The Invention of the Brazilian Northeast

A BOOK IN THE SERIES

Latin America in Translation / En Traducción / Em Tradução

Sponsored by the Duke University–University of North Carolina

Program in Latin American Studies
The Invention of the

B R A Z I L I A N N O R T H E AS T

D U R VA L M U N I Z D E A L B U Q U E R Q U E J R .

w i t h a for e wor d by ja mes n. green

tr anslated by jerry dennis metz

duke univer sity press

Durham and London 2014

English translation © 2014 Duke University Press
Portuguese edition published by Cortez Editora
© 1999 by Cortez Editora
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper ∞

Designed by Natalie F. Smith

Typeset in Scala Pro by Westchester Publishing Services

Cover art: Collage by Natalie F. Smith based on a photograph of

a railway bridge between São Félix and Cachoeira, near Salvador,
Brazil. Photograph © dbimages / Alamy.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Albuquerque Jr., Durval Muniz de (Albuquerque Junior)
[Invengco do nordeste e outras artes. English]
The invention of the Brazilian Northeast / Durval Muniz de Albuquerque Jr. ;
with a foreword by James N. Green ; translated by Jerry D. Metz.
pages cm—(Latin America in translation/en traducción/em tradução)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
isbn 978-0-8223-5770-4 (cloth : alk. paper)
isbn 978-0-8223-5785-8 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Brazil, Northeast—History. 2. Brazil, Northeast—Social conditions. i. Title.
ii. Series: Latin America in translation/en traducción/em tradução.
f2583.a5413 2014 981—dc23 2014015441
For my mother, Maria, who reared
me a nordestino but also led me to
dream of São Paulo, with the same
longing I feel for it today.
C O N T E N TS

Foreword by James N. Green ix

Acknowledgments xiii

int roduc tion 1

cha pt er one [ 14 ] The Regionalist Gaze 15

Geography in Ruins The New Regionalism 21
Regionalist Literature 25
North versus South 29

cha pter two [ 36 ] Stories of Tradition 36

Spaces of Nostalgia The Invention of the Northeast 44
Northeastern Pages 74
Northeastern Brush Strokes 109
Northeastern Music 114
Northeastern Dramas 124

ch a p t er t h r e e [ 131 ] The Inversion of the Northeast 131

Territories of Revolt Controversy and Indignation 151
Portraits of Misery and Pain 176
Images That Cut and Pierce 184
Seeing through the Camera Eye 192

c onc lusion 220

Notes 233
Bibliography 255
Index 269
FOREWORD JAMES N. GREEN

Sometimes a great historical work can have a seemingly simple yet pro-
foundly complex thesis that appears all too obvious after its supporting
arguments are clearly laid out to the reader. Such is the case of Dur-
val Muniz de Albuquerque Jr.’s masterpiece about the invention in the
1920s of the Brazilian Northeast as a distinct geographic region. Albu-
querque, a professor of history at the Federal University of Rio Grande
do Norte, with a doctorate from the State University of Campinas (uni-
camp), Campinas, São Paulo, has shaken up what has become a natu-
ralized notion of how the Brazilian nation is thought of spatially and
culturally. The author has forced a rethinking about how intellectual pro-
duction shaped and crystallized a series of myths, stereotypes, and im-
ages of a “backward” and “decadent” region of Brazil, which, according
to standard narratives, was caught up in an endless cycles of droughts,
hunger, and disappointments.
These nationally embraced ideas about the nature of a region that
have been projected onto the Brazilian states that bulged out into the
Atlantic Ocean even took on an international significance in the mid-
twentieth century. In the aftermath of the 1959 Cuban Revolution, the
Kennedy administration (1961–63) launched the Alliance for Progress
with its legions of Peace Corps volunteers, agrarian technicians, and eco-
nomic advisers dispatched to solve the problem of underdevelopment in
Latin America as a means of averting other revolutions from sprouting
up across the continent. The Brazilian Northeast became a privileged
Cold War testing ground for how to combat starvation, disease, and the
supposed resulting proclivity to subversion that would lead to the em-
brace of communism over capitalism.
The U.S. media reinforced this image about how poverty could lead to
revolution with feature stories about the region. For example, the head-
line of the first article, on October 31, 1960, of a two-part series on Brazil
published by the New York Times proclaimed: “Northeast Poverty Breeds
Threat of Revolt.” A follow-up story the next day was headlined by the
warning “Marxists Are Organizing Peasants in Brazil: Leftist Leagues
Aim at a Political Army 40 Million Strong.” The alarmist nature of the
pieces, written in colorful prose by veteran journalist Tad Szulc, as well as
a stern accompanying Times editorial about the perils of Fidelistas, cau-
tioned that a dangerous revolutionary movement was brewing among
the starving masses of the region. Conforming to right-wing Brazilian
anxieties of the Northeast, the Times coverage of this area of Brazil pre-
sented grossly exaggerated descriptions of rural workers allegedly dis-
posed to insurrection even though in reality peasant organizing in the
region was still rather precarious at the time.
Several years later, Lincoln Gordon, the U.S. ambassador to Brazil
during the early 1960s, explained that the Times articles were perhaps
the first time that American readers had ever heard about the Brazilian
Northeast.1 Washington’s response to this theoretical threat was to chan-
nel hundreds of millions of dollars through U.S. Aid for International
Development programs to prove that American largess could somehow
break the Brazilian Northeast’s almost pathological inability to climb out
of its own stagnation and starvation. The Central Intelligence Agency
also directed covert funds to Brazil in an attempt to defeat populist can-
didates, such as Miguel Arraes from the state of Pernambuco, in the 1962
gubernatorial elections. The fear that the Northeast was on the verge of a
political explosion and that somehow the region’s poverty might motivate
the peasants of the Northeast to carry out the second Cuban Revolution
in Latin America was one of many justifications that Washington policy
makers offered to explain their support of the military dictatorship that
came to power in 1964 and governed for two decades. Thus, a stereo-
type, fueled by distorted national and international images of the region,
led to tragic results.
Albuquerque’s skillful interdisciplinary approach to charting the pro-
cess of the creation of a unique northeastern regional identity challenges
historians to reexamine entirely the ways in which proponents of com-
peting visions of Brazil have fought for hegemony for over 150 years. In
nineteenth-century imperial Brazil, the nation was divided in the geo-
graphical imaginary into two general regions—the Norte and the Sul.
During the national campaign to raise relief funds for the Great Drought
of 1877 that devastated Ceará and surrounding states, local political and
economic elites discovered that the discourse about chronic climatic di-
sasters and the consequential displacement of starving hordes in the
North offered a convenient means to extract additional resources from

x foreword
the central government. In this respect a negative image of the area
was turned to the advantage of the regional elites. At the same time, the
North became a pessimistic foil for those in the South who considered
their area of Brazil to be the dynamic train engine that would pull the
impoverished states of the North forward on the railroad tracks toward
modernization and progress. In this regard, the “crude” and “backward”
Norte became the embodiment of what the civilizing Sul should avoid
at all costs.
The shifts in political power during the early years of the republic
at the turn of the twentieth century, as well as the economic decline of
sugar production in the North, pushed significant sectors of the tradi-
tional northern elites to the sidelines. Agricultural modernization in the
form of centralized sugar processing plants further displaced “founding
families” who had exercised political and social control over localities for
centuries. In the 1930s, sociologist Gilberto Freyre emerged as the intel-
lectual representative of the antimodernist elites who clung to an idyllic
and glorious preindustrial rural past as a means of combating the pro-
found social and political changes that seemed to undermine their en-
tire way of life. Euclides da Cunha and other intellectuals had previously
written about a distinct rural archetype whose toughness, silence, and
resistance reflected an adaptation to the harsh geography of the desert-
like inland sertão. Several decades later, Freyre and the regionalist school
that he led created a complex set of images of the “typical” northeast-
erner, rooted in his sociological and historical interpretations of the pa-
triarchy and the ultimately benevolent traditions of the sugar plantation.
Literary production of novelists such as José Lins do Rego in the 1930s
contributed to the romanticizing of the region’s past and its present, as
did the music of Luiz Gonzaga, the paintings of Cícero Dias and Vicente
do Rego Monteiro, the theater of Ariano Suassuna, the novels of Jorge
Amado, and the films of Glauber Rocha.
The Invention of the Brazilian Northeast artfully analyzes the dialectic
relationship between these regional inventions as a defensive measure
against the rapidly modernizing “South” on one hand, and the appro-
priation, creation, and dissemination of stereotypical representations of
“northeasterner” by the intellectual followers of Freyre and his nostalgic
view of the past. However, the author points out that current images of
the inhabitants of the migrants from this region of Brazil are as much
a product of the regional elite’s creations as they are the chauvinistic

foreword xi
prejudices of those from São Paulo or Rio de Janeiro. Drawing on elite
discourse, literature, popular culture, music, film, and regional archives,
the author meticulously weaves together a complex and colorful tapestry
of diverse sources to make his case.
The original Portuguese version of this book, The Invention of the North-
east, was the winner of the prestigious Nelson Chaves de Teses Award
from the Joaquim Nabuco Foundation for the best historical work on
northern or northeastern Brazil. It has sold out two editions in Brazil.
Now, with the support of the Latin America in Translation series, Jerry
D. Metz has produced a beautifully adapted translation that is designed
to make the original Portuguese work accessible to an English-language
audience less familiar with Brazilian history and culture.
Albuquerque’s original thoroughly documented volume has already
become the yardstick for measuring all future studies about “invented”
regions in Brazil and their relationship to the nation that it will, no doubt,
inspire. As an insightful historical reading of the construction of a sig-
nificant geographic region of an important Latin American nation, it will
also serve as a model for how to write the history of other regions within
other Latin American countries.

james n. green
Providence, RI

xii foreword
AC K N O W L E D G M E N TS

This book is the product of the tense yet fruitful encounter between two
areas of Brazil that were invented, and are often experienced, as antago-
nistic and mutually exclusive. I myself am also such a product, physically
and intellectually. My father migrated from the Northeast to the large
city of São Paulo in the Southeast, where, during an afternoon mass in
1954, he met a local girl, and they married soon after. Four years later, my
mother left the city to accompany him back to his native region. I grew
up feeling deeply the differences that seemed to separate my parents, a
sort of implacable distance that was just barely resolved by the love that
united all of us. When I grew older I determined to finish my academic
studies in São Paulo, a place I seemed to know through a sort of affective
geography my mother had sketched many times as she recalled her early
life, and her friends and family she had left there. While still small, in
her lap, I had traveled with her in her memory along the Chá Viaduct,
down the Direita Road, and to the Prestes Maia Gallery, where she had
idled happy Sundays away in the easy conversation and flirtations of
youth. We went there together, in 1968: a trip of wonder for me. The city
dazzled and overwhelmed; its din was numbing. I sought the places and
spaces I had imagined over so many storytellings, the narrated geogra-
phy of my mother’s early life. Much that I saw and heard was utterly dif-
ferent than I expected, and yet there were still everywhere familiar traces
(even in the cast of light, or the smells) of the city I had dreamed of.
Upon completing my master’s in Paraíba, I resolved to undertake my
own personal, intellectual migration to São Paulo—more specifically, to
the state university at Campinas. There I occasionally sensed that I was
regarded as, if not quite an interloper, someone far from where the natu-
ral order indicated he belonged. Too many times I endured the comment
“But you don’t look like a northeasterner!” It is the personal nature of
this journey and this book that leads me to begin here by acknowledging
my parents and my professors at unicamp, who facilitated the encoun-
ter between the Northeast and São Paulo (as the industrial axis of the
Southeast) that is in my dna, in my sentiments, and in my thinking. This
project was born from the interplay of love and disquiet long provoked
in me by the separation of the country into different regional spaces; I
grew up with the complicated effects of this separation on the inhabit-
ants of those spaces. But the love was more important. And this love
only grew while I was in São Paulo, where along with some raised eye-
brows I encountered many friendly people very willing to help me in my
efforts. And it grew yet more when I returned to the Northeast, to revise
the project.
I would like to thank the staff at the principal institutions where
research was performed. In particular, at the Edgar Leunroth Archive,
Cleusa provided indispensable assistance. Afternoons at the Cinemateca
Brasileira screening rolls of film were made more efficient and enjoyable
by Iara. Vera and Teresa, at unicamp’s Central Library, became friends
and provided moral support. I would also like to acknowledge the staffs
at cedae (Companhia Estadual de Agua e Esgotos), Centro de Estudos
Migratórios, Pinacoteca do Estado, Museu de Arte Moderna, Museu de
Arte de São Paulo, Museu da Imagem e do Som, Casa Mário de Andrade,
Casa Lasar Segall, and the ieb (Instituto de Estudos Brasileiros), who all
helped me locate information.
My fellow doctoral students at unicamp participated directly in the
trajectory of this work, through their collegial enthusiasm, their affec-
tion, and their continual engagement in helpful discussion. I must sin-
gle out Regina for her sweetness, and her sharpness.
Many thanks to my generous professors in the history and geogra-
phy departments at the Federal University of Paraíba, who went to great
lengths to facilitate my transition to São Paulo after the ma. Among these
I highlight Josefa, Eleite, Martha, Socorro, Fábio and Nilda. I also thank
all my professors at unicamp, notably Edgar de Decca, who made him-
self available to read and comment on early versions of this work; and
especially Margareth Rago, who, more than being a teacher, became a
sort of accomplice on my intellectual and existential forays. Nothing was
better than that in proving that an encounter between “Northeast” and
“São Paulo” based on fondness and humor is possible.
To Robert Slenes, my adviser, my deepest gratitude. Above everything
else that he is, he is a friendly and caring person.
To my brothers, Carlos, Solange, and Marcus, wherever each of us is
or will be, my sincere thanks for the encouragement and support that is
so fundamental to seeing through a project such as this.

xiv ac know ledg ments

Thanks to my “secretary” Socorro, who did everything but make it
rain on command so that I might finish the book.
Other friends contributed to the completion of this text, and these in-
clude Agostinho, Auzirete, Cassandra, and Alarcon.
A warm thank-you to capes (Coordinação de Aperfeiçoamento de
Pessoal de Nível), who financed my stay in Campinas as well as a later
revisions period, allowing me to focus exclusively on scholarly work.
Finally, I would like to convey my deepest gratitude to my professor,
friend, and adviser Alcir Lenharo. His presence is sorely missed. This
book is a small homage to a person who let no obstacle hinder his drive
to spread the seeds of knowledge and compassion. This book embodies
fragments not just of my life, but also of his. It offers proof that Alcir is
still quite alive and with us.

ac know ledg ments xv

INTRODUCTION

Around the worlds, our legend. Even if we never learn it. I will teach you to make
lacework. What more can I teach you? I have no other talents. I know only how to
give life a vain intrigue. Caetano Veloso, “Tenda”

At home in São Paulo, we turn on the television set. A portentous pundit

ensconced in an abc studio1 stares fixedly at the camera and inquires,
“Have you ever seen a nordestino reach over five and a half feet in height?
Or perhaps an intelligent one?”2 Of course, this pundit is himself barely
five and a half feet tall and also holds himself the judge of what intelli-
gence is. Is there an implied connection between height and intelligence?
We change the channel. In some unidentified northeastern city,
the June festivals are underway.3 Two metropolitan humorists enter
the crowd, searching for friends of the long-dead northeastern bandit
Antônio Silvino (1875–1944). They spot an older man and buttonhole
him to wisecrack: “Old Antônio was a tough old goat, eh? Tell us all about
it!” Later, we see someone in a white robe impersonating Antônio Con-
selheiro,4 lending the preacher a goggle-eyed intensity as he jabbered
doomsday visions and brandished a large stick at passersby. Our hosts
also treat us to a group of blind women in colorful skirts singing tradi-
tional song, as well as a devout procession for Saint Antônio. Finally, and
incongruously, we see a modern-day Lampião and Maria Bonita running
through beachfront Rio de Janeiro, shooting at everyone, shooting every
which way, because there is indecency everywhere (and, presumably, they
really just love to shoot people).5
Let’s try another channel. The evening telenovela once again is set
in the Northeast, with an anonymous yet instantly recognizable interior
city, stock types such as the colonel (local ranch boss and power broker)
and the bible-clasping priest, as well as gunshots, mules, and so on.
Everyone speaks in “nordestino,” a distinct accent and dialect supposedly
characteristic of the region and almost impenetrable to those outside
it, based on archaic colonial Portuguese and spiced with curious slang.
Scriptwriters rely heavily on folkloric dictionaries.
How about the news again? Ah, a drought once again afflicting the
Northeast. The camera seems to savor the cracked earth, lingering over
the wilting cactus, the starving livestock, the gaunt children who play
dustily with bones in the arid field. The earnest reporter produces tears
to verify the tragedy, and to promote yet another campaign of electronic,
mass-mediated solidarity with a region defined by its inescapable back-
wardness. We feel compelled to agree with Rachel de Queiroz that the
metropolitan media treats the Northeast with great selectivity: that they
look “cross-eyed” at it because the desired Northeast is a place of misery.6
But is that really true?
Among all these framings, voices, and images, we encounter a strategy
to stereotype. A discourse of stereotypes is an assertive one, repetitive and
arrogant, a language formulated on acritical stability and self-sufficiency. It
emerges from the indiscriminate characterization of a social group whose
multiplicities and individual complexities are banished in order to con-
struct a superficial collective identity.7 So may we concur with Queiroz that
the media does not see the Northeast as it truly is? No, because this would
be to posit a reality for the Northeast that does not exist. This would be
to forget that a stereotype is not merely a crooked gaze or a distortion, it
is something that also generates concrete dimensions for those who are
made subject to (or objects of) it. A reality is created and accepted as such.
We need to avoid the trap of falling into a simple perspective of prejudice—
discrimination against the Northeast and nordestinos. What this book at-
tempts to do is not merely investigate why the Northeast and nordestinos
are marginalized and stereotyped in national cultural production and by
the inhabitants of other areas; but also investigate why, for nearly ninety
years, we in the Northeast complain that we are discriminated against with
such indignation. Why do we claim, with mingled exaltation and rancor,
that we have been forgotten and minimized, that we are victims of our own
country’s history? What are the mechanisms of power that have seemed to
place us in the position of victims, of the colonized, miserable in body and
spirit? And how, in our own discursive practices, do we reproduce a set of
meanings and symbols that construct us as beggars stuck intractably at the
margins? Through what masochism do we take pride in the discrimina-
tion that casts us as vanquished? In other words, if the Northeast has itself
participated in shaping this balance of power, how? Why and how would
our own dominant classes take delight in affirming its own impotence,
preferring a national posture of subordination and dependence?

2 introduction
The miserable Northeast and nordestino, whether in the media or
beyond it, are not the product of a problem with how power functions
in Brazil but are inherent to this system of forces and help constitute it.
This Northeast and nordestino are invented by these relations of power
and knowledge, and deeply associated with them. We cannot combat
discrimination by inverting the direction of the discrimination, nor can
we try to determine who is telling the truth and who is lying because
this accepts the premise that the marginalized have a truth waiting to be
revealed. To proudly assume the mantle of “northeasternness” (nordes-
tinidade) with Rachel de Queiroz, and demand that Brazil’s southerners
revise their ignorant and harmful discourses, is to remain imprisoned
within the parameters of those very same discourses. The greater goal is
to rise above those stereotypes by examining the relations of power that
produce both the discriminated and the discriminators. Both are fruits
of truth-effects, born of struggle and bearing its scars.8
While nordestinos (among whom I number myself ) are accustomed
to view ourselves as the vanquished, always set in contrast to the tena-
cious exploiters in the Southeast, this assumed exteriority in our social
relations does not exist. We are agents of our own oppression and dis-
crimination. These are not imposed on us from afar; they circulate within
and through us. The best modes of resistance we can construct will be
formulated within this network of power, not outside of it. Thus can we
shift the trajectory and momentum of the force fields that seem to impose
on us a narrowly defined cultural and geographic space (that was shaped
by history, but is therefore dynamic). Is it really better, more effective, to
allow ourselves to be comprehended as the opposite of powerful—the
beaten, the weak, the needy? Would it not be better to refuse that wretched
position?9
The larger question, then, is whether there actually exists a north-
eastern identity within us. Is there some truth defining and linking all
the stereotypes, within which the swarthy “flat-heads” (cabeça chata) of
the Bahian, Paraíban, or Pernambucan interiors are merely variations
and generically equivalent? Does the Northeast of the media, its images
and discourses, actually exist if such a thing is scorned by the actual
people who live there? The focus of this book is the history of the emer-
gence of an object of knowledge and space of power called the Brazilian
Northeast. Of special interest is the formation of preconceptions, a term
that is not necessarily pejorative. How was this archive of images and

introduction 3
articulations formulated, this stock of “truths” that made the Northeast
able to be seen and spoken, and which directly shaped the attitudes of
the media? What is the interplay between concepts of the Northeast and
nordestinos, and the use of images and discourses to ostensibly reveal
the true essence of the region?10
Once we begin to accept the idea of the region as problematic, we
might ask: What is a region? What is the best way to measure or cap-
ture its identity? What makes the Northeast different, individual, coher-
ent? This book intends to raise for analysis the historical conditions that
made possible the diverse discourses and practices that produced the
Northeast as a defined and definable space. Rather than consider the
boundaries of this region as somehow written into the natural world, or
generated by the “development of capitalism and the regionalization of
means of production,” yet another form of geographical naturalization,
this book considers the Northeast as a historical space. It was constructed
at a precise moment in history, the end of the first decade and the second
decade of the twentieth century, as the product of cohering “regionalist”
concepts and practices. The space became understood as having expe-
riences that might characterize its regional identity. These experiences
were grouped and categorized and enmeshed in theories that held the
promise to offer recognition of the region’s essence and defining traits.
Yet this did little more than capture and imperfectly reflect diverse quo-
tidian experiences of both the winners and the vanquished, along with
fragments of memories of past situations that were reset as heralding
the present; all embraced as the “apex of regional consciousness.”11
Our objective is to understand the diverse pathways along which the
Northeast was produced within the larger scope of Brazilian culture. The
nexus of knowledge and power that created the nordestino type obliter-
ated it, at the same moment, as a human being. It would seem that
arriving at the true Northeast requires whittling away the rest of Brazil
from it. Thus the Northeast is pruned to reveal its economic, political, or
geographic unity, but also its primordial cultural essence whose produc-
tion relies on the pseudo-unity of culture, ethnicity, and geography. The
Northeast can be born only where power meets language, where the spa-
tialization of power relations runs like a current through images and texts.
By spatiality, I mean the spatial perceptions that inhabit language and that
through language interrelate with the broader field of forces that instituted
them. In this book, geographic, linguistic, and historical forces will all

4 introduction
be comprehended within an analysis of the diverse languages that con-
structed a regional geography, a spatial distribution of feelings, through a
given historical period. For this, it is necessary to leave behind the assumed
transparency of spaces and languages; spatiality is made through the ac-
cumulation of discursive layers and social practice. Language (discourse)
and space (historical object) encounter and interrelate. Our work is in a
dimension where history destroys supposed natural determinations—
where time gives space its malleability, its variability, its explanatory value,
and, even more, its warmth and true human aspects.12
It should be recalled that dis-cursus is, originally, the action to run back
and forth, coming and going, demarches. And the spaces are networks,
webs of images and language sewn into patterns of social relations—
reticular “plots” in both senses of the term. The diverse forms of lan-
guage considered here, from literature and cinema to music, painting,
theater, and academic production, are like actions: they are practices in-
dissoluble from institutions. They do not simply represent reality but
construct and institute realities. Their discourses are not enunciated
from separate and objective exterior spaces, but they create their own
spaces, which in turn produce them, presuppose them, and legitimize
them. Regionalist discourse is not emitted from some region existing in-
dependent of itself. But it is from within its own locution that the region
is mapped out, its stage set and enacted and finally recognized and antic-
ipated. The region is part of the topography of this discourse, instituted
by it. Every discourse measures and demarcates a space from which it
will enunciate itself, in which its truth is embedded. Before regionalism
was invented, regions were being produced by these discourses. This
book explores how discourses establish the region by seeing and speak-
ing it. Reconsidering region may open our sensibilities to new ways to
see and speak it, to feel and know it. However, these regional images and
texts are interrelated with other series of practices, notably economic, po-
litical, and social, that between them have considerable power but do not
determine an end or establish conclusions. They only connect, merge
and diverge, forming a web of discursive and nondiscursive practices—
relations of power and meaning that we, following Foucault, might call
dispositive (dispositif, “apparatus”) in order to underscore their diversity
and strategic complexity.13
To suggest the emergence of a new visibility and speakability impli-
cates the emergence of new concepts, themes, objects, figures, and images

introduction 5
that permit us to see and speak what was grasped only distantly before,
as if by the reflection of faint light. New configurations and problems
may in their turn provide new sources of clarity to illuminate other di-
mensions of the historical and social networks that compose the texture
of space. Through visibility and speakability are articulated the thinking
and production of space, the discursive and nondiscursive practices that
prune and shape spatiality and the forces that delineate its cartographies.
To define the region is to conceive of it as a group of enunciations and
images that repeat, with a certain regularity, through different discourses
and epochs, in different styles; but not to imagine it as a homogeneity, an
objective identity present in nature. In this book the Northeast is viewed
as an invention, through the regular repetition of determined enuncia-
tions that have been taken as defining the character of the region and
its people—defining, and limiting, the truths of their personal existence.
And this spatiality is itself characterized by a cyclic or pendular move-
ment of destruction/construction, in counter to the quality of eternity
that is usually associated with space. In this context, the problematic of
power is not to be resolved through an analysis of what appears obscure in
the images, or between the lines of texts, but rather through facing what
they create in their exteriority—the differences they assert and assume.
Discourses are not objective documents “of” a region, but monuments
to the region’s construction. Instead of grubbing around for artifacts to
prove the historical continuity of a place called the Northeast and the
identity of the nordestino, this book hopes to suspend and shine light
on those assumed continuities themselves. Its goal is to place certain
frontiers and identities, which have been widely canonized, in question.14
Never should we imagine that regional territories can be situated in a
frame outside of historical analysis. They are eminently historical. And
their historical character is multivocal, depending on which type of space
is called into focus—political, juridical, cultural, ethnic, et cetera. That
is, regional space is the product of the relations among agents and vec-
tors that act and reproduce themselves with distinct spatial dimensions.
We must perceive spatial relations more clearly, as political relations.
What seems to be natural about regions must be recast into political
and historical elements. Space does not preexist the society that embod-
ies it. It is through social practices that spatial division consolidates, or
changes. Social practices articulate the shearing of space into seemingly
disparate parts, cloaking their dynamic relations with the whole—while

6 introduction
the whole is also conceived in relation to the separate fragments that
constitute it, posing a normative contrast to regional exceptions, an ab-
stract portrait painted in broad brush.15
The notion of region, from regere, to command, goes deeper than su-
perficial connotations of geography to convey administrative division,
fiscal accountability, and military sensibility. Definitions of region that
rely on nature or territories of production merely flit on the surface of
a concept that is deeply rooted in the spatialization of power relations.
A region is space reduced, cut down to manipulate strategically. A com-
manded space can be controlled and can be analyzed. It recalls the con-
cept regio (rei, or king). We thus confront a politics of knowledge, a special
(spatial) mode of power relations. The region is a point of concentration
for the forces that strive to make a large homogenous space knowable
and controllable. Historically, regions can be viewed as a manifestation
of difference or conflict between different social groups within the same
nation. The regionalization of power relations can be accompanied by
other processes of distinction, such as modes of production, labor rela-
tions, or cultural practices, but these alone do not shape or predict a
region’s emergence. A region is the product of battle, its segmentation
caused by fissures in the conflicted space of litigants. Regions represent
the strategic provisioning of space. Space that is fought over is divided,
being apportioned differently among various winners and losers. In that
sense region is the landscape of internal war, of national conflict.16
This book aims to denaturalize regions, to problematize their in-
vention, and to search for their historicity among layers of practices and
discourses. They are not fixed, immutable features in the landscape but
moving soil—landscapes in transition, engaged by history and engaging
history, pushing against and being shaped by history.17 A region is not a
frame of unity containing diversity within it. It is the product of operations
of homogenization but is open, transitory, and intercut by power relations;
the state may be called on, or not, to collaborate in its sedimentation into
perceived reality. The state might be seen as a privileged battlefield for
regional disputes. It does not formally, institutionally demarcate political
limits of regions but can legitimate or refute the regional manifestations
emerging from social conflicts.
It should be acknowledged that this book dwells more on the history of
concepts, themes, strategies, images, and enunciations than on the his-
tories of individual men and women. Of course, such personal histories

introduction 7
will be present to a degree throughout, because it is people who have
articulated the nation and composed dynamic regional realities. But my
focus resides more on the history of struggle between concepts of na-
tion and region, particularly as they are in dialogue with historicized
notions of regional, national, and international culture. I am concerned
with struggle in the articulation of national versus regional identity, es-
pecially in the realms of culture.
It was around just such ideas that, in 1920s–1960s Brazil, a set of
rules was developed that I call the national-popular discursive formation.
The power apparatus that sustained them might be called the dispositif
of nationalities. My intention is to trace the history of the practices and
enunciations that gave shape, visibility, and speakability to these ideas.
More specifically, I examine the idea of the Northeast—from how it was
invented in diverse images and texts starting in the 1920s, to how it was
radically contested among some artists by the end of the 1960s. How
did particular audiovisual enunciations produce and crystallize, through
representation, the essence of this spatial construct? How did power re-
lations sustain this identity, and how were they sustained within it—an
identity preserving the Northeast as peripheral to Brazil’s economic and
political relations and sweeping its inhabitants to the margins?
The term “identity” is too often accepted on its face, as a suite of rep-
etitions or superficial similarities, without considering its internal ten-
sions. Identity, whether national or regional, is a mental construct. It is an
intellectual abstraction that covers an enormous variety of experiences.
To see and speak the nation or region is not, indeed, to recognize these
“realities” but to create them. They are imagined spaces that are second-
arily institutionalized, and that take on the sheen of truth. Such gossamer
crystallizations lead us, with so many other contemporary forces, to live
by and through images. Our territories are image based. They arrive to
us in channels—the media, education, social contacts, habits—cultural
channels that encourage an abstraction of the real. In this way, history
resembles theater, on which the actors, historical agents, may create their
forms of identity only through markers of the past, through accepted and
recognized roles, old masks that are forever updated.18
This book interrogates the forms through which region has been
seen and spoken in Brazil—forms that can seem relatively recent, such
as the occasional (and intense) separatist analyses in contemporary his-
tory, and forms that have accrued an almost primordial aspect. In partic-

8 introduction
ular, the regional discourse surrounding and embodying the Northeast
really is novel in the history of Brazil. It affects, informs, and motivates
not only the elite levels of society but all segments of society. I reject the
category of “regional history” for this work because that type of research
stays within the accepted discursive field of region itself. It continues
to take region as fixed, a concrete referent, legitimating precisely what
I hope to decode. Rather than probing region as a network of power, it
questions only determined elaborations of region in order to compare
them and uncover supposed truths.19 In that sense, regional history con-
tributes to the historical continuity of regional space. It is engaged in the
maintenance of a referential illusion.20 It might historicize a region, but
takes its existence as writ. But neither region nor nation are valid crite-
ria to impose from the outset, as a sort of rigid frame, on historical in-
vestigation. They are entities forged by historical processes, continually
shaped by discursive webs whose trajectories and textures can be traced.
The manner in which regional history proceeds—defining a region
a priori, accepting its naturalness—evades the fact that neither epoch
nor space can exist before the enunciations and visibilities that produce
them. Regional history coexists unproblematically with regions and in
fact reproduces them. It ultimately validates Brazil’s Northeast as a co-
herent place that can be researched, taught about, and administered,
even as its intellectual legitimacy is based on imaginary structures of so-
called national consciousness, as well as political forces. The Northeast
becomes an object of academic study, a curio whose dimensions are mea-
sured and qualities catalogued. But historians, as they strive to produce
knowledge, must be attuned to questions of epistemology and the power
relations shaping their own research and the wider historiography; basic
concepts must continually be submitted to inquiry and reconsidera-
tion. In contrast to this ideal, however, regional history accepts the re-
ceived wisdom that divides “national” (Brazilian) history from “regional”
(northeastern), creating a hierarchy within the academy that reproduces
the territorialization, unequal power relations, and subordination of
space that occurs at the level of the nation itself.
Do regional historians somehow see themselves as incapable of per-
forming national history, or are they disinclined? Why is it that historians
from São Paulo (and to a certain degree also Rio de Janeiro) are recog-
nized for doing national history, while historians outside this metropoli-
tan axis are regarded as regional historians? We continue imprisoned in

introduction 9
a hierarchy of spaces and knowledges that began to cohere at the begin-
ning of the twentieth century, and that resiliently affirms itself in mul-
tiple ways in the present. My interest is not in picking up the flag for the
victims of so-called paulista imperialism, or arguing that there should be
more regional histories to counter the national ones. Rather, I reject the
disparate spatialized configuration of knowledge and power and call for
the right to perform “history” without further qualifiers.
Methodologically, this approach is amenable to the broadest pos-
sible source material. I draw on academic texts and cultural criticism,
literature and poetry, songs, films, and theater pieces, all of which have
northeastern themes and thus help constitute the Northeast in diverse
ways. Works of art, cultural products broadly speaking, are here analyzed
as discourses that contribute to making reality. I am less concerned with
rarified discussions of aesthetics but will introduce elements of such anal-
ysis as they serve the project at hand; however, art will more generally be
considered in social context. Works of art are dynamic machines generat-
ing meanings, producing sensibilities, and helping create ways to see and
speak reality. The point of focus is the creation of the idea of the Northeast,
and its relation to the idea of the nation. Because the form and content of
cultural practices cannot be separated, I explore how the production of
texts, images, and sounds can form an aggregate positing the Northeast
as a material space and an identity, a recognizable homogeneity—or that,
in contrast, can contest this construction.
I have avoided dense thickets of explanatory notes. References to
the literature are kept to a minimum because I did not wish to fall into
the trap of using the secondary or theoretical documents as “proof”
in and of themselves. The origins of important concepts will be cited,
but my engagement with the literature will be, more or less implicitly
or obviously, in the main pages and paragraphs that follow rather than
buried in notes. I have also not attempted to impose a symmetry or
coherence on the whole work that its historical subject matter did not
provide. History resounds with incoherence, and the momentum of its
energies is to destroy and reformulate discursive identities, not sedi-
ment them. And because I am interested more in how the Northeast
has been produced than in the personalities of each and every artist
whose work contributed to it, I typically do not follow those individuals
or refer in detail to their lives except in terms of how this shaped their
work in imagining and creating regional reality.21

10 introduction
What were the conditions that gave rise to so many diverse cultural ex-
pressions of the Northeast at a given moment—inventing the Northeast
and, at the same time, inventing nordestinos as subjects and objects? The
artists are taken here not as extraordinary, in terms of an aesthetic innova-
tion that lifts them out of history or society, but as deeply knitted into the
fabric of an era and perspective that they also help to shape. All around
them, of course, are diverse other forces that interrelate with institutions,
economic and social processes, politics, mores and norms, and modes of
characterization and classification. These are part of the threads that were
gathered and sewn into a design called the Northeast, an image of some-
thing taken to be real. This history, like that of fine lacework, is composed
not only of material interlacings and knots but of empty spaces—lacunae
that are part of the design itself, integral to its texture.22
I often use metaphor to open a new perspective of historical processes
and linkages, rather than insist dogmatically on the strict application of
explicable concepts. I believe history proceeds in a manner that defies
such rigidity, while metaphor is open to ambivalence, androgyny, the ex-
temporaneous realization of juncture. The poetry within this complexity
is richer than pure, abstract rules.23 The use of metaphors in history can
permit an analysis to transcend the familiar artifices of representation to
reach a more productive level of meanings. Familiar objects can be cast
in new perspectives, new tones. Everything potentially has meaningful
implications, and everything is newly surprising. As historians, we are
forced to think differently through metaphors, which are indispensable
to an anthropophagic history that traces the relation between two differ-
ent things. Metaphors wink and nod; they double back on themselves,
fulgent in their dissonance. They are a means to communicate the totality
of the real in its density of signification, beyond the limits of either empiri-
cism or pure theory—resetting the relation between subject and object
as they propose new methodologies to conquer “reality.”24
The explanation of the history of the Brazilian Northeast is in the beliefs
and categories that emerged at particular moments, within and surround-
ing particular cultural venues. We can place in question such basic con-
cepts as identity, culture, civilization, nation, and region without abandon-
ing them as empty husks; indeed, we utilize them to explain the discursive
machinery into which they have been recruited as essential parts. Language,
too, must be sifted and interrogated within its period conceptualization,
while we still have the right to carefully extend the linguistic insights of

introduction 11
certain past epochs into the present through juxtaposition and bricolage.
All these techniques are necessary because one cannot critique the idea
of region by remaining devoted to the trap of definitions and feelings that
conceptually justify it. We have to find creative ways to reveal its limits, its
evolutionary stages, its deep historicity. The very idea of region is to be un-
derstood as a historical invention, not merely the idea of one given region.
Behind these masks is not the somber countenance of true origin, but the
discordant chuckle of something complex and undefined that made such
a conclusion (among others) possible. For instance, if one takes capitalism
to be the cause and principal force for regionalization, this assumes a pre-
vious unity that capitalism dissolved, when in fact both the idea of a prior
whole nation and the idea of its secondary regionalization are discursive
effects of particular processes established in the early nineteenth century
and that continue through the present.25
My approach to the various materials was to strip them of accustomed
hierarchy. I applied no distinguishing measure of worth to a film versus
a poem, a song versus a journal article. All were produced by a reality to
which they were avidly contributing. None were to be forced into the role
of evidence per se, but to be seen as complex expressive sources. The idea
was to detach and reassemble them, to complicate their claims to truth,
to note their importance as nodes of commentary and criticism and ac-
ceptance, taking their discursive stream deliberately out of context in
order to highlight it.
The book is divided into three large chapters. In the first, “Geography
in Ruins,” I trace the origins of how the very idea of the Northeast be-
came possible. I had to start with the dispositif of nations, without which
the concept of region has no meaning. Then there were changes in so-
cial sensibilities with respect to space, and space and the gaze; changes
with respect to modernity, bourgeois society, the urban experience, the
masses. These developments allowed the emergence of the concept of
region, which then made possible the invention of the Northeast.
Second, “Spaces of Nostalgia” looks more closely at the spatial division
of Brazil. The Northeast crosscuts older binary notions of Brazil as north-
ern and southern, as preindustrial society undergoes crises and cities
take on new powers as emitters and condensers of symbols. Conceptual
geographies of the country are challenged, particularly in the North, with
the end of slavery in 1888 and the collapse of the sugar economy, while the
South is the center of the newly proclaimed republic. Political discourses

12 introduction
in the North, previously disparate, begin to cohere in the shared campaign
for resources and attention from southern institutions. Thus emerged a
vocabulary of need, of problems: drought, banditry, messianic leaders
and communities, clan feuds for political control of states. A Northeast
begins to be demarcated, its uncertain frontiers also suggestively marking
the terrain of privilege to be maintained, on the other (southern) side.
But the more compelling elaboration of the Northeast is cultural, rather
than political, as the offspring of the newly cast regional elite produced
sociological and artistic works implying the past glories of the region, the
sumptuous mansion and docile shanties, the deeply rooted peace and sta-
bility implanted by the empire. From sociologist Gilberto Freyre to writers
José Américo de Almeida, José Lins do Rego, and Rachel de Queiroz, and
painters Cícero Dias and Lula Cardoso Ayres, the Northeast takes shape
as a place of past glories, of longing for the amiability of the sugar mill, of
plantation elites and their almost-family slaves; as well as the contrasting
environmental purity and starkness of the desiccated interior, a telluric
force in northeastern regional identity.
Chapter 3, “Territories of Revolt,” considers how the Northeast was
reelaborated by authors and artists linked to Brazil’s left. Starting in the
1930s, they inverted the conservative, traditionalist idyll of the Northeast
they had received. Their invented Northeast did not idle in the sun pin-
ing for the past but suggested bold new futures, including the contain-
ment of capitalism itself, in the name of constructing a new national so-
ciety. The works of Jorge Amado, Graciliano Ramos, Portinari, and João
Cabral de Neto reversed the earlier image of the Northeast to cast it as
a place of misery and social injustice, of utter alienation. This North-
east maintained, through its popular myths and the strength of its folk,
the resolve to constitute a space of active revolt against exploitation and
bourgeois domination emanating from the Brazil that was not Northeast.
However, this new revolutionary Northeast was constructed in direct op-
position to the previous formulation and was trapped in its precepts—
the themes, images, and sacred enunciations of the traditionalists. Inad-
vertently, perhaps, the new regional elaboration entrenched even more
deeply the subtext of the traditionalists that the region was composed
largely of victims, the miserable, those whom time and the country had
passed by. The so-called “revolutionaries” thus joined their visions and
voices to the so-called “reactionaries” in consecrating a certain marginal-
ized identity for the Northeast that has endured to the present day.

introduction 13
ONE GEOGRAPHY IN RUINS

The Northeast is a child of the ruins of an older conceptual geography of

Brazil that posited a national segmentation into North and South. The
North was understood as defined by natural attributes, its pastoral essence
assumed and its countenance quickly recognizable. But by the 1920s, or
even the 1910s, a Northeast was emerging that was identified by harsher
natural phenomena and a problematic if ardent embrace of modernity—
factories, avenues, the rumbling engines of machinery mobilized in
public works against the ravages of drought. Juxtaposed alongside
fields of cotton and sugar plantations were now telegraph cables, tele-
phone lines, and railroads. Hudson, Ford, and Studebaker automobiles
as well as Great Western railway cars sped commerce but catalyzed its
detrimental impacts on the environment, as mountains were scraped
clean of foliage and smoke darkened the sky. Traditional modes and
rhythms of life were transformed. Cities buzzed with construction,
modeled largely on nineteenth-century European urban landscapes of
banks and markets, while the new vision for thoroughfares owed much
to American sensibilities of flat, straight, and square. These sometimes
replaced, but more often coexisted oddly with, the narrow and winding
colonial-era carriage streets such as those in old Recife. In city centers,
many of the antiquated elite mansions, enormous and faded like ship-
wrecks, were giving way to hastily built factories crowned by towering
smokestacks.1
The invention of the Northeast, based on reelaborations of the images
and discourses of the older paradigm of the North, was possible only
through the crisis of the naturalist paradigm and its traditional models
of society. A new way of seeing in relation to space was emerging, and
along with it a new social sensibility. There was a growing need to reflect
on questions regarding national identity, national character, the national
“race,” as well as the contours of a national culture that could incorporate
all the nation’s spaces.
The Regionalist Gaze
The regionalism of the 1920s was different from the regionalism of the
previous era, the long nineteenth century (until the 1910s). It was less
diffuse and provincial. It reflected the different ways that space was con-
ceived and represented across the diverse areas of the country. Brazil’s
central South, especially São Paulo, would become a highly differenti-
ated space as a result of such patterned developments as industrializa-
tion, urbanization, and immigration from Europe, as well as the effects
of the abolition of slavery. At the same time, new forms of artistic and
cultural inquiry were fostered by modernism. Modernism and modern-
ization lent a new intensity to the exploration of new codes of sociability.
Meanwhile, the old North struggled to cope with deepening economic
dependence and its political submission to other areas of the country. It
reeled under the strain of new technologies imperfectly implanted and
poorly integrated, as well as the lack of skilled manpower to support
them. Within the more traditional sectors of its society, especially after
World War I, another crisis was brewing that had to do with how the na-
tion was seen, spoken, and represented.
The war had resulted in a global redistribution of power, with the
United States in ascension and European cartographies rearranged. With
all this, history seemed to have definitively penetrated space itself. If
classical epistemology saw time and space as two distinct dimensions,
in modern epistemology history became the totality of all things, includ-
ing spatialities. For Brazil, the war had contributed to hastening the end
(already underway) of the belle époque sensibility, which had focused
on the tropical environment and exoticness of Brazilian space as fac-
tors, alongside race, preventing the nation from advancing in social and
cultural terms. The war fostered a new attempt to visualize the nation in
its complexity, to reconsider previous categories of thought and space.
There was a suggestive new diversity coming into view, and it was the
search for the nation itself that led to the discovery of new regions. Dif-
ferent modes of knowledge from art to science were mobilized in the
projection of gazes that inspected other areas, measured distances, and
weighted discontinuities, but that returned to re-view the nation as syn-
thesizing this very diversity. Every regional discourse would stimulate a
diagnostic of causes and solutions for the distances that seemed to sepa-
rate it from other national areas.

Geography in Ruins 15
The older proto-regionalism had encountered division as a reflex of
nature, and of race. Variations in climate, in flora and fauna, and in the
racial composition of populations inhabiting these places explained appar-
ent differences in custom, habit, social practice, and politics. Psychology,
along with natural science, could clarify regional types. This intersected
with how technologies came to define space across Brazil’s vast territory.
Unequal development of transportation and communications infrastruc-
ture along with the lack of physical human interchange between the North
and South helped turn these two spaces inaccessible to and almost un-
knowable to each other: separate worlds seeking to understand and con-
nect, just as Europe and Brazil regarded each other with curiosity across
the Atlantic. Actual visits were limited to a few elites—specialists and in-
trepid explorers from the South to the North, and the ritual movement of
the North’s political leaders to the capital city of Rio de Janeiro.
The urge to explore regional particularity was nonetheless still part of
a nationalist drive, an impulse to discover Brazil itself, that would take on
new emphasis in the 1920s. It is not a coincidence that in this moment,
the idea was floated to compile a Brazilian encyclopedia that would contain
information describing all the country’s diverse realities as a starting point
for formulating a politics of unification and nationalization; the stubborn
distances that impeded the emergence of the nation might thus be finally
transcended. Regionalisms have long been viewed as an impediment to
this sort of process of unification, but they are integral to it. They reveal
how the nation’s constituting was never a neutral or objective process
but a deeply political one, which was from the beginning bound up in
the hegemony of some spaces over others.2
The press played a key role in sparking curiosity about the nation
through wide publication of travelers’ letters and essays, especially be-
tween the 1920s and the 1940s. Already in those discourses a typology
of customs emerges: in the North, local habits come across as “bizarre if
friendly,” while northerners describe the ways of the South as “strange
and unscrupulous.” These recorded impressions help invent a tradition
in which the space from which one speaks is taken as the national point
of reference, assumed to be the country’s center. Customs here are the
national ones; customs we explore as visitors in other areas are regional,
the exceptions proving our rule. This creates multiple discursive centers.
In particular, Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, and Recife established themselves
as points of distribution for national reference and meaning. The differ-

16 chapter one
ences and “oddities” perceived elsewhere are marked as primitive and
archaic, as affectations and superficialities, or as corruptions attendant
on urban metropolitan life.3
Such accounts of the strange function to create an identity for the re-
gion that is speaking, not just for the region that is being spoken of. The
paulista and nordestino participate in each other’s construction, agree-
ing on the spatial boundaries of identity and imposing a homogeneity
through text and image that avoids internal difference and complexity. A
common subject in this era was custom—characteristic, traditional so-
cial practice or attitudes. Writers explore “customs of the North or North-
east” versus “customs of São Paulo,” basing their own production on
what they have read as much as on what they see. Here are some travel
notes submitted to the Estado de São Paulo in 1923:

Before arriving we already knew something through our reading

of this land of suffering, whose poor meadows boast only a spindly
heather, where there are rough craggy hills instead of mountains, the
people live in straw huts without floors, and the sky burns without
relent. No dew blesses the ground, and the rivers fade to dust. The
Northeast of Brazil received that designation only after the most re-
cent major calamity in 1919, after which it was determined to mount
a fight against the persistent droughts. . . . And waves of squalid wan-
derers journeyed to the bosom of the South to enjoy our infinite gen-
erosity, doubtless marveling at the misery there and the abundance
here and doubting whether to return.4

All at once, the author reaffirms a prior image of the Northeast ab-
sorbed before going there and, in counterpoint, constructs a comple-
mentary image of the South. He also calls attention to the precise mo-
ment at which the Northeast was delineated out of the older North, in a
manner that also depreciates the place and “its” people.
Such novel regionalist discourses were accompanied by new region-
alist practices that were related to wider changes in social relations along
the 1920s. For instance, in 1920, the following assertion was published
in a major São Paulo newspaper: “It is incontestable that the South of
Brazil, which is the region that runs from Bahia through Rio Grande do
Sul, presents a robust aspect of progress in its material life that stands in
grim contrast with state of abandon of the North, with its deserts and its
ignorance, its lack of hygiene, its poverty, its wan servility.”5

Geography in Ruins 17
The cohering focus on social and material differences between North
and South is routinely attributed to the presence of immigrant laborers
in the South, and their absence from the North. Abolition and the rapid
transition to a free market of wage labor, which in nascent form had
coexisted with the last years of slavery, were key elements in the new
reordering of Brazil’s spaces as well as the militant tone of the emer-
gent regionalisms. The regionalization of the labor market, shaped by
abolition and the concentration of European immigrants in the South
(especially São Paulo), helped induce a host of regionalist practices and
enunciations through the early twentieth century.
Some intellectuals, enchanted with the perceived superiority of the
immigrants to national stock, highlighted the figure of the nordestino as
the principal example of racial degeneration in its physical and mental
forms. Oliveira Vianna and Dionísio Cerqueira, for instance, considered
the downtrodden misery of the nordestino as the direct consequence
of the encounter between a harsh natural environment and a degraded
race, fruit of the “crossing between individuals of extreme lineages, a
submixture.” In contrast, the superiority of the “race” of paulistas was
declared in quasi-eugenic terms; they knew how to take advantage of the
more propitious environment in the South, and of course they would
ascend to national economic and political dominance. This superiority
was taken as natural, not historical, and the Northeast was deemed infe-
rior by its very nature. Paulistas’ reputation for a navel-gazing obsession
with their own city was denied as legend but implicitly justified as well.6
Such travel notes and other published essays show how strong the
naturalist perspective still was, how it endured across other historical
changes—and how modernism, which emerged in opposition to this
visibility and speakability of the nation, was far from having immediate
generalized impacts. Paulo de Moraes Barros, a journalist for the Estado
de São Paulo who was dispatched on a trip to Juazeiro, blamed the nor-
destinos’ racial inferiority for the presence of “loutish fanatics across the
entire region,” including the “crowds of rabble that supplicate and jabber
with wild-eyed expressions, grubbing in the dirt to get a hold of the priest’s
cassock.” The acts of “violent, villainous bandits” received the same racial
explanation, and an exasperated Barros demanded to know how such a
people could possibly serve as the base on which to construct a nation.7
Soon after its series of articles entitled “Impressions of the Northeast,”
this newspaper launched another called “Impressions of São Paulo” in

18 chapter one
order to construct an image of the city in counterpoint to the North-
east it had sketched. The strategy was to demonstrate the superiority of
São Paulo and its population, a superiority residing in the European ele-
ments of its bloodline. In these articles, the city appears as an empty space
that could be filled by earnest Europeans. Slavery and Afro-Brazilians
were barely mentioned; neither were Brazil’s indigenous, and even less
would racial crossings involving these groups be noted. São Paulo and
all its people were ostensibly Europeans. “They arrived crossing the At-
lantic, settled in and quickly adjusted to this fertile land, realizing the
grandness of their destiny through the production of abundance.” Even
the oldest generation of locals, who traced their heritage back to the early
centuries of colonial Brazil, were described as “always an exuberantly
productive race, strong in morals and physically eugenic,” in order to
distinguish them from other national groups.8
The regionalism of São Paulo was thus constructed as one of superi-
ority, rather than misery and lack; but it was based on negative compari-
sons with other Brazilian groups and the affirmation of European, white
lineage. In its discourse São Paulo appeared as the cradle of a proper
nation, a “civilized, progressive and developmentalist” nation. It was
also boldly, unsentimentally modern. Changes to the urban landscape
that included the destruction of old architecture such as the “Church of
Carmo, the Piques, and the Santa Casa street” represented the progress
of the new. The past made way for the future, in the form of incessant
community and business construction, “Americanized, metallic, and
sparkling.” These were symbols of a modernity and civilization that São
Paulo was uniquely able to produce, and to generalize to the rest of the
country. The modernist movement was also part of this enthusiastic em-
brace of the new urban world that seemed somehow to belong uniquely
to 1920s São Paulo. Even for most of the modernists, with their interest
in articulating national identity, the Northeast would appear as a “vast
medieval space” to be dominated by “modernizing influxes from São
Paulo.” The urbanization and modernization affecting cities across the
Northeast were largely unknown, because the Northeast’s own regional-
ist discourse cast it as a rural terrain wracked by disasters: a “regional-
ism of inferiority,” not of potential.9
Growing curiosity about this Northeast that was being invented as the
opposite of São Paulo is suggested by the success of a theatrical produc-
tion by Cornélio Pires that was presented to enthusiastic audiences at

Geography in Ruins 19
the Fênix Theater in 1926. Called Picturesque Brazil—Journeys of Cornélio
Pires to the North of Brazil, the play entertained the public with “odd, exotic,
strange, ridiculous aspects of our brothers and sisters in the North.” As a
dramatic type, the modern nordestino was born as an effective comedic
character that was laughed at, more than with, by desirable audience de-
mographics in the South.10
This cohering narrative occasionally stood at odds with the earlier con-
ceptions of the North as a place of pleasing natural wonder. Previously
internalized archives of images and enunciations could color a tourist’s
expectations and present a moment of incoherence in face of the sharp-
ening new identity based on harshness and privation. In the early 1940s,
Chiquinha Rodrigues, a correspondent for the O Estado de São Paulo who
traveled to the Northeast, at first struck a tone of gratified marvel. “In the
Northeast, such exuberant green growth! Here there is more rain than
anywhere else in Brazil. What causes the droughts, or so say the experts, is
the poor distribution of these generous rains.” But soon after, in the same
essay, she reveals more contemporary influences: “We must be pleased
for any oasis in this desert. . . . Let us uncover the mysteries of this singu-
lar region, where a world of sunlight nearly blinds us and the climate is
burning hot before it mellows to gentility.”11 The contradictions mount as
she expresses growing interest in the blood-red flowers of the cactus and
increasingly reaches to Euclides da Cunha’s ambivalent classic Os Sertões
(1902), written about the interior backlands of Bahia state, for descriptive
and analytic support. She seems at times to borrow whole phrases from da
Cunha: “The carpet of unyielding, aggressive weeds prevents any genuine
contact between a creature and the earth.” Or “Like a cruel woman, the
cabeça de frade [orb-shaped cactus] that lurks in reefs among the cactus
flowers to commit harm . . . All of it will burn and sting, all of it will pierce
our hands.” Still, “At the first rains, everything is transformed; the seeth-
ing variety of birds and butterflies are like a thousand flowers.”12 This
Northeast, then, is one of contrasts and contradictions, of seemingly in-
escapable confrontations with Euclides da Cunha.
The text makes clear that what it says of region is not a direct reflex
of what is seen in, or as, region. Words affect what the eyes see. The
two regimes, words and images, are independent. Region thus takes form
through discourses, images, and texts that may or may not have interrela-
tions or relationships of representation. The truth of the region is consti-
tuted through the negotiation between the visible and the speakable. The

20 chapter one
visibility of the region that emerges is constructed with the assistance of the
speakable, or struggling against it. Of course, not always does the spoken
become practice, or does a practice become transformed into discourse.
Discourses can make things visible, but the things they make visible might
be different from what they say. They are strategies of power that orient
parallels and divergences between the visible and the speakable, as well as
the contact between them. To speak and see are both methods to dominate
the regional object, even if they need not be in strict accordance.13
This multiplicity of foci that composes the image of a given space, a
given region, is artfully brought to the forefront in the articles by Mário
de Andrade that were collected in the volume O Turista Aprendiz (The Ap-
prentice Tourist). In these pieces, Andrade reflects on his travels through
the North and Northeast in 1927. With great subtlety, he considered the
simultaneity of various points of view—urban intellectuality, traditional
intellectuality, provincialism, primitivism—and generally avoided de-
scribing the places he went from the perspective of the South. He adopts
the perspective of an apprentice, hoping to be fully present in and learn
from his surroundings. That apprenticeship would lead to his novel Ma-
cunaíma the following year, in which Andrade imagines the nation as an
encounter of different epochs, spaces, images, and voices.14 His approach
was particularly influential on my thinking about region and nation. In
this book I am not interested in pursuing the “authentic” history of the
Northeast, or crafting its definitive interpretation. Rather, my goal is to
comprehend the production of the fundamental concept of the North-
east, and how it operates both beyond and within its boundaries.

The New Regionalism

The first regionalist discourses had begun to appear in the second half of
the nineteenth century, precisely at the same time that the nation itself
began to be imaginatively constructed through (and as a response to)
the political centralization of the empire. Reactions around the Brazilian
territory to the centralizing impulse were diverse and intense. Regional-
ism at the time bore the narrow contours of local and provincial concerns,
carrying with them the seeds of separatism.15
The regionalism that emerged later, in the 1920s, was different. It
transcended administrative boundaries of states and posited a greater

Geography in Ruins 21
spatial unity, at the same time that other forces were weakening tradi-
tional frames of spatiality in Brazil. The perception of this new space was
intimately bound up with transformations in technology; its primordially
natural and geographic definitions, once assumed, gave way under the
new gaze to a sense of artifice, of historical construction through social
processes. Urban growth and the expansion of transportation and com-
munications sped the denaturalization of space. In the major cities, di-
verse epochs, classes, meanings, and social customs were increasingly
jumbled together. As the traditional equilibrium of spaces was shat-
tered, geography itself seemed to collapse. The “real” lay in a pile of
jagged fragments that needed to be ordered again—not in the old ways,
but in new ones.
The new conception of region, born of this shifting of relations be-
tween space, subject, and object, also reflected transformations in the
disposition of knowledges—who should be known by whom, and how.
But more fundamentally, a novel way of seeing was also emerging, which
we might describe as a new discursive formation. Starting in the 1920s,
this would provoke the growth of a generalized regional consciousness,
diffused in the national space, that was able to connect both to individual
subjective existences and to the life of the collective itself.
Within this discursive formation, however, articulating regions (by
dearticulating them from the national whole) was not precisely a desired
outcome. It should be seen as a particular embodiment of the influence
of, again borrowing Foucault’s term, the dispositif of nationalities—a
series of anonymous rules and values that increasingly oriented West-
ern discourse and practice after the eighteenth century, which urged
people to overcome local loyalties and identify themselves into larger
abstract wholes called nations. Charters and negotiations were tools of
this dispositif, as were wars. Signs and symbols that connoted the nation
and impressed its influence on diverse subjectivities were highly sought
and widely distributed throughout national spaces. Within such an at-
mosphere of pressure to recognize the nation—to form it and integrate
it—diverse regional discourses clashed as they strove to make their own
customs, beliefs, and social relations the model for the nation and thus
expand their hegemony.
If the national-popular discursive formation conceived of the nation
as a process of homogenizing identities and realities, it was thus inevita-
bly accompanied by new revelations of a country fragmented into more

22 chapter one
sharply defined and championed regionalisms. Through internal and
external dialogues the materiality of these regions became codified. Ima-
ges, texts, and practices could distinguish them, even if this also meant
reducing the complexity of each region to a few easily identifiable tropes.
For the Northeast, elements such as banditry, messianism, and tradi-
tional clientelist politics cohered as defining symbols even as other ones
were ignored and left in the shadows. But the choices were not random.
They were guided by the diverse interests at play both within the North-
east and in its relations with other regions, as national identity was being
fervently debated. Determining the identity of the nation would mean that
some regional identities would be destroyed or discredited, and others
affirmed. In the modernist view, identity was an essence that was op-
posed to difference, and invigorated by the contrast. In that sense, the
image of “region” must be continually reelaborated through changing
strategies; it is a dynamic construct. Regionalist discourse does not
distort the truth of a given region; it is the engine that produces and
institutes such truths in the national context. This takes us beyond the
question of mimicry in classical epistemology, in which discourse was a
copy of the real. In modernity, such discourse contributes to the creation
of their own objects, shaped by political strategies as well as historical
forces (including social and economic). The Northeast is such a histori-
cal production of images and discourses, and its formulation has proven
stubbornly resistant to revisions or new configurations of its “truths.”
The figures, signs, and themes that have been selectively polished and
emphasized as regional markers impose their truthiness through rep-
etition and internal consistency. They can then be used themselves as
the foundation for new discourses and theoretical analyses of the most
self-justifying sorts: indeed, the enunciations of the Northeast have been
factored into and replicated through diverse naturalist, positivist, cultur-
alist, Marxist, and structuralist paradigms.
Regionalist discourse cannot be reduced to something that merely de-
scribes subjects; rather, it institutes them. Space is a subjective dimen-
sion that doubles on itself, producing subjectivities who then engage
in their own production of images and discourses, which enter deeper
societal currents. Thus, the “new” subjects of the region become agents
and vehicles for those same regional enunciations. Regional conscious-
ness does not emerge or emanate from any one individual but from mul-
tiple points that are gradually understood as unified. Intellectuals are

Geography in Ruins 23
especially susceptible to this form of space consciousness, because they
tend to be far removed from the actual centers of political and economic
power (a distance that is geographic, perhaps, as well as measured in
terms of the capability for intervention). A regionalist intellectual chafes
at the distance from the metropolis, which dominates and radiates
power and culture. Discourses of regionalization that also denounce the
intellectual’s distance from the center and lack of power take on bitter
undertones of lack, and of victimization.
It should be noted that some so-called national intellectuals have
praised regionalism. Sampaio Ferraz, for example, argues that a deep
connection to one’s region of birth does not detract from nationalist senti-
ment but is a critical prerequisite to the transfer of such feelings to more
abstract nation itself. Similarly, the modernists thought that regional con-
sciousness represented the initial stages of national consciousness. But
it was therefore an evolutionary stage to be transcended on the way to
experiencing the national collective. For Graça Aranha, aesthetic region-
alism provided one mode of expression among many others; it should
never be a goal of art, which must have universal aspirations (a universe
in which the status of nations was secured).16
Modernist projects hoped to incorporate the different actual Brazils
into one, which would effectively counter the elite mission to camouflage
Brazil with the trappings of an imposed Frenchness. Studying and un-
derstanding regional variations was an important part of these projects,
but it was undertaken ultimately in order to figure out how to homogenize
them—to reconcile them into a discovered Brazilian unity. Macunaíma is
structured around spatial oppositions: distinct and contrasting cultural
geographies, most essentially the construction of bourgeois, civilized
capitalist space and the primitive, precapitalist, traditional space. The
factory or theater versus the virgin forest. Mário de Andrade believed
that Brazil lacked a traditional cultural identity, which his generation
of artists and intellectuals could help provide. On the whole Brazilian
modernism differed from the European vanguard in that while the lat-
ter was trying to break with tradition, the former was hoping to create
and cultivate it. Even though Brazilian culture was thought to depend
on the interventions of erudite specialists rather than the unearthing of
raw, elemental popular culture, Andrade was nonetheless enchanted by
the suggestive figure of the (occasionally, selectively) cannibalistic Tupi.17
For him, Brazilian identity had the resilient habit of folding back on the

24 chapter one
local, and local variability; that was why artists had difficulty in feeling
and expressing Brazil in toto, without resorting to regional articulations
or references to regional “color.”
Also working within this attitude, art critic João Ribeiro argued that
aspiring national painters should start by capturing the various regional
types and scenes that would “produce the national space.” It was impor-
tant to represent the collectivity of people that “work, struggle, and suffer,
in that way knitting the rough solidarity of a Brazilian population with-
out rivalries based on birth, language, or religion.” However, the nation
here was founded only on the sum of these hoarded images. Naturalist
paintings should freeze and inventory these diverse manifestations of
the nation, registering them as regional variations with the belief that
their distinctions would disappear. They were primitive steps leading to
homogeneous, adult nationhood.18

Regionalist Literature
Brazilian literature had borne currents of regionalism since at least the
middle of the nineteenth century, when there was a subtle shift from
describing landscapes with a sort of timeless realism to asserting a ge-
nealogical connection between geographical areas and their populations
(usually their elites). With time a new narrator was consolidated—the
voice of provincial oligarchy, writing the history of their patches of space
by reference to dominant extended families. The participation of vari-
ous period intellectuals in this diffuse enterprise ensured that it was
entwined with nationalism by the time of the Proclamation of the Republic
in 1889. The clash between these diverse regional-national histories has
not received the attention it should because of other more dramatic pe-
riod segmentations, such as those between classes and ideologies, between
schools of art and artistic styles, or between intellectuals and the state (a
blunt framework of opposition that has tended to ignore how the processes
were manifest throughout society).19
Antonio Candido believed that regionalism was a critical step in the
definition of local consciousness: “Our nationalism was once forged out
of regional postures. But premodernist regionalism was based on myths
and legends—artificial, pretentious, creating a subaltern consciousness
easily condescended to within Brazil. It was as if a European gaze was

Geography in Ruins 25
invited to scrutinize our most typical realities. The man in the field was
viewed as picturesque, whimsical, ludicrous.”20
The notion that the regional was by definition a parade of relics, rare
and in danger of disappearing under progress, underlay this view. The
narratives attempted to rescue it from oblivion but by doing so further
ensconced it within the bounds of antiquary. Elements of folklore and
(particularly rural) popular culture were emphasized as regional content
often within an authorial tone of distance and superiority.
Regionalist literature was slightly different in that it aimed to define
Brazilianness through its very diversity and the continuing coexistence
of multiple social and historical landscapes. From the beginning of
the twentieth century, this literature demonstrated a keen interest in the
environment—a naturalist/realist approach to comprehending social
environments that were becoming seemingly less natural all the time
with the expansion of capitalism and bourgeois social relations. But
such naturalist literature was also firmly rooted in a tropical, emotional,
sensual sense of Brazilian identity and culture that was understood to
distinguish it from European literature, which was taken as lacking the
basis of environmental and racial influences shaping Brazilian art and
psychology.21
Euclides da Cunha’s Os Sertões (Rebellion in the Backlands), pub-
lished in 1906, is generally considered the seminal example of this na-
tional culture production rooted in naturalism. In no uncertain terms
it cast off the illusion that Brazil was somehow a European nation and
called for a reckoning with its actual American character. For the Bra-
zilian reader Os Sertões emphasized both the examination of our own
land, customs, traditions, and people independent of European catego-
rizations, and the strong influence of the natural world in shaping the
character of our race-in-formation. It sketched out the elements and pa-
rameters that future artists and intellectuals would use in trying to ex-
plain our national identity; and in later decades, critics attributed to it the
quickening tendency among Brazilian writers to search experimentally
in their work for the true Brazil.
What Os Sertões also inescapably did was furnish a new repertoire
of images and enunciations for various regional discourses. Within its
pages appears an essential and influential opposition: São Paulo versus
Northeast, and paulista versus sertanejo (a person from the northeastern
backlands, the sertão). Euclides da Cunha both affirmed the dichotomy

26 chapter one
and provided a solution for it by indicating the presence of paulistas
or their descendants in the rural Northeast. São Paulo was thus the
provider of national unity, in a formulation of social geography that
carefully excluded the Northeast’s coast and the problematic potential
for interbreeding with Afro-Brazilians there. Despite his own ambiva-
lence marking the text with respect to the character and cost of national
progress, da Cunha was widely interpreted as revealing the man of the
backlands as a sort of national hero whose essential paulista character
would help assure the possibility of constructing a shared nationhood.
Of course, he has also been read differently, since his text is rich in curi-
ous interpenetrations of myth and history, art and science.22
The problem of a polarity between rural interior and the coast in Brazil
deserves further mention. This would also be picked up by diverse artists
and become a sort of archetypical question surrounding Brazilian culture,
because within discussions of nationalism and civilization the coast repre-
sented a peculiar space with a history of external connections through the
multiple landings of colonizers, and an enduring Atlantic bridge to Eu-
rope and European culture. In contrast, the interior appears as a redoubt
of nationality, protected from foreign influences. In this context the sertão
becomes more an emotional space than an objectively measured territory.
It is shot through with evocative forces combining aspects of geography,
linguistics, and culture and lifeways, as well as historical elements such as
banditry, plantation estates, drought, messianism, migrant exoduses, and
so on. The sertão incorporates all these images into a tapestry rich with
emotional significations, national yet exotic, defined in contrast to the
metropolitan cities and ports along the littoral. In that sense a plausible
case could be made for the interior as the soul of the country, even if its
roots remain obscured.23 This construct of the sertão provided a new me-
dium for nationalist intellectuals to develop critiques of what they saw as
a culture of importation, the insistence on external cultural models, and
the nation’s subservience to its coastal developments. The patriotic west-
ward march became a fixation, taking yet another form in the 1930s when
President Getúlio Vargas embraced it as a geopolitical strategy to more
fully integrate Brazil’s interior with the nation.
But early on, and for many observers, the relationship between sertão
and civilization was regarded as mutually exclusive. The culture of the
sertão is traditional, precivilization, a folkloric bedrock for the establish-
ment of national culture. Nonetheless da Cunha, as well as Monteiro

Geography in Ruins 27
Lobato, believed that civilization should be carried to the sertão in a way
that would both rescue and modernize it. Lobato’s Urupês (published
1918), one of the first books to take head-on the exotic regionalism of
the previous decades, featured critique and sarcasm in deploring the ab-
sence of policies to modernize the sertão even as it seemed to cast doubt
on the capacities of the people who lived there through suggesting they
were by nature lazy and indolent. But he called for a Brazilian vanguard
to integrate the sertão into the flows of national, not European-derived,
civilization.24 For him the true Brazil was the Brazil of the backlands:
the fields and villages, not the cities. “Brazil is not and could never be an
extension of São Paulo, a twig grafted onto the branch of Italy—nor of
Rio de Janeiro, which clings to its Portuguese artifices. No, Brazil resides
in the interior, where the rugged, simple men dress in crude leather and
spend their days breaking ponies; it is in the cactus parched by drought.
It is not to be found among the polished, foppish folk in the coastal cit-
ies, their emotions and energies drained in the pursuit of imported and
pointless distractions.”25
But this sort of naturalist regionalism was not easily reconciled with
how modernism was reconfiguring the relation between space and the
gaze, within larger transformations of the spatialization of social rela-
tions. Modernism was opposed to naturalist regionalism, in that it de-
sired the integration of regional elements into the national whole. The
movement might itself be characterized as a sort of regional or provin-
cial upsurge against the cultural and academic prominence of Rio de
Janeiro, and it drew momentum and intellectual ammunition from the
competing regionalism of São Paulo—Brazil’s economic powerhouse
with its own growing political base. Mário de Andrade openly recognized
the centrality of a São Paulo aesthetics to the modernist movement.26
His Pauliceia Desvairada (published 1921) sang praises of the maternal
city and made it clear that modernism would reelaborate regionalism,
not abandon it. The modernists’ particular aversion to regionalism was
part of a political strategy intended to unify the cultural space of the na-
tion based on São Paulo, and some of their projects even fed into the
ambitions of paulista politicians to expand their federal hegemony. The
Municipal Culture Department of the City of São Paulo, directed by An-
drade, had as part of its mission to “contribute to the formation of the
Brazilian man, in general and collective, who will be uniquely able to
conserve our national identity.” This department’s projects and research

28 chapter one
initiatives went far beyond the boundary of the municipality, since it was
created as a sort of trial run for the intended Brazilian Culture Institute,
which would serve as a base for the nationalization of the modernists’
aesthetic codes.27
Ultimately, what modernism did was to incorporate the regional
dimension into an unstable visibility and speakability that oscillated
between cosmopolitanism and nationalism, while leaving behind the ex-
otic and picturesque naturalist elements. These were reworked in order
to efface their difference, or sometimes to reify it, but within a gaze that
rejected European subjectivities. Regional signifiers took on new sheen
and new depths of meaning through their association with the modern-
ist discourses such that, for instance, the cactus was uprooted from its
dry northeastern environment to serve as a symbol of Brazilianness, of
primitivism or bitterness in the national experience, and it became part
of the visual vocabulary of painters such as Tarsila do Amaral.28
Prior to modernism, regionalism operated within a naturalist para-
digm of describing landscapes and cataloguing detailed descriptions of
the spatialized typical. The Brazilian nation was the assemblage of these,
but lacking an overarching structure of images and discourses to lend
it unity. The modernists adapted those “facts” and details into signs, re-
arranging them into a new vision and text of Brazil. They centralized
meanings by channeling all that dispersed information through a pro-
cess of interpretation and redistribution—something Mário de Andrade
referred to as “extinguishing regionalisms by decentralizing intelli-
gence.”29 Of course, this demonstrated that Andrade believed that intel-
ligence had been earlier centralized among the modernists themselves.
São Paulo is erected as the gateway for modernism into Brazil, since it
is a modern city of mass culture, ostensibly the “only non-folkloric and
non-traditional city” in the country, even though both Oswald de Andrade
and Mário de Andrade would elsewhere point out the contradictions in
and limits to modernism in São Paulo.

North versus South

The naturalist regionalism criticized by the modernists, as well as the
regionalist sentiment running between the North and South since the
latter part of the nineteenth century, contributed to the emergence of a

Geography in Ruins 29
new space called the Northeast. Along with environment, race and cli-
mate were other key discursive cleavages in the separation of space. For
some time, Nina Rodrigues had raised warnings about the possible forg-
ing of distinct national identities between the white civilization of the
South and the black and mixed-race civilization of the North. In his ac-
count these populations were distinguished by social attitudes deriving
from a sort of racial response to the weather: indolence, passivity, and
subservience in the North contrasted with the persistence and industri-
ousness of the South.30 The American Civil War had been accompanied
with keen interest by many observers in Brazil because of the possibility
it suggested of conflict and separation between two race-coded regions
with distinct rhythms of development.
Oliveira Vianna, writing in the 1920s and 1930s, extended the rhetoric.
He argued that the South, embodied in São Paulo, was the “polarizing
center of the Aryan elements of our nationality . . . home to an aristocracy
superior in morals and psychology.” The South would provide a foun-
dation to the nation, rather than those areas “dominated by the lower-
class, plebian strata, the mongrels, indolent fruit of the mixture of savage
bloodlines.” In other words, people inferior to the robust and industrious
southern stock, with its complement of European genetics. Vianna be-
lieved the destiny of the North was to be subjugated by the South, domi-
nated by its influences, its vitality undercut by the South’s attractions as a
place to live and to work. The more eugenically fit members of the North’s
population would tend to migrate south, depriving the region of its most
active, energetic members and deepening its squalor and degeneration.
And indeed the fact of these migratory movements at the time contributed
to the reordering of space in Brazil, because it brought populations who
knew little of each other into sudden direct contact. Many of the endur-
ing stereotypes that came to mark these different spaces and populations
began to cohere and gain distribution in this period.
Vianna worried that such “racial, psychological and moral” divisions
impacted the political organization of Brazil, resulting in a chaos of
oligarchies and diffuse loyalties. This was thought to leave the country
more vulnerable to foreign pressures and inhibit the formation of a na-
tional spirit, much less a genuine nation-state to validate it.31 Rodrigues
speculated that while the North’s tropical climate and entrenched under-
development would favor the persistence of “black” social and cultural
elements (including a certain roguish intelligence that was quick yet

30 chapter one
turbulent and too prone to inertia), in the South the starker climate and
more impressive civilization would work to cleanse the darker sociocul-
tural stains that might appear as a result of migration.32
Such debates reflected the concerns shared by many: that the North,
or perhaps even the entire country, was doomed to a state of backward-
ness due to the substantial mixed-race character of the population and
the influence of tropical climate. According to the disciplines of an-
thropogeography and biotypology, which had fervent adherents across
Brazil, neither were the tropics adequate for the establishment of true
civilization, nor were African descendants and miscegenated peoples ca-
pable of civilization at all. The heat and humidity wore down both body
and mind, especially if the blood was already weak, resulting in society’s
enfeeblement and superficiality.33 The North was thus condemned to
decadence because of climate and race. Resonant discourses emerged
from around the country to explain the country’s apparent backward-
ness, but also to proclaim the “providential appearance of an invigorat-
ing injection of European blood, since the denizens of the North are
generally small and frail, with notorious skeletal defects especially in the
thoracic, cervical and cranial areas that lead them to age prematurely.”34
Invocations of the weather had taken on political overtones in region-
alist rhetoric since 1877, when the first major drought occurred. It was
a theme that both mobilized action and touched emotions. It served as
the basis to request financial help, to develop infrastructure, to dedicate
administrative positions, and so on. Initiatives related to drought and
the “drought industry” became a constant and highly lucrative pursuit
in the most affected northern states, particularly as these coincided with
the decline of the states’ traditionally principal economic activities: agri-
cultural production, namely sugar and cotton. Drought became a rally-
ing point around which diverse northern politicians could unify. All other
state problems and social questions were interpreted according to their
relationship with natural calamity. The various manifestations of dom-
inated groups against their oppressors, from banditry to messianism
(even the general state of underdevelopment already affecting the states
in different ways) were attributed to drought, with solutions to drought
called for as a way to simultaneously solve all such issues.35
The year 1877 is of fundamental importance. The drought that year
was interpreted as giving a fatal blow to the North in its implicit com-
petition with the South for national supremacy. The balance of power

Geography in Ruins 31
changed, as power shifted southward. Gilberto Freyre analyzed how the
drought impacted other social practices already underway to the detri-
ment of the North. Brazil was transitioning away from slavery, with the
Law of the Free Womb in 1871, ensuring that children born of slaves
would be free. The end of slavery in Brazil was thus visible within a gen-
eration or so. But for Freyre, the drought actually hastened the signing
of the law of outright abolition since it resulted in the massive transfer
of slaves and ex-slaves to the South, regionalizing the labor market and
destroying longstanding Afro-Brazilian solidarities in the North. Con-
tributing to this trauma, Freyre noted, was the parallel out-migration of
many northern intellectuals to the South after 1877.36
The discourse of drought, with its appendices of travails and misery,
helped catalyze the unification of regional interests as well as broader po-
litical and economic practices conceived as involving “all the states subject
to this climatic phenomenon.” The horrific descriptions all tend toward
the composition of both a mappable space and the image of a region
“abandoned and marginalized by public officials.” The drought was the
point of unity for diverse northern interests to raise their various com-
plaints to the national level, at the cost of converging around a shared
vocabulary of weather-based misery and suffering. It also provoked new
solidarity among these actors. Suddenly a shared common cause and dis-
course was found between the landholders in the once sugar-rich interior
Zona da Mata and the urban businessmen, between the cotton farmers
and the cattle ranchers. What Freyre called the “regional elite” began to
coalesce, and it was resolutely able to survive for many decades around
these same shared arguments. Of course, not everyone in the South was
sympathetic. In 1919, the magazine Spartacus published a rebuke of the
North’s drought discourse, calling it “one of the most awful frauds in
even these decadent days . . . an orgy at the nation’s expense.”37
Banditry and messianic movements, long disdained by elites across
Brazil, became swept into the drought discourse as social symptoms of
calamity. They became yet another reason to argue for intervention, for
“investing in the modernization of the North.” That connection was re-
jected by, among others, the journalist Lourenço Filho, who attributed
such phenomena to the “innate violence and natural fanaticism of the
peoples of the North.”38 Messianism in particular contributed to the con-
struction of an image of the Northeast in the South, in large part due to

32 chapter one
the developments at Canudos as reported by Euclides da Cunha in the
newspaper O Estado de São Paulo. Later, in the 1920s, the circumstances
surrounding Padre Cícero reinforced the idea of the Northeast as an
atmosphere of inexplicable extremes, of fanaticism, a characterization
that haunts it to the present day. In 1925, in an exercise of reification,
the aforementioned newspaper dispatched Lourenço Filho to Juazeiro
to describe what he “sees,” and the reporting ardently recirculated im-
ages and enunciations borrowed from Euclides da Cunha. The North
appears, the journalist wrote, “to be retreating incessantly into the past, at
least to the eyes of this southern observer. Life seems to grind to a halt, or
even more shocking, to be tending toward the opposite of evolution and
progress. Each day of the journey seems to take me back another twenty
years. People, habits, aesthetic and religious manifestations, ideas and be-
liefs, everything disappears into the emptiness of a voiceless echo from
times lost. . . . The very language sustains archaic forms from the early
days of the colony, forms that have long since vanished from the metro-
politan Portuguese that once conveyed them.”
The journalist’s description of Juazeiro is a direct echo of how Eu-
clides da Cunha had described the region earlier: “All of the people insist
on maintaining the same old superstition, the same blind fanaticism,
caught in a sickness of the past.” Filho also associated religious extrem-
ism with lunacy; the title of one of his articles was “In the Kingdom
of Insanity.” It is against this kingdom, he proclaimed that “reason
revolts. . . . All around are people whose faces bear the scars and sunken
expression of penitence, their bodies bent and twisted in the intensity of
their belief. We feel no urge to laugh, but to make a desperate appeal to
reason—to protest, to shout, to bring back to reality these stupid human
dregs who have been so exploited. Yet the same clarity of reason leads
us to understand the danger in doing this, as these poor souls would
take it only as a gesture of criticism or condemnation of them, not their
pathetic lot.”39
His startled but rationalizing gaze falls again and again to scenes of
“bizarreness, discordance and the off-putting.” He carefully selects vivid
instances of the strange or exotic, enshrining it as what passes for “typi-
cal” there: from the rank cactus flowers, a jarring white or bright red,
like a seeping wound pouring out from the very rocks; the women who
placidly “pick insects from the children’s heads”; the resting of feet on

Geography in Ruins 33
the walls when seated, and so on. All these images fulfill the precon-
ceived notion of the North’s backwardness and incivility as compared
with the South.40
Banditry was another theme that, highlighted in the “discourse of the
North” as a testament to the dangerous consequences of drought and the
lack of state involvement in the area, congealed into a stigma of vio-
lence tainting anyone from the region. This fear of northern unruliness
that was long brewing in the South cannot be dissociated from how the
South was contending with the movements of at first slaves, then former
slaves (a general exodus of Afro-Brazilians southward that expanded with
abolition) into new milieus of labor and social relations. These northern
slaves, challenged by the different forms of privation they now faced in
the South, tended to rebel; and this at a time when consciousness of the
possible immanence of abolition was widespread. The image of the “bad
Negro from the North” quickly entered into the discourses of abolitionists
and anti-abolitionists alike, such as those delivered at the Provincial As-
sembly of São Paulo. 41 Here was a bipartisan contribution from the South
to the North’s connotations of savagery and unruliness, still in the late
nineteenth century.
By the 1920s, the figure of the bandit (cangaço) would reinforce the
idea that nordestinos were inherently violent, and the Northeast a terri-
tory untouched by law beyond the grubby hegemony asserted by local
oligarchies of toughs. Urbanites from within the Northeast itself were
participants in the spinning of this narrative. It was they who most ar-
dently and fearfully collected the tales of the outlaws’ exploits, tales that
nearly always were founded on the same premise: the disastrous contact
between bandits and vulnerable enclaves of civilization. A dusty band
of brigands would ride into a town somewhere in the interior, and pro-
ceed to sack it; they would indiscriminately kill people and livestock with
their rifles or machetes. Homes would be invaded, structures burned,
property (which at that time was conceived as including daughters and
wives) stolen and/or abused. Banditry provided one of the key genres
of narrative that received space in the South’s newspapers, along with
religious fanatics, droughts, and the occasional family feud notable for
its bloodiness. Such discourses helped mark a conceptual-territorial line
between regions; the South was constructed as civilized and civilizing,
moral, and rational—everything the North was not, while the North was
an example of what the South could not allow itself to be.42

34 chapter one
These images would impregnate the region of the Northeast, conceiv-
ing of it and laying the foundation for its materiality. This would be the
Northeast of the “parched and implacable stretches, where the violent ca-
ress of the sun left the earth cracked and effaced of green. All around, des-
iccation, and its partner death. Not a drop of water anywhere.” A North-
east where “even if one seems to be able to flee it the desert returns, arid
and mournful, and the grim-faced people wander through it to nowhere
leading animals so thin their skeletons squeal as they grind.”43
Wherever and in whatever guise the discourses of the North
circulated—in the southern press, among the naturalist intellectuals, in
accounts of the droughts—the North appears as a place whose inferior-
ity seems ordained by environmental and racial conditions, even though
it was also maintained that state investment could resolve the problems
and modernize the region. The rapid development in the South, notably
São Paulo, was explained by its climatic and racial superiority. This supe-
riority seemed to assure its own noble destiny: to be the engine “pulling
the derailed train of a tropical and mixed-race nation.” By contrast, the
North was naturally backward. It was through a reelaboration of the im-
ages and enunciations of the North that the Northeast would emerge, as
part of a new social sensibility in relation to state and nation and a new
way to see national spaces.

