Pola Oloixarac

Pola Oloixarac (1977) is a contemporary Argentinian writer, essayist, and cultural critic. She has become internationally known for her experimental novel Las Teorias Salvajes (Buenos Aires: Entropia, 2008), Wild Theories, which stirred the Argentinian and international literary circles in the past two years. This novel, published in Argentina and Spain, has been described as recklessly intelligent and "without love," crossing disciplines and genres, and intersecting heterogeneous spaces such as video games and the institutionalization of postmodern warfare. In the fall of 2010, her short story ”Conditions for the Revolution” appeared in The Best of Young Spanish-Language Novelists double  issue—in Spanish and in English—of the prestigious Anglo-American literary magazine Granta: Granta 113, 2010 (translated from the Spanish by Mara Faye Lethem).

Oloixarac was a resident at The IWP in August-November 2010, and she generously gave a long interview that is at the core of this profile of hers.

ZA: What brought you to Iowa City? Why did you decide to come to the International Writing Program?

PO: I have always wanted to come. I had read the CVs of people I admire who have been here, and I was, wow, this is the place I want to go to. I was very happy when I met the Embassy people and they presented my candidacy, I thought it would be a long process, asking people to write letters for me, etc., but it wasn't like that. Maybe it used to be like that; now, the Embassy presents the candidates and they select you. And I was so happy when I was selected.

ZA: How do you feel about Iowa City after living here for two months?

PO: I love it! It is the sweetest kindergarten bubble and I feel like, it's only 12 more days and we will be thrown back in the dread of the world, and I don't want that to happen. I am thinking of getting a job as a janitor [Laughing cheerfully} or anything that could keep me in this secure cocoon. It is just too short! I’m enjoying a sense of privacy and freedom I couldn’t dream of. This little perfect world where your only occupation is to work, I just find that to be too great a gift.

ZA: Let’s start from the very beginning: how did you become a writer?

PO: I decided that I was to be a writer when I was eight years old and traveling on a ship across the Atlantic with my parents. During this trip, I wrote what I thought to be my first novel. It was called “Días de Revolución” and it had over twelve characters with fancy names. Some of them I had picked from encyclopedias, and the girls’ names came fromgirls who were at school with me. It was a story about a family in 1789 that hides in a Castle to resist the revolutionaries spreading over France from the Bastille. At that time I was interested in the French Revolution, and so, I wrote this story, which turned at the end to be a novel. And I loved it! I wrote it by hand, with a fountain pen. Later, they gave me a typewriter, and I transferred it to the typewriter and I even corrected it.

ZA: This must have been the most spontaneous act of your life?

PO: Well, It was probably due to the fact that I had a room of my own”, I had a desk and I was spending the whole day writing, it was just beautiful. When I asked for a typewriter, my parents gave me a typewriter. We could remain on the boat over two weeks without touching earth. And, of course, your parents are mostly concerned that you don't become a pain. For them it was the perfect situation: I was sitting in the room, doing my own thing. Also, I was a big reader at the time.

ZA: In what kind of family did you grow up? What kind of atmosphere was there in the family?

PO: My mother had been politically active in the Communist Party in the 1970s, which was quite fashionable at the time in Argentina. My father had never been into politics. He was, still is, strongly anti-Peronist. My mother quit her political activism when she met him and when—almost at the same time—my aunt was kidnapped by the military after the coup. By that time, all her brothers have been involved at different levels in the guerrilla, and some of them had to flee the country. But my mother turned around completely while working to make my aunt appear alive again. My mother and her sister were born in Peru, so my mother devised a survival strategy: going to the Peruvian Embassy [in Buenos Aires] and be treated like a foreigner in Argentina. She convinced everyone -and I mean, the 1970s cops and military- that keeping my aunt in jail was total nonsense, that she had to come back to Lima. That saved my aunt. She was “desaparecida” for a while, and then she was “blanqueada”, which meant that her family knew where she was, and could visit her like a “legal” prisoner. This was in 1977-1978, during the rule of the military junta. I was born this same year and my second name was my aunt’s, because at that time she was disappeared they didn't know if she'll appear alive again. She was raped, tortured, went through a simulacrum of an execution, and after she left the country and move to Peru, she was captured by Sendero Luminoso. She was this magnet for the most horrible things. But she's alive, she finished school and now is a lawyer. She has two beautiful daughters, and she's my favorite aunt.

