Julio Cortázar's Axolotl: Literary Archaeology of the Unreal

Pamela McNab, Albion College, Michigan

Axolotl (Final del juego, "end of the game"), one of Julio Cortázar's
masterpieces, chronicles one man's discovery of the axolotls, rather unusual-
looking amphibians, his growing obsession with them and, ultimately, his
supposed transformation into an axolotl. One of the better known and most
frequently analyzed of all Cortázar's stories, Axolotl quickly establishes and
perpetuates an aura of ambiguity surrounding the narrator and the axolotls
which causes the reader to question the nature of reality. 1 Consequently, the
text's openness has fueled interpretive speculation with regard to a wide variety
of topics, ranging from religion and Aztec mythology to philosophy and
psychology. Some readers view Axolotl as a commentary on the creative process
itself, among them Alfred MacAdam, who writes that: "The philosophical
problem of interpretation ... seems reduced in importance, displaced by the
purely aesthetic problem of the representation of the unreal." 2 Mac Adam's
comment prompts the important question: How does Cortázar evoke a
"representation of the unreal" that allows for such interpretive breadth? This
study will consider how narrative strategies suggest that Cortázar's depiction of
the "unreal" is inspired by a variety of literary sources, both classical and
modern. Cortázar draws from these other texts to infuse his own story with
subtle, yet highly significant nuances. A close reading will explore these fictional
interrelationships and explain why Cortázar's vision of reality seems so
multifaceted. The examination of how Cortázar manipulates these allusions will
lead to an even deeper appreciation for this magnificent tale.

Cortázar apparently delights in teasing the reader by interspersing

indefinite, seemingly insignificant references to certain topics throughout his
text. Confounding matters even further, Cortázar constructs, then deconstructs,
dualities or multiplicities around these same issues. For instance, close scrutiny
reveals a constant play between light and dark imagery, and the narrator
repeatedly revisits what he perceives as a wavering line distinguishing human

^In recent years, numerous studies have appeared in English. Cf. Nancy Diaz Gray, The Radical Self:
Metamorphosis from Human to Animal Form in Modem Latin American Narrative (Columbus, MO:
University of Missouri Press, 1988) 72-82; Ana Hernández del Castillo, Keats, Poe and the Shaping of
Cortázar's Mythopoetics,Purdue University Monographs in Romance Languages, No. 8 (Amsterdam: John
Benjamin, 1982); John Neyenesch, "On This Side of the Glass: An Analysis of Julio Cortázar's Axolotl,"
The Contemporary Latin American Short Story, ed. Rose S. Mine (New York: Senda Nueva, 1979) 54-60; M.
Sanchez, "A View from Inside the Fishbowl," Bridges to Fantasy, ed. George E. Slusser, Eric S. Rabkin,
and Robert Scholes (Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press, 1982) 38-50.
Alfred MacAdam, "La Torre de Danae," Revista Iberoamericana 39 (1973): 463. My translation.

12 The International Fiction Review 24 (1997)

qualities from animal characteristics and vice versa. By noticing the fleeting but
repeated references to a particular topic, we recognize that this technique of
scattered narrative counterbalancing is essential in creating and maintaining the
story's aura of mystery. These constant oppositions, which are never fully
resolved, leave the "reality" of each particular issue undefined which, in turn,
contributes to the overall narrative flux. The identification of this pattern
demonstrates how narrative strategy deliberately contributes to Cortázar's
depiction of reality as elusive and mercurial.

Axolotl also resonates with echoes of well-known literary texts. As an author

with a wide range of artistic interests, Cortázar carefully examined how his
literary predecessors attempted to give voice to the "unreality" of their stories.
The reader's sensitivity to this literary archaeology proves useful at each major
moment in the development of Axolotl. At the outset, the narrator's attraction to
the axolotls is reminiscent of the descent through the circles of Hell in Dante's
Infierno. Later, when the human narrator and one of the axolotls apparently trade
minds or spirits, we notice an affiliation with the Greek myth of Circe. Cortázar's
fondness for revisiting and refashioning classical tales is demonstrated elsewhere
in his stories, as well as in his early drama Los reyes (The kings), 3 based on the
myth of the Minotaur. Finally, in the story's dénouement, the human narrator
(supposedly) contemplates his new perspective from within the axolotl body,
which he compares to being buried alive. This motif was somewhat of an
obsession for one of Cortázar's acknowledged literary ancestors, Edgar Allan
Poe. Many Cortázar enthusiasts are aware of his intimacy with and admiration
for Poe's work and yet, to my knowledge, none has noticed this particular
connection. The subtle associations between Axolotl and these texts helps to
fashion the latter into the highly suggestive story that it is. Although certainly
not overt, these literary connections provide another set of interpretive clues to
Cortázar's enigmatic text.