Geography in Ruins 35
T W O S P AC E S O F N O S TA LG I A

Stories of Tradition
tr aditionalist reterritorialization

“But there are moments that mark us deeply . . .

Made, in each one of us
From eternities and seconds,
Whose longing extinguishes the voice.
And life goes on weaving knots
Almost impossible to undo
Everything that we love are pieces
Alive, from our own beings.”
Manuel Bandeira, “A vida assim nos afeiçoa” (A Cinza das Horas), in Poesias, 33

The Portuguese word saudade has no direct English translation; applied to

a range of human experience it conveys longing, nostalgia, homesickness,
the desire for something that was. The central feeling is lack or loss. It is
a personal sentiment of one who perceives that she is losing important
pieces of herself, or the places that made her who she is. But it can also
be a collective sentiment, affecting a community that loses its spatial or
temporal referents, a social class that loses its position of power to history.
The region of the Brazilian Northeast, which appeared in the coun-
try’s imaginary landscape soon after the turn of the twentieth century
to replace the older division between North and South, was founded in
nostalgia and tradition. This book follows the history of that process,
and the continual reinvention of the Northeast through the interaction
of multiple practices and discourses. Its origins are not simple and lin-
ear, although such an argument is useful in denying that the Northeast
is still being actively invented today. For if the Northeast is not a politi-
cal and cultural production, it must be a timelessly neutral and natural
object.1 But how was it that this “Northeast” became shaped into some-
thing adequate for so many uses and applications—academic studies,
museum expositions, themes of novels and telenovelas, films, paint-
ings, plays, political rhetoric, economic policies? Why, and how, was the
region born under the sign of nostalgia? What political consequences
have there been to its immersion in tradition?
The appearance of the Northeast can be explained in part as a reaction
to the nationalist strategies put into motion through the dispositif of na-
tionalism and the discursive formation of the national-popular. It cannot
be attributed to particular individuals, families, or groups. It represented
a new type of regionalism, although one sedimented in qualities of tradi-
tion and nostalgia for the past. The Northeast emerged as the construction
of a political-cultural totality that was fostered by the shocking sense of
loss among traditional elite producers of cotton and sugar, as well as the
merchants and intellectuals linked to them through an immense web of
connections. Their economic and social dissolution was connected to the
rise of a larger totality, not dominated by them: the nation. Diverse forces
coalesced around the idea of the new regional space, particularly with
the public works and other policies directed at it as a space defined by
drought. Old competitors who found themselves in this new region laid
aside many of their differences and discovered a new equality, a shared
sense of struggle against the ostensible threats from invading forces. The
discovery of this region was not just parallel with new nationalist senti-
ment, but a reaction to it and another face of it.2
Once beginning to be glimpsed, the new region was researched as-
siduously: analyses based in naturalism and economic and social history
accrued. But the finer texture of regional social memory, culture, and
artistic expressions were also elaborated, as these were central to the
institutionalization of the place. Particular images, texts, and practices
would be mobilized to help shape the way to see and speak the region;
its visibility and speakability had to be ordered through fixed symbolic
codes. The Northeast first began to appear once people looked for it to
find its elements of shared identity and the homogeneity of its space.

from north to northeast

Initially, the term “Northeast” was used to designate the area of opera-
tions of the Federal Inspectorate of Works against Droughts (Inspetoria
Federal de Obras Contra as Secas, ifocs), created in 1919. In this insti-
tutional gaze, the Northeast began to be mapped as a territory within the

Spaces of Nostalgia 37
North that was particularly subject to extreme dry seasons, and hence
deserving of special federal attention. Ever since the great drought of
1877, arid weather has played a key role in the discursive parameters of
the area. Those discourses, and the social and political practices related
to them, gradually helped encourage the idea that the Northeast was a
specific entity outside of the North proper.3
Very early in that process, it was droughts that first attracted the atten-
tion of journalists in the South regarding the existence of the North and
its particular problems. The droughts provided a definitive intervention
in the differentiation between North and South at a time when natural
environment and race were considered determining factors of social or-
ganization. Newspapers and other entities in the South sponsored char-
ity drives, with names of benefactors dignified in publications. Indirect
though it was, this provided a form of contact between populations that
did not then have much direct exchange because of the lack of trans-
portation infrastructure. Oswald de Andrade, during a visit to Recife in
1925, commented on the ignorance in the South regarding that city even
though it was already one of the largest in Brazil. The first series of im-
ages of the North that was published in the South focused on visible
effects of the drought, notably its human and animal victims. It was
through such spectacles and associated reporting, as well as themed par-
ties, lectures and other events to collect charitable contributions, that
southerners learned of their “brothers in the North.”4
In such texts produced in the early 1920s, the terms North and North-
east are used as synonyms, which suggests the consensus idea of a dis-
tinctive Northeast had not yet crystallized. Several reports from 1920
show their period interchangeability: “There will be tonight at the Hélio
Cinema a children’s performance to benefit the victims of the drought
in the Brazilian Northeast. . . . Directors of the Harmony Society and or-
ganizers of the grand ball to benefit the victims of the north’s drought.”5
Simultaneously at this time, discourses begin to appear that suggest a
separation between the area of the Amazon and the western reaches of the
North. This was provoked principally by the migration of laborers to the
forests to work as rubber tappers, a migration that threatened the supply
of workers for the traditional fieldwork of the eastern part of the North.
Economic interests within the “region” seemed to diverge, although one
critic suggested that the end result would harm both places equally: “The
Brazilian political attitude with respect to the North of the country repre-

38 chapter two
sents the formal negation of civilization. It is completely and fundamen-
tally wrongheaded in every aspect, and will only serve to sow gloom and
disaster in the Amazon, reducing it to desert, while increasing the desola-
tion and social misery among the populations of the Northeast.”6
The institutionalization of the Northeast would require a shift in how
people in the North viewed space, identity, and power relations. Tradi-
tionally, the state was the most important geographical entity, although
even within states, independent oligarchies typically held sway over
smaller domains. These provincial interests as well as the official state
interests would have to merge and unite around (that is, within) the con-
cept of the Northeast region.7 And it was the South, even more than the
“leftover” western territory of the North that the Northeast had separated
itself from, that would provide a unifying negative reference point. The
South was the counter or other to what the Northeast was discovering
itself to be: a subaltern space of defeat, bereft of hopes to aspire to na-
tional dominance.
A generalized sensation of exclusion, prejudice, and inferiority in re-
lation to the South was experienced in 1878, when Rio de Janeiro held
an Agricultural Congress that was ostensibly national in scope but that
snubbed the North by inviting no northern representatives. The next
year, in direct response, the North held its own Agricultural Congress
in Recife. There, the focus was on issues of regional interest such as
the recent drought, crises in sugar production, and the effects of the
transfer of slaves from North to South. In addition, participants aired
acrid critiques of the discriminatory practices of the imperial state with
respect to providing unequal investment, fiscal and labor policy, and in-
frastructure to the North.8 But the drought of 1877 (lasting through 1879)
resulted in unprecedented media attention in the South, especially as it
was detrimental not just to the lower strata of society but to landholders,
merchants, and the entire commercial sector. Resources were directed
to the North, and more were demanded by the assembling coterie of
“northeasterners” in Parliament who recognized they had a new plat-
form to both request assistance and demand equal treatment with the
South. Drought-related discourses quickly informed the political initia-
tives of all the northern states so afflicted.9
This northeastern group in Parliament managed to insert an article
in the Constitution of 1891 obliging the union to dedicate special funds
for the rescue of places and peoples who suffer natural disaster (which

Spaces of Nostalgia 39
would of course include droughts). The institutionalization of droughts
would progressively open more administrative spaces within the state
for groups from the North/Northeast. Nowhere was this clearer than in
the creation of the first dedicated agency, the Institute of Public Works
against Droughts (Instituto de Obras Contra as Secas, iocs) in 1909,
which immediately became the locus for the official production of a re-
gionalist discourse that decried the republic’s favoritism of São Paulo
and Minas Gerais in the spheres of investment and public policy.10
Ten years later, in 1919, with the reorganization of the iocs into the
ifocs, associated politicians and intellectuals were determined to elimi-
nate the disparate meanings that still obscured the contours of the precise
area that the agency was designed to assist. They attempted to construct
precise (and precisely wedded) images and texts to bring definition to the
region. Their stated goal was to do away with the “various Northeasts that
clog the newsstands and bookstores, some of them sincere, others not.”11
The Northeast needed to be seen and read clearly, in one direction, so that
its truth-effects could produce a more efficient politics.
At the Congress of Sugar Producers in Recife in 1920, feverish de-
nunciations of the “privileges of the South, particularly as regards cof-
fee” took on a separatist tone. During a period of crisis in the sugar
market and wider trends of agricultural modernization that put yet more
pressure on traditional producers, who relied on subsidies from their
state governments, the congress leaders prioritized the creation of com-
mon regional ground for their discourses of victimization. Here was
diagrammed the basic antipathy between the Northeast and São Paulo
that would direct all further discussions regarding nation, region, and
national identity. In the Parliament that same year, with the rallying cry to
combat political discrimination, representatives from the northern states
formed the so-called Northern Bloc in order to bring unity and visibility
to their individual states’ demands.12
Banditry, and the necessary measures to combat it, provided another
motive for discourses and practices rooted in a northern solidarity within
the nation’s congress. Like natural disasters, banditry was well suited as
a unifying point because it disregarded state boundaries and called for
more collective action and cooperation. The integration of the states into
a regional repressive apparatus directly informed how the region took
shape, in this context around fear of chaos: hordes of disgruntled poor,
and the violent exploits of the outlaws, suggested preconditions of revolt

40 chapter two
from below. The sensation of economic fragility that tormented the tra-
ditional producers of cotton and sugar joined with their fear of rebel-
lion and violent rout. This stirred the regionalized preoccupation with
uniting forces to counter the disorder emerging from the popular sec-
tor, which also included the messianic movements and their separatist,
revolutionary potential. The region was being constructed in a manner
to close in on and secure power relations, guaranteeing the maintenance
of old hierarchies.
Outside the political sphere, centers of higher education were impor-
tant loci for the elite development of regional consciousness and regional
discourse. The young scions of dominant families from diverse north-
ern states tended to make their way to Recife, the cultural, commercial,
medical, and academic “metropolis of the north.” They attended univer-
sity (there or in neighboring Olinda), usually law school. Since the late
nineteenth century, these institutions had been important venues for the
production of regionalist thought and a new common sense about region.
They had produced the region’s intellectuals, except for the most elite few
who managed to pursue their studies abroad. Here, future politicians and
opinion makers exchanged ideas and developed networks of collegiality in
a forum that privileged a different vision than mere state loyalty, since nu-
merous states were represented in the student body. These young, ambi-
tious people worked and debated in an atmosphere of solidarity against the
national trends of northeastern marginalization—a factor that, alongside
the crises affecting traditional modes of economic production, seemed to
place their own personal and professional futures in doubt.13
Recife was also the center of journalism for a substantial area well out-
side of Pernambuco state, from Alagoas to Maranhão, dating back into
the nineteenth century. A prominent Recife-based correspondent was Gil-
berto Freyre, both before earning his fame as a sociologist and occasion-
ally afterward. He has suggested that the area of influence of the Diário
de Pernambuco essentially traced the contours of the Northeast itself. José
Lins do Rego noted that the Diário was an important introduction to let-
ters for many aspiring young sons of plantation owners, leading them to
dream of making the trip to Recife. Over time, this newspaper became
one of the principal means of dissemination for the assertions and com-
plaints of the northern states and then of the new northeastern region.14
The Diário’s regionalist discourse took on a different cast when Freyre
submitted a series of articles from the United States, formulating what

Spaces of Nostalgia 41
he called regionalist and traditionalist thought. The Diário also published
the stories of Mário Sette, such as Senhor de Engenho, which helped Freyre
in his musings on the nature of regionalist romances. In 1925, as the
paper was celebrating its centenary, it produced one of the first cultural
(rather than narrowly geographic, political or economic) elaborations of
the Northeast as a discrete zone. Entitled The Book of the Northeast, and
prepared under Freyre’s immediate supervision, the text established the
region’s cultural and artistic content and presented a suite of traditions
and memories in a manner that suggested they needed to be rescued
and preserved. It was with this book, according to Lins do Rego, that “the
Northeast discovered itself as a fatherland (o Nordeste se descobriu como
patria).” In its preface, Freyre affirmed that it was “an investigation into
northeastern life; the life of five states whose individual destinies have
merged into one and whose roots have thoroughly intertwined over the
last hundred years.” This hundred years was also, coincidentally, the age
of the Diário de Pernambuco as well as of Recife’s law school.15
In a way, The Book of the Northeast anticipated the turn of events at the
1926 Regionalist Conference in Recife, an event that commingled cul-
tural and political interests. That meeting served, according to Joaquim
Inojosa, to “unite representatives from Ceara, Rio Grande do Norte, Para-
iba, Pernambuco, Alagoas, and Sergipe around a regional patriotism.” It
stimulated “love for the native soil, of whose salutary enthusiasm and
ardor is built the structure of the greatest fatherlands.” The congress
also intended to protect the “northeastern spirit” from the creeping de-
struction threatened by influences from Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo:
cosmopolitan cities already shot through with foreign, invasive elements
that weakened their true Brazilian characteristics.16
Still, the origins of this congress might also be said to predate the
publication of The Book of the Northeast. It had been organized by the
Regionalist Center of the Northeast, founded 1924, with the mission to
“collaborate with all the political movements that are dedicated to the
moral and material development of the Northeast and to defend the in-
terests of the Northeast in solidarity.” The center’s documentation states
that while the unity of the Northeast was already clearly defined, there
remained a need to do away with some lingering provincialisms that
inhibited genuine regional communion. It called for the manifestation
of this unity in realms outside official governmental declarations, such
as social movements and projects and cultural expression. The center

42 chapter two
would have a coordinating and encouraging function to congregate “as-
pects of northeastern life and culture through organizing conferences,
excursions, art exhibits, and a library featuring the production of re-
gional intellectuals past and present; and also, editing the magazine the
Northeast.”17
The growth of the autonomist movement in Pernambuco and the rise
of the Regionalist Center—developments inflected by troubling concur-
rent events such as the violent clampdown on messianism just after the
Regionalist Conference—evoked a negative response in the South. São
Paulo newspapers condemned the apparent separatism of the northeast-
erners and bristled at their accusation that the republic “did not know
how to discipline the quasi-imperial abuses perpetrated by the rich-
est states.” The provocative regionalist argument that “Brazilian states
should be governed only by men who live in their homelands, not by a
professional political class that resides in Rio de Janeiro and scorns their
states” was met with stunned disbelief. Indeed, the rhetoric was sharp.
The radicalization of northeastern regionalism can be traced in the par-
ticipation of not only middle-class but labor leaders in the autonomist
movement. In O Moleque Ricardo, José Lins do Rego reproduces some
of the scenes he witnessed as a student of Recife’s law school, in which
demands of a political and class nature were seamlessly merged with
regionalist complaints and regionalist enthusiasm.18
As it glimmered to life, the Northeast was not a concept prized by elites
alone. A series of disparate events and practices was generating and insti-
tutionalizing it even among the popular classes. It would cohere into an
idea that oriented cultural production of a considerable range and qual-
ity, and that attracted federal institutional attention quite disproportion-
ate to its own actual economic and political authority. At the same time,
Brazil’s modernist, industrialist, and nationalist policies particularly
after 1930 would contribute to the region’s subordination in the state
power structure. There would be other compensatory but focused ges-
tures, such as the National Department of Works against the Droughts
(founded 1909) and the Institute of Sugar and Alcohol (1933), which
spoke in the name of the region but accomplished little more than to
direct funds into the pockets of large landowners there—a sort of invest-
ment in obsolescence. The Northeast would become dependent on these
institutional gifts of charity, carried in subsidies, unpaid loans, drought
relief, and tax exemptions.

Spaces of Nostalgia 43
In sum, the Northeast was forming through practices that shaped its car-
tography through the persistent struggle against drought; violent measures
against messianic movements and banditry; and political adjustments by
elites to ensure the preservation of their privileges. But the Northeast also
surged forth through a series of discourses that affirmed its sensibility, by
producing cultural manifestations of a marked regional character.

The Invention of the Northeast

imprinting the region

“Up until now, the Northeast has been sewed out of its own threads.”19
This insight, attributed to Agamenon Magalhães, admirably expresses
the processes by which images and discourses invented the Northeast.
To legitimate the region’s existence, efforts were made during the 1926
Regionalist Conference to normalize its origins. This retrospectively ar-
ticulated past was intended to give the region a legal framework as well as
universal and historical ones. It was described as always having existed,
in other words, as being continuous, eternal. Any apparent historical
discontinuities resided in the region having been forgotten and ignored
until now. The region was written into the past as a promise not realized
or fully perceived. From the vantage point these activists created, one
could look to the past and recognize a range of facts proving that north-
eastern identity was already there in the record. Based on this paradigm
it became quite possible to create a historical account of the region dat-
ing back to at least the sixteenth century, even though it remained to
people in the twentieth century to comprehend and consolidate it.
Gilberto Freyre, for example, argued that the influence of the Dutch
in Pernambuco during the seventeenth century was a decisive factor in
the Northeast’s differentiation. The area became a separate cultural, in-
tellectual, and economic unit under the administration of the Dutch,
and their partners the Jews. But that was all erected over the bedrock of
what Freyre believed was an innate regionalism that characterized ear-
lier Portuguese colonial control, since the colonizers would have been
loath to contribute to a national consciousness that might have threat-
ened their dominion. In that sense Freyre both discovered a regional
consciousness in the early colonial period and suggested that the brief
interlude of Dutch hegemony contributed to coalescing national aware-

44 chapter two
ness by staging a viable exception to Portuguese rule. For him, region
emerged before nation in the Brazilian experience.20
In this mode of thought regionalism is itself a basic element of Brazil-
ian nationality from the beginning, when the territory’s vast distances lent
autonomy to the “genetic foci of settlements” and the competition between
regions would have gone on to coexist with animosity toward the colonial
metropolis. While Brazil’s regions had different histories and characteris-
tics, they nonetheless converged in a heroic tradition of nationalism.
It is important to observe that while Gilberto Freyre highlighted an
1825 drought as playing a key role in the history of the Northeast, he
emphasized less the climatic and economic impacts than its “moral and
social consequences.” By the 1920s, the natural environment and racial
mixture had been demoted as the originating elements and fundamental
determinants of regional identity. Increasingly, culture and society were
explored for their roles in the development of regional consciousness.
Events became central to the origin story—from the Dutch invasion to
the foundation of Recife’s law school, and the Pernambucan revolts of
1817, 1824, and 1848; naturalist arguments ceded space to historical ones.21
In the cultural realm, it was necessary to invent a tradition. Ideally,
this would establish an equilibrium between the old order and the new,
while conciliating the present region with the social and existential ter-
ritories of the past. In such a context, maintaining traditions is also their
invention for new ends, which would include the continuity of threat-
ened social hierarchies.22 The fear of not having space in a new order,
losing individual and collective memory, and watching one’s world dis-
appear stimulated the concern with tradition in the construction of the
Northeast. Tradition would provide landmarks to guide the activities of
a society in transition, and impede the forces of discontinuity. But as
the Northeast’s tradition was cast in the mold of defense of a past in
crisis, regionalist discourses came to emphasize rhetorics of misery and
paralysis that were also associated with drought; it was also intended to
protect the privilege of elites linked to traditional landholding, even if
this meant an antipathy to modernization.23
These discourses were filled with archives of clichés and stereotypes
simple to decipher, rooted in preconceptions, alongside newly “discov-
ered” knowledges produced through regional studies. Analogies helped
link back to the past and assure its survival, even though history was posed
as condemning it. Of vital importance was the insistence on memory,

Spaces of Nostalgia 45
whether individual or collective, as embodying the tranquility of a reality
without rupture.
The search for regional identity was a reaction to two intersecting forces:
globalization, with world capitalism creating new socioeconomic relations
and cultural fluxes linked to modernity; and the nationalization of power
relations, the centralization and bureaucratization of power in a cohering
state. Regional identity and regional memory provided an origin story that
could reconnect people facing a diffuse, uncertain present to an ostensibly
shared past, bringing meaning back to existences that were increasingly
vacant. The idea of the “traditional Northeast” is a product of modernity
that could have been conceivable only at that particular moment.
Lack provided the contours of the process by which northeastern activ-
ists became aware of the need to shore up and protect something that was
disappearing. The end of the regional character of the economic, social,
and political structures in Brazil, and the crisis of their regional cultural
codes, invigorated the project to rethink and discover the region itself. It
was a place created out of sentiment, of lyricism, of nostalgia (saudade), to
embody something that never was. It was a terrain grounded in fable. It is
thus not coincidental that “northeastern traditions” are regularly sought in
fragments of a precapitalist, rural past. They hearken back to customs of
patriarchy, even to slavery. The popular and folkloric are idealized; rustic
handicrafts, not schooled art, represent the highest expression of a pasto-
ral social tradition.24
The intellectual production of Luís da Câmara Cascudo stands out in
this process of idealizing the popular elements of northeastern identity.
In his work he adopted a static, museological interpretation of folklore
that avoided questions of history or sociology. Rather, his researches
consisted mostly of collections of material referring to the precapitalist,
rural, “authentic” Northeast, with folklore posed as a shield against the
encroachments of cosmopolitan culture. While Cascudo and many other
folklorists presented themselves as defenders of folklore, paradoxically,
they represented the greatest threat to it by insisting on its permanence
and denying it the dynamic creativity to reinterpret contemporary is-
sues. They believed that folklore could reveal the essence of the region
because it was a set of emotional survivals: a constellation of prelogical
elements based in communal affirmation. Folklore was the repository
of the regional unconscious—the expression of the popular mentality,
which for its part conveyed the regional mentality.25

46 chapter two
In this discourse, the notion of the popular became confused with
that of the traditional and antimodern. This facilitated the embrace of the
Northeast’s images and texts by the lower classes, who easily could rec-
ognize aspects of themselves within it. The construct of regional culture
instituted the idea of solidarity, of a homogeneity between the “popular”
cultural codes and those of the elites. But unlike the dominant sectors,
the masses (povo) were defined as capable of only reacting to modernity.
Folklore could be therefore an interface, an element of integration
between the people and the region. It opened channels of meaning, facili-
tating the absorption of regional identity by the people, and encouraging
them to seek meaning in it. Within this traditionalist matrix, folklore took
on a disciplining and educating function. It could contribute to forming a
sensibility founded on the conservation of customs, habits, and concep-
tions, constructing new symbolic codes around them that avoided the
trauma and conflict of modernizing sociability. It was recruited into in-
venting traditions—traditional ways to see, speak, act, and feel. In both
producing the new and denying its novelty, affirming its timeless continu-
ity, folklore provided another important hinge between past and present.
It permitted the “perpetuation of states of spirit.”26
This traditional Northeast was explored, described, and disseminated
by diverse intellectuals and artists along the twentieth century: from Gil-
berto Freyre’s “traditionalist school” in Recife, uniting authors such as
José Lins do Rego and Ascenso Ferreira in the 1920s and 1930s, to the
music of Luiz Gonzaga, Zé Dantas, and Humberto Teixeira starting in
the 1940s. Ariano Suassuna contributed theatrical pieces in the 1950s.
While there are significant stylistic differences among them, painters
Cícero Dias and Lula Cardoso Ayres, the poet Manuel Bandeira, and nov-
elists Rachel de Queiroz and José Américo de Almeida all share this vi-
sion of the Northeast and participated in its construction.

regional visibility and speak ability

Traditionalist artists and intellectuals gave substance to the visibility and

speakability of the Northeast in their work with memory—efforts that
might also be defined as the meticulous organization of the present, while
the past was characterized by glories in remission. Discursively and artis-
tically arranging such memories was a way to organize and give meaning
to their own lives. To conceive of a new identity for their space was to

Spaces of Nostalgia 47
conceive of a new identity for themselves. It was an elite in crisis, brought
to the brink of effacement by history, and as such it became doggedly
focused on subverting this history.
Traditionalist discourse grasped historical elements selectively to make
history produce memory, as a discourse of reminiscence and of recogni-
tion. This memory would help subjects in the present recognize them-
selves in the facts of the past, and recognize a region already present
there as well. Memory would link to history to become a process of affir-
mation for an identity, for continuity, and for tradition; it would uncover
eternal truths that would in turn reveal the subjects as a regional com-
munity. The disruptive aspects of history were effused. Instead, history
was incorporated into an ahistorical regional identity made of stereo-
typical images and texts of a moral character. Politics were viewed as
destabilizing, but space was understood as stable, natural, above politics,
and marked by only two dimensions: internal and external. The internal
must be defended against the external, which connives to corrupt it. The
internal must not plagued by contradiction.
This doubling in on itself of the Northeast in search of its own iden-
tity, soul, and truths proceeded apace alongside the unfolding of the
dispositif of nationality, which posits as a necessity the extinguishing
of regional differences and their integration into the nation. Within the
Northeast, to call in protectionist language for the “survival of this space”
was actually to call for the maintenance of threatened forms of domina-
tion. The region forms as a space defined by its closure to forces of
change that come from outside it—from its “other,” the urban-industrial
space captained by São Paulo. The Northeast was a walling up of na-
tional space by an alliance of forces hoping to barricade itself from the
processes of national integration emerging from the central South.
The Northeast of the regionalists and traditionalists is a place formed
by and of depressing, decadent images. Change evokes existential bit-
terness. This quality runs through the work of José Lins do Rego and
Manuel Bandeira. They devise evocative scenes of a traditional past slip-
ping away, as in Bandeira’s poem “My Land”:

I left my land, a child

And spent thirty years away
Sometimes they would tell me
Your land is completely changed

48 chapter two
It has avenues and skyscrapers . . .
Now it’s a beautiful city!
My heart withered.
Finally I see my Recife
And it is utterly transformed
It has avenues and skyscrapers . . .
Now it’s a beautiful city.
The devil take those who made my land beautiful.27

The romance writers of the 1930s made memory a principal theme.

They constructed the Northeast through the lens of youthful memories
of social relations now under duress. Their approach to narrative itself
was to assert it as a traditional, popular cultural manifestation express-
ing regional reality, and likewise under threat from the modern world’s
machinations. It was very different from the modernist movement in
São Paulo, in which writers attempted to transcend orthodox narrative
to confront the crisis of the traditional novel in the modernist present. In
the Northeast the movement was a retreat, an entrenchment. It looked
back to “restore” popular narrative as a life-giving force for people fac-
ing the upheavals and social disarray of modernity. As an exploration of
memory it would offer a preserve for identity. Traditional novels aspired
to guarantee the continuity of what they narrated by suspending genera-
tions of readers in a world of regional memory.28
A region sewn together with the diaphanous threads of memory im-
plicates a coexistence of extremes: on one hand, the idea of survival, and
on the other, of the void. Images and texts of the past make it appear
suffused in the surprised delight of rediscovery, to provoke both relief at
its continuity and the sad awareness of its vulnerability. The romances
of the 1930s revel in the celebration of memories, but the happiness is
chilled with the dark undercurrents of awareness of time lost. The em-
phasis on memory was born of the urge to prolong the past, to extend
it into the present and perhaps even the future. Traditionalist writers
despised history because it established a split between dimensions of
temporality. Recognition of the historicity of everything, its fleeting and
mutable character, caused considerable anguish.29
This spatial memory, aesthetically rescued, would inspire the creation
of a better future, one free of affectation and the South’s drab bourgeois
values. A region, made of memories to last forever, could be brought to

Spaces of Nostalgia 49
life with the production of books and monuments, “typical” landscapes
and characters, symbols. It would be a space without gaps or room for
doubt—filled up with the images and texts that provided density and tex-
ture. Nothing would be transitory and everything would appear as solid
as the old stone mansions, the ornate furniture carved from heavy native
jacaranda wood; tranquility was in the breeze that made the hammock
sway, in the slow social rhythms, in the families of affectionate grand-
parents and uncles and parents and infants.
A sentimental visibility based on the vaguely remembered childhood
gaze characterizes the regionalist literature. It runs through the poetry
of Ascenso Ferreira, who was also a pioneering artist interpreting mod-
ernism in Pernambuco. His vision of the Northeast, in his own words,
“developed slowly as I came into contact with the many regional tran-
sients passing through or working the ranch of my uncle. There, men
from many different places met and intermingled, bringing their field
songs, their songs of the backlands, the dances of the coast or the inte-
rior, their guitars, their tales of haunted mansions and of hunting and
fishing and of wandering the fields.”30
Ferreira would recall his experiences later, his formative years be-
tween the frontier and city, when the works of Gilberto Freyre “awak-
ened in me the love for our rural traditions.” His take on modernist
expression would ally itself with a traditional, popular vocabulary to con-
stitute what he would term “a poetry communicating regional truths.”
He saw the Northeast as the place of genuine Brazilian sociability at risk
from the incursions of “foreign civilization.” His poems were intended
to contribute to the preservation of the “waggish and pungent spirit of
the Northeast, its festivals, plantations, the backlands.” One will not find
in his works, nor for that matter in the paintings of Cícero Dias, any sug-
gestion of social critique or argument for social justice. They wanted in-
stead to “comprehend the totality of northeastern life, distilling its pure
essence, its soul as yet undefiled by modernity.”31
To comprehend the “soul of this land” and discover his own identity
was also the mission of José Lins do Rego. For him, organizing personal
memory involved the same sources as organizing regional memory,
and vice versa. The discovery of “regional psychology” was precisely the
same as the discovery of the region itself, which implicated the discovery
of his own identity as a person and an intellectual. The Northeast was an
image of space and symbols internalized from his infancy in the Santa

50 chapter two
Rosa plantation, property of Carlos de Melo and the dos Ricardos. A mel-
ancholy space full of shadows, a space of nostalgia.32 Rego’s initial im-
pulse was to record the memories of his grandfather, to help ensure that
new generations would not forget the men who had contributed to the
glory of the region. That idea transformed into a series of novels whose
themes were worked out under the influence of his friend Gilberto
Freyre. It is in the pretension to be spontaneous revelations of truth that
such writings on memory abandon their critical capacities. The author
pretends to be impartial, when all the time his books expressed a specific
way to see and comprehend reality (based on the ostensibly clear gaze of
a boy growing up on a plantation). It was from the perspective of stand-
ing on the veranda of the main house, just as his grandfather did, that
he would look and he would see the fields, “his land,” the Northeast.33
A similar preoccupation with understanding the soul of the land and
its spirituality, in all its supernatural and religious complexity, character-
izes the poetry of Jorge de Lima. Regarding himself a regionally Catholic
poet, Lima tried to unearth the darker roots of a northeastern mysti-
cism that connected the sacred, the natural world, and the social sphere.
His was a Northeast with a black soul, its spirituality transcending op-
pression in search of God’s redemption; a place where mixture was the
norm, in bloodlines, spiritualism, and social roles.

There reside in my blood

Three runaway maidens, two bandits
One candomblé priest, two rogues, one machinist
Two roustabouts.
An Indian girl was born,
A Brazilian girl,
One with blue eyes:
A first communion.34

Rachel de Queiroz, another regionalist writer, was concerned with

the dichotomy between time and space. For her, space was stable while
time was not. What happens in time disappears forever. Her work is
weighted with the dour vision of the past as a finite, limited substance, a
past that disappears over the course of one’s life. Time is distressing for
her because the only marks it leaves are memories; and the witnesses to
those memories themselves are transformed and pass away with time.
Humanity does not control time but suffers with it. Time walks through

Spaces of Nostalgia 51
people, but people do not walk through time. The same time that makes
people grow uses them up and deforms them. But space can serve as
a repository of memory, she thought—a dimension easing time’s con-
tinual sense of vertigo. Space could gather and conserve, stabilizing the
human experience and defying time.35
Even in the danceable songs of Pernambuco’s “king of the baião,” mu-
sician Luiz Gonzaga, can we discern this modern sense of time’s destruc-
tive character. But here it is sometimes carefully displaced or juxtaposed
with a different idea of time, a regionalized, cyclical idea of time based
in the supposed proximity of the Northeast to nature. Rather than cut-
ting a straight line, time in the Northeast describes arcs, say between the
hot droughts and the return of the rains with winter. The entire natural
world, from people to livestock, plants, and minerals, participates in this
cycle. Even for the migrants who abandon the Northeast, it hovers in the
mind as a fixed space suffused in nostalgia. The migrants’ vision clarifies
this aspect of the Northeast’s identity: it seems to exist in the past, in mem-
ory. It is a place everyone hopes to return to one day. A space that stays the
same while everything around it transforms maddeningly, incessantly.
Locales, loves, family, a favored horse, the fields, all are suspended in
time awaiting the migrants’ return, waiting just the way they were left.
In the backlands, bonfires warm the passions of the heart in contended
ignorance of the news and squabbles of “civilized” places.

Ah, if I could I’d return

To the arms of my sweetheart
This longing gnaws at my heart
More bitter than the tartest fruit
But nobody can attest
That they saw me sad and crying
Longing, my medicine is to sing.36

Ariano Suassuna, in his literary and dramatic works, also participated

in the construction of the Northeast as a place of tradition. There mem-
ory was sacramental. There “a rustic aristocracy and the simple folk lived
with each other in time and outside of time, occupying the same plane
of particular, immediate interests.” For Suassuna, time was a destruc-
tive dimension, a force like death, aridity, disease, and poor fortune that
threatened the region he hoped to preserve. But inescapably, since the

52 chapter two
region was held as being outside time, its opposite, death, accompanied
it everywhere. Death was its insignia, its brooding coat of arms.37
Suassuna’s focus was the backlands, the “enchanted kingdom of the
sertão.” Neither the urban landscape nor the old plantations captivated
him the way they did Gilberto Freyre. He located the authentic Northeast
in the backlands, where there existed a regional “nobility, and not only
crude prophets, lunatics, and filthy, bloodthirsty outlaws.” He claimed this
backwoods nobility was equal to that of the sugar aristocracy, but crucially
lacking the latter’s “malice and haughty affectations.” It was a brutal and
distressed kingdom that Suassuna identified with and devoted his writing
to, making it a theme of his own existence as well as that of his imaginary,
hardscrabble protagonists.38
In his fight against history, Suassuna envisioned the Northeast as
a land of myths where the sacred held sway. Making use of the epic
genre, of mythic narrative structures and the magical realism of popular
cordel literature, he crafted his Northeast as an “epic, sacred, flag-bearing
kingdom.” He also drew on youthful reminiscences and a considerable
amount of folk material to forge a space shot through with mystery,
where the marvelous intermingled with cruel reality and thus height-
ened its meaning. But this was also a place that was directly linked to
the medieval past of the Iberian Peninsula, with its exaggerated baroque
flourishes and anti-Renaissance, antimodern attitudes. The speakabil-
ity of this Northeast, the language that composed it, could be found in
medieval Iberian theater as well as the local popular expressions that
embodied its “archaic” forms. Suassuna’s incorporation of cordel influ-
ences, its archaic language and fantastic assertions, provided yet more
texture to his representation of the Northeast as a place where there was
no barrier between the real and imaginary, between divine and pagan,
between tragic and comic, between madness and rationality.39
The authors and artists I have addressed above developed distinct,
highly individual bodies of work. But each in their way collaborated in
fashioning a Northeast whose visibility and speakability were centered
in memory, in a negative reaction to the modern, in a turn to the past as
a temporal dimension spatialized. This Northeast would become its own
generator of images and discourses that ultimately repudiated autonomy
and inventiveness for custom and submission. Even if its authors did
not see it as such, their discursive paradigm would function to prevent

Spaces of Nostalgia 53
nordestinos from taking control of their own history, to face it and trans-
form it. Instead, it imposed a ready-made history that naturalized the
present injustice, discrimination, and misery. If the past was better than
the present, and also represented the ideal for the future, the most obvi-
ous form of social action is to run from the present back to the traditions
of a territory that advances of history seem able only to corrupt.

tr aditionalist regionalism and modernism

The regionalist and traditionalist movement in Recife had its origins

in the foundation of the Northeastern Regionalist Center in 1924. This
brought together not only intellectuals steeped in art and culture but ad-
ditionally those focused on the more pragmatic stuff of politics. But after
the 1926 Regionalist Conference, at which Gilberto Freyre was a principal
influence, the movement definitively took on the character of an artistic
and cultural initiative dedicated to rescuing and preserving northeastern
traditions.
Freyre’s regionalism was of a different type than I explored in the
previous section. It went beyond ideological justifications for conserv-
ing a threatened memory-based imaginary to create a new way to see,
know, and speak reality, and it was possible only with the emergence
of the nation as a major problem demanding a response. Regionalism
was redefined and amplified: it brought together the picturesque artistic
representation of local experience and the political struggle for territorial
legitimacy, connecting the projects and transcending the limitations of
each. Cultural production would shed its preference for the exotic to lend
the region a coherent cultural formulation that could, in turn, engage po-
litical meanings. Traditionalist intellectuals would need to recast their activ-
ity as a mission to raise regional awareness and unite the people around
it. In this paradigm, regionalism would integrate not only images and texts
related to the space of the Northeast, but also its currents and forces,
channeling them into an entity that was culturally, aesthetically, and po-
litically united.
Before the 1920s, regionalism was not in dialogue with sociology. Put
another way, the sociologically instituted region had not yet appeared.
The region would only come to be viewed as a social and cultural reality
within a new discursive formation, and it was at this moment that Gil-
berto Freyre’s sociological definition of regionalism became possible.40 It

54 chapter two
was still impressionistic in outline, its forms assimilated between a dimly
glimpsed past and a confused, agitated present. It aimed for a poetics of
space that could reduce actual spatial-sociocultural diversity to a series of
semblances of type and characteristic realities. Freyre hoped to establish
a set of truths through assembling representative figures (for example,
the sturdy landowner in the spotless suit, the simple seamstress, the ro-
bust ox driver). He staged the contemporary region as historical drama,
a theatrical synthesis of the entire social structure, including culture and
nature. This Northeast was not a static catalogue of natural descriptions
or of social evaluations but a qualitative elaboration, a suite in many
movements resolved harmoniously. A Northeast that was a cultural
being, an attitude, “a personality, an ethos.”41
This new regionalism was described by José Lins do Rego as a search
for the unity of everything, based on a close examination of component
parts. It emerged from the political practices that had sketched the re-
gion as a weapon to be marshaled against the excesses of political and
economic centralization in Brazil; it was a reaction to the centralizing
processes of capitalist development itself. It asserted the fact of diversity,
although in a reactionary way, because it summoned the return of the
past and hence the paralysis of history. It called not for creativity and for
distinction based on invention, but for a conservative statement of dif-
ference, an enclosure of difference.42
For Rego, this was a truly innovative enterprise. Its novelty was not
founded on the trick of mere linguistic extravagance, nor on the hayseed
sentiments of Monteiro Lobato, nor even on superficial nostalgia. It had
a vision. It would be, on the political plane, contrary to state-centric fed-
eralism. In the artistic realm, it would “plumb the depths of the soul
of the people, in the fonts of folklore.” It would be an organic regional-
ism, revealing truths, stimulating the vitality of “Brazilian character” and
hence strengthening true Brazilian unity by helping form a collective that
recognized its differences.43
Traditionalist regionalism did not have the same preoccupation with
research that the modernists did. José Lins do Rego justified this appar-
ent weakness or simplicity by affirming that the movement sought to
address the public more directly in terms they could understand. He
condemned what he called the “artificial language” of Mário and Oswald
de Andrade, their pursuit of idiosyncratic brilliance, because it made
that much more complicated the production “of something permanent

Spaces of Nostalgia 55
and lasting in terms of modernist literature.” Oswald de Andrade, him-
self a vociferous critic of northeastern romance writers including Rego,
retorted that this so-called new regionalism was a regrettable step back-
ward in terms of literary concept and expression.44
Freyre did not steer clear of this debate, although his interjection was
somewhat odd. He accused the modernists of having abandoned any an-
thropological, sociological, or historical concern with the Northeast (and
even with Brazil itself). He suggested that they “scorned Brazilian tradi-
tions” and “showed disregard for the things of the nation’s past, such as co-
lonial art.” But the modernists had been deeply engaged with the question
of tradition. They perceived it in a more multiplanar form as something
not yet systematized, something that modernism could help vitalize and
reelaborate, rather than what they implied was the sort of “tradition” Freyre
preferred: a host of musty folkloric artifacts enshrined in a museum.45
To Freyre, nationality was rooted in tradition; hence he regarded the
modernists as a denationalizing force, perhaps even contrary to the na-
tion, since they did not seem interested in “national tradition” in a form
he concurred with. José Lins do Rego, whose own thinking was intimately
influenced by Freyre’s (and whose literary inventions of the Northeast
were parallel to and resonant with Freyre’s sociological ones), argued that
the modernists had essentially done little more than make a lot of noise,
gratify some elite cosmopolitan snobs, and knock over a few sacred cows
to be quickly replaced with others. They were a bunch of “mundane Pa-
risian fops.” Modernist fiction, “writing turned inside out, to be savored
by a thin erudite stratum,” was nothing like Northeast fiction: fiction that
was “vigorous, that comes from the earth, from the soul of the people,
simple and direct the same as they are. A production that links the mod-
ern to the eternal, to the strains of an old melancholy song.”46
Both Rego and Freyre strove to assert the authenticity of the region-
alist and traditionalist movement, in part by articulating its autonomy
from the modernists in São Paulo. They denounced the centrality of the
1922 Modern Art Week in recent Brazilian history and the mass media,
which were too keen to identify every interesting new cultural develop-
ment as a consequence of it. Rego flatly denied that his own writing had
been influenced at all by the modernists, citing instead his close work-
ing relationship with Freyre as formative. He queried how a movement
he characterized as a “transitory agitation” could have such broad and
deep consequences. He went even further, referring to the movement as

56 chapter two
“rubbish, a bit of knavery that the genius of Oswald de Andrade devised
to entertain his millionaire partners.” Leaving aside the arch tone from
one who was himself the son of a (ruined) millionaire, what was driv-
ing the dispute was also a regional confrontation stirring between the
Northeast and São Paulo. After all, while regionalism was claimed as the
patrimony of the nordestinos, a central South regionalism was also clear
throughout the modernist criticism of northeastern fiction—a genre Os-
wald derisively referred to as “buffalo stories from the Northeast.”47
To Freyre, the Northeast would become culturally fertile and creative
if it could recuperate its genuine traditions and focus on regional unity,
not the arbitrary divisions of state boundaries. But implicitly, and some-
times openly, his intentions were to unify regional discourse around the
base of his native Pernambuco. Nonetheless, he argued that regionalism
was a reaction to the processes of standardization afflicting daily life,
processes that were a symptom of imperialism; and a medium of resis-
tance to the supposed cultural superiority of these foreign but homog-
enizing influences. Regionalism was therefore important to the nation,
an attitude of defiance toward the cultural colonization of Brazil. The
processes of modernization and their bourgeois flavor had the sheen
of nationalism but were in truth corruptors of Brazil’s national identity.
Because cultural debate and cultural influence were stronger at the level
of region, it was there that the concerted defense against colonialism
ought to be mounted, and not at the level of the nation—because this was
an artifice, a political abstract without a foundation in cultural reality.48
Freyre employed the term “modernist” to classify all those intellectuals
and cultural practices he believed were transforming Brazil into a poor
copy of Europe and Westernizing its customs. Parsing a distinction be-
tween modern and modernist, he maintained that his vision of region-
alism was modern, but certainly not modernist (which would imply the
reification of one moment of modernity). The modern could change form
although its content was maintained. Brazilian culture should integrate
not just a rarified variant of Europe but extra-European elements; here
he had in mind Portugal, a place where people and culture were miscege-
nated, embodying a bridge between East and West, between Africa and the
Americas.49 The Northeast would be this region that was not specifically
European, as São Paulo was becoming, but a place of mixture, genuinely
Brazilian. From the Northeast would emerge a movement to renovate Bra-
zilian arts and letters, a movement with its own ecological properties. The

Spaces of Nostalgia 57
traditions that developed in the shadow of the plantation big house and
slave shacks, and within the churches—the traditions rooted in ostensi-
bly affectionate coexistence and social contact between whites, blacks, and
Indians—would prove the true national substrate of Brazilian culture.50
In this traditionalist view, the region would provide the matrix or in-
terface through which the popular sectors would connect to the nation,
providing the forms of expression of a noncolonized culture to underwrite
national culture. This is not too different from how the modernists con-
ceived of how the nation would emerge culturally. But rather than con-
cern ourselves with byzantine discussions over which movement was
first with what argument, or which movement influenced the other and
how, we might simply note that each was dealing with the same field of
visibility and speakability and the same codes of sensibility regarding
both national space and the function of culture and the arts. They were
trying to respond to the same cultural problems. From that perspective,
the furious scuffle between Pernambucans Joaquim Inojosa and Gil-
berto Freyre over the origin of the modern influence in Pernambucan
arts (that is, over the greater prevalence of São Paulo–based modernism
versus traditionalist regionalism) is understandable but not overly impor-
tant.51 In the 1940s, when modernism seemed to have won the internal
battle over degrees of prominence and influence—but was also, notably,
a thing of the past—and the regional questions intersecting it were dis-
placed politically by the nationalist interventions of the New State, strug-
gles over the spoils of modernism in the Northeast were heating up. It
was a carnival of personalities and egos battling over the construction of
a memory of modernism, grounded in regional space.52
It does appear that Inojosa made an early maneuver to translate pau-
lista modernism for people in Pernambuco with his publication there of
an article called “What Futurism Is.”53 He had been involved with São
Paulo’s Modern Art Week in February 1922 and had participated in the
First International Student Congress in Rio de Janeiro marking the cen-
tenary of Brazilian independence. As a journalist for Klaxon magazine in
Pernambuco, Inojosa intended to “preach the new creed among the local
savants.” He also wrote for Recife’s Jornal do Comércio, which belonged to
the Pessoa de Queiroz family; they were critics of the Republican and Au-
tonomist movements and rivals of the oligarchy led by Maoel Borba. On
the other side of the political front, José Lins do Rego founded the serial
Dom Casmurro, a pamphlet dedicated to overthrowing the Pessoa cartel

58 chapter two
and supporting autonomist efforts in Pernambuco. In this atmosphere,
cultural movements intersected with political questions at the national as
well as local levels. While the modernists had been in favor of the federal
government’s “moralizing” intervention in the states, the traditionalist
regionalists hearkened back philosophically to the founding of the Re-
gionalist Center and its concerns with “the strengthening of autonomy,
the defense of the region against excessive political centralization, and
the rebuke of economic favoritism shown to other areas.”54
In 1923 Inojosa founded the magazine Revista Mauriceia, with a name
recalling the title of a poem by Mário de Andrade. That publication was
the venue for a range of articles from new adepts of modernism such as
the poets Austro-Costa and Joaquim Cardoso, who made Recife the basis
of their ideas. Inojosa also communicated his views in the nearby state
of Paraíba through a letter written for Era Nova, a magazine there later
relaunched to great success as A Arte Moderna. Influential modernists in
Paraíba such as José Américo de Almeida made a few criticisms of his
text but received it with great enthusiasm. Almeida is often mentioned as
an important pioneer of northeastern modernism through his books A
Paraíba e Seus Problemas and Reflexões de uma Cabra.55 Inojosa went on
to write for Brasil Brasileiro, where he more openly admonished the tradi-
tionalists for being absorbed with past glories rather than confronting con-
temporary Brazilian circumstances. He also emphasized the need for a na-
tionalist culture without internally imposed cleavages given the threats to
solidarity between nations that were associated with the First World War.56
Gilberto Freyre, almost the minute he returned to Recife from his
studies in the United States in 1923, dashed off a rebuke of modernism
from the perspective of traditionalism to one of Pernambuco’s main pa-
pers. His stature grew with the Regionalist Conference of 1926 and the
Afro-Brazilian Congress of 1928. The press in São Paulo gave prodigious
exposure to both events and Freyre’s role in them, although that expo-
sure was sometimes inflected by a journalistic urge to incite controversy.
Still, the national press record disproves the assertion made by paulista
critic and historian of modernism Wilson Martins that the traditionalist
movement linked with Freyre had no profile or repercussions beyond
the “frontiers of the province.”57
But even before that, Freyre had published pieces lauding Pernambu-
can tradition from his vantage point in the United States; his series “From
the Other America” was written between 1918 and 1922. Paradoxically

Spaces of Nostalgia 59
or not, it was the precise period that Freyre spent far away from Per-
nambuco that lay the foundation for his coalescing Pernambuco-centric
regionalist thought. During his studies he encountered the regionalist
work of Japanese-born Lafcádio Hearn, whose influences merged with
those of the Portuguese integralists, the French regionalist Maurras,
Franz Boas, and the modernist painters Joaquim and Vicente do Rego
Monteiro (whom Freyre met in Paris). Far from home, the young Freyre
was wading in deep intellectual currents that would help him reformu-
late his relationship to it. Freyre had also admired the Recife-born writer
Mário Sette, whose books Senhora de Engenho (1921) and Palanquim Dou-
rado (1923) he praised for their “regionalist spirit” in his 1923 submission
to the Diário. Inojosa, ever watchful for opportunities to detract from
Freyre’s reputation as a pioneer, also warmly extolled Sette for institut-
ing the regionalist and traditionalist vision in northeastern literature.58
The regionalists and traditionalists were different from the modernists
in that they embraced the past as a simple spectacle, avoiding the fact that
selection of any one tradition over another as more worthy of rescuing and
following had an inherent political dimension. The (ambiguous) distinc-
tion between modern form and traditional content, and the criticism of
bourgeois ethics and sociability, were not the intellectual domain of the
regionalists exclusively; they also were present in the more conservative
wing of paulista modernism. If we believe that these two movements were
independent of and antithetical to each other, we accept the false image
they hoped to construct for themselves as intellectually air-tight entities
rather than perceiving how deeply interactive was their dispute over cul-
tural hegemony at both the regional and national levels. They were cultural
movements that defended the dominance of different regional spaces, but
using the same discursive field. They revolved around the same themes,
assumptions, strategies, and problems.59

the northeast as so cio log i cal institution

To the same degree that the naturalist paradigm with its biological and
evolutionary bases was entering into crisis, sociology’s focus on social
and cultural problems rose in importance as a mode of inquiry to help
define Brazilian identity including its regions and regional types. Impe-
rialist expansion and World War I stimulated research into “exotic,” non-
European societies. The problems of acculturation and cultural identity

60 chapter two
received new prominence, sparking studies by not only sociologists but
anthropologists and ethnographers. The goal was to understand the psy-
chology of these diverse peoples and the presumed “laws” that underlay
their societies.60
It was within this context that Franz Boas developed his cultural for-
mulations as a counter to the racist naturalism of Arthur de Gobineau.
He strongly critiqued the use of race-based methods such as biopsychol-
ogy and anthropological geography to arrive at some general character-
istics of a given people. Boas also stressed the implicit ethnocentrism
of most European studies of non-European and nonwhite peoples. He
brought to sociology a keen sense of cultural relativism.
Gilberto Freyre is understood to have been a disciple of Boas, al-
though the former’s sociology was perhaps less relativist than Boas
might have preferred. Freyre occupied something of a middle ground.
He believed there were characteristics of peoples that emerged through
the interactions between races and nature; but whether or not these rep-
resented a sort of environmental determinism, it was their expression
in the social and cultural spheres that interested him. He thought that
Brazilian society could be characterized not by racial mixture alone, but
by the particular manifestation of cultural miscegenation that followed
from it. It was in the area of culture that he hoped to comprehend Bra-
zilian national identity and the contribution of region to the Brazilian
national formation.61
For Freyre, region was the basis for beginning to think about the na-
tion. The regional perspective should guide studies in sociology and
history because region was the spatial frame most approximate to the
natural environment, shaping a society and its customs. Region was the
initial building block of social space, its genetics. Freyre even referred to
his discipline as genetic sociology, and he made region—alongside tra-
dition, understood in regional terms—the parameters for interpreting
Brazilian society. His work would represent the extension or amplifica-
tion of a personal memory and experience, as well as the memory and
experience of a given group in a given space.62
Freyre’s sociology was an attempt to understand Brazil’s differences
with respect to the civilizing processes of the West. He used what he
called “authentically regional, traditional, and tropical” evidence to un-
earth the processes of Brazilian uniqueness as well as show how Brazil
was integrated into a larger, non-European world. He structurally opposed

Spaces of Nostalgia 61
the tropics to Europe and sought within Brazil the social dynamics that
fostered its singularity. It was in this larger construct of ideas that he
would adopt the region, specifically the Northeast, as the substructure
for sociological analysis.
His approach was experimental, transitional between paradigms. For
this reason, he was in constant dialogue with older systems of knowledge—
announcing his departures from them while also reproducing some of
their themes and perspectives. For instance, even as he rejected the use
of racial objectivism or ethnic atavism, he also fell back on that rhetoric
(as with his claims of the Jewish origin of the mercantile impulse in Bra-
zil). His principal argument, that of the superiority of the mixed-blood
mestiço, is also an attempt to reconcile an emerging theoretical apparatus
with received, established concepts.
A sociological approach to the Northeast would have to question the
hierarchies ostensibly imposed by nature and race, and as part of that,
deconstruct the assumed superiority of “white” nations and regions over
“nonwhite” ones. Freyre’s strategy was not to come up with entirely new
ways to conceive of these categories, but to invert the formulation so that
mestiços were given pride of place over races imagined as constrained
by their purity. This was a solution to the fact that Brazilian nationality
could not be associated with a single race because Brazil incorporated
numerous races and their hybrid offspring. From that angle everyone in
Brazil was a mestiço, including the Portuguese who initiated this civili-
zation in the tropics.63
Freyre inaugurated a discourse that, by revalorizing the mestiço, at
the same time gave new value to his particular space that was so evi-
dently marked by miscegenation. He firmly contested the allegation of
mestiço inferiority—that they were inept at mechanical or fine technical
work. He also denied that any innate limitations fed into their apparent
troubles adjusting to new global economic exigencies, attributing that
rather to an educational system that was insufficient in content and that
urged the maintenance of troubling aristocratic social systems. The fact
that Brazil existed at all, its agriculture and its cities and its generally
harmonious social relations, demonstrated the true capacity of mestiços
starting again with the Portuguese colonizers.64
Freyre maintained that racial differentiation was only meaningful in
terms of how it expressed a division based on class or on regional differ-
entiation, since the hierarchy of colors and classes could vary according

62 chapter two
to the internal dynamics of each region. Regional circumstances could
modify interactions between or expressions of race and class, as they had
done since the colonial period; regions were cultural and mental con-
figurations that reached deeper and had a greater determinative power
on society than any environmental influences.
In that way, Freyre gracefully skirted debates around class or racial
conflict to reframe the problem as regional conflicts between cultures.
Although he never denied the existence of class struggle in Brazil, Freyre
tended to deemphasize race and class as meaningful signifiers or sub-
jectivities. For example, he took the historical fact of slave uprisings as
expressing something beyond racial conflict, or class conflict: it was a
struggle between mentalities and cultures. If race could be conceived as
dynamic, culture was even more so. Culture could never serve as a static
foundation on which societies grew. It was in the social and cultural
fields that resided the distinctions and antipathies that generated atti-
tudes of rivalry between regions, which could be exacerbated by regional
imbalances in technological progress. Industrial development, at least as
much as ecological atmosphere, accentuated difference and inequality.65
Still, Freyre was among the founders of a novel discursive regime that
attempted to modify the negativity associated with the environment in
Brazil, especially regarding the Northeast. In emphasizing the impact of
the Portuguese in the tropical new world as a civilizing one, he inverted
the naturalist declaration that the tropics were antagonistic to the devel-
opment of civilization. His initiative was not roundly hailed, however.
Paulo Prado countered with an argument that the inherited effects of
the environment were responsible for the Brazilians being taciturn, mel-
ancholy, suspicious, and nervous. Where Prado argued that its tropical
environment condemned Brazil to weakness as a nation, Freyre believed
the environment lent Brazilian civilization a distinctive identity and ro-
bust character.
A significant contribution of Freyre’s thought was in recognizing the
importance of the participation of Afro-Brazilians in the processes of
“national formation.” While he seemed to constrain their role to that of
docile assistant, he still asserted their importance to Brazil’s economy
and culture and did not try to deny that slavery was a violent institution
that had had deleterious effects and stimulated resistance and revolt.
He had to address slavery and race relations in one form or another,
since for him the cradle of Brazilian civilization was the sugar society

Spaces of Nostalgia 63
of the Northeast that had relied on blacks’ forced labor. He suggested
that the structure of this “rural and patriarchal society” guaranteed both
perfect control of the black population, and the “docile” relations be-
tween master and slave. It was thus in other milieus—the cities, or the
coffee plantations in São Paulo—that there were conflicts between slaves
and society. This idea was based on two factors: the presence of more
mixed-blood people, who were agitated and unstable, lacking a clear role
in the traditional patriarchal system composed of masters and slaves;
and the nature of forced labor in the central South, described as more
mercilessly mercantilist and violent than it was in the Northeast.66
Working in a juncture in which the scientific, naturalist discourse
had not been separated off from literary discourse (following from the
reduced division of intellectual labor in the country), Freyre reached for
images to help convey the fragmentation, hybridity, and disorder that
Brazil’s circumstances implied. They were symbolic, not allegorical im-
ages, and intended to resolve the lack of fit between form and content—
between the empiricism of daily life and its extrapolation to national
interpretation.67
This flexible vision of reality resonated with Freyre’s essential politi-
cal posture: to defuse conflicts with harmony, and transcend conflict
through a conciliating interpenetration of opposites. Far from conceiving
of a dialectic in which synthesis would mean the negation of one side or
the other, he prized the establishment of an amiable continuum through
concrete logic that would function to dissolve abstract antagonism.68
This search for accord was of a piece with the search for permanence,
the mutual maintenance of order, and it is in this way that the contours
of Freyre’s work were shaped more by space than by time. He was ob-
sessed with the divisions and constitutions of space, as well as space’s
transformation—an ecology of space’s dominion and occupation. He
was constantly attentive to the relations between power and spatiality,
and to the imbalances in harmony between the natural, social, and cul-
tural elements that composed this dimension of the real.69 For this rea-
son, he elevated patriarchal society as the ideal example of sociability in
which conflict was avoided, and power relations based in the relations
among individuals instead of impersonal classes, groups, or social insti-
tutions. It was not a depersonalized system such as that characterizing
bourgeois sociability: conflicts were organically defused rather than inte-
grated into the texture of life. The city was revealed as a den of hedonism

64 chapter two
and moral laxity, of the celebration of imported and artificial customs,
of the embrace of elements corrosive to the national character and tradi-
tional codes he understood as Brazilian.70
Modernization and “progress” are viewed by Freyre as forces that
disrupt social equilibrium. Capitalism, the relations of production and
consumption, bourgeois political and social institutions, and bourgeois
sensibility and culture are considered destructive to nationality. For
Freyre, the nation was not a capitalist, rational space to be improved
on but a space of traditions to be cultivated, that offered the promise of
progress along the deep grooves of time-worn order. It was a space that
connected past, present, and future in a single continuum, or that as-
sured the construction of a future that had a commitment to the past; in
other words, a commitment to those parties and interests dominant in the
old regime. His emphasis was always on the necessity for smooth, mea-
sured transitions between the different temporalities without any harsh
edges, an accommodation of the present to the past and the future. His
sociology was ultimately the search for historical constants that inter-
sected Brazil’s processes of formation.71
One of these would be the patriarchal family, which existed through-
out the country’s history and its regions. The patriarchal estate as an
economic enterprise and a social and cultural organization, based on the
leadership of the white aristocracy and the decisive participation (start-
ing with their labor) of the blacks, was responsible for the formation of
the unique “Brazilian personality.” Freyre called attention to the fact that
across the regional differentiation of colonization and Brazil’s ensuing
history as a republic, its familial character was the only shared constant,
the most consistent mark of unity. As a primary institution of power, of
economic, political, and moral influence in the nation’s history, the fam-
ily had a civilizing function. It provided the sociological element to Bra-
zilian unity, through its articulations of diverse regional pasts into one
“comprehensively national past, characteristically luso-afro-ameríndio in
its principal traits of cultural composition and social expression.”72
In a trilogy of ambitious books including The Masters and the Slaves
(Casa-Grande e Senzala, 1933), The Mansions and the Shanties (Sobrados e
Mocambos, 1936), and Order and Progress (Ordem e Progresso, 1959), Freyre
delved into the history of sugar production in the Northeast—more
specifically Pernambuco—and generalized from it a social and cultural
analysis of Brazil’s entire colonial experience. In Pernambuco’s sugar

Spaces of Nostalgia 65
society he encountered the original genetic material of Brazilian civiliza-
tion, as well as a framework of social constants that continued to charac-
terize and orient contemporary Brazil. In his view, it was the collapse of
this paradigmatic society that gave rise to the process of disequilibrium
among all Brazil’s regions. The sociological thrust of his project was to
explain and denounce this lack of consonance between regions, as well
as to make a case for the necessity of reestablishing the harmony lost.
The collapse of original society made possible other potential new mark-
ers of regional differentiation, such as differences in the soil, landscape,
and weather, as well as patterns of economic activity. He saw regional
division as more than a physical or geographic boundary, or rather, prior
to those visible “proofs”; region is first made possible by specific ways of
life, culture, and sociability.73
For Freyre, the nation emerged as a pact among regions agreeing to
establish its reality, although it should guarantee the continued existence
of both the distinct spaces within it and the dominant groups within
each. Consciousness of difference is not effaced or ignored but subju-
gated to the logic of shared identity. Nation provided a new way to restore
the equilibrium lost, a solution to the fragmenting of Brazil’s original
society.74
Freyre addressed the sociological institutionalization of the North-
east more directly in Northeast (Nordeste, 1937). His preface made clear
his political objective: “To make Brazilians aware of a spatial entity that
began to be sociologically corrupted. To provide a warning call against
the unraveling of the federation” through the unequal concentration of
power and investments in a few favored states.75
He also outlined the physiognomy of the agrarian Northeast, “center
of Brazilian civilization”: The relations between man and the soil, the
natives, the water, plants, and animals; the adaptation of the Portuguese
and the African to the new environmental and social milieu. It was a
historical approach intending to reveal the region’s processes of forma-
tion, which would also explain to a greater or lesser degree the other
states in the union (as they fell away from or degraded its model). The re-
gion was portrayed as based on the monoculture of large estates worked
by slaves, and in that sense monosexual—it was the noble man of the
plantation who more or less by himself produced economic benefits and
established the web of amiable social relations. The region had an aqui-

66 chapter two
line profile, aristocratic and chivalrous, even if the aristocracy included
elements of the sadistic and morbid.76
The Northeast’s psychological unity was fostered by life on the plan-
tations, a life of extremes. The Northeast as Freyre imagined it had a
landscape ennobled by chapels and crosses, by the stately big house, by
horses of fine breed, and by statuesque palms. But at the same time it
was deformed by monoculture and the forced labor of slaves, its grassy
meadows devastated, its waters dried up or polluted. The Northeast was
a vortex, in which the disappearance of fine soil by erosion and of na-
tive plants by burns to expand sugarcane seemed to contradict what was
ostensibly its greatest mark of permanence: nature, the landscape of the
space itself. For Freyre, the physical degradation of the Northeast was one
of the indices of the decadence of traditional society. The search for so-
cial equilibrium, for permanence and stability, thus had a component of
natural conservation. The state of the rivers had symbolic power. Freyre
extolled the presence of rivers once untouched by dams, diversions, or
waste, constant in their flow, friendly generators of natural motion and
of sediment for early families of sugar cultivators. But the rivers had
been fouled by new generations of senhores with their filthy factories
and disrespect for nature; the suffering waterways became for Freyre
both symbol and proof of social decadence. These men with their backs
to the river, with their disregard for the region’s proud past, threatened
to definitively impoverish the Northeast. Freyre wanted to restore the
Northeast as it was before the expansion in scale of the smoke-belching
sugar factories with their reeking cauldrons, the “progress,” the destruc-
tive affectations that were changing traditional social relations. Against
the stark image of a Northeast rotted out by capitalism, Freyre posed
the primordial image of Northeast as garden, as orchard, a space where
man and nature cared for each other and protected each other among
the fragrant fruit trees and affable tufts of sugarcane.77
Freyre recognized the environmental and historical diversity within
the Northeast, notably its dry interior, but emphasized the visual and
discursive unity of the coast and its sugar economy—even though it was
precisely the “other” Northeast of drought and inhospitable terrain that
would be adopted by those whose strategy was to denounce the region’s
social conditions. The Northeast of the sugar plantations served more
prominently in the project to rescue a past of power and harmony that

Spaces of Nostalgia 67
would compensate for, and provide a way out of, the growing social prob-
lems and decadence afflicting contemporary Brazil. It was a space that
withheld its traditions and sense of self, that did not radically break with
the past but maintained possible the idea of a society internally governed
by older values. A space that maintained networks of traditional domina-
tion that should not be altered. Yet it was accommodating, integrative; it
did not vex or provoke conflict. The sweetness of preserved domination
and lifeways on the littoral was contrasted with the earth’s grating and
the bellicose disorder in the searing interior. There, amiable relations
exemplified along the coast were strained by the excesses of capitalism,
and the stern senhores in the patriarchies exploited masses of the poor
and enslaved. Clearly, Freyre’s idealization of a particular Northeast re-
quired considerable maneuvering to separate it out from all the other
geo-conceptual possibilities.78
Freyre’s sociological construction of the Northeast is oriented by a po-
litical goal: the defense of conciliation, and the condemnation of bour-
geois society and the conflicts it provokes. His Northeast was based on
a speakability and visibility intended to dissolve social, regional, and
cultural contradictions by first making them explicit, then diluting or
annulling them aesthetically. He indicted the cultural alienation intro-
duced by modernity, defending the integrity of the great house (and even
of the slave quarters) as more authentic than skyscrapers. His utopia
was the return of an idealized society in which technical advancement
was not necessarily an enemy of tradition, if it was diligently controlled;
in which tradition and modernity strolled together, the latter supported
and guided by the firm masculine arm of the former.79

identity and the other’s gaze

The sociological and historical institution of the Northeast did not arise
only internally, from among its self-defined regional intellectuals, but it
was also elaborated as part of a discourse about itself and its opposite,
the South. The Northeast was invented with considerable input from the
South, where intellectuals avidly disputed their regional neighbors over
hegemonic title to historical and sociological discourses.
The origin story of Brazilian nationality was sought within the history
of each of these spaces. Regional tensions can be traced across the histo-
riography of the nation, which was compiled to establish the prevalence

68 chapter two
of one area and one “regional type” in the construction of Brazil and its
people. It is remarkable how this literature tends to step lightly around
the questions, problems, and characteristics of each region’s present-day
situation to focus on its identity as grounded in the past. Far from pro-
ducing generally empirical arguments, it generated instead a mythology
framed around each region, salted with historical events and individuals
that were affirmed as precursors of nationality, the founding heroes of
Brazil. As mythologies they have a wide grasp, drawing on historical
memory, folklore, popular narrative, and the personal recollections of
their authors. Each region is an ensemble of imagetic-enunciative frag-
ments that were assembled around an initially abstract spatialized idea.80
In the South, starting in the 1920s, national identity began to be con-
ceived around several antagonistic poles. São Paulo, Pernambuco, and
Bahia were regarded as each having claims to being the initial cellular
material of national tissue. Historiographical discourse centered on the
history of these three areas to compose the history of Brazil. Origin myths
were created and diffused by intellectuals from each pole, affirming and
explaining their regional differences from the national whole—deepening
the contours of each case of regional distinctiveness while still placing it
in the center of Brazil’s historical processes of formation.
A shared theme in this literature was the opposition between nomad-
ism and sedentariness. Colonial Brazil was sketched according to this
framework, with the perspective changing according to regional position.
If São Paulo is raised as the dynamic center of colonial Brazil, nomad-
ism is emphasized, while the opposite is true from the point of view of
the Northeast. But each pole also explored nomadism in another, cen-
trifugal sense: the dispiriting tendency of Brazilians to move around and
leave no roots, without creating anything solid, complicating the realiza-
tion of national potential.81
For Freyre, the plantation owner (senhor do engenho) provided one of
the few examples of sociocultural concentration that lent density to na-
tionality. The notorious bandits, even if some of them conquered riches
and land, still compromised the colony’s economic health and might
have destabilized political unity if it had not been for forces linked to the
large estates, especially the church (since Catholicism was understood as
part of the cement of Brazilian unity). But critically, Freyre suggested the
origin of banditry lay outside the Northeast itself. There, the Portuguese
and their descendants regressed to a form of feudalism through their

Spaces of Nostalgia 69
aristocratic methods of colonization, leading to a greater attachment to
settling on the land; whereas in São Paulo it was the adventurers and
explorers, feeling no sentimental connection to the land, that ultimately
gave rise to the modern bandit.82
If those restless southern adventurers, the famous bandeirantes, had
widened Brazil’s frontiers through their nomadic impulses, it was the
sedentary northeasterners ensconced in their estates that gave those
frontiers meaning. The northeasterners gave content to the country,
constructing its social and political territory, laying the foundation for
“houses that were nearly forts, where they felt so self-sufficient that it be-
came nearly possible to create their own country with its own set of bor-
ders and frontiers—all born of the desire for stability and permanence.”
They would have crystallized the country out of slabs of cane sugar if they
could have. Both the empire and independence from it drew sustenance
from these families led by noble agricultural men, “barons of a feudal
lifestyle, patriarchal, devoted to God and the emperor.”83
Not surprisingly, the supposedly exclusive nature of the northeastern
plantation elite’s aristocratic character was a point of discord between
northern and southern intellectuals. For instance, Oliveira Vianna ar-
gued that the same pomp and finery of Pernambuco’s colonial mansions
could be found in São Paulo. He maintained that there was a paulista
aristocracy and that it derived from noble Portuguese families as well as
some plebeians who had made their fortune in the colony. Freyre would
have none of that, however. He countered that São Paulo’s population
derived from ranks of humbler Portuguese, their bloodlines mixed with
Moors and Jews. Unfortunately for Vianna, his thesis of a noble origin
in São Paulo was not unanimously embraced by his fellow paulista intel-
lectuals. Cassiano Ricardo and Alcântara Machado were more focused
on the centrality, and complexity, of the figure of the bandeirante for São
Paulo. These were “poor men, of rustic or even crude manners, living
nearly in indigence, hard on themselves and demanding of their fel-
lows.” São Paulo’s present wealth was thus opposed favorably to the pov-
erty of its unsophisticated origins—a construct that usefully reinforced
the image of a decadent, fallen Northeast where the riches of the past
stood in contrast to the crisis of the present.84
Ricardo believed that the Brazilian “type” emerged through the bio-
logical democratization that transformed the patriarchal Christian fam-
ily in São Paulo. This racial democracy led to a wider tendency toward

70 chapter two
social democracy there, unlike in the Northeast, where the family main-
tained the rigid air of aristocracy. Reversing Freyre’s trope of aristocracy
as a positive trait of the northeastern past, Ricardo attributed the origins
of Brazilian democratic individualism to the more open, democratic na-
ture of family life in São Paulo. Where aristocracy emerged or held out,
he argued, it was contrary to the salutary democratic trend. Thus where
Ricardo cited the traditional patriarchal family as facilitating the onset of
a “bourgeois spirit” in Brazil, Freyre had argued the opposite, that it was
a bulwark against that very spirit. Depending on the nationalist project
of each intellectual, and the space they represented, the history of Brazil
could be read and interpreted in diverse forms.85
For his part, Roger Bastide, a French intellectual, also pondered the
history and identity of Brazil from the perspective of a scission between
São Paulo and the Northeast. He regarded the Northeast as character-
ized by archaic norms of social relations, of affectionate solidarity and
community labor, and the maintenance of a prebourgeoisie sensibility
and ethics. This was not a derogatory judgment. The region’s work of
conciliation, of harmonizing technological development, of integrating
capitalist modernization with communal patterns of coexistence, were
for Bastide highly original and important contributions of the North-
east to Brazil. As he does throughout his oeuvre, Bastide described the
situation in terms of sharp contrasts, but when he praised the Brazilian
capacity to reconcile polarities he was praising what he understood as
a primordially northeastern trait. He admired the nordestinos for their
ability to found cultures and races, to transcend barriers between the past
and present and between the archaic and the modern.86
Brazil was therefore a double country: the South boasted intelligence,
practicality, and a commitment to reality, while the Northeast was imagi-
native and sensitive, prone to fantasy and mysticism. Reason and emo-
tion, the basic dualistic dilemma of Brazilian national identity, became
embodied in regional division. For Menotti del Picchia, the legacy of the
bandeirante in São Paulo ran deep. Paulistas were adventurous, autono-
mous, rebellious, the perfect traits to explore and dominate new territo-
ries. They had discarded the known, including the familiar coasts, to
plunge into the unknown interior. However, the nordestino’s cultural
heritage resulted in a poor copy of this robust, productive vitality. Deni-
zens of the Northeast’s interior were engaged in a constant battle with the
environment. Their hardness was based on bitterness, on the inability to

Spaces of Nostalgia 71
dominate; they wandered, unable to put down roots, lacking the organic
capacity to institute enduring civilization. Freyre saw in the nordes-
tino, or more specifically the Pernambucano, the same taste the paulista
supposedly had for initiative, discovery, innovation, colonization. But of
course, his interpretation of the character and civilizing influence of the
sugar elite’s activities was not broadly embraced. None other than Sérgio
Buarqe de Holanda disputed Freyre’s assertion, claiming that the limits
of the “adventurous spirit” of Freyre’s plantation master were reached in
exploitative agriculture pursued carelessly and wastefully, along with a
marked aversion to physical or otherwise productive labor.87
In the vast majority of cases in this literature, São Paulo is seen as the
area of modern, urban-industrial culture, a reading that omits its strong
foundation of traditional culture as well as the social-cultural reality of the
vast fields and agricultural regimes linked to it. And for the Northeast, that
scheme is reversed: it is imagined as a rural region, a state of nature whose
cities (among them some of Brazil’s oldest and largest) are neglected out-
right in terms of both their scientific and artistic production. When north-
eastern cities are discussed, they appear to have frozen, not in the colonial
period exactly, but in some later dollhouse concept of it—they are folkloric,
picturesque, placid, happy cities, full of sunlight and talk of horses and of
the harvest, cities composed of exorbitantly baroque architecture painted
in fading blues, pinks, and yellows. São Paulo is again the opposite; it has
sloughed off the decrepit relics of the colonial-era burg it might once have
been and now exudes modernity, wealth, movement, polyphony, potency,
electricity, a kaleidoscope of contemporary luminosities.88
The southern intellectuals, who may have felt vindicated and inspired
by Roger Bastide, affirmed that the Northeast was a place “suffused in
history . . . in which the drive to have everything new and make everything
new, to modernize, to be contemporary, does not inspire anyone. Its very
stones sing of the past, telling proud tales of ancient Brazil, when the Por-
tuguese roamed the earth.” São Paulo was another reality, the embrace of
the new, of change, of ambitious development, of being unlike the North-
east “that God made, not the people.” One was the region of memory; the
other expressing the passing of time. One was nature, the other culture.89
Some modernists, notably Mário and Oswald de Andrade, viewed the
Northeast as the last redoubt of Brazilian culture—understood as essen-
tially luso-afro-ameríndia, a primeval entity that did not experience the
effects of mass immigration the way Brazil’s central South did. Oswald,

72 chapter two
contradicting his endorsement of cosmopolitanism in other writings,
practically reproduced the rhetoric of northeastern traditionalists when
he praised the Northeast for being the only part of Brazil where “capital-
ist machines do not noisily churn out cloth and lace and embroidery,
the things we once shared that were sacred in authenticity and human
beauty.” Perhaps he had absorbed a slice of Freyre.90
Fernand Braudel, a French historian who worked in São Paulo in the
1930s and also had a stay in Bahia, contributed a series of texts that rein-
forced the vision of Brazil as a dichotomy between the modern-capitalist
and archaic-feudal. He admitted that his long experience in São Paulo
left him feeling “a little paulista,” and his gaze does seem influenced by
the particular visibility of the Northeast that was being mounted in the
South at the time. Braudel mused that Bahia was an old society, with a
hint of Europe, while São Paulo reminded him of Chicago and New York.
He saw paulista society as fluid, letting itself be battered by the waves of
economic imperative ever since mass immigration had submerged the
older realms of sociability. But in Bahia, his only taste of what might be
the “Northeast,” society was traditional, fenced off, internally coherent,
and capable of heading off any threat from external forces of change.91
The selective nature of Braudel’s sensibility is obvious, not least when it
comes to perceiving Europe in Bahia, something that might be a historical
exception to the widespread perception of Bahia as a Brazil’s most Afri-
can place. And to claim that European migration gave paulista society an
American character is bizarre. He apparently had a highly individualistic
interpretation of Oswald de Andrade’s idea that São Paulo was “the engine
pulling the old, empty boxcars of the rest of the federation.”92
As early as 1920, Amadeu Amaral had denounced the rise of a new
outbreak of regionalist practices and discourses. While he rebuked the
perceived separatist character of the North’s regionalism, he acknowl-
edged of paulista regionalism merely that it was “rather blustering and
superficial, of no real consequence.” But he suggested that the lack of a
cohesive identity emanating from São Paulo was due to the presence there
of so many people from elsewhere (in Brazil or the world), but if there was
a certain palpable paulista identity it was a response to the “anti-paulista
sentiment” coming from around Brazil, helping to shape and reinforce an
identity there.93
But the only “regionalism” that managed to transcend state barriers,
uniting intellectuals from across various states, was that of the Northeast.