ZA: What were the goals of Latin American leftists? What were they fighting for? Socialism?

PO: Back then, Lenin and Stalin were still praised as people of justice; they were very highly regarded by the left. The issue of guerillas in the Latin America is a complicated one. The Communist Party,  for instance, supported the coup by [junta leader] Videla, in 1976. What kind of communists would support the military? You can understand that only in the context of the Argentinian Peronist struggles. It is common in Argentina to just take the opposite position to what people feel is their worst enemy, without actually realizing that, logically, this doesn't necessarily make sense. Otherwise, how can you explain that the Communist Party would be supporting the military? There are documents to prove this. And this is the party my mother was politically involved with! And, you know, when you start doing research and you want to find out what was going on, you start realizing that most of the communists went to the villages and they felt like being enlightened beams bringing good to the world, and they were not at all involved in anything related to arms or violence. They were just in love with the rhetoric. So you could see that they cherished all these words, because they made them feel good people. And a lot were such nice people. Many of them put a lot of effort in helping children grow, my mother did this, they taught children how to read, they had all these discussions, and they would feel like true intellectuals. Somehow, the middle classes that had not been truly trained for an intellectual life could become intellectuals by the mere fact of rhetoric, good intentions, and connections to the party. I think it was also a kind of a badge that would certify you as a good person, which was ultimately what all people want in order either to have sex or to be socially accepted.

ZA: What was their actual education level?

My mother went to the University, she majored in psychology. Any person who was connected with the University was empowered by the revolutionary rethoric; there was no way to remain outside of the discourse while being in the University. A lot of the discussions were a matter of putting together jargon, enthusiasm and scholasticism. You expect them to make a political analysis that is interested in measuring facts, measuring the implications of ideology. I was shocked when I found out that these people were mostly working in a dogmatic way: they had received the evangelism from the Marxist theory of socialism and they had also received the vangelism from Peron, and the whole problem that hypnotized the biggest minds in Argentina was how to make them both work together.

ZA: In what moment of your life did you become critical of all these things? Was it through school, through peer pressure, or you arrived at it your own way?

School was very important. I went for a time to this very fancy school in Argentina, it is a state school, but it is a school where most of the chiefs of the guerrilla sent their children and where most of the political class was bred. This school is even today an elitist school. But at some point I had to quit, because my mother thought there were too many bad people and drugs there, so she took me out of it.

ZA: May I introduce the notion of intelligentsia that clearly describes, at least to an Eastern European like me, the type of people you are talking about? These were people who embraced progressive ideologies and thus, also embraced Marxism. Are the people you just described the equivalent of intelligentsia in Argentina?

PO: Yes, you could say so. My critique of these people entails that this intelligentsia wasn’t “intelligent” enough to really make sense of the fact that they did not indeed appreciate the value of human life and how much suffering had been inflicted on the basis of their badly organized thinking. That realization upset me. People were being left to be killed on the basis of reading of these two gospels, Peronism and Latinamerican Marxism, in a strange and biased way. That ripped my world. During the last  Peronist rule, all these discourses came back as crazy undead. And that became the inspiration for my first novel The Savage Theories.

ZA: I think that your novel can be best understood against its local context. Do you feel you belong to this type of intelligentsia? You have a degree in philosophy, so, you belong to the educated class. Also, once you told me that you are right wing. Were you joking?

PO: That was a joke. I am seen as a right wing writer by the people who are dumb enough to understand. As far as my class status is concerned, I’m not part of this intelligentsia. Not really. No. That's the genius of it. [Laughter full of irony.] I would say that, as a matter of fact, I took a very classical approach in my critique. The left has always been criticized with the strongest arguments by the left, but when you don't have a well-organized and truly engaged left—you have an armchair left, a comfortable left that has set itself only to a perfectly pitched discourse to attract the middle classes—you can be perceived as their political enemy even if you begin criticizing them from leftist positions, that is, to criticize the so-called values of the left. It is honest of me to say that I was born and educated in the ideals of the left, and what I ultimately did was to pursue those ideals and to turn them into a literary work.

ZA: Can you tell me a little more about your novel? Your nine year-old novel you left where it was, you didn't publish it. What is that connects this first novel with the one you have published now?

