Masks and Metaphors

Donoso and the Performance of Identity

Grace: Welcome back to CríticaZoma. Today, we’re diving into the world of José Donoso—one of the most enigmatic figures of the Latin American Boom. John, I know you’ve been itching to talk about Donoso’s obsession with masks and identity, so let’s get right into it.

John: Yes, absolutely. Donoso’s biography is almost as layered as his fiction. Born in Santiago in 1924, he spent years bouncing between Chile, the US, Spain, and Mexico. And you really see that restlessness in his work. I mean, take "El obsceno pájaro de la noche"—that’s his magnum opus, right? It’s grotesque, baroque, existential, and just packed with these shifting identities and symbolic masquerades. And then you’ve got "Chattanooga Choochoo," which is, well, a whole different animal. It’s like he’s using irony and this almost cartoonish sense of performance to critique not just identity, but the roles society forces on us.

Grace: Exactly. And what’s fascinating is how Donoso’s novels play with the idea of identity as something you put on, like a costume. In "Chattanooga Choochoo," for example, the Spanish setting is almost a parody—a kind of false stage. The characters are caricatures, and the whole thing feels like a choreographed spectacle. It’s not just a critique of bourgeois life, it’s a performance of it. And that connects so well with Guy Debord’s "Society of the Spectacle," where reality is mediated by images and repetition. Donoso’s characters are trapped in these roles, and the kitsch, the clichés—they’re all part of the mask.

John: And I gotta say, as someone who’s edited a lot of translated Latin American fiction, Donoso is a nightmare—in the best way. His irony, those layers of identity, the way he plays with language... it’s so hard to get that across in English. I remember working on a translation where the whole point was that the character’s identity was slipping, but in English, it just sounded like the translator was confused. It’s like, how do you translate a mask? Sometimes you just end up with a mask of a mask, of a mask, you know?

Grace: That’s such a good point. And it’s not just about language, it’s about the whole performance. Donoso anticipates this idea of identity as something you perform, which is so central to later cultural criticism. He’s almost conspiratorial about it, like he’s letting us in on a secret about how society really works. And the irony is, the more you try to pin down who his characters are, they slip even further from your grasp.

John: Right, and that's what makes Donoso so compelling—and so frustrating. Where was I going with this? Oh, right... It’s like he’s always one step ahead, using the spectacle itself to critique the spectacle. And that’s something we don’t see enough in the Boom, honestly. Most of those guys are all about big ideas, but Donoso’s like, “Let’s see what happens when the mask slips.”

Exile, Influence, and the Loss of Cultural Connection

Grace: And speaking of masks slipping, we have to talk about Donoso’s years in exile. He spent time in Spain, Mexico, the US... and that really shaped his writing. Anatole Broyard, the New York Times critic, actually accused Donoso of losing his Chilean authenticity, saying he became too cosmopolitan, too detached. He even compared Donoso’s later work to Kafka and Robbe-Grillet—writers who are all about alienation and metaphysical coldness.

John: Broyard was pretty harsh and unjustly so, I must add. He basically said Donoso sounded like a man without a country, like he’d lost his tongue. And you can see that in the stories from "Sacred Families"—or "Tres novelitas burguesas" in Spanish. There’s this sense of detachment, like the characters are floating through these empty, bourgeois spaces, not really connected to anything. It’s almost anthropological, like he’s observing from the outside.

Grace: I’ve actually taught "El obsceno pájaro de la noche" in both Spain and Chile, and the reactions are so different. In Spain, students are fascinated by the novel’s baroque style and its almost surreal appearance. They see it as this wild, innovative experiment. But in Chile, there’s a deeper sense of recognition—like the grotesque and the existential are part of the national psyche. The novel’s reflections on society hit closer to home. But in both places, there’s this feeling of coldness, of being cut off from something essential.

John: That’s really interesting. I always wonder if that metaphysical coldness is a product of exile, or if it’s just Donoso’s way of dealing with the world. I mean, he left Chile partly to escape what he saw as a kind of literary provincialism, but then he ends up writing these stories that are almost too universal. It’s like he understood the prison-like quality of both settings.

Grace: And yet, that detachment is what makes his work so powerful. It’s not just about Chile, or Spain, or any one place. It’s about the loss of connection, the way exile—literal or metaphorical—shapes who we are. Donoso’s characters are always searching for something real, but they’re trapped in these performances, these empty rituals. It’s both tragic and, in a strange way, liberating.

John: It’s funny, because as we talked about in our episode on the Latin American Boom, a lot of those writers were obsessed with authenticity—what it means to write from a place, to represent a culture. Donoso kind of blows that up. He’s like, “What if authenticity is just another mask?”

Translation, Recognition, and the Struggle for Authenticity

Grace: That brings us to the whole issue of translation and recognition. Donoso’s work has had a rough time in English, especially "El obsceno pájaro de la noche." The first translation really flattened out his experimental language and irony, which made it so much harder for international readers to appreciate what he was doing. It’s almost like the translation put another mask on top of the original mask. And not only a mask, let's not forget that the first translators cut pages and pages and pages of the original.

John: Oh, absolutely. And don’t get me started on "Tres novelitas burguesas" being translated as "Sacred Families." I mean, that title just erases all the irony and self-deprecating humor of the original. The Spanish title is poking fun at the bourgeoisie and at the book itself, but "Sacred Families" sounds almost reverent. It’s like the joke got lost in translation—and with it, a big part of Donoso’s critique.

Grace: And that’s not just a technical issue. It’s about how Donoso’s themes—social masks, alienation, performance—either resonate or clash with readers outside his own context. In "Las novelitas burguesas" the characters are constantly losing their sense of self, trying on new identities, and failing to find anything authentic. That’s a universal experience, but the way Donoso writes it is so specific, so tied to his language and culture. When that gets lost, the whole point of the story can disappear.

John: You are right, and in fact you are raising a bigger question about literary authenticity. Like, can a work ever really be authentic once it’s been translated, or is it always going to be a kind of performance for a new audience? I don’t have an answer, honestly. But I do know that Donoso’s characters—especially in "Sacred Families"—are always struggling with that loss of authenticity. They’re wearing masks, playing roles, and sometimes they don’t even know who they are anymore. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe authenticity is just another story we tell ourselves.

Grace: It’s a question that keeps coming up, isn’t it? Particularly in this era of fake news and all of it. Our students crave and demand authenticity and, I must confess, some times I feel we, standing in front of them, don't really understand anymore what's authentic and what's not. Not just with Donoso, but with so many writers we’ve discussed on this podcast. The struggle for authenticity, the tension between performance and reality—it’s never really resolved. But that’s what makes literature so fascinating. And I think that’s a good place to wrap up for today.

John: I agree. There’s so much more we could say about Donoso, but we’ll save that for another episode. Grace, as always, it’s been a pleasure.

Grace: Likewise, John. Thanks to everyone for listening. We’ll be back soon with more literary secrets and uncomfortable truths. Take care!

John: See you next time, Grace. Bye everyone!