“The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas” by Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis (translated by Gregory Rabassa)

This is a fictional memoir written by a corpse. That should make this novel weird enough. The eponymous hero, Cubas, also has a flippant way of recapitulating the details of his life. He writes of his undertaking, “this book is written with apathy, with the apathy of a man now freed of the brevity of the century, a supinely philosophical work, of an unequal philosophy, now austere, now playful, something that neither builds nor destroys, neither inflames nor cools, and, yet, it is more than a pastime and less than an apostolate.” Cubas was a life-long bachelor and an aristocratic layabout in 19th century Rio de Janeiro. He does not claim to be anything more or less. He gives an idea of his philosophy of life when he writes, “tight boots are one of the best bits of good fortune on earth, because making one’s feet hurt they give occasion to the pleasure of taking them off. Punish your feet, wretch, then unpunish them and there you have cheap happiness, at the mercy of shoemakers and worthy of Epicurus.” He is marvelously self-centered. He is not overly proud, but unrepentant. He often expounds on (in order to relieve?) his own conscience, “Ventilate your conscience! That’s all I can tell you…. So I, Bras Cubas, discovered a sublime law, the law of equivalencies of windows, and I established the fact that the method of compensating for a closed window is to open another, so that morality can continuously aerate one’s conscience.” Later, when reflecting on the religious compunctions of a poor old maid he has put up in a house as cover for his liaisons with his married lover Cubas again reflects, “vice many times is manure for virtue. And that doesn’t prevent virtue from being a fragrant and healthy bloom. My conscience agreed and I went to open the door for Virgilia.”

Much of his memoir focuses on his intimate escapades with this one true love of his life, the one who got away, Virgilia. Initially, after he was spurned as her suitor, he writes, “I’d stayed awake a good part of the night. Because of love? Impossible. One doesn’t love the same woman twice, and I, who would love that one some time later, wasn’t held at that time by any other bond than a passing fantasy.” Cubas often talked about how little he liked to talk about money. Reflecting on an incident with a beggar, “I took out my wallet, picked a five mil-reis note—the least clean one—and gave it to him.” Throughout much of his memoir Cubas digresses into his method of writing it. “I went on my way, unraveling an infinite number of reflections that I think I’ve lost completely. They would have been material for a good and maybe happy chapter. I like happy chapters, they’re my weakness.” Later on in his memoir, he self-edits, justifying his previous word choice, “If the reader remembers Chapter XXIII he will observe that this is the second time I’ve compared life to an overflow, but he must also notice that this time I add an adjective: perpetual. And God knows the strength of an adjective, above all in young, hot countries.”