Rodrigo de Souza Leão died in a psychiatric clinic in Rio de Janeiro in 2008, soon after the publication of his autobiographical novel All Dogs are Blue.
The author's Brazilian publisher at 7Letras, Jorge Viveiros de Castro, writes of his association with Rodrigo in an essay included along with the English translation of All Dogs are Blue by And Other Stories.
Jorge recounts when he received the first version of the manuscript back in 2003, he “was blown away.” He told Rodrigo he'd publish the book as soon as he had the money to do so. Fortunately, thanks in part to a grant, 7Letras did produce an initial print run of 1,500 copies.
Jorge recounts talking to Rodrigo on the phone several times and how he was struck by "how lucidly and clearly he spoke about his condition - the schizophrenia, the medication, his paranoia, the hospitalizations - which only increased my admiration for his talent and his art."
Following the publication of All Dogs are Blue and an announcement that the novel had been nominated for one of Brazil's prestigious literary prizes, Jorge spoke with Rodrigo on the phone but the call was cut short when Rodrigo became extremely emotional, his voice cracking, and all Rodrigo could say was 'so much suffering', 'so much suffering', 'so much suffering.' Shortly thereafter, Jorge received word of Rodrigo's death at age 43.
And Other Stories also includes an Introduction by author/critic Deborah Levy, who says: "All Dogs are Blue is a comic novel about being messed up - and then being messed up even more by numbing doses of pharmaceuticals. Rodrigo de Souza Leão is very clear about what has happened to his thirty-six-year-old narrator. He has swallowed 'a chip', and the chip makes him do things he doesn't want to do. Set in a mental asylum in Rio de Janeiro, Souza Leão's autobiographical last novel is about a whole lot of other things too: the drunken street sweepers from the favelas who somehow also end up in the asylum; the narrator's teenage years growing up bookish and paranoid; his kindly parents who are pushed to the limits of their empathy and endurance; a blue toy dog which is both childhood companion and the colour of the narrator's medication."
I usually shy away from writing a review for a book of poetry since poetry by its very nature is all about the exactitude of language, the interplay of the words themselves. And when I do write such a review, I generally will include a number of the poems rather than offering commentary.
This short novel written by such a sweet, sensitive man can be read as an extended prose poem. Thus, I have a similar hesitation. But since I certainly want to share a review of this novel, a story containing undeniable power, humor, irony and sadness, I'll couple my comments with Rodrigo's actual words, mostly from the first chapter entitled It all went Van Gogh.
"I swallowed a chip yesterday. I forced myself to talk about the system that surrounds me. There was an electrode on my forehead. I don't know if I swallowed the electrode with this chip. The horses were galloping. Except for the seahorse, who was swimming around the aquarium."
Rodrigo comes from a family with a history of schizophrenia but rather than a more generalized explanation of his illness, as an artful poet, Rodrigo reports he swallowed a chip. Also poetic: the vivid images of his mind racing like galloping horses; his body as vulnerable and as confined as a seahorse in an aquarium. But the writing is definitely not heavy-handed. Quite the contrary, as per Deborah Levy: "Everything that is interesting about the novel can be found in its light, laconic tone."
"He had mental problems, you know. Will there be any after-effects? Deep inside this world of mine, in my room darkened by doses of Litrisan, a psychiatrist came and bayoneted some chemical into my left eyebrow. Another, meanwhile, grabbed a lump of flesh, stretching it more and more so that I wouldn't feel the Benzetacil injection."
Although a mental patient (institutionalized victim might be a more fitting) subjected to an unending string of harrowing, humiliating episodes, Rodrigo can maintain a degree of detachment. Quite the accomplishment recognizing doctors and staff would like nothing more than to reduce him to passivity, accepting his plight with a smile.
"I'm here without my blue dog, stripped of who I am. In reality, I'm no one. It's no use shouting for help. Here everyone's been taken some place worse. And hell isn't the worse place."
A blue dog - functioning as a kind of security blanket as Rodrigo keeps in touch with his inner child. Also a stroke of irony since many of the pills he's forced to imbibe are the color blue.
"I hate mirrors. Mirrors are just good for showing how we deteriorate with age."
How would you enjoy looking in a mirror at those times when your mouth is gagged and your feet tied? Or, when you are wallowing in your own shit or have grown so fat you're embarrassed to be seen without a shirt?
"Rimbaud took the Joker out of his pocket and told me. You have the Joker's smile. I don't know if you're my hallucination, or if I'm yours."
As we enter deeper and deeper into Rodrigo's hellish sage, we witness our poet/artist forced to deal with the likes of the Fearsome Madman (a killer in his past life) and a lunatic who continually bangs his head against the wall (Rodrigo imagines him playing for team Brazil, scoring goals with ferocious headers). On the brighter side, there's also Rimbaud and Baudelaire. "It's so sad when your friends are two hallucinations."
Thank you And Other Stories for publishing Rodrigo's novel. Also thanks to Zoë Perry and Stefan Tobler for translating the author's Portuguese into fluid, lucid English.
Following his death, Rodrigo's art was placed on display at Rio's Museum of Modern Art. Additionally, a number of his books of fiction have subsequently been been published to critical acclaim.
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