Spaces of Nostalgia 73
That region, a space of longing and nostalgia, defined by the past and
tradition, was also invented by and through fiction, music, poetry, paint-
ing, and theater.

Northeastern Pages
the novels of the 1930s

We now turn to a literary machine that was produced through the repre-
sentation of a referent it assumes to be fixed: the region of the Northeast.
The Northeast is taken in these books to be a preexisting object, a natural
thing that could serve as the basis on which to build a whole new liter-
ary discourse. But in truth, this literature was not merely reflecting the
Northeast but actively participating in its invention and its institution.
The last years of the 1920s and the decade of the 1930s witnessed the
transformation of regionalist literature into “national” literature in Brazil.
The emergence of sociological analysis of Brazilian identity, with an ur-
gency provided by the discursive formation of the national-popular, gave
to northeastern fiction the status of a literature preoccupied with the na-
tion and its people, mixed-race, poor, rough and primitive in their social
manifestations. This literature came to be regarded as destined to offer
meaning to the various realities of the country—to unmask the essence
of true Brazil.94
Literary criticism, an important site for the institutionalization and
regulation of forms of speakability, adopted the regional as a legitimate
way to think about Brazilian literature. Viana Moog described regional-
ist literature as “an expression of the different local temperaments and
talents that compose the national character.” Analysis of literary works
could be accomplished through frameworks of stereotypes ostensibly
characterizing each region. Cyro T. de Pádua proposed mapping the
geographic divisions of Brazilian literature, reinforcing José Américo de
Almeida’s idea that it was the “spontaneous expression of its native soil
[terra].” Thus literary critics also acted to legitimate the connection of liter-
ary production to spaces understood to be natural, fixed, and ahistorical.95
Roger Bastide concurred that the best way to approach Brazilian lit-
erature was precisely to consider it an expression of the “diverse cultural
islands that formed the harmonious archipelago” of Brazil; his was also
a criticism that nominated and reified the region as the producer of na-

74 chapter two
tional literature. But as Merquior astutely noted, the “literature of the
Northeast” never existed. It is a body of work that is viewed as such,
grouped in an identity that was created by critics as well as assumed by
its authors.96 But what he did not fully grasp is that this identity was
gestated in struggles both within the literary field and beyond it. The
northeastern fiction writers, while stylistically diverse, shared common
ground as representatives of a cultural area of Brazil that was declining
in various aspects. They also all chose the politicization of culture as
the means to make themselves present at the national level. From the
strict literary point of view, northeastern regionalism does not exist, but
it does exist as a literary discourse that sought to legitimize, artistically,
a regional identity that had been shaped by diverse regionalist practices
and given sociological coherence by Gilberto Freyre.
Critics came to explain the style of northeastern authors by using the
images linked to that space: these authors supposedly had styles that
were arid, dry, sharp, and craggy, all qualities recalling the desert and
the cactus. The identity of the authors is established based on their and
their works’ relations with the northeastern space, although some, such
as Graciliano Ramos, went deeper by affirming in their expressive style
and the texture of their language the image of the region they drew from
and constructed.97 The growth of what came to be called the “fiction of
the 1930s” had developed with the complete identification of authors
with their landscapes and environments, coming to feel, see, and speak
it as they had never done before. Paulo Cavalcanti believed this fiction
expressed a collective reality, loyal to the tendencies of the people and to
regional characteristics, creating an interweaving of the authors’ memo-
ries with what was most essential in the structure of society. It was truly
a Brazilian literature because it was connected to region, which suffered
less foreign influence. And it was the synthesis of all its contradictions,
its social and natural contrasts, embodying this rich complexity.98
Once the Northeast was acceptably defined as a “literary province,”
what was legitimated was not only the identity of the fiction as being
essentially northeastern, but the region itself as a place “possessing its
own literature that expresses its truths.” Regionalist literature conveyed
the “spirit” of each region: paulista literature was one of adventure, con-
quest, the bandeirantes, while northeastern literature was “rustic, crude
and strong, just like its area of origin.”99 Northeastern critics character-
ized 1930s fiction as meeting the demands of the physical and social

Spaces of Nostalgia 75
environment that produced it; as an “expression of its space.” It was
interpreted as an “innately northeastern reaction to the ancient canons,
without losing the universal meaning of Brazilian culture,” or as an en-
counter of the differentiating traits of Brazilian prose and customs with
models of European reality.100
Whatever its sheen of the past, this literature was made possible by
the growth of a complex, modernizing society. Poetry, which dominated
the national literary realm until around 1914, gave way to fiction that was
directly linked with the nationalist necessity to understand and explain
both the nation and its people. The other modes of knowledge that fo-
cused on the question, such as sociology, history, and ethnography, would
furnish data, suggestions, and norms to literature. Nationalist practices
in the cultural field, such as the creation of universities and institutes;
the realization of congresses, symposia, and debates on national culture,
language, and problems; all would stimulate literary production directed
down the same path, toward the authentic essence and truth of the na-
tion. Inquiries into the national character and the Brazilian “type” found
in novels and other fiction offered a whole new dimension for psycho-
logical characterization, regional discourse, and confrontations with mis-
cegenation.101 This fiction was guided by the mission to form a critical
consciousness and become a participative activity in the historical trans-
formations of the country—whether impeding them or engaging them
to direct their momentum in certain directions.
To the extent that the national-popular discursive formation had as a
central problematic the idea of the nation, and to the extent that the di-
versity of Brazil’s social conditions was growing more accentuated, 1930s
fiction developed with the preoccupation to recognize and define the
human types and social characteristics that composed the nation. It was
able to vividly explore the intersections between psychology and sociol-
ogy. Northeastern fiction in particular contained the tremors of numer-
ous crises affecting traditional sociability and intellectual paradigms, as
well as families of landholders and sugar producers. The construction
of these “regional problems” had to contend with Freyre’s sociological
production and all the discourse that went before it.
These authors’ success throughout the decade was due in large part to a
significant expansion of the editorial industry and the commercialization
of books. Still, the industry was concentrated on the Rio de Janeiro–São
Paulo axis, meaning northeastern writers typically had to move there for

76 chapter two
a real chance at exposure. Their fiction had as a principal base of reader-
ship the urban middle class, which was then in a phase of growth and
for whom the nationalist imperative to “discover the problems of the
country” had profound resonance. That sector, considering itself “mod-
ern, polished, civilized,” was also curious to learn about the “exotic and
rustic.” This would be a way to mark off and emphasize their own dif-
ference and at the same time join the collective project to recognize “our
problems, our fears, our miseries, our traditions.”102
The discourse of 1930s fiction was concerned with elaborating sym-
bolic characters, whose individuality was expressed in actions; characters
who transcended the laceration of identities suffered at the moment by
their authors. They are characters who want to assure the maintenance
of an essence, to eliminate virtuality. They are “typical,” fixed types who,
even with all the conflict and drama they confront within the story, never
come to doubt themselves or fundamentally change. They offer the guar-
antee of continuity of a regional “way of being” and “way to think” and
“way to act.”103
The central theme of the literature of the 1930s is the decadence of pa-
triarchal society and its substitution with logics of urban-industrial society.
Its actors vigorously engage in battle among the various national projects
swirling about in this moment of transition, from the most conservative
to the revolutionary. That is why they strive to get nearer to the “people,”
adopting forms of expression of popular origin as a way to denounce the
social conditions they experience. The authors, in the majority middle-
class descendants of traditional families that have fallen on hard times
and were enduring new circumstances of marginalization, felt little com-
mitment or loyalty to the dominant groups. Along with its profession-
alization, the literary field acquired a certain autonomy, leading it to (as
Candido put it) “de-officialize.” In their independence the writers identify
more with the popular sectors, feeling marginalized like them and uncon-
nected to the bourgeoisie. The fiction of this period was imagined to be
made for the people, for the public, rather than for a class. But the authors’
sensibilities and values existed in tension. As they newly identified with
the suffering of the masses, many fostered the populist pretension to be
the people’s spokesmen even as they felt lingering support for the old par-
adigm of paternalist domination that their families had once enjoyed.104
This production used the conclusions of the sociologists as a spring-
board to arrive at a nuanced depiction of the “various realities of the

Spaces of Nostalgia 77
Northeast,” leading ultimately to an abandonment of the dichotomous
structure of naturalist regionalism and its cleavage between coast and
interior. The man of the backlands is no longer viewed as an exotic rube
who is flustered by cities, and who also threatens cities. He is explored
for his psychological and sociological constitution and meaning, fixing
him in a social-cultural totality rather than excluding him from rarified
“civilization.”105
However, the work is not monolithic in emphasizing a vision of the
Northeast as a space of nostalgia and tradition. Only some of its authors
contributed to this idea, among them José Lins do Rego, José Américo de
Almeida, and Rachel de Queiroz. And each of these distinguished them-
selves further in their choice of particular area that would serve as the
basis for how they thought and wrote about region. For Rego (as well as
other writers who do not fit into this group, such as Ascenso Ferreira,
Jorge de Lima, and Manuel Bandeira), the traditional Northeast was the
part that was covered in sugarcane, with patriarchal and slaveholding so-
ciety around it—especially the intermediate coastal plain referred to as the
zona da mata. Almeida and Queiroz, on the other hand, gave some atten-
tion to the coast but tended to focus on the dry interior as the traditional
space par excellence that gave the Northeast its originality and identity.
If we say these authors invented a traditional Northeast, that does
not mean they started from zero and created something new. They chose
carefully among recollections, experiences, images, clichés, enunciations,
manners of expression, and facts to select those they considered essen-
tial to the regional essence and regional “type.” Their selections aligned
with the concept that the Northeast was a place where an identity threat-
ened with effacement must be conserved. The truthfulness of what they
wrote about the region is not really based on the “Northeast” itself and
hardly depends on it. What is of interest are their techniques of repre-
sentation, and how these render the place visible, clear, and apparently
“there” geographically.
This literature operates through elaborating “typical” characters who
speak of what they regard as fundamental social experiences. The con-
stitutive power of their identities is engaged in mutual constitution with
the regional frame. It is intended that the reader identify with their be-
haviors, values, ways of thinking and feeling. These characters should
function as revealing the essence of a regional way of being. Creating
the “typical” is part of the mechanism that will produce regional subjec-

78 chapter two
tivity. But to become credible subjects, the typical characters must also
embody experiences, modes of speaking, and social practices that can
be recognized by the reader. Rather than being “discovered,” the charac-
ters actualize elements that have already been consecrated by the codes
of meaning and perception of their era. To be comprehensible, their
strangeness must be to an extent familiar.106
Although the repertoire of types is rooted in repetitive tropes that re-
call a dominant social and cultural order established before a given work
was written, this project was not exclusively conservative in that it func-
tions to incite new production. In the identification with types there is
room for invention, and an identity is never guaranteed or fully predict-
able. These are the two faces of the type: a model to be serialized, and
raw material for the new. The regional types in this oeuvre, for example,
have a tendency for repetition but are still creatively displaced, reset, and
reconfigured.107
With its implications of romance and fantasy, fiction writing fit
smoothly into the project of rescuing a tradition of narratives, images,
and discourses that would be “representative” of the regional space.
Fiction was a predominant narrative form in both the oral and written
realms, and was embraced as the best way to recreate the lives and history
of the region. Roberto Ventura has shown how, by the late nineteenth
century, elements of popular literature and popular song were absorbed
alongside more austere juridical arguments into the debates of north-
ern intellectuals with their southern counterparts. Sílvio Romero, Joa-
quim Nabuco, Araipe Júnior, and others interpenetrated evolutionary
assumptions with an honor code ostensibly characteristic of rural, pa-
triarchal society and that was the richly explored theme of such popular
production.108
Cordel literature also furnished elements of narrative structure, lan-
guage, and values to northeastern fiction. Cordel had been itself an impor-
tant diffuser of images, texts, and themes about the Northeast, its produc-
tion based on the repetition, variation, and reactualization of collective
forms. It represents a sort of grassroots text in which popular narrative
and enunciative models interweave and imbricate. It has functioned as
a repository of expressive forms from which other “erudite” cultural pro-
duction has drawn, not only literature but theater and cinema.109
As a popular manifestation, cordel goes beyond representation and
the idea of an author’s workmanship. It produces its own language and

Spaces of Nostalgia 79
a “reality” that derives from how it allows popular memory to intersect
with contemporary events and references. Its discourse is presented as
being beyond the corrosive effects of historical time. As a practice that
invents and reinvents tradition, it was appealing to diverse intellectu-
als preoccupied with both popular identity and spatial-temporal stability.
Its narrative structure operates according to paradigms embodied by a
narrator speaking with the voice of the people, and it is thus vulnerable
to deformation caused by excessively individual impositions. Of course,
its traditionalist vision allowed it to dialogue with many other realms
of cultural production about the region. The “primitive” character of its
oral structure appeared to be the natural outgrowth of a region whose
general content was taken as primitive (if not barbaric), the opposite
of modern. The authentic stories of the Northeast were understood by
the 1930s generation of author-interpreters to be similarly oral, and ef-
fectively anonymous in their collectivity—the narratives of ex-slaves and
people with no last name, half-remembered tales heard in infancy of
bandits, saints, miracles, droughts, lost women, and unhewn men. This
displacement from time and authorship contributed to the vision of the
purity of the interior, a nostalgic space that had not yet suffered the de-
naturalizing effects of bourgeois social relations.110
As noted, however, cordel did not reject novel or surprising contem-
porary interjections. But they were reset and defused. Modernity’s power
to perturb a daily life immersed in regularity and tradition was subjected
to an interpretative matrix giving the novelties a traditional cast, diluting
their capacity for difference and knitting them into the absorbent sub-
strate of similarity and continuity.
The fiction of José Lins do Rego clearly drew on the circular popular
narrative processes of storytellers and story singers. He eschewed the
linear imposition of centralizing arguments and explanatory, conversa-
tional dialogue, preferring internal deposition and reflection. Various
voices, popular or not, melded into the shared vision of a world not yet
lacerated by the cleavages of self-aware class identity. The great house
looming over the estate was depicted as a place where people might exist
in hierarchy, but that hierarchy was implicit, and their voices were not
essentially differentiated. In Rego’s writing the various voices speak in
harmony to affirm a cordiality, a deep familiarity, rather than assert dis-
sentions and critique (although Rego does use discord when he gives

80 chapter two
voice to urban people, or trade professionals such as artisans working
outside the rural sphere).111
In order to see, speak, and write the region “as it was,” all these authors
attempted to establish a regional style based in such popular sources.
But northeastern literary regionalism formed also in opposition—to aca-
demic styles, and to the alleged artificiality of modernism. The goal was
a quotidian manner of expression, a language that could sketch a world
that was a direct representation of reality. It sought a feeling of veracity,
immediacy. But the language also sought to be the basis for re-creating
and reinstituting a reality that was disappearing. As it maneuvered to
close the distance between object and meaning, its thrust was to reestab-
lish old codes taken as “natural” and essential.112
While they rejected the modernists, these authors were still making
works based on a modern gaze. But they were nostalgic for the clarity and
substance of the naturalist vision with its sense of a true reality, clear,
fixed, and stable, its hierarchies secure. One of the sources of greatest ten-
sion and anxiety in modernity is atomization and the resulting conflict
over a place and space experienced, up until then, as natural and eternal.
It must be related to this that 1930s fiction has as a regular theme battles
over land and power. The mechanized plantations and their insatiable
hunger for land, leading them to invade territories and ecosystems that
had been sacred to earlier generations, were the greatest symbol of the
process in which land was no longer a fixed repository of traditions and
power relations but merely “cheap merchandise.”113
Another indication of the naturalist nostalgia of these authors is their
negative posture toward the city. If the earlier regionalism looked from
the perspective of the cities rather scornfully to the rural areas, the re-
gionalism of 1930s fiction reversed the point of view and saw in cities
the ultimate symbol of ruin and disgrace. The ideal Northeast in this
work is thematized as rural, pure, and robust, posed against the cities,
which are places of sin and degradation. Although the Northeast has its
own cities, critically important in the history of Brazil, these are mostly
ignored by its literary and artistic production. Being that the Northeast
was the site of one of the first manifestations of industrialization in the
country, industry is viewed with suspicion as an invasive, foreign force
in an innately “agricultural” region. “To view the Northeast from the big
city is like looking through binoculars backward—everything distant

Spaces of Nostalgia 81
and entangled.”114 The region is symbolically rooted in both its own rural
dimension, and the performative folkloric “survivals” of it carried by mi-
grants to the big city. Some of the works seek to assure the superiority of
bucolic life over urban life, as well as that of traditional patriarchal rela-
tions over the bourgeoisie relations of the metropolis. Rural sociability is
generalized to the regional scale, averting the fractures and complexity
of the region itself—much as the earlier split between the coast and inte-
rior provoked camouflaging strategies. What is constructed is the image
of a society profoundly involved in itself, in a state of self-absorbed se-
renity that can be disrupted by the interventions of nature (droughts,
floods, births, deaths, hunger, passion) or of modern capitalism.115
When the Northeast’s cities are dealt with, it is in the style of Ascenso
Ferreira or Manuel Bandeira: the contemporary city is not confronted on
its own terms, but what is sought is an antiquated essence underneath
the modern concrete overgrowth. These writers prioritize “the old Re-
cife that lingers behind the clangorous streets, of the river easing along
the quay, of the slumbering mansions.” In the preferred cities, “the
streetcars are pulled by burros, and are outnumbered by wagons carry-
ing brush or produce.” Cities “that are small like the people that live in
them, always the same, never giving more or less than they always gave,
whose only gestures of grandiosity were in the church or the great house
of the coronel.” The principal urban features of the fictionalized North-
east were the markets, pungent with fruit and gossip, and the compla-
cent market towns “where if an improvement happened to come along
it would leave things worse than they already were.”116
The Northeast invented by the traditionalists might in some senses
be called “the land of Ascenso Ferreira,” such was the influence of his
poetry that he spun out of popular verse. He crafted a Northeast where
everyone had a simple life, where needs were met by fishing and trap
setting and sleeping soundly at night. The Northeast where men are
born sinewy and tough, men “for whom struggle is destiny: Cabeleira,
Conselheiro, Lampião.” Yet regardless of the wider contexts surround-
ing these men’s controversial activities, the Ferreiran Northeast had no
social problems. It was lyrical, ideal, poetic, unsullied by contradictions
and struggles over power.117
This Northeast appeared hazily like a dream only barely recalled, but
summoned forth in the evocative names of idled sugar plantations—
Esperança, Estrela d’Alva, Flor do Bosque, Bom Mirar—and in the colo-

82 chapter two
nial great houses, now softly falling to ruin. A Northeast of the mansions
where senhores had been obediently fanned or intimately embraced by
their fond slaves, a Northeast suffused in sugar and that ornamented
its daily life with products of sugarcane: “mar de canas, cana-caiana,
cana-roxa, cana-fita, each sweet morsel more delightful and tasty than
the last.”118
In this Northeast the backlands were “the other side of the world,
from whence emerged gaunt fugitives of the droughts and coarse fugi-
tives from justice.” But the Northeast was the domain not of lawmen but
of families, who owned everything and everyone. These families were
extensive, incorporating concubines and bastard children. Grandpar-
ents were patriarchal but generous and tender, with considerable social
power. Their poor literacy had not impeded their participation in the
political accords leading to the end of the empire and the beginning of
the republic. Their offspring were the rich senhores, arrogant perhaps
but obligingly accessible to the throngs of indigents who sought their
attention and favor. It was a noble, ordered world being destroyed by Ma-
chiavellian forces from beyond its borders.119
But the traditional Northeast could also be that of the backlands, the
sertão, the “naked landscape broken only by withered, leafless trees, per-
forated by thorns like Jesus’s forehead and riddled with deformed rocks
suggesting monsters that had been rejected passage on Noah’s ark.” The
sertão belonged to the “cowboys, the herds, the aging churches, the con-
voys of tangerine carts, bandits and prophets; while above all the red
sun scowls like an ember.” It was a world “soaked in blood, the blood
of God and the blood of men.” The land of a “damned race that desired
revenge, the land of bullets, fire and death.” A place of environmental
brutality, where “hard, ascetic, brown-toasted men concentrated them-
selves around little islands of water, surrounded by seas of dry earth on
all sides.” A “no-man’s land of wanderers” sewn out of the whips used by
cowboys and by penitents, choked with misery and mysticism. A region
“whose signature was the cadaver, where honor and vindication guided
people’s lives rather than laws or rights.” In the Northeast of the back-
lands, “man’s suffering was the suffering of the land itself; both were
identified by and mired in the same state of disgrace.”120
The mythic centrality of the sertão to the Northeast was already pres-
ent in cordel literature and in the nineteenth-century fiction of Frank-
lin Távora and José de Alencar, and it was systematized by Euclides da

Spaces of Nostalgia 83
Cunha in his account of Canudos. But in the 1930s it was extended to
represent the region as a whole. It was no longer an abstract space de-
fined only as the “frontier of civilization.” It was identified specifically
with the Northeast and adopted by a set of writers as the true North-
east, a land defined by drought and outlaws and political bosses and
wild-eyed prophets. This meant “the negation of the green and aquatic
Brazil, of the Brazil of scented gardens. Here was a Brazil brutalized
by the sun, violently decomposing, grated by dust and dissolving in the
whirlwind.”121
The Northeast was taking on a visibility and speakability, its diversity
worked and polished into recognizable forms and genres by poets and
fiction writers. Such a reality needed to be spoken (and spoken of) in
its own language, and the traditionalist regionalists had as one of their
goals to restore and institute the regional language, the “northeastern
way of speaking.” It began to take shape in the literature of this period
and later would become the topic of study of folklorists, linguists, and
ethnographers. It cohered as a single entity, implicitly rejecting the vari-
ations in pronunciation and modes of expression across the Northeast.
The 1930s fiction both created it as something distinct and endeavored
to diminish its exotic character by adopting it as its own material.122
This was not done in a cultural or symbolic vacuum. Gilberto Freyre
had already pointed to the importance of the “sociocultural complex of
the great house and slave hut” for the formation of a Portuguese who
was becoming Brazilian, more rural in outlook, with its own language
adapted to the tropics—conservative in its maintenance of archaic refer-
ences to the 1500s and before. This language was both sharpened and
smoothed by the pronunciations of the Africans and their descendants,
which tended to minimize the “s” and the “rr” in words. For Freyre, as
for José Lins do Rego, this linguistic development would present a mani-
festation of regional identity that was rooted in authenticity. The region
was the locale of the most authentic, the most Brazilian language since it
was based in oral contemporaneity and the real life of people.123
It was under the direct influence of both Freyre and Rego that philolo-
gist Mário Marroquim determined to study the “Northeast” as a region per
se, to analyze its regional dialect. He believed that the region’s particular
ethnic and historical formation would have produced a distinct, shared
dialect within its boundaries. That is why his study, called A Língua do
Nordeste (The Language of the Northeast), extrapolated from his research

84 chapter two
in the coastal plains of Alagoas and Pernambuco to make claims for the
region as a whole.124 Freyre would then praise Marroquim’s philology
since it allowed analysts to get to know nordestinos better through under-
standing how history and context had shaped their words. It was taken for
granted that language had an implicit regional content that could be re-
vealed. To speak of the Northeast, and to speak it, required a northeastern
language. Because of the territorial expanse of the country, and the contact
with diverse ethnic and linguistic groups, the Portuguese language had
segmented into different colonial-regional variations with the Northeast
being the original. To study the northeastern dialect meant to return to
the past and explore the memory of a society that seemed to only now be
revealing its primordial secrets to earnest artists and scholars.125
Marroquim characterized the northeastern way of speaking as being
marked by a slow, apparently tired attempt at clear pronunciation. All
the vowels were emphatically open, and lingered over, giving the im-
pression of a half-sung speech. The locution of de in de manhã, de tarde,
and de noite would ring out as the more sonorous di. However, a hard
“l” sound was systematically substituted for “r,” which demanded more
artistry from the tongue. The vowels “a,” “i,” and “u” were nasalized by
the addition of an “m” or “n” afterword, such that a bull’s cogote (scruff
of the neck) transformed into cangote.
This schema of a “northeastern language” was at times based purely on
the manifestations of a single city, such as Água Branca in Alagoas, where
there was the habit of adding a letter “i” to a word ending with “l” or “r”:
soli for sol, doutori for doutor, et cetera. But Marroquim also forefronted di-
versity among states, such as coma in Paraíba versus cuma in Pernambuco.
In Alagoas, an article was used before the words for mother, father, aunt,
and so on, whereas that was not the case in Pernambuco. This begins to
suggest the fundamental incoherence of his approach to a “northeastern
language” that would be taken as “the expression of the character and tradi-
tions of the region, a language giving voice to the soul of the people.”
The origins of this dialect were explained as archaic Portuguese, leav-
ened by the contributions from Africans and the indigenous. Since there
was not a notable history of migration to the region (unlike to Brazil’s
central South), this language had been able to stabilize long ago; in Per-
nambuco, some of the native peoples still spoke the pre-Renaissance Por-
tuguese they had learned and carried into the interior. Words with slight
variations from their contemporary forms, such as alifante (elefante),

Spaces of Nostalgia 85
amenhã (amanhã), apus (apos), antão (então), coidado (coitado), distruí
(destruir) and rezão (razão) advertised the ancient Portuguese roots.
Fiction of the 1930s would give the Northeast a visibility and speak-
ability that involved language itself, and the centrality of memory to the
present. The past was scrutinized for meanings that could help invent
the present. The leather-clad bandit one may have glimpsed long ago,
the starving wanderer, the poor and shuffling peasant, the saint carried
in devoted procession, the coronel in his white suit riding a horse, all
acquired a unifying meaning as they were considered manifestations
of regionality—indexes of the regional essence. Region explained them,
while at the same time region was implied by them, and traditional
continuity was mutually underscored in an era of change: “A region of
people obsessed with the past, in a life that was all death.”126

regional themes

This literature used regionalized language to institute a number of basic

themes: the decadence of sugar society; piety as a counterbalance to ban-
ditry and savagery; the power relations surrounding the coronel (the fa-
vors, the clientelism, the hired goons); the drought and the wandering
in its wake. These themes had been present in popular literature, in the
songs and improvised poetry duels, and in the political discourse of the
oligarchies. But they took on a new form and a new reach in literary pro-
duction, which heralded them as emblems of regional essence.
These traditional and folkloric motifs would take on new life as they
were incorporated into both implicit and explicit political strategies to de-
nounce regional conditions. Their dimensions of want and misery were
configured into indices of discontentment with the new society forming
around them. While they had the power to impress viscerally with their
strong tone and imagery, they also conveyed to middle-class readers
that the Northeast was opposed to capitalist modernization. They syn-
thesized a regional social reality. Their manifestations of popular revolt
provoked gestures of solidarity from diverse intellectuals who were also
concerned with changes affecting traditional society and threatening its
proven mechanisms of control.
Dichotomies provided the foundation for constructing this regional
identity: God and Devil, traditional and modern, sea and backlands,
drought and starvation versus ardent prophecies of salvation.

86 chapter two
The theme of drought was certainly the most important, because it
had first given rise to the idea of a Northeast as a separate space from the
North, defined by the reach of this climatic occurrence. The discourse
of the drought was transformed into a regional rhetoric addressing a
variety of questions and themes. This was accomplished through the
simultaneous and diverse practices and methods of the drought victims,
of strategies to control starving populations, of the relocating of wan-
dering indigents to grim labor camps, of the institutions organized to
gather and send charitable contributions, of the mechanisms to devise
and control drought-related public works. Among the representatives of
the drought-afflicted area there was a need to unify the discourse at the
national level. Drought was decisive in helping Brazilians think about
the Northeast as a natural territorial division, encompassing a homoge-
neous environment that had also given rise to a homogeneous society.
Drought encouraged the embrace of an image of the Northeast as
desert, an image that ignored the humid regimes within the region. The
wandering, the migration, the exodus sparked by drought established its
own narrative structure: a ritualistic formula of people cast out, recalling
the biblical exodus of the Jews from the desert. In this case, the waves of
wretched faithful would keep roaming until they reached the coast, or
even better, the promised land of the South. But there was also a secular,
timeless aspect of the story, since droughts were a natural phenomenon.
If they had always existed, then by definition the Northeast, “land of the
droughts,” had always existed. This was the guarantee of continuity, of
the reassuring eternity of the regional space (even if it was hellishly as-
sociated with catastrophe and hardship).127
In literature, drought appears as the phenomenon that catalyzes radi-
cal transformation in the lives of individuals and society. It disorganized
families physically, socially, and morally. It is also given the responsibil-
ity for the social conflicts in the region, embodied in the dual symbol
of priest and outlaw, naturalizing social problems. If the Northeast was
catching on fire, whether or not a desperado’s torch or anarchist’s bomb
was involved, the merciless sun was ultimately to blame.128
Fiction of the 1930s instituted in cultural production a series of bold
images derived imaginatively from drought that became classic. They
gave the region a visibility that proved nearly impossible to avoid or to
change. This was the Northeast ablaze, seething with charcoal and ashes,
the livestock skeletal and dying of thirst under a cloudless blue sky; of

Spaces of Nostalgia 87
aggressive vegetation, spiny and rigid, with only some scant inedible
weeds daring to flush green; of the beaten wanderers pulling donkeys
and the death-mask women pulling wispy, filthy children along from
somewhere to somewhere. The Northeast of so many painful farewells,
farewells to the land and to family members and to a favorite horse or
dog that must be eaten. The Northeast of polarities between drought and
winter’s offer of rain, between fields in scorched ruin and the paradise of
color, sound and smells the rain could bring. Nature, circular nature out-
side of time, defining a region whose history was not linear but caught
in perpetual motion between extremes.129
Everywhere one might look this image of the Northeast is marked
by the presence of the sun: “The indignant sun shimmering in its fiery
rings, boiling the waterholes to nothing, the moon red and morose re-
flecting it. The sky burns and the very horizon turns to smoke.” These
writings create a “portrait of inferno,” an arid landscape singed to life-
lessness. The Northeast appears condemned by nature to this desolate
fate, and characters in books will be assigned inescapable destinies that
parallel the world of fatalities and ruination—but it is a world also of
social injustices committed by society’s new dominant groups who, re-
flecting callous modernity and the corruptions of centralization, turn
away from the paternalist protectionism that the old senhores had al-
ways provided. The Northeast was victimized by the indifference of a
federal public authority controlled by politicians from other regions,
who did not comprehend the “problem of the drought,” the “problem of
the interior,” the problem that annihilated men and women and trans-
formed them into beasts. Fiction writers would denounce this reality by
making this Northeast relentlessly present and in sharp contrast to the
image of the Northeast as paradise, drowsily basking in the past glories
of the sugar epoch.130
Coexisting with the infernal image of the sertão was the idea among
some traditionalists that it was actually the best place to live since it was
free of the contagions of civilization, and home to strong, noble men and
honorable women. For Rachel de Queiroz and José Américo de Almeida,
the sertão presented a repository of genuine national traits including
salutary communal, family-rooted traditions that contrasted with mod-
ern capitalist society’s individualism and commercialization. In their
works dissolution is a constant theme—the physical and moral degra-
dation of people submitted to bourgeois social relations, the atomizing

88 chapter two
loss of meaning, the lack of a language to express the experience of the
new reality, and the madness resulting from not being able to assimilate
it. This is as much the case for José Lins do Rego, who focused on the
old sugar aristocracy as the prototype of traditional society, as it is for
Queiroz and Almeida in their construct of the backlands as a holdout of
pure community values.131
The desperate contemporary circumstances of the Northeast were
effacing the naively utopian version of the Northeast that was grasped
in the authors’ childhood memories of song and fable, and held to the
mind’s eye as they wrote: the terrain of plantation estates ordered through
patriarchy, not yet corrupted by smoky mills and Ford trucks and rum-
bling turbines. That was a Northeast where the central authority of the
grandfather was assumed and expected, “where no one was an idler but
neither did anyone go hungry, where waltzes were played as lullabies for
the slave shacks.” It was this society that “created the greatness of Bra-
zil, its power and authenticity,” where slaves and their masters lived to-
gether “harmoniously” and the town bosses and their hired enforcers
had the affection for each other of “fathers and sons.”132
This literary discourse tended to valorize hierarchy, a system in which
“each knew his proper place” and social differences were carefully ob-
scured by paternalist mechanisms and personalized power relations. In
that sense traditional northeastern society was more sentimental and
hot-blooded, less rational. It was not a natural substrate for the rise of
rational political ideologies and abstract arguments, which were re-
garded as prerequisites for class conflict. The white author, educated by
the black nursemaid who also cured his illnesses and accepted his first
searching caresses, was the “racial democrat” who proclaimed solidarity
with those lower on the social scale as long as they “showed their respect”
and stayed in their place.133
This literature had and has a resilient effect on readers’ subjectivi-
ties, creating an idealized vision of slavery that masked its cruelties and
thus reconciling the present with a past (of the region and the country)
that would otherwise be embarrassing and potentially contentious. A
more critical attention was paid to the world of the bourgeoisie, its indi-
vidualism and exploitation of laborers, in a manner intended to further
emphasize the value of patriarchal slave society. The literature hoped
to foster antimodern and anticapitalist perspectives by revealing tradi-
tional society as sacred, a refuge. The Northeast, as the region defined by

Spaces of Nostalgia 89
this sociability, must be preserved against the chaotic whirlwinds from
the metropolis, the discord, the clangor of machines. It would be the
place where the mixed-blood Indian (caboclo) still merrily sang the time-
honored work songs, where “even the misery was pleasant” and “the
very mud itself spoke of love.” It would be the locale of perpetual order,
where the artificially tempting world of impersonal capitalism was rec-
ognized as the perdition it was. Where the traditional enslavement of
men and women actually allowed them to live in greater freedom, better
clothed and fed, than bourgeois social economy would ever permit.
The actual manifestations of revolt, violence, apocalypticism, and des-
peration that shook the Northeast were not ignored in this literature but
given a particular set of explanations that translated popular discontent
largely into a grassroots agitation for the old ways. There were droughts
as a cause as well, and the incapacity or unwillingness of authorities
to address their impacts, but underlying it all was the sense of diverse
popular rebellion against the encroachments of modernity. The collaps-
ing of traditional power structures, the patriarchies that dispensed fa-
vors and protection, left people newly helpless at the same time that
economic shifts destabilized once-coherent agricultural practices and
alliances. Even the bitter disputes within aristocratic families and the
feuds between them were taken as verifying the degenerative effects of
new individualistic, mercantilist strategies that challenged the ethics of
the region’s social world to the core.
Traditionalist fiction spun the vision of an ancient equilibrium in the
use of violence between the elite class and the poor, endowing it with the
sheen of an accord among equals. This was to contrast it from the new
patterns and modes of violence deployed by the state and its associated
ranks of bosses to impose their will on the region. Popular cultural pro-
duction also contributed to this interpretation by helping to mythicize
some of the region’s most notorious outlaws as valiant activists avenging
the poor. This merged with a long tradition of medieval narrative fo-
cused on crimes of honor, on violence to defend the family and society’s
weak. The reinterpretation of a preexisting moralizing function in pop-
ular narrative to cast bandits as heroes chafed with the new dominant
morality, which would quickly make the apparent popularization and
glorification of criminals into a crime in its own right.134
In a society defined by middle-class values, the crimes of the poor
retain a certain base power to fascinate, but they are drained of mean-

90 chapter two
ing. They become drab repetitive acts, an annoyance to be stamped out,
rather than sources of pride and solidarity. Criminality loses the sanction
it enjoyed in a range of circumstances within traditional patriarchal soci-
ety. The press played a key role in interpreting crime, cleansing it of the
mythic depth and tones of admiration it enjoyed in popular discourse.
The press described it in terms that did not admit that it could be just
or proper or accepted. The ambiguous and symbolic power it retained
in popular narrative, of overlapping the human dimensions of violence,
bravery, and heroism, was all rationally wiped away. Crime appeared as a
mere disturbance to be dealt with by appropriate means.
The overthrow of popular heroism was viewed by traditionalist writers
as another revelation of how the people’s world of honor, bravery, and re-
distributive derring-do was giving way to an abstract, ineffective, and oafish
state. The great bandits of yore had aspired to claiming power and glory
through their wits and fearlessness; they wanted their crimes to be re-
told and sung and recounted in area papers as well as by the “people.”
They savored publicity. Antônio Silvino read the newspapers regularly
to ensure that they had not skimped on details of his exploits. Lampião
wanted pamphlets and posters to be produced about him, just as he was
gratified by popular tales and song. All of these different versions of the
same people and events helped to compose a mythic figure, a complex,
multiple “bandit” whose identity drew equally from God and Devil and
who would be embraced as the emblem of a degenerating society that
needed to be rescued.135
For the writer José Lins do Rego, there were further distinctions to be
made. He saw Lampião, known for outlandish feats of cruelty, as sym-
bolizing the social degeneration of the Northeast. But Lampião’s con-
temporary Antônio Silvino represented another type of lawlessness, the
sort that avenged the poorest classes by reestablishing their identity and
their rights and defending the traditional code of honor against a power-
ful but clueless state. Silvino was part of a world that included the local
political boss (coronel), two bookends of authorities who were just and
paternal but who could become equally violent and terrible when their
rights, honor, or confidence were betrayed.136
The urban sectors of the Northeast, as well as the urban sectors else-
where in Brazil, viewed banditry in the blunt oppositional terms of lit-
toral versus interior and civilized space versus primitive space. They
fashioned archly negative narratives emphasizing the outlaws’ brutality,

Spaces of Nostalgia 91
often with connotations of an animal nature (wild, savage, plague). The
crimes were depicted as pointless and gratuitous, linked to archetypes
sure to muster public opinion—the torture of the elderly, gleeful rape
and castration, forcing mothers to watch their children die. Banditry
was stripped of any social meaning, becoming instead the product of
a sadistic instinct to pillage and destroy. The possible social motives of
the bandits were obscured in order to dilute popular support as well as
denounce the traditional regional power brokers (coroneis) who put up
with or even used them. Much as the bandits themselves, anyone who
lent material or cultural support to banditry was castigated as a symbol
of the region’s backwardness.137
The discussion of outlaws was unfurled into a broader discourse of the
Northeast as untamable and menacing, a place peopled by macho brutes
who might become professional assassins with just a little polishing. The
peasants, who took pride and inspiration from the bandits’ bold exploits,
were stigmatized by southerners as dupes who were profoundly uncivi-
lized themselves. As that reputation solidified, migrants to São Paulo or
Rio de Janeiro found themselves regarded with wary disdain, believed to
be trying to mask an innate viciousness: “sometimes they did not even
appear to be human beings.” The Northeast unfolding in southern news-
papers became a land of blood and rough leather, of arbitrary violence
and gratuitous murder, the kingdom of the bullet, torch, and machete.138
The fiction writers provided a sociological context for the rise of the
bandits but went a step further, suggesting that as a response to moral
degeneration they represented a sort of destiny, an inescapable outcome.
Bandits were valiant rebels launching a counterattack against the myriad
injustices unleashed by the region’s changing power relations. The books
even followed a narrative pattern established in popular literature, which
starts with the poor and simple but happily ordered existence of a peas-
ant family cast into confusion by new, greedy leaders who exploit them
and steal their land. Violence ensues; family members die; vengeance is
sworn. Enter the bandits, who would fight the corrupt authorities to the
death or risk imprisonment and the firing squad. They embodied the
peasants’ desire for justice and the restoration of the past. Their persecu-
tion by an abstract, merciless state was drawn with considerable detail to
imply that the new forces of modernity and centralization were far more
relentless and bloodthirsty, and socially destructive, than the modes of
traditional rural justice.139

92 chapter two
The bandits were adopted as a symbol of the struggle against mod-
ernizing processes that threatened to disfigure the essence of the
“region,” including by resetting its traditional webs of power rela-
tions. Fiction depicted them as battling the delivery of mail, ripping
out telegraph wires, pulling up train tracks, kidnapping visiting inves-
tors and entrepreneurs, and defying the state in general even as they
deferred to the local, traditional coronel and padre. The bandits were
portrayed as tragic figures caught up in the maelstrom of losing their
world, but who responded quixotically to shore up a vanishing society.
They were no less tragic than the prophets and their pious followers also
wandering through the pages of the books, who promised that sinners
and innovators would be tortured and who saw in bourgeois society the
lurking promise of apocalypse. Traditionalist fiction explained them too
as products of a social degeneration that had roots in natural causes (the
droughts) but more substantially in the introduction of new, impersonal
and rationalizing social relations.
The literature enshrined messianic movements as a regional trope,
linked to the image-concept of the Northeast, even though they were
a national phenomenon. But this had already been accomplished in
large part through Euclides da Cunha’s 1902 Rebellion in the Backlands
(Os Sertões), a hybrid narrative account and analysis of the rise and de-
struction of the alternate community of Canudos in the interior of Bahia.
This event, what da Cunha called the “massive disgrace that wounded
the Brazilian fatherland,” also stayed alive in a range of popular cultural
production that embraced the figure of the community’s religious leader
Antônio Conselheiro as a symbol of resistance against bourgeois values.
The ideal of dying in defense of an imaginary, sacred world came to be
absorbed into the sense of self of the dry Northeast as a whole.140
Mysticism, a spiritual vision of nature and of society, was a fundamental
part of a traditional sphere that commingled diverse religious influences
from Catholicism and millenarianism to indigenous and African-derived
practices. It possessed an internal value system contrary to materialism
and to rationality, which were associated with the modernizing society of
urban centers particularly in the South. The Northeast came to be seen
as a sort of laboratory for “primitive” beliefs and devoted sects that were
opposed to the rational faith in political-social utopia emanating from be-
yond its borders. The Northeast represented a space where modern soci-
ety, with all its logic and iniquity, might be evaded.141

Spaces of Nostalgia 93
Messianic movements delineated “sacred” territories led by prophets
who, like the most charismatic bandits, devised their own laws indepen-
dent of society’s structures of authority. The assemblage of poor, hungry,
racially diverse people in their communities caused panic among nearby
landowners, who feared a violent takeover of their property despite the
ecclesiastical undertone of the leaders’ mutterings. These religious com-
munities appeared to have a hallucinatory atmosphere born from the
members’ collective madness that seemed to contain forces both of good
and of evil.142
The fiction strove to normalize these movements as characteristic to
the region. They deployed considerable contextual detail, from biblical
images and phrases to discussions of saints, from examinations of the
martyr Sebastian to the adventures of medieval knights. But the liter-
ary force of the movements was still in their power to startle: Prophets
in filthy robes bellowing and gesturing, followed by straggling lines of
bearded men and gaunt women, all of them tugging at crosses or beads and
chanting incomprehensible prayers. The rule of social life in their camps
was that of the stern old saints, who could demand corporal punishment,
torture, or death for determined infidels. On the day of the millennium all
believed they would be purified to gain entrance to the glorious kingdom
where pain and misery would cease, and rivers of milk and mountains of
grain would welcome the righteous famished.143
One common element in the narratives of banditry, messianism,
drought, and the stresses on traditional society in general was the local
political boss, the coronel. He could be described as an ambiguous com-
bination of secretive, cowardly, violent and miserly with paternal, wise,
sympathetic, and selfless. He oscillated from the grandfather figure in
the work of José Lins do Rego—a vibrant and sage leader of the people,
champion of a way of life—to the character of Dagoberto created by José
Américo de Almeida, an exploiter and a cheater, an obstinate conniver
who aspired merely to benefit from the ruination around him.
Taking the genre as a whole, Dagoberto is understood to be a de-
graded, later form of the essential wise old grandfather. However, the
division was never really so simple. Coronelismo arose as a symptom of
the decadence of rural patriarchies and the growing dependence of land-
owners on public officials. This was to maintain their own privileged
position, which was built on the latticework of dependency of the pop-
ular sectors under them. As a form of brokerage, coronelismo emerged

94 chapter two
from the new need for compromise between urban groups and rural
economic interests and was formed around the manipulation of an elec-
torate that had grown significantly since the declaration of the republic.
It developed as a mediating zone between the diminishing mechanisms
of private power and the progressive strengthening of public power.144
Like religious movements, coronelismo was a national phenomenon,
especially common in rural society, but it came to be seen as a marker of
the Northeast. This is explained in part by the active role of the local oli-
garchies in defining the region itself at the national level. Their images
and discourses were aimed at creating the Northeast in order to avoid
the economic marginalization and political submission of traditional
rural power structures. The region would be an instrument of preserva-
tion for traditional mechanisms of power and domination, providing a
basis to undermine the local effects of national processes deemed mod-
ern and radical.
Fiction of the 1930s consolidated these tropes into a persuasive, in-
fluential concept of regional identity. However, as has been noted, the
authors were not working from one monolithic perspective, and there
was variation in how they wrote the region. That is an important point,
because readers who assume that the traditionalist fiction writers were
unanimous and interchangeable unwittingly play into a deeper political
strategy that casts the region as an organic reality and its cultural pro-
duction as essentially the discovery and revelation of truths, rather than
as mythmaking.

josé lins do rego

José Lins do Rego was born in 1901 in the municipality of Pilar in Paraíba
State. His father owned a sugar mill, and his mother died when he was
very young. He pursued university studies at Recife’s law school, and it
was there he met Gilberto Freyre, a future friend and colleague. Inspired
by Freyre’s sociology and regionalist traditionalism, Rego would become
one of the most well-known and prolific of period Brazilian authors.
While the work of both men was concerned with northeastern society
during the heyday of sugar, and relied on personal as well as collective
memory, there was a slight difference in focus. Freyre’s analysis centered
on the social frameworks that sustained such memories, while the nov-
elist explored individual lives and modes of experience during the onset

Spaces of Nostalgia 95
of change threatening rural landowners in Paraíba. His fiction did not
derive from sociological research but from stories he had been told, in
the formal sitting room of the great house or the kitchen staffed by black
servants. His books attempt to both record and imaginatively explore
the world of his infancy, writing it into an existential but recognizable
landscape. Sketches of true events melded with hazy reminiscence, all
shot through with a sense of suffering and woe for what was lost. Each
book was the account of a process of destruction and, at the same time,
an effort to reconstruct his internal and external space with fragments of
the past. His goal was to bridge the past to the present and provide a wit-
ness’s testimony of a receding world that should not be allowed to disap-
pear. Reestablishing the continuity and unity of regional space meant for
Rego also the reaffirmation of self and personal identity.145
Rego’s stories were stitched from threads of the past as well as the fila-
ments of dreams of continuity. His objective was reached, at least in part,
because his work contributed decisively to the creation of a Northeast
steeped in tradition and described in terms of sentimental nostalgia: a re-
gion that was desired, a place more absent than present. This affectionate
desire to return to a dream grew stronger the longer one stayed outside
of the region itself. But despite all his idyllic overtones, Rego’s fiction also
contained the unpleasant poignancy of human experience, represented
largely through his own history and interpretations. Idealized planta-
tion life was darkened by psychological torment caused by the loss of his
mother, as well as the guilt, confusion, and fear associated with the onset
of puberty. He wanted to show all of this, to be as real as possible in order
to make the truth of the narrative “as present as a handful of earth.”146
His utopian project was to rebuild the social and cultural world of his
grandfather’s era, to escape the chaos of the present. But his conscious-
ness was riven between the desire for deep continuity with his ancestors
and the knowledge that he was different and his time was different—
that such hoped-for continuity was impossible. He was a city dweller
who dreamed of settling at the head of a sleepy but ordered plantation,
the breeze stirring the sugar fronds to soothing murmurs of patience
and permanence, even though he knew that the social transformations
had been too profound and the plantation great house lived on only as a
literary setting. Because of this, his prose was judgmental of the forces
of change and often dwelled on the dissolutions—pain, disease, melan-
choly, deformity, madness—that change had unleashed.147 This stands

96 chapter two
in sharp contrast to his soft, nostalgic tone in describing the society of
his infant years, before the ruin. His youth and the plantation were vi-
brant and colorful, defined in opposition to the new circumstances of
reality. Only in those idealized spheres were his characters able to recog-
nize and understand each other, just as he was, himself.
Throughout Rego’s writing the psychology of his characters emerges
not through abstract characterization but through actions. It is traced
“from the shadowy speculation that coheres into strategy, the thoughts
that harden into form.” Analysis of the human spirit was directly based
on tactile interventions in the natural and social environment. It is by
their deeds, phrases, and gestures that his characters reveal their per-
sonalities, including their regional qualities. His method was a form
of documenting a civilization, revealing a “northeastern psyche” and
“northeastern personality.” But in this effort Rego avoided making the
interior dimensions of his characters overly complex. They were “primi-
tive souls,” spontaneous and natural, with an openness to the uncon-
scious and irrational. They were better understood by what they did than
by what they said or thought. They were persecuted by obscure forces,
which gave them a fatalistic vision of the world.148
Rego’s style eschewed dialogues, which gave him as the narrator (son
and grandson of rural elite) considerable power to command both the
gaze and the power of explanation. The space is thus illuminated by
single beam of light, perceived through the same framework that im-
poses consistency and truthiness and an implied verisimilitude. Only
in a later work, Fogo Morto, does he depart somewhat from this struc-
ture by introducing a multiplicity of visions and voices; but this is in the
context of directly depicting the shattering of the traditional world and
its traditional consensus. Various characters discuss the same problem
but they see it in different and conflicting ways. These people have lost
the shared sense of reality that bound them together, and they are sus-
pended awkwardly between the bourgeois and traditional worlds unable
even to communicate effectively any longer.149
Before it is overthrown, the intermeshing of traditional society had
appeared tight and coherent enough to present a closed system, imper-
vious to outside forces. All the characters’ diverse actions are oriented
by the implicit goal to reinforce the old order against gathering threats.
But the sense of isolation this connotes is echoed at the human level, as
individual people become locked inside their internal frontiers and are

Spaces of Nostalgia 97
rendered unable to describe or engage a system that seems designed to
make them suffer. They retreat from reality to reminiscence or imagina-
tion, as their world withers and shrinks. They come to avoid this painful
world and deny it through desperate embraces of anachronism, halluci-
natory dreams, madness, sexual indulgence, and crime.150
Rego also draws from the earlier literary trope of naturalism. The at-
titudes of his characters appear at times to have been determined by the
environment, if not through outright hereditary transmission through
the blood. He explores “human nature” in a specific sense: to forefront
emotions, appetites, and primitive tendencies, the irrationality that mod-
ern civilization is not able to suppress. Civilization was a layer of affecta-
tion overlaid superficially on people, incapable of expressing their full
truth. Rego saw in bourgeois social relations a series of artificial masks
intended to confound how people really live with each other and their
environments, particularly the environment of the Northeast. His work
is divided between natural, genuine life, the life of the region, and the
invasive attempts from outside to mischaracterize and corrupt it. He
sought to find an element of northeastern humanity that was resistant
and oblivious to historical processes, locked in the eternal return of a
stable identity and fixed social relations.151
This approximation of human and nature is most visible in Rego’s
treatment of popular-class characters. His animalization of blacks, mixed-
bloods, and the poor reflects his adherence to traditional social hierar-
chies. It also shows how Freyre’s analysis of miscegenation, which Rego
championed, was at root something other than the basis for instituting a
racial democracy in Brazil. In fact the miscegenation Freyre praised was
a stark symbol of traditional power imbalances in Brazil, since it was the
result of white masters choosing to couple with female black slaves they
controlled while white females were never placed at the disposition of
male black slaves.152
The Northeast Rego constructed was ruled by the coroneis, who “scru-
tinized their underlings with the arrogance of a lord,” but who were
loved and respected by them because of established relationships of fa-
vors and protection. The Northeast of droughts at the onset of modernity
was a place of dire insecurity. Its living cycles of harvests and seasons
were replaced by successions of death—death of people, of animals, of
families, of plantations, of societies. The conversation and sung folk-
tales of yore had given way to laments and muttered prognostications of

98 chapter two
apocalypse. But the marshes and meadows, the green plantations, were
a paradise sought by hordes fleeing the dry interior; they were “a retreat
from the blistering sky, the thing of a fairy tale, a child-fable kingdom.”
The plantation societies were a Shangri-la overseen by wise grandpar-
ents that functioned through the warm understanding between master,
slave, and the aggregate of peasant hangers-on. They offered patriarchal
protection against drought and hunger.153
This was the region of the poor but content submissives, accepting of
their place: “sheep, but sheep on whom you could count for the rough-
est of labor and a doglike dedication.” They were miserable without
any hope of improvement, but it was fundamental that they should see
themselves as “blessed by God for not having died of hunger, and for
having the sun, moon, river, rain, and stars as playthings that will not
break in their rough hands.” They were haggard and coarse but took
pride in their apparent confidential relations with the bosses. Any sort of
conflict was understood to be personal, not systemic, and was dealt with
resolutely through fisticuffs or the knife.154
Rego, in his consideration of the poor, oscillated between a social and
human comprehension of the injustice of their situation and the assump-
tion that it was frankly inevitable. Indigence was most often seen as an
irremediable fact attributable to the natural inequality of men’s capacities,
and as a state that should be endured with the proper dignity and defer-
ence. For their part, the rich enjoyed a wider palette when they confronted
the poor, being permitted to behave with either humane goodness or the
most arch cruelty. Even as he recognized that the socioeconomic extremes
in the region were monstrous, Rego suggested that the local well-to-do
simply could not provide more than they had already done. It was the new
example of bourgeois social relations that made the long-standing struc-
ture of patronage appear heartless and insufficient. In his book O Moleque
Ricardo (Ricardo the Kid), Rego drew a counterpoint between plantation
and city. He denounced the lack of solidarity and compassion between
bosses and laborers in cities, as well as the absence of structures to assist
and protect the poor there. He declared that in the plantation, “even the
cry of ‘Stop, thief !’ delivered by Colonel So-and-so had a different sound
and meaning than the same phrase shouted by an urban boss, because the
latter really was just trying to offend and cause trouble.”155
Rego developed a critique of Recife’s modern labor movement that
implied it was a deformation of how laborers and bosses had related in

Spaces of Nostalgia 99
the idyllic past. In O Moleque Ricardo the workers did not have true lead-
ers but callous and calculating chieftains who insisted on blind subservi-
ence. These chieftains were not motivated by political ends, or dedicated
to structurally improving the lot of the workers, but merely corrupted
the mutually beneficial relationships of traditional patronage to foster
passivity among the urban ranks. Political leaders came in from outside
the factories to exploit the laborers’ amassed voting power and recruit
their support for public demonstrations, including the inevitable brawls
among campaigns. Weighing this degeneration, Rego noted wanly that
the circumstances of the simple plantation folk were preferable since
their “only utopia was rain for the gardens, and the weekend festivities.”
With his gaze cast ever backward, Rego did not attempt to consider nu-
ances of contemporary political militancy.156
Throughout Rego’s work, the city appears as a hive of confusion and
uprootedness, the point from which plantations were viewed nostalgi-
cally. The misery was greater, the pain more anguishing, the injustices
more extreme there than in the plantations, with their traditional moral
codes. Cities were places of treason, impersonal laws, and harsh disci-
pline. Woe unto the poor northeastern migrant in the city who no lon-
ger had the guidance, support, or gentle paternal control of a wise old
coronel. Urban life was riven by conflicts and social contradictions, espe-
cially among bosses and laborers—the essence of capitalism’s destruc-
tive force. Rego attributed the harsh attitude of the bosses also to the fact
that they had grown up as the plantations were fading away; they had no
experience of plantation life and its ways, its rules and hegemonies. This
was the case with Lula de Holanda in Fogo Morto, for example, a modern
boss who had never learned to lead. Men of this ilk demanded obeisance
and asserted command gruffly. In their off hours they abandoned rural
pursuits for idle conversing in foppish clubs.157
The principal theme uniting Rego’s fiction is the decadence of the
world, expressed in various forms. One of these was the onset of sex as
a problem to be either hidden or scientifically studied, rather than as the
spontaneous passion of men and women. This new psychology of and
around sex was part of a cohering subjectivity: that of the bourgeois indi-
vidual. Traditional societies had not seen sex as a problem. Certainly there
had been some taboos, but on the whole sex was understood implicitly
as a natural act and a transcendent ritual that was larger than any one
individual and that linked a society internally. The new anxiety around sex

100 chapter two

was a reflex of how traditional life was destabilized. Communities linked
by blood and custom became in the cities patchworks of strangers obeying
capitalist rationality. Its natural character now leaving it open to associa-
tion with disease, sex was catalogued into forms such as “normal,” “abnor-
mal,” “aberrant,” and “sick.” The great house with its effusive populations
of concubines and bastard children had given way to the bourgeois family
dwelling where individuals fretted and judged in the darkness.158
These changes in the understanding of sex were linked by Rego to not
just the loosening of communal blood ties but the weakening of blood
itself. Perverse products of miscegenation—children born frail and ill,
deformed, half-witted—were a sign of the dissolution of patriarchal so-
ciety. Homosexual practice also symbolized the withering of a society
founded on the patriarchal family. Relations that were “not reproductive”
took away the essence of a world based on identity roles defined from the
grandfather on down.159 Male homosexuality effaced the central figure of
the virile man, indicating a society feminized, a society allowing itself to
be violated by new bosses. The younger generations were degenerate, im-
potent, dominated. In the plantation, the “homosexual” as such did not
exist. There were acts of sodomy, associated with either brute youthful cu-
riosity or the practices of odd cults, but not modern homosexuality, which
would be classified into an abnormality or a disease or the result of un-
fortunate destiny—but in all of these cases an index of a fallen society.160
Another aspect of Rego’s fallen society was madness, such as that af-
flicting Captain Vitorino Carneiro da Cunha in Fogo Morto. Madness ex-
pressed the social alienation of people who belonged to a prior sociability,
who could not come to grips with capitalist rationality or the impersonal
power structures of the new world. Their lack of understanding bloomed
at every new encounter, every new development, until they were left psy-
chologically paralyzed and unable to communicate. But at the same time,
it was their stoic rejection of the obscenity and fetishized mercantile char-
acter of modern society that bourgeois society classified as insanity. From
Vitorino’s (and Rego’s) perspective, the men that accepted the new order
in which everything was out of place and constantly in motion were the
senseless ones. As Rego contextualizes it, Vitorino’s madness had more to
do with the irrational nature of the bourgeoisie themselves.161
As his writing reveals, José Lins do Rego was perhaps, as he once wrote
of someone else, “a body trembling with passions but a soul much older
than its body. . . . A lost boy, a boy of the plantation.”162

Spaces of Nostalgia 101

josé américo de almeida

Born in 1887 in the Engenho Olho d’Agua in the municipality of Areia,

Paraíba, José Américo de Almeida is best known for the novel A Baga-
ceira (1928). This book is deeply transitional, pivoting between the natu-
ralist and modernist aesthetics, just as its subject is the transformation
of a patriarchal society to a bourgeois one. It is thus inescapably replete
with ambiguities. It interlaces the regionalist proclamations of Gilberto
Freyre with Euclides da Cunha’s naturalist metaphors and positivist phi-
losophy, in a dense writing style also derived from da Cunha.163
In fact da Cunha was a profound influence on Almeida, who adapted
the former’s treatment of the dichotomy between littoral and dry interior
into his own polarization of the semi-humid marsh terrain (brejo) and the
backlands. Almeida also reworked da Cunha’s mythology of the sertão into
a critique of plantation society, recently having emerged from slavery and
falling to degeneration. And da Cunha’s eugenic overtones echo through
Almeida, appearing in his racial prejudice and his grim view of the racial
miscegenation that was part of the slave-labor regimes of the Northeast’s
temperate sugar zone. The sertão was embraced for its distilling environ-
mental harshness, and Almeida regarded the inhabitant of the sertão, the
sertanejo, as an ideal racial specimen for his lack of black blood. The ser-
tanejo was for Almeida the perfect regional type, uniquely capable of deal-
ing with the region’s defining climatic feature, the droughts.164
Beyond its discussion of natural elements, A Bagaceira contained a
sociological undercurrent: the (false) premise that slavery did not exist
in the sertão while it defined social life itself in the sugar zone, which
created two distinct societies. The presence of slavery was linked to es-
sential attitudes and emotions: where there was slave labor there was a
thick atmosphere of brutality, a heritage of savagery. A man who grew
up in sugar society had violence in his blood. He was devoid of sensitiv-
ity; he could not love his land or his region. Meanwhile, the “flotsam of
negroes in the shanties, products of the arbitrary crossings of racial mix-
ture, with their tumult of pigments,” were servile creatures, incapable
of fighting against regional subordination or of being proper regional
citizens. Slavery and the presence of blacks themselves were cited as
sources of the region’s present state of decay. But at other times the natu-
ral environment of the plantation area joined them as a cause of what
was deemed a pathetic debacle.165

102 chapter two

While A Bagaceira was written as fiction, its author was an essayist at
heart. But he sensed the efficacy of writing a novel, a more attractive and
accessible form than nonfiction, in order to convey impressions that in a
set of essays would have lost both appeal and symbolic thrust. Almeida
had also initially seen Coiteiros and O Boqueirão more as documents of
“northeastern reality” than as works of fiction. But fiction (the evocative
term romance in Portuguese) provided a convenient facade behind which
the author could still endeavor to utter truths about the region without
restriction or counterargument. Almeida’s strategy was dissimulation, not
simulation, which allowed him to alloy fictional and scientific discourse.
He made clear in a preface that his goal was to call the attention of Brazil-
ians “from more civilized regions to grave problems that still are not well
known or understood.” He wanted to make the Northeast known through
its predicaments, which were forgotten or unobserved by others.166
A Bagaceira follows the journey of a group of sertanejos from the back-
lands to the sugar zone, where they would labor in the cane fields and
await the return of the rains, but a series of conflicts with the dwellers of
the temperate region naturally ensued. This book inaugurated the liter-
ary tradition of the northeastern social novel, emphasizing how misery
was spatialized in the region but also removing any indication that there
are more powerful interests at work benefiting from the situation.167 But
the construction of the Northeast in A Bagaceira also contains contra-
dictions because Almeida, unlike Rego, was less adamantly opposed to
the intellectual influences of modernism. He thought that some of the
region’s traditional political elites were corrupt and ought to be replaced.
Bourgeois rationality should not be rejected but adopted, as the best way
to protect and maintain the Northeast’s characteristic social relations. A
conciliation with modernity would defend against drastic ruptures with
the past. Modernity should be introduced from the top down by an elite
vanguard able to orchestrate technical change and fortify paternal power
structures, thus minimizing the chances of open social conflict.168
Almeida’s regionalist work was centered in the uncertain nexus be-
tween the past, which he believed slavery had debased, and the new bour-
geois sociability, which alarmed him. It was his impulse to reconcile tra-
ditional modes with modernity that led him to focus on the sertão as the
model space for northeastern society, a natural substrate where technical
advancement could occur without transforming traditional social codes.
However, the conclusion of A Bagaceira reveals that the author harbored

Spaces of Nostalgia 103

doubts about the viability of its premise: nature might accept modernity’s
impositions with docility, but men were neither docile nor predictable,
subjecting their beneficent reformers to rough ingratitude.169
There is a proximity between Almeida’s political vision and Gilberto
Freyre’s theory of the plasticity of northeastern society. Almeida believed
it was necessary for the Northeast to adjust to the changes affecting the
rest of the country to avoid polarization, open conflict, and the loss of
control of the region’s own future. He regarded with pointed disdain the
contemporary coroneis who seemed incapable of promoting new eco-
nomic and political structures in the region, ignoring the needs of their
humble dependents while swilling voraciously at the federal trough.170
Because of this, the messages in Almeida’s fiction were more moraliz-
ing than social. In the novel, Lúcio, educated son of a plantation owner,
represented the disjuncture between a romantic attachment to the land
and traditional values and an intellectual, rational interest in improving
the place where he lived. Lúcio dreamed of modernization, but not mo-
dernity, and he regarded social inequality as accidental since “branches
from the same tree can turn out differently.” The type of change that he
championed were more targeted to the activities of plantations than to
the interests or endeavors of society as a whole.171
Almeida thought the Northeast could be unified around the model of
the sertão, and modified by targeted modernizing efforts directed from
above. In this, his vision was fully in accordance with the authoritarian
attitude of the federal government of the 1930s. Improvements to work-
ers’ conditions were understood to derive from paternalistic leaders, not
to be something won by the workers themselves through political ac-
tion. While Almeida did lament the indolence of the people in the sugar
zone, and praise the rugged heartiness of the sertanejo, he did so in a
framework that individualized the sources and instances of conflict. And
yet the popular sectors in his writing do not possess individual voices
or subjectivities. Their speech has been corrected by the narrator, who
makes them recite civilized words rather than their feelings or hopes.172
Unlike Freyre, Almeida never separated civilization from culture. While
he constructed the Northeast as traditional and steeped in memory, it was
still part of history, which was why to him technology did not represent
a threat but an opportunity. What was needed were more machines and
greater techniques to tame the droughts and generate a truly Brazilian
civilization. He thought traditional values could not only coexist with but

104 chapter two

take new life from technology. He wanted nothing more than the intro-
duction of the automobile to the sertão, which would bring with it a new
velocity of change in the region’s economic and political spheres.
O Boqueirão is a novel depicting the shock between forces of modern-
ization that arrive in the interior, and the traditional structures that resist
them. Modernization is portrayed as compelling in its dynamism, but
still superficial compared to the deeply rooted customs and attitudes it
confronts. The book shows the automobile being driven into the sertão,
but forced to stop and wait for an indignant cow—a metaphor for the
stubborn resilience of the region. Reformist efforts are met with resis-
tance, less an active resistance than an idle, sleepy one; and nature always
seems to win out over civilization because the people themselves do not
care for change.173 The civilization Almeida desired would not antagonize
or wipe out nature, but the two would exist together within the true tradi-
tional characteristics of the region. It was an ambitious idea. Northeast-
ern civilization would unite the people within a single mechanism, with
the same objectives. The landscape would be transformed, and tamed;
rivers dammed, their energies channeled. This Northeast would be “the
terrain of organized labor. A docile and loyal land, concerned only with
its well-being and beauty. It would require a constructive sensibility to
order and educate nature in this way.” In his fiction, Almeida accepted
technology-inspired change to the Northeast as long as it accommodated
the structures of order already present in the people’s lifeways.

r achel de queiroz

The last author addressed here, Rachel de Queiroz, was born in For-
taleza, Ceará, in 1910, to traditional families in the Quixadá and Beberibe
districts. She has claimed that her writing was heavily influenced by the
regionalist fiction of Antônio Salles and by the sociology of Djacir Mene-
zes, her principal companions in Forteleza’s literary circles. She had
been partial to the Communist Party in the 1930s, and was—alongside
Bahian author Jorge Amado—one of the first fiction writers to take up
revolution and the “social question” as themes. Her handling of these
subjects differed from Amado’s in that she allied them to an extremely
traditional view of society and its values. Almir Andrade has noted that
Queiroz sought to discover a “natural” man, wild, free of any intellec-
tualized codes or systems of belief. Her concept of revolution involved

Spaces of Nostalgia 105

a romantic view of the artificiality of the modern world and the masks
it demanded people wear. What she wanted was a social upheaval that
would bring back the true man, restoring him from the degenerative
toxins of civilization.174
Her basic framework was similar to that of Almeida although she had
a very different notion of how the utopian Northeast was to be realized.
When she idealized the sertanejos and the myths of the sertão, when she
denounced the social transformations and mercantilist ethics wrought by
capitalism, she was arguing for a new society in the Northeast that would
rescue the human purity, the communal links, and paternal relationships
that were traditional traits of the region. Her socialism was melded with
Christianity and patriarchy, and it drew intensity from her displeasure
with how new capitalist relationships and the growing power of the cit-
ies had degraded her own family’s fortunes. Her characters are “subver-
sive” to the extent that they contest the onset of the capitalist regime, but
her utopian vision of the future was anchored in nostalgia for the sertão,
where there had once existed “liberty, purity, sincerity, and authenticity.”
In that sense the “revolutionary” activists in her books do not fight for so-
cial change so much as against it. They are seeking humanity’s irreducible
truth, untouched by the “lies” and “contrivances” of the modern world.175
Queiroz’s idealization of the sertão confronted a significant obstacle in
the droughts. In O Quinze, her most influential work, she describes the
personal and collective dramas of people caught up in the 1915 drought
in Ceará. That event is interpreted as fatally disorganizing local society,
devastating its traditional relations of production and of power, as well as
enervating its social and moral codes. Its excess was an intrusion on the
natural order, of environment as well as of society understood as rooted
in an essential human nature. Her characters bravely reject the artifices
of decadent society in the name of their own truth. Nothing in the social
world is permanent, but human nature is universal and eternal: “only
chance and the quirks of fate can displace people from their own selves.”
These characters affirm life in the face of misery, searching for the ulti-
mate truth that will one day be reencountered and reestablished. They
struggle for the end of history itself, when being and appearance will con-
verge and people can comprehend themselves without masks or deceit.176
Vicente, in O Quinze, is an example of the ideal man who is himself
almost a state of nature: “pleasant to see and hear like a charming land-
scape, of which nothing is demanded but beauty and color,” a virile ser-

106 chapter two

tanejo “of nearly animal strength.” He was capable of living in harmony
with nature, by reconstructing it according to his own pure image and
pushing back against the effects of modernity. He understood nature and
was understood by it: a good man, a traditional man who respected his
family and protected the weak. His place was the sertão of kind bosses
who loved their underlings as their own children, whose wives were car-
ried on palanquins by adoring villagers. The sertão that inspired a sort
of quiet sensual passion for the land, but that also bore threats—the
droughts, hunger, gloom, disease, and drudgery.177
In Caminho de Pedras we get a clearer look at the ambiguity of the social
transformation Queiroz had in mind—a progression toward the past.
This novel, set in Fortaleza, examines the relations between a middle-
class intellectual (not unlike herself) and the labor movement, in particu-
lar their disputes for control of the local Communist party. Queiroz uses
classic Marxist statements awkwardly but knowingly, in order to critique
the affectedness of some Communist characters, and she denounces the
way the party machine winds up reproducing society’s unequal social
relations. The author had already distanced herself from the party when
she wrote the novel, which portrays the tension between an intellectual
vanguard in control of “revolutionary wisdom” and the laborers who com-
plain that they are treated as tools of the intellectuals’ secret agendas.178
If the book evades clear engagement with the realities of factory life
in Fortaleza, it also looks back ideally to a past that does not acknowl-
edge slavery. Her characters seek a return to moral and ethical codes
from a utopian antiquity that are being undermined, including by leftist
militants; they strive for a traditional, prebourgeois state of being. Cities
embody the corrupt present afflicting the Northeast, so they are cast as
islands of filth, isolation, captivity, and fear obtruding on the landscape.
Queiroz condemns how the intellectuals’ generalizations and ab-
stractions denied the humanity of the workers, transforming them into
“masses” of people with somber faces and dirty hands, but no names. For
her, the theory of “class” displaced the workers’ human side, ignoring how
their communitarian and personal dimensions influenced the struggle
for a new (old) order. She responded with colorful portrayals of flesh-
and-blood people, willful, incoherent, and superstitious, who were torn
between the disgrace of daily life and the noble fight for a better future.179
By rejecting the idea that the labor movement was a product of intel-
lectuals’ devising or even of bourgeois society itself, Queiroz gave it a

Spaces of Nostalgia 107

different connotation and significance. She saw it as offering the pos-
sibility to return to a more harmonious human and natural state, such
as that of the traditional sertão communities. Her Christianity gave her
an additional vocabulary with which to critique aspects of bourgeois
society, from the place of women to poverty and social injustice. This
new society, based on rationality and impersonal discipline, was not
only drearily oppressive but it degraded the traditional safety nets that
had given security to the popular sectors. They were viewed as raw
material, fodder for industrial processes they should embrace in the
name of progress but that denied their true human nature, their “ani-
mal side.” Still, her fiction, in its disgust with the present and yearning
for an idealized past, was paternalistic in its solidarity with the poor.
She articulated a populist condemnation of intellectuals as competi-
tors, not allies, of the workers—stuffed shirts who, rather than helping
the “masses” frame and understand the revolutionary project, actually
created more obstacles in the way of a new society that would reconcile
nature and the past.180
In her construction, the Northeast’s natural integrity was threatened
by the interactions of the impacts of extreme weather with the encroach-
ment of cities, and their ripple effects of capitalist social relations. But
the region continued to represent the county’s best and last space where
people could live their lives according to natural rhythms. The nordes-
tino, and especially the sertanejo, offered the greatest hope for a decisive
counteraction against modern society’s conflicts and corrosive denatu-
ralization. They maintained the dream of a future society that would
reweave the bonds of communal responsibility and personal honor, a
society that fostered the coexistence with nature. These were regional
traits but universal in scope, providing the outlines of a goal for revolu-
tionary social change.181
In her writing Rachel de Queiroz formed a link between two
Northeasts—that of tradition and longing, and that of social upheaval
and mobilization against bourgeois injustice. She experienced in her
own life the anxiety of a generation suspended between the fading of
traditional social landscapes, and the diverse reterritorializing projects
emerging in the 1930s. The new society seemed hell-bent on destroy-
ing the natural world, a world that Queiroz “watched disappear into the
night’s golden mist, slipping away like a phantom between the doleful
gnashings of the handsaws.”182

108 chapter two

Northeastern Brush Strokes
The institution of the Northeast as a space of tradition and nostalgia was
carried out not only in sociology and literature, but in painting. This
visual art provided a fundamental contribution to the Northeast’s vis-
ibility, giving vibrant form to the more conceptual sketches written into
traditionalist sociology and 1930s fiction. It would help crystallize a suite
of “typical regional images” that had enormous influence on later re-
gionalist production, such as cinema and television. Its trove of symbols
became the way the region was visualized.183
Produced on canvas were not straightforward representations of
empirically real things, but novel ways of seeing, and new angles from
which to perceive. Regionalist paintings fractured the sense of common
visibility and shared identity to emphasize subjective difference. They
demanded that the region be “seen,” not as an objective demonstration of
material trappings (such as those exotic items domesticated into curio-
cabinet shelves) but according to its own distinct aesthetic synthesis.
Through their colors, lines, and scintillating light, these paintings con-
structed the Northeast’s imagetic space, lending it a “true and definite”
form that expressed both its visual texture and its soul. The works did
not merely display regional markers but taught how to perceive and de-
sign them, even how to imagine them, as timeless iconic symbols.184
Gilberto Freyre, whose writing was strongly influenced by these im-
ages, had long called for a regionalist/traditionalist school of painters
to help “fix” regional forms. He noted that the constant presence of the
sun in Brazil, but especially the Northeast, generated a unique landscape
with its own light, its own color range, its own ways to see and modes of
expression that were different from any in Europe. The natural world,
such a part of the northeastern experience, demanded a distinct artistic
language to convey it—one that would meld the tropical essence with
foundational Portuguese elements, since it was they who had first at-
tempted to describe Brazil authentically, in its own terms.185
Freyre thought that regionalist painting had the power to reflect “the
true scenery and life of the Northeast.” In the tone of his own art criti-
cism, he attempted to fix a certain regional visibility characterized by deep
ochre and umber or tropically exuberant greens and yellows, in contrast
to impressionism’s more abstract and carnivalesque mélange of hues. In
preference to Recife’s surging cityscape, Freyre admired the Northeast’s

Spaces of Nostalgia 109

pleasing rhythm of natural verticalities, in its trees—the regal palms and
slender, bulbous papayas, the colossal mangoes, the cashews hunched
and writhing in voluptuous lagoons. It was a landscape seething with
natural color, and that still “seems to contain something historical, some-
thing ecclesiastic and civic.” Within this prolific environment Freyre de-
picted scenes of past plantation life: black slaves working in the fields or
along wooden aqueducts, ox-driven carts laden with cane; or moments
of repose and recreation, slaves dancing and singing in a meadow ob-
served by the amiable senhor.186
Freyre looked toward a truly regionalist painting with its own forms
and techniques that could transcend the lingering colonial subservience
to Greek and Roman mythology. It would show blacks, Indians, and mu-
latas rather than pink-faced European models, and it would capture the
sensuous heat of the climate and of physical work—half-naked black
men portrayed in movement, sweating and sunburned as they toil. If
it subverted the European past, it would forefront another, that of the
Northeast’s environmental and social history. Freyre was thus a cham-
pion of the work of painter Manoel Bandeira (not the poet Manuel Ban-
deira), choosing him to illustrate O Livro do Nordeste, which Freyre edited
and which also was concerned with past civilizations of the plantations
and of old Recife. He wanted images that contributed to his text’s goal of
describing the landscape, “the most color-rich of any in Brazil: greens,
reds, yellows, violets, all bursting in effusive tufts, clusters, florets, and
leaves.” But it was important not to demonstrate the mere picturesque
quality of the landscape, but to penetrate it, revealing its essentially “re-
gional character and composition.”187
Another artist who shared this way of seeing was Cícero Dias, whose
work concentrated on lyrical views of sugar society, the great houses,
the “black and Africanized plebes,” the social harmony. He emphasized
that harmony technically, through careful use of lines, forms, and color,
resulting in images of a space that was soothing to gaze at and consider.
He also used juxtaposition, combining snippets from different time
periods (for example, train tracks near the cane fields) to suggest that
at its firmly rooted best the Northeast could absorb multiple temporali-
ties without conflict. Dias also depicted family scenes, urging the famil-
iarity of objects, animals, people. He painted entire households, from
formally dressed aunts and eyeglass-wearing young college men and
scads of children to the ever-patient black help; outside, dogs cavorted

110 chapter two

2.1 Família de Luto (Luto Family). Oil on canvas.
Cícero Dias, 1929. Fundação Gilberto Freyre.

near milk cows and oxen. He lavished reds and blues on his canvases,
colors borrowed from folklore. Dias emphasized the link to popular
art by evading studied precision, substituting the union of bold colors
in an aesthetic evoking the visual palette of traditional cultural life—
festival parades, women’s ornate dresses, paper flowers, the heaped
tables of street vendors, the angel-embellished wooden coffins of the
deceased.188
Dias helped codify a collection of regional archetypes: trees corre-
sponding to each environmental zone (the coconut palm for the coast,
the cashew for the intermediate temperate area); the church, and the
padre delivering mass; pregnant women; children playing in the street;
vivid handicrafts; popular dances, such as the fandango and bumba-meu-
boi. He painted a past of dense hybridity, with English details of the
priests placed alongside food characteristic of the plantations and all fur-
ther joined with festivals, bastard children, rural toughs, nuns, the smil-
ing senhor. It was a patriarchal worldview that perceived inequality but
praised the absence of conflict, and saw artistic beauty in the activities of

Spaces of Nostalgia 111

slave labor. Dias created a multiracial space whose contrasts were har-
monized into idyllic hues, a bright past of typical people and practices.
His landscape was the product of dreams and sublimations, and care-
ful historical sequestrations. But it offered, in the words of Mário de
Andrade, “a particularly northeastern complex of music, religiosity, and
family essence.”189
Another set of visual representations of the past came from Lula Car-
doso Ayres, who focused on the relations between people and nature and
the degrading impacts of civilization they suffered. For Ayres, traditional
man had not attempted to dominate the tropics but had learned to live with
them, through love and symbiotic identification. But the modern world
was imposing artificial, damaging forces, and nature was in remission.
In response, Ayres’s early painting constructed a visibility of the North-
east forefronting what he considered the apex of human-environmental
harmony, the plantation society.190 The work that he generated in the
1930s added expressionist touches to portrayals of daily life working on
the plantation, or of festival revelry. But by the 1950s, his subjects had
shifted to surrealist takes on fantastic beasts from the regional popular
imagination, such as the half-man, half-animal jaraguá, foiará, and cai-
pora. Even in his backgrounds to apparently innocuous folkloric images,
the vegetation took on a queerly human aspect, regarding the viewer with
its own melancholy inquisitiveness. This later work attempted to express
nature’s revolt against depersonalizing capitalist social relations, and
modern man’s decreasing affection for the environment. The encroach-
ing bourgeois rationality stripped the region of its marvelous dimension,
of the poetic possibility to transit between dream and reality.191
During the 1930s Ayres had performed studies of the region’s folklore
to mine themes for his magical realism. The centrality of the ox in his
work recalled both bumba-meu-boi and cordel literature; other influences
included the humanizing of nature and the existence of phantoms. In
context, the presence of ghosts often signified the death of the society he
portrayed, and longed for. His work called up childhood memories of the
tactile solidity of existence—the clock in the family house’s visiting room,
his grandfather’s high-backed chair, the great staircase to the bedrooms—
and filled them with hollow-eyed wraiths. He painted the past as haunted
dreams that could actually scare the inhabitants of the present.192
Both Cícero Dias and Lula Cardoso Ayres participated in making vis-
ible a region defined by tradition, patriarchy, folklore, and harmony, col-

112 chapter two

2.2 Os Tuchauas do Carnaval de Recife (The Tuchauas of Recife Carnival).
Oil on canvas. Lula Cardoso Ayres, 1942. Archive of Lula Cardoso Ayres.