Axolotl begins with a brief yet bewildering paragraph: "There was a time
when I thought a great deal about the axolotls. I went to see them in the
aquarium at the Jardin des Plantes and stayed for hours watching them,
observing their immobility, their faint movements. Now I am an axolotl." 4 Any
illusions of identifying with the story a n d / o r its characters have instantly
vanished; instead, the reader is left wondering about the narrator's "true"
identity and about the nature of his predicament. With regard to the latter, a
possible clue is planted in the first sentence of the second paragraph: "I got to
them by chance one spring morning when Paris was spreading its peacock tail
after a wintry Lent" (3). The reader's attention is called to this striking image,

o
4
To my knowledge, this play has not yet been translated into English.
Julio Cortázar, "Axolotl," Bloto-Up and Other Stories, trans. Paul Blackburn (New York: Pantheon
Books, 1985) 3. All subsequent references are to this edition and are cited parenthetically in the text. All
emphases are mine.

Julio Cortázar's "Axolotl" 13

which vividly communicates the narrator's impression of Paris's springtime
charm. The narrator's unusual metaphor utilizes an animal image, the peacock's
tail, to describe Paris, an urban center representative of human civilization. This
comparison introduces the narrator's penchant for exploring the human /animal
boundary. Consequently, this simple description indirectly foreshadows the
story's climax where the animal, the axolotl, will impose itself on the human
being.

Given Cortázar's fondness for mythology, it seems appropriate to consider

whether this peacock image is related to the myth of Argus. Edith Hamilton's
version of this myth recounts how Zeus reluctantly gave a white heifer to his
wife Hera, who suspected that the gift was really her rival, the beautiful Io,
converted to animal form as a disguise. Hera, in turn, entrusted the cow to
Argus, the famed hundred-eyed watchman. Distraught by Io's cruel fate, Zeus
bade his son Hermes to kill Argus after lulling him to sleep, when all of his eyes
were finally closed. Not content to be outdone, Hera then took Argus's eyes and
set them into the peacock's tail, thus ensuring that they would always be open. 5

Although the relationship between the myth of Argus and the peacock
imagery in Axolotl may seem tenuous initially, several points of contact between
the two merit consideration. First, the axolotls' eyes resemble those of the
peacock's tail in that they, too, are always open. The narrator alludes to the
axolotls' infinite sight when he muses: "Perhaps their eyes could see in the dead
of night, and for them the day continued indefinitely. The eyes of the axolotls
have no lids" (7). By placing this information at the conclusion to the eighth
paragraph, the narrator emphasizes its significance. This unusual trait lends the
axolotls a sense of otherworldliness. Thus, the peacock's fanning tail feathers
introduce and underscore the roles played by both vision and visual imagery in
Axolotl. As we will soon discover, vision is the modus operandi of this story, which
principally consists of the narrator's ongoing description of the axolotls. Not only
does he provide minute details of the axolotls' physical appearance, which he
perceives by watching them, but he also becomes particularly obsessed with
their eyes and what he senses behind their gaze. His observations thus pass from
the physical to a more metaphysical plane. In fact, the climax hinges on the use of
eyes as a passageway to the soul. Cortázar's narrator will undergo a
metamorphosis via visual contact with the amphibians just as in the classical
myth where parts of one being, Argus's eyes, actually become part of another,
the peacock's tail. In Cortázar's first-person narrative, which is virtually devoid
of any other sensorial imagery, the reader, too, is limited to the narrator's
perspective. We can see only what his field of vision reveals to us. In conclusion,
then, by exploring the possible link between Axolotl and the myth of Argus, we

5
Edith Hamilton, Mythology (New York: New American Library, 1942) 75-77. Hamilton cites from
Aeschylus and Ovid.

14 The International Fiction Review 24 (1997)

recognize the peacock image as a guidepost for future symbolic interpretations
as well as a subtle foreshadowing device.