PO: What connects them, and I find this to be incredibly funny, is the critique of the revolution. The first one was set up in the French revolution, and it was from the point of view of people who suffered, it was a grim tale of horrible things that happened, soldiers coming over to take this castle and the human drama involved in that. Reading it as an adult, I can play with the idea of counter-revolution, that I have so much enjoyed in Hegel's political texts later in my life. Of course, at the age of nine, I didn't know what that word could mean. But don’t you find it funny that when I published my real first novel, I was accused of being a counter revolutionary, even though, as I told you, you can fairly read my work as the point of view of the left. After all, who would care about the left but the left itself? The right is just counting their money.

ZA: How did you get the idea to write this new novel? Tell me the story of how it was started and how it evolved.

PO: It took me more than three and a half years. I started sleeping a lot, and I had dreams about a particular paragraph. I dreamt about paragraphs by authors that I may or not have read before, and in my dream I used to say to myself: this is the style, this is the style. And I remember where the commas were, where the points were, things started moving within the paragraphs, and I had the physical sensation of this movement inside of a paragraph, like little whirlwinds or something like that. And then, there was this little phrase that came to me that began with—Yo como el lenguaje—and so, the novel began with that phrase, then that phrase turned into another beginning; it remained in the novel, although I changed the beginning many, many times. Getting the start right was harsh, probably the most complicated part. At that time I was working as a screenwriter for some guy in Argentina, and they had  a room that I could use to sleep over, they didn't have sheets, but they let me sleep there, in the office of the production company, a kind of independent production company. I could stay there for about 10 days, sleeping, writing and daydreaming. Then, I got to this other place where I could lock myself. I really like writing in places that are lent to me. I love it, and I love to write on a computer, go everywhere with it. I also take zillions of notes.

ZA: What’s the association between your education and your being a writer?

PO: I got into philosophy because I wanted to become a writer. The writers that I admire such as Borges, they were all dealing with philosophy at different levels, not only in terms of themes, but they were working their arguments as a part of philosophy. Now, after looking at it from a perspective, I could say that I was admiring the fact that these people were treating their writing as a knowledge strategy of their own. They made an attempt toward truth that most narratives do not have, and I realized that that was the kind of thing I wanted, that this is why I was never interested actual sentimental stuff. So, that was what I wanted! To me that was excellent because philosophy gave me training in precision. I don't think you get such precision when taking Literature courses. It seemed to me that, in Literature courses, you study mostly contingencies, people connected to other peopl -a cosmetic approach. Whereas in this other case, in every history, like, for example, medieval philosophy or modern philosophy, I had the feeling that we were staring at the very moment of discovery by all these people. And that is the story of Descartes, that is the story of Pascal, they put themselves as part of their own story, they are in the scenery, as captains, and they just made a novelist’s attempt to organize the freaking universe. To me, that was the most exciting reading that I could have. If an essay was about persuasion and my narrative was also about persuasion but through sentimental means, I thought that the key was to find a way to develop a narrative that could persuade you logically as in an essay but would at the same time be filled with all the beautiful details that make the world swallowable and lovable as well, and make it funny. Even if I would use the narrative to make the world funny, I could just pull my ideas intravenously through the text, and inject the whole text with tons of the things that I have been roaming around, my anger, my frustrations, whatever you have, whatever you like.

ZA: Who were the first readers of your manuscript? Who were the people who you trusted enough to expect a fair reading of your manuscript? And did they like it immediately?

PO: My first readers were Emiliano, my husband, and Milton Laufer, my best friend who was with me in the University when I studied philosophy. I used their input to change things that were too over the top, and I didn't see the; I was very keen in having the work as readable as posible, because I don't really trust language: things that are perfect in my mind don't necessarily got thru that well. I felt like making a candy for the mass market: you begin with your recipe, but before you go to the market, you tweak it …

ZA: You were just tweaking it but you were confident that it was a finished work?

PO: O no, o no, no! There were different moments. First, I met an editor who said she wanted to do it but then nothing happened. And I kept working on it; then, I met this other editor who said that he really wanted to do it but we have to work on it and maybe publish it in like two years; and I said, okay are you kidding me, if you will published it, this has to be done now. But the guy was like, well you have to wait, and I was so happy that I didn't wait, because during that time his house broke. All these editors were not open about their agendas. Then, I gave it to another publishing house, which changed their editors several times, and I learned that one of their readers had given a bad review, because he had an independent house and he wanted actually to publish my novel. It was not very nice. So, finally I published it with this small independent house, Entropia. Had I published it with a big house, I would have probably not got all the attention my work actually received. In the end, even if the process was a little discouraging, it paid off. All these events took place in 2007 and 2008, and the book appeared in the last days of 2008.