2.3 Representação do Bumba-Meu-Boi (Representation of Bumba-Meu-Boi).

Oil on canvas. Lula Cardoso Ayres, 1943. Archive of Lula Cardoso Ayres.
ored with a tropical vitality that was tempered by longing and hazy remi-
niscence. Their painted Northeast was primitive, rustic, unpolished, a
place where the integration of man and nature appeared complete and
the relation between them unproblematic.

Northeastern Music
It was not only the children of traditional families in decline who con-
structed the Northeast as a space of nostalgia. In this project they were
joined by the thousands of poor nordestinos who were forced to migrate
from their native northeastern territory to the commercial agricultural
fields or the rapidly expanding industrial parks of Rio de Janeiro and
São Paulo. These peasants were abandoning a region in crisis whose
traditional economic activity and social customs were unable to keep
pace with national and global transformations—a region whose climatic
problems and entrenched power relations seemed to remove any pos-
sibility for improving the lot of the rural poor.
Thus, despite the ambivalence and uncertainty of migration, it also
offered the promise of liberation from misery and exploitation. Nordesti-
nos responded to the idea that material progress and security were avail-
able in Brazil’s urban south, if they abandoned their native lands (as
well as their positions as subservient dependents or desperate roamers).
Especially by the 1940s, as the Northeast’s economy weakened but its
traditional power relations entrenched, São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro
hovered like captivating mirages, dazzling the peasants’ imaginations
and insinuating that their lives could be better there.
A decade earlier, in the 1930s, improvements to and expansion in
transportation and national mass communication, from mail and news-
papers to radio, helped disseminate what was essentially propaganda
from southern governments and businesses anxious to attract laborers.
Nationalist discourse regarded this process favorably, praising its con-
tribution to “national integration” and the interpenetration of the “two
Brazils” that seemed always threatening to cleave irreparably. And the
major cities in the South, serving as bases of social consolidation, would
provide the cradle for the authentic national culture so ardently sought.
Radio, the most modern and potentially most accessible form of com-
munication at the time, was understood as fundamental to helping pro-

114 chapter two

duce national integration, shortening distances and homogenizing dif-
ferences between regions, and divulging national culture across Brazil.
While 1930s radio was a commercial entity, underwritten by advertise-
ments, it took on complex relations with the state following from the
context of populist politics as well as the censorship efforts of Getúlio
Vargas’s Estado Novo after 1937. But the nationalist mandate proved un-
stable in practice: to the extent that radio was encouraged (politically
or economically) to address the nation and reveal its unity, radio also
inescapably reflected the cultural diversity of performers and audiences.
Stations in the South such as Rio de Janeiro’s Rádio Nacional served as
magnets for artists of all sorts, but especially musicians, from around
the country; they were the first to concentrate, distill, and divulge what
would be called Brazilian popular music (música popular brasileira). Up
until then, the basic generic separation in music was between a large
grouping of popular song (canção) and erudite music, usually European
classical music. But at this moment the music of the nation’s various
popular sectors took on a new importance, as preoccupation with recog-
nizing the authentic “national” and “popular” came to redefine artistic
and cultural production.193
The nationalist project, and the power structure that sustained it, in-
vested heavily in changing people’s tastes—not only, even perhaps not
so much, the lower classes as the elites and the middle class. It was they
who needed to learn to recognize and value genuine “national and pop-
ular” production, which should transform their cultural attitudes and
consumption habits. Something similar had been occurring in erudite
music during the 1930s, as modernist writers urged the exploration and
development of specific Brazilian themes in national compositions,
whether in timbre, rhythm, melody, or form. Such classical music would
turn to the people and authentic Brazilian tradition for its raw mate-
rial, mounting a self-affirming bulwark of Brazilianness against the tide
of foreign influences. The music, whether classical or popular, that re-
sulted from this process should embody notions of civic values, faith,
work, and hierarchy—indispensable elements of the “construction of a
civilized nation.” But while it would converge in and radiate back out
from the cities, the urban milieu was too dissonant and shot through
with foreign influences to provide its foundations. Those were sought in
the rural areas, the regional territories, repositories of Brazilian identity.
Popular music traditions in the Northeast that, like the modal singing of

Spaces of Nostalgia 115

blind beggars in country fairs, could be traced dimly back to European
Gregorian chants but were newly regarded as manifestations of authen-
tic Brazilian music.194
In the 1940s, popular, radio-friendly northeastern music became prin-
cipally associated with the baião of Pernambucan musician and singer
Luiz Gonzaga. He had served as a cornet player in military bands between
1930 and 1938, and, after acquiring an accordion in São Paulo, made his
way to Rio to try to launch his own music career. Gonzaga was born in
1912 in Fazenda Caiçara, a municipality of rural Exu, Pernambuco, to
poor peasant parents. Growing up, he had observed his father, Januário,
an amateur accordionist who also worked in instrument repair, playing
at animated weekend dances. So it might have been an intuitive move
for Luiz to begin playing in cabarets. Still, it was not in Rio’s noble dance
clubs where he could find work, but the shabby bars of Mangue in Es-
tácio, a red-light district. He performed tango, waltz, bolero, polka, ma-
zurka, all the favored international dance forms of the period. Gonzaga
also appeared on the amateur music shows held by famed composer Ary
Barroso, where he received only modest recognition until his 1940 per-
formance of “Vira e Mexe” earned him the top score from the judges and
a contract from Rádio Nacional.
In 1943—and through the influence of a musician friend in the Rádio
Nacional stable, Pedro Raimundo from Rio Grande do Sul—Gonzaga
determined to base his professional identity on the Northeast. He cre-
ated a “typical” costume combining the leather garb of the horsemen of
the interior with the wide-brimmed leather hat favored by bandits. That
year, he would make his first recording as a singing artist, and his visual
packaging would reinforce his thematic style. Persuading skeptics in the
rca Victor offices, who doubted the appeal of his unusual voice with its
strong (perhaps cagily exaggerated) regional accent and mannerisms,
Gonzaga was determined to “give a northeastern direction” to his music.
He was not a writer, though, and needed someone able to render his
childhood memories and regional ideas into the deft poetry of popular
music. The composer Lauro Maia indicated Humberto Teixeira, and the
Teixeira-Gonzaga partnership would quickly yield an impressive number
of national hits and lasted until 1949. That year, rising on his wave of
celebrity, Teixeira entered politics. Gonzaga replaced him with the writer
and physician José Dantas, who composed lyrics until his death in 1962.
In 1951, at the height of his popularity and influence, Gonzaga signed a

116 chapter two

contract with the private firm Colírio Moura Brasil, who sponsored him
on a tour to every city in Brazil with a minimum population of four hun-
dred thousand people.195
Gonzaga’s music was discursively and strategically directed at two main
audiences: northeastern migrants in the South, and the record-buying
public of the cities of the Northeast. His radio presence in the South was
rooted in relationships with Rádio Record in São Paulo, and Rádio Na-
cional in Rio; the latter carried his program No Mundo do Baião (In the
World of the Baião). Other programs he hosted were Alma do Sertão (The
Soul of the Sertão) for Rádio Clube do Brasil, and No Reino do Baião (In
the Kingdom of Baião) for Rádio Mayrink Veiga. While Gonzaga had a
sharp entrepreneurial instinct, he was also a Christian, a fact that both led
him to emphasize Christian traditions and references in his songs, and
inflected how he saw and critiqued the circumstances of the Northeast
in general. At the same time, it is difficult to find a consistent political
voice in his songs because they were written by various collaborators, at
different points in his career.196
In its own way, Gonzaga’s music was representative of the regional
identity inscribed in Freyre’s sociology and the 1930s fiction. He leant
it an audible and commercial quality, steeped in folklore. The creation
attributed to him, the baião, hybridized elements of the Northeast’s tra-
ditional guitarists and dueling singers with the urban samba and other
contemporary influences from his present milieu. What he achieved
was a national replacement for the dance music that came to Brazil from
other countries, but also, at a particular nationalist moment, his “music
of the Northeast” was the first to speak and sing of that place on the radio.
Gonzaga used the radio to reach a targeted public, a public that had the
Northeast in mind already. And it was to a large extent the fruit of a re-
gional sensibility that had cohered in earlier decades.197
Gonzaga’s complete delivery, from lyrics and dress to the sound of his
voice and overall rural sensibility, cohered into a message that signified
the Northeast. His accent was familiar to some listeners and strange to
others, and Gonzaga became a powerful index of both identification and
stereotype; through it he linked to other aural, discursive, and visible asso-
ciations that could provide comfort or trigger prejudiced judgment. More
than anything, his accent helped consolidate the idea of the nordestino
migrant, with his own culture and values, as a figure to be incorporated
into the world of the southern listening public. His speech generated a

Spaces of Nostalgia 117

new recognition of the group of people who were understood or pre-
sumed to speak in that way by the dominant regime of listeners.198
For the most part, northeastern migrants brought with them a par-
ticipatory sense of what music was and what it meant: Music was to be
danced to, it was to be sung, it was to be used to coordinate the flow of
physical labor. The reality in the South was different, however, with its
rationalized work routines and its emphasis on the radio as a “source” of
music to be heard and consumed. Migrants’ embrace of the radio would
symbolize their integration into their new social and cultural milieu. By
its nature, the concentration of musical practice in professional, com-
mercial institutions such as the radio and recording studios diminished
the space for legitimate popular music production, although northeast-
ern street musicians struggled to maintain it. But the value system pre-
dominating in the urban south disciplined both the body for industrial
work and the ear for industrially produced music. The nordestino that
sang, danced, and played instruments should be reduced to a being that
listened passively and obeyed orders.
Everyone had to learn to consciously hear the Northeast, to discern its
sounds—not only southern audiences but Gonzaga himself, first chal-
lenged in a Rio cabaret by students from Ceará to play something from
“the backcountry,” and his migrant audiences who grew increasingly
aware of how different northeastern music was from other broadcast
genres. Gonzaga became an artist known for his capacity to produce
something familiar for the migrants—a music that recalled their land,
their infancy, the texture and color of what they missed. His fame was
materially assisted by the contemporary expansion of both music criticism
in the newspapers and specialized music and radio magazines, which in
their analyses of or interviews with him all assumed the veracity of his
regional character and took to debating the niceties of it.
The proliferation of discourse around the baião established its reality.
The magazines and radio programs contributed to the institutionalization
of the voice, Gonzaga’s voice, as his own identity and that of “his” region,
and by extension that of the nation. But control of the national voice was a
disputed field. After 1930 and especially after 1937, the federal government
sought to control the voice of Brazil; Vargas’s New State wanted to establish
the parameters within which the nation would speak and be spoken of.
But the participants and their motivations, as well as their audiences, were
too diverse to be homogenized. Gonzaga’s success derived from, on one

118 chapter two

hand, the generalized appetite for ludic dance music—but on the other, the
growing consumption of regional culture as symbols of national identity.
His greatest popularity was among the northeastern migrants, because he
spoke both to their longing for home (mingled with fearful ambivalence of
the big city) and their pride in taking on the challenges of relocation while
maintaining such traditional regional values as religion and family.199
Luiz Gonzaga fully assumed the character of the “voice of the North-
east,” even with all the dimensions of political consciousness raising that
implied. His music and the business strategy underlying it “wanted to
make the Northeast known around all of Brazil,” with songs full of local
detail, intimations of strife, and “celebrations of the positive.” He willingly
accepted the position of mediator between the people and the state, help-
ing make the realities and the dilemmas of the Northeast both visible and
audible. And the principal problem of the region in his music was the
droughts. After all, this was the main cause for the exodus of nordestinos
to the South. In 1950, he and partner Humberto Teixeira composed “Asa
Branca,” his most well-known song, a beautifully sad statement from the
distant perspective of a migrant that he conceived as a sort of “Christian
protest” of the droughts that uprooted and displaced people. Later, in 1953,
he and Zé Dantas cowrote “Vozes da Seca,” a song that incorporated the
suggestion of state solutions for the droughts’ effects.200
But Gonzaga was also deeply concerned with the recognition and ac-
ceptance of northeastern music in the South, which betrays a sense of
inferiority widely shared with other northeastern intellectuals and culture
producers. This encouraged him to target his act, to strategically create
and reaffirm a character that was both emblematic of tradition and eas-
ily recognizable for southern audiences. His popular sensibility, rooted in
his own rural experience, merged with the effort to create musical forms
and images that could be urbanized to fit into the professional market of
recordings and performances.201 Gonzaga’s generation of artists was in-
volved in a phase of Brazilian popular music that was not so much created
by the popular sectors as created for them. It was thoroughly commercial
music that relied on radio to reach communities of listeners. At the same
time, since nationalism was a major concern of the period, regional and
folkloric music received attention not only from private entrepreneurs but
from the state apparatus.
It is an intriguing paradox that while on the whole Brazil’s cultural econ-
omy was increasingly homogenized along the strategies of capitalism, the

Spaces of Nostalgia 119

Northeast would be hailed as one of the country’s most culturally rich and
resistant regions. How was it that the Northeast, its society subordinated
both politically and economically, its people regularly displaced, managed
to “preserve its origins and maintain its cultural traditions”? This was pos-
sible precisely because “northeastern culture” was like the Northeast it-
self a recent invention, largely created by the processes of uprooting. The
shaping of the space, and its culture of memory, legacy, tradition, emerged
in counterpoint to the urban reality in the South confronted by migrants.
Migration made possible the invention of such culture and reinforced its
connection to the place left behind. In a manner distinct from reading
literature or viewing paintings, listening to music (which is perhaps more
visceral and immediate) was a principal mechanism for imagining a new
territory and perceiving its symbolic and organic coherence. Hearing the
Northeast offered more than explanatory power—it helped produce the
region as a place that was both consistent and predictable.202
In that sense, Gonzaga’s music, which forefronted the experience of
the poor nordestinos and their “marginalized culture,” did not so much
reproduce some sort of traditional peasant discourse as help make such
an identity plausible and compelling. His music embodied a vision not
of the past but clearly of the present, of a marginalized regional group
resisting the immanent destruction of its traditional territory by con-
structing an imaginary one that would always stay the same. While often
interpreted as a form of cultural resistance, his music actually reflected
a thorough engagement with the new social conditions migrants con-
fronted in the big city. Gonzaga’s Northeast was composed to nourish the
memories of these migrants, tailored to address their fears and desires.
While his musical identity was also influenced by southern conceptions
of northeastern regionalism, the audience for his music (both during and
after his period of greatest commercial success, roughly 1946–54) was
overwhelmingly northeastern in origin. Part of what detracted from his
crossover appeal was the establishment of samba, another music form
reflecting the lived experience of urban popular sectors, as Brazil’s na-
tional music. And Gonzaga’s own definition of his music as “regional”
limited its broad embrace, particularly as the Northeast was often seen
by outsiders as crude backcountry whose economic marginalization of-
fered proof of its primitivism.203
Indeed, the success of his music among migrants was one aspect
of the solidification of a regional identity among individuals that were

120 chapter two

framed by stereotypes in the South, such as the so-called “baiano” of São
Paulo and the “paraíba” of Rio. It was only in the urban south that mi-
grants from diverse parts of the Northeast began to perceive themselves
as equals and countrymen, “speaking with the same accent,” possess-
ing the same tastes, customs, and values—an act of recognition (of self
and other) that did not occur back in the Northeast itself. Whatever the
direct or literal messages of Gonzaga’s songs, his work was directed at
the urban nordestino listeners’ unconscious minds to make them aware
of regional space in new ways, how the Northeast and the South inter-
related or contrasted, how they were. He revealed how the Northeast
could emerge as a subculture in the South, or how the South looked
from a northeastern perspective. He also showed how the Northeast
could recognize itself in Ceará, Paraíba, or Pernambuco.204 Gonzaga’s
music contained audible signs intended to provoke a sensation in the
listener of being close to regional authenticity. These were in his accent
and vocalizations, his individual words and phrases, his arrangements
and instrument selection. All were guided by the desire to flesh out the
distant, abstract space of the northeast.205 His songs gave the Northeast
a power to affect listeners’ bodies as well as their imaginations, sum-
moning them with rhythm, exulting in the happiness and sensuality of
regional couples dances (from forró to xote). He orchestrated a range of
visual, audible, and corporal experiences to give the Northeast human
texture.206
The center of Gonzaga’s Northeast was the backlands, the sertão. His
texts referred with intimate familiarity to the lifeways there, the drought
and the wonder of rain returning, the wandering, the suffering, the de-
votion to saints, the bandits and bravery, honor, respect for the elderly.
He contributed to crystallizing the portrait of the nordestino as a victim
of nature, with a rough temperament, but capable of grand sacrifice and
rich cultural production. Gonzaga wove his material from the variegated
strands of traditional regional culture, incorporating verses from popu-
lar poets (“Chegada de Inverno,” “Perfume Nacional”), cowboy song (“Al-
godão,” “Feira de Gado”), festive coco rhythms and choruses (“Siri Jogando
Bola”), children’s melodies (“Xô,” “Povão”), circus music (“O Circo”), oral
literature and proverbs (“Cintura Fina,” “Café,” “Vou Casá Já”), legends
(“Lendas de São João”), bonfire customs (“Qué que Tu Qué”), beliefs and
superstition (“O Xote das Meninas,” “Acauã”), and popular humor (“Der-
ramaro o Gai,” “Forró de Mané Vito”).

Spaces of Nostalgia 121

At various moments Gonzaga seemed to comment wryly on rural life,
adopting the role of the self-deprecating nordestino chuckling at his tra-
ditions and innocent foibles. This image of the rustic buffoon could also
suggest an oblique criticism of how urban “sophisticated” audiences saw
Gonzaga and his audiences. But it also resonated with the familiar stereo-
type of the country bumpkin that had been a standard Brazilian type in
radio and cinema since the 1940s, and would later be absorbed into tele-
vision. Over time the visual and cultural trappings of the non-regional-
specific hayseed character were narrowed to, and equated with, the rural
nordestino in mass media.
However, the main impulse of his work was to reaffirm the percep-
tion of the Northeast as a homogeneous space defined in opposition to
the South. His audience was understood as people living “far from their
homeland,” and he sketched that homeland in terms general enough to
be recognized by migrants from across the region, allowing them to as-
sociate with it in their own ways. Its topography, the stage for so many
climactic extremes, was cast as fixed and stable, although intercut by
long roads that carried nordestinos away to the South and sometimes
back again. His Northeast was timelessly rural, its own cities ignored
for the essential nature of the interior and nordestinos’ relations with
agriculture. In “A Volta da Asa Branca,” the singer is gratified to be sum-
moned home to “his sertão” by following the white-winged dove who
hears the thunder that portends rain for the crops.207
Gonzaga made nostalgia for the Northeast, for its people and customs
and scenes, a constant theme. The region’s most dynamic incarnations
were those from the past and in the memory, for listeners in the cities of
the Northeast as well as the urban south. He praised the peasants’ rug-
ged purity and moral depth, even if at times expressing their anger at the
new regime of authority that disregarded traditional relations of protec-
tion and assistance.208 Gonzaga affectionately embroidered the sertão as
the site of not just regional tradition, but authentic Brazilian values and
rituals. Conversely, the city represented loss of traditional knowledge,
of family, and of the empathetic coexistence with nature. Cities were
impersonal and monotonous, offering only work—and even then in de-
graded forms of activity. The sertão was characterized by its studied but
proud rejection of the social and economic changes transforming other
parts of the country. Its abundant simple pleasures offered respite from
vapid modern civilization, a place “where there’s none of this at all” (onde

122 chapter two

não se tem disso não).209 In his 1955 “Riacho do Navio,” Gonzaga implic-
itly recognized the power relations between Northeast and South but
declared that if he were a fish he’d rather be in a stream heading back
to the sertão, swimming against the current, than in the wide ocean. At
home in the interior, after a day tending to livestock from atop a horse he
could “sleep to the festive rattle / and awaken to the birds / with no radio
imposing news / from civilized areas.”210
Luiz Gonzaga’s music reflects the ambiguity of the combination of
traditional content and modern form. While his lyrics affirmed a tra-
ditional, antimodern attitude, his rhythms and harmonies were inven-
tions of the urban milieu of the South where he worked. He sang of a
space that rejected bourgeois capitalist relations, but he was a profes-
sional artist with a product targeted to urban audiences. His self-defined
“regional” music, called baião, reached national success for nearly ten
years and seemed to some critics to ably reconcile the mandates of tradi-
tional and modern. But rather than transcending these axes of cultural
production he emphasized their coexistence and irreconcilability. He
proclaimed their separation, not their consummation.211
Gonzaga was an innovator. The way he rejected standard vocal tech-
nique and operatic, romantic traditions for a rural aesthetic rooted in
regional popular culture was unprecedented. That was also true for
his accordion playing, characterized by an until-then uniquely distinc-
tive rhythmic approach featuring rapid and propulsive fingerings quite
unlike the standard lyrical approach for performing waltzes and other
smooth dance music on the instrument. This allows Gonzaga to join an
elite group of musicians who introduced new ways to interpret Brazilian
popular music in the first half of the twentieth century. His name must
be inscribed alongside other period inventors and modernizers such as
Noel Rosa, Dorival Caymmi, and Jackson do Pandiero.212
Thematically, Gonzaga presented a core of tradition whose delivery
was being continually updated, similar to cordel literature. He recounted
daily life in the Northeast emotionally but warily, as though he were ob-
serving the circling threats of modernity with apprehension. But even
here it is difficult to generalize, because during the 1950s he celebrated
the developmentalism of Juscelino Kubitschek and the Sudene initia-
tive (Superintendancy for the Development of the Northeast) as solu-
tions for what public and private interests viewed as the “problem of the
Northeast.” It was only by the late 1960s that Gonzaga, influenced by the

Spaces of Nostalgia 123

Tropicalists, who had praised his contribution to the modern-trending
evolution of Brazilian popular music, began addressing more contem-
porary aspects of northeastern life.213
Still, Luiz Gonzaga was the popular artist who most effectively insti-
tuted the Northeast as a space of longing and nostalgia—not in the older,
colonial-era frames of slavery and sugar plantations, but as a place that
living people had physically abandoned, that they remembered fondly,
that they missed. The distance here was more geographic than tempo-
ral, although those dimensions intermingled. The Northeast of Gonzaga’s
songs was ordered by patriarchy and a symbiotic relationship with nature,
its society marked by hierarchies and suffering as well as rich cultural
expressiveness. Gonzaga’s work aligned with the projects of other writers
and artists described in this book because it endeavored to demonstrate
the reality of the Northeast, to conquer recognition of it at the national
level and declare its importance as a bastion of authentic Brazilian cultural
identity against the globalized and cosmopolitan southern cities.214

Northeastern Dramas
By midcentury, the Northeast was the theme of plays that gained national
attention. Foremost among them were the works of Paraíba-born play-
wright Ariano Suassuna, and perhaps the most notable of those was Auto
da Compadecida, which in 1955 earned the gold medal from the Brazilian
Association of Theater Critics and two years later was staged at the First
National Amateur Festival in Rio de Janeiro by a group of young actors
from Recife. Suassuna’s success in the drama world of the South was
due in some measure to timing as well as the content of his craft. In Rio
and São Paulo, the theatrical tradition maintained long-standing generic
divisions between drama (of mainly Italian influence) and comedy; Suas-
suna’s plays intersected and reinterpreted those separations. But he also
was there at the right time. Since the 1940s political enthusiasm to foster
a native Brazilian dramaturgical tradition had been growing, expressed
in the creation of the National Theater Institute, and Suassuna offered
plays that answered the call to foment “national spirit.” They avoided
gratifying bourgeois tastes to focus on ostensibly national topics, places,
and realities. His theater suggested the opportunity to not just gather an
audience but to shape a people around his subject matter.215

124 chapter two

And the Northeast was an ideal theme, according to Pernambucan
critic Hermilo Borba Filho, because “it already contains a grand histori-
cal and national drama, with the tragedy of the droughts, the sugar dis-
tilled by slaves’ blood, the wealth of popular legends.” There was also a
rich tradition of popular puppetry in the Northeast, as well as colorful
religious pageantry, storytelling, and oral literature. These raw materials
all presented the opportunity to mount a “serious theater” that would
surpass in national import anything achieved by the mass-culture plays
that sold tickets in Rio or São Paulo. Ariano Suassuna benefited from
these and other analyses that cast him as the creator of a genuinely na-
tional Brazilian theater, since he incorporated an abundance of popular
drama, song, and tale-telling from the Northeast that all had some Ibe-
rian roots.216
In fact, Suassuna leveraged the traditional explanation for the fall of
Europe’s Middle Ages and adapted it into a schema to explain how the
“loyal society of the sertão” was being demolished. His basic framework
was the opposition between urban merchants, who supported modern-
ization and increasing state power as tools to weaken traditional social
bonds in the Northeast, and the people (povo) who valued honor, brav-
ery, respect, and mutual assistance. All of his works are seasoned by a
populist vision in which the people expose their misery and suffering but
denounce modernity and capitalism, as well as the collapse of customary
paternalism, as the causes. These were people who benefited from the
old hierarchy as it was, who followed local chiefs or bosses but never
impersonal “leaders.”217
In his critique, Suassuna ultimately revealed the limits of the progres-
sive politics of traditional regionalism if carried to their extreme. He
would become an eager supporter of the national military coup in 1964
and with the new regime helped found the Federal Culture Board (Con-
selho Federal de Cultura) in 1967. His antipathy to foreign and cosmo-
politan culture was so great that he proclaimed the Catholic Church and
the military the only institutions capable of protecting an independent
Brazil from such corruptions. If the empathetic coronel of the sertão
was dying off, the military was the best substitute, providing unity, hier-
archy, and discipline to a society threatened on various fronts. Suassuna
applauded military intervention, characterizing it as salvation—notably
in his play O Rei Degolado nas Caatingas do Sertão, which used as back-
ground the national response to the 1912 droughts to depict the military

Spaces of Nostalgia 125

and state apparatus as national saviors, fighting for the popular class
against newly cruel, degraded elites.218
Suassuna’s fondness for order, which can also be discerned in his
poetry and other writing, derives from his nostalgia for a time before the
Northeast entered into crisis, when the sertão was peacefully ruled by
aristocratic families. His work is a form of memorial for the lost, gentle
kingdoms he imagined, coloring their society, daily life, and popular cul-
ture with hues of feudal and medieval anachronism. The basis for his
conception of the Northeast was European history and legend, which he
transmogrified with the addition of African and indigenous elements,
situating it all in the environment of the sertão. Castles, chivalry, and
honor coexisted with pagan rites, toothless prophets, and bandits lurk-
ing among the cactus. It was a rich, dense space, mystical, brutal, and
picturesque, which he both posited and hoped to decipher.219
Still, Suassuna’s politics were not simple. He regarded warily the
left’s most ardent progressives, who clamored for modernizing the tradi-
tional society he wanted to preserve. But while he could be sympathetic
to military intervention, his deep Christianity led him to distrust the
right’s use of anticommunism to legitimate the imposition of a capitalist
regime that was clearly unjust and inhumane. The result of that hypoc-
risy was, he argued, greater human misery and a society moving further
away from God.220 In contrast, the profound religiosity of the sertão,
with its medieval accoutrements of insignias, banners, lances, duels,
and horsemanship, offered the vision of a space rooted in history and
the sacred. He envisioned a space where all were equal before God, if
not here on land; where the consciousness of divine equality gave people
hope and resilience as they faced adversity. The extremes of happiness
and despair were reframed as the forces of God and the Devil, as they
battled to control the region. In Suassuna’s Northeast, institutions were
imperfect, and as the feeble creations of men grimly accepted as such.
It was a place, and a people, defined by faith and the search for mercy.221
This sacred world was contrasted with the bourgeois, modernizing
South, which had rationalized God out of the discussions of meaning
and value. In the Northeast, traditional people both poor and aristo-
cratic still sought out the internal, spiritual dimensions of life, unlike
in the South, where a society of disconnected consumers were swayed
by external superficialities. Truth and loyalty, hallmarks of the religious
Northeast, were countered with treason, selfishness, and the idolatry of

126 chapter two

merchandise in the South. In the play O Santo e a Porca, for example,
Suassuna presents a critique of bourgeois materialism; like many of his
works, it was a moralizing tale of how capitalist society perverts “human
nature.”222
This theological impulse drove how he envisioned scenes of northeast-
ern life, as well as his selection of source material. He depicted simple,
unpolished people struggling for transcendence and seeking answers
to life’s ontological questions. He created a theater in which human so-
ciety was a farce, a circus in which everyone was a clown. Puppets rep-
resented the controlling hand of God in people’s affairs, while society’s
actions were little more than a parade of masks. Modern public space
was an ambivalent stage for antiheroes who cowered before the force of
the “Terrible” or the “Light.” To construct this world where humans and
nature are part of mysterious divine creation, Suassuna harvested the
numerous biblical images in popular Catholicism—images mingling
Iberian medieval ritual with indigenous and African beliefs and prac-
tices, including animism and fetishism. He wove them into dramas in
which nordestinos fought epic battles against the “diabolical power” of
secular institutions. His Northeast was harsh, but across its parched soil
lay the path leading back to the divine.223
The setting of his Northeast was always the cactus-choked backlands,
or the small dusty towns bordering it where the only building of note
was the church, and the only authorities the coronel, padre, delegate, and
judge. Suassuna felt it was the “civilization of leather,” not the “civilization
of sugar,” that gave birth to Brazilian identity and the national personality.
To enact the genealogy of the region—its families, dreams, madnesses,
adventures, tragedies—was to perform the history of the country itself on-
stage.224 He unfolded the Northeast like a map, bringing forth its stony
ridges and mountains painted with nut trees, rivers and streams crosscut
by dams, flagstones burnt by the sun to quartz mirrors. He spun his plots
from the destinies of his characters, their individual passions, and their
spiritual fatalism. His nordestinos were animalesque in their exaggerated
physical degradations: big-bellied, sweating, wounded, reeking, tattered.
They were haggard from droughts and injustice, but they maintained
their regional pride. They were still able to dream visions of an idyllic past,
of a paradise lost and the return some day of a millennial king.225
Suassuna wanted to forefront the vigorous beauty and poetry of
the sertão in order to counterbalance the way regionalist sociology and

Spaces of Nostalgia 127

literature had emphasized the importance of sugar society, and the way
those genres had devised a corresponding perspective of the sertão as
ugly and dismal as part of a political strategy to denounce capitalist so-
ciety. He did not wish to refute outright the regime of traditionalist im-
ages and discourses of the Northeast, even though they made the sertão
synonymous with misery. He accepted the point but shifted the terms,
such that in his work the sertão could be hellish but also a paradise of
brooks and orchards. It was a dry land bristling with thorns, but it also
had colorful songbirds, inspiring moonlight, and delicious breezes. He
sought a resolution that would be neither ideologically right nor left, but
a reconciliation, a sacred and “divine vision” based in aesthetics of popu-
lar Catholicism. In the religiosity of the backlands, good and evil did not
occupy opposite polarities but coexisted.226
Similarly, man and nature did not live in separation or false distinction.
In Suassuna’s sertão the patriarchal clans had animals as their insignias
and as their ancestors. People understood, felt, that they were descended
from beasts and had kinship with them, that they all shared instincts of
cruelty, savagery, resistance, cunning, and appetite. All were divine crea-
tures whose nature was treacherous, unpredictable and dangerous. This
sertão was the stage for epics in which warriors from mixed-blood clans
brawled in the name of honor or vengeance under a fiery sun.227
Suassuna hoped to decipher the grand enigmas of this society, while
at the same time absolving it, its people and its memory, of all the con-
demnation unleashed on it by outsiders and encroachers from civiliza-
tion. The reality of the sertão could be grasped only in the feral eye of
“Onça Caetana,” a character from História do Rei Degolado nas Caatingas
do Sertão, who could shape-shift from woman to jaguar and back. The
society of the backwoods was so close to the state of nature that only a
cat’s eye could take it all in and comprehend it.228
In his totalizing account of the sertão, Suassuna ignored the rational-
ist division between the real and the mythic. He made a cut in space
to define the parameters of the locale, and he asserted the unity of all
the disparate elements it contained. In that way, his work can be distin-
guished from the 1930s fiction writers who maintained an attitude of
realism. He started with the idea that the proper capacity of art is not
merely representation but the presentation of a new reality as the artist
sees it. His Northeast adopted the previously crystallized regional im-
ages and themes—drought, misery, banditry, the messianic priest and

128 chapter two

coronel—but reconfigured them into a medieval society with knights
and heralds and insignia. He ennobled the sertão, rendering its past into
a dream of the future in which epochs lost to time return transfigured by
beauty and grandiosity, rescued by their own heroic essence.229
Suassuna’s drive to explain the sertão ultimately clashed with his desire
to construct it as mythical: unintelligible in the present even if it had been
fathomable in the past, and perhaps graspable again in the future. He
wanted his work to stand as a monument to its particular order, rooted
in patriarchy and faith. He wanted to be the prophet, priest, astrologer,
and wise man of this Northeast where the sun flamed so intensely that
the real appeared as a mirage and the mirage, real. He wanted to be at
once praise singer, scriptwriter and harbinger of an archaic society, one
that ran with blood and bore scars of its innumerable past tragedies.
His concern with the bloodiness of the sertão is part of his exploration
of how its essence has often been bound up with racial preconceptions,
just as he also interrogates the naturalist concepts of psychological and
cultural inheritance.230
He believed that art could make the insanity of life bearable, neutral-
izing or alleviating in its own way hunger, degradation, despair. It would
be art in which laughter “is the horse, rude and undomesticated, that
courageously manages to unite the injustices and atrocities of real life so
that they undertake the gallop of a dream and keep lit the candle of hero-
ism, of permanent insurrection against the iniquity of the real.” He put
to use comedy, farce, and magical realism, all characteristic elements of
popular culture such as cordel literature, in order to provoke surprise
and laughter, dreams of alternatives, and the brief glimpse of a society
resacralized. But his art would reflect the sertão “in spirit, not in form,
because the artist should elevate the people to his perspective and not
stoop to theirs.” Suassuna reworked Iberian and popular models, as well
as elements from classical Greek and Roman theater, striving to find a
“northeastern and Brazilian way to do theater”—something avoiding the
psychological indulgences of contemporary bourgeois theater to express
the authentic “mindset of the race . . . the musings of kings, pamphlet
scrawls, romances.” The sertão was traditional, so modern theater had
nothing to offer its baroque sensibility. It would be peopled by rustic char-
acters who used bawdy language to satirize modern society’s effete nice-
ties and denial of carnal truths. But their irreverence was not chaotic, it
was ultimately constructive of another worldview. They used laughter,

Spaces of Nostalgia 129

jokes, and taunts as a mechanism of social control and Christian moral-
ization. In this sertão, the power of carnival was not only to invert order
but to create and reaffirm order.231
Suassuna’s oeuvre takes language as a mode of institution, of the in-
vention of a world. He thought language in its very texture should be able
to express the reality it presents. That is why he wrote his works using
“the mulatto, stony, near-unintelligible Portuguese of the scrublands.”
His manner of writing, as well as what he wrote, became another deno-
tative dimension of the Northeast region.232 He did not see language as
a neutral code, as the realists did. He contributed to the invention of the
Northeast as a space of nostalgia and tradition but nonetheless saw his
work as fictional rather than documentary (as the regionalist writers in
fiction and sociology did). Although Suassuna denied modernist influ-
ences in the theater, this aspect of his production was thoroughly mod-
ern. His medieval Northeast linked to the earlier phase of traditionalist
regionalism, including regionalist painting, and the music of Luiz Gon-
zaga in the (re)invention and actualization of a series of themes, concepts,
images, and enunciations that defined the Northeast as a space opposed
to the modern, the bourgeois, the urban and industrial. His Northeast
had no public sphere, and there was no clear distinction between hu-
mans and things. Nature was sacred. It was also a place of traditional
forms of domination, of patriarchal social codes and values. Suassuna’s
Northeast could only react to the present, marked by the entrenchment
of capitalist society in the South, as the cause of all its ills. It dreamed of a
return to the glories of its past and disregarded history for the charms of
memory. The Northeast that these intellectuals and artists helped create
was a sophisticated machine, designed to appear primitive and organic.
And it generated images and discourses intended to conserve and curate
particular views of the past, deploying them as reactions to the new.

130 chapter two

T H R E E T E R R I TO R I E S O F R E VO LT

The Inversion of the Northeast

routes of revolution

“The other day I bade farewell to my comrades. The breeze caressed

the fields, and for the first time I felt the beauty around us. I looked
without sadness at the great house. The overwhelming love for my own
class, for the workers and laborers, did away with the trivial affection I
had for the daughter of the senhor. I had good reason to think this
way. At the curve of the road I turned back. Honório waved good-bye,
and on the veranda of the great house the breeze played with Maria’s
blonde hair. I departed for the struggle clean of heart, and happy.”1

During the 1930s the Northeast was not only invented as a place of long-
ing for the past, but also in a distinct parallel movement “discovered”
as a region uninterested in either the past or the present. Rather, this
Northeast looked to the future with utopian dreams and hopes for new
tomorrows, even if revolt was necessary to counter injustice and clear the
way for progress. It was a place where the discursive projects of nation as
well as region had to contend with the realities of the people (povo), that
is, the laboring class. It was less concerned with memory than with mak-
ing history, or remaking history, through the conflicts for power between
social groups. Rupture and revolution were prized over tradition and
continuity. This Northeast’s fragmentations and instabilities indicated
not doom through the entrenchment of chaos but the active search for
new connections with universal causes. It sought a new cultural and
political identity, one that only a “revolutionary aesthetic” could properly
express. It was a territory whose future would be created not only by the
arts of politics but by the politics of the arts.
If Freyrean sociology had been largely responsible for the visibility
and speakability of the traditional Northeast, this other, revolutionary
Northeast bore the direct influence of Marxist thought in both its pol-
itics and its artistic production. The Marxist paradigm, which offered
this Northeast more than theory—it was an interpretive method into
national reality as well as a political roadmap—was after the Russian
Revolution a principal cultural influence also, through the official aes-
thetic of socialist realism.2
The images and texts of this Northeast were elaborated according to the
strategy of denouncing the injustices suffered by the popular classes, while
simultaneously recuperating and redeploying the traditional discourses
and practices of popular revolt that characterized the region. These ter-
ritories of popular revolt were cast as harbingers of a wider, inexorable
revolutionary transformation. Images of the region’s ghastly, miserable
present were taken as the starting point to construct an imagined future,
a spacialized utopian tomorrow.
This movement showed that, while negating the present can be ac-
complished by fixating on the past as the traditionalists attempted, it can
also be done by focusing on the future and trying to bring it to life
in the present. Revolutionary reterritorialization was a way to imagina-
tively construct a future space to substitute society’s immediate travails
and discomfort. Leftist intellectuals who adopted the Northeast as theme
described the region exactly as the traditionalists did: as a place that ne-
gated modernity in its forms of bourgeois society, capitalism, and mod-
ernist sensibilities, but that could be the site of a new “communitarian
society” with the reconciliation of the separation between people and
nature. But the ideological infrastructure of their analysis of how this
was to be achieved was, of course, quite different. Taken as a whole,
the generation of the 1920s and beyond was suspended in these two so-
ciabilities; they believed in the immanent transformation of the world,
but in distinct directions. This was a moment of intense anticipation of
change and awareness of the need to guide it to a desired end. Their zeal
to interrupt history’s ostensible one-way motion makes clear the fear
that the acceleration of change was provoking among them.
Marxism’s messianic appeal, its secular connotation of “priesthood
and dogma,” was embraced by a subgroup of the era’s insecure middle
class in Brazil. Marxism offered certainties based in the myth of science
and technical progress, a myth that helped ease the anguish of those
who felt the world had lost meaning. These people—like the children of
northeastern landowners who found themselves in a newly unstable, po-
litically impotent middle class, grasping at the past for survival—turned

132 chapter three

to the future, a future of hope and improvement. Revolution hovered
like a messianic mirage, one of the most tantalizing possible paths for
the disaffected left to reencounter its lost identity.3
Modernity’s explosion of the whole into shards of difference vexed
these leftists, who sought in the revolutionary future a reestablishing
of unity. Their political rhetoric denounced bourgeois democracy as a
fraud, since it admitted the existence of democracy among equals only
through the elaboration of consensus, not as the productive coexistence
of differences. Hegelian dialectics, one of the fundamentals of Marx-
ism, was concerned with the dominion of the whole over the parts;
the totality suppressed full representation to implement the identity of
all. This line of thought contains skepticism of representation, even in
language. Worlds made of images and words were distrusted in prefer-
ence for a concrete, real world outside of discourse. Marxism saw itself
as the last of all discourses, the ultimate discourse. It would be the
regime that facilitated the union between words and things, between
representation and referent, transcending and repairing the lacerations
wrought by modernity.4
Marxist thought also assumed the existence of a multiplicity of social
gazes and voices that would ultimately be transcended by revolution’s
dialectic synthesis. Revolutionary theory, to be embodied in practice by
the proletariat, would shatter the artifices and superficialities impeding
the true understanding of both people and objects. By freeing themselves
from alienation, the proletariat would make it possible to comprehend so-
cial relations and historical processes. For its part, the party would provide
guidance and orientation to the working classes, as well as consciousness
raising in a manner adequate to their capacities. The party would weave
unity out of theory and practice, joining concept to action, mediating man
and history. Its goal was to both turn social relations transparent and con-
trol them, remaking them according to man’s image.5
In Brazil, intellectuals came to Marxism somewhat later than the mil-
itants linked to labor movements. The academy began to be influenced
by the Communist Party in the 1930s, as shown by their incipient pro-
duction of some sociological and historical analyses. By the following de-
cade, Marxism was being embraced more systematically. In 1948, one of
the first courses on Marxism to appear in Brazilian higher education was
offered by George Gurvitch at the University of São Paulo. Coincidentally

Territories of Revolt 133

or not, that institution was also beginning to engage problems of Brazil-
ian society more directly.6
The developing Marxist theory of both the leftist militants and the
academics in this period bore strong traces of positivist, evolutionist
thinking. In many cases this reveals an ignorance of classic Marx-
ist texts but also suggests the context into which Marxism was being
introduced—one in which militants and intellectuals were seemingly
predisposed to seek theoretical bases for either naturalism or anar-
chy. Take for example a 1940s text by Nelson Werneck Sodré, a former
militant who entered the ranks of party intellectuals and whose highly
influential Formação Histórica do Brasil was one of the first serious at-
tempts to use historical materialism to interpret Brazilian society. So-
dré’s reading of Marxism was deeply positivist:

The sociologist is charged with establishing the main lines of human

evolution and marking its stages, noting its critical moments and, with
the power of his analysis, establishing the necessary differentiations,
fundamental correlations, and absolute connections that combine to
make the history of facts, social history, and human developmental-
ism in general an indivisible unity. This must be shown to be coherent
and in a perpetual state of becoming, constantly shifting and containing
new aspects but always under imperative reason that the past explains
and facts of order clarify.7

Even before Sodré, in the 1930s, Communist intellectual Caio Prado

Jr. published Evolução Política do Brasil, perhaps the first application of
Marxism to Brazilian history. In 1942, with his Formação do Brasil Con-
temporâneo, Prado brought Marxist analysis to a study of contemporary
Brazil in a form that dialogued with the period intellectual focus on Bra-
zil’s national-popular discursive formation. His preoccupation with eco-
nomic factors as decisive in Brazilian history also revealed a sensitivity
to issues of the day, as the nation chafed under the transformation of
its economic structures. At that time, too, as they coalesced and became
more systematized, both social and economic studies were tending to
leave behind racial and environmental determinisms as well as moral or
religious interpretations. The late 1930s in Brazil witnessed the founda-
tion of the Ethnographic and Folklore Society, the Brazilian Sociology
Society, and the Brazilian Society for Economic Study, with the last fo-
cused narrowly on economics.8

134 chapter three

It might be noted that while Marxism represented a new paradigm
for Brazilian social science in this era, in Europe it was among a range
of theoretical schools that since the nineteenth century had been shown
to be finite or insufficient. Recognizing this, George Gurvitch suggested
soon after the end of World War II that many of sociology’s classical
theses had been revealed as bankrupt:

The positive state did not succeed the metaphysical and teleological
states as Comte predicted; the industrial regime did not bring liberty;
instead it revealed problems with Spengler’s law of integration by dif-
ferentiation; nowhere was class society replaced by a society without class,
and class struggle, far from heading toward triumph, everywhere deepens
in capitalist societies in opposition to what Marx supposed; and mechani-
cal solidarity or the force of identity was never substituted by organic
solidarity or the force of differentiation, as Durkheim predicted.9

Still, in the 1940s, Florestan Fernandes emerged as one of Brazil’s

leading sociologists through publications on such subjects as folklore
and the Negro in Brazil. Fernandes strove to construct for his sociology
a theoretical apparatus that was international in character, and hence it
is not surprising that he would vehemently criticize the sociologists later
associated with the Higher Institute of Brazilian Studies (Instituto Supe-
rior de Estudos Brasileiros, iseb), such as Guerreiro Ramos, who took as
their mission the development of a “national sociology.”10
The influence of Marxism in Brazilian sociology was decisive in the
elaboration of two classic studies of the Northeast that inverted the tradi-
tionalism embedded in Gilberto Freyre’s discourse. Djacir Menezes’s O
Outro Nordeste (1937) offered a compelling vision of the Northeast’s so-
cioeconomic problems that proved influential not only in later sociology
but as an artistic theme. Menezes focused not on the plantation regimes
or the backlands per se but on a third milieu, the “civilization of leather,”
the sertão’s cattle culture that was falling into squalor and needed assis-
tance from public authorities. The other book, Josué de Castro’s Geogra-
fia da Fome (1946), utilized geography as well as sociology to explore the
Northeast’s problem of hunger.
With the redemocatization of Brazil in the 1940s, interest in fostering
a national popular culture expanded from the intellectuals associated with
Vargas’s New State to middle-class sectors often connected to the left. As
state centralism eased, it would be institutions of civil society such as

Territories of Revolt 135

the Communist Party, iseb, Popular Culture Movements (Movimentos
de Cultura Popular, mcp), Popular Culture Centers (Centros Populares
de Cultura, cpc), the National Students Union (União Nacional de Es-
tudantes, une), and other movements in theater, cinema, literature, and
music that took up the work of exploring and disseminating national
culture. To the extent that these diverse initiatives intersected with Marx-
ism, the theme of revolution also became incorporated, but this was less
the classical, international idea of Marxist revolution than one reshaped
for a nation not traditionally concerned with class struggle but instead
that saw imperialism as a primary threat to its identity. Accepting as it
did the nationalist imperative, the Brazilian left was unable to conceive
of a revolution that abandoned the nation altogether. In contrast, the left
took revolution as a mechanism of defense, to empower and free the
nation. Their conception of revolutionary process was a reaction to the
transformation of traditional territoriality fostered by the international-
ization of capital and of mass culture. It was along this circuitous path of
national defense that Brazil’s midcentury “revolutionaries” encountered
the “traditionalists” on the same footing.
In this context, national-popular discourse was tending to reconfigure
the very idea of “popular” culture, introducing a revolutionary element to
what was claimed would best represent the interests of the people. Popular
culture became a synonym for “nonalienated culture,” aesthetic manifes-
tations built from discussions of power and politics. In truth, of course,
this so-called popular culture was increasingly the culture of subgroups
of the middle classes, who were exasperated with their diminishing par-
ticipation in national politics. The growth in this social group, especially
in the sectors associated with liberal professions and services in Brazil’s
cities, rendered them not just a principal cohort of consumers of national
culture but a dominant participant in its creation. In that way the “popu-
lar” and the “people” were bourgeois through and through.11
This nationalist-populist Marxism intended to study the people and
the nation by inverting the focus of the bourgeois gaze. It claimed to per-
ceive society from the bottom up according to its economic structure and
economic relations, thereby explaining reality objectively and exposing
truths. It was assisted by the conception of empty, homogeneous time
that historians and other analysts could fill with their narratives. This
history was a rational process, historical coherence attained as contra-
dictions revealed and reconciled. It was a history dominated by internal

136 chapter three

obligations and with a predictable, inevitable end. The necessity to an-
chor history to conceptual schemes, which turned it into a fixed game
of marked cards, derived from the fear of history’s destructive, sacrificial
character, its capacity to branch into new and surprising openings. But
the pretense of turning history predictable and rendering reality control-
lable was essentially a desire for power, for truth, for the control of inter-
pretation, and hardly an objectively attainable condition of history itself.12
It was precisely the sentiment of fragmentation, of deterritorializa-
tion, that socially conscious art combated. Such enlightened art would
maintain a critical posture before the shattering of reality, denouncing
the absence of totality, avoiding pretty diversions to postulate new mean-
ings for human and national life. Aesthetically, the obscure, fanciful,
and irrational in human existence should be displaced by bold light, and
unforgiving clarity. Marxism brought with it a strictly realist conception
of art, and in a sense was stuck with literalist mimicry, even though it
simultaneously distrusted all forms of representation and simulation.
But artistic realism could extend from human gestures and social prac-
tices to the characteristics of a person, a place, an era. The artist should
choose the most relevant profiles of the “original,” those best revealing
essences, and transform them into fixed depictions. Art as mimesis
must by definition reflect reality. It would then become part of an ethical
discourse (not an aesthetic one), capable of being adapted into a political
pedagogy to form “revolutionary subjectivities.”13
Within this worldview, art’s only acceptable diversion from the natu-
ral form would derive from the style of the artist, a function of period
training combined with individual personality. However, art must also be
undertaken as a contribution toward creating universal conscience. The
particularities of any given work must be contained in a universal matrix
that contextualizes and extends them. Art should demonstrate the social
processes that gave rise to it and should espouse general truths. In that
way it could be taken as the reflex of a given social psychology and not the
idiosyncratic vision of an individual. And that social psychology would be
determined by the circumstances of production. For Georg Lukács, art
would form part of what might be called the lifestyle of an epoch, involv-
ing both the conception of a world and an action taken to transform it.14
Underlying such art, the philosophy of materialism should be able to
surmount subjective fantasies and defeat mythic apparitions. This art
would be the objective face of an unquestionably real world—one made

Territories of Revolt 137

of rationality and not beliefs, given weight by the seen and not the imag-
ined. A prominent theme would of course be the economic base of soci-
ety, since this was the determining factor in how people live their lives.
Artists must never forget what is at stake. The struggle between labor
and capital should be depicted with blunt realism, without indulging in
the colorful distractions and frothy dramas of bourgeois private life.15
This project was not without contradiction, and one of the more no-
table voices raising critiques of it was that of Mário de Andrade. Although
Andrade had also argued for the need for art to have a social commitment,
he nonetheless was wary of how artists were contending aesthetically with
the unpleasant aspects of Brazilian life, especially in the Northeast. He
condemned the 1930s romances in particular for transforming “the ter-
ror of drought, the human suffering, the misery of the Northeast, into
hedonistic enjoyment and damnable beauty; turning the awful awareness
of our obligations to the Northeast into an equally beautiful sensation.”16
A broad range of artistic production—the fiction of Graciliano Ramos
and Jorge Amado in the 1930s, the poetry of João Cabral de Melo Neto
and diverse “socially conscious” painters along the 1940s, New Cinema
from the late 1950s into the 1960s—enshrined the Northeast as the
most representative example of Brazil’s problems with hunger, poverty,
subdevelopment, alienation, and despair. Accepting without question
the spatial existence of the Northeast, these “leftist” works ultimately
reinforced a series of images and enunciations of the region that had
emerged through the discourse of the droughts by the end of the nine-
teenth century. They combined the idea of the Northeast as victim, as
a place of ruin (product of droughts), with the idea of the Northeast as
poor and wretched (product of entrenched oligarchies), adding to the
mixture a jarring dose of stern Marxist topicality and aestheticized re-
alism. They created their own mythology of the Northeast, although it
came to them embedded in the raw materials of previous discourses.
This new mythology inverted the old model to give it a Marxist reading
but in so doing still kept it imprisoned in the exact same texture and
logic. From the Northeast of traditionalist conservatism we come to face
it conversely, inside out and from the left, but yet we find that the very
same threads compose the fabric of the region. The essential warp and
woof is still there, recognizable. The only difference is that exposed now
are the knots, the rough cuts, the mismatched patches, the rough side
of the cloth. But the side of the Northeast we were not supposed to see

138 chapter three

before, here emphasized or exaggerated by the leftists, is just as much
a part of the Northeast’s imagetic-discursive tapestry as the intricately
archaic designs of the traditional regionalists that overlay them.

mythologies of rebellion

As with any space, the visibility and speakability of the Northeast are
composed principally of products of the imagination, to which reality is
attributed. “Facts,” once seen, heard, recounted, or read, become fixed
through diffusion and given the aura of consistency. They take on the pre-
sumption of certitude, even as they abstract into general themes, stereo-
types, and preconceptions. They become a necessary vocabulary for the
authors, painters, musicians, or cineastes who want their art to have the
ultimate representative force of being “lifelike.” Their discursive regular-
ity crystallizes them into typical and essential regional characteristics. As
Graciliano Ramos observed, it would be nearly impossible to capture on
canvas the northeastern summer without rendering the plants’ hopeful
shoots as burned and black, and the water hole dry. The Northeast be-
comes defined by drought, its indispensable attribute. To be authentic, the
image of the Northeast needs its cast of coroneis and padres, bandits and
saints. The tropes become obligatory through repetition and acceptance.
Even when the political strategies giving rise to particular works of art
conflict, each side utilizes the same mythology in order to be recognized
as legitimate and to advance its own ideological argument.17
The theme of the Northeast, whether in the realm of academia or art,
is never neutral. The region is shown to be populated by people that, like
mythic figures or myths themselves, are able to survive the destruction
that time seems to have foretold for them. But these people remain enig-
matic; they are objectified if never fully contained. They are portrayed as
questions demanding a response, wounds that periodically bleed and
demand new medicine and new explanation. They are defined as incom-
plete and always in need. In mythical narrative, historical information
is applied to create a truth-effect. The narrative follows a predetermined
course, and new or challenging information can be submitted to its ritu-
alizing operations that minimize surprise. Of course, myths are not nec-
essarily the opposite of history. Myth can be used to construct an idea of
the past that should guide the future, as the traditionalists attempted. It
can also be used to valorize the discontinuity between present and past,

Territories of Revolt 139

making the idea of history more plausible and appealing. The discourse
of the Brazilian left leveraged various myths of the past either to demon-
strate the superiority of “civilization” over “barbarism” or to choreograph
visions of history as fundamental steps toward a revolutionary future.
Differences in interpretive shading could be subtle but significant.
Consider the familiar figure of the backlands bandit, with his or her
machete and sidearm, leather clothes to protect against slicing thorns,
and leather hat casting a precious pool of shade. The traditionalists took
the bandit as a sort of Robin Hood character, not quite of the poor but
valiantly providing justice for them as the traditional structures of society
were weakened by bourgeois encroachments. But the left saw the bandit
as either an image of the salutary revolutionary capacity of the proletariat
itself, or more negatively as proof of the lack of political consciousness
among the dominated who wasted their energies in unorganized, indi-
vidualist, anarchic rebellion.
For many leftists who believed in the dichotomy of a savage past versus
a civilized future, bourgeois society represented something of an advance
over traditional social relations. Others, like Graciliano Ramos, regarded
it as a relative decline while still arguing that future social advances would
transform the injustices of each. However, all of them concurred that the
bandits represented a distasteful form of violence that was illegal as well
as primitive. Indeed, their discourse tended to valorize the concept of soci-
ety based on laws, on written codes that helped depersonalize conflict into
the impartial judgment of the organized public sphere. “Primitive revolts”
were chaotic and shocking, insufficient to true revolutionary practice and
the opposite of the disciplined utopia imagined by the left.18
The urban middle-class artists and intellectuals who invented the
Northeast as a territory of revolt were thus unable to rid themselves of a
certain attachment to bourgeois society because of the order it represented.
Even those who called for the transformation of bourgeois society wanted
to retain aspects of it, as they gazed from the perch of “civilized Brazil” to-
ward rural, traditional, archaic Brazil. The rebellious Northeast should be
dominated and disciplined, through bourgeois mechanisms if necessary,
as a stage toward socialist society. Leftists concurred that a true Brazilian
nation could be created only through transcending the country’s internal
differences, whether that was through generalizing bourgeois relations
or the integration of prebourgeois spaces into the market and bourgeois
power structures (to secure them for future revolutionary enlightenment).

140 chapter three

But traditional codes of meaning and values must be adjusted, and region-
alisms abolished, in the name of a homogeneous and “organic” nation.
The left’s diverse production is marked by an ethnocentric vision that
regards the “other” as exotic and curious, and always from a careful dis-
tance. The narrator is from civilization and implicitly loyal to it, speak-
ing of the past as something either extinct or as a warning example of
what should not be done in the present. There is little of the empathy
and (paternal) affection of the traditionalists for regional characters,
with the possible exception of novelist Jorge Amado, who seemed fond
of traditional patriarchy even as he defended the need for a new world
of socioeconomic relationships. The bandit, coronel, and other stock
figures took on the role of representing a dying society, a barbarous so-
ciety that had to collapse to make way for future civilization. Lampião,
Antônio Conselheiro, and Padre Cícero were demoted by the leftists in
preference for Delmiro Gouveia, pioneer of northeastern industrializa-
tion who brought electricity to the sertão and battled against English
imperialists. He was the symbolic precursor of a new, strong, rational
Northeast, one free of the “pagan deliriums of mysticism, ancestral fan-
tasies, morbid feelings of guilt; the manias of sex, humility, gloom, and
pointless violent exploits fueled by delusions of grandeur.”19
Marxist discourse contextualized phenomena such as banditry and
messianism according to social determinants, mainly reducing their anal-
ysis (as Graciliano Ramos did, for example) to economic explanations.
The left used these traditions to criticize the miserable conditions in the
Northeast, but also to overthrow them as popular myths and distractions
that should be desacralized so that the povo would come to understand
the true forms and meanings of revolt. It was necessary to teach the people
to abandon their spiritual vision of a world trapped between the pow-
ers of God and the Devil so they could begin to construct a world based
on rationality and human action. In related artistic production the lower
classes serve as both pretexts and mouthpieces for the leftists’ discourse,
their complaints to the dominant classes, their demands for power. They
took the voice of the people for themselves, to convey and legitimate their
own goals. This reveals the limits of the artists’ and intellectuals’ own
supposed integration with the people. Since they position themselves as
the vanguard, as best able to formulate what the people want and want to
say, as the solution to the people’s problems, they reaffirm their inclusion
in the dominant strata and their concern for its continuity.20

Territories of Revolt 141

During the 1950s, the rise of the Peasant Leagues made the Northeast
a yet more popular subject among leftist intellectuals, who pointed out the
widening gulf between abject northeastern reality and the necessary con-
ditions for radical social change. Viewed as primitive and feudal, with its
plantations and foreign economic dependence, the Northeast emerged as
a principal obstacle to Brazilian development and independence. Through
the tactics and alliances of the Communist Party the Northeast was given
priority status as a target for structural change. This initiative counted on
the participation of the “national bourgeoisie” in the South. The expansion
of bourgeois space, the generalization of bourgeois power from the South
along with the proletarianization of the northeastern peasants, were con-
sidered fundamental preconditions for revolution in Brazil.21
It was understood that the spark of change would come not from the
rural people, but from the cities, from the South. True, the nordestinos
and especially the sertanejos were famous for their traditions of chivalrous
bravery and their organic sense of liberty and justice, as well as their irasci-
ble tendency to revolt; but they were believed to be rather politically witless
and therefore reliant on the urbanites’ enlightening revolutionary leader-
ship. The Northeast was a powder keg, but it needed a steady, wise hand
to light the fuse and rescue the population from the intellectual limits of
its social universe. This view was in alignment with the Leninist premise
that conscience was most effectively raised by agents from outside a given
milieu. But to arrive at the people, to communicate with them in ways
they understood, it was necessary to adopt their forms of expression while
adapting the content to desired revolutionary themes and meanings.
Over time there were differences in tone. If in the 1930s and 1940s this
cultural production had an attitude of censure mingled with proselytizing
fervor, in later decades culture was seen as a form of direct intervention
into the reality of the people. For example, the Popular Culture Movement
came to use stock images such as those of the bandit, cowboy, coronel,
and valiant rustic in order both to make them contemporary symbols of
social action, and to reinforce their identity as “heroes” among the lower-
class audiences. They were linked to important formative myths of the
region. The identity construction of the exploited group, of a group united
by class and domination, was allied to reaffirming tropes of regional iden-
tity. The region itself took on the personal characteristic of being wronged
and abused. The Northeast and the peasants living there were mutually
defining, nearly interchangeable: it was the weak being exploited by the

142 chapter three

strong, the poor by the rich, in a context of past heroism that needed to
be reconfigured, redeployed, and recuperated into the present for future
transformation.22
There were other reasons for the Northeast’s appeal to the left. It was
both the country’s most underdeveloped region, and the most “national”
from a cultural point of view in that the depersonalizing, alienating in-
fluence of mass culture had not yet penetrated and diluted its popular
traditions. The left, fascinated by developmentalist discourse, believed
that the true sovereign nation of Brazil would emerge from the recon-
ciliation of its two primary regions: the South, providing technical, eco-
nomic, and political infrastructure, and the Northeast, with its resistant
cultural traditions. They envisioned bringing a paulista rationality to ir-
rational nordestinos with no conflicts or negative cultural side effects.
But in constructing this Northeast they carefully excluded the pastoral
aspects of its landscape, the green breeze-swept hills of the littoral, the
verdant marshes, the quiet pastures. They tiptoed around the rich re-
ligiosity and warm family life of the people. Instead they emphasized
the arbitrariness and fatalism of life, where even dreams withered in
drought and all human existence had to offer was to work slavishly hard,
generate doleful offspring, and truck the dead off to the cemetery.23
This would be the reverse of the romanticized Northeast, a region of
grim proletarian suffering in need of outside help. A region where the
traditional sugar aristocracy was irrelevant at best, corrupt and parasitic
at worst, but where the popular heroes of gossip-turned-folktale pro-
vided inspiration—Lucas de Feria, Lampião, Zumbi, Zé Ninck, Besouro.
Its people were weathered and bent by adversity, struggling to maintain
dignity as they scrabbled for favors and a handout or wandered south-
ward in search of employment. Altogether, a region constructed from
the outside in to appeal to the sensitivities of those not in the Northeast,
indulging in picturesque suffering and misery, combining fact, recollec-
tion, invention, adventure, and romance like any good fiction.24
The result was a curious space, balanced between the perpetual need
to beg for help from public authorities and a proud, rebellious nature,
denouncing Brazil’s social injustices. In any case it was constructed as
the shame of Brazil, the opposite of São Paulo, Brazil’s pride. The dis-
course of the left operated along the same strategies of that discourse
inspired by the droughts, or that of the traditionalists, which was to
generalize determined images, enunciations, and facts as permanent

Territories of Revolt 143

and unquestionable traits of the region. Internal differences or contradic-
tions were ignored, contributing to the idea of a timeless but struggling
place. Drought and starvation, which afflicted certain parts of the region
at certain times, were made a permanent, inescapable fixture of the entire
space. From real but limited social-environmental problems they were
expanded into totalizing regional explanations.25
Not only did regional power brokers benefit from the establishment of
this characterization, but it also appealed broadly to southern audiences.
With remarkable consistency, the promised land for wanderers forced out
of the burning backlands, or for the poor fleeing their decaying towns,
was to be found in the South—whether the sugar mills of southern Per-
nambuco, the cacau farms of southern Bahia, or the coffee plantations
and industrial parks of Rio and São Paulo. This idealized South offered
the promise of stability and an escape from poverty, as well as the circum-
stances for alienated peasants to become enlightened workers. Southward
movement was the path to liberty, even if it also meant, at least initially,
being imprisoned in bourgeois labor schemes. But it was the South that
was posed as responsible for the capitalist development of Brazil, whether
that would lead to the ennobling of a class society or to the revolutionary
implementation of a socialist society. In all these discourses the “north-
eastern people” are always marginalized from the capitalist system’s
power centers, even when they are shown debating the labor movement
and the progress of the revolution. They are artisans, fishermen, street
vendors, outlaws, roamers, religious zealots, accepted as social types
to populate and animate the narratives. More critically, they are shown
believing themselves to be outside the system and powerless, accepting
their vulnerability to conniving capitalist and sympathetic intellectuals
alike.26
The Northeast is portrayed as a mythic space in which history seems
suspended and requires a shocking intervention to awaken and proceed
on its course. This Northeast is a social desert, a place to be conquered.
Its people lack faces, names, identities, individual voices: they are merely
more wanderers, more unemployed ranch hands, more bead-worrying
nuns, a haggard parade of specimens. This discourse is driven by the
impulse to enclose the space and give it meaning, to apply human ac-
tion and dreams to it from outside, to root the wanderers in place and
start constructing the civilization that does not exist there. It maintained
that the people, living almost in a state of nature, were nearly them-

144 chapter three

selves animals yet they were too submissive to be animals. They had
learned to quiver before God, before nature, before the smiling local boss,
before the government. The men were devoured by a society they could
not transform, while the women hunched under the weight of bitter sor-
rows, their age guessed only by the number of children they have borne.27
But none other than Graciliano Ramos called into question this account of
the Northeast, which exaggerated it as a sort of hopeless Brazilian Sahara.
“Truly, the fiction writers of the last century spun so many strange tales,
spread so many bones in the parched sertão, painted the sun and sky so
fiercely red, that a few overly sensitive politicians actually considered mov-
ing the entire population out of so damned a place.”28
The Marxist discourse, with its emphasis on the struggle between
social classes, is often cast in the blunt Manichean terms of good versus
evil. The bourgeoisie represented a clear source of villainy, but more im-
mediate was the figure of the coronel, an embodiment of all the primi-
tive forces holding Brazil back. The timeless schematic of the coronel
lacked humanity and any interior, reflective dimension. Accompanied by
his loyal platoon of toughs (the jagunços), he battled against his mythic
archenemy the bandit while contending with the artful strategems of
rival coroneis. These figures and their rustic power plays compose what
we might call horse dynasties—society’s dominant group, at the top of
the hierarchy, get to ride and gaze down in gentle, affectionate disgust at
the masses who follow obediently along on foot.
This scenario contains the basic division characterizing agricultural
society. A city or town invaded by horsemen (a pervasive scene in Bra-
zil’s banditry film genre) symbolizes the invasion of urban space by a
rural threat. The standardized barbarity of the depictions speaks to the
fear the average city dweller had for the forces from the wilds. But this
symbolic world was expanded by popular narrative and folk literature,
which had medieval influences, and were absorbed into 1930s fiction. As
these symbols get more widely diffused, the very figure of the nordestino
comes to be identified as a vector introducing threatening elements of
chaos into civilized regimes. In response, to contain the threat, the nor-
destino was redrawn as an oaf, ridiculous and childlike, in the chanchada
films produced by such southern studios as Atlântida. Later, New Cin-
ema would transpose the image of rural horsemen out of the low regis-
ter of simple pillage, refashioning the bandits into serious, noble people
on an ideological mission to transform society.29

Territories of Revolt 145

What emerges from this discourse is a Northeast containing both
a warrior ethic and a salvationist ethic—the former deriving from local
currents of power and ambition, the latter from the ingrained culture
of subservience and mysticism. The dialectic tension between these two
attitudes would produce a third that synthesized and transcended them:
the humanist revolutionary, who craved power in order to help the op-
pressed rise from their dusty knees. Both warrior and savior, the heroic
leftist was a harbinger of social transformation, substituting revolution-
ary weapons and enlightening texts for the crucifixes clutched in hum-
ble nordestinos’ hands.
The paragon of the enemy here was the coronel, drawn as a glut-
tonous, authoritarian type holding sway in brothels and taverns. All he
cared for was the ability to command, to rule over his women and chil-
dren and the maudlin circle of dependents who hovered nervously at the
margins of his favor. Jorge Amado was among the authors who, while
explicitly decrying the coroneis’ exploits, barely masked their fascinated
admiration for this breed of strong man with his complex identities and
appetites. The coronel’s temperament could cycle between sentimental
or wrathful, sometimes managing both at once. The coronel was the
ultimate source of both aggression and protection. There is an intima-
tion deep in Amado’s work that he found the stout old coronel morally
superior to the new generation of sons and grandsons, young men who
abandoned traditional virility for the polish of university education and
the idle frettings of city dwellers. The figure of the coronel has been ab-
sorbed into both the political imaginary of the region as well as a range
of academic production, such that it seems difficult to consider the pos-
sibility of a Northeast without coroneis even today.30
To say that the coronel has taken on a mythic existence similar to the
Northeast’s bandits is not to assert that they never existed or are devoid
of present significance. Rather, it is to call attention to the fact that even
the sociologists or historians who evoke coroneis in order to critique
them contribute decisively to their survival. Another example of the
interpenetration of myth and reality resides in the encounter between
the particular Marxist messianism of the Brazilian left and the religious
messianism of northeastern social movements. The left adapted from
those movements the preexisting belief in the possibility of constructing
another world, a new world purified of the errors of the past and present.
Rural mystic tradition was channeled into an archetype of readiness for

146 chapter three

the dream of a better future to come. The Christian background of many
militants worked to ease the contradictions, and contributed to a sort of
revolutionary metaphysics in Brazil that sought the return of a primitive
communality of believers. The left’s Marxist formulations operated on
both the rational and spiritual planes and carried a sense of the sacrifice
of human existence. Many intellectuals produced analyses of the North-
east that conveyed a penitential vision of their own militancy in a form
that would be familiar to any Christian community.31
If bourgeois morality tended to demonize and criminalize the poor,
presuming them a threat, the left regarded the poor as martyrs and he-
roes of the revolution. The association between messianic and social-
izing practices was first established in 1936, when the Ceará state police
and military used extreme violence, including air attacks, to wipe out the
alternative religious community of Caldeirão de Santa Cruz. This com-
munity, under leader José Lourenço, fostered communal labor patterns
and had been increasingly attracting peasants from the area. The bloodi-
ness of the state crackdown had to be justified to a stunned country,
and local leaders, aware of the growing national anti-Communist move-
ment, fell back on the claim of Communists in Caldeirão to explain the
slaughter. Later, these processes were at work in a different way in the re-
interpretation of the Canudos massacre in Bahia (1896–97). In the 1940s
the left took that conflict, especially the willingness of some inhabitants
to fight back, as an important example of popular resistance to capital-
ism in Brazilian history. They cited the highly unequal patterns of land-
ownership and the cruelty of coroneis as factors leading to the creation
of the alternative communitarian society of Canudos, also noting the
encroachment of urban threats to traditional values and lifeways as rea-
sons for peasants to organize.32
But although the left explicitly appropriated messianic themes, and
implicitly bore a certain sensitivity to them as aspects of a widely shared
Christian background, Marxist doctrine required leftists to identify re-
ligiosity and spiritual faith as partly responsible for the misery and
subservience of the northeastern underclass. Irrationality was con-
demned as an impediment to the utopia of an ordered, logical future.
The collective madness associated with messianism provided a clear
measure of its alienation. Even if a messianic community managed to
shift the balance of power, as in the instances above, it was a tempo-
rary coup leading to their own destruction since they were theoretically

Territories of Revolt 147

and materially unprepared for genuine revolution. They had given them-
selves over to “waiting for angels with swords of fire who would defend
them on land, or carry them in glory off to heaven.”33 Only politicization
could help these unfortunates understand the cause of their misery and
bring true hope. If mainstream condemnation of Antônio Conselheiro,
apocalyptic leader of Canudos, called him a degenerate, the left viewed
him as a flawed popular commander—unable to liberate the people, he
contributed to their decimation. Graciliano Ramos described him as “a
lunatic, an idiot who tried to change the world with a force of illiterate
clodhoppers. . . . Men with an unhinged look, festering with fleas, crying
for an end to an unjust world.” The assurance of leaders such as Consel-
heiro that the end was nigh fit hand in glove with the certainty of the left
that capitalism was burning itself up and a new, better world was on the
way. Of course, the left maintained that the architects of this more just
future would be those with enlightenment, reason, and education, which
excluded nearly everyone in the popular sectors they were taking it on
themselves to save.34
In the early 1940s, the end of the scourge of northeastern banditry was
declared. The death of Corisco (Cristino Gomes da Silva Cleto, 1907–40)
from bullet wounds he received even though he had resolved to turn
himself in was widely accepted as the symbolic close of an era. The stan-
dard explanation is a greater police presence in the Northeast, along
with changes in the relations of production. But beyond those factors,
the New State was diligent in trying to help Brazil forget about bandits.
The press had been encouraged to stop publishing their exploits and in-
stead to proclaim their obsolescence. Bandits were degraded to common
criminals, and treated to a regime of recuperation: the government of-
fered jobs to any who “left the profession” and served their time. And the
shining cities in the South were emphasized as the modern way to flee
the misery of the droughts and the oppression of the coroneis, offering
proper paths to conquering individual power and riches. The status of
the bandit was quickly shunted to that of a symbol of the past, a colorful
one certainly, but one routed by order and civilization.
Bandits became a myth as soon as they were no longer regarded as
creating history. However, they stayed alive in popular memory and pop-
ular cultural production. During their last decade of activity, the 1930s,
they received the almost unanimous condemnation of intellectuals. For
traditionalists, the ideal bandit was a dead one, for he had lived in an