In general, the role of setting often figures prominently in Cortázar's stories

and therefore requires careful consideration. Several stories, such as Bestiario
(Bestiary) and Carta a una señorita en Paris (Letter to a young lady in Paris), 6
depend on the function of movement within a particular setting. In Bestiary, the
characters' ability to move through their house and around their property is
dictated by the whereabouts of a mysterious tiger. The climax, wherein one
character is killed, relies directly on restricted movements within the walls of the
home. On the other hand, the frazzled narrator of Letter to a Young Lady in Paris is
confined to a friend's apartment by the increasing number of rabbits he must
care for, rabbits which he prefers to keep enclosed to limit their incessant motion.
Again, it is movement within a definite area that precipitates the climax: the
narrator's suicide. The story which perhaps most dramatically demonstrates the
crucial link between space and motion is Casa tomada (House taken over), which
is spatially the opposite of Axolotl ? Whereas in Axolotl the narrator draws ever
closer to the mysterious axolotls until he is trapped inside one's body, in House
Taken Over the protagonists, a brother and sister, are forced to close off rooms in
their home and move away from the strange sounds they hear within, until they
are finally expelled from it. In each case, the stories' tragic endings are all closely
tied to the characters' movements within specifically defined settings. With these
examples in mind, we realize the need to examine spatial-movement clues in
Axolotl as well.

As the narrator unknowingly approaches the axolotls, he bears some

resemblance to mythical heroes such as Orpheus and Odysseus. The exploits of
both characters in their respective myths include travelling to hell in search of
rebirth. When the narrator sets out toward the Jardin des Plantes, his use of
direction is significant: "I was heading down the boulevard Port-Royal" (3). 8
Although used figuratively here, movement downward is often associated with
the descent into the underworld or, in Freudian terms, into the unconscious.
Although such interpretation of the expression "to head d o w n " may seem
questionable, we will nonetheless find that the narrator's ultimate destination is
directly related to these two sites: hell and the unconscious. The narrator
progresses from being outside on a spring day into the blackness that will
eventually engulf him, represented by his initial entrance into the obscure
aquarium building.

6
Both stories are from the Spanish-language collection entitled Bestiario. English translations can be
found in the collection Blow-Up and Other Stories.
η
"Casa tomada" is from the collection Bestiario. The English translation can be found in Blow-Up and
Other Stories.
Q
° In Spanish, the past tense form bajé is used, derived from the infinitive bajar, "to go down." Though
phrasal verbs such as "to head down" or "to go up" are extremely common in English, the Spanish verb
has a more direct spatial connotation and is, therefore, rather significant.

Julio Cortázar's "Axolotl"

The story's second paragraph delineates the protagonist's gradual
movement toward the axolotls, which leads him through a series of increasingly
smaller spaces. As the story develops, he encounters barriers at the edge of each
space which are let down to become bridges into new environments. After a bike
ride through the city, the narrator soon enters the first enclosed realm—the zoo,
which has two separate demarcations from the outside world. Visually, it is
distinguished by a color barrier evident in the narrator's remark: "[I] saw green
among all that grey" (3), which contrasts the greenness of the zoo with the grey
cityscape surrounding it. This identifies the zoo as a unique space. Furthermore,
as the protagonist enters the zoo, he leaves his bike against "the gratings,"
evidently referring to another enclosure: a fence around the park. Once inside, he
soon enters yet another smaller confinement, the aquarium building: "[I] had
never gone into the dark, humid building that was the aquarium" (3). These
cavernous surroundings underscore the seeming timelessness of the axolotls and
represent another world: dark, mysterious, and unexplored. The aquarium
contains even smaller enclosed spaces: the various tanks housing the aquatic
animals. Finally, the individual tanks separate the atmosphere and the people on
the outside from the animals inside their watery environment. 9