ZA: I still cannot understand what the meaning of your novel is in the local context. What a reader like me who doesn’t read Spanish can get from the Internet about the novel is very little. The reaction to your novel seems to have two aspects or to reflect two types of problems the intellectuals and literati in your country have with your novel. The one is the sexist issue. The other is politics. At some place you are quoted as saying that" the viciousness with which Las Teorias Salvajes was received shows a total lack of political correctness that exists in Argentina toward women, even in cultural circles." In another interview you said that" the book has sparked verbal violence and sexist uproar precisely because it doesn't deal with the issues that are traditionally associated with women's literature, but instead, contains a sociological critique that is both intelligent and satirical, which are apparently traits solely reserved for men." I see here an obvious male chauvinist attitude with which men met your book. But that is also the aspect of your being a right-wing writer dealing with political issues that seem to be very hot in contemporary Argentina. Someone for example wrote: "It wouldn't be right to define Pola Oloixarac as a right-wing writer. She’s no writer.” Still another says "She’s built this persona for herself—a promiscuous, intellectual-type snob—and she has had a lot of success with it." Finally, you said about your novel that “it is deliberately political, establishing a strong relationship with knowledge, playing simultaneously against different disciplines and reconstructing the fraudulent position of the cultural left.” Although these claims seem somehow self-explanatory, I cannot quite understand them, because I don't know the context.

PO: The notion of women’s literature is not particular to Argentina, nor is it particular to North America. Those are issues women writers all over the world have to deal with. There's this idea that women have to write for themselves, about their love lives and about their houses, about their children; because they are “sensitive” or their intelligence is “more emotional”, etc. Women are supposed to be very witty in their sentiment, very deep in their grasp of relationships, but they are not supposed to deal with other things, such as political, philosophical, high-end matters. Although this is not something particular to the Argentinian context, you could say that this level of machismo is a big part of Hispanic culture.

ZA: Is it a matter of intensity?

PO: Machismo is very intense in the Hispanic culture, both in Spain and across the entire Latin American continent. The way those quotes appeared, and that my novel was able to stir all this anger and make it rise to the surface both amazed me and amused me. Of course, to provoke in order to see the monster, and, once it rises, all people will be able to see it in their faces and become aware of themselves, taken as a “procedure” of strategy, used to be the key of Marxism-Leninism. I am not saying that this was my intention while I was writing, although it may have happened that way.

ZA: But didn’t you expect the reaction as you see it now?

PO: I knew that I had written a violent novel. I knew it. But when the reception got so heated, I realized that this was a confirmation of the correctness of my thesis; otherwise people would have been indifferent. I was touching the right spots, the hypersensitive spots. And the proof happened not to be the nicest of situations, in which I could find myself. But it was a fantastic situation. It was my first book, and to me the whole idea of attention was weird. It was just weird that people would write in the open that I was getting such good reviews because I was sleeping with the critics... hello? And these entire conservative positions, what a crap! [Laughing out loudly.] But then, I just got used to it and learned to laugh it off. I knew that the book was violent, but I also knew that I had created a female character that didn't exist in Argentine literature. Rose, she is a weird character; usually you have female characters that are not as smart as the male ones. She's also a kind of crazy. She is out there; sometimes you would read the irony, you would see that this person is unfolding all these strategies to get this man; it is such an active character.

ZA: How about the literary value of your book? One of the leading publications in Argentina praised you as “an author who delivers on her promises. If she doesn’t lose the freshness she currently exudes, she will soon end up being regarded as one of the best.” The political is always transitory. Obviously, your novel possesses a literary value that is lasting. How does this inspire you to write your next book?

PO: Writing good literature has always been a challenge. In the tradition I stem from—the literature of both ideas and Latin America—the connection between politics and literature has always been very intimate. Just take a look at Vargas Llosa’s work! You can say that politics is transitory, but the points made by Vargas Llosa throughout his career and throughout his books are a way of telling the political history of Latin America. Governments pass and they are transitory, but the building of history is not. And in a way you can say that it is a very strong strain in the Latin American literature that actually comes from [Domingo] Samiento, who is the father of Argentine literature, and who ended up to be a president of Argentina. His prose was incredible, and you can see that in his idea that at the foundation of the literature there is also the idea of the foundation of the nation. In countries so young like the one I come from, the connection between politics and literature reveals a freshness and lack of cynicism, the kind of attitude we still have toward what is happening in society. So this is not transitory, it is embedded in the all-encompassing writing of history. With respect to the challenges of literature I try to lock myself out -- and in my next book, I don't want to feel the pressure of the first book. I just know that I will write all my life, there will be a second book; there will be a third one, and so on.

