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Reinaldo ArenasA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
Arenas describes Cuba as a dissonant combination of paradise and prison. This dual-character conflicts Arenas: He loves Cuba as his home, for its natural splendor and beaches, but he also suffers greatly under Castro’s repressive regime. Though he is relieved to escape to the US, in exile he dreams (in both fantasy and nightmare) of returning to Cuba. This prison is cultural, political, physical, and economic.
Arenas first experiences this prison without being able to identify it as such during childhood—the most magical period of his life. His sexuality alienates him from his family and he feels trapped in loneliness. The surrounding natural beauty almost mocks his pain in its splendor: He feels imprisoned in a gilded cage. He longs for deliverance from his turmoil through destruction in the violent beauty of the jungle itself: “something was calling me to go with [the river], saying that I too had to throw myself into those raging waters and lose myself, that only in that torrent, always on the move, would I find some peace” (102). Arenas’s desire to find freedom in destruction reappears throughout his life and in the lives of those Cubans who also suffer persecution.
There is a physical element to Castro making Cuba a political prison: Surrounded by ocean, Cuba becomes after 1970 “a maximum-security jail, where everybody, according to Castro, was happy to stay” (430). The increasingly inventive and desperate escape attempts from the island after 1970 mirror the escape attempts from El Morro: El Morro is a microcosm of Cuba. The island becomes a prison disguised as a country where guards (State Security) decide who is allowed to travel in and out.
As a teenager Arenas realizes that the main cause of his lifelong feeling of isolation is the anti-gay prejudice in Cuban culture. At 16 he watches his classmates expel two of their fellow students from school with a hail of stones for being gay. He knows that the system has branded them as “homosexuals,” stripping them of certain rights for life. Recalling a time in high school when a classmate called him an anti-gay slur, he realizes “that being a ‘faggot’ in Cuba was one of the worst disasters that could ever happen to anyone” (190). Arenas finds himself trapped in a cultural prison of anti-gay prejudice. In his 20s, a period of sexual liberation for Arenas, this imprisonment is made poignant by the knowledge that the ‘60s paradise of seaside eroticism is increasingly threatened by Castro’s restrictions. Arenas tastes what freedom in paradise could be like, but lives the reality of ever-tightening imprisonment until he makes his final escape.
In the ‘60s in Cuba, sex becomes an act of rebellion against the longstanding culture of sexual repression and the government’s enforcement of that culture. For both men interested in men and women who have extramarital sex, sex becomes unavoidably political under Castro: In having sex, Cubans defy prejudicial taboos and laws, risking persecution. Such persecution takes many forms, including parameterization, ostracism, imprisonment, forced labor, and torture. Fundamentally, this persecution is about controlling life, i.e., denying people the freedom to live as they choose: “All dictatorships are sexually repressive and anti-life. All affirmations of life are diametrically opposed to dogmatic regimes. It was logical for Fidel Castro to persecute us, not to let us fuck, and to try to suppress any public display of the life force” (312). To have sex under Castro—particularly for men to have sex with men—is a fundamentally political act because it defies repression and affirms life.
Some, such as Arenas, embrace the political character of sex, treating it not only as a source of pleasure but as an act of defiance, an assertion of life amidst repression: “Sexual pleasure between two men was a conspiracy, something [...] always forbidden [. . .] The adventure in itself, even if fulfillment did not come with the desired body, was already a pleasure, a mystery, a surprise” (201). The “conspiracy” of sex with another man heightens its pleasure for Arenas, injecting an element of political rebellion into eroticism: It feels good to defy repression and pursue his desires.
Eroticism is also defiant because it affirms beauty, which Castro suppresses. Beauty transcends repression, making it a threat to totalitarian governments: “Beauty is a territory that escapes the control of the political police” (297). The beauty of an erotic connection between lovers and the beauty of the bodies themselves resists control, standing as an expression of life amidst the violently destructive forces of repression and prejudice. The expression—even the existence—of erotic beauty is an affront to those who see it as something to possess and control. One of the prisoners in El Morro is a beautiful, innocent 18-year-old nicknamed El Niño who politely refuses the prisoners’ sexual advances. In that castle of privation and repression, the prisoners cannot stand being denied another thing and someone impales El Niño with a metal bar in his sleep, killing him: “the only crime that boy had committed was knowing how to smile, with such a perfect mouth, and having both a wonderful body and an almost innocent look” (405). El Morro is an extreme microcosm of Cuba as a whole in that in it, beauty is dangerous. In his beauty El Niño infuriates the prisoners who want to possess him; in Cuba, Arenas’s eroticism transcends and defies Castro’s attempts to control sexuality. Their defiance is threatening because it stands a chance of exceeding those attempts at control. Though it does not always triumph, the expression of erotic beauty resists repression, standing out as an affirmation of life.
Arenas prides himself for remaining firm in his commitment to his moral and artistic integrity, refusing to capitulate to Castro as so many other Cuban artists do. Arenas develops this dual sense of integrity early in his literary career after meeting Lima and Piñera through the UNEAC. Both men instill in him the belief that under a dictatorship, writers are responsible for maintaining their integrity and writing against power, not for it. This sense of integrity defines Arenas’s life and works.
Artists face two threats under Castro: destruction through persecution and corruption through political favor (304). The former threatens the artist themselves, the latter threatens their integrity. Many writers sacrifice their moral and artistic integrity out of fear for their safety. Arenas believes that Cuban writers are responsible for fighting the threat of Castro with their work, seeing this artistic creation as a crucial part of the dissident movement: “The greatest danger to the regime was the large number of young people who became followers of dissident writers, and for that reason, those writers had to be demoralized so they could not become symbols; they had to be humiliated and cut down” (423). Artistic integrity serves a crucial role in the ideological war against Castro, who uses his various repressive apparatuses—State Security, the First Congress of Education and Culture, UNEAC, etc.—to enforce ideological orthodoxy. Without writers as voices of dissent, it becomes easier for Castro to win his ideological war. Such a victory would have profound consequences, making it much harder to even conceive of dissent, to realize that the state is not the ultimate authority on everything.
Arenas’s belief in the importance of literary dissent explains his censure of the many Cuban writers who forsake their duty to dissent; conversely, this belief explains his praise for the writers who maintain their integrity despite the costs. Before Night Falls is, in part, Arenas’s rebuke of all the Cuban and foreign writers who helped Castro, his record of the many who did what was easy rather than what was right, who sold their integrity for personal gain and pretended they did nothing wrong. The book is also his testament to the possibility and necessity of dissent and his commemoration of those writers who maintained their integrity despite the consequences. In Miami, Arenas sees a Cuban writer he admires, Lydia Cabrera. After Castro’s Revolution, Cabrera forsook a life of privilege and went into exile to write. The consequences of her commitment to artistic integrity are dire: “One of the greatest women in our history, she was completely forsaken and forgotten, or else surrounded by people who had never read a single one of her books” (507). Many Cuban authors are forced into oblivion through censorship and persecution—effectively an attempt to erase them from history. Arenas fights Castro’s attempt to erase them, pulling them from oblivion to commemorate their rebellious spirit. In doing so, he does what Piñera and Lima taught him writers should do: oppose power.
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