At this early point in the story, the protagonist's movement into ever smaller
spaces—from the city outside to the zoo to the aquarium building—foreshadows
the story's climax, when the barrier of the aquarium glass overlaps with the final
barrier, the axolotls' eyes, which will become the man's passageway to his final,
and most restrictive, destination: the body of an axolotl. Consequently, the
narrator's movement can be envisioned as a series of concentric circles connoting
his progress into increasingly smaller enclosures. By remembering that the
narrator initially begins his journey with the phrase "I was heading down," we
add this idea of downward motion to the pattern of concentric circles and thus
discover a resemblance to the circles of hell delineated in Dante's Inferno. For
Cortázar's narrator, the smallest space, which he has reached by moving
downward, becomes his own personal hell. As he describes the axolotls'
suffering, he finds in their faces "proof of that eternal sentence, of that liquid hell
they were undergoing" (8); he has also "imagined them aware, slaves of their
bodies, condemned infinitely to the silence of the abyss, to a hopeless
meditation" (6-7).

Having followed the narrator's movement through this setting, we are now
able to perceive a clearer association with Dante's Irtferno. It forces us to realize
the hellish nature of the narrator's descent into the axolotl body. In addition to
this structural similarity, the Inferno and Axolotl are further related in terms of
content. Cantos XXIV and XXV, which relate parts of the eighth circle of hell,

Daniel Reedy thoroughly discusses the importance of the glass barrier with regard to Axolotl and other
works in "Through the Looking-Glass: Aspects of Cortázar's Epiphanies of Reality," Bulletin of Hispanic
Studies 54 (1976): 125-34.

16 The International Fiction Review 24 (1997)

graphically reveal the fate of thieves, who are thought to employ a reptilian
secrecy while committing their crimes. In the hereafter, Dante invokes a note of
poetic justice when he chooses reptiles to punish them. Interestingly, both
Dante's reptiles and Cortázar's amphibians effectively "steal" h u m a n bodies
through a strange metamorphosis. In fact, the main thrust of Axolotl chronicles
the narrator's growing empathy for the axolotls, which eventually enables one of
these animals to victimize him by "stealing" his body, thus leaving his human
consciousness trapped inside the axolotl body. Furthermore, this is not an
isolated incident, as the man-turned-axolotl soon realizes that all the other
axolotls have met the same fate: "[I] saw an axolotl next to me who was looking
at me, and understood that he knew also, no communication possible, but very
clearly. Or I was also in him, or all of us were thinking humanlike, incapable of
expression, limited to the golden splendor of our eyes" (9).

Whereas Cortázar focuses on the steps that lead to this theft and, to a lesser
extent, the desperate situation afterward, Dante vividly depicts the process of
transformation between human and animal forms, a metamorphosis the thieves
must endure repeatedly. Since they took the property of others and made it
theirs in life, in hell they must suffer having their bodies stolen from them by
reptiles; consequently, they never know what is truly theirs. Dante imagines this
process graphically. As the lizard and the thief trade bodies, "they fused like hot
wax, and their colors ran / together until neither wretch nor monster / appeared
what he had been when he began." 1 0 Dante insists on this blending of identities
throughout the process, later commenting that "now two new semblances
appeared and faded, / one face where neither face began nor ended" (216; 68-
69). In the end, neither being seems satisfied with its new form: "The soul that
had become a beast went flitting / and hissing over the stones, and after it / the
other walked along talking and spitting" (218; 133-35).

Several of Dante's notions resurface in Axolotl. First, Dante's account of the

blurring faces, "one face where neither face began nor ended" (216; 69), is echoed
in Axolotl ; Cortázar's narrator is fascinated with the axolotls' faces, which suggest
to him both h u m a n and animal qualities. He is mesmerized by their
inexpressiveness, "the forced blankness on their stone faces" (8). Later, he
characterizes them as masklike, which recalls Dante's observation that "Their
former likenesses mottled and sank / to something that was both of them and
neither" (216; 73-74). This phrase also clearly corresponds to the narrator's
existential dilemma during the story's climax, when he is trying to comprehend
what has happened. Grappling with his identity from within the axolotl
perspective, the narrator explains: "Outside, my face came close to the glass
again, I saw my mouth, the lips compressed with the effort of understanding the

10
Dante Alighieri, The Inferno, trans. John Ciardi (New York: New American Library, 1954) 215; lines
58-60. All subsequent references are to this edition and are cited parenthetically in the text. The page
number will be followed by the line number(s).