ZA: I come from the European tradition where literature has its own life, which is in large part divorced from politics. The great Russian or French or, for that matter, Bulgarian novelists had an aesthetic foundation: they were interested in the human soul, the human condition. In what you are saying here, it appears as if you are not interested in these but instead aim your eye at political conflicts.

PO: But to write about the human soul is to write about conflicts. I don't think these two things should be necessarily divorced. Specifically, in this novel I tried to make up a theory of evil. I kind of felt, fine, I’m not going to deal with the extreme conflicts and extreme bloodshed in my country, so, I may came up with some kind of a general theory of violence: violence as a form of civilization. That is one of the theories that constitute the “savage theories.” The exploration of the human soul, of all these elevated things, needed to be intertwined with other open windows, like political struggle, for example. What amazed me about the book’s reception in Spain was that people who didn't know about the Argentinian context didn't seem to need to know it in order to understand and like the novel. The novel can have different conversations with different people. I feel that one of its main themes is laid out much more like a Bildungsroman for the youth, for a kind of global youth. If we are consuming the same thing and we are all connected through the same network, we can fairly say that any sociological analysis would apply not only to the Argentinian youth but also to the European youth, Peruvian youth, or American youth. The talk I was invited to give at Harvard in November is about the category of youth as a global transcendent category. This approach may allow me to deal with a variety of particular themes; they are very interested in this idea. True, it is very typical for the Argentine literature, but it is not relegated only to it.

To me, the writing of this book was also a way to find a strategy that still honors my tradition, to mix together politics and literature, but at the same time find a way to breathe through it. I worked it through this young girl’s character. Part of the novel also takes place in Africa, at the beginning of the 20th century. And in a certain important way it is about the life of the mind. It doesn't really matter where the plot unfolds, in what political contexts. What you can see is the main theme: and for me the main theme is the need of people to dominate other people and to prove that they are better than the others.

ZA: Have you seen the movie “Social Network?”

PO: Yes, I wrote about it. I really liked it. It is about a guy who builds a network for friends and ends up with no friends. To me, it is also indicative of how creativity works in the age of collaboration. And when suddenly money, huge money start coming in, you start realizing that the network wasn’t about the money; it was about something else that involves innovation, there is a very strong innovation paradigm.

ZA: I think the movie is about a young man who believes in his product and was setting it out there for everybody to use. I would say this can be called a neo-altruism. With his technological skills he wanted to create something that everybody could use.

PO: You really find it altruistic? He makes a billion dollars business, and you find it altruistic? It is a business that allows people to control other people.

ZA: But as you said, money was not his initial motivation to doing it.

PO: Exactly, money is irrelevant. Power is. Right now the paradigm of values is changing from an economy based on money to an economy based on attention. Zuckerberg is moving us toward the economy based on attention. Right now it is not clear how much money Facebook will make, that is why they are changing so frequently the privacy regulations. The ones who are making the big bucks are Google. They still have to find a strategy to get a portion of that cake. It is not about money, but not because money is a thing that is impure, and this would elevate them morally. It is because the economy is about what you are doing with attention. How much is it worth to have control over billions of people? To have all the information updated all the time, to have this thing that is beyond value and beyond money.

ZA: Your interpretation seems a plausible alternative to me. But let's go back to the world of ideas. I mentioned to you once about Virginia Woolf and how Michael Cunningham has presented her in his novel The Hours. What do you think of her writing? She is a feminist neither in the contemporary sense nor in the traditional way. What is she actually?

PO: I like her a lot. I think she helped create the classical feminism with her writings in the 1930s. The history of her precursors set the tone of what was a viable feminist writing and what was not. For instance, she is very critical to Lady Margaret Cavendish, a writer from the 17th century, whom I adore completely, I have translated her. She was completely insane out there, and Virginia Woolf frowns upon her, she's like, why didn't Cavendish translate the classics? Why didn't she exchange letters with the geniuses of her time? Why was she dressing in such extravangant clothes? That means why she didn’t behave as she was supposed to behave in those times. Virginia is put off by this person. She is like, okay, I cannot consider you for real, if you are not going by the book of what a lady should do; what I, three centuries after you, think you could have done. There you see the paradox of Virginia Wolff: live to revolutionize something and still keeping the Edwardian nice way to behave.