148 chapter three

idyllic past defined as just out of reach. Graciliano Ramos saw bandits
as no more than ruthless villains, even genuine monsters. He thought
they did not fight to transform the property rights of all Brazilians, only
to take from their enemies. Their violence was shown as helping mire
the Northeast in underdevelopment, and its causes postulated as simply
economic. The end of banditry was commemorated as a step toward the
pacifying of the sertão, a close to the senseless anarchy. This was either
the victory of order, or the possibility of constructing a different order
from the ashes of the vanquished one.35
Whether fictional or academic, works on northeastern bandits all wal-
lowed in savagery, sadism, gratuitous death, and vengeance. This became
its own classic popular film genre with the national and international
success of Lima Barreto’s O Cangaceiro. That movie, the product of an
educated man and a professional at Vera Cruz studios (a formidable
bourgeois cultural establishment in São Paulo), inspired a raft of knock-
offs in the 1950s and 1960s that also incorporated elements of Hollywood
westerns. Their stereotyped image of the bandits’ milieu, devoid of his-
torical or social analysis but brimming with horses and gunfire, led the
films to be grouped under the hybrid category “nordestern.” They show
banditry as destabilizing and disorderly; bandits are bad guys that must
be and will be beaten. The bandit is violent by instinct, or by a sort of
fatalistic regional destiny, but never for reasons that could be socially
and culturally explored.36
The films of directors Carlos Coimbra, Osvaldo de Oliveira, José Carlos
Burle, and Wilson Silva all equate popular revolt to brutality. Bandits are
depoliticized, their myth and their space alike stigmatized. (In that sense
they might be said to provide a cinematic vocabulary that later New Cin-
ema would use to diametrically oppose its initial meaning.) Chanchadas
were also made to lampoon both the bandits and the films that portrayed
them seriously if two-dimensionally. In films such as O Primo do Canga-
ceiro and O Lamparina, the bandit is grotesque, an ignorant and clownish
buffoon. Many of these were made after the military coup of 1964 and
carried the clear subtext of affirming existing authority and respect for
the law. Ridiculing the figure of the bandit was a way to delegitimize
recent political mobilizations among rural northeastern peasants.37
The influence of clichés from the Hollywood West can be seen through-
out the genre. The shooting location, almost always in Itu, in the
interior of São Paulo State, was chosen to emulate the familiar western

Territories of Revolt 149

panorama. Cactuses, large brooding cliffs, and dust-choked wagon roads
are staples. Curiously, the 1953 film O Cangaceiro included scenes of a
river and an indigenous Brazilian, for no apparent reason other than
generic atmosphere. The figure of the solitary avenger, used notably by
Glauber Rocha for his Antônio das Mortes, was of obvious western lin-
eage. Scripts followed a basic plot: a throng of bandits invades a house,
from which the resident male is usually away; they kill the male’s wife
and children and/or his aged parents. The soon-to-be hero returns,
buries his dead and pledges to settle the score. He pursues the villains,
picking them off, until a final duel with the leader. Such films never at-
tempted to understand the logic, culture, or rationality of rural society
and instead applied a superficial reading according to the values of an
urban culture that held itself superior.
In the 1940s, when the demise of the bandits was announced, leftists
changed their opinions of them. They grew appreciative of the bandits’ raw
rebellion, as an index of possible future revolution. Their mythification
of the bandit derived in part from their own superficial comprehension
of the social and historical circumstances of the phenomenon, rendering
the bandit strictly a victim and product of the region’s pattern of large
landholdings. But this had a logic. As the bandit disappeared he could
be effectively substituted by the worker. The labor movement would take
over the struggle against capitalist oppression, carrying it from back-
lands to shop floor. The collapse of banditry, sung from a thousand head-
lines, was to the leftists merely a necessary step on the way to utopia. The
individualist, egotistical, lavishly costumed bandits of Barreto would be
transformed by Glauber Rocha into a dourly epic, baroque symbol of
future revolution.
Academic, literary, and artistic production of the 1950s and 1960s ad-
opted the approach to bandits Jorge Amado had taken in the 1930s. In
Jubiabá, Lampião appears associated with a black dockworkers’ strike.
Both are viewed as instances of popular resistance, even if qualitatively
distinct. There is already the idea that the myth of the bandit might be
an instrument of consciousness raising across borders and spheres of
existence. The bandit was the hero of the street children in Salvador in
Capitães da Areia, who know that Lampião had once been a poor boy like
them. Pedro Bala aspired to rule the city the way Lampião controlled the
sertão. He wanted to represent the armed and noble contingent of the
poor, to be their avenger.38

150 chapter three

The rise of the bandits had been one more indication of the crisis
afflicting patriarchal society: sons of slaves and indigent men rose up
to attack the scions of the plantations, burning buildings, destroying
property, raping white women, hanging the rich from nooses strung on
trees. Bandits were the mortal enemy of the coroneis, the only adversary
that left the region’s bosses sleeping lightly, and even then with a re-
volver under their pillows. The bandits symbolized the future power of
the poor—but a collective social power, not individual. They were men
that could be like Corisco himself, the descendant of a ruined plantation
owner who returned to take vengeance on the new bourgeois order and
sow the seeds of a future society. This at least was the dream of middle-
class leftist intellectuals, who saw themselves as taking part in the myth
of banditry and the myth of the rebellious territory, commanding and
guiding them both toward genuine transformation for the advancement
of the humble people.39

Controversy and Indignation

northeast, liter ature and revolution

The initial inversion of the Northeast’s traditional texts occurred in the

1930s in works of authors such as Jorge Amado and Graciliano Ramos.
While Amado constructed social types intended to represent broad col-
lectivities, personalized emblems of groups or classes, Ramos focused
on the withering effects of the new bourgeois sensibility on individuals.
But both authors concurred that a revolutionary reterritorialization of
Brazil was necessary. Both were sons of rural regional elites in decline,
and while their works occasionally revealed traces of nostalgia, they were
committed to rejecting both past and present to make way for the new so-
ciety promised by Marxism. As active members of the Communist Party
and skilled writers, they had a fundamental part in recasting the North-
east as a place of revolt and revolution.40
Since the nineteenth century, Brazilian literature had encompassed
two basic themes or discourses: politics and the scientific study of society,
including philosophy and other human sciences. These had been the tools
used to describe and understand culture. It was only in the 1940s that au-
thors began to experimentally liberate literature from social sciences and
doctrine, focusing more intimately on language itself. The so-called

Territories of Revolt 151

Generation of 1945, including poets such as João Cabral de Melo Neto
as well as various fiction writers, became known for their greater con-
cern with aesthetics rather than the realist approach to content that had
oriented literature for decades.41 Their path had been opened to a large
extent by developments in the 1930s, a period wracked by ideological
and intellectual disputes over the nature and future of Brazil. Organiza-
tions such as the Brazilian Integralist Action party (aib), Communist
Party, and National Liberator Alliance (anl) as well as the church and
state engaged in debates around the meanings of history for the country,
the nation, and the people. Literature took on a new importance as a
medium not only to speak of the real but to offer interpretations of it,
often formed around the strategies of these interest groups and targeted
to the collective subjectivities of audiences they hoped to create as well as
awaken. Social fiction, influenced by modernism and socialist realism,
provided a vehicle for artists and activists to confront the extant order.
The literary social function emerged as an imperative at the moment in
which bourgeois fiction began to be contested, and when new technologi-
cal methods allowed both the diffusion of literature into serial form and
the expansion of print media, from illustrated newspapers to brochures
and pamphlets. This allowed the intersection of literature with contem-
poraneity, topicality—the immediacy of social action, commentary, and
solutions. Fiction of the 1930s participated in the effort to understand
and respatialize a society in crisis, shaken by the transition between old
and new sensibilities and sociabilities. Of course, as demonstrated in the
previous chapter, this literature was often rooted in political objectives.
In realism, social representation is limited by the circumstances of
experience of each reader. The potential of the word is channeled or nar-
rowed into the frames of visibility and speakability already crystallized,
or else it is rejected as incomprehensible. Realist fiction’s contours are
thus shaped by the forces of political and intellectual hegemony of its
place and time; meanings tend to be restricted to an already consecrated
field of knowledge. Meaning and signifier are also assumed as insepa-
rable from each other. Denotative language imposes a meaning as the
obvious truth, and the reader is offered little space to create alternative
readings of that meaning. The prose is based less on dialogue than on
monologue by characters tightly knitted into closed symbolic language.
On the whole this literature is intended to portray the Northeast as a
victim of Brazil’s capitalist development. It hoped to show the ugly truth,

152 chapter three

asserting the opposite of the honeyed proclamations of those who merci-
lessly dominated the region. It wanted to export misery into the hands
and minds of readers, to perturb their consciences and make them ex-
perience the Northeast as it really was. Its declamatory character could
be strident as it extended the region’s anguish to the nation as a whole,
blaming the nation for it and demanding resolution.42 Its authors are un-
easy with regional power plays even as their works forefront them. Sér-
gio Milliet accused northeastern fiction of constructing a sort of veracity
effect containing only a partial vision of reality, a vision southern readers
could not easily share since it sentimentally emphasized death and de-
spair rooted in archaic regional settings. He argued that it was unable to
ask genuinely national, much less universal, questions. In contrast, he
claimed paulista prose was affirmative, not negative, since it dealt with
life, health, family, national heroes, with the nation in ascension.43
Along the same lines, but much later, Roberto Simões criticized north-
eastern fiction’s strategy of insisting the region was subjugated. He argued
that this distorted reality, shamelessly exaggerating the fear and helpless-
ness of the people, the bloodthirstiness of vengeance, the oppressiveness
of the dry seas of cactus. But northeastern critics such as Ademar Vidal
praised the genre and countered that the reality of the region was even
worse than the laments of its fiction indicated. The written word could
never convey the fullness of experience there. Realist fiction could hope to
approximate it by emphasizing the misery and hopelessness, the wanton
suffering, the corrupt politics, the cruel feudalism. What becomes clear
is that the discourse of such leftist intellectuals winds up reinforcing an
image of the region that is conducive to their own strategies as well as
helping reproduce the power and fortune of a dominant class that ben-
efits from the misery and exploitation.44
These are some of the contradictions of a literature that is locked into
a dispositif of power, subsumed in its logics, even while proposing a pro-
gressive social project for the Brazilian people. The Northeast was en-
shrined as the place where the perverse consequences of capitalism are
most explicit, and the impositions of the dominant class most arbitrary.
If southern cities flourished with capitalism’s marvels, the Northeast was
the gaunt, sickly cousin trotted out to shame the consciences of those
enjoying wealth and power. Northeastern fiction asserted a generalized
national alienation—the poor, who did not understand the basis for their
oppression; the bourgeoisie, captivated by greed and gratification. With

Territories of Revolt 153

all its complexity, the genre hoped to construct the Northeast as a territory
that could stimulate not only local but national revolt and revolution.45
This Northeast bore no fond memories of the sugar plantations worked
by slaves. Rather, particular memories of slavery were evoked to feed a
new struggle against modern forms of slavery. It was a space divided not
only into those that owned and ordered versus those that begged and
obeyed. The fiction depicted a cleavage between whites and blacks, going
beyond class oppression to suggest endemic racial prejudice that was as
old as the colony but unfolding into terrible modern forms. Given such
conditions the struggle to fight against misery and injustice required spe-
cial courage from the ranks of the poor and exploited.46
This fictional Northeast was drawn as innately artisanal. Industry,
capitalist discipline, and routine were cast as ugly and antithetical to the
traditional ways of life of local street hustlers, vendors, fishermen, and
informal workers. This is also a paradox, given that the authors hoped
to find here a proto–laboring class with revolutionary discipline to un-
dertake a radical transformation of Brazilian society. The contemporary
bondage of the factory worker found its counterpoint in the idyll of
small-scale work in direct contact with natural materials and conditions.
The artificial was to be rejected. Characters asserted their right to live
free in misery, but in touch with the cultural, natural, and social tradi-
tions that embodied the soul of the nation. Cosmopolitan cities repre-
sented the negation of true Brazilian sensibility and sociability, drawn as
affectionate, communitarian, and spiritual. This reveals how the authors
themselves struggled to leave behind a naturalist sensibility and coexist
with modernity.47 But while the works of Ramos and Amado are broadly
similar, there are substantial differences. Each saw the Northeast, and
the Northeast’s future, distinctly.

jorge amado

Jorge Amado was born in Ferradas, a municipality of Itabuna, Bahia, in

1912. His father, once a businessman in Sergipe, bought a series of cacao
farms there in the Bahian South. At its most essential, Amado’s writing
contended with the questions that had been circling around Brazil since
at least the First World War, animating the debates of the modernists and
fueling the literary movement of the 1930s: Brazil’s national and cultural
identity, the character of the Brazilian “race,” the influence of foreign

154 chapter three

capital, and how to speed the move from a present mired in the past to
the future. His first book, O País do Carnaval (1930), examined Brazil-
ian identity through the nation’s relationship with carnival. Although
Amado was not a supporter of São Paulo’s modernist movement, and
in fact was associated with the antimodernist magazine Arco e Flexa, he
still engaged some of the same questions. He depicted the lack of a true
Brazilian identity by emphasizing the use of European harlequins and
colorful masks during carnival season. From this book on through his
diverse oeuvre, Amado strove to capture the essence of Brazilian cultural
identity through the recuperation of its popular character and popular
roots. He himself said that what drove his work was the search for solu-
tions to problems facing the nation and its people, as well as the convic-
tion that a new world was coming in which Brazil should play a central
role. He believed that of all intellectuals, writers were in the best posi-
tion to perceive national problems and both create and communicate
solutions.48
Amado hoped to discover internal truths of the Brazilian people, and
convey their vision in their own words. He wanted to integrate the people
(povo) into national culture without losing their originality, and he be-
lieved in particular that the nation needed to see and hear from the people
of the Northeast. The nation needed to confront their sweat and their work
songs, their mysticism and prostitution, their diseases and their misfor-
tunes. Starting with his book Cacau (1933), this popular vision of the coun-
try would be allied with Marxist concepts and dogma, adding the theme
of revolution to the mix of nation, people, and region. His production had
a clear objective: to denounce social injustice, to condemn the way the
majority of people in the country lived, and to propose socialist revolution
as a way out of the morass.49
His characters would develop into emblems of social conditions, of
the values and aspirations of an entire class. As if to rebuff the lacerating
effects of modernity on identity, he created schematic personalities and
molded them into enduring types. They had limited psychological so-
phistication, opting more often for action than subtle contemplation, al-
though social class and political position were key factors in the choices
they made. Their attitudes symbolized an ideological posture, and they
had but a single message of truth to express. This truth centralized the
narrative and attributed universal meaning to their actions. His early work
has a strong undertone of Manicheism, posing the proletarian characters

Territories of Revolt 155

on the side of good. As poor people, they proclaimed their moral superi-
ority over the rich, who knew only how to steal, pray, and cheat.50
Amado’s proletarian fiction, which emphasized the psychological flat-
ness of the “exploiters,” encompasses his early work up until Terras do
Sem Fim (1942). With that book, which explores the transition of patri-
archal cacao plantation society into new mercantilist logics, characters
in the dominant class begin to exhibit more humanity and complexity.
They are placed in a historical context that helps explain their attitude and
behavior. As Amado eased away from strict socialist realism, the “exploit-
ers” gained more texture, as is clear in the figure of Ramiro in Gabriela,
Cravo e Canela (1958). This coronel was capable of monstrous evil and
despotism, but he was also able to love; he was able to extend emotion-
ally from giving lashes, to giving roses.51
Unlike José Lins do Rego, Amado brought a universal dimension to
the region, but he did it by submitting local expressions to international
Marxist schemes of interpretation. Aesthetically, his work balances lyrical
views of country, people, and nature with the social concern to emphasize
ugliness and grief, a project undertaken to help advance the onset of a
new and better world. His early fiction bore a firm connection to descrip-
tive naturalist aesthetics, which the elements of socialist realism only af-
firmed. In this phase he aspired to paint sociological portraits, to create
fictionalized scientific documents that would justify revolution—bringing
an end to capitalist exploitation and a return to the idyllic society lost.52
By the time of Gabriela, Cravo e Canela, Amado’s critical sensibilities
had matured. He no longer indulged in the satisfying but relatively sim-
plistic, pamphlet-like denunciations of the bourgeoisie, opting instead for
the more insidious corrosive force of humor and chiding. His work came
to develop more gently incisive lampoons of the new middle class, des-
perate for social climbing; of the decadent families of puerile aristocrats;
of the foreigners who arrived in Brazil barking orders. The demarcation
between classes was no longer drawn with assertive ideological lines but
teased out through the observation of codes of sociability and sensibility,
through the “false and hypocritical” frontiers mounted by the bourgeoisie
between themselves and the popular sectors. Popular spontaneity and ro-
bustness clashed against artifice, convention, and the false moralism and
maintenance of appearances valued by the middle classes. With Bahia
de Todos os Santos (1945) Amado was implicity critiquing bourgeois ratio-

156 chapter three

nality by including rich passages on the invisible, marvelous aspects of
existence. His popular characters take on new depth. While they are still
reflexes of their social environment, they take in human experience in
differentiated ways that not even social class can fully explain.53
His proletarian fiction attempted to assimilate popular rebellion as
a precondition for awakening revolutionary consciousness. That is, up-
risings of the poor against the changes attacking their traditional world
were interpreted according to Stalinist Marxism by a middle-class intel-
lectual, who was ambivalent about capitalism in Brazil and tended to dis-
trust modernity but favor a naturalist vision of society and space. What
Amado had in mind was a radical transformation of popular national-
ism that would be both antibourgeois and antimodern.54 But he had ex-
pressed doubts about this, starting with his first book, which concluded
that Brazil had a carnivalesque core that rejected order and restraint and
would need considerable persistence to attain revolutionary discipline.
He reflected that only the genuine love for humanity, which Communism
signified, could bring happiness. Only the end of the people’s stunting
preconceptions, the end of the church and idols and the beginning of
the people’s rational certainty of materialism would bring the happiness
they craved. Brazil would be the stage for a battle of international import
between those on the side of human happiness, and those against it.55
Amado’s work published between 1944 and 1954 featured militant
characters who saw the Communist Party as the ultimate source of truth
and the reason for being. Amado’s own identity at the time was based on
being a voice of the party, a voice of revolution, a summons to the fight for
a better destiny for all. The party’s growth depended on the individual suc-
cesses of its members but was still above their individuality and reflected
the authority of their collective will. Because of this, prior to middle age
Amado the author felt his life belonged to the party and its objectives.56
His attitudes changed over time. With Tenda dos Milagres, completed
during the late 1960s, Amado began introducing critiques of what he
saw as the rigid, prejudicial discourse of the leftist militants. The char-
acter Pedro Arcanjo made a declaration that might have been spoken by
Amado himself: “If I have changed, if inside of me some values have
been sundered and substituted, if a part of my old self passed away, I
renounce nothing. . . . My heart has made its reckoning, and I want only
to live, to understand life, and to love the people, all people.” Materialism

Territories of Revolt 157

was no longer sufficient to explain everything; rationality had its limits.
To reduce all of human experience to one set of theories was by now
inadequate to Amado’s curiosity.57
Amado’s early work offered little in terms of formal experimentation.
It was basically literary regionalism encased in the rather high-minded
descriptions and artificial dialogues of naturalism. His fundamental sty-
listic change came with abandoning socialist realism to embrace (in his
reading as well as subsequent writing) the comic and fantastic. He found
in cordel literature a model of the genuine public voice, a linguistic source
for intellectuals who hoped to reach the people’s imagination. But it also
offered a popular vision of society and social relations, of cities, of the
rural environment. It was a reservoir of regional legends, tales, myths, and
traditions. It influenced Amado’s conception of the Northeast, shifting his
emphasis from political and economic circumstances to popular knowl-
edge and experience often conveyed in the wry, colorful, grammatically
incorrect dialect of the people.58
For a time, the result of this widened appreciation was the coexistence
of two discursive regimes: one popular and poetic, rooted in the oral
narrative of dockworkers, the mutterings of blind fortune-tellers, the
exuberant slang of the street and bar; another political, and deliberately
artificial in comparison. In books such as Mar Morto, these approaches
chafe, and Amado seems to want to maintain his authorial voice outside
them, in a third space. But in Capitães da Areia he effectively uses official
rhetoric regarding criminality to show how it manipulates and obscures
reality and impedes meaningful reform, especially for street children.
He creates a narrative of actuality by using fiction to denounce the fic-
tion of official discourse. His fictional language serves the imperative to
tell the truth and reveal the falsehoods of bourgeois ideology—a more
creative and balanced method to fulfill his theoretical values.59
The simplicity of Amado’s popular discourse contrasted with the ver-
bose sophistry he attributed to the elites and dominant culture, whose
clouds of words were intended to confuse the people. The popular classes
spoke from the bottom up, in the fullness of disregard for grammatical
rules or social norms. They could reveal the truths obscured by lattices
of rhetorical codes. Amado engaged the stereotype of Bahian prolixity by
showing the power of what lay in those words, striving to carry that pop-
ular wisdom to the decorous halls of national literature. The Northeast,

158 chapter three

and Brazil itself, would turn more visible in their own essential truthful-
ness when the people spoke them.60
If there was a unity in the voices of narrator and characters in São
Jorge de Ilhéus, centered on the intellectual Sérgio, by the time of Gabri-
ela, Cravo e Canela, Amado was exploring the possible simultaneity of
different voices, of distinct interpretations and testimonies of a given
situation. He calls attention to the relative, subjective character of eye-
witness accounts, and finally even of “truth” and of history itself. His
previous position of absolute rationality that would do away with gaps
and shades of meaning had transformed under the influence of popular
literature, and he began probing how discourse was subject to constant
rereadings. Truth was formed historically and collectively, not in the
sense of a monolithic Communist Party will but through the mixture of
voices and interpretations. In this new vision, everything could be at
once; no contest between viewpoints was fatal, and no form of inquiry
was prohibited.61
As Amado himself was aware, his work brought a visibility to the
Northeast and especially to Bahia that was highly reminiscent of that
in the music of Dorival Caymmi and the visual art of Carybé. All three
artists shared a taste for the picturesque, organic, and sensual aspects of
local culture. Theirs was a naturalism rooted in the exotic, and a vision of
the popular that embraced the area’s substantial African-descended pop-
ulation with its customs, beliefs, and lifeways. Caymmi and Amado both
were intrigued by the voice of these people, not just what they said but
how they said it. They, like Carybé, were focused on showing Bahia as a
place of baroque spirituality and vivid color, a place that was poor and yet
still allowed human beings to live in harmony with nature and natural
impulses.62 They superimposed a romantic view of Bahia’s past, with in-
numerable references to colonial sugar society and its supposedly gentle
patriarchal slavery, onto its present. Especially in the case of Amado, the
evocative nostalgia and idyllic natural environment they drew often sat
uncomfortably alongside their awareness of cities grown squalid with
hunger and poverty.63
When Amado began his writing career in the 1930s, the coalescing
idea of the Northeast to which he was responding did not yet incorpo-
rate the state of Bahia. It was seen as its own territory, politically, eco-
nomically, and culturally. To be baiano was thought to be something

Territories of Revolt 159

different from nordestino, even though ironically it was the term baiano
that would be used in São Paulo to refer to migrants from the North-
east without distinction. Within Bahia itself, there was often thought to
be a division between the interior, centered on the Recôncavo, and the
capital city of Salvador, Brazil’s first colonial capital and also called Bahia.
Amado’s work began to imaginatively recruit and unite the spheres of the
state, from the once sugar-rich interior to his familiar cacao plantations
in the South, joining them to Salvador. Although there had long been
resistance to seeing the sertão as part of Bahia, in large part because it
mostly belonged to the captaincy (later the state) of Pernambuco, Bahian
politicians came to understand the advantages of appealing for federal
help based on drought. It was during just such a campaign in the 1940s
that Amado made the sertão the setting for his Seara Vermelha. In his
own way Amado, like Caymmi, was rendering Bahian identity and cul-
ture into a part of the Brazilian whole. But this was done by expanding
the contours of the Northeast to include Bahia, or a collection of Bahian
signifiers—fetishism and trance, African rhythms, the culture of fisher-
men, a spirituality both richly syncretized and pervasive. If literary critics
of the 1940s were slow to accept Bahia’s status in the Northeast, Amado
and Caymmi captured national audiences with their portrayals of a place
where the people were good-natured but eccentric, as prone to fighting as
to amorous encounters—a coastal territory with its own particular melan-
choly, where the blacks recalled Africa in their songs and tales and chants
as daily acts of resistance; where the belief in liberty ran in the blood.64
Amado’s most explicit attempt to formulate a definition for Bahian
identity came with his Bahia de Todos os Santos, an exploratory guide to
the city that was modeled on an earlier book on Recife by Gilberto Freyre.
As we have seen, the traditionalist regionalist movement was largely am-
bivalent about cities, usually seeking the source of northeastern identity
elsewhere. But Amado embraced Salvador as the portrait of a multivo-
cal and unequal Northeast, where beauty nearly masks the suffering and
pain and the people understand that much of their world needs to be
transformed. He painted it a liberal and libertarian city. As an important
subtext to a postwar book, Amado implies that fascism would be impos-
sible in Bahia, even though its nostalgia and focus on its own past could
take on reactionary overtones; it was simultaneously affirmative, progres-
sive, revolutionary. By cultivating its past it projected diverse options for
the future. Profound mysticism lived alongside militant anticlericalism.

160 chapter three

Although his conclusions and attitude were different, Amado reveals the
influence of Freyre’s work on Recife at nearly every turn, starting with a
consideration of the historical creation of the Brazilian Northeast through
contact between Portuguese and Africans. He does not avoid contradic-
tions but seemingly revels in harmonizing them through literary images,
an approach that somewhat dislocates his periodic discourse of class
struggle from the baroque social and cultural reality he constructs.65
If Amado synthesized an identity for Bahians that was based in real-
ity, it increasingly became reality as it was processed by large numbers of
readers and audience members (for the movies and telenovelas derived
from his books). As with nordestino identity it was developed out of con-
trast with that of São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro, but Amado’s innovation
was to show a popular civilization flourishing in an urban milieu. The
city of Salvador represented harmony, tradition, and conciliation, while
the cities in the South remained superficially cosmopolitan, ridden with
conflict, and rootless.66
If for Freyre the ultimate source of regional customs of amiability
was patriarchy, Amado countered that it was the popular character of the
region. One saw from the top down, one from the bottom up, yet they
agreed that authentic traditional society was being threatened by moder-
nity and bourgeois relations and needed to be rescued. The world of cap-
ital and routinized labor was condemning Bahia’s diverse cast of popular
characters to a sad end, while once widely known songs, prayers, tales,
and folkloric practices were disappearing. Amado saw Rio and São Paulo
as emitters of both extreme scientific rationalism and decadent mass
culture, weakening the unique personality of Bahian cultural identity.67
Once a committed Marxist author with little patience for mysticisms,
by the 1950s Amado was convinced that western rationality was limited
in explanatory power, and dangerous to popular knowledge and lifeways.
In Tenda dos Milagres he explored the confrontation between bourgeois
and popular logics, spatialities, and temporalities. One senses he was sid-
ing with the black and mixed-race popular classes, with their alternative
territories and power sources, as they challenged the empire of white civi-
lization. He showed their good humor, their cultural strength, and made
the conflict political without resorting to blunt political discourse. He also
called attention to how the dominant sectors attempted to co-opt and con-
tain popular knowledge, bleeding it of its critical capacity and freezing
it into a sort of standardized folklore. His commitment to the idea that

Territories of Revolt 161

popular beliefs and practices should remain “pure” reflects his view that
these reflected the national conscience, although it does approximate him
stylistically to the traditionalists. He regarded it as a miracle of the Brazil-
ian soul that such a poor, diverse population could form itself into deeply
organized cultural groups, the samba schools, ranchos, ternos de reis, the
afoxés, each with its rhythms and song styles and dances. He came to
believe that only Brazilian miscegenation could explain this richness, this
talent for creativity wedded to resistance. He thus took a different intel-
lectual path to ultimately concur with Freyre that the mestiço, the mixed-
race individual, represented cultural superiority and reconciliation. The
mestiço would lead the way to a future universal civilization more innately
equal, in which racial prejudice was absent.
Of course, both Amado and Freyre merely inverted the naturalist
discourse that gave negative connotations to races other than white,
especially blacks. They maintained established concepts of race, but
revalorized (mixed) race both culturally and psychologically. Miscegena-
tion would be the basis for a syncretic culture, capable of easing tension
between extremes. For Amado the presence of the black contribution in
the Northeast and in Brazil was fundamental. His work reinforced a va-
riety of white myths about black people, even as it has been praised as an
important source for the preservation and divulgence of black culture.
The myth of blacks’ instinctual, voracious sexuality, a notion at some
level intended to compensate for the history of sexual exploitation of
slaves by their masters, is a constant presence in Amado’s writing. This
is one reason he found carnival so compelling a symbol of Brazil’s mis-
cegenated culture, because of its voluptuous and Dionysian side. Even
if blacks were being recuperated into participants in the formation of
Brazilian national culture by social scientists such as Thales de Azevedo
and Arthur Ramos, they possessed a sexuality still regarded as bordering
on savage and uncontrollable, impervious to bourgeois morality.68
If this involved the paradox that blacks, especially black men, would
seem to be eternal slaves to their own instincts and appetites, Amado ame-
liorated the problem with consistent moral and ethical codes ensuring
that blacks might be poor and carnally voracious, yet they were good and
noble, the opposite of the rich and cruel whites. To refute racist theories
Amado forefronted the cultural strength of blacks, who called on a legacy
of resistance and fortitude their ancestors had shown under the most ap-
palling circumstances. He saw the fight against racism and the struggle

162 chapter three

for economic justice as two sides of the same coin, both of which social-
ism could help advance. Amado believed the left always tended to engage
the class issue first, leaving questions of race a distant second. Meanwhile,
racist discourse served to justify bourgeois domination of a doubly sub-
jugated population. That is why he insisted on showing blacks as fully
capable of assimilating into Marxism’s rational, progressive project.69
But there is a lingering tension in Amado’s work between material-
ism and spirituality, between rationality and irrationality. He regarded
the philosophical profile of the black and the mestiço as the antithesis
of bourgeois materialism’s clutching greed for money and property. In
both Balduino, the poor youth in Jubiabá, and Gabriela, the simple hero-
ine of Gabriela, Cravo e Canela, we find popular characters able to be con-
tent in a state of poverty. They are intended as national representatives in
their emotions, affection, spirituality, and human values, characteristics
opposite to what a cold capitalist required. For his part Pedro Arcanjo in
Tenda dos Milagres was a sort of universal intellectual, capable of found-
ing new and enlightened sciences; he understood the rational yet racist
bourgeois reality as well as the baroque, hybridizing science of the Bra-
zilian popular personality. He would work to elevate popular knowledge
to new levels, forming intellectuals who (perhaps following the example
of the author himself) would work for the well-being and advancement
of the people.70
The conflict between Amado’s latently rational discourse and the ir-
rationalist content of the popular culture in his fiction erupted into the
text of Tereza Batista, rendering itself explicit. Amado pauses the nar-
rative flow to give context and justification for the orixás’ supernatural
intervention, explaining that the Bahian people believe in these things
and that they live their lives in daily contact with fulgent realms of the
divine. His use of a sort of documentary magical realism here was likely
a conscious move to try to preserve and communicate these traditions at
a time when the forces of consumerism, propaganda, and shock art were
spreading rapidly in Brazil, and popular culture was being rendered into
staged “folklore” shows for tourists.71
Still, it is difficult to deny that Amado ultimately maintained a pa-
ternalistic posture toward the people and popular culture, much as one
might expect from a man who came from an elite family in decline and
who identified with the people strongly but narrowly, in their antibour-
geois sentiment. The overarching theme of his writing is the transition

Territories of Revolt 163

away from traditional cacao plantation society, and the submission of
local senhores and coroneis to the new mercantile relations controlled by
international capital. The new, rationalized cacao farm denounced in its
very layout the exaggerated social differences between strata, as workers
were pushed further out into simple huts and housing units—a coldly
explicit division mirrored in the changes to cities, with business and
elite districts consolidating in the core versus a distant indigent periph-
ery of the underpaid and underemployed. Social relations were increas-
ingly depersonalized, being weighed, measured, and transacted with
money. Ilhéus lost its tranquil, rural character and became a business
town. The last generation of farmer owners was being replaced by its
sons, young men polished to an obsequious shine by university educa-
tions and city living, men with no sense about dealing with the land
or the people who worked it. They were incompetent to maintain the
traditional relations of patriarchy and patronage that had accompanied
the glory days of cacao in the sunny Bahian South. Similar to José Lins
do Rego, Amado tended to attribute the decadence of cacao society to the
new generation’s incapacity to keep up their grandfathers’ paternalistic
system of control and conciliation on a regime rocked by the surging
waters of capitalism.72
Amado’s Terras do Sem Fim narrates the epic trajectory of the turn-of-
the-century coroneis who had conquered Bahia’s southern territory, typi-
cally by force. Within two decades the area was generating fortunes, which
by the 1930s had shifted fill to the pockets of the exporters. A timeless
story of feudal conquest was dissolving tragically, subsumed by imperial-
ism. Traditional family names disappeared to make way for the logos of
businesses printed in foreign tongues. The old face-to-face way of doing
business was replaced by impersonal forms, telegrams, and telephone
calls. The cacao plantations appeared to be going the way of the sugar
society of the Recôncavo, a place now populated by ghosts and memories
under the arching telegraph wires. The coroneis had paid dearly for
choosing to keep outside the changing dynamic of politics. By digging
themselves in to try to safeguard their lands, they ultimately marginal-
ized themselves. Amado delved deeply into the concerns and contradic-
tions of the northeastern rural aristocracy who fought their obsolescence
while refusing to change.73
Amado was also a constant critic of bourgeois sociability and morals.
He used prostitution to comment on the hypocrisy of bourgeois moral-

164 chapter three

ity and the commercialization of social relations, but he did not spare
the left from critiques of their own biases and supercilious attitudes,
which he regarded as another form of oppression. However, Amado was
more conservative in his position on homosexuality. He tended to view
it as an index of bourgeois moral decadence, a relatively novel threat to
traditional society that a proper moral and economic revolution would
do away with. He associated homosexuality with the middle classes, with
artifice, with feminine and passive spheres of society, thus opposing it
to the robust popular sectors, the brave and virile men of the people.
Clearly in his view, the revolutionary class was masculine, as the future
utopian society would be. The psyche and strength of Afro-Brazilian
men in particular would open the path to freedom from bourgeois moral
repression.74
Amado’s rejection of bourgeois ethics leads to another tension in
his work, between valuing the world of labor—fundamental to Marx-
ist theory and the goal of revolution—and the contrary popular world
of avoiding work and routinization, of living by one’s wits, of surviving
marginalization to construct alternative territories of resistance. Amado
consistently viewed the factory as a symbol of modern slavery, and in-
dustrialization as an antiseptic force threatening to wipe out Bahia’s
diverse artisanal traditions. If São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro appear at
times in his books as the source of both hope and enlightenment for the
proletariat, Amado could never accept that Bahia should be made over
into a northeastern version of those cities. Popular lore and wisdom of-
fered its own liberation, and men could graduate from the universities of
the street to become “orator[s] for the beggars, for the blind scrounging
for small change, for the handicapped, the prostitutes, the sailors, the
homeless children.” These men saw the world not only from the bottom
up, but from all sides, understanding its difficult options, its surprising
opportunities, its permeable borders. Such characters could be instructed
in Marxist revolution, but they already carried with them a deep-seated
tradition of rebellion against bourgeois models of work.75
Amado’s construct of popular knowledge and spaces distinctly em-
phasized the alternative, or what some critics might call sordid, aspects
of urban cultural life; this introduced a new visibility and speakability of
the region (and nation). It depicted a place suspended between the real
and the magical, a place of fervent religiosity that was shot through with
hivelike warrens of illegality, a place where life was still made by people

Territories of Revolt 165

with their own hands and the alienation of capitalist labor had yet to
penetrate. From his earliest writings in the 1930s he was sensitive to how
Brazilian labor patterns were shifting after the end of both slavery and
the era of greatest European mass immigration. Around the country,
alternative forms of survival and community life were newly threatened
by the spreading logic of the labor market, as well as by state initiatives
to discipline, modernize, and cleanse cities. Amado was a champion of
northeastern popular cultural traditions yet vacillated between praising
the popular ethics of “alternative” idleness and denouncing it as not lead-
ing toward any concrete change or improvement for the sector. There
were territories of revolt all around, but they lacked the spark of ideol-
ogy to transform them into true territories of revolution. The discourses
of the left and the right tended to converge around the conviction that
the malandro, the iconic Brazilian layabout who shunned work and
defended his honor with a straight razor or capoeira, was a doomed
species—either he would march off to the factory lunch pail in hand to
produce consumer goods, or he would be recruited into the ranks of sol-
diers to produce the revolution.76
In response Amado, like Caymmi, deployed a selective vision with
respect to work. Both of them typically referred to work only in the form
of activities that showed people in harmony with the natural world. They
both also tended to valorize nature, placing it above humankind, leaving
its secrets unattainable. They condemned modernization for its destruc-
tive effects both on nature and on people, who became independent and
resentful of nature; people were left confused, becoming more preda-
ceous yet fearful of their animal side. The city itself was preferentially
treated in their works according to its natural elements—the sea, the
breeze, the coconut palms. Nature appears at times as the very source of
the slow, easygoing Bahian way of life, as well as the storm-like surges
of bravery and violence that punctuate it. While Amado in particular was
obviously concerned with the influence of social factors on lifestyle, he
still could join Caymmi in offering an antimodern perspective that ac-
cepted nature as holding the ultimate sway on human affairs.77
Beyond the paradoxes and tensions of Amado’s novels, one of the
more consistent and affirming aspects of the Northeast he wrote into
being was the inclusion of a Bahia where popular culture, especially
Afro-Brazilian and mestiço culture, was central to identity. It was a place
where poverty and beauty intertwined and fed off each other—a place

166 chapter three

of natural charms, but civilization was a noisome curse. The warmth of
human interaction, of festivals and mass prayer, countered the cold and
depersonalized supermarkets. This Northeast was a flurry of color, in mo-
tion, not moving in desperation to the South but to and from the ships,
along the downtown streets, an infinitude of items, flowers, clothes,
foodstuffs, carried in baskets and in carts or on turbaned heads. It was a
sweaty, smiling, singing, African-descended Northeast, the reverse of the
white bourgeois Europeanisms of São Paulo. It was a newly black face
for Brazil to contend with, regarded as barbarous by the European elite
even in its carnival celebrations in ornate costume, chanting of love and
memory and devotion.78
Amado’s Northeast was conversant with all the existential problems
and universal questions of mankind. His Marxism allowed him to view
the region as deeply ensconced in global social processes, including
exploitation, although in response he crafted it as oppositional to bour-
geois discourse and schemes: the oppressed, the hungry people on the
periphery, defiantly enjoyed life as much as possible and maintained
a keen solidarity. This Northeast had an internationalist politics even
as it attempted to resist global flows of culture to preserve the authen-
ticity of its popular craftsmanship. Although in some respects Amado
turned the traditionalist Northeast on its head, in the realm of culture he
participated in inventing another remarkable tradition: that of the black
Northeast, anchored in Bahia. But it was still a Northeast that could only
react to modernity.

gr aciliano r amos

Graciliano Ramos was born in Quebrangulo, Alagoas, in 1892, to

middle-class parents with roots in the sertão. His childhood was spent
between several cities in Alagoas and Buíque, Pernambuco. He at-
tended high school in Maceió but never finished college. More than
many of the contributors to the concept of the Northeast we have exam-
ined, he was well traveled in the region. The thrust of his work would
be to create an image of the Northeast reversing Freyre’s premise—
rather than the accomplishments of sugar society as the core of re-
gional identity, he would emphasize the grim world of the sertão. This
meant inverting the language, discourses, and visions of the tradition-
alists. He would contrive native narrators who did not and could not

Territories of Revolt 167

know how to speak “properly.” Ramos was sensitive to how language
intersects with perception, and he followed in the steps of modernism to
further link dialogue and expression with power. Unlike Jorge Amado,
Ramos made form as well as content a stylistic priority, since form could
help produce and reproduce a given reality. He denounced the alienation
latent in the language of modern society, the gulf between words and
things, the disappearance of original language, and the fading of reality
behind looming fog banks of representation.79
Ramos’s literature hoped to call dominant language into question by
recontextualizing it and displacing it from the center. He probed it for
the uncertainties within its affirmations. His irony and sarcasm helped
deconstruct conventional textual reality at the same time as it expressed
anguish over the lack of correspondence between language and reality.
He attributed the lack of one unifying truth in the world to social alien-
ation. He believed that in a better future to come people would discover
the truth of the world and of themselves, and their language would reset
and align to reflect that clarity. He was preoccupied with how the domi-
nant classes robbed the oppressed of their voice, dehumanizing them,
leaving them with only screams or empty silence.80
In his work, power relations determined who should be able to speak
and under what circumstances. Silence was the absence of speech,
and its presence denounced the exercise of power on the lower classes.
Ramos saw the northeastern peasant as a being defined by continued
enclosure in silence, reduced at times to animal-like grunts. The notion
of silence as an imposed lack kept Ramos from exploring the strategic
dimensions of silence in social interaction, and from offering alternate
interpretations of how silence could be read (or heard). His writing
rendered silence into a discursive deficit among northeastern popular
classes, making it another indication of their characteristic privation—
they were eternally in need, in need of means of verbal expression as
well as of economic and political assistance. His work would ultimately
convince the next generation of leftists that what the nordestinos needed
were classes in literacy, which would provide a basis for their politiciza-
tion. Breaking the chains that imposed a poverty of language, a poverty
of life and power, would be the project of the Popular Culture Move-
ments as well as the basis of Paulo Freire’s adult education methods.81
The verbal concision marking Ramos’s style was designed to evoke the
region’s indigence and misery. There was a shortage even of words, lead-

168 chapter three

ing his nordestino characters to resort to animated gestures and simian-
like mimicry. The poor nordestinos had their rights to speak taken away
by others, and they live on the margins, on the frontier of speakability,
within the void of silence. The region itself is a terrain of silencing, in
which only certain ways of speaking are available and then only with
the permission of others. This experience would have been familiar to
some of the working poor, for whom keeping their job meant holding
their tongue, swallowing complaints and opinions. Ramos enlarged it to
make the region as a whole a place where more laments and sobs were
heard than words, where the most common phrase uttered was a plea
for help. The Northeast of his images and discourses was a place of quiet
suffering broken by prayers and cries for support, support from God, the
state, the South, the bosses. In his Northeast, nordestinos mutter and
rasp meekly, ashamed of their degraded position and the dusty, hungry,
sepulchral voices they are allowed by the powerful to speak with.
In the very language he employs Ramos constructs an image of the
region that is destitute, nervous, bitter, and parched. He wanted this
image to be known and to trouble the consciences of readers around
Brazil. He wanted them to feel a sense of responsibility for the cowboys
who felt better around their horses than around other men, because on
horseback there was no stressful engagement with the social phenom-
enon of silence, or the frustrating inability to express ideas. He wanted
Brazilian readers to wonder about a region where the people used few
names to refer to few objects, who didn’t know how to come up with
names for others and could not even conceive why they were unable to
do so. He created a stark division between those who spoke or yelled
orders, and those who silently obeyed. The region’s vast spaces and
humbled popular classes were prime for exploitation and dominance by
an uncaring elite.82
Ramos wanted his language to flee the traps of dominant discourse, so
he had to police it to avoid falling back into the speakability and visibility
produced by those in power. He wanted to avoid their basic tropes and
stereotypes, and even to mock their literary affectations. He regarded
the bourgeois tongue as flabby, weak, and awkward, like raw lard. But
Ramos also maintained a critical eye toward his use of popular narrative
and expressive forms to free them of the elite influences they sometimes
contained. If his writing were merely to recreate the actual division be-
tween haughty, ornate bourgeois rhetoric and a popular voice that was

Territories of Revolt 169

indigent but freighted with elite mannerisms, he would be reproducing
a set of class-based relations he hoped to abolish.83
In Vidas Secas, the transformation of peasant life comes with attain-
ing the ability to shape and use words: in the conversation that opens
between Fabiano and Sinhá Vitória, through which they construct a new
reality and a new set of goals. The establishment of a new world begins
with the capacity to express a dream, a desire for change. For the poor,
dominion over the word was a decisive step toward utopia. But Ramos
did not go so far as Guimarães Rosa would in exploring the sertão as the
basis for a whole new, enlightened popular discourse. Rather, Ramos
remained locked into preconceptions that to attain wisdom, the city or
the littoral were preferred milieus. He saw the sertanejos as mostly with-
out the opportunity for intellectual growth, mired in incomprehension
of the socioeconomic relations that marginalized them, unable to move
from thinking and feeling to articulation.
Like so many of the writers and artists we have considered, Ramos was
impelled by an anguish wrought by the collapse of the patriarchal north-
eastern society he remembered from his youth. He described his life and
northeastern society itself as being characterized by processes of slow
decomposition, and he bemoaned the reterritorializing forces changing
his familiar landscape through internal threats, existential hazards. His
characters can be observed falling apart in myriad ways, self-destructing
like the region itself. Physical death and spiritual agony are constants in
his oeuvre, and characters are deeply ambivalent about their own memo-
ries as bittersweet connections to people and places that are no more. But
nostalgia for the past was made more urgent by the disorienting present
that brought pain as it unfolded in hues of burnt ash. This desperate senti-
ment led Ramos to utopian revolutionary ideals as a way to transcend the
present outright for a new order. In such a new world, life would once
again have meaning, and truth would be reestablished as something
knowable and speakable.84
As he wrote stories of the region, Ramos was simultaneously lament-
ing his own social position. Most of his characters were either sons of
once-proud rural property owners who had witnessed the end of fam-
ily stability, and who now survived through public employment, gained
through personal favors; or representatives of the bourgeoisie, sons of
merchants and provincial intellectuals, who also get by through relations
of patronage. These are the godsons of coroneis who become officers

170 chapter three

in the military or occupy new positions such as judge, police delegate,
doctor. Surrounded by this bland rationality and the cratering of aspi-
rations, Ramos longed for the rugged, vivid world of his grandfather,
which his father had been unable to maintain. Humiliation was what his
father represented to him, along with subservience to the wealthy. The
old farms were themselves embodiments of his family’s collapse—afloat
in a sea of weeds, termites devouring buildings from the inside out, the
once stately ox-cart disintegrating under a dead tree.85
Before such degradation, Ramos looked keenly to the future. The past
seemed completely beyond recuperation. His memories were construc-
tions of the present, far less re-creations of the past. Traditional society,
with its bandits and coronel-centered patriarchy, was gone forever; its
sons lacked protection and orientation. Old senses of honor and com-
munity had been fractured by new patterns of sociability. Noble peasants
lived on only in popular literature, and the folktales rehearsed before
skimpy campfires. Life itself seemed to wither, to dry up and shrink
inward in Ramos’s literature. There were never any silver linings. The
end of slavery and changes to labor patterns had worsened poverty and
indexes of misery, confounding many senhores and driving them to an
early grave. Meanwhile, the slaves suffered the end of what stability they
had known, going hungry and without clothes or shelter in their new
state of so-called liberty.86
Ramos channeled his personal woe into a range of characters who
were equally traumatized by the decadence of the world they confronted,
with its imposing cities, its smug merchants, its officious public ser-
vants. Childhood memories were persistent but brought no satisfaction;
in Angústia (1936), the dead seemed to be governing the living. It would
require snuffing out those memories to clear one’s head for dreams of
a new life. If reality was a nightmare, the real must be transfigured into
a dream where lost stability and tranquility were in reach. The new world
Ramos desired was not a re-creation of the past, but it would be contoured
along well-worn grooves of the familiar.87
For Ramos, memory (and literature) represented eyewitness testi-
mony of ruin, not a program for preservation as the traditionalists had
it. His memory did not ebb and flow as in Proustian fiction but was
fragmented into isolated patches by traumas, deceptions, broken confi-
dences. The act of writing was necessary to destroy insupportable mem-
ories of a life’s overthrow. Only the profoundly frustrated could produce

Territories of Revolt 171

literature. It was a form of reckoning for the wretched, a way to come to
terms with the past and present in order to try to move on to the future.88
In his own way, Ramos exposed the conservative use of memory by
the dominant classes as a linear construct of facts and heroisms that
justified their position of power. Historical memory in his view had
everything to do with power relations. Like history, the memory of power
is an accessory of the dominant. Whether built according to hegemonic
strategies or jigsawed together as an individual, personal narrative, his-
tory vexed Ramos. He aspired to a relation to the truth beyond it, beyond
ideological discourses. History and memory would only retake their vi-
tality with the end of class society, of alienation. Only then would people
possess the full detail and veracity and potential of their past, as well as
their present and future.89 For both Ramos and his characters, history
surged as a catastrophe that could wipe out the weak, destroying those
who were incapable of taking it in their hands and changing its trajec-
tory. Or one made history, or one suffered it; but it was impossible to
freeze it or to reverse it.90
Ramos transformed memories into libel against one epoch, and the
epitaph of another. He felt little pity for, but much animosity toward, peo-
ple of the modern age. His innate skepticism overpowered any nascent
romantic impulse, and he regarded the people with an abiding lack of
faith in their capacity to transform themselves or the world. At times his
writing appears to try, even to strain toward hope, but he never achieved
the calm optimism that Jorge Amado seemed to command effortlessly.91
But his work also sensitively expressed the plight of the new regional
middle class, which was caught between the traditional but decadent
regime and the growing bourgeois world to which it was not yet permit-
ted to belong. This was a suffocating dynamic in a region in which mod-
ernization coexisted alongside primitivity, and economic changes could
mount without altering the basic balance of power. This was the petite
bourgeoisie, who to survive needed to operate according to regimented
scripts. They detested surprise. Their lives were repetitive, proper, pre-
dictable, competent, tractable. They had to ignore everything but their
functions and proper roles and class aspirations. Of course this was an-
other face of Ramos himself, who through his characters deplored the
simultaneous instability and monotony of this life, and who dreamed for
a new order in which everything was secure and assured.92

172 chapter three

The regional space he constructed was riven by discontinuities—
historical gaps, diachronic differences, landscapes re-created and jumbled
by human subjectivities. He accepted as a premise of his work that nature
was already dominated by humankind. Space itself was also viewed as a
human construct, a fiction that gave limits, organization, and meaning
to nature. Landscape also was an objective expression of social relations,
particularly related to production and inequality. Space was an intellec-
tual construction, a product of how the various narrators contend with
fragmentation. In São Bernardo (1934), Paulo Honório represents the
bourgeois endeavor to constrain space by work, making his own jail
out of propriety and the hunger for power. Space for him was merely an
object to be determined, manipulated, used. But space thus loses its sta-
bility, as it is submitted to strategic maneuvering and changes of shape
and velocity. Honório was the emblem of early capitalism, refitting or
destroying territorialities. He was the prototype of the bourgeoisie who
lacerate traditional spaces and take full advantage of the people who hap-
pen to be living there.93
Ramos spun his regional space out of the attitudes, vocabularies,
and subjectivities of his characters, but it was anything but narrow. It
contained and expressed the full universality of problems afflicting the
human condition. The region was produced by his characters, but it also
was the backdrop for their diverse dreams, ambitions, and hopes for the
future. Throughout Vidas Secas, the external effects of drought are given
less weight than the internal consequences for the spirit of the charac-
ters. In its multiplicity, space takes power both from human construc-
tion and from the mysteries of nature that support or thwart people’s
endeavors.94
Ramos believed modern humankind needed to be transformed, be-
cause their morals and ethics were jumbled. For him, the transformation
of society would come with a change in human values and the reestab-
lishing of clear boundaries between good and bad. But he did not believe
a return to some idyllic primitive state was possible. His first book, Cae-
tés, included a satirical treatment of modernist primitivism, arguing that
it would be impossible for moderns to understand and represent that
paradise lost. The essence of the past was gone, and if anything, men’s
contemporary savagery was such that we ought to move further away
from primordial origins and not risk sinking deeper into them.95

Territories of Revolt 173

In São Bernardo Ramos focused on the parades of social representa-
tion characterizing modern society, critiquing bourgeois society as fos-
tering relations between masks rather than psychological essences. He
also noted how easily a false politics can spin out of such a society that
prizes images and truth effects. He saw the public sphere as a translu-
cent shell of opinions about opinions, with no substance. Grasping for
something solid underneath it all, he created characters that strive to
maintain their simulated appearance in the face of withering diversity,
and fail; they bleed their truths out before an uncaring society. They live
with great discomfort. At least patriarchal society had been based on firm,
unanimous notions of reality, even if it also had entrenched inequalities.
The future society Ramos seeks would have such unanimity restored.96
Neither Ramos nor his characters can handle contradictions or ambi-
guity well. His resort to Stalinist Marxism and its emphasis on definite
truths, as well as on transforming the falsity of the world of commerce
through discipline, is perhaps comprehensible in that light. The collec-
tive space for the poor to engage reality, to assert their voices, to prepare
for revolt, was shrinking into atomized nodes of bleak survival.97
He considered the contemporary Northeast to be yet more intolerable
because it was suffering the effects of the implantation of new market
rationality while preserving the form of traditional domination and power
relations, which left the popular classes marginalized by depriving them
of the reciprocity embedded in the fading paternal structures. It was a
place where no one was satisfied. The bourgeois machine encountered in-
numerable impediments and crises, making their own transformational
project seem aggravatingly suspended, broken, incomplete. Ramos’s po-
sition was that modernization was at fault for the Northeast’s unhappi-
ness and complications. Before its onset, people were less frustrated and
shaken. They did not have automobiles or radios, and they slept on simple
straw mattresses or hammocks, but they had worked hard at good, simple
labor on the land and slept well when they laid their heads down.98
Ramos alleged that according to bourgeois ethics, the accumulation
of wealth justified any abhorrent act. Violence or injustice were valorized
in that code as long as they lead to conquest and individual advance-
ment. The greed of this class, along with their general urban experience,
made them crafty. Paulo Honório, the pragmatic exploiter, was able to
outwit and displace Luis Padilha, a representative of the old unassum-
ing regional elite. Padilha’s generation was doomed to lose their hold-

174 chapter three

ings because they were unprepared for capitalism’s innovations. They
used their money to seed future favors or to indulge their own pastimes,
never accumulating it in measured accounts, and they looked on the
land with affection rather than detached rationality.99
On the other hand, in Ramos’s work the bourgeois wasted their lives
without knowing why, because they had no ideals. They were suspicious,
voracious, egotistical, cruel. Social relations were a mechanism for ac-
quisition of land, stuff, men, women. Honório’s jealousy of Madalena
was an expression of his sense that she was his property, a condition
she refused. Honório cannot understand his spouse, nor the humanistic
sensibility she represents. He took on the outward aspect of an old coro-
nel without the genuine amiability and concern for protecting the weak.
He was actually more like a slave master, who demanded everything and
gave the minimum for survival, if that.100
In this northeastern society, the poor were regarded as things, as ani-
mals, and subjected to brutality. Ramos appears constantly torn between
contemplating the theoretical beauty of a new, more just world, and fret-
ting over the sorry state of the men and women who should put it into
practice. But he was often able to aestheticize them effectively, demon-
strating his urge to participate in their suffering, to render their misery
visible and legible. He wrote them as witnesses to a hostile region, and
he wrote their lives in blood to indict their corrupt oppressors.101
According to Ramos, he tried to make his fiction more lifelike by
studying the region’s relations of production but eliminating nonessen-
tial aspects; by carefully selecting themes, images, and ideas and form-
ing characters from them to give them a dynamic texture. He wanted to
avoid what he saw as the trap that snared many leftist intellectuals of his
day—getting lost between nationalism, and romanticizing the poor. To
advance an agenda for change, he would not merely write for pamphlets.
He would boldly reveal the monstrous face of the region, its nightmares
and hopeful dreams. He wanted to bring Brazilian reality to the forefront
for intellectuals who were more interested in Europe, and for a govern-
ment that was abstract and distant. But he rejected turning his fiction into
political theses because he distrusted such discourses and their language,
even when it came from the left. That is why he developed a style that
was dry, lean, and tense.102
Ramos critiqued regionalist fiction for its lack of attention to language
and its romanticism. He jeered its embrace of the exotic and contrived

Territories of Revolt 175

spontaneity. He did believe that literature obeyed historically defined
norms, which applied a speakability to each author, including a set of
images and enunciations without which their work would appear un-
truthful or incomprehensible. In his case, the context and the norm
seemed to call for realist fiction. But he felt that in an atmosphere of
profound alienation, not everything that is true has the aspect of truth;
speaking them risked their appearing absurd. Meanwhile, enunciations
derived from the dominant discourse might appear truthful while being
no more than lies. Ramos’s entire oeuvre grapples with the relative na-
ture of truth with respect to society, history, region. He strove to find a
language to break through it all, a language free of ideology and hence
capable of expressing the Northeast as a place of brutality and sadness,
of the poor and ugly, of individual and social decomposition.103
The inhabitants of Ramos’s Northeast were so different from the people
of the littoral that if they went to the coast they were lost, lacking recog-
nition of habits, objects, words. It was a place where votes were bought
with a new pair of sandals, or a fancy buffet sponsored by the candidate.
Its elites were pragmatic but coreless, ever willing to abandon their moral
conceptions to accord with whoever was the winner of the election or the
business deal. Its poor were people who thought little, and desired less,
but obeyed effusively. The peasants had inferiority complexes and evoked
the dream of the promised land of the South like a ritual hallucination.
Theirs was a race condemned to disappear if it was not awakened from
its torpor of ignorance. Their occasional revolts were pointless displays
of fury without the intervention of a project that would enlighten their
understanding of their own reality. Ramos’s memories were of a society
unjust and unbearable, his hopes for the future too brooding to risk opti-
mism. As if dragging a plow in parched earth, he composed crooked lines
about people and places throughout the Northeast—each a microcosm
of a world he wanted desperately to see rejuvenated and transformed.104

Portraits of Misery and Pain

The inversion of the traditionalists’ Northeast to expose its ragged un-
derside can also be found in painting, which adopted the region as a
theme in the 1930s. Through their symbolism and modes of visibility,
these paintings of the region help us understand what was troubling to

176 chapter three

society at the time about not just the Northeast but Brazil as a whole.
The criticism that mushroomed around the works helped fix a certain
reading and a certain gaze, to clarify their “messages.” As a subject the
Northeast provided another way to interrogate the limits, problems, and
possibilities of national identity, as well as the place of the people—
especially poor people of a marginalized region—within the nation.
These paintings emerged at a time when art was becoming more po-
liticized, and many painters believed their art could attain the momen-
tum of a sort of socially transformational act in itself. They were also
all deeply concerned with realism, even if their representational styles
were different. With such concerns, they avoided what might be consid-
ered imaginary excesses since these were thought to be false, illusory.
The idea was that, in order to participate in transforming reality, the
representations had to partake of themes, visualities, and textualities that
preceded them. Of course, such so-called preexistent real referents were
politically oriented constructs. Realist painting added a new visibility to
crystallized commonsense concepts and stereotypes, helping reduce the
strange to the known. It was born from the skepticism attacking art from
both the left and right at the time; fascism considered any nonrealist art
to be a form of degeneration, while Stalinism decried any non-socialist-
realist art as fascist.105
Subordinating the production of images to an ideological discourse
blocks certain expressive possibilities and raises others as genuine ex-
pressions of reality. The northeastern paintings tend to emphasize con-
tent over formal experimentation. They used known, accepted formal
languages to more easily construct and deliver a message to the public.
In that sense, while the messages were often thought by their artists to
be revolutionary, they were conservative in being crafted accorded to can-
onized forms. They presented messages of transformation in a manner
pleasing to dominant aesthetic taste. Such a dichotomy of radical politics
and conservative aesthetics characterized all the cultural production of
the left during this period. Painting was inflected by the subjugation of the
visible to the political impositions of the speakable. Its imagetic universe
was limited to what could be concretely fastened to a political-social to-
tality, a theme with its own representational dictates. As a genre north-
eastern painting was innately conventional since it emerged within a
project to configure a reality that was already a convention.106

Territories of Revolt 177

Between roughly 1930 and 1945, years of considerable political up-
heaval in Brazil as well as globally, discussions relating to art and espe-
cially painting tended to revolve around questions of decorative versus
functional character; national or regional content and dynamics; erudite
versus popular/national content and style. Realism was surging as a
means to portray the nation, in response to the internationalism of mod-
ern art. Nationalism encouraged painters to adopt traditional themes
and narratives with a modern sheen. During the New State, govern-
ment sectors dedicated to fomenting culture attempted to define rules
for producing national images. That preoccupation was carried to the
extremes of prohibiting the exposition outside Brazil of paintings that
were held not to depict “a civilized image of the country.” Proper paint-
ings would show Brazil’s popular face without sinking into vulgarities,
which included acknowledgments of the country’s deeply mixed-race
population.107
Brazilian painters engaged social and political questions more di-
rectly during the war years. Collective, socializing forms were militat-
ing against artistic individualism. It was in this period that the Mexican
muralists wielded a significant influence over Brazilian artists, especially
those associated with communism, since the murals were viewed as legiti-
mate and effective public art capable of speaking to the Latin American
masses, conveying a message of revolution, anticolonialism, and anti-
imperialism. While those on the right in Brazil were rejecting modern-
ism in preference for traditional classical forms (often inspired, it might
be noted, by Nazi aesthetics), the left responded by embracing modern-
ism as “revolutionary,” humanist, and antifascist.108
After the war, Brazil experienced redemocratization, and with it came
a feeling of euphoria. A new country and new world seemed to be at
hand. Mexican muralists continued to affect Brazilian painting, which
increasingly emphasized exaltations of the nation and its people and
disregarded dominant internationalisms. Abstract art was regarded by
the realists as cosmopolitan frippery, depoliticized, an arm of cultural
imperialism. Particularly among intellectuals and artists linked to the
Communist Party, who could express themselves freely at the time, ab-
stract art represented individualism and bourgeois alienation. Realist art
saw as its mission to either celebrate or denounce national reality, and
it was understood that denunciations reflected more progressive politi-
cal engagement. Rather than applaud Brazil’s developmentalism, it was

178 chapter three

more valid to reveal the country’s underdevelopment as a necessary step
toward transforming it.
In this context, as painters considered social questions such as misery,
poverty, and unequal patterns of development, the Northeast appeared
as an ideal theme. Critics went further, suggesting that artists from the
region themselves possessed the greatest capacity to see Brazil with a so-
cial perspective. One of the most prominent regional painters, Emiliano
Di Cavalcanti (1897–1976) was born in Rio de Janeiro but was embraced
by critics as being nearly nordestino himself. Milliet praised his capac-
ity to render the landscape and “mestiça race” of the Northeast with a
“Brazilian style . . . expressing the peculiar character of our people, of our
life, of our natural environment.” Di Cavalcanti painted a Brazil that was
mixed-blood and poor, but of voluminous curves, hot colors, and unpre-
dictable angles. This was attributed to his “northeastern gaze,” an ability
to see social truths under surfaces. He drew popular figures affection-
ately, not rationally, using them to visually embody the region’s misery
and marginalization.109
His paintings were truly national, according to Ibiapaba Martins, be-
cause they showed Brazil’s world as northeastern with its rainbow suite of
race mixture. His paintings represented the monumental synthesis of
the country, continued the critic, because he revealed national colors,
forms, and symbols; he penetrated the Brazilian soul to show the Lusita-
nian, African, and indigenous elements that commiserated sadly, or leapt
forth in carnival merriment. Di Cavalcanti avoided the ruts of the exotic,
of naturalism or impressionism. He generated a perceptive but romantic
interpretation in which the national could be seen through the regional.110
Di Cavalcanti himself attributed his artistic sensibility of rhythm and
full, sensual color to Rio’s carnival. His political concerns manifested
early, when he worked as a political cartoonist for O Malho and other
papers. Family in Paraíba and Pernambuco stimulated his travels and
his regional curiosity. He had discovered the Mexican muralist move-
ment during a trip to Europe in the early 1930s and quickly incorporated
aspects of how they posed authentic human sentiment as oppositional
to bourgeois society and values. His energetic, sensual, celebratory, car-
nivalesque vision of Brazil was balanced by a critical sense of social con-
cerns, making him a perceptive observer of the nation and its people. He
spun his reflections out on the canvas, affirming Brazilian culture as he
reinvented its national imagery.111

Territories of Revolt 179

Although politically engaged, indeed a militant of the Communist Party,
Di Cavalcanti did not emphasize images of suffering and despair for the
Northeast, or the country. In urban scenes his human figures were simple
but appeared thoroughly, even contentedly integrated in their spaces. He
painted the cordiality between people, and between people and nature,
accentuating Brazil as a place of harmony and coexistence. In this he was
similar to the traditionalist poet Manuel Bandeira, who described a Bra-
zil suspended peacefully between rural tradition and folklore, and urban
sociability. Di Cavalcanti was not interested in depicting the urban reality
of the proletariat, or exposing class conflict. He wanted his paintings to
create pleasure for the viewer, not shock. His aversion to the bourgeoisie
may have been based more in a bohemian ethic than a socialist one, but
there is a distinct nationalism in his attentive use of both natural colors
and recognizable tropes such as mestiçagem.112
Di Cavalcanti’s work is also reminiscent of Carybé’s images of Bahia,
in that it focused on the artisanal, happy, festive, folkloric aspects of daily
life and popular culture. Both artists shared a fascination for Brazil’s
syncretized culture and the heroism of humble people, and they showed
nordestinos at work and at play in a variety of regional settings from the
sertão to tobacco fields, hills of sugarcane to rows of cacao, improvised
fishing boats to cobbled city streets. The depth of field of some of their
images gave a nobility and complex mystery to popular scenes, encapsu-
lating in subtle ways the baroque history, mysticism, and cultural min-
gling of Brazil as a whole.113
In terms of influence on the visibility of Brazil, however, the painter
who dominated the 1930s and 1940s and some years after was Cândido
Portinari (1903–62). His paintings were able to simultaneously appeal
to those on the left, and to the modernizing conservatives in Vargas’s
government. Portinari was a Communist and was nearly a party can-
didate for office in 1946, yet his work attained a remarkable establish-
ment prestige. This was because he found ambiguous ways to address
concepts such as the nation and the people, lending his art to diverse
readings but also making it easily appropriated into official discourses.
Portinari’s painting created its own reconciliation between classical
and traditional visibilities of Brazil, and modern form. Perhaps this was
why he became essentially the official artist of Vargas’s New State, since
that regime was itself dedicated to integrating forces of the past and
forces of the new. In a way, Portinari introduced classical equilibrium to

180 chapter three

3.1 Figuras [Figures]. Di Cavalcanti, 1957.

3.2 A morte de Alexandrina [The death of Alexandrina]. Carybé, 1939.

the vastness and human intensity of Mexican murals to craft an expres-
sion of Brazilian identity. By focusing on regional and rural scenes he
also lent a literary, mythic imagescape to Brazil as a whole.114
Portinari worked against modernism’s valorization of fragmenta-
tion and details to produce emblematic figures, images of people who
represented synthesis and social integration. In the 1930s, much of his
work was influenced by childhood memories spent in the interior of São
Paulo. By the 1940s, and his rise to state prominence, he had discovered
the murals. He created enormous panels exalting the Brazilian nation,
work, and racial and cultural harmony. Some of his images were placed
on buildings in Brazil and in other countries. Although in this phase he
had left behind much of the specific visual world of rural São Paulo State,
he would still introduce several iconic rural images to his works (for ex-
ample, the scarecrow and simply fashioned teeter-totter) that came to be
adopted as symbols of the national essence.115
In turning away from idyllic São Paulo as the symbolic center of Bra-
zil to call attention to social issues in the country at large, Portinari cast
his gaze to the Northeast. The curves of his human figures gave way
to rigidity and harsh lines suggesting tension, hunger, the prominent
bones and stilted gait of the poor. Desolation and desiccation took the
place of trees full of fruit and children, or men working together on the
harvest. His canvases became peopled by gaunt, wrinkled wanderers.116
Even before this, when he was completing murals rooted in universal
themes for illustrious buildings, visions from the Northeast served as a
source of inspiration. Skeletal northeastern horses such as he included
in his 1930 series Os Retirantes were later rendered into the Horsemen
of the Apocalypse in his painting A Guerra that was placed in un head-
quarters. Portinari’s changing view of the Northeast, a transformation
suggestive of the influence of 1930s fiction, can be traced by compar-
ing his early and later representations of nordestinos. His Os Retirantes
series was initiated in 1930 as an expression of a childhood memory of
Bahian migrants fleeing the drought to find work in the coffee fields of
São Paulo. The figures bore serious expressions but were not reed-thin
or bent; there is a sensuality to their posture, and they seem merely to
pose for the painter without calling attention to hunger or pain. But such
figures are starkly different in his later phase, in such works as Enterro
na Rede, Menino Morto, or Família de Retirantes. These feature wraith-
like figures, their faces masks of pain, lined with dry tears. The regional

182 chapter three

3.3 Retirantes [Migrants from Drought]. Oil on canvas. Cândido Portinari, 1944.

drama of drought has by now been raised to the condition of a symbol of

social injustice and the need for dramatic intervention.
In Portinari’s expressionist gaze, the wanderers have taken on an emo-
tional vehemence, externalizing the agony of their souls. Their deforma-
tions indict the deformations of society and the perverse national reality
it accepts. They appear within a host of northeastern signifiers: parched
earth, dead children, bones bleaching under the merciless sun, vultures
haunting black trees—and, perhaps incongruously, folkloric details from
the stage design of the 1942 ballet Yara. That show, featuring music by
Francisco Mignoni and lyrics by Guilherme de Almeida, was considered
the first Brazilian ballet to combine indigenous folklore with a national
social conscience of regional misery since its characters were all nordes-
tinos. This reveals how Portinari was shaped by the literary and cultural
vanguard of the 1930s and 1940s as he transitioned from the nostalgic,
rural São Paulo regionalism of his childhood to a politicized regionalism
based on the Northeast.

Territories of Revolt 183

Portinari is today one of Brazil’s most well-known painters. His con-
tributions to the visibility of a harsh Northeast were embraced by a
range of later artists. His wan, vacant-eyed migrants leaning on sticks
and accompanied by famished children would prove difficult to forget
and came to be accepted as the visual essence of the human effects of
regional reality. They were scenes in which nature was in remission,
providing a background to the image of utter poverty, but still threat-
ening to catch fire under a loose spark. When Geraldo Sarno opened
his documentary film Viramundo (1965) with shots of Portinari’s later
paintings in the Retirantes series, the director was implicitly placing a
seal of veracity on his own filmic regime derived from visual material
Portinari had created. It was intended to tell the audience that they are
about to get the “real thing.” The paintings legitimize the documen-
tary, which had the goal of expressing “the social scandal and trag-
edy faced by nordestinos who must migrate, tortured into exodus by
fiery drought.”117 The influence of Portinari’s work has assured that
the Northeast continues to be glimpsed around Brazil as portraits of
horror mutely begging for help—images of “othered” phantoms that in-
spire solidarity and revolt, but also evoke repulsion and fear. The viewer
wants to help, but also to turn away.118

Images That Cut and Pierce

“One rooster alone does not weave the morning: He will always need
other roosters. . . . From many other roosters will he interlace the threads
of sunshine, taken from their morning cries, so that the morning, fragile
and fine, is woven among all the roosters.”119
João Cabral de Melo Neto was born in Recife in 1920, and spent his
childhood among the interior Pernambucan sugar mills of Poço do Aleixo,
Pacoval, and Dois Irmãos. His early studies were completed in Recife, but
he did not go on to college. He is an example of the so-called Generation of
1945, a diverse group of modernists who, satisfied they had won the battle
against academicism, engaged in new internal debates regarding their
own premises and aesthetics while attempting to recover their literary and
poetic discourses from the politics they had been submerged in since the
previous decade. Of all the 1930s fiction writers it was Graciliano Ramos
who had moved the boundaries of linguistic experimentalism, carrying

184 chapter three

forward the early modernists’ research program; his interrogation of lan-
guage and forms of speaking would have great influence on Cabral, who
praised Ramos’s arid approach as a “model of destitution.” Both writers
endeavored to find a language appropriate to the theme of the Northeast,
a language that derived from the place itself and was not imposed on it.
They concurred that the Northeast should be taken as a way to speak, to
see, to organize thoughts. The Northeast would reject metaphor as a florid
distraction from its own compelling essence.120
Cabral believed that language should imitate reality, not obscure it.
Thus to criticize reality implied a critical relationship with language as
well, a vigorous search for the expressive core—the sinews and bones
of language that sustained an understanding of reality. His poetic form,
particularly in the case of the Northeast, was distilled of excesses—the
“space of bright midday,” with the subtle texture of a wasteland of dry
emptiness broken by small bright blossoms. It was from a “desert of
sheets of paper” that he would cultivate his poems, aspiring to coax his
bitter, sharp, “clear-cut, precise verse” from the hard earth of the North-
east. He tended his poems like an improbable desert orchard, with shal-
low roots straining to pull life from torrid soil. He saw the Northeast
as fundamentally desiccated and contrived an equally parched composi-
tional style and symbolic universe to convey it.121
While Cabral understood that language was affected by numerous
social forces, he never discarded realism outright because all his criti-
cal energy, his distrust of words, were based on the desire to find a
language adequate to reality. His artisanal attitude sought the imitation
of form, not its invention. In his poetry, language was not independent
of its referents. He believed there was an actual Northeast outside of lan-
guage, but his mission was to find the words to express it in all its truth.
Guided by tactile research in the region’s substances and contours, the
exercise of aligning words with things would be a contribution, Cabral
thought, toward stripping language of the artifices that aggravated social
alienation.122
Cabral’s Northeast arose from his technical and aesthetic drive to ex-
tricate reality from the extraneous discourse that covered it in fraudulent
tangles. The region should shine forth from the page undiluted, like a ray
of sunshine awakening a slumberer. His words were intended to open
readers’ eyes to reality, in part by inviting them to join his suspicion of
words as vehicles of domination, alienation, and perjury. He wanted his

Territories of Revolt 185

language to duplicate the poverty of the real, not as metalanguage but
as semiological realism that equilibrated construct and communication.
He challenged the false opposition between form and content to show
their inseparability, believing that if the content of poetry could reach
and distress a reader, the form ought to do so as well. His Northeast was
content and form that cut, punctured, that hurt and drew blood. His
region was a seeping gash in the flesh of Brazil.123
In Cabral’s poems lyricism and formal liberty are substituted by rigor-
ous engineering of words. It was a poetry produced by the heavy labor
of measuring and construction, not inspiration. He worked words like
stones, polishing and fitting them; he cleansed images of emotional frill
to expose their principles and arranged them to offend bourgeois sensi-
bility. It was impersonal poetry, crafted to vex, not mollify. An aggressive
poetry, verses of contention, of vinegar and blackened flowers. It was
generated in direct response to what he considered the thick, lazy, and
self-satisfied prose of the “important, spiritual families of Recife.”124
Cabral was preoccupied with the materialization of sentiments, ideas,
and images, making the abstract tangible. He emphasized object, not
subject, because he was still locked into the objectivist illusion and
believed comparison could open the essential significance of words.
To reconstruct the unity of world and language, it was necessary to ac-
centuate the fractures caused by modernity, but also to avoid using new
multiplicities of verbal meanings to try to repair them. Thus his verse
was impelled inward like a drill, penetrating, excavating discursive layers
that distanced readers from reality. His poetry was not confessional or
romantic. It was intended to be like a bright light shone into a deep mine,
unfiltered by sentimental lenses or the gauze of ideology.125
He recognized that the modernity in his poems was fundamental
because of the theme—the Northeast, not an object of classical poetry
but antipoetic, antilyrical. It was a tactical move against the traditionalist
poetics of a nostalgic, idyllic Northeast. He fought against the image of
the comfortable old Northeast, with its plucky poor and content slaves,
the affectionate image of a society sweetened by sugar. In reversing the
image he was battling against conventional rules for what could be said
or not. He wanted to destroy those invented regional traditions by sub-
mitting them to the antiseptic of reason, exposing nostalgia as a hoax
because in the longed-for region there was never enough to eat and the
poor faced constant fear and asperity.126

186 chapter three

Cabral’s poetry, as with Guimarães Rosa’s prose, constituted a criti-
cal reply to the relations of determination that existed in regionalist lit-
erature between material poverty and cultural poverty. Both writers at-
tempted to show that material poverty could be accompanied by cultural
riches, and that, while in a world characterized by contradiction and mix-
ture not everything could be resolved in synthesis, the resulting tension
could be fruitful for popular knowledge and resistance. Cabral leveraged
regional popular culture not for its rhetorical value, but for its grassroots
logic. He searched the cordel literature and Christmas dramas avidly to
study their direct modes of communication. Borrowing widely, he care-
fully combined words in novel ways, turning them bright and new as if
by the chafing friction of contact within his lines. In particular cordel,
with its formulaic recitative structure, lent him an appealing form of
expression. Its rhythmic diction seemed to naturally evoke the region
of drought, of uncompromising natural cycles, where so many popular
discourses recalled laments and death chants.127
From popular literature and narrative Cabral also absorbed a cutting
irony, using it to mock the pompous speech of regional elites. Where
some observers might find only rude simplicity in this popular lan-
guage, Cabral discovered a reservoir of bruising insights. Its dryness was
not a limit or constraint, but a defining feature of linguistic strategy and
its inseparable political strategy. In its own way it represented Cabral’s
greatest aspiration, which was to circumvent rhetorical excess to bear
down on words that provoked the consciousness of a different reality,
a harder world just under the clutter. He used it to create a poetry that
sliced routine from tradition, memory from dream, hoping to isolate all
the forms of illusion that bank up in dusty drifts atop the reality of life.128
In addition, Cabral’s poetry established a critical dialogue with the
sociological enunciations and images used by Gilberto Freyre in con-
structing his traditional Northeast. Cabral’s default position was to reverse
Freyre’s vision, such that he made the sertão the paradigm of northeastern
identity rather than the littoral and the sugar plantations. But in doing so
Cabral fell into his own trap of assuming a homogeneous sertão with
no internal differences, and he offered no major distinctions from other
preexisting generalizations of the backlands. He claimed the region’s
corrupt intermediate zones, prized by Freyre and others, were respon-
sible for the primitivity and misery of the Northeast’s most characteristic
place, the sertão. It was there that the violence and revenge, the depravity

Territories of Revolt 187

and inequality of sugar society, had their greatest human consequences.
But the possibility for resistance lay in the strength and cultural depth
of the sertanejos.129
Cabral often used the opposite qualities of wet and dry to characterize
the differences between the traditionalist Northeast, which he regarded
as a construct of decoys and rhetoric, and his own Northeast, which pre-
sumed to represent reality. The swamp symbolized the traditional regional
elite of the coast, sunken and rotten, a dank place of stagnating mud. It
was a place of extinction, defined by the past yet clamoring to stay alive, a
place he longed to cleanse with the pure harsh sun of the interior.