Julio Cortázar's "Axolotl" 17

axolotls. I was an axolotl and now I knew instantly that no understanding was
possible" (8).

Both authors emphasize the animals' powerful stare. Dante notes that
during the transformation, the two beings are transfixed "without once shifting
the locked evil eyes" (217; 119). Is it by chance that the transmigration of souls in
Axolotl occurs by way of exchanged, mutual sight? The narrator's account of the
metamorphosis follows: "my eyes were attempting once more to penetrate the
mystery of those eyes of gold without iris, without pupil. I saw from very close up
the face of an axolotl immobile next to the glass. No transition and no surprise, I
saw my face against the glass, I saw it on the outside of the tank, I saw it on the
other side of the glass. Then my face drew back and I understood" (8). Although
each author focuses on different aspects of he human-to-animal metamorphosis,
common subject matter and similar details suggest that Cortázar was strongly
influenced by Dante's Inferno as he created this particular "unreal" scenario in
Axolotl.

This human-to-animal metamorphosis also serves as the focal point for

Daniel Reedy's consideration of how Aztec mythology influences the structure of
Axolotl. For Reedy, the story parallels the transformation myth of the Aztec god
Xólotl, one of the twin brothers of the god Quetzalcoatl. In this myth, Xólotl is
the larval form assumed by Quetzalcoatl in the Land of the Dead, from which he
is later spiritually born. With regard to Cortázar's story, Reedy acknowledges the
narrator's horror upon discovering his imprisonment in the axolotl, yet he
nevertheless concludes that "the myth of Xólotl and the spiritual rebirth of his
twin Quetzalcoatl suggest the promise of rebirth in a spiritual sense for the
protagonist, as well, even though he is unaware of the fact." 11

Unquestionably, Cortázar incorporates numerous Aztec elements into

Axolotl. This is evident from the outset by the narrator's insistence on using the
Nahuatl word axolotl, although he admits that, during his investigations in the
library, "I found their Spanish name, ajolote" (4). In fact, the axolotls' Aztec
qualities are immediately apparent to the narrator, who states as a matter of fact:
"That they were Mexican I knew already by looking at them and their little pink
Aztec faces" (4). Later, the narrator emphasizes their heritage in his description
of their "Aztec faces, without expression but of an implacable cruelty" (7). These
observations seem to support Reedy's mythological reading.

Although Reedy's interpretation of the ending speculates about the

protagonist's possible spiritual rebirth, other details conversely indicate a less
optimistic vision. Of particular significance is the narrator's awareness of his
ordeal. This consciousness points up a possible link between Axolotl and the
classical myth of Circe, the beautiful witch who routinely turned men into

11
Reedy 130.

18 The International Fiction Review 24 (1997)

animals. While Cortázar's enthusiasm for classical mythology is well known, his
interest in this particular myth inspired his own story, entitled Circe (in the
collection Bestiario), whose protagonist, Delia Mañara, has a keen understanding
of animals and preys on her suitors, much like her Greek counterpart. One tragic
characteristic is common to both tales: the men-turned-animals retain their
human reasoning, which accentuates the horror of their predicament. Book X of
The Odyssey tells how Odysseus and his men landed at Circe's island. When
Odysseus's men encounter Circe, she works her magic on them: "Now when she
had given them the cup and they had drunk it off, presently she smote them with
a wand, and in the styes of the swine she penned them. So they had the head and
voice, the bristles and the shape of swine, but their mind abode even as of old." 1 2
Edith Hamilton's version of this tale is even more dramatic: "They had come to
Aeaea, the realm of Circe, a most beautiful and dangerous witch. Every man who
approached her she turned into a beast. Only his reason remained as before: he
knew what had happened to him. She enticed into her house the party Odysseus
dispatched to spy out the land, and there she changed them into swine. She
penned them in a sty and gave them acorns to eat. They ate them; they were
swine. Yet inside they were men, aware of their vile state, but completely in her
power." 1 3