ZA: But she described all these problems in Mrs. Dalloway and how, in the male-dominated world she lived in, men were never able to understand this side of women, which does not depend on liberating themselves from the men, but is internal, inherent to women's nature. I think that side comes out very well in Cunningham’s The Hours. And especially in the movie made by the book, you can get this other level of freedom of a woman as a person, without her relation or competitive comparison with the men, that a woman should aspire to find and define herself by that internal freedom regardless of who is the man next to her or how men will evaluate what she does. In the classical feminism women fought for a better evaluation by men, in the post-modern one women’s equality stands beyond evaluation, as a value for its own sake.

PO: I do like your interpretation.

ZA: You said that Borges is one of your teachers?

PO: I wish he had taught me some classes! He used to teach literature at the university before I enrolled (he died in 1986, I was 9 years old). He was extremely well versed. He would talk about all these topics that you like so much, such as his love for the Anglo-Saxon world, his love for the Islamic culture. He was on his own trip.

ZA: Who are the European writers you consider being your teachers?

PO: I love so many writers from Europe, but I would single out Vladimir Nabokov, I adore Jean-Jacques Rousseau, I love Descartes and Hobbes, I really like Peter Sloterdijk, a German philosopher who I think is originally from Holland. I like also Houellebecq

ZA: The enfant terrible of French literature… You can be considered the enfant terrible in Argentina these days.

PO: [In laughing it out] He is not exactly that much of an enfant. In Spain they actually called me the Argentine Houellebecq or something, and in Argentina, the female Houllebecq. That was very flattering. He's one of the funniest authors I've ever read. If you read [his novel] The elementary particules, you will agree with me. I tried to read La Possibilité d’une île  in French, but I couldn't deal with his language, so I had to read him in Spanish. I prefer reading in French authors from the 18th and 19th century … excluding Proust [with self-deprecating laughter].

ZA: What is your idea of America?

PO: I find America fascinating! I just love it. I have been here several times... American culture is not something you can avoid, it is quite ubiquitous. At the same time, being here gave me a completely different perspective. I really like the cult of honesty, it's very different from what you see in Argentina. I also liked a lot the obsession with courtesy and how everybody does not want to mess around with other people's space. All this is incredibly different from Argentina.

ZA: Did something about your idea of America change while you were being here in Iowa City?

PO: I don't think so. Usually, I travel to big cities such as LA and San Francisco, for instance, and I was very glad to be in the Midwest for the first time. I just find people here to be adorable. I just like them. Of course, I'm not looking at anything further than the superficial level; I am just delighted this gift was presented to me. At the same time, I enjoy finding out that Americans are so naïve. I find them very funny with their stereotypes about Latin America and Latino women. I remember being in a bar in Iowa City with a Latin American writer, and an American writer appears and introduces himself as our peer, so we are speaking about Vargas Llosa and we say, isn't it great that he punched Gabriele Garcia Marquez in the face, it is like in an Antonio Banderas movie! —and in all that we are ironical—and the guy began preaching to us, “so this is what Latin America is about, it is all about violence”. You see, this is a very earnest and naïve reaction, demonstrating the incapability of getting any irony. I find this adorable as well and very American. It's so funny. I guess, if you lived here, it would not be so funny: I wonder for how long the lack of irony would stay funny and then begin making you feel lonely and isolated. There is no real connection if there is no humor.

ZA: Do you also realize that America is a very diverse country? That there is not a single America and you cannot generalize about America?

PO: Yes, I do. But I also noticed that sometimes Latin Americans, or Hispanics here, are more Americans than the Americans, incredibly Republican. Hispanics who want to prevail. The dream, the hard work, getting up at six in the morning. I love that, I love the work ethics of Americans, it has given me a lot. Since I have been here, I wake up at six every day, which is something I somehow can’t do in Argentina. The country is against you doing this kind of things, I don't know, maybe it's something in the meat [laughing]. My friends here always warned me about generalizations of America. It is a country you can never define. It is so huge and so surprising all the time.

The five writers Oloixarac most admires: Vladimir Nabokov, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, J.D. Watson, Carl Schmitt, and Mario Bellatin.

Oloixarac reads in:

Browse Authors

Reset | View All

Search by Name