universal. The idea that Brazil could become a center for original literature by giving voice to its own problems and unique characters would only be shared during Modernism, but it was proved possible by Machado many years before. 

Therefore, what you will have in hands, dear reader, (I believe Machado’s style is catching up to me) if you choose to read the Memoirs of Brás Cubas, is a powerful book. It is a denouncement on privilege, slavery (“He bought a slave and was paying him back with high interest the amount he'd received from me. Just look at the subtlety of the rogue!”), and inequality. It is a testimony to the senselessness of human life and an ode to Brazil’s complex history and literary identity. Alluding from Hamlet and Napoleon to Sheherazade and Aristotle, Machado crafts a masterpiece that reflects on society, love, philosophy, politics, and, of course, death. 

Brás Cubas considered himself a small winner since he “had no children,” because he didn’t transmit “the legacy of our misery to any creature.” The question Machado creates, then, is: if a man that never faced any hardships in his existence sees life as misery, then what hope is left for the ones he slaved? Perhaps, dear reader, pessimism and irony are privileges too. 

— Julia Vaz is a Staff Writer from Brazil.