In recognizing their "vile state," Odysseus's men undergo an experience

similar to the narrators' of Axolotl. As soon as the narrator realizes that he has
entered the axolotl's body and is now viewing the world from an axolotl
perspective, he comments: "Only one thing was strange: to go on thinking as
usual, to know" (8). The narrator is disturbed by his transformation, but even
more upset by his awareness of his newly acquired amphibian existence; he
comments: "The horror began—I learned in the same moment—of believing
myself prisoner in the body of an axolotl, metamorphosed into him with my
human mind intact" (8). Clearly, the narrator's consciousness intensifies his
suffering. This rather unusual point of contact between the two texts seems to
suggest that Cortázar found inspiration for his "unreal" dilemma in the fantasy
of the classics.

As the narrator realizes his plight, he is overcome by a sense of horror. After

his mental transferal to an axolotl's body, he laments: "To realize that was, for
the first moment, like the horror of a man buried alive awaking to his fate" (8). His
sensation of entrapment is so overwhelming, he soon reiterates: "The horror
began—I learned in the same moment—of believing myself prisoner in the body
of an axolotl, metamorphosed into him with my human mind intact, buried alive
in an axolotl, condemned to move lucidly among unconscious creatures" (8-9).
The repeated comparison of the narrator's state to having been buried alive
creates a sense of horror similar to what we find in Edgar Allan Poe's work. As

12
The Odyssey of Homer, trans. S. H. Butcher and A. Lang (New York: Modern Library, 1956) 151.
13
Hamilton 211-12.

Julio Cortázar's "Axolotl"

with some of the other literary influences we have discussed, Cortázar was well
acquainted with Poe's theories of the short story as well as with his fiction. To
cite just one example, Cortázar apparently pays homage to Poe's story MS. Found
in a Bottle in his own story entitled Manuscrito hallado en un bolsillo (Manuscript
found in a pocket). 1 4 Cortázar was also the first to translate Poe into Spanish,
although two earlier Spanish-American authors, largely responsible for shaping
and popularizing the short story genre in Spanish, had also studied Poe: the
Uruguayan Horacio Quiroga and Cortázar's own countryman, the celebrated
Jorge Luis Borges. Certainly, Cortázar knew of Poe's penchant for the motif of
live burial, which lurks in several of Poe's stories, most notably in The Cask of
Amontillado, The Black Cat, and The Premature Burial.

Of these three, the story most closely linked to Axolotl is The Premature Burial,
due to its philosophical implications. After recounting several cases of people
buried alive, Poe's narrator concludes that he, too, has been buried alive; he
describes his fate as "the most terrific of ... [the ghastly] extremes which has ever
fallen to the lot of mere mortality." 1 5 Poe's narrator further remarks that: "The
boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who
shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?" (420). These excerpts
touch on some of the characteristics which make Axolotl such a mysterious story:
the axolotls are frequently described in terms that introduce and then confound
two opposite characteristics—they embody both light and dark, they are both
humanlike and yet, at other times, animals that resemble us very little. Not
surprisingly, they also seem both dead and alive.

Although the narrator does not directly address the life/death polarity, he
examines it indirectly by observing the axolotls' movement, or rather their
stillness. The narrator's preoccupation with their immobility surfaces in the
story's second sentence: "[I] stayed for hours watching them, observing their
immobility, their faint movements" (3). Clearly, their slight motion demonstrates
that they are alive, yet their stillness almost obliterates this. Their lack of
movement situates them very near the dividing line. Only one additional use of
the verb mover, "to move," appears until the narrator's transformation. This
example is modified by a negative adverb which minimizes its effect: "once in a
while a foot would barely move" (5). Significantly, it is only a part of the axolotl's
body that moves, and not the whole axolotl, thereby further diminishing the
impression of motion. In effect, only the expansion and contraction of the gills
truly indicates that they are alive.