Whoever wants to see the dead

Having dealt with them in life
Should think: every kind of marsh
Fits here in this basin.
Leftover bathwater, waste water
From the tubs of the salons,
Its permanent high tide
Shrinks to puddles, in every sense.130

Cabral tended to associate the northeastern elite with qualities of gentle-

ness and sweetness, as Freyre did; but where Freyre saw these as positive
traits, Cabral reversed polarities. Far from being salutary aspects of Brazil-
ian nationality, this placid amiability demonstrated a lack of consciousness
of serious national problems. He saw the Northeast of these elites as a
place where nothing significant happened; every important issue was pa-
pered over by fake smiles and puffs of rhetoric. He shared none of Freyre’s
or contemporary poet Manuel Bandeira’s nostalgic fascination for the colo-
nial underpinning of the region’s port cities, such as Recife and its neigh-
bor Olinda. Cabral saw them as growing too fast, sinking into the murk,
losing their defined angles and lines. He felt that the traditionalists, in
trying to suspend these cities between tradition and modernity, were con-
signing them to slow deaths. Meanwhile, polluted water everywhere was
corrupting them from the inside out. They were becoming monuments to
false progress, where the hastily laid concrete cracked too soon and the
steel rusted, unable to contend with the rot exhaled by so many befouled
rivers and polluted inlets. They were places where “everything seems to
encourage the termites, whether sugarcane or sea. . . . Life is worm-eaten,
the density of things digested away, all is weightless from disease.”131

188 chapter three

If he viewed cities with a melancholy eye, Cabral reversed the conven-
tionally austere strategies for describing the sertão by adorning it with
florid, ornate rhetoric. He cultivated the rugged backlands with bouquets
of poetic words to bring it to life, even if the most life it could support
was clutches of thorny cactus. In “Morte e Vida Severina” he adopted the
form of a folkloric Christmas pageant to affirm not the spiritual hope for
life after death, but the resolute hope for life here on Earth where condi-
tions were severe, even antagonistic. He worked against the tradition of
regional discourses that emphasized death, praising the vitality of life,
the spirit of resisting against desperate physical conditions.132
Cabral’s ancestors had owned sugar mills and had occupied the elite
ranks of society in Paraíba and Pernambuco. He diverted from their tra-
ditions and assumptions of propriety, searching out the Northeast of the
humble people who had captivated him with stories as a boy. As an adult
he found himself, and his artistic path, with the sertanejos—the servants
and ranch hands and peasants. His poetry was a sort of salvo intended to
interrupt the complacent dinner parties of the great house by making ex-
plicit the alienation and misery of the cane workers. He repeated the idea
that the sertão was a milieu of revolutionary potential capable of trans-
forming the region’s corrupt agricultural and coastal aristocracies. The
cane worker became his symbol of the laborer in capitalist society, abused
by crude and domineering bosses who also laid waste to nature.133
The industrial sugar mill was another potent symbol for Cabral of how
a voracious capitalism was ingesting and dissolving the sugar zone, a de-
structive force, immense termites of steel eating away at the lands and
lives of the Northeast. The system of industrial agriculture was turning
men into savages, and substituting a struggle between man and nature
for the real fight between people, between classes. Cabral responded by
humanizing animals, plants, and other natural phenomena. The region’s
bright sunlight was leveraged to represent reason, illumination, the ca-
pacity to grasp the unity of what bourgeois rationality tries to disperse.
Operating with an aesthetic based in Marxist dialectics, Cabral constructs
opposites that circle or clash or reconcile in bursts of enlightenment. He
wanted his images to shock and penetrate, to puncture both the real and
the reader’s consciousness.134
A central opposition in Cabral’s work was the dynamic between time
and space. Time was inconstant and knowable only in the pinprick of
the present instant, whereas space was concrete, real, and measurable,

Territories of Revolt 189

and the continuity of society depended on it. Memory in his poetry was
more spatial than temporal. Memory condensed space, making it more
palpable, while memories themselves were corporeal, taking on solid
forms. Memories were felt more than pondered. This was why he felt
so keenly the forces threatening to dilute the diverse forms of regional
geography. Where the traditionalists interpreted memory as subjective,
sentimental, and nostalgic, Cabral took it as objective, rational, and an-
tirhetorical. False memories, official memories, were those based in so-
called temporal continuity. To Cabral memories were discontinuous, like
seeds, fragmentary; they could be reordered in the present in the name of
projects for the future.135
Cabral asserted that the class divides in northeastern society were re-
sulting in a homogenization of exploitation, misery, and hunger from the
coast to the interior. While he questioned the traditionalist view of the
Northeast as idyllic and harmonious, he too rejected differentiation by
painting the region as defined by drought and grief. The imposed nostal-
gic uniformity of the elite gaze was replaced by an imposed despairing,
contentious uniformity from the Marxist gaze. Cabral saw plurality, as his
poems demonstrate, but he insisted that it return to a focused, anguished
unity. He operated with many of the standard images of drought and the
sertão from traditionalist discourse, reinforcing the idea that it was all a
desert that barely produced anything, where violence and hunger reigned.
Its people shared a common denominator of sinewy strength, but also
emptiness and want and sorrow.136
Cabral implemented a telescopic visibility of the Northeast, capturing
details in a close-up that was possible only by severing them from their
context. He prized essence over diversity and a distanced, bird’s-eye view
to perceive the synthetic whole of reality. He was aware of the social
and political influences shaping how different people saw the North-
east, from nordestinos to businessmen in São Paulo, from the planta-
tion owner to the illiterate cane cutter. But he regarded these as effects of
ideology and the unconscious. He believed there was an objective way to
see, in the manner of the sun, rational, objective, all encompassing. His
skepticism of words was based in this, in his preference for and trust in
seeing. It is not a coincidence that his aesthetic sensibility was shaped
far more by painting and architecture than by poetry or literature.137
The prevalence of vision over speech is clear in a poetry that reso-
lutely transformed words to images, and things are scraped down to ex-

190 chapter three

pose their bones. He practiced a sort of cubist geometry, constructing
the Northeast’s spatiality by a critical redisposition of its figures, by de-
forming its traditional forms, by rationally organizing its manifestations.
There is nothing ideal in his Northeast. It is poor and pungent, painful
and antiromantic. Ultimately he took a position that was more ethical
than political, since he never engaged in explicit militancy or used the
stock verbiage of pamphlets to stoke ideas of disciplined revolution and
future utopias. He presented the Northeast as a cruel, raw place that
could and should affect human consciences on its own terms.138
The onset of a new future, he thought, would come with the destruc-
tion of the illusions of temporal memory and the affirmation of the trans-
formational potential of the present. Space needed to be seen in clean
Cartesian terms, with architectural specificity. Only then could north-
eastern lives begin to be changed through concrete action supported by
the collective sensibility of Brazil in the wave of developmentalist opti-
mism after World War II. The Northeast had as yet been excluded from
these currents. It seemed locked into repetition and litanies of destruc-
tion, its abstract emptiness a rebuke to the rest of the country. It was
internally unified by misery and an inescapable social hierarchy. Nature
itself translated human misfortune, with the region’s rivers as well as its
people fleeing southward to avoid dying a dusty death.139
João Cabral de Melo Neto can be regarded, along with Guimarães Rosa,
as perhaps the first to fundamentally explore the “deregionalization” of
the region in terms of inventing a language intended to represent the re-
gion itself. He denounced earlier textualities and the mock-scientificism
of naturalism, but he nonetheless remained imprisoned in the illusion
that he could construct an image and text that would correspond fully to
reality. The bitterness of his poetry was embraced and used by regional-
ists as a weapon in national politics, in the demand for assistance and
the assertion of local identity. In concretizing the Northeast, in building
a vision of it with the stoniness of his words and images, Cabral ulti-
mately helped reinforce the discursive tropes of those in power. He had
wanted to reconstruct the region, not destroy it through outright revolu-
tion. By not taking it as an abstraction in the service of a sector of enemy
dominants; by not attributing blame and making an orthodox call to ac-
tion, the poet, with his alternate vision, offered new forms for the agents
of oppression to reproduce and articulate themselves. He stumbled on
the very stones he hoped to place in the way of further domination.140

Territories of Revolt 191

Perhaps Cabral’s greatest and most dour message is that death of-
fered no exit. He had much in common with the Brazilian left at the
time, but he was not convinced by the salvationist tone of their militant
discourse. He repudiated the nostalgic image of the Northeast spun by
the traditionalists but could not escape the fact that in weaving the op-
posite of their designs he was trapped in conceptual frames that were
identical to theirs, only reversed.141

Seeing through the Camera Eye

Brazil’s national cinema faced considerable challenges in developing
consistent levels of production, due not just to the popularity of im-
ported fare but to the substantial and expensive industrial base required
to make movies. In the 1930s there were some national films made that
were of good quality, such as Limite (Mário Peixoto, 1930) and Ganga Bruta
(Humberto Mauro, 1933), but they were isolated and barely received
screen time. Before the 1940s, Brazilian reality had a very fleeting cin-
ematographic presence.
But soon, with industrial advances in Brazil and the growth of a middle
class interested in consuming culture, national film production took root,
first in Rio de Janeiro (Atlântida) and later in São Paulo (Companhia Vera
Cruz), although in a form heavily derived from Hollywood studio models.
Everything was copied, from the stars’ manner of speaking and walking
to the color schemes, lighting, camera angles, and scenery. But because
of the gulf in their circumstances of production, the resulting films often
came across as mere low-budget caricatures of American films. The only
Brazilian genre to find success in the period was the chanchada, a form
that embraced the imperfect imitation of American cinema as a formula.
It brought over many of its stars and scripts from radio and often-parodic
urban popular theater (teatro de revista). Atlântida in particular became
known for farcical films that copied American cinematographic conven-
tions, sometimes mocking them, but regularly populating them unsym-
pathetically with Brazil’s own so-called “national types.”142
Outside of cinema, other Brazilian art forms were researching and
engaging national problems and national realities, but the movies were
resistant, preferring to show a sort of internationalized world of illusion
in their autonomous spaces of consumption. The settings of chanchadas

192 chapter three

were often ad hoc and secondary to the plot itself. Even something as
genuine and potentially controversial as a shantytown was represented
as a simply drawn, nonproblematized backdrop. This enhanced the the-
atrical stage quality of the productions. In general these films as well
as national cinema as a whole were viewed by critics as poor copies of
foreign movies. Audiences learned to think that movies were simple di-
version where realism and actual tensions did not belong.143
That said, one element of national reality that did infuse Brazilian
movies in the late 1930s and 1940s was carnival, but it was there for its
celebratory and celebrity dimensions. Before the rise of auditorium pro-
grams and other radio events with a live audience, these films were the
only way for adoring fans to see their radio idols in person—male and
female entertainers who danced and sang their way happily on-screen
through the intended hit songs of the upcoming carnival season. Alô, Alô,
Brasil! (Wallace Downey and Alberto Ribeiro, 1933) and Alô, Alô, Carna-
val! (Adhemar Gonzaga, 1936) can be regarded as the precursors of the
chanchada genre, which many critics allege came into being with Banana
da Terra (Rui Costa, 1939), featuring Rio’s famous young singing duo,
sisters Carmen and Aurora Miranda.144
The visibility of Brazil and its people elaborated in the chanchadas was
full of ambiguities and contradictions, themselves characteristics of carni-
valization. At the same time that they attempted to “read” Brazilian reality
according to imported models from American cinema, and thus reveal
national defects (whether deliberately or not), they provoked a new relativ-
ism in viewing the imported model that was being assumed as a refer-
ence. The sarcastic smile, the self-awareness of parody that characterizes
all chanchadas but certainly those made by the 1950s, reflects both knowl-
edge that an imitation is being created, and a critical distancing from the
imposition of the “foreign,” imported paradigm. One could consider the
chanchadas to be a product of what Oswaldo de Andrade called Brazil’s
incapacity to copy well. But the chanchadas, in their fascinatingly awk-
ward simulacra of Hollywood prototypes, generate an art form far more
insightful and critical than the films made by Vera Cruz, for instance, that
were intended as “serious” copies of European cinema.145
In 1952, participants of the first National Congress of Brazilian Cin-
ema debated the problems of domestic cinema as well as how Brazil-
ian films could be encouraged to deal more directly with issues facing
the country and its people. The first bulletin published by the recently

Territories of Revolt 193

founded National Cinema Institute (Instituto Nacional do Cinema, inc)
included a commitment to ensure that cinema would reflect the realities
of national culture and the aspirations of the people, especially their de-
sires for peace, progress, and liberty. Questions of how to compete with
foreign cinema, the nature of the domestic market, and the complexities
of production were widely discussed. The inc initiated a study of how
international film aesthetics should be altered for the Brazilian context,
and took the position that a film should be considered “popular” if it ac-
tually managed to conquer a share of the domestic ticket-buying public.
Even with its profound industrial and consumer basis, cinema was thus
part of the contested field of national and popular culture at the time.
The bourgeois intellectuals in São Paulo who controlled inc were not
averse to implanting mass culture in Brazil if it were definably national
in content.146
The precarious status of early national cinema can be seen not only in
its industrial deficiency and its subservience to an imported cinemato-
graphic regime, but in the fact that when the impulse came to deal with
the reality of the country and its regions, Brazilian cinema had to scour the
production of other cultural forms—literature, theater, radio, painting—
for images and texts to use. Rather than explore the potential of the new
medium in the contemporary context of national self-curiosity, Brazilian
cinema resorted to a suite of previously crystallized tropes—many, ironi-
cally, from fiction—to achieve the “truth-effect” of audience recognition
and acceptance. Films that took the Northeast as a setting, for instance,
either developed straight adaptations of novels from the 1930s generation
or simply mined those books for their most famous scenes and events.
The exceptions to this rule were the films of Glauber Rocha and certain
other films from the New Cinema movement (discussed later), which at-
tempted to create a distinct cinematic identity for the region.147
In the 1940s, such well-known northeastern types as the unschooled
migrant worker, white-suited coronel, bespectacled priest, and carbine-
brandishing outlaw were among the cultural material that the chanchadas
carried over from radio comedies to adapt to the big screen. The typical
nordestino was depicted as a dimwitted hayseed, dusty and animal-like,
lacking in both intelligence and teeth—the opposite of the polished, ed-
ucated, civilized city dweller. In his physical and mental poverty he was
the inversion of the urban cosmopolitan. He represented the weak and
vulnerable side of Brazil. In the Hollywood parodies, with their industri-

194 chapter three

alized settings, glamorous parties and elaborate musical numbers, the
wide-eyed, confused nordestino seemed clearly not to belong, to be out
of place. But the nordestino could also be leveraged as a figure of strong
morals and sincerity, contrasted with the city’s scheming bourgeois so-
cial climbers who fretted over appearances. His simplicity, translated to
a sort of reflexive honesty, made the nordestino a fitting national ad-
versary against the well-dressed foreigners who arrived in Brazil with
trunks full of lies and imperialistic schemes.148
It was not until the 1950s that the Northeast became a cinematic theme
in and of itself, starting with O Canto do Mar (Alberto Cavalcanti, 1953)
and O Cangaceiro (Lima Barreto, 1953), the latter of which became Brazil-
ian cinema’s first international success. These two films, both made at
Vera Cruz, became extremely influential visions of the filmic Northeast
for cinematic production outside of New Cinema. They generated simi-
lar films throughout the 1950s and 1960s that also reproduced clichéd
regional images and enunciations within a generally derivative model im-
ported from the United States. As an ostensible way of seeing the North-
east anew this genre was doubly preconceived, in its borrowed aesthetics
and its rehashing of regional signifiers.149
O Canto do Mar opens with a series of standard images to localize the
film in a familiar Northeast—cactus, sun-bleached ox bones, dry earth
ripped open by drought; the camera stoops to reveal what appears to be
hastily improvised grave pits and reaches skyward to capture glowering
vultures. In case these images were insufficient to evoke the region, a
map appears centering on the states of Paraíba and Pernambuco. A dis-
embodied narrating voice drives the point home: “It has not rained here
for a long time. The ground splits in its thirst, begging for water. The sky
is always, inescapably blue; families abandon what they have built, their
loved ones dead.” The use of an offscreen voice seems to denounce the
filmmaker’s dependence on literary images, and his own insecurity re-
garding the capacity of these images to express the totality of the drama.
The instance suggests how, even beyond cinema, perhaps as a condition
of Brazilian epistemology at the time, words were needed to explain the
visible.
This film clearly attempts to mount a visibility and speakability of
the Northeast that was constructed by novels, journalistic reports, and
drought discourse. Its naturalist aesthetics contribute to loading the film
with conventions, reproducing a reality that has already been seen and

Territories of Revolt 195

spoken. Made at a moment in which another drought was wracking the
region, spurring another wave of migration to the South, the film con-
tains images that its national audience will be anticipating, images that
reinforce the identity of the region as a place of suffering and misery.
For southern urban viewers, the main ticket-buying demographic, the
contrast was obvious—the Northeast was a backward victim of nature,
unlike the stalwart South, marvel of Brazilian development.
The problematic relation between rural and urban cultural values,
another of the themes of the chanchadas, was also operant here through
an urban gaze looking to reaffirm the primitive nature of the character
of rural people. Various staged scenes render local culture inexplicable,
if not ridiculous, such as the wake for a child attended by singing locals
who carry gas lamps rather than candles; and the letter to God, written
by the child’s mother and placed resolutely in its wan hands, asking that
His Heavenly Father take as good a care of the tot as she would. The film
is saturated with such stilted depictions of regional folklore. They are de-
tached from the plot and often come out of nowhere to serve as “cultural
illustrations,” not unlike the abrupt appearance of nordestinos singing
in the chanchadas. Their effect here, in a film with such a melodramatic
tone, calls into question the meaning of the entire project. How could it
be, in a place that is defined by drought, misery, and pain, there are nor-
destinos playing music over here, dancing the carnivalesque frevo over
there, and others singing contentedly on the beach? Characters, such as
they are, are two-dimensional and believe fervently in the promised land
of the South. One youth declares, “The good life is in the South. We’ll go
there to get away from all this. One day I’ll come back with lots of money
and help everybody, and we’ll all be happy.” The film drives home that
the Northeast is underdeveloped not just because of drought but because
of its primitive, irrational population with their archaic religious prac-
tices and tendency to sing all day. Their popular culture is colorful and
rich but it serves as merely a temporary distraction from the wretched-
ness they face daily and participate in constructing. For director Alberto
Cavalcanti, it was clearly the nordestinos as well as harsh nature that were
responsible for the region’s deplorable state.150
O Cangaceiro was extremely popular, and influential in fixing a cer-
tain image of the Northeast among Brazil’s urban middle classes. Its
principal thrust was to demonstrate the distance separating the primi-
tive world of the sertão from the industrial city, but it relied more ex-

196 chapter three

plicitly than O Canto do Mar on tropes from Hollywood westerns and
their idea of a savage frontier threatening civilization. Thus the frontier/
sertão represented an authentic historical stage of Brazilian develop-
ment, but one that should have been already transformed and “pacified”
by a modern society of law, order, and discipline. The film used mythic
overtones to validate the society of the present and its codes of values.
To construct a plausible Northeast in a film shot in São Paulo, the crew
relied on regional stereotypes as well as visual signifiers of the American
West. The opening scene places this combination on display: a line of
horsemen, silhouetted against the setting sun, ambles along a mountain
ridge, which is soon shown to contain the expected cactus, sharp stones,
and jumbled bones that announce its northeastern location.
The perspective of Lima Barreto’s film follows a political tack that
had been developing at least since the 1930s—the idea that the nation
could be constructed by absorbing its differences, which meant replac-
ing traditional values and customs with generalized bourgeois ethics
and social relations. Barreto introduces bandits without any sociologi-
cal analysis, but as villains in a Manichean context of good versus evil.
The simple people of the sertão deserved intervention and rescue be-
cause of their telluric identification with the land, even though they were
sullen because the shiny benefits of civilization were out of reach. The
myth of the sertanejo as a social element making up part of the core of
Brazilian nationality is here reformulated according to the view that the
nation’s identity should be based on the urban sphere and industrial
development.
Another film that framed the Northeast in southern sensibilities was
O Pagador de Promessas, directed by Anselmo Duarte and based on a play
by Dias Gomes. It was even more successful than the others in critical
terms, winning the Golden Palm at Cannes in 1962. It brought a clas-
sical, naturalist perspective to the setting, referencing the interior with
shots of dry earth or cactus and the littoral with images of coconut palms
lining the beach. Constant focus on the feet of the pilgrims suggests
the physical sacrifice of their journey. The dichotomy between rural and
urban takes a slightly different form, with the innocence of the peasants
contrasting with the calculations of the sly urbanites. The representation
of rural people is paternalistic, even discriminatory. They are contextu-
alized according to the delivery of the narrator, who emphasizes how
strange their culture is (and implies they should strive to integrate into

Territories of Revolt 197

the nation’s more advanced cultural spheres). In a manner similar to
the chanchadas, this film regards the nordestinos with a sort of sancti-
monious populism—guardedly welcoming them to the Brazilian nation
on the condition that the more distinctive aspects of their popular cul-
ture be abandoned. Of course, distilling and institutionalizing popular
culture was also an effective mechanism for removing its potential for
contestation.
The film is subtle in showing how a series of discourses can trans-
form one “fact” into many facts, depending on the meaning it receives
from each of them; how popular culture can be understood and deployed
by different actors from different positions of power; and how a simple,
apparently primitive act of faith can turn into a gesture of rebellion, sac-
rilege, and subversion. The film also explores relations between popu-
lar and erudite culture, and popular and “national,” experimenting with
their boundaries but coming down on the side of a national culture that
accepts the popular if it follows certain rules, dictated from above. The
Northeast, especially Bahia, is shown in all its exoticism; the characters,
such as Zé do Burro, appear resistant to reality-based interrogation in
their dogged persistence of a promise made to a saint. The radical lack
of dialogue between cultural codes effectively cleaves the nation into dis-
tinct spheres and rejects the possibility for generalizing the presumably
advanced metropolitan paradigms across Brazil. The encounter between a
“complex” urban sociability and the mysterious simplicity of the peasants
causes a short circuit in national communication and understanding.
But that is not the entirety of the film’s conclusion. It shows the north-
eastern city at first as predictably typical—the stone streets, the baroque
churches. But the city becomes a stage for diverse Bahian popular cul-
tural manifestations, independent and intermingling: vendors of food
and cordel literature, capoeiristas, samba musicians, poker players, pro-
cessions, Afro-Brazilian religious groups. It is a universe of people and
practices that have not been part of the rationality and official proceed-
ings of the city; manifestations unknown by the official institutions that
look down on them from above. The film celebrates both the popular
culture and its presence in the city, the slight but significant opening
of the gates of official culture for the participation of the popular element
viewed as more national and authentic. But to what end? This film ex-
presses the populist illusion of the people’s conquest of power through
the permission of institutions, institutions that mask a recognition of

198 chapter three

their demands as a genuine popular coup. The great question the film
poses has to do with the meaning of the limits of cultural difference, of
the alterity between popular and official cultures as paths to liberation
and national identity. It looks toward a day when it would no longer
be deemed necessary to kill the people like Zé do Burro because they
challenge the comprehension and assumptions of those in power, a day
when it would not be deemed necessary to articulate a rationalizing dis-
course that encompassed and constrained all Brazilian popular culture.
This Northeast was still an area that was culturally “primitive,” that
needed to be integrated into national culture, but without forsaking its
innate potential and its elements of authentic Brazilianness. The linger-
ing problem was how that was to be done, and who was to make the
decisions.
This urban-industrial gaze on the Northeast would begin to be trans-
formed only by New Cinema, a movement that explicitly rejected the
productions of both Vera Cruz and Atlântida as alienated, colonized, and
trivial appeals to bourgeois sensibility.

the aesthetic of hunger

There is debate regarding what constituted the beginning of New Cin-

ema. Some observers cite Nelson Pereira dos Santos’s films Rio, 40 Graus
and Rio, Zona Norte, made in the 1950s. Others point out that the discus-
sion of what Brazilian cinema was and what realities it should express
actually began in 1960 with the showing of Aruanda (made that same
year), Lindoarte Noronha’s documentary on the Afro-Brazilian commu-
nity of Paraíba’s Olho D’Àgua da Serra do Talhado, at a Cinema Critics
Convention in Rio de Janeiro. It is suggestive of the values that would
guide New Cinema that two more documentaries are also often cited as
fundamental predecessors: Luis Paulino dos Santos’s Um Dia na Rampa
(1957), showing the Afro-Brazilian culture in Salvador’s Mercado Mod-
elo market; and Arrail do Cabo (1959), by Paulo César Saraceni and
Mário Carneiro, depicting a Rio de Janeiro fishing village. All three of
these had in common a nonfictionalized focus on underdeveloped social
systems and their relations of production. But the New Cinema move-
ment would receive its name and initial recognition through a series
of three articles published in the early to mid-1960s, one by Glauber
Rocha in several Bahian papers (as well as the Jornal do Brasil), and two

Territories of Revolt 199

by Gustavo Dahl and Jean-Claude Bernadet in the Estado de São Paulo.
In his piece, Rocha argued that true Brazilian cinema was inescapably
new because the Brazilian people were new, Brazilian problems were
new, even the light was new. These circumstances assured that Brazilian
films would be different from European and American ones.151
It should also be noted that New Cinema originated in three different
places: in Paraíba, with Lindoarte Noronha; in Bahia, with the circle
united around the Cinema Club founded by Walter Silveira; and in Rio,
with a group led by Nelson Pereira dos Santos. Although the move-
ment’s spokesmen characterized it as united in both politics and aes-
thetics, there was wide stylistic latitude given the freedom of creation
that its members asserted as a defining value. New Cinema also drew
from various international movements including Italian neorealism (es-
pecially the work of Antonioni), Russian revolutionary cinema (Eisen-
stein), American cinema (John Ford), and French new wave (Resnais,
Godard). Other Brazilian influences included the modernist movement
and 1930s fiction, especially where these touched on the troubled “so-
cial reality” of Brazil. In large part, the movement was an imagetic re-
reading of Brazil and the Northeast in particular. The cinematic style
latent in northeastern literature had already attracted the attention of
film critic Flávio de Campos, who remarked in the 1930s that books
such as Graciliano Ramos’s Vidas Secas and José Lins do Rego’s Pedra
Bonita contained all the elements that a cinematographer required:
“movement, typologies, vivid scenes, dramatic intensity, harsh beauty,
and truth.”152
One of the hallmarks of New Cinema was its modernist sensibility,
introducing new ways of seeing to a national cinema whose construction
of spatiality had been overwhelmingly based in naturalism. Still, while
modernism had changed from a nonrealist aesthetic in the 1920s to a re-
alist one later, New Cinema moved in an opposite direction: the realism
it embraced early in the 1960s had been mostly abandoned by the end of
that decade. It moved from a symbolic language to an allegorical one, in
which rationalism gave way to a magical, mythical vision of the concrete.
The first phase of New Cinema runs roughly from 1960 to 1964, just
before the military coup. In this early period the national-popular discur-
sive formation had not yet entered into crisis, and New Cinema worked
intently on a range of related themes, concepts, and strategies. After the
coup, and its ensuing social and cultural fractures, people both within

200 chapter three

and outside the movement began to call its precepts into question, and
its production became more Tropicalist in nature.153
New Cinema first took up the modernist problematic of discover-
ing Brazil’s identity through confronting its roots, and assessing the
national unconscious through its archetypes. Its next step would be the
rather didactic move of teaching the people about their own country and
how to resolve its socioeconomic morass (phrased as underdevelopment
and foreign dependence). All the ideas at play were exceedingly difficult
to balance. Leftist ideological blueprints mingled with firm nationalist
sentiments. The movement proposed its production as a rhetoric of con-
sciousness raising, of establishing what was truly national, of throwing
off alienating colonial influences. Its leaders argued that Brazilian cin-
ema must focus on national/popular themes that would demonstrate,
realistically and pedagogically, the country’s structural problems, “ratio-
nally discovering the most significant elements of social relations.” To
Nelson Pereira dos Santos, for example, mounting Vidas Secas on the big
screen was intended to contribute to the contemporary debate of north-
eastern agrarian reform.154 Unequal landholding and imperialism were
two of the most formidable problems they cited as obstacles to the devel-
opment of Brazilian autonomy.
The historical period that gave rise to New Cinema helped define
its visions and ambitions. Leftists were increasingly embracing culture
as one of the best means to transform reality, while anticolonial move-
ments and the Cuban Revolution were appearing to redraw global maps
and reframe power structures. The middle-class intellectuals behind
New Cinema adopted political discourses and social strategies in which
they tried to take the perspective of the laboring classes, and to position
themselves as progressives against the reactionaries who denied the rev-
olutionary potential of popular culture. They were paternalistic in believ-
ing they could create culture that would be both for, and by, “the people.”
They determined that their fundamental conservative enemies were the
oligarchies, which in the Northeast appeared as coroneis. These were
the face of Brazil’s primitive social system, which needed to be exposed
to the rest of Brazil. The considerable (and controversial) mobilizations
around land rights in the Northeast seemed to progressive activists to
foster an immanent Cuba-style revolution. For all these reasons, New
Cinema’s directors and film crews helped enshrine the Northeast as Bra-
zil’s most primitive, oppressed, and feudal region.155

Territories of Revolt 201

Their productions Cinco Vezes Favela (1962) and Bahia de Todos os
Santos (1960) demonstrate the contradictions in how the filmmakers rec-
onciled leftist political strategies. Since the populist pact foresaw an ap-
proximation with the nationalist bourgeoisie, these films tried to avoid
depicting problematic relations between bosses and underlings in the
cities. The bourgeoisie should be part of the “people (povo),” a vague
and mythic term, and help them transform the country. But the films
accepted the dualism of developed and underdeveloped regions, regions
of capitalism versus regions of feudalism. The Northeast would be one
extremity and São Paulo the other. New Cinema thus gave fresh termi-
nologies to a national dichotomy that had been established decades be-
fore, by the turn of the twentieth century. From São Paulo, from the
South, the revolution would come; the Northeast would provide a reac-
tion, once it had been properly enlightened. The cinematic archetype of the
bandit as both source and signifier of popular rebellion only enhanced
the region’s appeal to these filmmakers.
New Cinema’s approach to the world of work also reflected some of the
ambiguity that characterizes Jorge Amado’s writing. Its directors were at-
tracted to characters who lived on the margins of “proper” employment,
making their way informally through a range of survival tactics while
embodying the Brazilian prototype of the rogue. Popular culture and
the improvised artistry of daily life could thus be a means of resistance
to bourgeois domination. But a rational work ethic and the assumption
of identity as a laborer were basic dimensions of a Marxist ideological
posture. The films often vacillated between championing the avoidance
of labor as a rebuke to the bourgeoisie, and condemning it in the name
of disciplined revolutionary socialism.156
This lack of fit between the “reality” captured and the filmmakers’ po-
litical and sociological values was a persistent problem. Films that were
intended to be straightforwardly antibourgeois, intended to politicize
the viewing public and serve as vehicles for the liberation of the working
classes, often focused on people living at the margins of market reality—
constructing mythic types that were ostensibly trapped in a stagnant
time outside of history and quite beyond the narrow claims of ideologi-
cal coherence. The thick layers of alienation applied to some characters
rendered them pathetic, even implausible, while conversely other char-
acters were portrayed as grandiosely poor and innocent, the wrongs they
suffered inflicted by a baroquely villainous society. The middle-class in-

202 chapter three

tellectuals behind New Cinema seemed trapped in their own guilt and
the paradox of their own position. They adored these mythically humble
people, revering, if not precisely reveling in, their misery and stalled de-
velopment. A middle class facing its own crises and deterritorialization, a
scattered bourgeoisie, a fragmented working class, and the lack of mean-
ingful dialogues and projects among them led these leftist artists to turn
their hopeful gaze back to the unorganized and deeply marginalized. The
Northeast offered visions of the nation’s primitive force, its rogues and
wretches living in a state of implicit, instinctual rebellion. But New Cin-
ema was also attracted by what seemed to be the passivity of these people
(symbolized by the trope of messianism in particular), an inferred quality
that could then be interpreted as a plea for outside intervention.157
Within the Brazilian context, New Cinema appeared at a moment in
which national autonomy through industrial development programs
under President Juscelino Kubitschek was still a widely accepted proposi-
tion. Cinema needed to participate in those efforts by placing optimism
on-screen, avoiding or denouncing the depiction of realities that were not
proper to a developed society. In fact cinema was regarded as a prized
medium for the delivery of genuine and appropriate popular culture, ac-
cording to groups as diverse as the establishment Higher Institute of Bra-
zilian Studies (iseb) and the Communist-linked Popular Culture Centers
of the National Students Union (une). However, the latter organization
cast a skeptical eye on New Cinema because of what it considered the
movement’s weak links with the people; the hermetic, inaccessible lan-
guage of its films; and the individualist, auteur nature of the movement
itself, driven by personalities and preconceived strategies. The une also
critiqued New Cinema’s “realism” as extremely simplified, with the re-
sult of its images and language being actually depoliticizing rather than
consciousness raising. However, New Cinema did share with the Popu-
lar Culture Centers a sort of general third-world vision, in which class
struggle is transposed to a struggle between colonized spaces and their
colonizers. This brazenly homogenized the sociopolitical realities of each
nation involved. The goal became a solidarity between colonized nations,
including blanket assessments of their problems and solutions.158
New Cinema proposed to reveal the essence of reality, not invent
abstractions, although its preferred cinematic language emphasized
public impact and shock value. The films prized aesthetic violence—the
clash of images, the starvation of narrative—as a means to stimulate

Territories of Revolt 203

enlightenment. But this predilection also encouraged a focus on rural
areas and rural people, whose instinctive, “primitive” violence might be
recuperated into a revolutionary project. If dominant discourse had been
downplaying the popular violence of bandits and other regional phe-
nomena for its own hegemonic reasons, New Cinema would reincarnate
the myths, breathing a new life of revolution into them. Os Fuzis (Ruy
Guerra, 1964) was an example of the type of film that actually offered
a defense of violence, using firearms as symbols of the path to libera-
tion, all in the context of decrying popular subservience to the abusive,
personalized power of coroneis. The familiar themes from northeastern
fiction were held up and reversed in order to show the negative image
of what was ostensibly a developed, civilized country. It mattered little
that such films wildly exaggerated the number and intensity of outlaws
and religious groups in the Northeast at that time, or at any time; or that
the coronel they constructed had long ago been transformed into a very
different sort of authority. What mattered was deploying the Northeast’s
best-recognized myths according to a political strategy in order to call at-
tention to the need for social transformation. Ideologically, it was neces-
sary to demonstrate that nothing had changed in the region, nor would
it, without intervention.159
If New Cinema had the goal of rousing Brazilian audiences from
their slumber of passivity for their own good, with polemical films that
could be challenging to watch and understand, they immediately had to
contend with the realities of a cultural market in which even the most
commercially successful domestic films achieved nowhere near the
popularity of imported ones. The movement’s great challenge would be
to reach mainstream viewers who were not accustomed to seeing them-
selves on screen, who often rejected Portuguese-language films beyond
the cloying chanchadas, and who did not deem portrayals of Brazil’s so-
cial and economic inequality to be enjoyable entertainment. This led to
numerous contradictions, embodied in the fact that Glauber Rocha (per-
haps New Cinema’s principal exponent) became an ardent supporter of
the state film production and distribution company Embrafilme, created
by the military regime in 1969. Among its actions, Embrafilme reserved
a portion of the national market for domestic film production—a move
welcomed by leftist nationalists. But Rocha praised the regime’s initia-
tive a bit too eagerly for some, and he was quickly criticized for appear-
ing to be a hypocritical champion of the dictatorship itself. New Cinema

204 chapter three

had aspired to become Brazil’s central political-cultural venue for express-
ing and debating national problems, but although it attained significant
international success it was received with mostly bored nonchalance
at home outside of a narrow sector of urban middle-class political and ar-
tistic sympathizers. Its leaders looked with disdain on “alienated” mass
culture, seeming to scorn the orthodox measures of popularity they
craved for their own work. They chafed the National Cinema Institute’s
filmmakers, who accepted box office receipts as the clearest index of pop-
ularity while rejecting the idea that complicated political films intended to
enlighten the masses could be truly “popular.” The movement ultimately
was unable to contend with the constantly evolving questions of aesthet-
ics, politics, and commerce that cinema must engage to remain viable,
especially a self-affirmedly “national” cinema that is nonetheless navi-
gating international currents of economics, politics, and culture. Even
with the protection given to domestic production by Embrafilme, even
in the context of an undemocratic authoritarian regime, New Cinema
was simply unable to attract a public in significant numbers.160
The movement’s mission was to reveal Brazil’s underdevelopment and
misery, which would require avoiding the industrial models imported
by Vera Cruz and Atlântida for more experimental techniques leading to
the discovery of Brazilian authenticity. The result of Brazil finally seeing
its own face, its own image, its own alienated soul on-screen would be
a qualitative leap toward a future of political engagement. This required
taking the country seriously, rejecting the superficial stereotypes in the
chanchadas for an aesthetic of hunger and violence—stern reality, not glit-
tery optimism. The gaunt, rough faces of the Northeast were deemed the
ideal counter to the civilized, prettified Hollywood-type stars or the festive
carnival masks in the films from Rio and São Paulo.
But underlying this project was a sense of political certainty that be-
came increasingly shaken. The country and its people had appeared to
possess a theoretically simple reality that would be straightforward to rep-
resent cinematically. As they progressed in their work, however, the film-
makers all encountered more complexity than they predicted—far more
than could easily square with their literary and ideological preconceptions.
Once they started to confront the multiplicity of realities, of social, politi-
cal, and cultural circumstances in Brazil, their initial abstract geography
fell to ruins. In a manner similar to the authors of 1930s fiction, they had
scoured popular cultural production and folklore for material to use in

Territories of Revolt 205

communicating with the people. The Northeast was recognized as rich
in traditional popular culture, but high in inequality and social misery,
leading New Cinema to avidly explore its images and cultural wellsprings
and repurpose them for developing a new national cinematic language.
The films of Glauber Rocha exemplify this, in the pervasive influence of
cordel literature on their narrative structure, themes, and hazy, magical
atmosphere between reality and dreams. Metaphors from cordel seemed
to offer the manifestation of a collective unconscious that could be tar-
geted to the debates over the nature of national cinema and its relations
between truth, image, and narrative style.161
Rather than examining the underdeveloped space from the perspec-
tive of the developed, New Cinema proposed the opposite (as Guimarães
Rosa had also done), for example, considering the city from the point of
view of the sertão. They wanted to examine Brazil not from the perspec-
tive of bourgeois urban-industrial society, the São Paulo of Vera Cruz or
Praça Tiradentes of Atlântida, but from that of the Northeast. This would
shift the positioning of the gaze to present the country backward, from
the inside out. Technically its cinema would be imperfect and dissonant
like the national sociology, and politically rebellious and aggressive like
the vanguard. They hoped to invert the criteria of image production in
Brazil, transcending the country’s cultural inferiority complex and the
dread of what holding a mirror up to its own face might reveal. The de-
sired vision was more diachronic than synchronic, more representative
than productive of reality.162 Still, it was only in the late 1960s that New
Cinema began to approach the realities of the country’s urban centers,
once they started to abandon the dualist vision that had oriented their
earlier production. They began to reflect that underdevelopment was
also apparent in the cities of the South, that Brazilian hunger and misery
were not limited to the sunbaked fields of the Northeast. Even within the
elite neighborhoods, among the elegant boutiques, could evidence of the
national predicament be encountered.
The cinematic reality of the Northeast they constructed was marked
by lack, by an absence of musicality or sounds or conversation. It was
a desolate space, visually and aurally, penetrated by monotonous, word-
less noises such as (in the film Vidas Secas) a discordant fiddle-like
rabeca string or screeching ox-cart wheel. Even when it appeared as a
space of dense verbosity, as in some of Glauber Rocha’s pictures, its very
grandiloquence indicated a problematic abundance of palaver without

206 chapter three

substance. Its world was black and white, overexposed to sunlight, con-
trasting the burnt or yet to be burnt. Nature in devastation was never
mere background but always one of the main characters, while the films’
various poor people—servile, humble, inarticulate, awkward—were not
given the expected prominence of “protagonists.” They embodied the
dusty environment, emerging from it briefly only to fade into it again.
The entire universe seemed to reel in its own insanity, explicitly chal-
lenging the viewer to accompany and impose sense on it. It was a mythic
world, unmoored from history and temporal signposts. The sertão was
the symbol and synthesis of underdevelopment, alienation, and submis-
sion to the brute reality of class difference.
New Cinema’s Northeast was homogenized by poverty, drought, ban-
ditry, and messianism, but simultaneously it was an exemplar of Brazilian
reality that was believed to be generalizable to anywhere in the third world.
Its internal nuances and diversity were smoothed over in the construction
of images and themes that made the Northeast a concentrated space of
shock and dismay. It revealed national problems and at the same time
suggested specific, if limited, solutions. When New Cinema affirmed the
sertão as a place lacking logic and meaning, it was arguing that rationality
and consciousness would come to it from outside, from the South, from
the coastal cities. Its migrants trudged toward the South almost as an act
of sheer instinct, seeking the truth.163
What New Cinema looked for in the Northeast, beyond the primitive
roots of Brazilian nationality, was a national unconscious of disgust with
domination, oppression, and colonization. These filmmakers wanted to
awaken and restore the forces of rebellion that history had put to sleep,
the bandits and the messiahs, to spark a new and greater effort to trans-
form reality. According to the revolutionary theory that shaped how they
interpreted reality, it would be the peasants, the poor and uneducated, who
would lead the charge once they had been enlightened by an intellectual
vanguard. But the Northeast continued to be understood and redeployed
as a region of misery and desperation.

gl auber rocha

Glauber Rocha (1939–81) was born in Vitória da Conquista, Bahia, to

a middle-class family of Presbyterians. His father was a merchant and
roadway engineer, and it was on trips with his father to the interior that a

Territories of Revolt 207

young Glauber first came into contact with the environment that would
serve as the location-theme for some of his films.
In the early phase of his work, before the coup and while he was still
associated with the national-popular discursive formation, Rocha made
two films: Barravento (1962) and Deus e o Diabo na Terra do Sol (1964).
In Barravento he was concerned with the alienation present in popular
culture and the fatalism of the poor, as well as the question of racial divi-
sions in Bahian society. The film centers on the opposition between the
characters of Firmino and Aruan. Firmino comes from outside, from
the city, and is thus destabilizing to the relations of passive equilibrium
in this society of fishermen. He is also unstable in his relationship to
capitalism, since he is reluctant to integrate into his new milieu of pop-
ular tradition but also eschews salaried work for an improvised exis-
tence of roguery. Aruan, on the other hand, represents the possibility
for continuity of that society with its forces of subordination. Tensions
mount between these two forces, and Firmino attempts to interrupt the
symbolic and economic continuity of the society in hopes that the mis-
ery of the exploited will ultimately trigger a revolt. Firmino, with his
urban experience, is granted a sharper sense of vision and understand-
ing. Rocha reaffirms the urban sphere as the source of rationality from
which the seeds of social transformation will be dispersed to the alien-
ated and primitive, those still locked into natural rhythms and the idle
distractions of religion.164
The goddess Iemanjá is shown to be just as domineering and un-
predictable a force as the businessman who owns the fishermen’s nets
and underpays them for their catch. The community suffers a double
tyranny—that of earthly forces and that of the supernatural. The alien-
ated rhetoric of the local characters is countered by images that seem to
produce a second, more convincing discourse suggesting they are simply
wrong and benighted. At the same time, the visual poetry of the images
and the representation of the characters produces at least a temporary
counterdiscourse of beauty to the film’s ideological project with its valo-
rization of revolution. Firmino attempts to provoke change, but he does
so illicitly, and the true path to the future will only be assumed by Aruan
when, at the end, he leaves the village to join the urban proletariat.
Deus e o Diabo na Terra do Sol opens with standard images of the
sertão: drought, dying livestock, a wizened cowboy, a priest leading a
flock of faithful as they pray for the miracle of rain. The nature of peas-

208 chapter three

ant life is presented rather selectively through the alienation of Rosa, and
the deliriums of Manuel. It is a primitive life of claustrophobic misery,
slow agony, and merciless domination. But this static world is rocked
when Manuel, driven and exploited to his limits, attacks the cheating
coronel. This violent act against his oppressor seems to restore his hu-
manity. Ensuing events and the breaking of routine lead Manuel to seek
a new meaning in life, including solidarity with some of the followers
of the authoritarian priest Sebastião. However, the mythic, sacred world
of religion might occasionally irk those in power but would not provide
any real solutions; the landholders unite to hire a killer to deal with the
upstart peasants.
Rocha makes Canudos leader Antônio Conselheiro’s apocalyptic ut-
terance “The sertão will become sea, and the sea sertão” a central metaphor
for the film’s meditation on the teleology of revolution and the transfor-
mation of humanity. While Rocha reproduces a traditional visibility and
speakability of messianic movements, he is nonetheless able to derive
new meanings from them. Sebastião is denouncing not only the lunacy
of the past, but its continuity in the present, a present of myth and spiri-
tuality along with the material condition of brutal inequality. Ultimately,
though, the film reveals its ambivalence toward popular culture, even after
including admiring shots of the group’s banners and flags. As a leftist
intellectual, Rocha was fascinated by the rituals and artisanal splendor of
popular culture, but he despised its logic; he was smitten with its forms
and images but rejected its content.
The appearance of Antônio das Mortes, a character obviously sketched
from Hollywood westerns, is a sort of third valence in an otherwise Man-
ichean framework of good and evil, God and the Devil, rich oppressor
and poor peasant, messianic priest and bandit. He is a revolutionary
force with a complex human face. He embodies the potential to tran-
scend closed dualities. His entrance also gives a helpful jolt to the film,
which had been indulging in lengthy displays of Manuel’s subservience
to his new boss, the priest: ascending an endless staircase on his knees,
carrying a stone on his head.
There is another shedding of blood, this time at the hand of Rosa, ap-
parently the only character to have maintained rationality. By killing the
priest, she makes the film’s second violent gesture toward doing away
with servility to the powerful and charismatic. As the antithesis of the
godly figure of the priest, the devilish figure of Antônio now seems to

Territories of Revolt 209

the swooning Manuel to provide a path to follow. But the model of the
bandit loses its luster for Manuel as an image of Corisco in trance bab-
bles about being the representative of divine ire even as his violence is
shown to be meaningless. The bandit, raised as the symbol of violence
properly used against the unjust powerful, is at the same time demysti-
fied into a confused, raging man whose violence is not the beginning of
a new and better world but a relic of the present awful one.
The dialectic between forces of good and evil is resolved by the assas-
sination of each, and the appearance of Antônio das Mortes, who kills
to free the sertanejos of their myths. But there is an uneasy subtext of
the middle classes with a guilty conscience—people who have the capac-
ity to understand the causes and mechanisms of exploitation but who
maintain the status quo and continue to serve the elites. Manuel’s dash
to the sea concludes the metaphor that runs through the film. He finds
a way out of his static, timeless space by heeding the transformative
message from the coast. The ambiguity of the world depicted in terms
of good/evil or violence/poetry becomes impossible for the filmmaker
to resolve. Rocha was stuck between abandoning his ideological precon-
ceptions and embracing fully the complexity he was discovering. His
characters remained types, bound to dualities of hero versus antihero,
the symbolic shadows of a theoretical posture. Perhaps that is why they
seem flat and a bit gratuitous.165
Flexible temporality was one of Rocha’s cinematographic characteris-
tics. Not only his characters but the plots of his films oscillated between
the discontinuous, multiple movements of history and the repetitive,
cosmic cycles of myth. His dialogue, sounds, and narratives frame a pe-
riodization that is often contradicted by his images. If the former point
to a specific time or era, his images jostle to be free of temporal bounds.
But Rocha’s interest in synthesis also contributes to a greater emphasis
on continuity than on discontinuity. His characters typically seem im-
prisoned in a suffocating, repetitive chain of past and present that allows
no hope of the future; but they finally intersect with history and find
a way to a more alleviating future. In Deus e o Diabo, for instance, the
temporalizing function of conscience is abandoned for the atemporal
unconscious and the deep archetypes of nation and region. Rocha re-
searched psychoanalysis for tools to artistically configure the ahistorical
national character, as a product of patriarchal rural society in the sertão.
He sought a time out of time, a moment that contained and channeled

210 chapter three

all possible realities. His totalizing ambition went beyond the nation to
the conceptual geography of the third world. His films did not represent
a time so much as invent an independent temporal frame that encom-
passed all the rest—memories and hopes alike.166
Rocha’s spaces were also based more on myth than on history. They
were closed off, their frontiers not implying an exteriority beyond the
frame. Each filmic world was a concentrated summary of various spati-
alities and temporalities. He deployed emblematic images against each
other to create a space of clashes and violent conflict. In this early phase of
his work, his spaces were totalizing and densely rhetorical. Starting with
Terra em Transe (1967), however, his approach to space grew more abstract.
He seemed to give up on the use of any identifiable references or identity
markers. His territories changed from being saturated with signifiers to
realms of emptiness and dissolution, evoking the philosophical deter-
ritorialization suffered by the director and his circle of progressives. The
previously established parallels between natural environment, human
characters, and narrative style were increasingly abandoned, resulting
in a widening gulf between his characters and the spaces they lived in.
Rocha’s narrative technique also changed to reflect this deepening com-
plexity, and the newly opaque interiority of his characters.167
Myth and history were two essential parameters of Rocha’s films, not
in the sense that measured proportions of each were applied recipe-like
to each project; rather, they instituted a polarity or force field through
which his films oscillate. On the one hand, Rocha utilized regional
myths to impose on them a critique from the perspective of history. But
in many cases his narrative approach and images concede to the myth
such power that it generates a discourse in opposition to his declared
ideological position. This contributes to the evaporation of linearity in his
films’ narratives, leading to ambiguity and confusion. Aspects of his pop-
ular characters’ history and identities are rendered blank when Rocha
lurches from affirming their human integrity and worldview to impos-
ing an ideologically determined set of events and resolutions on their
story. Barravento demonstrates this tension, as Rocha wants to construct
a Marxist condemnation of candomblé in the fishing village but is si-
multaneously captivated by the beauty and collective force of the rituals.
His ideology sought the end of history, but his films created a sense of
enclosed totalities, rich in the continuity of popular culture, in which
forces cancel each other out and movement is impossible. External force

Territories of Revolt 211

is required to introduce change to such mythic worlds—the instability
brought by vanguard intellectuals, hoping to create momentum toward
something like progress.168
Because Rocha wanted to reduce history to its essential pieces, his
themes, processes, and characters tend to be emblems symbolizing social
or class situations. The characters, in reaching universal significance,
are distilled to transcend their immediate temporality. He sought to both
discover and portray the origins of history and national culture, the na-
tional unconscious, in a drama of symbols. The essence of reality was
beyond what could be shown, because realism was trapped in bourgeois
appearances that needed to be unmasked. His goal was to reveal the
inner truth of Brazilian society and the Brazilian people through popular
myth, the use of which would be indispensable for social transformation
because they metaphorically revealed the subterranean forces of revolt
and liberation that those in power attempted to co-opt or deny. Rocha
desired to free the country’s unconscious powers of struggle and violence,
through a project of mass psychoanalysis, against a stifling bourgeois
conservatism. The myths of popular revolt would reveal the falsity of the
official history of Brazil, a history paralyzed by the status quo and steril-
ized by rhetoric. At the same time, Rocha ambivalently recognized that
there was a discrepancy between the reality constructed by myth and that
constructed by history. The myths themselves were not sacrosanct and
had to undergo an analysis of their own prevarications.169
To confront the myths within history would be to declare the death
of myths, and the end of history itself as a myth. But myths keep alive
the dream of changing history, including toward a revolutionary utopian
future. They dialogue with deep-seated desires, passions, and anxieties,
and thus would seem to have a place in a cinema that wanted to analyze
history and construct a totalizing vision of Brazilian society’s underde-
velopment. Rocha had a clear political agenda in the early phase of his
career, hoping to articulate a third-world aesthetic capable of conveying
Brazilian truths and Brazilian hunger. When he dove into the search
for primitive roots of the national unconscious in northeastern popular
culture, he was taking up the modernist questions of Brazil’s national
and cultural identity. As he grew obsessed with finding the soul of the
country, his discourse became entrenched in parameters of identity and
nationalism that rejected mass culture as alienating, inauthentic, and
destructive to the popular capacity for revolt. Such a quest for roots was

212 chapter three

the product of a gaze cast downward and inward. It seemed to repro-
duce the Brazilian condition of a colonized people perpetually bent over,
scouring the country for clues of self-identity. As Brazilian historian and
cinema scholar Luiz Nazário observed, those who go trying to dig up
roots get themselves covered in dirt and muck. However, the inclination
driving great art is never down into roots, but up toward the stars. Rocha
persisted in his desperate search for the source of Brazilianness, for a
familiar face hazily glimpsed but always just beyond his grasp; and he
became quite muddy for his trouble.170
To create a cinematic language based on the misery and hunger of
Brazilian reality, Rocha believed it necessary not only to use the popu-
lar cultural forms of society’s dispossessed, but to register a dialectical
critique of that culture as itself alienated, as a vehicle of domination.
To look at the world through a popular lens did not guarantee a gaze
opposed to that of the dominant, as the intellectuals linked to cpc and
une theorized. It was only the first step toward producing a revolution-
ary popular culture, and leftist intellectuals must be able to incorporate
criticisms of and improvements to the popular element. The doctrinaire
tone of Rocha’s early characters follows this pedagogical function. But
his films contain a more profound populist contradiction. Rocha’s ideol-
ogy led him to look to the people for revolution and transformation, even
though his personal vision was rather more cynical: the people like to be
led; they love and respect a strong boss. Ostensibly to rouse them from
their alienated stupor (a state to which he felt mainstream cinema con-
tributed), Rocha salted his films with scenes featuring characters star-
ing at the camera, shattering the fourth wall, and hectoring the people
explicitly.171
Rocha’s first two films participated in the general belief among Bra-
zilian leftists in the early 1960s that social revolution was both inevitable
and immanent. The objective conditions were in place; all that was lack-
ing were the subjective conditions of raising the people’s consciousness,
and there was a role here for enlightened cultural production. His films
presented a schematic of the way things were supposed to proceed—from
a static state of confusion and subservience, a character or set of char-
acters will advance on the path toward understanding, rationality, real-
ity unmasked, and metaphysics forsaken. In practice the teleology that
guided his first two works unfolded into another sort of metaphysics in
which history becomes prophecy. Perhaps this salvationist current was a

Territories of Revolt 213

lingering influence from his Protestant upbringing. History seems to be
imposed on his characters rather than be made by them. Their lives, their
world, the films themselves are all imprisoned in an evolutionist dialec-
tic that should result in achieving illumination. From the sertão, over-
arching metaphor of alienation and exploitation, characters and viewers
are carried to the sea—metaphor of the encounter with a transformed
civilization. Liberation was a destiny from which characters could not
flee. They were mere instruments for the stratagems of reason.172
At the start of the 1960s, extreme ideologues on both sides began to
ponder, paternalistically, how to integrate the popular sectors into poli-
tics in a slow and controlled manner. Both sides assumed that space
would be carefully conceded to the masses, not conquered by them. Pop-
ular participation had to be mediated, to obstruct change in the case of
conservatives or to orient and guide change in the case of the leftists. If
intellectuals on the right fetishized popular tradition, those on the left
tended to interpret it as false consciousness. Their shared conception of
politics focused on the actions of charismatic leaders who would antici-
pate the people, perform illustrious acts for them, point out the proper
path forward, and utter truths for their edification. For their part the
leftist vanguard believed themselves uniquely able to secularize popu-
lar customs, and reveal the relations of production as both the essence
of exploitation and the source of all miseries and cruelties that victim-
ized the poor. If the people did not understand the structural reasons
for their hunger, if they were ostracized from the institutions of power,
it was only revolution—led by a conscious vanguard—that would tran-
scend this state of fragmentation. Revolution would retotalize the world,
replacing delirium and alienation with meaning and understanding.173
Rocha’s films were a product of these tensions and ambitions. They
were ambivalently divided between defending traditional culture and
militating for its elevation to more rational forms. He supported this pop-
ular culture to the extent that it was resistant to the invasion of industrial
mass culture and was antithetical to bourgeois cosmopolitanism. It also
furnished him with material and modes of expression distinct from (and
more “authentic” than) the global cinematic language imported and re-
created in the South. He was aesthetically drawn to violence, not order,
as a means of establishing justice. Rebellion was imperative, so he did
not condemn “evil” in the abstract but sought to explore the conditions
that produced it in society. He sought the elements of resistance and

214 chapter three

revolt within popular culture, hoping to excavate from the layers of pas-
sivity their realization. He probed the people’s morals and sentiments
for political expression. Nonetheless, the people were always evading
his gaze as he sought to materialize and comprehend them. He would
meet them only in the utopian future, when they could slough off their
alienation and take their revolutionary place in a time beyond history.174
The violence of the repressor was thought to be the starting point for
a process of consciousness raising. The greater the violence of domina-
tion, the nearer the people were coming to the regeneration of revolu-
tion. Rocha believed that people should be capable of staring at death
full-on and allow their convictions to transcend their fear of it, a view that
explains in part his fascination with myths and archetypal forces. Revo-
lutionary heroes would be cut from this cloth—men (nearly always men)
willing to die for an idea, or for the cause that had driven their lives. Fear
of death was an arm of manipulation leveraged by the dominant classes,
who trembled at the thought of a mass insurrection. All these ideas drove
Rocha to the Northeast, a space that had been crystallized as a milieu of
violence and death. He combed the backlands for myths that would bring
meaning and conviction to the struggle against unjust power relations.
He believed that violence was the only form of expression left to the
dominated, their only way out of the status quo. Violence was pedagogy,
instructing in how to bring about change, and an aesthetic that conveyed
cruel reality without relying on words. In Rocha’s universe power was un-
derstood negatively, as the generator of misery and violence. Resistance
and revolt were the opposite of power, they moved in the opposite direc-
tion, and only they could be used to combat power.175
His preoccupation that his aesthetic be an actual expression of reality
led Rocha to foster a gaze that was objectifying, distancing, organizing,
and analytical. He demanded that his cinematic language reflect the es-
sence of the social processes they depicted. Improvised techniques such
as holding the camera in hand and circling a character permitted a greater
creative freedom that helped simulate the vertiginous lunacy experienced
by the character. They also lent an illusion of movement to characters
who were static in their lives and thinking. But the impulse was framed
according to his vanguard notions of who ultimately is responsible for
change and so came from outside the plebian characters who were them-
selves moved by it. His camera was guided by a defined, and defining,
political posture, which is why his spaces and temporalities could be both

Territories of Revolt 215

deeply conceptual and hastily jumbled together. There was no naturalist
or realist pretension in the cinematography. Entire scripts would be re-
written during filming. But these improvisations were countered by rigid
editing, including careful choices of sound, determined by the ideological
message a given film was constructed to deliver. Eisenstein’s dialectical
approach to montage, which Rocha ardently embraced, works to mini-
mize the evidence of improvisation and spontaneity while affirming the
presence of the director as the author of the whole final product. Only in
Barravento is there some smooth editing between scenes that implies a
certain visual harmony, a peaceful play of images that invites the viewer
to enjoy the experience of watching. By Deus e o Diabo there are abrupt,
jarring cuts to the film itself that reflect aspects of the plot.176
The handheld camera, wandering in disequilibrium, reveals the fact
that someone is manipulating it. It is such vacillations around the char-
acters and their spaces, framing disjointed perspectives, that ultimately
affirm the multiplicity of points of view that composes history. Rocha
wanted to not simply represent the real, but to break through the appear-
ance of reality that he took as an ideological construction of the dominant
class. His initial films are organized around the struggle between two
opposing forces that winds up being resolved through the intervention
of a third, different force, which puts an end to chaos and introduces
rationality.177
Rocha’s auteur cinema was intended to break with the narrative con-
ventions of commercial cinema, to find other ways to represent a national
reality he believed was still preindustrial. He emphasized shocking tran-
sitions, gaps, discontinuity, the odd fit between scenes, the presence of
the camera rather than its invisibility. He assumed the fact that he was
making a representation, a fiction, and he did not flee from accidents or
improvisations. He seemed pleased that his films were barely control-
lable experiences. He also believed that the speakability of his work was
able to articulate truths, unlike the pretty lies of commercial cinema. But
this was another major contradiction in his filmmaking: he regarded the
films as fiction but still believed they were vehicles of truth. His flash-
style editing, seemingly done by hand as a traditional artisan would, ob-
viously had cordel literature as an inspiration; and in Deus e o Diabo
he sharpened the technique into one of the most successful attempts
at a national cinematographic form in Brazilian history. The pulsation
of that narrative reproduces the rhythms of characters, their slowness

216 chapter three

and exasperating repetitiveness as well as their quick actions. The film
thus seems to breathe. It cycles through tension and distension. The
interventions of history are jagged and unexpected, precipitating rapid
change in an otherwise stagnant world. Immobility takes on the sug-
gestive tone of patience, of accumulating energy before a leap into the
future. The down time of inactivity is not pointless or neutral but is a
phase of quiet, invisible intensity that gathers strength into readiness.178
In that film, too, the confluence of images, words, and didactically sym-
bolic characters is invaded by a rending allegory of modernism, which
lends further ambiguity to the meaning of the work. Rocha manages to
combine elements of Greek tragedy and operatic stylization here, includ-
ing the chorus that comments on or accelerates the action and a sense of
the blind determinism of destiny. His dialogues were between characters,
between characters and audience, between characters and the cinema,
and ultimately between his cinema and the audience. He transposed the
oral narrative of cordel literature and the sad, nasal song of northeastern
singers into a new and sophisticated dramatic form with modern arrange-
ments. He was inspired by his perception that the cordel storyteller was
to a great degree a Brechtian actor, who did not just interpret history for
the audience but was also its author, conductor, and fellow interlocutor.179
Rocha’s early films centered on the battle between magical and material-
ist thinking, as he strove to create a language that could affirm the national
and popular from the point of view of class struggle. In cordel he found the
magical realism that helped him express the surrealism of national reality.
By incorporating its myths he elaborated a highly inventive, antinaturalist
space into which he projected his desire for the essential, eternal, and ab-
solute. He used metaphor to magnify the real, reintegrating past, present,
and future, the known and unknown, spaces of the present and future,
into one totality. This totality had one primordial segmentation, repre-
sented by symbolic characters: on the one hand the bosses, the landown-
ers, the power brokers; on the other the poor and submissive, who sought
balm for their exploitation in mysticism. But alongside these a third force
emerged, the enlightened revolutionary vanguard who would intervene
to attempt to transform this desolate order. Those characters could rep-
resent monolithism or upheaval, just like the forces of society itself.180
Rocha declared in an interview that his interest in cinema came with
the awareness of the basic regional problems of hunger and slavery.
To show those problems, in all their ugliness and complexity, was his

Territories of Revolt 217

ultimate goal. In other words, his work begins already trapped in the same
strategy of the numerous northeastern regionalist discourses examined
in this book, to reveal misery and exploitation. Of course, Rocha had the
Marxist ambitions of post–Cuban Revolution leftist intellectuals, and he
created an iconoclastic set of discourses to try to achieve them. He focused
on the Northeast but subordinated its regional spatiality to the global
movement for revolutionary transformation of society. The Northeast was
appealing as a means to address not only Brazilian reality, but also the
reality of the entire third world. Rocha valorized popular culture to the
extent that it was resistant to internationalization and opposed to the bour-
geois logic of modernity, but his approach to it was contradictory. He fully
accepted that the Northeast was magical, desperate, intense, and violent.
He tried to retell its history through popular gazes, manifestations, and
discourses, intending to challenge official history—even as he also wanted
to demystify and comment sagely on the nature of the poor people’s forms
of seeing and speaking, on their customs and beliefs.181
In Rocha’s films, regional memory revealed and questioned itself,
finding a way to reelaborate itself from different points of view. Just as
the diverse dimensions of his films (narration, sound, image, dialogue,
musical commentary, the director’s ideology, camera work, editing) were
not producing a single coherent message in synchronicity, the works
opened spaces for regional visibility and speakability to be rearranged in
new perspectives. His films swung between rejecting the whole universe
of images and enunciations that had constructed the received idea of
the Northeast, and a complete identification with them. Whether seen
from the right or from the opposite of the right, the Northeast appears
as a unified world of burnt horizons, a place of the living dead where
destiny is a condemnation. It was a scorched space of ruin, hunger, and
misery, however one looks at it. Even inside out, the Northeast proved
resilient—but this is another of its clichés.
In the end Rocha did not subvert but actualized the myths and themes
of the Northeast, packaging them within a different political strategy for
use as a denunciation of global capitalism and the global bourgeoisie.
But he also saw the region as a space that was exciting because the fu-
ture was overdue. It was the territory of revolt that had captivated Jorge
Amado, and been dreamed of by Graciliano Ramos and João Cabral do
Melo Neto. In the discourse of intellectuals on the left, the Northeast was
locked into the same series of images and enunciations that the conser-

218 chapter three

vatives spun out of their nostalgia, their romanticism. The left repeated
with mere repolarization the terms of desperation and misery used by
local oligarchies to gain national pity and national contributions. They
hauled the Northeast out with equal fervor as the place where national
authenticity still existed, where traditions had best been preserved from
cosmopolitanism and mass culture, where the struggle was greatest
against values considered foreign and bourgeois. The Northeast was
invented as the place in Brazil that rebelled against modernity, and
begged for charity from the developed regions to keep the fight up. It was
invented as a machine that ostensibly generates its own images and
texts of stubbornness, tradition, squalor, and drought. Meanwhile, the
Northeast itself remains mostly unknown.

Territories of Revolt 219

C O N C LU S I O N

The principal conclusion of this book is that, despite many appearances

to the contrary, the Northeast is a recent invention in Brazilian history.
The region must not be taken as an object of study without historicizing
it, or the results will be anachronisms that falsely affirm it as an objec-
tively natural and timeless cultural-geographical space. The idea of the
Northeast was formed at the intersection of diverse regionalist practices
motivated by particular conditions affecting the provinces of the older
North region, at a moment when, after independence, elites around Bra-
zil grew preoccupied with constructing a nation. Groups that were ini-
tially dispersed, focused only on particular local interests, increasingly
came together to defend what they were perceiving as their shared space:
a territory in economic and political decline that stood to benefit from
state largesse. Diverse processes and practices—from drought policy to
messianic movements, banditry to new regional political blocs, chang-
ing capitalist models to the attraction of Recife’s intellectual life for sons
of traditional landowners—all contributed to the consolidation of this
novel concept of the Northeast. The region was cohering as a space of
common references and concerns, both political and economic, bound
together by history and culture. Congresses, symposia, scientific studies,
political committees, novels, and movies would be among the products
ultimately generated by this Northeast.
For such an accretion of commonsense reality to occur, regional-
izing practices interacted with political and cultural discourses that
transformed the place from being merely an area afflicted by periodic
drought to a place with its own unique racial, economic, social, and cul-
tural identity. Intellectuals, connected in various ways to the local domi-
nant classes, were summoned to produce knowledge that would give
breadth and depth and texture to the region, letting it speak and be seen
with an increasingly assumed objectivity. They invented it in a particular
way—as a region in decline compared to the rest of Brazil. It was with
subtle artistry that these intellectuals, themselves linked to preindustrial
socioeconomic models under threat, elaborated texts and images for the
region that anchored it as defiantly backward-looking, even reactionary
toward the changes affecting Brazil as a whole (which included a growing
bourgeois sensibility expanding outward from the South). The invention
of the Northeast also depended on a shift in how space was seen. No lon-
ger simply a natural or ethnic phenomenon, the region was demarcated
by social and cultural traditions, values, and attitudes. The cohesion of
the Northeast was a way to counter the processes of deterritorialization
affecting social groups in the area, a circumstance provoked by their deep-
ening subordination to the modernizing South and the spread of urban-
capitalist sociabilities.
This book has not argued for the existence of an actual regional north-
eastern identity. Rather, it has tried to unearth the conditions that made
the Northeast possible and plausible. It has endeavored to show how the
Northeast became the most sophisticated elaboration of “region” in Bra-
zil. Of course, the questions of regional and national identity are always
interlinked and shape each other in dynamic ways. Regionalism and na-
tionalism emerge together, like twins in a fraternal but competitive rela-
tionship from the moment of birth, each offering new potentialities for
the other and lending special forms of credence to the other. The idea of
nation that emerged in Brazil in the nineteenth century was interlaced
with regionalisms; these preceded and created the regions that today can
appear retroactively to explain and justify their existence.
Like Brazil’s other component “regions,” and indeed the whole tapes-
try of Brazil itself, the contemporary jigsaw puzzle of boundaries is not
a product of natural geography, or of political or economic rationality.
Each is a construct of images and discourses, a constellation of mean-
ings. This book has attempted to reveal some of the ways Brazil and
the Northeast have observed, heard, and read each other, and how their
distinct meanings contributed to their mutual configuration in different
ways. What seems to be an endless repertoire of signifiers is actually
limited by the rules of meaning at any given time that inform what can
be seen and spoken. Regions are given the symbolic weight of being the
largest territorial bases that together inscribe the nation, but they are
anything but solid. They are composed of sinuous threads of discourse,
of carefully selected images and enunciations, of new music that comes
to us as an evocative soundtrack for what always existed—in short, re-
gions depend on all the mysterious arts that give contour and stability to
what is intangible. To accept the premise that a region exists as a discrete

conclusion 221
entity is to perpetuate an identity forged narrowly, and dynamically, in
processes of domination and resistance. Region should be understood
as a historical construct that contains diverse temporalities and spatiali-
ties, whose various cultural elements along the axis of erudite and pop-
ular have been categorized as memory, character, tradition, soul, spirit,
essence. Actually the “pure” Northeast exists in every corner of the re-
gion, and everywhere in the country, and nowhere at all, because it is a
crystallization of stereotypes that is the product of a national dialogue.
These institute a truth, or impose it, with such persuasive force that
the multiplicity of regional images and voices is obliterated. The region
can be grasped as such only by reducing it to a sheaf of clichés that are
repeated ad nauseam by the vehicles of communication and the arts,
by people from outside the region, and, most fundamentally, by people
within it.
Structural prejudice toward the Northeast and its inhabitants (the
“crooked gaze” of the media that Rachel de Queiroz denounced, but to
which she nonetheless contributed) emerged from a given visibility and
speakability of the region that was nourished not only outside of it but
by it, by its own discourses, which were reproduced and advanced by
the people living within it. This Northeast is nothing more than the nor-
malization of certain themes, images, and texts that are repeated and
reflected throughout the entire nation. If not to be too expansive and cha-
otic to comprehend, regional as well as national identity depends on the
distillation of variations. But diversity is an inescapable fact of humanity.
As Roberto de Matta has noted, formulations of Brazilian national iden-
tity pull in opposite directions. They vacillate between the acceptance
and celebration of all-encompassing diversity as a unique Brazilian trait,
and the naturalizing of an ostensibly nation-bound (or region-defined)
human nature. The danger lurking in discourses of identity is that com-
plex historicity can be elbowed aside by a reifying naturalism; aspects of
social life are discursively frozen, removed from history, and reoriented
along lines that are controlled to stay familiar.
Such discourses typically confuse the compilation of shared signifiers
of identity with what “we really are,” which results in a constant struggle
to reconcile empirical beings with transcendental, categorical ones. Na-
tion and region do have a real existence, a positivity, manifested in each
attitude, articulation, or manifestation we make in their name. They exist
as a language, but they are also produced when those in power and those

222 conclusion
they subordinate dialogue with each other in that language. Nation and
region are spoken and seen distinctly depending on the place one oc-
cupies in society, and the particular webs of power and knowledge that
one is connected with. This book has attempted to show how different
subjects in different historical conditions, and occupying specific places
in the fabric of power relations, produced different texts and images for
the Northeast—and how what ostensibly is the “same” is actually hetero-
geneous. That should not be surprising, again given that contributions
to solidifying the Northeast have come from so many different subjec-
tivities and disciplines and creative endeavors over time. The Northeast
invented within the sociological studies of Gilberto Freyre was taken
up by writer José Lins do Rego, who in mirroring it also refracted it, in-
troducing small dislocations and variations. Freyre also directly inspired
Cícero Dias, whose paintings might be seen as inherently Freyrean
images—or not, since Dias also had his own particular vision and his own
artistic style.
In the same way, when diverse leftist intellectuals from the Northeast
wanted to invert the official image of the region, they did so by attempt-
ing to show “the point of view of the people, those who are dominated.”
They also provoked a dislocation of the traditional images and texts
linked to the region, but ultimately they stayed locked within a region
whose established terms they could not help but reproduce since they
never questioned the region’s existence. Later, the Tropicalists would
begin to ask some of those deeper questions, but only so far as to ques-
tion the region’s mode of existence, but not whether its reality should be
interrogated. The left’s imagination was imprisoned within national and
nationalist boundaries. As early as the 1940s, Oswald de Andrade was
calling attention to the fact that Stalinism and the theory of “revolution-
ary nationalism” was actually making frontiers more rigid, shored up
by barrier walls and barbed wire and lines of watchful guards bearing
carbines. What was tenuous became delineated explicitly by iron. By the
1960s, the reaction on the left was to regard nations as anachronistic.
The nationalist dispositif went into crisis, associated with the rise of
internationalist movements and the reflexive self-defense reactions by
“historical nations.” Regionalisms themselves were a conservative re-
action to this process of globalization. Nationalisms and regionalisms
both share a reactionary, anachronistic character, notwithstanding that
at a certain historical moment they made possible important social and

conclusion 223
political conquests as well as providing incentives for artistic and cul-
tural creativity. But their creative potential seems to have run dry, if we
consider that they rather quickly fossilized into a basket of stereotypes
and representative curios made up of stock images and enunciations,
sounds and character types. As forms of knowledge they were facilitated
and interpreted by interest groups in networks of power that wanted to
perpetuate themselves as national defenders or regional embodiments.
Today it appears necessary to start over, to go beyond categories of
nation and region, because both have turned into efficient machines for
smothering the new and different. That is why they exist in states of crisis.
Brazil has always lacked a nation, and the Northeast has been configured
as a region completely defined by lack and need. With coups and dicta-
torships and the democracy that cycles in between, the winners always
grow conciliatory in victory and promise to save both nation and region;
but the desperation for both only worsens. Arguments regarding Bra-
zil’s dependency and colonial roots of exploitation have all been used to
explain the state of the country/nation, and yet these too have little of
merit to offer since they share the premise that victimization defines us,
that others are always to blame for every aspect of our primitivity, hun-
ger, and misery. The same could be said for arguments intending to de-
nounce Brazil’s “internal colonialism,” the regional inequality deriving
from one region exploiting another. These allegations repeat the logic
of victimization that removes from the self any responsibility for past,
present, or future conditions. The notion of regional inequality falsely
presumes that one day there existed, or might possibly exist, regions
that are completely homogeneous and equal. To imagine such a possibil-
ity is contradictory, since it suggests a reliance on naturalism and mea-
surability that would undercut the discursive nature of the identity and
coherence of the regions themselves. International relations of capital-
ism and imperialism are not external to the nation or the region; they
intersect with us, align with us, prod us. They help constitute us and
reproduce us. Even speaking of external and internal in this context is
grossly misleading.
If this book has suggested that the Northeast is a circular concept,
a knowledge based on self-definition and self-reflection, that does not
mean the region’s culture is a fraud—nor is it to suggest that to be genu-
ine, culture must be connected to “tradition” and mechanically function
as representative of a given space. The more interesting question is how

224 conclusion
culture is produced and recognized within a series of frames from the
local and national to regional and international. We need to look criti-
cally at the conditions of production of culture and related knowledge
in the country, in its diverse areas. We must be prepared to look back at
that which gazes on us, and to speak dissonant truths back to the com-
manding voices that try to tell us what is so. The point is not to search for
“true” national or regional culture, to finally discover our national iden-
tity (pulling it up, as it were, from the bottom of a stream bed or catching
it in a butterfly net); but to seek out cultural difference, striving to be
always different not only from others but from ourselves. Historians can
contribute decisively to the collapse of the traditions and identities that
imprison us, that reproduce us as a nation always looking for itself or a
region always clamoring for charity. For this to happen it will be neces-
sary that each historical work be as much a meditation on how history
is written, its language and narrative and its ostensible relation with the
“real,” as on history itself as past issues and processes. The thrust of
historical analysis should be on the present, discovering it in its multi-
plicity of spaces and temporalities, considering the various pasts that are
in each of us and the diverse futures that may come to pass. We must
always focus critically on how the past is narrated to us in the resources
at our disposal—not as true or false representations, but as forms and
forces that together participate in inventing the past for us. They are nar-
ratives that construct a given universe, a given memory, that continue
operating in us, guiding our imaginations and our footsteps. We should
try to free the images, texts, and sounds of the past from the cloak of
present-day obviousness that hides their true nature from us.
This book demonstrates that the Northeast, which today appears ob-
vious and is widely taken for granted, was configured during a certain
historical era by many hands often working independently and uncon-
sciously. Domination and struggle did more than attend its birth; they
were the reasons for its creation, and they enter and reenter its stories
in complicated ways. At no point in his writing did Graciliano Ramos ex-
plicitly set out to lend weight to an image and text of the region that repro-
duced, precisely, the patterns of domination that he despised and longed
to extinguish. On the other hand, the critical assessment he brought to
bear on the mechanisms of memory and language facilitate a radical
new questioning of the creation of the Northeast itself. Ramos initiated in
Brazilian literature the modern suspicion that there might not be a direct

conclusion 225
relation between words and things, that words and fixity are mortal en-
emies. He provided an elegant (if terrifying) way out from repetitive art
and the brute power of custom.
The Northeast we confront is almost never the Northeast as it is, but
the Northeast as it was made to appear. It has become a machine that
mass produces texts and images. Responsibility for this cannot be placed
at the feet of the dominant classes, because there is not a simple class
logic involved. The high level of consensus surrounding these identity
markers and the wide range of participants in their (re)production cause
them to be perceived as “regional truths.” It must be recognized that
the region’s class structure and nature of economic underdevelopment
are not sufficient to explain the difficulties faced by those who tried to
modernize it. This aversion to the modern pervades social groups and
classes. The ideas, images, and enunciations that invented the Northeast
and remain associated with it are a fundamental component of this “lack
of modernizing capacity.” What there seems to be is a lack of social le-
gitimacy and value attributed to innovation, development, and change.
But an accentuated valorization of old ways of doing things means that
modernization acts in the Northeast to affect as lightly as possible the re-
gion’s social relations, power relations, and cultural dynamics. It might
be called “modernization without change”: avoiding the necessity of indi-
vidual independence and encouraging the acceptance of hierarchies and
paternal systems of protection as weapons against meaningful transfor-
mation, even against basic citizenship. This broadly based social aver-
sion to change renders the Northeast a place where the new is hobbled
and emasculated. It serves not only the dominant sectors but the other
classes as a convenient shield against the radical aspects of modernity,
dulling the blades of novelty and innovation so they cannot affect social
relations whose vulnerable traditional character must be protected.
The encroachment of mass culture and consumerism into the North-
east is given a different inflection by its coexistence with collective inter-
ests, which mobilize to block any of the positive aspects of modernity
or capitalism and more deeply embed the region in underdevelopment.
Codes of bourgeois individualization, with their depersonalized social
relations, clash with rigid but subtle traditional norms that protect the
group. Even the ideological energy of the dominant class is dissolved
into a sort of obstinate collective pride pitting the Northeast against the
rest of Brazil. But another perverse side of that corporate will against

