Paradiso by José Lezama Lima

Back in 1974—the year the great Gregory Rabassa translated Paradiso—Edmund White wrote in his New York Times review that there are many ways one can read José Lezama Lima’s novel. He goes on to list four: (1) “as a daring, even a preposterous manipulation of language, as though words were nothing more than gold wires to be twisted, or even wrenched, into bizarre doodads”; (2) as a masterpiece of Spanish Baroque in the tradition of 17th-century poet Luis de Góngora’s periphrastic style—that is, the refusal to say anything straight; (3) as a captivating semi-autobiographical story; and (4) as a wisdom book expanding into networks of myth and philosophy. With this last point, I hear echoes of Roberto Paglia’s astute observation that we do well to stay attuned to the story within the story.

This novel takes time and serious effort. A reader must be willing to sink into the language in order to absorb the rhythms and cadences of the rich, lush prose—and relish the opportunity to plunge into a deeper mode of thought and perception: a highly aesthetic perception. While reading, we're prompted to ask ourselves: What do I want to experience in life? In what ways can I expand my emotional awareness? What modes of transcending do I aspire to? How can I better develop my appreciation for mood and ambiance, for texture and atmosphere?

In a literary culture increasingly driven by clarity, speed, and plot, Paradiso offers a bracing counterexample: a work that resists simplification, invites contemplation, and rewards the slow reader. It belongs to that rare class of novels that treat language not merely as a tool for storytelling but as a mode of revelation. For those willing to engage with its dense, incandescent style, Paradiso opens the doors to a literary experience unlike any other.

One thing is for certain - if you make it to the last page, you have accomplished something grand.


Cuban author José Lezama Lima, 1910-1976