Zambra's Zesty 'Documents' of Life and Revolution in Chile

Chilean novelist Alejandro Zambra hardly needs further proof that he is adept as a miniaturist, one of those authors who revel in flash fiction’s power—his award-winning debut “Bonsái” was only around 90 pages. The writer’s latest work, “Mis documentos” (My Documents), functions as both a departure from and affirmation of the pithiness attributed to Zambra. At 241 pages, the collection of short stories seems immense in size compared to his previous books, but each of the 11 tales occupies a small space, which allows Zambra’s concision to show fully. It is this construction that makes “Mis documentos” so memorable and masterful. Through recurring images and themes, the author creates worlds both separated from and interconnected with one another—worlds from different times shaken by waves of the same sweeping political and social changes. Though his stories focus on people confronting very unique situations, Zambra harnesses the short story form to weave narratives that, while written concisely, display powerful acuity about the characters and their experiences.

At its roots, “Mis documentos” is primarily an exquisite introspection into daily life. ‘The opening short story, “My Documents,” follows a young Chilean man’s life, beginning at his childhood—specifically, at home and church—and reaching up to his present adulthood.  Here, Zambra takes the coming-of-age concept and ladens it with nostalgic wisdom to create a heartwarming fiction. Even when a story’s plot contains less mundane events—“Thank You” involves the abduction and robbery of a couple in a taxi—Zambra treats the story with heavy, reflective weight and little sensationalization. “The Argentine and Chilean One tell the Spaniard what happened,” a narrator says, describing the fallout of the abduction, his disinterested tone muting the drama. Stories like “Thank You” prove that, despite the diverse narratives presented, “Mis documentos” is consistent; each piece complements every other through Zambra’s treatment of the various topics.

Zambra further ensures this coherence through his balanced style: his language is not trite or overdone but instead manages to find equilibrium between simplicity and complexity. Regardless of the point of view, the narrator describes the story’s events clearly. Zambra enlivens his language at certain intervals, however, to electrify scenes with more vibrancy—distinct moments against the straightforward nature of the rest of the book. As a habitual smoker reflects on his decision to quit smoking in “I Smoked Very Well,” he declares: “Cigarettes are the punctuation marks of life. Now I live without punctuation, without rhythm. My life is a stupid avant-garde poem.” The comment, which seems to suggest the dangers of acting under social demands, is distinct not only because of its rarity but also because it bears hints of significant social commentary. Juxtaposed against the less colorful writing of the rest of the narratives—writing that describes situations and people with few metaphors or unique vocabulary—these moments have strong historical resonance. Zambra comes across as a provocative storyteller, aware of the gains coming from manipulating his language and committed to a greater purpose than entertainment.

But what really makes Zambra and “Mis documentos” so incredible derives not from the precision of each narrative but their collective result. Recurring themes—religion, homosexuality, family, and love among others—connect the varied plots together, giving them all more substance. Zambra is not explicit in projecting his opinions but implies them through the characters and their experiences. In this way, he creates a book with many complicated layers that slowly unravel and add to the collection’s depth. “My father was a computer, my mother a typewriter,” the narrator says at the end of “My Documents.” Six short stories later, the narrator of “I Smoked Very Well” intones, “I’m an old but not entirely broken computer.” Both instances reveal the prevalence of technology—a leitmotif already hinted at with the book’s title, which could refer to the My Documents folder of a computer. These sparse hints reach a climax with “Memories of a Personal Computer,” a narrative focused on a love that blossoms and dies due to a computer and a story that serves to define Zambra’s critique on society’s uplifting but also destructive dependence on technology. Moments like these, when clear connections form between the varied stories, empower “Mis documentos” and grant it profundity.

Politics also lines the pages, an initially hidden presence that gradually grows more assertive. In “Camilo,” after the titular character causes a commotion, the narrator notes, “He had disrupted the public order, we were living under a dictatorship, but Camilo managed to placate the policemen, and we walked away after making the strange promise never to laugh in a public place again.” Zambra intersperses the brief mention of Chile’s government in a long sentence. Placed among more inane phrases, the revelation of dictatorship occupies a forgettable position, one capable of endowing little weight. The scene is one of many throughout the novel where Zambra presents the politics—namely the tumultuous state of a former dictatorship—as a negligible but nevertheless significant aspect of the characters’ lives. This political context concentrates Zambra’s focus on day-to-day events with greater meaning: the politics become a part of the characters’ lives. While Zambra’s political allusions assumes prior knowledge of Chilean history, which can oftentimes become isolating for an unfamiliar reader, his continual repetition and reference to certain events is enough to suggest the topic’s gravity.

These insightful political and social attributes of “Mis documentos” ultimately reflect Zambra’s deftness as a miniaturist. He knows when to employ simplicity and when to highlight certain details, and he understands how to grant individual stories their own flavor while maintaining their connectivity. Through his close attention to detail and careful construction, Zambra manages to connect a seemingly hodgepodge collection of beads into one cohesive work of art until each story merges into every other with the same purpose—one of introspection and commentary.