226 conclusion
transforming social relations is the tendency for scattered interest
groups to fight bitterly to conquer or preserve narrow advantages, help-
ing ensure that no real progress in any direction will occur. Regionalism
works to weaken the identity of groups and classes per se and advances
by maintaining segmentary interests. The circulation of meanings in
Brazilian society in general functions as a systematic obstacle to the de-
velopment of more progressive social significations. By sacralizing the
region, the nation, the people, order, family, or revolution, political dis-
courses crystallize into doctrines and dogmas that undercut the potential
for invention of new political configurations. The people, including in
their lowest-common-denominator category of “citizens,” are regarded
by elites in Brazil as something as yet inexistent that needs to be brought
into being through wise and generous intervention. From the heights of
their wisdom, they will impose form on the amorphous mass. The real
people in all their multiplicity and complexity are disdained, when not
completely unrecognized, and understanding of them is substituted by
abstract constructions that the elites want to declare into reality. This
is another of this book’s conclusions. Call them what you will, elites or
dominant classes or “winners” on both the right and left in Brazil have,
at least until now, shared an abstract and authoritarian vision of the peo-
ple, reducing them to one homogeneous category or another (masses of
poor, masses of potential criminals, masses of laborers)—a herd to be
seen, organized, led, and improved by select others who are different
from them and who “know what is best for them.”
I have tried to sketch a vision, still rudimentary and mostly out of
reach, of the basic problems surrounding present regional separatism
and regional prejudice in Brazil. I was able to do little more than define
the weak spots or structural supports in the webs of power that sustain re-
gionalist practices and discourses regarding the Northeast, and through
some tentative interpretation, suggest future possibilities for investiga-
tion and analysis. This book was never an attempt to invalidate “false”
discourses and tyrannically impose a version of the truth against them.
Authoritarianism and totalitarianism nourish themselves on claims of
certainty that assuage all doubts, and they undermine any democratic
perspective that is based on difference rather than the hierarchy of in-
stituted identities. If this book can help stimulate a new form of rela-
tionship between Northeast and South—if it can help free our imagina-
tions of these imposed boundaries and entrenched identities—it would

conclusion 227
have provided one step toward a liberating rejection of the hegemonic
mechanisms of domination we have all learned and absorbed in Brazil.
If I have been able to go deeply enough within the region of the North-
east to come out the other side, penetrating its familiarity and making
it strange and distant; if I have shown how regional identity has limited
us in Brazil as a curious fact of historical processes and not a dictate of
teleology, then I have succeeded in everything I hoped to accomplish.
In this text I was not concerned with transcending modernity in the
name of postmodernity. Rather, by pursuing modernity to its ultimate
consequences I wanted to bring history back into a central place in our
own epistemology. My focus was on applying history to what has taken
on a supposedly impregnable sheen of naturalism, the objects and con-
cepts that seem resistant to time’s corrosions, the myths that sustain a
particular construct of spatialities at the national level. The hierarchy of
spaces in Brazil functions to reproduce a hierarchy of knowledges and
powers, a hierarchy that distrusts the modern and invalidates difference—
a political, social, and cultural regime that values the past more than the
present.
What is commonly referred to today as “northeastern culture” to em-
phasize timelessness is historically dateable. It is the fruit of a political-
cultural complex that tends to dilute the heterogeneity of the space in
order to defend so-called northeastern interests and culture against na-
tional and international influences. Areas as diverse as the Bahian recon-
câvo, the coasts of Pernambuco or Paraíba, the sertão of Ceará, and the
Amazonian stretch of Maranhão came to be conceived as forming one
entity, a geographic, ethnic, and cultural unit (that seems to disrespect
state boundaries, although it also accepts them as indicative of a cer-
tain natural reality). This unit could be defended according to political
strategies to counter its national disrepute, but it was also defined by its
pleas for outside investment. The less “regional” the Northeast actually
became, in terms of its economic, social, and cultural linkages, the more
intransigently it bore down on reaffirming its pseudo-unity and pseudo-
identity—even at one time suggesting with breathtaking ingenuousness
that it might separate from the rest of Brazil to ease its people’s exploita-
tion and magically create new indexes of development and wealth. This
book has argued that Brazil needs to renounce all of the continuities
that we acritically receive and reproduce, above all those lodged in the
terms of tradition, identity, national and regional culture, development,

228 conclusion
underdevelopment, and evolution, so that we can start to think and act
differently.
It should be noted that there has been a surge in regionalist procla-
mations and cultural movements in recent years in Brazil. This book
takes no part in them. It is not a manifesto championing northeastern
identity and has tried to be consistently nonpartisan. Its concern was
the mechanisms of knowledge and power that produced such regional
fractures and gave them their distinctiveness. It has not attempted to
defend nordestinos from the prejudice of the South, or claim one region
has more integrity than another. Its goal was to question the existence
of these regions at all, and how they are constructed in art, mass media,
popular culture, academic production. My perspective as both (and nei-
ther) a nordestino and sulista inspired my efforts to dislocate the autho-
rial tone from the gravitational pull of regional bases, which I regard as
stultifying mechanisms of domination that prevent us from seeing other
possibilities, other arts, other futures.
With this book I intended not to defend the Northeast, but attack it
on a variety of fronts. I wanted to begin the project of disassembling its
discursive and cultural capacity to reproduce the social, economic, and
power relations that imprison its identity in poverty and misery. Even
the “revolutionary” discourses that emerged to critique the condition of
the Northeast took too much traditional logic for granted to allow a more
complex, polymorphous reality to emerge. Why do we all perpetuate an
idea of the Northeast that equates it to drought, violence, custom, fanati-
cism, and suffering? It is not enough to ease the misery we look for and
find there, or to denounce it. New voices and gazes must complicate the
region that we all seem to know too well. If the Northeast was invented
as a space resistant to change, it must be destroyed to make way for new
spatialities of power and knowledge.
For those of us with ties to the region, if we simply take on northeast-
ern identity as it is, one based on exclusion and submission, we will con-
tinue to occupy the expected places in Brazilian hierarchies. Our voice
will be only for begging and lamenting, our gaze only for bearing stoic
witness and tearfully appealing to the consciences of faraway leaders.
On the other hand, if we denounce the networks of power that margin-
alize and stereotype the great majority of people living in the Northeast,
we must not fall into the trap of leveraging the identity of the region as
inherently, collectively resistant and revolutionary. We should affirm all

conclusion 229
the ways we are not nordestinos at all, in the consecrated sense. The
ways of being nordestino are innumerable and untold. We need to ques-
tion the lenses through which nordestinos are seen and see themselves,
as well as the words that circulate about them through the mouths and
writings of nordestinos and non-nordestinos alike. Combating prejudice
against the Northeast cannot be done through regionalist or separatist
discourses that invert but maintain the terms, or by mounting counterat-
tacks of prejudice against the southern “region” and those that live there.
We must destroy the South as well as the Northeast, these abstractions
mounted on preconceptions, if we are to truly get to know the national
population and both understand and respect the differences we do find.
A place to start might be to criticize the mass media in Brazil, which
saturates the country in northeastern references that rely on a nega-
tion of history. The media indulges in a visibility and speakability of the
Northeast that amplifies it as a picturesque, arid place that never left the
late nineteenth century. One might ask why the media shows the ban-
dits, the droughts, the coroneis, apocalyptic priests and wandering peas-
ants, but rarely anything else. These are cultural relics already devised as
such when the Northeast was shaped out of its geographic and cultural
ancestor, the North, in a particular historical and political era. Brazil at
the time was widely viewed as polar, like a battery, with the North as
negative and the South positive. The media repeats the hierarchies of
space and identity, providing false context and justification for Brazil’s
social, economic, and cultural inequalities. It operates with received ste-
reotypes and superficial, external differences, differences of “type” that
are not investigated but affirmed. News reports on the Northeast are not
undertaken to reveal in it something new, but to certify its established
image—and thereby to reinforce the accepted image of São Paulo and
Rio de Janeiro, of the South, and so on and on.
The pursuit of history has a fundamental human role to play here,
not because it might discover reassuring certainties for us, but because
it fosters doubt and new modes of inquiry. It offers no panacea. It should
not be a ritual of pacification and the shoring up of truths; it should be
voracious and restless, an exercise in dismembering. Like flame it reduces
established truth to ash, but as it consumes and reprocesses its material it
generates the sparks of new doubts, new problems to explore. Before we
apply our theoretical resolutions to try to contain the flame and fashion
a narrative from its embers, we must let our studies burn bright, to ir-

230 conclusion
ritate and provoke. The history of the invention of the Northeast must be
allowed to burn among us, to demand attention and interpretation—not
just as an academic topic but as a question for human beings to ponder
and reconstrue and configure into their art, in the name of love and the
possible. There is little as inhuman as certainty, a kindred state of death.
But art is a condition of life. It is possible that with art we can invent
other Northeasts that will carry us beyond the prison walls that enclose
the Northeast we are accustomed to.

conclusion 231
NOTES

for e wor d
1. Lincoln Gordon, interview by John E. Reilly, May 30, 1964, Kennedy Oral His-
tory Project, John F. Kennedy Library.

in t roduct ion
1. abc is a ring of communities around central São Paulo, including Santo André,
São Bernardo do Campo, and São Caetano do Sul, an important industrial base. It has
relatively high indices of income and literacy and played an important historical role
in Brazil’s modern labor movement.
2. Translator’s note: Nordestino translates directly as “northeasterner,” a word that
in American English carries implicit but highly divergent cultural connotations (as
well as referring also to a weather condition). For that reason in the text I have main-
tained the Brazilian Portuguese word nordestino in reference to people from or in
Brazil’s Northeast, while otherwise translating regional references.
3. The June festivals ( festas juninas) derive from the colonial period and are held
at the end of the rain season; the community celebrates the rain, as well as rural life
and values more broadly, with events usually hinging around the Catholic holy days
for Saint John and other saints.
4. Antônio Conselheiro was a religious leader who founded the village of Canudos
in the interior of Bahia state in 1893. Conselheiro’s preaching was often apocalyptical
and in favor of the monarchy. He rejected taxes imposed by the new republic, ulti-
mately making his alternative community a target for military action. He was killed
in 1897.
5. Lampião (1897–1938) and his companion Maria Bonita (?–1938) led a band of
outlaws in Brazil’s Northeast in the 1920s and 1930s. His father had been killed by
the police in 1919.
6. Documento Especial, Sistema Brasileiro de Televisão; Programa Legal, Rede
Globo; telenovelas Tieta do Agreste, Pedra sobre Pedra, Renascer, Rede Globo; Globo
Repórter, Rede Globo; Rachel de Queiroz, “Os olhos tortos da mídia,” O Estado do São
Paulo June 17, 1988.
7. Roberto da Matta, O Que Faz o brasil, Brasil?, 13; Dante Moreira Leite, O Caráter
Nacional Brasileiro, 96; Roland Barthes, “A escritura do visível,” in O Óbvio e o Obtuso,
9, and Fragmentos de um Discurso Amoroso, 24.
8. On the relation between power and knowledge see Michel Foucault, História da
Sexualidade 1 (A Vontade de Saber), 88.
9. For more on how I am defining power relations see Michel Foucault, Microfísica
do Poder, 209–28.
10. On the concepts of visibility and speakability, see Gilles Deleuze, Foucault, and
Michel Foucault, A Arqueologia do Saber.
11. I draw on the relation between discursive and nondiscursive practices in
Foucault’s work as analyzed by Roberto Machado, Ciência e Saber (A Trajetoria da
Arqueologia de Foucault).
12. Spatiality is explored further in Michel Foucault, “Sobre a Geografia,” in Mi-
crofísica do Poder, 153–66; Eni Pulcinelli Orlandi, Terra à Vista, 55; Fernand Braudel,
“O espaço e o tempo,” O Estado do São Paulo July 29, 1947, 6.
13. Michel Foucault, Microfísica do Poder; Roland Barthes, Fragmentos de um
Discurso Amoroso, 1; Haroldo de Campos, “Parafernália para Hélio Oiticica,” Folha de São
Paulo May 13, 1984 (insert), 11; Dominique Maingueneau, Novas Tendências em Análise
de Discurso; Orlandi, Terra à Vista, 25–.
14. Paul Veyne, O Inventário das Diferenças; Luiz B. Orlandi, “Do enunciado em
Foucault à teoria da multiplicidade em Deleuze,” in Foucault Vivo, ed. Ítalo Tronca,
11–42.
15. See Margareth Rago, Os Prazeres da Noite, 23; Celina Albino and Nísia Wer-
neck, “Anotações sobre espaço e vida cotidiana,” in Espaço e Debates no. 17 ano 6,
33–43.
16. Foucault, “Sobre a Geografia,” 153–66.
17. Foucault, “Sobre a Geografia.”
18. On the relation between identity and difference, see Deleuze, Diferença e
Repetição, 71 and 185; Luiz Carlos Maciel, “O esvaziamento da realidade,” Folha de São
Paulo February 27, 1977 (insert), 23.
19. Ademir Gebara, História Regional: Uma Discussão; Rosa Maria Godoy Silveira,
O Regionalismo Nordestino; Francisco de Oliveira, Elegia para uma Re(li)igião.
20. The concept of referential illusion is explored by Paul Veyne, Come se Escreve
a História, 11.
21. The method of interlacing enunciations and images was suggested by Roberto
Machado, Deleuze e a Filosofia.
22. On the relation between subjects and conditions of historical possibility, see
Michel Foucault, As Palavras e as Coisas, 384–90.
23. This approach drew inspiration from Jeanne Marie Gagnebin, “Origem da
alegoria, alegoria da origem,” Folha de São Paulo December 9, 1984 (insert), 8; José
Américo Mota Pessanha, “Bachelard: as asas da imaginação,” Folha de São Paulo, June
27, 1984 (insert), 9; Walter Benjamin, “As imagens de Proust,” in Magia e Técnica, Arte,
e Política (Obras Escolhidas vol. 1), 36.
24. Roland Barthes, “A escritura do visível,” in O Óbvio e o Obtuso, 9; Scarlett Mar-
ton, “Foucault leitor de Nietzsche,” in Recordar Foucault, ed. Janine Ribeiro.
25. Michel Foucault, Microfísica do Poder, 15; Roberto Machado, Ciência e Saber (A
Trajetoria da Arqueologia de Foucault).

cha p t er one : ge o g r a ph y in r uins

1. Gilberto Freyre, “Vida social no Nordeste: Aspectos de um século de transição,”
in O Livro do Nordeste, 75.
2. “A Enciclopédia Brasileira,” O Estado de São Paulo August 2, 1936, 4.

234 notes for introdution

3. For an example of this, see Paulo Moraes Barros, “Impressões do Nordeste,”
O Estado de São Paulo August 15, 1923, 2.
4. Paulo Moraes Barros, “Impressões do Nordeste,” O Estado de São Paulo August
10, 1923, 4.
5. “O Bloco Político do Norte,” O Estado de São Paulo September 3, 1920, 4.
6. Oliveira Vianna, “Impressões de São Paulo” and Dionísio Cerqueira, “Impressões
de São Paulo,” O Estado de São Paulo February 17, 1924, 6.
7. Paulo Moraes Barros, “Impressões do Nordeste,” O Estado de São Paulo August
16, 1923, 3.
8. João Lima Verde, “Impressões de São Paulo,” O Estado de São Paulo January 14,
1925, 3; Oliveira Vianna, “Impressões de São Paulo,” O Estado de São Paulo February 17,
1924, 6; Dionísio Cerqueira, “Impressões de São Paulo,” O Estado de São Paulo October
28, 1923, 4.
9. “A colonização nacional em São Paulo,” O Estado de São Paulo October 15, 1924,
4; “A São Paulo que desaparece,” O Estado de São Paulo May 12, 1927, 4.
10. “Hoje, no Fênix,” O Estado de São Paulo February 12, 1926, 14.
11. Chiquinha Rodrigues, “Cortando o Nordeste,” O Estado de São Paulo November
16, 1941, 7.
12. Chiquinha Rodrigues, “Cortando o Nordeste.”
13. For more discussion on the relation between the speakable and visible, power,
and object and discourse, see Gilles Deleuze, Foucault, 57–78.
14. Mário de Andrade, O Turista Aprendiz; Raul Antelo, “A costela de Macunaíma,”
O Estado de São Paulo September 17, 1978 (cultural supplement), 3.
15. Roberto Ventura, Estilo Tropical, 67.
16. Sampaio Ferraz, Cruzar e Nacionalizar, 180; Mário de Andrade, “Oswald de
Andrade,” in Brasil em Tempo Modernista, 219; Graça Aranha, Espírito Moderno, 24.
17. Mário de Andrade, “O Movimento Modernista,” O Estado de São Paulo March
15, 1942, 4; Carlos Berriel, “A Uiarra Enganosa,” Revista Ensaio 17–18, 210; Maria Célia
Leonel, “Antes que me falem d’ A Bagaceira,” O Estado de São Paulo September 17, 1978
(cultural supplement), 13.
18. João R. Pinheiro, História da Pintura Brasileira, 87.
19. Flora Süssekind, O Brasil Não É Longe Daqui, 187–221; Sérgio Miceli, Intellec-
tuais e Classe Dirigente no Brasil, 1–56.
20. Antonio Candido, Literatura e Sociedade, 113.
21. Roberto Ventura, Estilo Tropical, 36–44; Eni Yatsuda, “O Caipira e os outros,” in
Cultura Brasileira: Temas e Situações.
22. Cyro T. de Pádua, “Aspectos da liderança de Antônio Conselheiro,” O Estado
de São Paulo October 22, 1942, 4; “Os Sertões,” O Estado de São Paulo March 5,
1938, 4.
23. Paulo Dantas, “Os Sertões como tema literário,” Revista Brasiliense 5 (May/
June 1956): 86.
24. Monteiro Lobato, Urupês; Otávio Dias Leite, “Vidas Secas,” Revista Acadêmia
34 (April 1938): 10.
25. Lobato, Urupês.
26. Mário de Andrade, “O Movimento Modernista,” Aspectos da Literatura
Brasileira, 236.

notes for chapter one 235

27. Mário de Andrade, “Departamento Municipal de Cultura” O Estado de São
Paulo February 21, 1936, 3; Andrade, “O Movimento Modernista,” 236.
28. See, for example, the paintings Abaporu (1928), Lua (1928), and Distância
(1928).
29. Mário de Andrade, “O Movimento Modernista,” 237 and 248.
30. Nina Rodrigues, Os Africanos no Brasil, 17–18.
31. Oliveira Vianna, Raça e Assimalação and Evolução do Povo Brasileiro; Dante
Moreira Leite, O Caráter Nacional Brasileiro, 220–36.
32. Rodrigues, Os Africanos no Brasil, 261–.
33. Roberto Ventura, Estilo Tropical, 17–18; Graça Aranha, Canaã, 214.
34. Sampaio Ferraz, Cruzar e Nacionalizar, 25.
35. Durval Muniz de Albuquerque Jr., “Falas de Astúcia e de Angústia: A Seca no
Imaginário Nordestino.”
36. Gilberto Freyre, “Vida social no Nordeste: Aspectos de um século de tran-
sição,” 75.
37. “O problema do nordeste,” Revista Spartacus no. 1 (August 1919): 1.
38. Lourenço Filho, “Os Milagres,” O Estado de São Paulo April 23, 1920, 4.
39. Lourenço Filho, “No Reino da insânia,” O Estado de São Paulo November 25,
1925, 3 (emphasis added).
40. Lourenço Filho,” Transpondo as trincheiras,” O Estado de São Paulo Novem-
ber 19, 1925, 3.
41. “O banditismo no Nordeste,” O Estado de São Paulo 15 June 15, 1927, 2; Célia
Maria Marinho de Azevêdo, Onda Negra, Medo Branco: O Negro no Imaginário das
elites do Século xix.
42. See the series of articles entitled “O banditismo no Nordeste,” O Estado de São
Paulo June 15, 1927, 2; June 16, 1927, 5; June 22, 1927, 3; June 23, 1927, 2; July 11, 1927,
3; August 28, 1927, 3.
43. “O banditismo no nordeste,” February 4, 1927, 6.

cha p t er t wo : space s of nos ta l g ia

1. On the problem of origin in history, see Süssekind, O Brasil Não é Longe Daqui,
15–21.
2. For more on the relation between economic and social crisis, politics, and re-
gional elaborations, see Elide Rugai Bastos, “Gilberto Freyre e a Formação da So-
ciedade Brasileira.” The sensations of fragmentation associated with modernity are
explored by Lúcia Helena, Totens e Tabus da Modernidade Brasileira.
3. Gilberto Freyre, Nordeste, 5–6; Muniz de Albuquerque Jr., “Falas de Astúcia e
de Angústia.”
4. Oswald de Andrade’s trip to Recife is discussed in Joaquim Inojosa, Os Andrades
e Outros Aspectos do Modernismo, 259. On how São Paulo reacted to the droughts, in-
cluding charitable campaigns, see the series “Pelas vítimas das secas” in O Estado de
São Paulo: January 1–4, 6, 9, and 24, 1920.
5. “Pelas vítimas das secas,” O Estado de São Paulo January 6, 1920, 4; January 9,
1920, 4.

236 notes for chapter one

6. Mário Pinto Serva, “As reivindicações do Norte,” O Estado de São Paulo March
22, 1920, 5.
7. Muniz de Albuquerque Jr., “Falas de Astúcia e de Angústia.”
8. Consuela Novaes S. de Quadros, “Formação do regionalismo no Brasil,” Revista
do Centro de Estudos Baianos 77: 5–13.
9. Albuquerque Jr., “Falas de Astúcia e de Angústia.”
10. Albuquerque Jr., “Falas de Astúcia e de Angústia,” 276.
11. A. de Limeira Tejo, “O Nordeste do senhor Palhano,” Revista de Antropofagia 7
(November 1928): 2.
12. “O Bloco Político da Norte,” O Estado de São Paulo September 3, 1920, 4.
13. Souza Barros, A Década Vinte em Pernambuco; Miceli, Intellectuais e Classe Di-
rigente no Brasil.
14. José Lins do Rego, Meus Verdes Anos, 125; Moema Selma D’Andrea, A Tradição
Redescoberta, 49.
15. Gilberto Freyre, “Vida Social no Nordeste,” in O Livro do Nordeste, 75; Mário
Sette, Senhora de Engenho.
16. Joaquim Inojosa, O Movimento Modernista em Pernambuco, 208–9.
17. Inojosa, O Movimento Modernista em Pernambuco.
18. Gilberto Freyre, Manifesti Regionalista, 32; José Lins do Rego, O Moleque Ri-
cardo. On the reaction of the paulista press to the Regionalist Conference, see Mon-
teiro Melo, “Regionalismo ridículo,” O Estado de São Paulo March 6, 1926, 3.
19. Cited by Souza Barros, A Década Vinte em Pernambuco.
20. Gilberto Freyre, Sobrados e Mocambos vol. 1.
21. Gilberto Freyre, Região e Tradição.
22. Lúcia Lippi Oliveira, “Repensando a tradição,” Ciência Hoje 7 no. 38 (Decem-
ber 1987): 58.
23. On the invention of tradition, see Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, A
Invenção das Tradições.
24. José Guilherme Cantor Magnani, Festa no Pedaço; Luis Felipe Baeta Neves,
“Uma caçada no zôo: Notas de campo sobre a história e conceito de arte popular.”
25. Arthur Ramos, O Folclore Negro no Brasil; Florestan Fernandes, “A burguesia,
o progresso e o folclore,” O Estado de São Paulo September 19, 1944, 4.
26. On the integrative function of folklore, see Florestan Fernandes, Folclore e
Mudança Social na Cidade de São Paulo.
27. Manuel Bandeira, “Minha Terra” (Belo Belo), in Poesias, 340.
28. For more on the crisis of narrative in modernity and its traditionalist func-
tions, see Walter Benjamin, “O narrador: Considerações sobre a obra de Nikolai Les-
kov,” in Magia e Técnica, Arte e Política.
29. On the coexistence or linearity of temporalities, see Gilles Deleuze, Proust e
os Signos, 83–93. On the emergence of history as a paradigm of the modern episteme,
see Michel Foucault, As Palavras e as Coisas.
30. Ascensão Ferreira, Catimbó e Outros Poemas, 6–7.
31. Ascensão Ferreira, Catimbó e Outros Poemas.
32. José Lins do Rego, Meus Verdes Anos, 6.
33. José Lins do Rego, Menino do Engenho.

notes for chapter two 237

34. Jorge de Lima, “Passarinho encantado” (Poemas Negros), in Obra Poética,
237–38.
35. Rachel de Queiroz: “João Miguel,” in Três Romances, 125; and “Mapinguari,” in
Obras Reunidas vol. 5, 136–37.
36. Luiz Gonzaga and Humberto Teixeira, “Qui nem Jiló,” rca, 1950.
37. Ariano Suassuna: História do Rei Degolado nas Caatingas do Sertão, xv; O Santo
e a Porca; A Pena e a Lei.
38. Suassuna, História do Rei Degolado nas Caatingas do Sertão, 56–57.
39. Ariano Suassuna, O Romance d’A Pedra do Reino, xi–xiii.
40. Bezerra de Freitas, “O espírito modernista da literatura brasileira,” O Estado
de São Paulo July 20, 1941, 4; Antônio Salles, Aves de Arribação (Romance Cearense).
41. Gilberto Freyre, Nordeste.
42. José Aderaldo Castelo, José Lins do Rego: Modernismo e Regionalismo, 105.
43. Gilberto Freyre, Região e Tradição, 20.
44. Castelo, José Lins do Rego: Modernismo e Regionalismo, 99; José Lins do Rego,
“O escritor Antônio de Alcântara Machado,” Revista Travessia 3, no. 5 (December
1982): 30.
45. Gilberto Freyre, Região e Tradição, 38–39 and 199. On the period critical con-
cept of tradition see Silvio Castro, Teoria e Política do Modernismo Brasileiro, 97–104.
46. Castelo, José Lins do Rego: Modernismo e Regionalismo, 100–101 and 108; José
Lins do Rego, Presença do Nordeste na Literatura, 25.
47. Castelo, José Lins do Rego: Modernismo e Regionalismo, 98.
48. Gilberto Freyre: Sobrados e Mocambos vol. 1; Região e Tradição; Interpretação do
Brasil, 41–91.
49. Gilberto Freyre, Sobrados e Mocambos vol. 2, 424–89. He explains his dis-
tinction between modern and modernist in Vida, Forma e Cor, 99–115. His views on
Portugal are in Interpretação do Brasil, 41–91.
50. Gilberto Freyre, Vida, Forma e Cor, 143–44.
51. Joaquim Inojosa, O Movimento Modernista em Pernambuco. Freyre, in his writ-
ing after 1940, rendered himself the merit of having called attention to the need to
renovate national arts before 1920. Inojosa went back and surveyed Freyre’s writing
from the earliest days to the end of the 1920s and argued that Freyre did little more
than heckle the modernists until after their victory, when he rewrote history to give
himself undue prominence. Inojosa might also be critiqued, however, for overem-
phasizing his prestige in the northeast’s modernist movement—a movement that
Freyre accorded no importance. Inojosa went so far as to deny the very existence of
Freyre’s regionalist and traditionalist movement, citing the apparent fact that the 1926
Regionalist Manifesto, which Freyre claimed was read and approved at the Regionalist
Congress, was written and published only in 1952. Joaquim Inojosa, “O movimento
imaginário do Recife,” O Estado de São Paulo June 25, 1972 (literary supplement), 4.
52. Noraldo Pontes, Modernismo e Regionalismo, 36.
53. In the newspaper A Tarde, October 30, 1922.
54. Pontes, Modernismo e Regionalismo, 22, 33.
55. Pontes, Modernismo e Regionalismo; José Américo de Almeida, “Reflexões de
uma Cabra” in Novelas, 6.
56. Pontes, Modernismo e Regionalismo, 78–82.

238 notes for chapter two

57. Joaquim Inojosa, O Movimento Modernista em Pernambuco, 174–75, 182. Freyre
published in the Diário de Pernambuco on April 22, 1923.
58. Pontes, Modernismo e Regionalismo, 26, 102, 121–22.
59. Sérgio Buarque de Holanda, “Modernismo, tradicionalismo, regionalismo,” in
República das Letras, 107; Gilberto Freyre, Interpretação do Brasil and Região e Tradição.
60. Herbert Baldus, “Ensaios sobre a história da etnografia brasileira,” O Estado
de São Paulo September 16, 1943, 4.
61. Leite, O Caráter Nacional Brasileiro.
62. Gilberto Freyre, Interpretação do Brasil; Sobrados e Mocambos vol. 1, 3–23.
63. Freyre, Interpretação do Brasil; Casa-Grande e Senzala.
64. Freyre, Casa-Grande e Senzala; Sobrados e Mocambos vol. 1, 173.
65. Freyre, Casa-Grande e Senzala; Sobrados e Mocambos vol. 2.
66. Freyre, Nordeste, 98–131.
67. On Freyre’s use of images, see d’Andrea, A Tradição Redescoberta, 141–47. A
helpful analysis of the difference between symbolic and allegorical images is in Wal-
ter Benjamin, “O Surrealismo,” in Os Pensadores vol. 48, 84.
68. Freyre’s method is explored in Mário Chamie, “Gilberto Freyre, o mago das
recorrências,” O Estado de São Paulo July 10, 1984 (literary supplement), 13.
69. Freyre: Sobrados e Mocambos vol. 1, 30–50; Casa Grande e Senzala, 288; Vida,
Forma e Cor, 248–56.
70. Freyre, Sobrados e Mocambos vol. 2.
71. Freyre, Sobrados e Mocambos vol. 1 and vol. 2. For more on the thought pro-
cess that operates by oppositions but denies difference to affirm identity, see Gilles
Deleuze, Diferença e Repetição.
72. Leite, O Caráter Nacional Brasileiro; Gilberto Freyre, Casa-Grande e Senzala, 3–54.
73. Freyre, Sobrados e Mocambos vol. 1, 253, and Vida, Forma e Cor, 240.
74. Silveira, O Regionalismo Nordestino, 20.
75. Freyre, Nordeste, xi.
76. Freyre, Nordeste, xx.
77. Freyre, Nordeste, 16–37 and 43–58.
78. Freyre, Nordeste, 6.
79. Freyre, Nordeste, 91–138; Sobrados e Mocambos vol. 1, 152–234.
80. Roger Bastide, “Sociologia do folclore brasileiro,” O Estado de São Paulo Janu-
ary 7, 1949, 4; Vicente Correia, “O progenitor do Sul e o progenitor do Norte,” O Estado
de São Paulo April 12, 1936, 4.
81. Freyre, Casa-Grande e Senzala, 217.
82. Freyre, Casa-Grande e Senzala, 188; Cassiano Rocardo, Marcha para Oeste.
83. Freyre, Nordeste, 164.
84. Oliveira Vianna, Evolução do Povo Brasileiro, 76–; Gilberto Freyre, Interpretação
do Brasil, 91–139; Alcântara Machado, Vida e Morte do Bandeirante, 23–35.
85. Ricardo, Marcha para Oeste vol. 2.
86. Roger Bastide, Brasil, Terra de Contrastes.
87. Paulo Dantas, “Euclides e as dimensões sertanejas,” Revista Brasiliense 19
(September/October 1958): 138; Aderbal Jurema, “Sobre os campos do Norte,” Revista
Acadêmica 10, no. 2 (April 1955): 4; Gilberto Freyre, Vida, Forma e Cor; Sérgio Buarque
de Holanda, Raízes do Brasil, 117.

notes for chapter two 239

88. Joseph M. Luyten, “Desafio e repentismo do caipira em São Paulo,” in Cultura
Brasileira: Temas e Situações, 75; Gilberto Freyre, Sobrados e Mocambos vol. 1, 20.
89. Roger Bastide, Brasil, Terra de Contrastes.
90. Mário de Andrade, “Coreografias,” O Estado de São Paulo March 5, 1938, 4;
Oswald de Andrade, A Utopia Antropofágica.
91. Fernand Braudel, “Bahia,” O Estado de São Paulo October 20, 1937, 4.
92. Oswald de Andrade, Marco Zero I (A Revolução Melancólica), 125.
93. Amadeu Amaral. “Separatismo,” O Estado de São Paulo September 30, 1920, 3.
94. Lúcia Lippi Oliveira, “Repensando a tradição,” 64.
95. Viana Moog, Uma Interpretação da Literatura Brasileira; Cyro T. de Pádua, “Uma
interpretação da literatura brasileira,” O Estado de São Paulo April 28, 1943, 4.
96. Roger Bastide, Brasil, Terra de Contrastes; José Guilherme Merquior, “A caracter-
ização do moderno,” O Estado de São Paulo October 24, 1976 (cultural supplement), 4.
97. Oswald de Andrade, Os Dentes do Dragão.
98. Paulo Cavalcanti, “Romancista de um povo,” Para Todos no. 33–34 (September–
October 1957): 9; Cassiano Nunes, “Análise da problemática do romance nordestino,”
Revista Brasiliense, no. 14 (November–December 1957): 72.
99. Roger Bastide, Brasil, Terra de Contrastes, 195–; Moog, Uma Interpretação da
Literatura Brasileira, 29; Rubens do Amoral, “Testamento de uma geração,” O Estado
de São Paulo January 25, 1942, 4.
100. Joaquim Inojosa, Os Andrades e Outros Aspectos do Modernismo, 70–; José
Américo de Almeida, “Como me tornei um escritor brasileiro,” Revista de Antropofa-
gia ano 1 no. 1 (October 1928): 3; José Lins do Rego, Usina, xvii, lxiv; Viana Moog, Uma
Interpretação da Literatura Brasileira.
101. Pierre Houcarde, “Tendências e individualidades do romance brasileiro con-
temporâneo, O Estado de São Paulo May 14, 1939, 6.
102. On the growth of the publishing industry in the 1930s, see Miceli, Intellectuais
e Classe Dirigente no Brasil, 69–70.
103. The difference between monologic and dialogic is examined by Mário
Chamie, A Transgressão do Texto.
104. Antonio Candido, Literatura e Sociedade, 109; Roger Bastide et al., Jorge
Amado: Povo e Terra, 40 anos de Literatura.
105. Antonio Candido, Brigada Ligeira, 52–53; Bastide et al., Jorge Amado.
106. On the use of typical characters, see Umberto Eco, Apocalípticos e Integrados,
209.
107. Eco, Apocalípticos e Integrados.
108. Roberto Ventura, Estilo Tropical, 47–52.
109. Ventura, Estilo Tropical; José Antônio Pasta Jr., “Cordel, intelectuais e o divino
Espírito Santo,” Cultura Brasileira: Temas e Situações, 58.
110. José Lins do Rego, Meus Verdes Anos; Rachel de Queiroz, O Quinze; José
Américo de Almeida, A Bagaceira.
111. José Aderaldo Costelo, José Lins do Rego: Modernismo e Regionalismo; Silviano
Santiago, “Modernidade e tradição popular,” Folha de São Paulo November 16, 1989
(literary supplement), 4.
112. Gilberto Freyre, Vida, Forma e Cor, 140–45.

240 notes for chapter two

113. On the tension between naturalist and modernist mimesis, see Lúcia Helena,
Totens e Tabus da Modernidade Brasileira. The fight over land was an essential theme
in Jorge de Lima’s works, notably Calunga.
114. Luis Antônio Carvalho, “As pistas do moderno,” Revista Leia May 1987, 22;
Edgar de Decca, O Nascimento das Fábricas. On the equation of cities with perdition,
see Amando Fontes, Rua do Siriry and Os Corumbas.
115. Sérgio Buarque de Holanda, “Modernismo, tradicionalismo, regionalismo?”;
José Lins do Rego, O Moleque Ricardo, xvi–xlvi, and Pedra Bonita.
116. Ascenco Ferreira, “Cana-Caiana,” in Catimbó e Outros Poemas; José Lins do
Rego, Meus Verdes Anos, Pedra Bonita, and Riacho Doce; José Américo de Almeida,
“Reflexões de uma Cabra” and “O Boqueirão” (in Novelas, 85); Rachel de Queiroz,
“Caminhos de Pedras” in Três Romances, 327.
117. Ascenso Ferreira, “Minha Terra,” in Catimbó, 68.
118. Ascenso Ferreira: “Os engenhos da minha terra,” “A casa-grande de Megaípe,”
and “Trem das Alagoas,” in Cana-Caiana, 91–92, 94–95, 127–29.
119. Jorge de Lima, “Banguê,” in Obras Poéticas, 219–22; José Lins do Rego, Meus
Verdes Anos, Doidinho, and Fogo Morto.
120. Ascenso Ferreira, “Sertão” and “Dor” in Catimbó; José Lins do Rego, Pedra
Bonita, 330; Rachel de Queiroz, Mapinguari, 109; José Américo de Almeida, “O Bo-
queirão,” 172, and “Coiteiros” in Novelas, 207.
121. José Américo de Almeida, “Coiteiros,” 241. See also Almeida, A Bagaceira, xli.
122. On the links between language, vocabulary, and power, see Eni Pulcinelli
Orlandi, Terra à Vista, 157–62.
123. Gilberto Freyre, Vida, Forma e Cor, 39; Freyre, Casa-Grande e Senzala, 463;
José Lins do Rego, O Moleque Ricardo, xxxi.
124. Cyro T. de Pádua, “O dialeto Brasileiro,” O Estado de São Paulo December 4,
1940, 4; Mário Marroquim, A Língua do Nordeste.
125. Marroquim, A Língua do Nordeste, 32, 37, 50, 67, 100.
126. José Lins do Rego, Fogo Morto, 98.
127. Gilberto Freyre, “Vida Social no Nordeste (Aspectos de um Século de Tran-
sição),” O Livro do Nordeste, 75–76.
128. José Lins do Rego, Pedra Bonita, 172, 211.
129. Rachel de Queiroz, O Quinze, 31–.
130. Rachel de Queiroz, Mapinguari, 3; “Lampião (Peça em 5 quadros),” Obras
Reunidas vol. 2, 3. José Américo de Almeida, “Reflexões de uma Cabra,” 59, 77; A
Bagaceira, 3, 7.
131. Rachel de Queiroz, O Quinze; José Américo de Almeida, A Bagaceira; José Lins
do Rego, Fogo Morto.
132. José Lins do Rego, Usina, xliii.
133. “There are many things to affirm / Celidônia, the lovely Yoruba woman / Who
rocked me in the hammock / Who walked me to school / Who told me animal stories /
When I was small, very small / . . . There are many things still to affirm / The pretty,
the best house slave / The flesh abandoned, the night awhirl / Brunette rose, my first
muse.” Jorge de Lima, “Ancila Negra,” in Obra Poética, 241–42. On the reaction to
modern political ideologies, see José Lins do Rego, O Moleque Ricardo.

notes for chapter two 241

134. On the transformations of popular crime in modern society, see Michel Fou-
cault, Vigiar e Punir. For more on the popular tradition of crime tales, see Foucault,
“Os assassinatos que se contam” in Eu, Pierre Riviére, que degolei minha mãe, minha
irmã e meu irmão, 211; Durval Muniz de Albuquerque Jr., “Mennochio e Riviére: Crim-
inosos da palavra, poetas do silêncio,” Revista Resgate 2: 48–55.
135. Michel Foucault addressed the changes to popular heroism in modernity in
Eu, Pierre Riviére, 211.
136. José Lins do Rego, Fogo Morto, 58, 109, 207; Cangaceiros, 212, 240, 273; Rachel
de Queiroz, Lampião, 7.
137. Roger Bastide, Brasil, Terra de Contrastes, 87–107; José Américo de Almeida,
Coiteiros. See also “Lampião,” O Estado de São Paulo April 19, 1931, 8.
138. José Lins do Rego, Cangaceiros, 179, 272, 359.
139. Rachel de Queiroz, Lampião, 8.
140. Frederick C. Glass, “As ruínas do reduto de Antônio Conselheiro,” O Estado
de São Paulo June 13, 1929, 9.
141. Roger Bastide, Brasil, Terra de Contrastes, 83–107.
142. Rachel de Queiroz, “A Beata Maria do Egito,” in Obras Reunidas vol. 5.
143. José Lins do Rego, Pedra Bonita; Rachel de Queiroz, “A Beata Maria do Egito.”
144. Heloísa Toller Gomes, O Poder Rural na Ficção.
145. Frederico Heler, “A grandeza do Capitão Vitorino: Aspectos sociológicos de
Fogo Morto,” O Estado de São Paulo April 27, 1944, 4.
146. José Lins do Rego, Meus Verdes Anos; Menino de Engenho; Usina. See also
Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, O Anti-Édipo.
147. Rego, Usina, 30; Cangaceiros, 429; Menino de Engenho. See also José Aderaldo
Castelo, José Lins do Rego, and Moema Selma D’Andrea, A Tradição Redescoberta.
148. Citation from Flávio Campos, “Cinema e Literatura,” O Estado de São Paulo
June 27, 1938, 4. See also Mário de Andrade, “A psicologia em ação,” O Estado de São
Paulo November 19, 1939, 4; Rego, Fogo Morto, xvi; Rego, Menino de Engenho, xxxvi.
149. Rego, Menino do Engenho, xxxi; Rego, Usina, xx; Gomes, O Poder Rural na
Ficção.
150. Gomes, O Poder Rural na Ficção, 47; Rego, Usina, 29; Rego, Fogo Morto.
151. Alfredo Bosi, História Concisa da Literatura Brasileira, 451; Rego, Água Mãe, xxi;
Rego, Fogo Morto, 207.
152. Rego, O Moleque Ricardo, 101.
153. Rego: Meus Verdes Anos, 27, 53, 337; Doidinho, 54; Menino do Engenho, 8; Can-
gaceiros, 428.
154. Rego: Menino de Engenho, 11–64; O Moleque Ricardo, 138.
155. Rego: Menino do Engenho; O Moleque Ricardo, 41.
156. Rego, O Moleque Ricardo, 69, 119, 128.
157. Rego: O Moleque Ricardo, 18; Fogo Morto, 135.
158. Rego, Menino de Engenho, 11, 57 82–83, 92. See also Michel Foucault, História
da Sexualidade 1 (A Vontade de Saber).
159. Rego, Usina, 3, 282.
160. Rego, Usina, 3.
161. Rego, Fogo Morto. See also Nelson Werneck Sodré, “Fogo Morto,” O Estado de
São Paulo March 25, 1944, 4.

242 notes for chapter two

162. Rego, Menino do Engenho, 122.
163. José Américo de Almeida, A Bagaceira, lvi.
164. Maria Célia de Moraes, “Antes que me falem d’A Bagaceira,” O Estado de
São Paulo September 17, 1978 (cultural supplement), 13; Moema Selma D’Andrea, A
Tradição Redescoberta, 176–96; Durval Muniz de Albuquerque Jr., “Falas de Astúcia e
de Angústia,” 218.
165. José Américo de Almeida, A Bagaceira, 5, 45, 49.
166. José Américo de Almeida, preface to A Bagaceira, 2; Fausto Cunha, “Region-
alismo: Linguagem, criação, informação,” Folha da Manhã December 15, 1957 (cul-
tural supplement), 2.
167. Maria Célia de Moraes, “Antes que me falem d’A Bagaceira,” 14.
168. Moema Selma D’Andrea, A Tradição Redescoberta, 174–96; Durval Muniz de
Albuquerque Jr., “Falas de Astúcia e de Angústia,” 221.
169. Almeida: O Boqueirão; A Bagaceira, 114.
170. Almeida, A Bagaceira, 45.
171. Almeida, A Bagaceira, 10. See also Silviano Santiago, “A Bagaceira: Fábula mor-
alizante I,” Jornal Minas Gerais August 17, 1974 (literary supplement), 4.
172. Moema Selma D’Andrea, A Tradição Redescoberta; Almeida, O Boqueirão.
173. Almeida, O Boqueirão, 85–119, 126.
174. Rachel de Queiroz, Mapinguari, 74.
175. Almir Andrade, Aspectos da Cultura Brasileira, 107.
176. Rachel de Queiroz, Mapinguari, 74.
177. Queiroz, O Quinze, 35, 103, 116; João Miguel, 125.
178. Queiroz, Caminho de Pedras.
179. Queiroz, Caminho de Pedras, 241.
180. Queiroz: As Três Marias; Mapinguari, 108–10, 124–26. See also Alfredo Bosi,
História Concisa da Literatura Brasileira, 446–47.
181. Queiroz: Mapinguari, 24, 64; Caminho de Pedras; “Terra,” O Cruzeiro, August 17,
1963, 130; “Mão-de-Obra,” O Cruzeiro June 8, 1963, 130; “Nordeste,” O Cruzeiro, May 20
1961, 129. See also Lausimar Laus, “O romance em Rachel de Queiroz,” O Estado de
Minas, October 11, 1975 (literary supplement), 11.
182. Queiroz, O Quinze, 121.
183. Quirino da Silva, “Lúcia Suané,” Diário de São Paulo, October 16, 1955; João
Ribeiro Pinheiro, História da Pintura Brasileira.
184. On representation and likeness, see: Michel Foucault, Isto Não É um Cachimbo
and História da Loucura, 111–35; Gilles Deleuze, Foucault, 57–78.
185. Gilberto Freyre, Vida, Forma e Cor, 27–39, 156–61.
186. Freyre, Região e Tradição, 79–107.
187. Freyre, Região e Tradição; “Paisagem sexual,” Quase Poesia, 21; Manifesto Re-
gionalista, 66; “A pintura do Nordeste,” O Livro do Nordeste.
188. Cícero Dias, Família na Paisagem (n/d); Procissão (1930); Ano (1933); Com-
posição Saudades (1931); Banho de Rio (1931); Vida (1939); Homem no Burrinho (1930); O
Tirador de Coco (1930s); Paisagem com Figura (1930); Dançarina ou Mamoeiro (1940s).
189. Freyre, “Cícero Dias, seu azul e encarnado, seu sur-nudisme,” Brasil e o 1°
Tempo Modernista.
190. Freyre, Vida, Forma e Cor, 170–79.

notes for chapter two 243

191. Lula Cardoso Ayres, Vendedores de Rua (1936); Mulher e Mandacaru (1938);
Tipos de Feira (1942); Caboclos Tuchaua—Carnaval do Recife (1942); Menino de En-
genho (1943); Cabeleira no Carnaval (1950); Namoro de Ex-Votos (1951); Bichos de Festa
Popular (1952); Bichos de Carnaval (1954); Ruína (1966); Grade e Sobrado (1967); Portão
(1969); Cadeira (1969); Relógio (1971).
192. Ayres, Apresentação do Bumba-Meu-Boi (1943); Noivado na Casa de Engenho
(1943); Retrato de Família (1943); Dando Cafuné (1943); Matheus e boi (1945); Capela
Mal-Assombrada (1945); Cabriolet Mal-Assombrado (1945); Sofá Mal-Assombrado (1945);
Vulto Branco (1947); Retirantes (1947); Cego Violeiro (1947); Cortadores de Cana (1948);
Xangô (1948). See also Joaquim Inojosa, Os Andrades e Outros Aspectos do Modernismo,
190–91; Quirino da Silva, “Lula Cardoso Ayres,” Diário da Noite June 9, 1926, 7.
193. Antônio Risério, “Notas para uma antropologia do ouvido,” O Poético e o
Político, 143–52.
194. Arnaldo Contier, “Modernismo e Brasilidade: música, utopia e tradição,”
Tempo e História.
195. Mundicarmo Maria Rocha Ferretti, Baião dos Dois.
196. Ferretti, Baião dos Dois; José Nêumane Pinto, “Os marginais da música nor-
destina,” Sontrês 23, 66.
197. Ferreti, Baião dos Dois, 45–55.
198. On hearing, see Roland Barthes, “O corpo da música,” O Óbvio e o Obtuso.
199. Roland Barthes, “O sul da voz,” O Óbvio e o Obtuso; Sérgio Cabral, “Getúlio
Vargas e a mpb,” Ensaios de Opinião; Alcir Lenharo, Sacralização da Política; N. Jahr
Garcia, Estado Novo, Ideologia e Propaganda Política; José Miguel Wisnik, “Getúlio da
Paixão Cearense (Villa Lobos e o Estado Novo),” O Nacional e o Popular na Cultura
Brasileira-Música.
200. Ferretti, Baião dos Dois, 45–55.
201. José de Jesus Ferreira, Luiz Gonzaga, O rei do Baião, suas vidas, seus amigos,
suas canções.
202. Arnaldo Contier, Música e Ideologia no Brasil, 37; Barthes, “O sul da voz,” 217.
203. Alfredo Bosi, “Cultura e Desenraizamento,” Cultura Brasileira: Temas e Situa-
ções, 26.
204. On the relation between music and the perception of urban space, see Fátima
Amaral Dias de Oliveira, “Trilha Sonora,” and Risério, “Notas para uma antropologia
do ouvido,” 143–53.
205. Consider the representative songs “Numa Sala de Reboco” (Gonzaga and José
Marcolino, rca, 1968); “Feira de Gado” (Gonzaga and Zé Dantas, rca, 1954); “Acauã”
(Zé Dantas, rca, 1952); “O Jumento é Nosso Irmão” (Gonzaga and José Clementino,
rca, 1968); “O Tocador Quer Beber” (Gonzaga and Carlos Diniz, rca, 1961).
206. Dias de Oliveira, “Trilha Sonora”; Genival Sá, O Sanfoneiro do Riacho da
Brígida.
207. “A Volta da Asa Branca” (Zé Dantas and Gonazaga, rca, 1950).
208. For instance, “São João Antigo” (Zé Dantas and Gonzaga, rca, 1957); “Juazeiro”
(Gonzaga and Humberto Teixeira, rca, 1949); “No Meu Pé de Serra” (Gonzaga and
Teixeira, rca, 1946); “Estrada de Canindé” (Gonzaga and Teixeira, rca, 1950).
209. “Noites Brasileiras” (Zé Dantas and Luiz Gonzaga, rca, 1954); “Xote dos
Cabeludos” (José Clementino and Luiz Gonzaga, rca, 1955).

244 notes for chapter two

210. “Riacho do Navio” (Zé Dantas and Luiz Gonzaga, rca, 1955).
211. Arnaldo Contier, Música e Ideologia no Brasil, 39.
212. José Nêumane Pinto, “Semeando ventos de caatinga,” O Estado de São Paulo
December 6, 1986 (section 2), 2. Gonzaga’s linguistic approach was modern and in-
ventive, particularly in the use of onomatopoeia, relating phonetic sound to meaning,
such as his heavy use of the “x” sound (xaxado, xote) implying the sweeping move-
ment of dancers’ feet; and the alternation of song and spoken narrative, including
musical breaks to allow space for digression.
213. “Algodão” (Zé Dantas and Luiz Gonzaga, rca, 1953); “Paulo Afonso” (Zé Dan-
tas and Luiz Gonzaga, rca, 1955); “Nordeste pra Frente” (Gonzaga and Luis Queiroga,
rca, 1968); “Sertão Setenta” (José Clementino, rca, 1970).
214. In “Nós num Have” (Zé Dantas, Odeon, 1957). Gonzaga rhetorically confronts
an urban lad who, speaking broken English with the learned accent of a “gringo,”
asks him whether he likes rock and roll. Gonzaga replies that his baião is both more
profound and more irresistible on the dance floor.
215. Ariano Suassuna, Auto da Compadecida, 9–14; “Subvenção do governo ao
teatro,” O Estado de São Paulo April 10, 1937, 7; Hermilo Borba Filho, “Um teatro
brasileiro,” Revista Brasiliense 12 (July–August 1957): 180.
216. Borba Filho, “Um teatro brasileiro.”
217. Ariano Suassuna, História do Rei Degolado nas Caatingas do Sertão, 43–58,
59–64.
218. Suassuna, História do Rei Degolado, 116–22.
219. Suassuna: Romance d’A Pedra do Reino, 3–6; História do Rei Degolado, xv;
“O Rico Avarento,” Seleta de Prosa e Verso.
220. Suassuna: Romance d’A Pedra do Reino, 193–210; Roger Bastide, Imagens do
Nordeste Místico; Maria de Graça Rios de Melo, “Literatura Oral e Teatro Popular,”
O Estado de Minas November 29, 1975 (literary supplement), 4.
221. Suassuna: Auto da Compadecida; O Santo e a Porca.
222. Suassuna: Auto da Compadecida; O Santo e a Porca; A Pena e a Lei; Romance
d’A Pedra do Reino, 347–52.
223. Sábato Magaldi, “Auto de Esperança,” O Estado de São Paulo May 23, 1964,
10; Ariano Suassuna, “Torturas de um Coração,” Seleta de Prosa e Verso; Suassuna,
O Castigo da Soberba.
224. Suassuna: Auto da Compadecida; Uma Mulher Vestida de Sol; Farsa da Boa
Preguiça; O Romance d’A Pedra do Reino; “Notas sobre o romanceiro popular do Nor-
deste,” Seleta de Prosa e Verso, 162.
225. Suassuna: História do Rei Degolado, 97; O Romance d’A Pedra do Reino, 172–
77; Farsa da Boa Preguiça; “Em busca do populário religioso” and “O homem da vaca
e o poder da fortuna,” Seleta em Prosa e Verso.
226. Suassuna: O Casamneto Suspeitoso; Uma Mulher Vestida do Sol; Torturas de
um Coração; História do Rei Degolado, 64–69; O Romance d’A Pedra do Reino, 118–22,
143–51, 606–17.
227. Suassuna, História do Rei Degolado, 10–14, 54–59, 88–93.
228. Suassuna: Romance d’A Pedra do Reino, 599–607, 504–15; História do Rei
Degolado, 79–83; Auto da Compadecida.
229. Suassuna: História do Rei Degolado, 5–10; Romance d’A Pedra do Reino, 3–6.

notes for chapter two 245

230. Suassuna: História do Rei Degolado, 59–64, 93–98, 102–7.
231. Suassuna: O Homem da Vaca e o Poder da Fortuna; O Rico Avarento; A Pena e a
Lei; Auto da Compadecida. See also Melo, “Literatura Oral e Teatro Popular.”
232. “Ariano Suassuna, o Rei Degolado,” Folha de São Paulo (insert) June 19, 1977, 12.

cha p t er t hr e e : ter r itor ie s of r e vol t

1. Jorge Amado, Cacau, 187.
2. Statements based in Marxist philosophy are common in Jorge Amado’s Jubiabá.
3. On the messianic vision of Marxism, see Oswald de Andrade, “A crise da fi-
losofia messiânica,” A Utopia Antropofágica; Nelson Brissac Peixoto, A Sedução da
Barbárie, 28–36.
4. Gilles Lipovetsky, O Império do Efémero; Cornelius Castoriadis, A Instituição
Imaginária da Sociedade, 19–88. On the Marxist distrust of words, see Jorge Amado,
São Jorge dos Ilhéus, 203.
5. Castoriadis, A Instituição Imaginária da Sociedade, 54.
6. André Malraux, “O homem e a cultura artística,” O Estado de São Paulo June
20, 1945, 11; Oswald de Andrade, “Uma geração se exprime,” O Estado de São Paulo
June 29, 1943, 4.
7. Nelson Werneck Sodré, “Formação da sociologia brasileira,” O Estado de São
Paulo June 15, 1941, 4 (emphasis added).
8. Sodré, “Formação histórica do Brasil,” O Estado de São Paulo December 31, 1942,
4; Caio Prado Júnior, Formação do Brasil Contemporâneo; Antônio Piccarolo, “Interpre-
tações econômicas da história do Brasil,” O Estado de São Paulo February 11, 1942, 4;
“Uma Sociedade Etnográfica,” O Estado de São Paulo April 10, 1943, 7; “Sociedade de
Sociologia de São Paulo,” O Estado de São Paulo August 12, 1937, 5; “Fundação da Socie-
dade de Estudos Econômicos,” O Estado de São Paulo October 27, 1937, 1.
9. George Gurvitch: “A crise da sociologia contemporânea,” O Estado de São Paulo
April 2, 1949, 5; “A atual vocação da sociologia,” O Estado de São Paulo August 23,
1947, 4 (emphasis added).
10. Francisco Weffort, “Problema nacional no Brasil,” Revista Anhembi no. 119 vol.
2 (October 1960): 350.
11. Nelson Werneck Sodré, “Quem é o povo no Brasil?” Cadernos do Povo Brasileiro
no. 2; Randal Johnson, Macunaíma: Do modernismo na literature ao Cinema Novo.
12. On history’s sacrificial character see Friedrich Nietzsche, “Considerações Ex-
temporâneas,” Obras Incompletas; Michel Foucault, “Nietzsche, a genealogia e a
história,” Microfísica do Poder, 15–38.
13. Alfredo Bossi, Reflexões sobre a Arte.
14. Georg Lukács, A Teoria do Romance, 85; Roger Bastide, Arte e Sociedade.
15. Bastide, Arte e Sociedade; Graciliano Ramos, “O fato econômico no romance de
trinta,” Linhas Tortas.
16. Mário de Andrade, O Turista Aprendiz.
17. Graciliano Ramos, Infância, 26.
18. A cinematic genre known as “Nordestern,” suggesting a hybrid of nordes-
tino and western, addressed conflicts between civilization / barbarism and order /
disorder through such films as Corisco, o Diabo Loiro (Carlos Coimbra, 1969) and

246 notes for chapter two

O Cangaceiro Sem Deus (Osvaldo de Oliveira, 1969). An early example was O Canga-
ceiro (Lima Barreto, 1954).
19. Ismail Xavier, Sertão Mar; the film O Cangaceiro Sanginário (Osvaldo de
Oliveira, 1969); Paulo Dantas, “Nordeste, 1917,” Revista Brasiliense no. 3 (January/
February 1956).
20. Jean-Claude Bernadet, Brasil em Tempo de Cinema, 13–17.
21. Willis Leal, O Nordeste no Cinema, 17–27.
22. Examples of the manipulation of northeastern myths as symbols of subaltern
rebellion can be found throughout the works of Jorge Amado: Capitães da Areia, 211;
Seara Vermelha; São Jorge dos Ilhéus. On the popular culture movement, see Vivian
Schelling, A Presença do Povo na Cultura Brasileira.
23. Schelling, A Presença do Povo na Cultura Brasileira; Graciliano Ramos, Infân-
cia, 126, 131–37, 156. See also the film Cangaceiros de Lampião (Carlos Coimbra, 1967).
24. Jorge Amado: Suor; Mar Morto. Graciliano Ramos, Angustia.
25. See the film Maioria Absoluta (Leon Hirzman, 1964); Roger Bastide, Brasil,
Terra de Contrastes; Schelling, A Presença do Povo na Cultura Brasileira.
26. For different takes on the South as promised land, see Amado, Seara Vermelha
and Gabriela, Cravo e Canela; Willis Leal, O Nordeste no Cinema, 59–67; Jean-Claude
Bernadet, Brasil em Tempo de Cinema, 111–16.
27. Graciliano Ramos, Vidas Secas, 12, 26, 99, 108; Jorge Amado, Suor and Jubiabá;
Ismail Xavier, Sertão Mar; the film Vereda da Salvação (Anselmo Duarte, 1966).
28. Graciliano Ramos, Linhas Tortas, 32.
29. On the image of horsemen in Brazilian fiction, see Mário Chamie, “O cavalo
e o crucifixo,” A Linguagem Virtual. For a typical chanchada portrayal of nordestinos
see the film Fogo na Canjica (Luis de Barros, 1947).
30. See the profile of the coronel type in Graciliano Ramos, São Bernardo; the film
O Cangaceiro Sem Deus (Osvaldo de Oliveira, 1969); Jorge Amado, Terras do Sem Fim,
Gabriela, Cravo e Canela, and Seara Vermelha.
31. Oswald de Andrade, “A crise da filosofia messiânica,” A Utopia Antropofágica.
32. Jorge Amado, Cacau; “Dispersão de grupo de fanáticos pela polícia do Ceará,”
O Estado de São Paulo September 15, 1936, 1; the film Vereda da Salvação (Anselmo
Duarte, 1966).
33. All these stereotypes are present in the film Vereda da Salvação (Anselmo Du-
arte, 1966).
34. Graciliano Ramos, “Pequena história da República,” in Alexandre e Outros
Heróis, 161–62; Ramos, Viventes das Alagoas, 147; Jorge Amado, Seara Vermelha, 236,
245; the film O Cangaçeiro Sem Deus.
35. Graciliano Ramos, Viventes das Alagoas, 135, 142, 149–54; anonymous, “Uma
descrição de Lampião,” O Estado de São Paulo April 23, 1931, 5; the film O Cangaceiro
Sangiunário (Osvaldo de Oliveira, 1969).
36. Corisco, o Diabo Loiro (Carlos Coimbra, 1969).
37. Willis Leal, O Nordeste no Cinema, 89–97. See the films Cangaceiros de Lampião
and Lampião, Rei do Cangaço (Carlos Coimbra, 1963, 1967); Entre o Amor e o Cangaço
(Aurélio Teixeira, 1960); Memórias do Cangaço (Paulo Gil Soares, 1965); A Morte Co-
manda o Cangaço (Carlos Coimbra, 1960); Nordeste Sangrento (Wilson Silva, 1963);
O Lamparina (Glauco Laurelli, 1966).

notes for chapter three 247

38. Jorge Amado: Jubiabá, 289–90; Capitães da Areia, 157–61, 175.
39. Graciliano Ramos, Viventes das Alagoas, 128–34, 147–49.
40. Graciliano Ramos, “O romance de Jorge Amado,” Linhas Tortas, 92–96.
41. Renato Ortiz, A Moderna Tradição Brasileira, 22; Antônio Candido, Literatura
e Sociedade, 122.
42. Roberto Simões, “Ficção nordestina: diretrizes sociais,” Revista Brasiliense no. 41
(May–June 1962): 172; Edgard Cavalheiro, “O drama do café e o romance brasileiro,”
O Estado de São Paulo March 9, 1941, 4; Lúcia Helena, Totens e Tabus da Modernidade
Brasileira, 90–101; Graciliano Ramos, Caetés, 152.
43. Sérgio Milliet, “O moderno romance brasileiro,” O Estado de São Paulo Octo-
ber 20, 1937, 4.
44. Roberto Simões, “Ficção nordestina: Diretrizes sociais”; Adhemar Vidal,
“O romance do Nordeste,” Revista Acadêmica 11 (May 1935): 7.
45. Roger Bastide, “Bahia de Todos os Santos,” O Estado de São Paulo October 20,
1945, 4.
46. Jorge Amado: Suor, 250–54; Jubiabá, 53–63; Capitães da Areia, 158–59.
47. Amado: Suor; O País do Carnaval.
48. Jorge Amado, “Discurso de posse na Academia Brasileira de Letras,” in Bas-
tide, Jorge Amado: Povo e terra, 3–22.
49. Bastide, Jorge Amado: Povo e terra, 54.
50. Pièrre Houcard, “Tendências e individualidades do romance brasileiro con-
temporâneo,” O Estado de São Paulo March 14, 1939, 6; Lúcia Helena, Totens e Tabus
da Modernidade Brasileira, 102; Jorge Amado, Cacau.
51. Bastide, Jorge Amado: Povo e terra; Amado, Gabriela, Cravo e Canela.
52. Roger Bastide: Brasil, Terra de Contrastes, 202; Jorge Amado: Povo e terra, 59.
Jorge Amado: Mar Morto, 21; Capitães da Areia.
53. Bastide, Jorge Amado: Povo e terra, 59.
54. Oswald de Andrade, “Fraternidade de Jorge Amado,” Ponta de Lança, 55–57.
55. Jorge Amado, O País do Carnaval, 98.
56. Amado, São Jorge dos Ilhéus, 295; Capitães da Areia, 227; Seara Vermelha, 270.
57. Amado, Tenda dos Milagres, 318.
58. Amado: Cacau, 131; Jubiabá, 23; Tenda dos Milagres, 215. See also José Guil-
herme Merquior, “Em busca de uma definição para o estilo modernista,” O Estado de
São Paulo May 14, 1972.
59. Amado, Capitães da Areia; São Jorge dos Ilhéus; Tereza Batista, Cansada de
Guerra.
60. Amado, Terras do Sem Fim, 191; Roger Bastide, Jorge Amado: Povo e terra, 62.
61. Amado, São Jorge dos Ilhéus; Gabriela, Cravo e Canela; Tereza Batista, Cansada
da Guerra, 99.
62. David Brookshaw, Raça e Cor na Literatura Brasileira; Sérgio Milliet, “O can-
cioneiro de Dorival Caymmi,” O Estado de São Paulo November 21, 1947, 6; “Linha
de cor,” O Estado de São Paulo May 6, 1947, 1; Dorival Caymmi, Cancioneiro da Bahia,
7–11.
63. Jorge Amado, Bahia de Todos os Santos; Dorival Caymmi, “Você Já Foi à Bahia?”
64. Roger Bastide, Imagens do Nordeste Místico; Viana Moog, Uma Interpretação da
Literatura Brasileira; Caymmi, Cancioneiro da Bahia, 7–11.

248 notes for chapter three

65. Jorge Amado, Bahia de Todos os Santos.
66. Amado, Bahia de Todos os Santos, 19, 135.
67. Suggestions of the collapse of Bahia’s traditional world are in such works as
São Jorge dos Ilhéus and País do Carnaval.
68. David Brookshaw, Raça e Cor na Literatura Brasileira; Jorge Amado, O País do
Carnaval; Capitães de Areia; Tenda dos Milagres.
69. Amado, Tendo dos Milagres, 164, 282.
70. Brookshaw, Raça e Cor na Literatura Brasileira.
71. Amado, Tereza Batista, Cansada de Guerra.
72. Amado: Cacau; Terras do Sem Fim, 209; São Jorge dos Ilhéus.
73. Jorge Amado, Terras do Sem Fim.
74. Amado: Cacau, 164; São Jorge dos Ilheus, 39; Tereza Batista, Cansada de Guerra;
Mar Morto, 107; Capitães da Areia, 63.
75. Nestor Perlonguer, “Territórios Marginais,” Papéis Avulsos, no. 6; Jorge Amado:
Suor; Jubiabá; O País do Carnaval, 21.
76. Amado, Jubiabá.
77. Note the similarity in the relations between humans and nature in Caymmi’s
songs “É Doce Morrer no Mar,” “Itapoan,” “Noites de Tempestade,” “Saudade de Ita-
poan,” and “Seria,” and in Amado’s novels: Mar Morto, Capitães da Areia, and Seara
Vermelha.
78. Amado: Cacau, 121; Mar Morto, 20–21; Capitães da Areia, 211; Terras do Sem Fim;
São Jorge do Ilhéus; Bahia de Todos os Santos, 25, 69, 191; Tenda dos Milagres.
79. Letícia Malard, Ensaios da Literatura Brasileira: Ideologia e Realidade em Gra-
ciliano Ramos; Silvio Castro, Teoria e Política do Modernismo Brasileiro, 10; Graciliano
Ramos, São Bernardo.
80. Graciliano Ramos: Infância; Alexandre e Outros Heróis. See also Jorge Coli and
Antônio Seel, “Duas visões de Graciliano Ramos,” document in Graciliano Ramos
folder, Arquivo cedae, unicamp.
81. On the relation between language, speech, silence, and power, see Eni Pulci-
nelli Orlandi, Terra à Vista.
82. Graciliano Ramos, São Bernardo; Vidas Secas. See also Coli and Seel, “Duas
visões de Graciliano Ramos,” and Flávio Campos, “Cinema e Literatura.”
83. Ramos, Linhas Tortas, 35, 42; Viventes das Alagoas; Insônia, 171; Alexandre e
Outros Heróis, 11; São Bernando; Caetés.
84. Roger Bastide, “O mundo trágico de Graciliano Ramos,” O Estado de São Paulo
March 30, 1947, 4.
85. Ramos, São Bernardo; Angústia, 9. See also Sérgio Miceli, Intellectuais e Classe
Dirigente no Brasil.
86. Ramos, Angústia; Infância, 69–77, 126–38; Alexandre e Outros Heróis, 139.
87. Ramos, Angústia; Letícia Malard, Ensaios da Literatura Brasileira.
88. Ramos, Vidas Secas, 128; São Bernardo, 189. See also Otto Maria Carpeaux,
“Visão de Graciliano Ramos,” document in Graciliano Ramos folder, Arquivo cedae,
unicamp.
89. Ramos, Caetés; São Bernardo, 10.
90. Ramos, Infância. See also Coli and Seel, “Duas visões de Graciliano Ramos”;
Flávio Aguiar, “A grande fome do romance brasileiro,” Revista Leia, July 1988.

notes for chapter three 249

91. Ramos, Memórias do Cárcere vol. 1, 7–30; Caetés; Angústia, 163–64, 175. See also
Almir Andrade, Aspectos da Cultura Brasileira, 96–100; Antônio Candido, Brigada
Ligeira; Dênis de Moraes, O Velho Graça.
92. Ramos, Linhas Tortas, 194–96 and 116; Angústia, 134. See also Malard, Ensaios
da Literatura Brasileira; Dênis de Moraes, O Velho Graça.
93. Ramos, São Bernardo; Caetés.
94. Ramos, Vidas Secas; Infância; Insônia. See also Coli and Seel, “Duas visões de
Graciliano Ramos”; Dênis de Moraes, O Velho Graça.
95. Ramos, Caetés, 43.
96. Ramos, São Bernardo; Angústia, 161–62.
97. Ramos, Infância, 263; Vidas Secas, 99–108.
98. Ramos, São Bernardo; Angústia, 163–64; Vidas Secas; Viventes das Alagoas, 124.
99. Ramos, São Bernardo.
100. Ramos, São Bernardo; Angústia.
101. Ramos, São Bernardo, 184; Infância, 27, 88, 247.
102. Ramos, Angústia; Coli and Seel, “Duas visões de Graciliano Ramos.”
103. Ramos, Viventes das Alagoas, 86–90; São Bernardo, 117; Caetés, 60; Angústia.
See also Roger Bastide, Brasil, Terra de Contrastes, 195.
104. Ramos, Angústia, 131, 137; Viventes das Alagoas, 18, 70, 114–18; Vidas Secas, 17–
26; Infância, 138; Linhas Tortas, 51.
105. Carlos Zilio, A Quarela do Brasil; André Breton, Manifesto do Surrealismo;
André Breton and Louis Aragon, Surrealismo frente ao Realsimo Socialista.
106. Aracy de Abreu Amaral, Arte para Quê? A Preocupação Social na Arte Brasileira
(1930–1970); Sérgio Milliet, Tarsila do Amaral, 41; Carlos Zilio, A Quarela do Brasil;
Carlos Zilio, “A difícíl histórial da arte brasileira,” Folha de São Paulo (Folhetim) Oc-
tober 2, 1953, 4.
107. Carlos Zilio, A Quarela do Brasil, 107; Aracy de Abreu Amaral, Arte para
Quê?
108. Aracy de Abreu Amaral, Arte para Quê?
109. Sérgio Milliet, “Artistas de nossa terra: Di Cavalcanti,” O Estado de São Paulo
May 13, 1943, 4.
110. Ibiapaba Martins, “Notas de arte: Internacionalismo e nacionalismo na arte,”
Correio Paulistano June 21, 1948, 6; Luis Martins, Emiliano di Cavalcanti; Aracy de
Abreu Amaral, Arte para Quê?
111. Emiliano de Cavalcanti, Viagem de Minha Vida, 109; Carlos Zilio, A Quarela
do Brasil, 85.
112. Carlos Zilio, A Quarela do Brasil, 85–90.
113. Jorge Amado, O Capeta Carybé; Quirino Silva, “Caribé,” Diário da Noite May
25, 1955. See also images by Carybé: A Morte de Alexandrina (1939); Lampião (1940);
Pensão São Bento (1940); Carnaval (1944); Retirantes (1945); Bahia (1951); Vaqueiros
(1953); Os Pescadores (1955); Cangaceiros (1962); Lampião ou A Assombração do Cangaço
(1968); Vaqueiros na Caatinga (1969); Nordeste (1972).
114. Carlos Zilio, A Quarela do Brasil, 105–13.
115. Mário Pedrosa, Dos Murais de Portinari aos Espaços de Brasília, 7–25; Mário
de Andrade, O Baile dos Quatro Artes, 128–29; Aracy de Abreu Amaral, Arte para
Quê?, 103.

250 notes for chapter three

116. João Cândido Portinari, O Menino de Brodósqui.
117. André Vieira, “Cândido Portinari: Pintor da véspera,” Revista Acadêmica no. 12
(July 1935): 10; Sérgio Milliet, “A paisagem da moderna pintura brasileira,” O Estado
de São Paulo March 26, 1941, 3; the film Viramundo (Geraldo Sarno, 1965).
118. Portinari, Retirantes (1945); Enterro na Rêde (1944); Menino Morto (1944); Ca-
beça de Cangaceiro (1952).
119. From João Cabral de Melo Neto, “Tecendo a Manhã,” Poesias Completas (1940–
1965), 19–20.
120. Carlos Nejar, “João Cabral: os favos do deserto,” João Cabral folder, Arquivo
do cedae, unicamp; João Alexandre Barbosa, A Imitação da Forma.
121. Barbosa, A Imitação da Forma, 129–57; Mário Chamie, A Linguagem Virtual.
122. Barbosa, A Imitação da Forma, 129–57.
123. Barbosa, A Imitação da Forma; Carlos Felipe Moisés, “João Cabral: Poesia e
poética II,” O Estado de São Paulo September 3, 1966, 7; João Cabral de Melo Neto,
“Graciliano Ramos,” Terceira Feira, 54; Haroldo de Campos, “Arte pobre, tempo de
pobreza, poesia menos,” Novos Estudos cebrap July 1982, 63.
124. Sérgio Buarque de Holanda, Cobra de Vidro, 29–45; Sérgio Milliet, “Dados
para a história da poesia modernista,” Revista Anhembi 2, no. 4 (March 1951): 26; João
Cabral de Melo Neto, “A educação pela pedra,” “Catar feijão,” “Uma faca só lamina,”
“Cemitério pernambucano,” and “O cão sem plumas,” in Poesias Completas.
125. João Cabral de Melo Neto, “O cão sem plumas” and “O sol em Pernambuco,”
Poesias Completas; Barbosa, A Imitação da Forma; Nejar, “João Cabral: Os favos do
deserto”; Carlos Felipe Moisés, “João Cabral: Poesia e poética I,” O Estado de São Paulo
September 27, 1966; Adélia Bezerra Menezes, “A alquimia da pedra,” Folha de São
Paulo (Folhetim) November 11, 1984, 9; Mário César Carvalho, “João Cabral explica
como construir poemas,” Folha de São Paulo May 24, 1988, 31.
126. João Cabral de Melo Neto, “O cão sem plumas,” “Lição de poesia,” “Gra-
ciliano Ramos,” and “Morte e Vida Severina” in Poesias Completas; Moisés, “João Ca-
bral: Poesia e poética I.”
127. Modesto Carone, “Severinos e comendadores,” Os Pobres na Literatura Brasileira,
165; Antônio Rangel Bandeira, “A poesia como conquista da razão,” O Estado de São
Paulo November 9, 1947, 6; Jean-Paul Rebaud, “Tradição literária e criação poética em
Morte e Vida Severina,” Folha de Letras; Silviano Santiago, “Cultura brasileira: Tradição
e contradição,” Jornal da Tarde March 29, 1986.
128. Interview with João Cabral de Melo Neto, Revista Pau-Brasil November–
December 1986; Barbosa, A Imitação da Forma, 157–211; Carone, “Severinos e comen-
dadores,” 167; Alfredo Bosi, História Concisa da Literatura Brasileira.
129. João Cabral de Melo Neto, “Morte e Vida Severina,” and “O alpendre do cana-
vial,” Poesias Completas; Moema Selma D’Andrea, A Tradição Redescoberta.
130. Cabral, “Velório do comendador” and “O aplendre do canavial,” Poesias
Completas.
131. Cabral, “Duas faces do jantar dos comendadores,” “Festa na casa-grande,” and
“Paisagem com cupim,” Poesias Completas.
132. Cabral, “Cemitério paraibano,” “O rio,” “Psicologia da composição,” and “Con-
gresso no Polígono das Secas,” Poesias Completas; Menezes, “A alquimia da pedra”;
Rebaud, “Tradição literária e criação poética em Morte e Vida Severina.”

notes for chapter three 251

133. Cabral, “Festa na casa-grande,” “O ovo da galinha,” and “Poema da cabra,”
Poesias Completas; Marly Oliveira, “Rápida visão da obra de João Cabral de Melo Neto,”
Revista Nicolau, document in João Cabral folder, Arquivo cedae, unicamp.
134. Cabral, “O rio” and “O cão sem plumas,” Poesias Completas; Menezes, “A alqui-
mia da pedra.”
135. Cabral, “Bifurcados de ‘Habitar o Tempo,’ ” “Habitar o tempo,” “Coisas de
cabeceira,” “Escritos com o corpo,” and “Infância,” Poesias Completas.
136. Cabral, “Morte e Vida Severina,” “O cão sem plumas,” and “Pregão turístico
do Recife,” Poesias Completas; D’Andrea, A Tradição Redescoberta.
137. Cabral, “De um avião” and “A voz do canavial,” Poesias Completas; Barbosa, A
Imitação da Forma; Carvalho, “João Cabral explica como construir poemas.”
138. Barbosa, A Imitação da Forma; Bosi, História Concisa da Literatura Brasileira,
525; Carone, “Severinos e comendadores.”
139. Cabral, “O sol de Pernambuco” and “Morte e Vida Severina,” Poesias Comple-
tas; Sérgio Buarque de Holanda, Cobra de Vidro.
140. Cabral, “O rio”; Barbosa, A Imitação da Forma; Mário de Andrade, Aspectos
da Literatura Brasileira.
141. Cabral, “Congresso no Polígono das Secas,” “Morte e Vida Severina.”
142. Bernadet, Brasil em Tempo de Cinema, 11–25; Augusto, Este Mundo É um
Pandeiro.
143. Bernadet, Brasil em Tempo de Cinema, 11–25.
144. Augusto, Este Mundo É um Pandeiro.
145. Augusto, Este Mundo É um Pandeiro; Oswald de Andrade, A Utopia Antrop-
ofágica. See also the Brazilian Hollywood parodies Nem Sansão e Nem Dalila (Carlos
Manga, 1954) and Matar ou Correr (Carlos Manga, 1954).
146. Boletim Noticioso no. 1, Comissão Permanente de Defesa do Cinema Brasil-
iero, 1952.
147. Leal, O Nordeste no Cinema, 17–27.
148. See, for example, the character of the colonel Fulgêncio in Fogo na Canjica
(Luis de Barros, 1947), or the taxi driver in Rico Ri à Toa (Roberto Farias, 1957).
149. Leal, O Nordeste no Cinema, 47–59.
150. O Canto do Mar (Alberto Cavalcante, 1953). Owing to the significant popular
success of the baião as a national music alongside samba in the 1940s and 1950s,
and the wave of northeastern migrants attending movies in the South, northeastern
songs (often by Luiz Gonzaga and Dorival Caymmi) were common features in the
films. See Este Mundo É um Pandeiro (Watson Macêdo, 1946), with Gonzaga sing-
ing “Que Mentira que Lorota Boa,” and Abacaxi Azul (Wallace Downey, 1944), with
Caymmi performing “Acontece que Eu Sou Baiano.”
151. Cláudio Bueno Rocha, “Cinema Novo: O que é, quem faz, para onde vai,” O
Cruzeiro June 30, 1965, 13; Paulo Emílio Sales Gomes, “Perfis baianos,” A Tarde (Sal-
vador) April 20, 1962, 2; Arquivo Glauber Rocha (agr), Cinemateca Brasileira, Cx.
ba 1, doc. 13; Maurice Capovilla, “Cinema Novo,” Revista Brasiliense no. 4 (May–June
1962): 182; Glauber Rocha, Revolução do Cinema Novo, 15.
152. Campos, “Cinema e Literatura.”
153. Castro, Teoria e Política do Modernismo Brasileiro; Johnson, Macunaíma: Do
Modernismo na Literature ao Cinema Novo.

