Words&Dirt

In this novel’s table of instructions, Julio Cortázar states that Hopscotch “consists of many books, but two books above all.”  The reader is given a choice: read the book in normal fashion and stop at the end of Chapter 56 (in which case a large portion of the book will remain unread), or jump between chapters in a prescribed order (this method includes all chapters).  This choice is a false and rather insincere one, for only with great difficulty can I imagine a reader willing to stop midway through any book––excepting cases of extreme frustration or boredom––without wanting to experience the whole story.  A dedicated enthusiast might undertake dual read-throughs to sample each method, but having finished using the hop-step approach, I’m in no rush to jump back into this enigmatic mess of a novel.

While Hopscotch contains some of the tropes we associate with traditional novels, it’s more concerned with subverting expectations than telling a story.  As a fictionalized work of postmodern philosophy, its only firm conviction is that it has nothing concrete to say.  Cortázar spills much ink obsessing over abstruse existential quandaries, failings of language, and the human preoccupation with our inability to access realms of pure essence/meaning.

This book’s downfall is its utter lack of characters with whom I can emotionally connect.  Horacio Oliveira, the novel’s protagonist, is a self-serving, ultra-intellectual boob so mired in his own theoretical confusion that he fails at every turn to behave like a decent human being.  I’m not typically hostile to antiheroes, but Oliveira is simply despicable in ways that preclude endearment.  This is most evident in his consistently deplorable treatment of La Maga, his lover, and of women in general.  Oliveira is a pompous posterboy for male chauvinism and all the worst aspects of machismo; he thinks women are incapable of participating in intellectual discourse and treats them as sex objects good for nothing more than making him tea and serving as vacuous receptacles for his sperm and/or philosophical pretensions (in whatever combination he happens to be spewing them).  Throughout the novel, Oliveira surrounds himself with equally unlikable and even more uninteresting characters, all of whom––like Oliveira himself––fail to learn from their experiences or prove dynamic in any meaningful way.

Fans might claim that Hopscotch is not primarily concerned with characterization or progressive storylines, but rather with pushing the limits of literary form and posing questions about the nature of narrative consumption.  Very well.  I insist on an addendum, which is that the book, while structurally creative, is severely limited in its ability to illuminate much beyond the contradictory and destructive behaviors on which its endlessly circular conflicts are predicated.

Hopscotch would be quite horrendous if Cortázar were not such a tremendously gifted writer; his prose turns on a dime, cuts in an instant, and regularly embarks on fascinating and emotionally devastating flights of fancy.  These moments are like powerful but rushed orgasms: they come on with great intensity but diminish quickly, leaving impressions more whimsical than profound.  The quality of Cortázar’s thinking is top-notch, but, as with all postmodern philosophy, its contribution to the reader’s enlightenment is stymied by a bottomless lack of conviction.

Despite my harrumphing, it must be said that Hopscotch is without doubt a singular and brilliant piece of fiction that should probably be read by anyone with even a passing interest in literary theory.  Such works are probably better appreciated by readers with a less specific sense of what they want from a novel.  Cortázar’s potent message is lost on someone like me, who sees ingenious prose as a means to draw in an audience but not enough to deserve its full attention for 500+ pages.  I need characters I can feel something about.  I don’t need to like them or agree with them, but I need to care about what happens to them, to fret about where they will end up or how they will move forward.

From the outset, Hopscotch is so unwavering in its self-negation that it seems to end before it has even begun.  It is a relic from a not-so-long-ago era when intellectualism was defined by the idea that meaningfulness itself might be among our most illusory and futile concepts.  It is an excellent reminder of the many reasons why I feel fortunate to live in a world that has largely dispensed with such sophistry and moved on to better things.

Rating: 5/10