14
The Spanish-language story can be found in Octaedro (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1987) 49-63. The
English translation is available in We Love Glenda So Much and A Change of Light, trans. Gregory Rabassa
(New York: Vintage Books, 1984) 249-63.
15
Edgar Allan Poe, "The Premature Burial," The Works of Edgar Allan Poe (Roslyn, New York: Black's
Reader's Service Company, 1927) 420. All subsequent references are to this edition and are cited
parenthetically in the text.

20 The International Fiction Review 24 (1997)

Eventually, immobility emerges as one of the axolotls' salient characteristics,
emphasized by six instances of the word inmóvil, "immobile," throughout the
story. This silent stillness captivates the narrator, who claims: "It was their
quietness that made me lean toward them the first time I saw the axolotls" (5). As
he attempts to comprehend them better, he comments: "Obscurely, I seemed to
understand their secret will, to abolish space and time within an indifferent
immobility" (5-6). This curious phrase could very well refer to the "immobility"
of death, which is one means of abolishing space and time. Ironically, the greater
the narrator's preoccupation with the axolotls, the more he begins to resemble
them, spending hours motionless by their tank. Additionally, the axolotls'
descriptions in terms of inanimate objects further contribute to their lifeless
appearance. The body is compared to a Chinese figurine, its eyes are described as
"two orifices, like brooches, wholly of transparent gold, lacking any life but
looking," and its head is a "rosy stone" and a "lifeless stone" (5). In short,
although the axolotls are indeed alive, they move so little that the narrator is
repeatedly inclined to compare them to inanimate objects.

Despite observing the axolotls' motionless existence, the narrator

nonetheless has difficulty accepting this stillness when he becomes an axolotl.
Curiously, Poe's query about life and death, "Who shall say where the one ends,
and where the other begins?" (420), greatly resembles Dante's rendition of the
thieves' metamorphosis into amphibians: "now two new semblances appeared
and faded, / one face where neither face began nor ended" (216; 68-69). Poe's
question, "But where, meantime, was the soul?" (420), seems relevant to Axolotl
since evidently only the spirits of the man and the axolotl trade places.

In exploring the buried-alive motif, Cortázar may also have patterned his
narrator on Poe's. Both are first-person male narrators who become so obsessed
with one subject that their prophecies become, or almost become, self-fulfilling.
Poe's narrator, haunted by people who were buried alive, imagines himself to be
suffering from the same; Cortázar's narrator, who spends so many hours
pondering the axolotl's watery existence, finally experiences it firsthand. Thus,
Cortázar takes Poe's tale of terror one step further. Whereas Poe remains inside
the boundaries of what is possible or "real" and thus maintains the identification
between the reader and the narrator of his tale, Cortázar surpasses these
limitations to press into the realm of true fantasy, to create a situation so peculiar
that the reader cannot help but feel estranged from the text. Considering
Cortázar's keen interest in Poe, it seems probable that Poe's tales of live burial,
especially The Premature Burial, influenced Cortázar's unique, and even more
extreme, depiction of the "unreal" found in the final paragraphs of Axolotl.

The fact that many forces work in concert to create a sense of the "unreal" in
Axolotl explains why this story can be read in a variety of ways: the author is
adept at interweaving, almost imperceptibly, allusions to several literary texts,
each adding its own enduring, archetypal qualities; and yet no allusion is

Julio Cortázar's "Axolotl" 21

developed so as to become pronounced and dominate over the others. The end
result is a text that melds many familiar flavors, yet retains its own tantalizing
integrity. By identifying so many likely influences within just one story, we may
further regard the unending issue of how to categorize Julio Cortázar as a writer.
The usual array of questions—how greatly indebted is he to Borges? Is his
writing fantastic? Or is he a Surrealist, as Evelyn Picón Garfield suggests?—are
often fruitless attempts to pigeonhole a genius who drew inspiration from a
broad artistic spectrum to create works that are unique and undeniably his
o w n . 1 6 Cortázar's stories defy any type of classification that would ultimately
diminish our appreciation of his literary gift.

^ Evelyn Picón Garfield, ¿Es Julio Cortázar un surrealista? (Madrid: Gredos, 1975). This whole study
focuses on theories and examples of Surrealism in an attempt to decide whether or not Cortázar's work
fits into this artistic style.

22 The International Fiction Review 24 (1997)