252 notes for chapter three

154. Chamie, A Linguagem Virtual; Capovilla, “Cinema Novo”; Johnson, Macunaíma.
155. Johnson, Macunaíma; Bernadet, Brasil em Tempo de Cinema, 35–39.
156. Bernadet, Brasil em Tempo de Cinema, 29–31; Roger Bastide, “O Brasil em
Andreza,” Revista Anhembi no. 65 (April 1956): 27; Augusto, Este Mundo É um Pan-
deiro. See also the films Cinco Vezes Favela (Maros Farias, Miguel Borges, Carlos Dieg-
ues, Joaquim Pedro de Andrade, Leon Hirzman, 1962) and Bahia de Todos os Santos
(Triguerinho Neto, 1960).
157. Bernadet, Brasil em Tempo de Cinema, 67–72, 112–17.
158. Rachel Gerber, Glauber Rocha, 14–15.
159. José Guilherme Corrêa, “Cinema brasileiro sincrônico,” Correio da Manhã
June 26, 1968, 4; Rocha, Revolução do Cinema Novo, 109.
160. Jean-Claude Bernadet, “A origem e a utopia,” Folha de São Paulo (Folhetim)
August 22, 1982, 9; Revolução do Cinema Novo.
161. Johnson, Macunaíma; Xavier, Sertão Mar, 89–94; interview with Glauber
Rocha in Status n.d., Arquivo Glauber Rocha, Cx. gr1, doc. 21.
162. Rocha, Revolução do Cinema Novo; Rachel Gerber, “Glauber Rocha e a busca
da identidade,” Arquivo Glauber Rocha, Cx. gr 2, doc. 4; Miriam Chnaiderman, “Nel-
son e Graciliano: Memória do Cárcere,” Folha de São Paulo (Folhetim) September 2,
1984, 11.
163. Vidas Secas (Nelson Pereira dos Santos, 1963); Grande Sertão (Gilberto e Re-
nato Santos Pereira, 1965).
164. Bernadet, Brasil em Tempo de Cinema, 58–67; Caetano Veloso, “Um filme de
montagem,” Arquivo Glauber Rocha, Cx. ba3, doc. 30.
165. Maurício Jonas Leite, “Violência e coragem na terra do sol,” Tribuna da Im-
prensa March 24, 1964, Arquivo Glauber Rocha, Cx. de2, doc. 3; s/n, “Nova face da
mística nordestina,” Diário de Pernambuco September 6, 1964, 15; Mário Chamie, “As
metáforas da transigência,” O Estado de São Paulo July 8, 1967 (literary supplement),
4; Rocha, Revolução do Cinema Novo; Orlando Senna and Glauber Rocha, Roteiros do
Terceiro Mundo.
166. Xavier, Sertão Mar, 69–82; Glauber Rocha, “A miséria de uma filosofia,” Ar-
quivo Glauber Rocha, Cx. gr1, doc. 10; Rachel Gerber, “Glauber Rocha e a busca da
identidade”; Gerber, Glauber Rocha.
167. Xavier, Sertão Mar, 43, 54, 94–102.
168. Xavier, Sertão Mar, 39–43; “Barravento no cinema brasileiro” (interview with
Glauber Rocha), Arquivo Glauber Rocha, Cx. ba3, doc. 19.
169. Xavier, Sertão Mar, 72–121; Gerber, “Glauber Rocha e a busca da identidade”;
Glauber Rocha, Revisão Crítica do Cinema Brasileiro, 69–70; Zulmira Ribeiro Tava-
res, “Os confins da ignorância,” O Estado de São Paulo (literary supplement) July 26,
1969, 4.
170. Glauber Rocha, “As aventuras de Antônio das Mortes, o matador do sertão”
(initial film script), Arquivo Glauber Rocha, Cx. dr1, doc. 1; Bernadet, “A origem e a
utopia.”
171. Xavier, Sertão Mar, 17–21; Bernadet, “A origem e a utopia”; Glauber Rocha, “A
Ira de Deus” (initial script for Deus e o Diabo na Terra do Sol), Arquivo Glauber Rocha,
Cx. dd1, doc. 1.
172. Xavier, Sertão Mar, 102–6; Senna and Rocha, Roteiros do Terceiro Mundo.

notes for chapter three 253

173. Xavier, Sertão Mar, 183; Bernadet, Brasil em Tempo de Cinema, 85; Glauber Rocha,
“La Estética de la Violencia,” Arquivo Glauber Rocha, Cx. de7, doc. 6; Rocha, Revolução
do Cinema Novo, 65; Rubens Machado Jr., “O espaço de Terra em Transe,” Folha de
São Paulo (Folhetim), August 22, 1981, 10; Eduardo Peñuela Canizal, “A função política
no Cinema Novo,” O Estado de São Paulo April 24, 1977, 3; Bruno Torri, “Poesia e Política
nel Cinema Novo Brasiliene,” Formazioni Cinematografichi April 1969, Arquivo Glauber
Rocha, Cx. de7, doc. 11.
174. Xavier, Sertão Mar, 94–102; Rocha, Revolução do Cinema Novo, 31; Gerber,
Glauber Rocha.
175. Xavier, Sertão Mar, 153–67; José Wolf, “Morrer como poeta,” Jornal do Comér-
cio May 28, 1967, 6; Rocha, “A Ira de Deus”; Torri, “Poesia e Política nel Cinema Novo
Brasiliene”; Gerber, Glauber Rocha.
176. Xavier, Sertão Mar; Capovilla, “Cinema Novo.”
177. Rocha, Revolução do Cinema Novo; Xavier, Sertão Mar, 82–87; Gerber, “Glau-
ber Rocha e a busca da identidade”; Gerber, Glauber Rocha.
178. Xavier, Sertão Mar, 74–86.
179. Xavier, Sertão Mar, 94–102; anonymous, “Arte popular no cinema do Brasil
com Deus e o Diabo,” Diário de Notícias March 25, 1964, Arquivo Glauber Rocha, Cx.
de2, doc. 4; Rachel Gerber, “Glauber Rocha e o cinema brasileiro hoje,” Folha de São
Paulo (Folhetim) August 22, 1982, 6.
180. Gerber, Glauber Rocha.
181. Xavier, Sertão Mar; Bernadet, Brasil em Tempo de Cinema, 25–29; Glauber
Rocha, “A Ira de Deus”; Carlos Alberto Silva, “Meu sol, teu diabo, vosso senhor,
nosso Nordeste,” Debate ano 2 (October 1964): 16.

254 notes for chapter three

BIBLIOGRAPHY

li b r a r i e s a nd a r c h iv e s
Arquivo Edgar Leuenroth, Campinas, unicamp.
Arquivo Glauber Rocha, Cinemateca Brasileira, São Paulo.
Arquivo Mário de Andrade, Instituto de Estudos Brasileiros (ieb), usp, São Paulo.
Arquivo Oswald de Andrade, Centro de Documentação Alexandre Eulálio (cedae),
Campinas, iel, unicamp.
Biblioteca Central (Coleções Alexandre Eulálio, Sérgio Buarque de Holanda, Obras
Raras), Campinas, unicamp.
Biblioteca da Casa Mário de Andrade, São Paulo.
Biblioteca da Cinemateca Brasileira, São Paulo.
Biblioteca da Escola da Comunicação (eca), usp, São Paulo.
Biblioteca da Pinoteca do Estado, São Paulo.
Biblioteca do Centro de Estudos Migratórios (cem), São Paulo.
Biblioteca do Instituto de Filosofia e Ciências Humanas, Campinas, unicamp.
Biblioteca do Instituto dos Estudos Brasileiros, São Paulo.
Biblioteca do Memorial da América Latina, São Paulo.
Biblioteca do Museu de Arte Moderna (mam), São Paulo.
Biblioteca do Museu Lasar Segall, São Paulo.
Museu da Imagem e do Som (mis), São Paulo.
Museu de Arte Contemporânea, São Paulo.
Museu de Artes de São Paulo (masp), São Paulo.
Museu do Estado de Pernambuco, Recife.
Pinacoteca do Estado de Pernambuco, Recife.

bo o ks a nd a r t ic le s
Albuquerque, Durval Muniz de, Jr. “Falas de Astúcia e de Angústia: A Seca no Imag-
inário Nordestino ( 1877–1922).” Master’s thesis, unicamp, 1988.
Albuquerque, Durval Muniz de, Jr. “Mennochio e Riviére: Criminosos da palavra,
poetas do silêncio.” Resgate, no. 2 (1991).
Albuquerque, Durval Muniz de, Jr. “Vidas por um Fio, Vidas Entrelaçadas: Rasgando
o pano da cultura e descobrindo o rendilhado das ‘trajetórias culturais.’ ” História
e Perspectiva, no. 8 (1993): 87–96.
Albuquerque, Durval Muniz de, Jr. “Violar Memórias e Gestar a História: Abordagem
de uma problemática fecunda que torna a tarefa do historiador um ‘parto difícil.’ ”
Clio (Série Nordeste), no. 15 (1994): 39–52.
Almeida, José Américo de. A Bagaceira, 26th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio,
1988.
Almeida, José Américo de. O Boqueirão (Novelas). Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira,
1979.
Almeida, José Américo de. Coiteiros (Novelas). Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira,
1979.
Almeida, José Américo de. Reflexões de uma Cabra (Novelas). Rio de Janeiro: Civiliza-
ção Brasileira, 1979.
Amado, Jorge. Bahia de Todos os Santos, 19th ed. São Paulo: Martins, 1970.
Amado, Jorge. Cacau, 47th ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1987.
Amado, Jorge. O Capeta Carybé, 6th ed. São Paulo: Berlendis and Vertecchia, 1986.
Amado, Jorge. Capitães da Areia, 57th ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1983.
Amado, Jorge. Gabriela, Cravo e Canela, 40th ed. São Paulo: Martins, 1970.
Amado, Jorge. Jubiabá, 48th ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1987.
Amado, Jorge. Mar Morto, 26th ed. São Paulo: Martins, 1970.
Amado, Jorge. O País do Carnaval, 25th ed. São Paulo: Martins, 1970.
Amado, Jorge. São Jorge dos Ilhéus. São Paulo: Martins, 1970.
Amado, Jorge. Seara Vermelha, 42nd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1983.
Amado, Jorge. Suor, 24th ed. São Paulo: Martins, 1970.
Amado, Jorge. Tenda dos Milagres, 5th ed. São Paulo: Martins, 1970.
Amado, Jorge. Tereza Batista, Cansada de Guerra. São Paulo: Martins, 1972.
Amado, Jorge. Terras do Sem Fim. São Paulo: Circulo do Livro, n/d.
Amaral, Aracy de Abreu. Arte Para Que? A Preocupação Social na Arte Brasileira (1930–
1970). São Paulo: Nobel, 1984.
Andrade, Almir. Aspectos da Cultura Brasileira. Rio de Janeiro: Schmidt Edito, 1939.
Andrade, Mário de. Aspectos da Literatura Brasileira, 5th ed. São Paulo: Martins, 1974.
Andrade, Mário de. O Baile das Quatro Artes. São Paulo: Martins, 1975.
Andrade, Mário de. O Turista Aprendiz. São Paulo: Duas Cidades, 1976.
Andrade, Oswaldo de. Os Dentes do Dragão, 2nd ed. São Paulo: Globo, 1990.
Andrade, Oswaldo de. Marco Zero I (A Revolução Melancólica). São Paulo: Globo,
1991.
Andrade, Oswaldo de. Ponta de Lança. São Paulo: Globo, 1991.
Andrade, Oswaldo de. A Utopia Antropofágica. São Paulo: Globo, 1990.
Aranha, Graça. Canaã. Rio de Janeiro: F. Briguet e Cia., 1949.
Aranha, Graça. O Espírito Moderno, 2nd ed. São Paulo: Cia. Ed. Nacional, n/d.
Augusto, Sérgio. Este Mundo é um Pandeiro. São Paulo: Cinemateca Brasileira, 1989.
Azevedo, Célia Maria Marinho de. Onda Negra, Medo Branco: O Negro no Imaginário
dos Elites. Rio de Janeiro: Paz e Terra, 1987.
Bandeira, Manuel. Poesias. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1955.
Barbosa, João Alexandre. A Imitação da Forma. São Paulo: Duas Cidades, 1975.
Barthes, Roland. Fragmentos de um Discurso Amoroso, 10th ed. Rio de Janeiro: Fran-
cisco Alves, 1999.
Barthes, Roland. O Óbvio e o Obtuso. Rio de Janeiro: Novas Fronteiras, 1990.
Bastide, Roger. Arte e Sociedade, 2nd ed. São Paulo: Cia Ed. Nacional, 1979.
Bastide, Roger. “O Brasil em Andreza.” Revista Anhembi 22, no. 65 (April 1956): 27.
Bastide, Roger. Brasil, Terra de Contrastes, 2nd ed. São Paulo: Difel, 1964.
Bastide, Roger. Imagens do Nordeste Místico. Rio de Janeiro: Empresa Gráfica O Cru-
zeiro S/A, 1945.

256 bibliography
Bastide, Roger. Jorge Amado: Povo e Terra, 40 Anos de Literatura. São Paulo: Martins,
1952.
Bastos, Elide Rugai. “Gilberto Freyre e a Formação da Sociedade Brasileira.” Ph.D.
diss., Pontifícia Universidade Católica de São Paulo, 1986.
Batista, Martha Rossetti, ed. Brasil em Tempo Modernista (1917–1929). São Paulo: ieb,
1972.
Benjamin, Walter. Magia e Técnica, Arte e Política (Obras Escolhidas vol. 1). São Paulo:
Brasiliense, 1985.
Benjamin, Walter. “O surrealismo.” In Os Pensadores, vol. 48. São Paulo: Abril Cul-
tural, 1975.
Bernadet, Jean-Claude. Brasil em Tempo de Cinema, 2nd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Paz e
Terra, 1976.
Bernadet, Jean-Claude. “A origem e a utopia.” Folhetim (São Paulo), August 22,
1982, 9.
Berriel, Carlos Eduardo O. “A uiara enganosa.” Revista Ensaio (São Paulo), no. 17/18: 210.
Bosi, Alfredo. Cultura Brasileira: Temas e Situações. São Paulo: Ática, 1987.
Bosi, Alfredo. História Concisa da Literatura Brasileira, 3rd ed. São Paulo: Cultrix,
1990.
Bosi, Alfredo. Reflexões sobra a Arte, 3rd ed. São Paulo, Ática, 1989.
Breton, André. Manifestos do Surrealismo. Lisboa: Moraes Editores, 1976.
Breton, André, and Aragon, Louis. Surrealismo Frente ao Realismo Socialista. Barce-
lona: Tusques Editor, 1973.
Brookshaw, David. Raça e Cor na Literatura Brasileira. Porto Alegre: Mercado Aberto,
1983.
Cabral de Melo Neto, João. Poesias Completas (1940–1965). Rio de Janeiro: Ed. Sabiá,
1968.
Cabral de Melo Neto, João. Terceira Feira. Rio de Janeiro: Editora do Autor, 1981.
Campos, Haroldo de. “Arte pobre, tempo de pobreza, poesia menos.” Novos Estudos
cebrap (São Paulo) July 1982, 63.
Campos, Haroldo de. “Parafernália para Hélio Oiticica.” Folhetim (São Paulo) May
13, 1984, 11.
Candido, Antonio. Brigada Ligeira. São Paulo: Martins, 1961.
Candido, Antonio. Literatura e Sociedade, 7th ed. São Paulo: Ed. Nacional, 1985.
Canizal, Eduardo Peñuela. “A função política no Cinema Novo.” O Estado de São Paulo
April 24, 1977, 3.
Capovilla, Maurice. “Cinema Novo.” Revista Brasiliense no. 4 (March–June 1962): 22.
Carvalho, Luis Antônio de. “As pistas do moderno.” Revista Leia May 1987, 22.
Castelo, José Aderaldo. José Lins do Rego: Modernismo e Regionalismo. São Paulo: Edart,
1961.
Castoriadis, Cornelius. A Instituição Imaginária da Sociedade. Rio de Janeiro: Paz e
Terra, 1982.
Castro, Josué de. Geografia da Fome. Rio de Janeiro: Antares, 1980.
Castro, Silvio. Teoria e Política do Modernismo Brasileiro. Petrópolis: Vozes, 1979.
Caymmi, Dorival. O Cancioneiro da Bahia. São Paulo: Martins, 1947.
Chamie, Mário. “Gilberto Freyre, o mago das recorrências.” Suplemento Literário de O
Estado de São Paulo no. 209 (June 10, 1984): 13.

bibliography 257
Chamie, Mário. A Linguagem Virtual. São Paulo: Edições Quíron, 1976.
Chamie, Mário. “As metáforas da transigência.” O Estado de São Paulo July 8, 1967
(literary supplement), 4.
Chnaiderman, Miriam. “Nelson e Graciliano: Memória do cárcere.” Folhetim (São
Paulo), September 2, 1984, 11.
Contier, Arnaldo. “Modernismo e brasilidade: Música, utopia e tradição.” In Tempo e
História, edited by Adauto Novaes. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1992.
Contier, Arnaldo. “Música e ideologia no Brasil.” Coleção Ensaios no. 1 (1978): 37.
Corrêa, José Guilherme. “Cinema brasileiro sincrônico.” Correiro da Manhã June 26,
1968, 4.
D’Andrea, Moema Selma. A Tradição Re(des)coberta. Campinas: Ed. da unicamp,
1992.
Dantas, Paulo. “Euclides e as dimensões sertanejas.” Revista Brasiliense no. 19
(September–October 1958): 138.
Dantas, Paulo. “Os Sertões como tema literário.” Revista Brasiliense no. 5 (May–June
1956): 86.
Decca, Edgar Salvatori de. O Nascimento das Fábricas. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1979.
Decca, Edgar Salvatori de. O Silêncio dos Vencidos. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1986.
Deleuze, Gilles. Diferença e Repetição. Rio de Janeiro: Graal, 1988.
Deleuze, Gilles. Foucault. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1986.
Deleuze, Gilles. “Pensamento nômade.” Folhetim (São Paulo) February 8, 1985, 4.
Deleuze, Gilles. Proust e os Signos. Rio de Janeiro: Forense-Universitária, 1987.
Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari. O Anti-Édipo. Rio de Janeiro: Imago, 1976.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Viagem da Minha Vida I (O Testamento da Alvorada). Rio de
Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, 1955.
Dória, Carlos Alberto. “1930: Romance e revolução.” Folhetim (São Paulo) June 14,
1981, 4.
Eco, Umberto. Apocalípticos e Integrados. São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1970.
Ellis, Alfredo, Jr. Capítulos de História Psicológica de São Paulo. São Paulo: usp, 1945.
Fernandes, Florestan. Folclore e Mudança Social na Cidade de São Paulo, 2nd ed.
Petrópolis: Vozes, 1979.
Ferreira, Ascenso. Catimbó e Outros Poemas. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1963.
Ferreira, José de Jesus. Luiz Gonzaga, o Rei do Baião, sua vida, seus amigos, suas can-
ções. São Paulo: Ática, 1986.
Ferretti, Mundicarmo Maria Rocha. Baião dos Dois. Recife: Fundarj, 1988.
Fontes, Amando. Os Corumbas. Rio de Janeiro: Livraria Schmidt, 1933.
Fontes, Amando. Rua do Siriry. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1937.
Foucault, Michel. “Ariane enforcou-se.” Livros (São Paulo) August 13, 1988, 4.
Foucault, Michel. A Arqueologia do Saber, 2nd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Forense Universi-
tária, 1986.
Foucault, Michel. As Palavras e as Coisas. São Paulo: Martins Fontes, 1985.
Foucault, Michel. Eu Pierre Riviére, que degolei minha mãe, minha irmã e meu irmão,
2nd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Graal, 1982.
Foucault, Michel. História da Loucura. São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1978.
Foucault, Michel. História da Sexualidade I (A Vontade de Saber), 4th ed. Rio de Ja-
neiro: Graal, 1977.

258 bibliography
Foucault, Michel. Isto Não É Um Cachimbo. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1989.
Foucault, Michel. Microfísica do Poder, 4th ed. Rio de Janeiro: Graal, 1984.
Foucault, Michel. Vigiar e Punir. Petrópolis: Vozes, 1984.
Freyre, Gilberto. Casa-Grande e Senzala, 21st ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1981.
Freyre, Gilberto. Interpretação do Brasil. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1947.
Freyre, Gilberto. Manifesto Regionalista, 4th ed. Recife: Instituto Joaquim Nabuco,
1967.
Freyre, Gilberto. Nordeste, 5th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1985.
Freyre, Gilberto. Quase Poesia. Recife: Edições Pirata, 1980.
Freyre, Gilberto. Região e Tradição. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1941.
Freyre, Gilberto. Sobrados e Mocambos, 5th ed. 2 vols. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio,
1977.
Freyre, Gilberto. Vida, Forma e Cor, 2nd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1987.
Freyre, Gilberto. “Vida Social no Nordeste (Aspectos de um Século de Transição).”
Diário de Pernambuco. 1925.
Gagnebin, Jeanne Marie. “Origem da alegoria, alegoria de origem.” Folhetim (São
Paulo) December 9, 1984, 8.
Garcia, N. Jahr. Estado Novo, Ideologia e Propaganda Política. São Paulo: Loyola, 1982.
Gebara, Ademir, ed. História Regional: Uma discussão. Campinas: Ed. da unicamp,
1987.
Gerber, Raquel. Glauber Rocha. Rio de Janeiro: Paz e Terra, 1977.
Gerber, Raquel. “Glauber Rocha e o cinema brasileiro hoje.” Folha de São Paulo (Fol-
hetim) August 22, 1982, 6.
Gil, Gilberto, and Antônio Risério. O Poético e Político. Rio de Janeiro: Paz e Terra,
1988.
Gomes, Helena Toller. O Poder Rural na Ficção. São Paulo: Ática, 1981.
Guattari, Félix. “Impasse pós-moderno e transição pós-mídia.” Folhetim (São Paulo)
April 13, 1986, 2.
Hansen, João Adolfo. “Terceira margem.” Folhetim (São Paulo) November 20, 1987, 2.
Helena, Lúcia. Totens e Tabus na Modernidade Brasileira. Rio de Janeiro: Tempo
Brasileiro, 1985.
Hobsbawm, Eric, and Terence Ranger, eds. A Invenção das Tradições. Rio de Janeiro:
Paz e Terra, 1984.
Holanda, Sérgio Buarque de. Cobra de Vidro, 2nd ed. São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1978.
Holanda, Sérgio Buarque de. Raízes do Brasil, 15th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio,
1976.
Inojosa, Joaquim. Os Andrades e Outros Aspectos do Modernismo. Rio de Janeiro: Civi-
lização Brasileira, 1975.
Inojosa, Joaquim. O Movimento Modernista em Pernambuco. 3 vols. Rio de Janeiro:
Gráfica Tupy Editora, 1969.
Johnson, Randal. Macunaíma: Do Modernismo na Literature ao Cinema Novo. São
Paulo: T. A. Queiroz, 1982.
Laus, Lausimar. “O romance de Raquel de Queiroz.” Suplemento Literário de Estado de
Minas October 11, 1975, 11.
Leal, Willis. O Nordeste no Cinema. João Pessoa: Ed. Universitária, 1982.
Leite, Dante Moreira. O Caráter Nacional Brasilerio, 2nd ed. São Paulo: Pioneira, 1969.

bibliography 259
Leite, Otávio Dias. “Vidas secas.” Revista Acadêmica no. 34 (April 1938): 10.
Lenharo, Alcir. Sacralização da Política. Campinas: Papirus, 1986.
Lima, Jorge de. Calunga. Porto Alegre: Ed. Livraria Globo, 1935.
Lima, Jorge de. Obra Poética. Rio de Janeiro: Ed. Getúlio Costa, 1949.
Lipovetsky, Gilles. O Império do Efémero. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1989.
Lobato, Monteiro. Urupês, 13th ed. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1966.
Lopez, Telê Ancona, ed. Macunaíma: A Margem e o Texto. São Paulo: Hucitec, 1974.
Lucas, Fábio. “Vanguarda literária e ideologia.” Encontros com a Civilização Brasileira
(Rio de Janeiro) no. 3 (September 1978).
Lukács, Georg. Teoria do Romance. Lisboa: Presença, n/d.
Machado, Alcântara. Vida e Morte do Bandeirante. São Paulo: Martins, n/d.
Machado, Roberto. Ciência e Saber (A Trajetória da Arqueologia de Foucault). Rio de
Janeiro: Graal, 1981.
Machado, Roberto. Deleuze e a Filosofia. Rio de Janeiro: Graal, 1990.
Machado, Rubens, Jr. “O espaço de Terra em Transe.” Folha de São Paulo (Folhetim)
August 22, 1981, 10.
Maciel, Luiz Carlos. “O esvaziamento de realidade.” Folhetim (São Paulo) February
27, 1977, 23.
Magnani, José Guilherme Cantor. Festa no Pedaço. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1984.
Maingueneau, Dominique. Novas Tendêncies em Análise de Discurso. Campinas: Pon-
tes, 1989.
Malard, Letícia. Ensaio de Literatura Brasileira: Ideologia e Realidade em Graciliano
Ramos. Belo Horizonte: Itatiaia, n.d.
Marroquim, Mário. A Lingua do Nordeste, 3rd ed. São Paulo: Cia. Ed. Nacional, 1945.
Martins, Luis. Cândido Portinari. São Paulo: Gráficos Brummer Ltda., 1972.
Martins, Luis. Emiliano Di Cavalcanti. São Paulo: mam, 1953.
Matta, Roberto da. Carnavais, Malandros e Heróis. Rio de Janeiro: Zahar, 1979.
Matta, Roberto da. O Que Faz o brasil, Brasil? Rio de Janeiro: Salamandra, 1984.
Melo, Maria das Graças Rios de. “Literatura oral e teatro popular.” Suplemento Literário
do Estado de Minas November 29, 1975, 4.
Menezes, Adélia Bezerra de. “A alquimica da pedra.” Folhetim (São Paulo) November
11, 1984, 9.
Menezes, Djacir. O Outro Nordeste, 2nd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira,
1972.
Miceli, Sérgio. Intelectuais e Classe Dirigente no Brasil (1920–1945). São Paulo: Difel,
1979.
Miceli, Sérgio. Tarsila do Amaral. São Paulo: mam, 1953.
Milliet, Sérgio. “Dados para a história da poesia modernista.” Revista Anhembi 4 vol.
11 (March 1951): 26.
Moog, Viana. Uma Interpretação da Literatura Brasileira. Rio de Janeiro: Casa de Es-
tudante do Brasil, 1943.
Moraes, Dênis de. O Velho Graça. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1992.
Naxara, Márcia Regina Capelari. “Estrangeira em sua Própria Terra.” Master’s thesis,
unicamp, 1991.
Neves. David E. Cinema Novo no Brasil. Petrópolis: Vozes, 1966.

260 bibliography
Nietzsche, Friedrich. Obras Incompletas. 2 vols., 5th ed. Text selection by Gerárd Leb-
run. São Paulo: Nova Cultural, 1991.
Novaes, Adauto, ed. Tempo e História. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1992.
“Nova face da mística nordestina.” Diário de Pernambuco September 6, 1964.
Oliveira, Fátima Amaral Dias de. “Trilha Sonora.” Master’s thesis, unicamp, n/d.
Oliveira, Francisco de. Elegia para uma Re(li)gião, 2nd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Paz e Terra,
1977.
Oliveira, Lúcia Lippi. “Repensando a tradição.” Ciência Hoje 7, no. 38 (December
1987): 58.
Orlandi, Eni Pulcinelli. Terra à Vista: Discurso do confronto: Velho e novo mundo. São
Paulo: Cortez, 1990.
Ortiz, Renato. A Consciência Fragmentada. Rio de Janeiro: Paz e Terra, 1980.
Ortiz, Renato. Cultura Brasileira e Identidade Nacional, 3rd ed. São Paulo: Brasiliense,
n/d.
Ortiz, Renato. A Moderna Tradição Brasileira, 3rd ed. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1991.
Pedrosa, Mário. Dos Murais de Portinari aos Espaços de Brasília. São Paulo: Perspectiva,
1981.
Peixoto, Nelson Brissac. A Sedução da Barbárie. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1982.
Perlonguer, Nestor. O Negócio do Michê, 2nd ed. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1987.
Perlonguer, Nestor. “Territórios marginais.” Papéis Avulsos (Rio de Janeiro) no. 6,
1989.
Pessanha, José Américo Mota. “Bachelard: As asas da imaginação.” Folhetim (São
Paulo) June 10, 1984, 9.
Pignatari, Décio. “Cultura Brasileira Pós-Nacionalista.” Folhetim (São Paulo) February
17, 1985, 6.
Pinheiro, João Ribeiro. História da Pintura Brasileira. Rio de Janeiro: Casas Luiznijer,
1931.
Pinto, José Nêumane. “Os marginais da música nordestina.” Somtrês no. 23 (1980): 66.
Pontes, Neroaldo. Modernismo e Regionalismo. João Pessoa: Secretaria da Educação e
Cultura da Paraíba, 1984.
Portinari, João Cândido. Portinari: O Menino de Brodósqui. Rio de Janeiro: Livroarte
Editora, 1979.
Prado, Caio, Jr. Formação do Brasil Contemporâneo, 18th ed. São Paulo: Brasiliense,
1983.
Quadros, Consuelo Novaes S. de. “Formação do regionalismo no Brasil.” Revista do
Centro de Estudos Baianos no. 77 (1977): 5–13.
Queiroz, Rachel de. Caminho de Pedras. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1948.
Queiroz, Rachel de. João Miguel. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1948.
Queiroz, Rachel de. Mapinguari (Obras Reunidas vol. 5). Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio,
1989.
Queiroz, Rachel de. O Quinze. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1948.
Queiroz, Rachel de. As Três Marias, 3rd ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1956.
Rago, Margareth. Os Prazeres da Noite. Rio de Janeiro: Paz e Terra, 1991.
Ramos, Arthur. O Folclore Negro no Brasil, 2nd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Livraria Editora da
Casa do Estudante do Brasil, 1954.

bibliography 261
Ramos, Graciliano. Alexandre e Outros Heróis, 24th ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1982.
Ramos, Graciliano. Angústia, 27th ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1984.
Ramos, Graciliano. Caetés, 20th ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1984.
Ramos, Graciliano. Infância, 19th ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1984.
Ramos, Graciliano. Insônia, 19th ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1984.
Ramos, Graciliano. Linhas Tortas, 11th ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1984.
Ramos, Graciliano. Memórias do Cárcere, 17th ed. 2 vols. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1984.
Ramos, Graciliano. São Bernardo, 42nd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1984.
Ramos, Graciliano. Vidas Secas, 52nd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1984.
Ramos, Graciliano. Viventes das Alagoas, 14th ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1984.
Rebaud, Jean Paul. “Tradição literária e criação poética em Morte e Vida Severina.”
Folha das Letras (Maceió), 1986.
Rego, José Lins do. Àgua Mãe, 8th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1976.
Rego, José Lins do. Cangaceiros (Romances Reunidas). Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio,
1961.
Rego, José Lins do. Doidinho, 30th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1991.
Rego, José Lins do. Fogo Morto, 6th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1965.
Rego, José Lins do. Menino do Engenho, 16th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1971.
Rego, José Lins do. Meus Verdes Anos. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1981.
Rego, José Lins do. O Moleque Ricardo, 8th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1970.
Rego, José Lins do. Pedra Bonita, 11th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1986.
Rego, José Lins do. Presença do Nordeste na Literatura. Rio de Janeiro: Serviço de Doc-
umentação, 1957.
Rego, José Lins do. Riacho Doce, 5th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1969.
Rego, José Lins do. Usina, 7th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1973.
Ribeiro, Renato Janine, ed. Recordar Foucault. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1985.
Ricardo, Cassiano. Marcha para Oeste. 2 vols. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1942.
Risério, Antônio. “A dupla modernista e as realidades brasileiras.” Caderno Letras da
Folha de São Paulo May 26, 1990, 7.
Rocha, Glauber. Revisão Crítica do Cinema Brasileira. Rio de Janeiro: Civilização
Brasileira, 1963.
Rocha, Glauber. Revolução do Cinema Novo. Rio de Janeiro: Alhambra, 1981.
Rodrigues, Nina. Os Africanos no Brasil, 6th ed. São Paulo: Ed. Nacional, 1982.
Rolnik, Suely. Cartografia Sentimental. São Paulo: Estação Liberdade, 1989.
Roncari, Luiz. “O lugar do sertão.” Folhetim (São Paulo) December 16, 1964, 3.
Sá, Genival. O Sanfoneiro do Riacho da Brígida. Fortaleza: Edições A Fortaleza, 1966.
Salles, Antônio, Aves de Arribação, 2nd ed. São Paulo: Cia. Ed. Nacional, 1929.
Salles Santiago, Haroldo. “Teatro e nacionalismo.” Revista Brasiliense no. 23 (January–
February 1960): 186.
Santiago, Silviano. “A Bagaceira: Fábula Moralizante I.” Suplemento Literário do Estado
de Minas, August 17, 1974, 4.
Santiago, Silviano. “Modernidade e Tradição Popular.” Folha de São Paulo (Caderno
Letras) November 16, 1989, 4.
Santos, Luis Antônio de Castro. “O espírito da aldeia.” Novos Estudos cebrap no. 27
(July 1990): 45.

262 bibliography
Schelling, Vivian. A Presença do Povo na Cultura Brasileira. São Paulo: Campus: Ed.
da unicamp, 1990.
Schnaiderman, Boris. “Modernismo: Literatura e Ideologia.” Movimento no. 9 (Sep-
tember 1, 1975): 3.
Schwarz, Roberto. Os Pobres na Literatura Brasileira. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1983.
Secchin, Antônio Carlos. João Cabral: A Poesia do Menos. São Paulo: Duas Cidades,
1985.
Senna, Homero. República das Letras. Rio de Janeiro: Gráfica Olímpica Ed., 1968.
Senna, Orlando, and Glauber Rocha. Roteiros do Terceyro Mundo. Rio de Janeiro: Al-
hambra, 1985.
Sette, Mário. Senhora de Engenho, 5th ed. São Paulo: Ed. Fagundes, 1937.
Silva, Carlos Alberto, “Meu sol, teu diabo, vosso senhor, nosso nordeste.” Debate (Sal-
vador) ano 2 (October 1964).
Silva, Quirino da. “Caribé.” Diário da Noite (São Paulo) May 25, 1955.
Silveira, Rosa Maria Godoy. O Regionalismo Nordestino. São Paulo: Moderna, 1984.
Simões, Roberto. “Ficção nordestina: diretrizes sociais.” Revista Brasiliense no. 41
(May–June 1962): 172.
Sodré, Nelson Werneck. “Quem é o povo no Brasil?” Cadernos do Povo Brasileiro (Rio
de Janeiro) no. 2, 1967.
Souza Barros. A Década Vinte em Pernambuco, 2nd ed. Recife: Fundação de Cultura
da Cidade do Recife, 1985.
Squeff, Enio, and José Miguel Wisnik. Música (O Nacional e o Popular na Cultura
Brasileira). São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1982.
Suassuna, Ariano. História do Rei Degolado nas Caatingas do Sertão. Rio de Janeiro:
José Olympio, 1977.
Suassuna, Ariano. Romance d’A Pedra do Reino, 4th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio,
1976.
Suassuna, Ariano. Seleta em Prosa e Verso. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1974.
Subirats, Eduardo, Da Vanguarda ao Pós-Moderno, 3rd ed. São Paulo: Nobel, 1987.
Süssekind, Flora. O Brasil Não é Longe Daqui. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1990.
Tavares, Zulmira Ribeiro. “Os confines da ignorância.” O Estado de São Paulo July 26,
1969 (literary supplement), 4.
Tronca, Ítalo, ed. Foucault Vivo. Campinas: Pontes, 1987.
Ventura, Roberto. Estilo Tropical. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1991.
Ventura, Roberto. “Saudades do engenho e a nostalgia dos escravos.” Caderno B da
Folha de São Paulo May 13, 1988, 15.
Veyne, Paul. Como se Escreve a História. Brasília: Ed. da UnB, 1982.
Veyne, Paul. O Inventário das Diferenças. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1989.
Vianna, Oliveira. Evolução do Povo Brasileiro, 4th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio,
1952.
Vianna, Oliveira. Populações Meridionais do Brasil, 5th ed. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio,
1952.
Vidal, Adhemar. “O romance do Nordeste.” Revista Acadêmica no. 11 (May 1935): 7.
Vieira, André. “Cândido Portinari: Pintor da véspera.” Revista Acadêmica (Rio de Ja-
neiro) no. 12 (July 1935): 10.

bibliography 263
Weffort, Francisco. “Problema Nacional no Brasil.” Revista Anhembi 11 no. 119 (Octo-
ber 1960): 350.
Wisnik, José Miguel. “Estado, arte e política em Villa-Lobos, Vargas e Glauber.” Folhe-
tim (São Paulo) June 20, 1982, 6–8.
Wolf, José. “Morrer como poeta.” Jornal do Comércio May 28, 1967, 6.
Xavier, Ismail. Sertão Mar (Glauber Rocha e a Estética da Fome). São Paulo: Brasil-
iense, 1983.
Zilio, Carlos. “A difícil história da arte brasileira.” Folhetim (São Paulo) October 2,
1983, 4.
Zilio, Carlos. A Quarela do Brasil. Rio de Janeiro: Funarte, 1982.
Zilio, Carlos, João Luiz Lafetá, and Lígia Chiappini Moraes Leite. Artes Plásticas e
Literatura (O Nacional e o Popular na Cultura Brasileira). São Paulo: Brasiliense,
1982.

icono gr a ph y
Amaral, Tarsila do. Abaporu. 1928.
Amaral, Tarsila do. Distância. 1928.
Amaral, Tarsila do. Lua. 1928.
Amaral, Tarsila do. Paisagem. 1925.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Apresentação do Bumba-meu-Boi. 1943.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Bichos do Carnaval. 1954.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Bichos de Festa Popular. 1952.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Cabeleira no Canavial. 1950.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso Caboclos Tuchauas. Carnaval do Recife. 1942.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Cabriolet Mal-Assombrada. 1945.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Cadeira. 1969.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Capela Mal-Assombrada. 1945.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Cego Violeiro. 1947.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Cortadores de Cana. 1948.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Dando Cafuné. 1943.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Grade e Sobrado. 1967.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Matheus e Boi. 1945.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Menino de Engenho. 1943.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Mulher e Mandacaru. 1938.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Namoro de Ex-Votos. 1951.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Noivado na Casa de Engenho. 1943.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Portão. 1969.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Relógio. 1971.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Retirantes. 1947.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Retrato de Família. 1943.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Ruína. 1966.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Sofá Mal-Assombrado. 1945.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Tipos de Feira. 1942.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Vendedores de Rua. 1936.
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Vulta de Branco. 1947.

264 bibliography
Ayres, Lula Cardoso. Xangô. 1948.
Carybé. Bahia. 1951.
Carybé. Cangaceiros. 1962.
Carybé. Carnaval. 1944.
Carybé. Lampião. 1940.
Carybé. Lampião or A Assombração do Cangaço. 1968.
Carybé. A Morte de Alexandrina. 1939.
Carybé. Navio Negreiro. 1965.
Carybé. Nino Gafieiro. 1940.
Carybé. Nordeste. 1972.
Carybé. Pensão São Bento. 1940.
Carybé. Os Pescadores. 1955.
Carybé. Retirantes. 1945.
Carybé. Vaqueiros. 1953.
Carybé. Vaqueiros na Caatinga. 1969.
Dias, Cícero. Amizade. 1928.
Dias, Cícero. Amo. 1933.
Dias, Cícero. Banho de Rio. 1931.
Dias, Cícero. Casas. 1939.
Dias, Cícero. Composição Saudades. 1931.
Dias, Cícero. Dançarina ou Mamoeiro. 1940.
Dias, Cícero. Eu Vi o Mundo . . . Ele Começava no Recife. 1931.
Dias, Cícero. Ex-Voto. 1970.
Dias, Cícero. Família na Paisagem. N/d.
Dias, Cícero. Homem no Burrinho. 1930.
Dias, Cícero. Igreja. 1930.
Dias, Cícero. Jangadinha. 1930.
Dias, Cícero. Lavouras. 1930.
Dias, Cícero. Mocambos. 1930.
Dias, Cícero. Mormaço. 1940.
Dias, Cícero. Olinda. 1935.
Dias, Cícero. Paisagem com Figura. 1930.
Dias, Cícero. Porto. 1930.
Dias, Cícero. Procissão. 1930.
Dias, Cícero. Recife. 1930.
Dias, Cícero. Terra Chão. 1940.
Dias, Cícero. Tirador de Coco. 1930.
Dias, Cícero. Vida. 1939.
Dias, Cícero. Vista do Engenho Noruega. 1930.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Arlequins. 1940.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Baiana com Charuto. 1970.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Baianas e Frutas. 1957.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Bumba-meu-Boi. 1959.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Carnaval. 1973.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Cenas da Vida Brasileira. 1950.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Figuras. 1957.

bibliography 265
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Morro. 1930.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Mulher. 1952.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Mulher. 1970.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Músicos e Mulatas. 1972.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Natureza Morta. 1958.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Pescadores. 1940.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. A Quitanda da Rosa. 1952.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Retrato de Maria. 1927.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Samba. 1925.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Três Mulheres Sentadas. 1961.
Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano. Varanda na Bahia. 1961.
Portinari, Cândido. Baianas. 1940.
Portinari, Cândido. Baiana com Crianças. N/d.
Portinari, Cândido. Cabeça de Cangaçeiro. 1952.
Portinari, Cândido. Carnaval. 1940.
Portinari, Cândido. Enterro na Rede. 1944.
Portinari, Cândido. Retirantes. 1944.
Portinari, Cândido. Futebol. N/d.
Portinari, Cândido. Índio. N/d.
Portinari, Cândido. Menino Morte. 1944.
Portinari, Cândido. Mestiço. N/d.
Portinari, Cândido. Mulata e Índia. N/d.
Portinari, Cândido. Mulher Imigrante. 1935.
Portinari, Cândido. Retirantes. 1936.
Portinari, Cândido. Retirantes. 1945.
Portinari, Cândido. São João. N/d.

a u dio r e cor ding s : or a l s tat e m e nt s / lec t ures

Castilho, Almira. São Paulo: mis, July 7, 1983.
Chamie, Mário. Seminário sobre a Semana de 22. São Paulo: mis, May 1972.
Ferreira, Edgar. São Paulo: mis, July 11, 1983.
Xavier, Ismail. “O Cinema e a Ficção em Oswald de Andrade.” Campinas, unicamp,
cedae, April 4, 1990.

p l ay s
Queiroz, Rachel de. A Beata Maria do Egito (Obras Reunidas, vol 5). Rio de Janeiro:
José Olympio, 1989.
Queiroz, Rachel de. Lampião (Obras Reunidas, vol 5). Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio,
1989.
Suassuna, Ariano. Auto da Compadecida, 21st ed. Rio de Janeiro: Agir, 1985.
Suassuna, Ariano. O Casamento Suspeitoso. Recife, Editora Igarassu, 1961.
Suassuna, Ariano. O Castigo da Soberba. Deca (Recife) 2, no. 2, 1960.
Suassuna, Ariano. Farsa da Boa Preguiça. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1974.
Suassuna, Ariano. A Pena e a Lei. Recife: Imprensa Universitária, 1964.

266 bibliography
Suassuna, Ariano. O Rico Avarento. In Seleta em Prosa e Verso. Rio de Janeiro: José
Olympio, 1965.
Suassuna, Ariano. O Santo e a Porca. Recife: Imprensa Universitária, 1964.
Suassuna, Ariano. Torturas de um Coração. In Seleta em Prosa e Verso. Rio de Janeiro:
José Olympio, 1965.
Suassuna, Ariano. Uma Mulher Vestida de Sol. Recife: Imprensa Universitária, 1964.

disco gr a ph y
Caymmi, Dorival. Todo o Dengo da Bahia. História da Música Popular Brasileira no.
3. Abril / rca Victor, 1970.
Gonzaga, Luiz. Os Grandes Sucesses de Luiz Gonzaga vol. 1. rca Victor, 1982.
Gonzaga, Luiz. Os Grandes Sucesses de Luiz Gonzaga vol. 2. Magazine, 1983.
Gonzaga, Luiz. A História do Nordeste na Voz de Luiz Gonzaga. rca Victor, 1955.
Gonzaga, Luiz. Luiz Gonzaga Canta seus Sucessos com Zé Dantas. rca Victor, 1959.
Gonzaga, Luiz. Luiz Gonzaga. rca Victor, 1967.
Gonzaga, Luiz. Luiz Gonzaga e Humberto Teixeira. rca Victor, 1969.
Gonzaga, Luiz. Luiz Gonzaga e Zé Dantas. rca Victor, 1968.
Gonzaga, Luiz. Luiz Gonzaga. Sua Sanfona e Sua Simpatia. rca Victor, 1966.
Gonzaga, Luiz. O Nordeste na Voz de Luiz Gonzaga. rca Victor, 1962.
Gonzaga, Luiz. O Reino do Baião. rca Victor, 1957.
Gonzaga, Luiz. O Sanfoneiro do Povo de Deus. rca Victor, 1968.
Gonzaga, Luiz. A Triste Partida. rca Victor, 1964.

film o gr a ph y
Barreto, Lima. O Cangaceiro. 1953.
Barros, Luiz de. Fogo na Canjica. 1947.
Cavalcanti, Alberto. Canto do Mar. 1953.
Coimbra, Carlos. Cangaceiros de Lampião. 1967.
Coimbra, Carlos. Corisco, O Diabo Loiro. 1969.
Coimbra, Carlos. Lampião, Rei do Cangaço. 1963.
Coimbra, Carlos. A Morte Comanda o Cangaço. 1960.
Costa, Rui. Banana da Terra. 1939.
Diégues, Carlos. Cinco Vezes Favela. 1962.
Downey, Wallace. Abacaxi Azul. 1944.
Downey, Wallace, João de Barros, and Alberto Ribeiro. Alô, Alô, Brasil! 1933.
Duarte, Anselmo. Vereda da Salvação. 1966.
Duarte, Anselmo, and Dias Gomes. O Pagador de Promessas. 1962.
Farias, Edmundo. Terra Violenta. 1948.
Farias, Roberto. Rico Ri à Toa. 1957.
Gonzaga, Adhemar. Alô, Alô, Carnaval! 1936.
Guerra, Ruy. Os Fuzis. 1965.
Hirszman, Leon. Maioria Absoluta. 1964.
Laurelli, Glauco. O Lamparina. 1966.
Lima, Walter, Jr. Menino de Engenho. 1965.

bibliography 267
Macêdo, Watson. Este Mundo É um Pandeiro. 1946.
Manga, Carlos. Matar ou Correr. 1954.
Manga, Carlos. Nem Sansão e Nem Dalila. 1954.
Neto, Triguerinho. Bahia de Todos os Santos. 1960.
Oliveira, Osvaldo de. O Cangaceiro Sanguinário. 1969.
Oliveira, Osvaldo de. O Cangaceiro Sem Deus. 1969.
Pereira, Gilberto, and Renato Santos. Grande Sertão. 1965.
Rocha, Glauber. Barravento. 1962.
Rocha, Glauber. Deus e o Diabo na Terra do Sol. 1964.
Santos, Nelson Pereira dos. Vidas Secas. 1963.
Silva, Watson. Nordeste Sangrento. 1963.
Soares, Paulo Gil. Memória do Cangaço. 1965.
Teixeira, Aurélio. Entre o Amor e o Cangaço. 1960.

268 bibliography
INDEX

Afro-Brazilian Congress (1928), 59 138; “decentralizing intelligence,” 29;

Afro-Brazilians: Almeida on, 102; on Dias, 112; Northeast’s importance
Amado on, 162–63, 166–67; in for, 72; Pauliceia Desvairada, 28;
cinema, 199; contribution to lan- Rego’s criticism of, 55–56; Revista
guage, 84; Freyre on, 32, 63–64; Mauriceia and, 59; O Turista Apren-
inferiority of, 31; media’s omission diz, 21
of, 19; Rego on, 98; Southern migra- Andrade, Oswald de: chanchadas and,
tion of, 34 193; on northeastern fiction, 57;
Agricultural Congresses, 38 Northeast’s importance for, 72–73;
Alencar, José de, 83 on Recife, 38; Rego’s criticism of,
Alliance for Progress, ix 55–56, 57; on São Paulo, 29, 73; on
Almeida, José Américo de, 13, 47; Stalinism, 223
analysis of literary oeuvre, 102–5; Angústia (Ramos), 171
coronel character type, 94; geo- anthropogeography, 31, 61
graphical focus, 78; Inojosa and, 59; anticapitalism, 89–90, 154
modernist views, 103–5; on regional Antônio das Mortes, 150, 209–10
literature, 74; sertão in works of, Aranha, Graça, 24
88–89; youth, 102 Arrail do Cabo (Saraceini and Carnero),
Amado, Jorge, xi, 13, 138; on Afro- 199
Brazilians, 162–63; on Bahia, 159–61, A Arte Moderna, 59
163, 166–67; Bahia de Todos os Santos, Aruanda (Noronha), 199
156–57, 160–61; on bourgeoisie, Aryan-ness, 30
165–66; Cacau, 155; Capitães da “Asa Branca” (Gonzaga), 119
Areia, 150, 158; coronel in works of, Atlântida, 192
141, 146; Freyre’s influence on, 161; Austro-Costa, 59
Gabriela, Cravo e Canela, 156, 159, Auto da Compadecida (Suassuna), 124
163; Jubiabá, 163; Mar Morto, 158; autonomist movement, 43
Marxism of, 151; naturalism of, 166; Ayres, Lula Cardoso, 13, 47, 112–14
O País do Carnaval, 155; on patriar-
chy, 141, 163–64; São Jorge de Ilhéus, backlands. See sertão
159; Seara Vermelha, 159–60; Tenda A Bagaceira (Almeida), 102
dos Milagres, 157–58, 161–62, 163; Bahia: Amado’s popularization of,
Tereza Batista, 163; Terras do Sem 159–61, 163, 166–67; Braudel on, 73;
Fim, 156, 164; youth, 154 in cinema, 198; as core of national
Amaral, Amadeu, 73 identity, 69; in Di Cavalcanti’s work,
Amaral, Tarsila do, 29 180; New Cinema origins in, 200;
Andrade, Almir, 105–6 Rodrigues on, 20
Andrade, Mário de: Brazilian identity Bahia de Todos os Santos (Amado), 156–57,
and, 24–25; criticism of regional art, 160–61, 202
baiano, 160–61 dynamic, 189–90, 191; use of
baião, 117, 118 language, 184–86, 187; youth, 184
Bandeira, Manoel (painter), 110 Cacau (Amado), 155
Bandeira, Manuel (poet), 36, 47, 48–49, cactus, as symbol, 29, 33
78, 82, 180 Caetés (Ramos), 173
bandeirantes, 70, 71 Caldeirão de Santa Cruz, 147
banditry, 23, 32, 34, 40–41; end of, 148; Caminho de Pedras (Quieroz), 107
origins of, 69–70 Campos, Flávio de, 200
bandits: as antimodern activists, 93; in Candido, Antonio, 25–26
cinema, 149–51; in Marxist discourse, candomblé, 51, 211
145; mythologization of, 140, 148–51; O Cangaceiro (Barreto), 149, 150, 196–97
New Cinema’s use of, 204; in north- cangaço, 34
eastern literature, 90–93 O Canto de Mar (Cavalcanti), 195–96
Barravento (Rocha), 208, 211 Canudos, 33–34, 93, 147–48, 209
Barreto, Lima, 149, 197 Capitães da Areia (Amado), 150, 158
Barros, Paulo de Moraes, 18 capitalism: Amado on, 157; Cabral on,
Bastide, Roger, 71, 74–75 189; Canudos massacre and, 147–48;
Bernadet, Jean-Claude, 200 as destructive, 65, 68, 82, 90, 153,
biopsychology, 61 164, 174–75; Freyre on, 65, 68;
biotypology, 31 identity creation and, 46; as integral
Boas, Franz, 60, 61 to nation/region, 224; naturalism
Bonita, Maria, 1 vs., 26; Ramos on, 173; Rego on, 100;
The Book of the Northeast, 42, 110 Rocha on, 208, 218; Suassuna on, 125
O Boqueirão (Almeida), 103, 105 Cardoso, Joaquim, 59
bourgeois gaze, inversion of, 136–37, Carneiro, Mário, 199
138 carnival: Amado on, 155, 157, 162, 167; in
bourgeoisie, 140; Amado’s criticism of, cinema, 193, 205; in drama, 130; in
165–66; Di Cavalcanti’s aversion to, painting, 113, 179
180; New Cinema’s view of, 202–3; Carybé, 159, 180, 181
in Ramos’s work, 172, 174–75; as Cascudo, Luís da Câmara, 46
villains, 145 Castro, Josué de, 135
Brasil Brasileiro (newspaper), 59 Catholicism: Lima, 51; mysticism and,
Braudel, Fernand, 73 93; Suassuna on, 125, 127, 128; as
Brazilian Culture Institute, 29 unifying force, 69
Brazilian Integralist Action party, Cavalcanti, Alberto, 196
152 Cavalcanti, Paulo, 75
Brazilian Society for Economic Study, Caymmi, Dorival, 159, 160, 166
134 Central Intelligence Agency (cia), x
Brazilian Sociology Society, 134 Cerqueira, Dionísio, 18
bumba-meu-boi, 113 chanchada films, 145, 149
Burle, José Carlos, 149 character traits, 71–72, 160
character types: Amado’s use of, 141,
cabeça chata, 3 155–56; in cinema, 192, 194–95;
Cabral de Melo Neto, João, 138, 152; Popular Culture Movement’s use
antitraditionalism of, 186–89, 192; of, 142; Suassuna’s use of, 129
naturalism of, 189; time/space childhood gaze, 50, 51, 89

270 index
Cinco Vezes Favela, 202 Dagoberto, 94
cinema: bandit films, 149–51, 197; Dahl, Gustavo, 200
O Cangaceiro, 196–97; O Canto Dantas, José (Zé), 47, 116, 119
de Mar, 195–96; carnival in, 193; “deregionalization,” 191
chanchada, 192–93; character types, Deus e o Diabo na Terra do Sol (Rocha),
194–95; growth as industry, 192–93; 208–10, 216–17
New Cinema (see New Cinema); Um Dia na Rampa (Santos), 199
nordestern, 149; Northeast as theme, Diário de Pernambuco, 41–42
195; O Pagador de Promessas, 197–99; Dias, Cicero, xi, 13, 47, 50, 110–12, 223
Viramundo (Sarno), 184 Di Cavalcanti, Emiliano, 179–80, 181
cities: as anti-Brazilian, 154; in Cabral’s discursive centers, 16
works, 188–89; in Northeastern dispositif of nationalities, 5, 8, 12, 22, 37,
literature, 81–82; as opportunities for 48, 223
betterment, 114; as origins of revolu- Dom Casmurro, 58–59
tion, 142; in Queiroz’s works, 107; drama, regionalist, 124–30. See also
in Rego’s works, 100; traditionalist cinema; New Cinema
regionalism view of, 160 drought: of 1877, 37–39; Andrade on,
“civilization of leather,” 127, 135 138; Cabral’s use of, 190; in cinema,
Civil War, American, 30 195–96; in discourse, 35; Freyre’s
class conflict, 62–63, 90–91, 107, 202 interpretation of, 45; Gonzaga’s
Cleto, Cristino Gomes da Silva, 148 use of, 119; media coverage, 2, 17;
clientelist policies, 23 in Northeastern literature, 87–88;
climate: importance of, 38; North vs. political responses, x–xi, 31–32,
South, 34–35; tropical, as decadent, 39–40; Portinari’s use of, 182–83;
31. See also drought Queiroz’s use of, 106; Ramos’s use
coastal vs. rural polarity, 27 of, 139; Rocha’s use of, 208–9
Coimbra, Carlos, 149 drought industry, 31
Coiteiros (Almeida), 103 Duarte, Anselmo, 197
Communist Party, 133, 142, 151, 152, 157 Dutch, influence of, 44
Congress of Sugar Producers, 40
Conselheiro, Antônio, 1, 93, 141, 148, Eisenstein, Serge, 216
209 Embrafilme, 204
Conselho Federal de Cultura, 125 encyclopedia, Brazilian, 16
cordel literature, 53, 79–80, 158, 187, Enterro na Rede (Portinari), 182
206 Era Nova, 59
Corisco, 148 O Estado de São Paulo, 17, 18–19, 33
coronel, 145, 146 Estado Novo, 115
coronelismo: decline of, 164 (Amado); in Ethnographic and Folklore Society, 134
New Cinema, 201, 204; in North- Europe, influence of, 57, 73, 126, 129
eastern literature, 94–95; in Rego’s Evolução Política do Brasil (Prado), 134
works, 98–99
“crooked gaze,” 222 Família de Luto (Dias), 111
Cunha, Euclides da: Canudos reportage, Familia de Retirantes (Portinari), 182, 183
33, 83–84, 93; influence on Almeida, family, 64–65, 70–71, 83, 110–11. See also
102; Rodrigues and, 20; sertão arche- patriarchy
type, xi; Os Sertões, 26–28, 93 Federal Culture Board, 125

index 271
Federal Inspectorate of Works against Guerra, Ruy, 204
Droughts (ifocs), 37, 40 A Guerra (Portinari), 182
Fernandes, Florestan, 135 Gurvitch, George, 133, 135
Ferraz, Sampaio, 24
Ferreira, Ascenso, 47, 50, 78, 82–83 Hearn, Lafcádio, 60
fiction, regionalist. See literature, Higher Institute of Brazilian Studies
regionalist (iseb), 135, 203
Figuras (Di Cavalcanti), 181 História do Rei Degolado nas Caatingas
Filho, Hermilo Borba, 125 do Sertão (Suassuna), 128
Filho, Lourenço, 32–34 historical regionalism, 45
First International Student Congress, 58 history: media’s negation of, 230;
Fogo Morto (Rego), 97, 100, 101 memory and, 48–49; as narrative,
folklore, 26, 46–47, 80, 112, 183, 196 225; national vs. regional, 9–10;
Formação do Brasil Contemporâneo space and, 15
(Prado), 134 Holanda, Sérgio Buarqe de, 72
Formação Histórica do Brasil (Sodré), 134 Hollywood, influence of, 192, 193
Foucault, Michel, 5, 22 homosexuality, 101, 165
Freyre, Gilberto, xi, 13, 47; Cabral’s
inversion of, 187–88; conciliatory Iberian Peninsula, 53, 125, 127, 129
politics of, 64–65, 68; on Diário de identity: defined, 8; modernist view of,
Pernambuco, 41–42; on drought, 32; 23, 24; racial, 30–31
on Dutch influence, 44–45; envi- immigrants, superiority of, 18
ronmentalism of, 67; influence on “Impressions of São Paulo,” 18–19
Amado, 161; influence on Ferreira, indigenous peoples, 19
50, 51; influence on Rego, 56, 223; industrialization, 14, 15, 81–82, 163–64,
modernism vs., 54–57, 58–60; on 189
NE dialect, 84–85; racial stereotypes, Inojosa, Joaquim, 42, 58–59, 60
162; on regionalist painting, 109–10; Inspetoria Federal de Obras Contra as
sociology of, 61–64, 66–68 Secas (ifocs), 37, 40
“From the Other America” (Freyre), Institute of Public Works Against
59–60 Droughts (iocs), 40
Os Fuzis (Guerra), 204 Institute of Sugar and Alcohol, 43
Instituto de Obras Contras as Secas
Gabriela, Cravo e Canela (Amado), 156, (iocs), 40
159, 163 Instituto Nacional do Cinema (inc ),
gaze, 12; childhood, 50, 51; South as 194
“other’s,” 68–73 Instituto Superior de Estudos
Generation of 1945, 152, 184 Brasileiros (iseb), 135, 203
genetic sociology, 61 intelligence, centralization of, 29
Geografia da Fome (Castro), 135 interior, of Brazil. See sertão
geography, as determinant of culture, 16
globalization, 46 Jornal do Comércio, 58
Gonzaga, Luis de, xi, 47, 52, 116–24 journalism, 41
Gordon, Lincoln, x Juazeiro, 33
Gouveia, Delmiro, 141 Jubiabá (Amado), 150, 163
Gregorian chants, 116 Júnior, Araipe, 79

272 index
Klaxon, 58 Machado, Alcântara, 70
Kubitschek, Juscelino, 123, 203 Macunaíma (Andrade), 21, 24
madness, in Rego’s works, 101
labor, 99–100; New Cinema and, 202 Magalhães, Agamenon, 44
labor leaders, 43 malandro, 166
labor movement, 107–8, 150–51 The Mansions and the Shanties (Freyre),
O Lamparina, 149 65–66
Lampião, 1, 91, 141, 150 Mar Morto (Amado), 158
language: Afro-Brazilian contribution Marroquim, Mário, 84–85
to, 84; Cabral’s use of, 184–87, 190; Martins, Ibiapaba, 179
northeastern dialect, 1, 84–86; power Martins, Wilson, 59
and, 4–5; Ramos’s use of, 75, 184–85; Marxism: Amado and, 151, 156, 157, 167;
Suassuna’s use of, 130 art in, 137–38; banditry and, 141;
Law of the Free Womb, 32 coronelismo and, 145; development in
Leftists, 133, 136, 140–41, 142; Amado’s Brazil, 132–39; messianism and, 141;
critique of, 157–58, 163; appropriation in New Cinema, 202; Queiroz and,
of bandit myth, 150–51; character- 107; Ramos and, 151, 174; religion in,
ization of Northeast for political 147–48; Sodré on, 134
purposes, 141, 143–45; inversion of The Masters and the Slaves (Freyre),
Northeast, 13; poverty and, 147; rejec- 65–66
tion of naturalism/fatalism of, 143; Matta, Roberto de, 222
religiosity and, 147–48; as warrior/ Maurras, Charles, 60
savior, 146 media stereotypes, 1–2, 16, 230
Lima, Jorge de, 51, 78 memory, 45–46, 48–54, 189–90
A Língua do Nordeste (Marroquim), 84–85 Menezes, Djacir, 135
literature, regionalist: aesthetic shift in, Menino Morto (Portinari), 182
151–52; as antimodern, 53–54; bandits Menotti del Picchia, 71
in, 90–93; character types in (see Merquior, José Guilherme, 75
character types); childhood gaze in, messianism, 23, 32–33, 41, 93, 146–47
50; cinema adaptation of, 194; class mestiço: in Amado’s works, 166–67; as
conflict in, 90–91; coronelismo in, inferior, 30–31, 35; in Rego’s works,
94–95; drought in, 87–88; growth 98; as superior, 62, 162
as an industry, 76–77; language of, Milliet, Sérgio, 153, 179
84–86; as “literary province,” 74–76; miscegenation: as beneficial, 61–62,
messianism in, 93; narrative struc- 162; as detrimental, 102; Rego on,
ture of, 79–81; naturalist nostalgia 98, 101. See also mestiço
of, 78, 81–83; New Cinema and, 200; mixed-race. See mestiço; miscegenation
origins of, 25–29; patriarchy/planta- Modern Art Week (1922), 56, 58
tions in, 89–90; Ramos’s criticism modernism, 19; aversion to, 226; Brazil-
of, 175–76; realist, 152–53; sertão in ian vs. European, 24; identity and,
(see sertão); societal stimulation of, 23, 24; naturalist regionalism vs.,
76; themes, 77, 86; transformation 28–29
to national, 74 modernist fiction, 56
Lobato, Monteiro, 27–28 modernist regionalism: traditionalist
Lourenço, José, 147 vs., 54–60
Lukács, Georg, 137 O Moleque Ricardo (Rego), 43, 99

index 273
Monteiro, Joaquim do Rego, 60 Northeast as seen by, 138; origins
Monteiro, Vicente do Rego, xi, 60 of, 199–200; revolutionary goals of,
Moog, Vianna, 74 203–4, 207; use of bandits, 145
A Morte de Alexandrina (Carybé), 181 New York Times, ix–x
Movimento Cultura Popular, 142, 203 nomadism, 69
Municipal Culture Department, City of O Nordeste, 43
São Paulo, 28–29 Nordeste (Freyre), 66
muralists, Mexican, 178, 179, 182 nordestern, 149
music, popular: Dorival Caymmi, 159, nordestinidade, 3
160; commercial nature of, 119; José nordestino (dialect), 1, 84–85
(Zé) Dantas, 47, 116, 119; genesis of, nordestino (person): invention of, 11;
115–16; Luis de Gonzaga, 116–24; as political views of, 142; racial infe-
participatory, 118 riority of, 18; stereotypes of, 1–2; as
“My Land” (Bandeira), 48–49 threat, 145
mysticism, 51, 93, 163 Noronha, Lindoarte, 199, 200
North: as barbaric, 34; as decadent, 31;
Nabuco, Joaquim, 79 as desert, 35; as synonymous with
nation: Andrade on, 21; as homogeniza- Northeast, 38
tion, 22–23; as regional pact, 66 Northeast: as barbaric, 92; definitions
National Cinema Institute (inc), 194 of, 37–38, 40; as having always
National Congress of Brazilian Cinema, existed, 44; as obstacle to develop-
193–94 ment, 142; as preserver of traditions,
National Department of Works against 72–73; as synonymous with North,
the Droughts, 43 38; as ubiquitous, 222; as victim of
nationalism: as reactionary, 223–24; capitalism, 152–54
regionalism and, 221 Northeastern Regionalist Center, 42–43,
National Liberator Alliance, 152 54, 59
national-popular discursive formation, 8 Northern bloc, 40
National Students Union (une), 203 nostalgia, 36–37, 46, 52, 122
naturalism: in Amado’s works, 158, 166; novelists. See literature, regionalist
in Ayres’s works, 112; in Gonzaga’s
works, 124; in painting, 109–10; in Olho D’Àgua da Serra do Talhado, 199
Queiroz’s works, 108; realist fiction’s Olinda, 188
view of, 154; in Rego’s works, 98–99; Oliveira, Osvaldo de, 149
rejection by leftists, 143; in Suassuna’s Onça Caetana, 128
works, 128 Order and Progress (Freyre), 65–66
naturalist regionalism: contribution to origin myths, 69
idea of Northeast, 29–30; decline of, orixás, 163
45; in literature, 78, 81–83; modern- “other,” 39, 68–73, 141
ism vs., 28–29 O Outro Nordeste (Menezes), 135
Nazário, Luiz, 213
Nazism, influence on art, 178 Padre Cicero, 33, 141
New Cinema: authenticization of, Pádua, Cyro T. de, 74
205–9; commercial success of, O Pagador de Promessas (Duarte), 197–99
204–5; didactic tone of, 201; first painters/painting, 25, 109–14; Ama-
phase, 200–201; Leftists and, 201–3; ral, 29; Di Cavalcanti, 179–80, 181;

274 index
nationalism of, 178; Northeast as O Primo do Cangaceiro, 149
theme, 179; Cândido Portinari, proto-regionalism, 16
180–84; realist, 177–79; as transfor- publishing industry, 76–77
mational act, 176–77 puppetry, 125, 127
O País do Carnaval (Amado), 155
Palanquim Dourado (Sette), 60 Queiroz, Rachel de: analysis of literary
Paraíba: Afro-Brazilians in, 199; oeuvre, 105–8; geographic focus, 78;
Inojosa’s reception, 59; New Cinema on media’s treatment of Northeast,
origins in, 200; O Canto do Mar, 195; 2, 222; as nordestinidade, 3; sertão’s
stereotypes, 3 importance for, 88–89; time/space
A Paraíba e Seus Problemas (Almeida), 59 dichotomy, 51–52; traditionalism of,
Parliament: Northern bloc, 40; response 13, 47; youth, 105
to 1877 drought, 39–40 O Quinze (Queiroz), 106–7
patriarchy: Amado on, 164; Freyre
on, 64–65; Gonzaga on, 124; in radio, 114–15, 118
Northeastern literature, 77, 89–90; Rádio Nacional, 115, 116, 117
stability of, 70, 89 Rádio Record, 117
Paulicea Desvairada (Andrade), 28 Ramos, Graciliano: Angústia, 171; on
paulistas, 26–27; racial superiority of, 18 bandits, 149; bourgeois society and,
Peasant Leagues, 142 140; Caetés, 173; Campos on, 200;
Pedra Bonita (Ramos), 200 challenge to idea of Northeast,
Pernambuco: as core of national iden- 225–26; on Conselheiro, 148; criti-
tity, 69; Dutch influence, 44; Frey- cism of regionalist fiction, 175–76;
re’s praise of, 59–60; modern art in, decline/instability as theme, 170–71;
58; sugar production in, 65–66 on exaggeration of Northeast’s
physiognomy: Brazilian, 63; mixed-race, ills, 145; inversion of traditionalist
64; nordestino, 127; Northeastern, Northeast, 13, 138–39; language/
66–67; Northern, 31 silence as theme, 167–70; Marxism
Picturesque Brazil—Journeys of Cornélio of, 151; memory/history as theme,
Pires to the North of Brazil, 20 171–72; modernism and, 173–74; São
Pires, Cornélio, 19–20 Bernardo, 173, 174; use of language,
plantations, 13, 67, 70; Amado on, 156; 75, 184–85; Vidas Secas, 170, 173;
Ayres on, 112; in Northeastern litera- youth, 167
ture, 80, 81, 82–83; realist fiction’s Ramos, Guerreiro, 135
view of, 154; in regionalist painting, realist fiction, 152–54
110; Rego on, 99–101 realist painting, 177–79
Popular Culture Movement, 142, 203 Recife: Agricultural Congress, 38; An-
Portinari, Cândido, 13, 180–84 drade on, 38; Cabral’s view of, 186; as
Portugal, as model for Northeast, 57 cultural center, 16; higher education
Portuguese language, 85–86 in, 41; as journalism locus, 41; in O
poverty: bourgeois view of, 147; in Moleque Ricardo, 99–100; Regional-
Cabral’s works, 186–87; leftist view ist Conference (1926), 42–43
of, 147; in Queiroz’s works, 108; in Recôncavo, 160, 164
Rego’s works, 99 Reflexões de uma Cabra (Almeida), 59
Prado, Caio, Jr., 134 region: defined, 7, 9, 12; as precursor to
Prado, Paulo, 63 nation, 45

index 275
regionalism: aesthetic, 24; modernist cordel’s influence on, 206; Deus e o
vs. traditionalist, 54–60; national- Diabo na Terra do Sol, 150, 208–10,
ism and, 221; as obstacle to progress, 216–17; Embrafilme and, 204; his-
227–28; as perpetuation of victim- tory/myth as theme, 211–12, 215; on
hood, 229–30; as precursor newness of Brazilian cinema,
to nationalism, 24; proto-, 16; as 199–200; populist goals of, 194,
reactionary, 223–24; of 1920s, 15, 213–15, 217–18; Terra em Transe, 211;
21–22 use of time, 210–11; youth, 207–8
Regionalist Conference (1926), 42–43, Rodrigues, Chiquinha, 20
44, 54, 59 Rodrigues, Nina, 30–31
regionalist discourse, 23–24 Romero, Silvio, 79
regionalist gaze, 15–21 Rosa, Guimarães, 187, 191, 206
regional psychology, 50 rural vs. coastal polarity, 27
Rego, José Lins do, xi, 223; analysis of rural vs. urban motif, 81–82, 89–90,
literary oeuvre, 96–101; bandits in 145, 196, 197–98
works of, 91; on Book of the Northeast,
42; Campos on, 200; coronel char- Salvador, 160, 161
acter type, 94; criticism of Andrade, samba, 120
55–56, 57; on Diário de Pernambuco, O Santo e a Porca (Suassuna), 127
41; dissolution as theme, 89; Freyre’s Santos, Luis Paulino dos, 199
influence on, 56, 223; geographic Santos, Nelson Pereira dos, 199, 200, 201
focus, 78; O Moleque Ricardo, 43; São Bernardo (Ramos), 173, 174
narrative voices of, 80–81; on North- São Jorge de Ilhéus (Amado), 159
eastern dialect, 84; Northeast in São Paulo: Amado’s view of, 161, 165;
decline, 48; personal identification Amaral on, 73; aristocracy of, 70–71;
with Northeast, 50–51; traditionalism artistic autonomy from, 56, 58;
of, 13, 47; youth, 95 Braudel on, 73; as center of national
O Rei Degolado nas Caatingas do Sertão culture, 16, 28–29, 72; as core of
(Suassuna), 125–26 national identity, 69; Cunha on,
religion: Marxist view of, 147–48; in 26–27; Freyre and, 59; literature of,
Suassuna’s works, 125, 126–27 75; response to autonomist move-
religious extremism, 33 ment, 43; superiority of, 18–19;
Representação do Bumba-Meu-Boi theatrical tradition, 124
(Ayers), 113 Saraceni, Paulo César, 199
Os Retirantes (Portinari), 182, 183, 184 Sarno, Geraldo, 184
Revista Mauriceia, 59 saudade, 36, 46
“Riacho do Navio” (Gonzaga), 123 Seara Vermelha (Amado), 159–60
Ribeiro, João, 25 sedentariness, 70
Ricardo, Cassiano, 70–71 Senhor de Engenho (Sette), 42, 60
Rio de Janeiro: Agricultural Congress, sertanejo, 26, 102, 108, 142, 170, 188, 197
38; Amado’s view of, 161, 165; as sertão, 27–28, 53; Almeida’s use of, 102,
discursive center, 16; Lobato on, 28; 104; Cabral’s use of, 187–88, 189;
New Cinema origins in, 200; theatri- in cinema, 196–97; Conselheiro’s
cal tradition, 124 prediction, 209; Gonzaga’s use of,
Rocha, Glauber, xi; Barravento, 208, 211; 121–23; in Northeastern literature
cinematographic techniques, 215–17; generally, 83–84, 88–89; as part of

276 index
Bahia, 160; Queiroz’s use of, 106; Tereza Batista (Amado), 163
Ramos’s use of, 170; Suassuna’s use Terra em Transe (Rocha), 211
of, 125–26, 127–30 Terras do Sem Fim (Amado), 156, 164
Os Sertões (da Cunha), 20, 26–27, 93 time: instability of, 51–53; Rocha’s use
Sette, Mário, 42, 60 of, 210–11
sexuality: of Afro-Brazilians, 162; as tradition: importance of, 45–46, 52; as
symbol of decadence, 100–101 limiting, 225; Northeast as preserver
Silva, Wilson, 149 of, 72–73. See also memory
Silveira, Walter, 200 traditionalists: bandits and, 140; cities
Silvino, Antônio, 1, 91 and, 160; modernist vs., 54–60
Simões, Roberto, 153 Tropicalists, 124, 223
slavery, 18, 19, 32, 34, 63–64, 89–90, tropics: as causing decadence, 31, 63;
102, 154 in regionalist painting, 112
sociological regionalism, 54–55, 60–62, Os Tuchauas do Carnaval de Recife
66, 68 (Ayers), 113
Sodré, Nelson Werneck, 134 O Turista Aprendiz (Andrade), 21
sound, in New Cinema, 206–7
South: alienation from, 16, 48; as civiliz- União Nacional dos Estudantes (une),
ing influence, 34; as opportunity, 144; 203
as “other” to Northeast, 39, 68–73; universities, 41
as source of revolution, 142, 202 University of São Paulo, 133–34
space, 4–8, 12–16, 22, 51–52, 211 urbanization, 19, 72
Spartacus, 32 urban vs. rural motif, 81–82, 89–90,
Suassuna, Ariano, xi, 47, 52–53, 124–30 145, 196, 197–98
Sudene initiative, 123 Urupês (Lobato), 28
sugar aristocracy: as beneficial, 159;
as cradle of Brazilian civilization, Vargas, Getùlio, 27, 115, 180
63–64, 70, 72; decadence of, 86; Veloso, Caetano, 1
decline of, 82–83; as detrimental, Ventura, Roberto, 79
53; Dias’s view of, 110; as irrelevant, Vianna, Oliveira, 18, 30, 70
127, 143 victimization, 40, 224
sugar production: Congress of Sugar Vidal, Ademar, 153
Producers, 40–41; decline of, xi, 12; Vidas Secas (Ramos), 170, 173, 200, 201
environmental impacts of, 67; Freyre Viramundo (Sarno), 184
on, xi, 63–64, 65–66; industrializa- “A Volta da Asa Branca” (Gonzaga),
tion of, 189 122
Superintendancy for the Development “Vozes da Seca” (Gonzaga), 119
of the Northeast (Sudene), 123
swamp, as symbol, 188 Westerns (movie genre), 149–50
Szulc, Tad, x “What Futurism Is” (Inojosa), 58
whiteness, of South, 30–31
Tavora, Franklin, 83 World War I, 15
Teixeira, Humberto, 47, 116, 119
telenovelas, 1 Yara (ballet), 183
Tenda dos Milagres (Amado), 157–58,
161–62, 163 zona da mata (coast), 78

index 277