Read Selected Writings (Dario, Ruben) for Free Online Page B

poet and also his role as a diplomat, which enabled him to travel far and wide and gain exposure to aspects of Western civilization he would otherwise not have had access to. Indeed, at the time the average middle-class citizen of a Central American country never even dreamed of traveling within the region, let alone abroad. In that sense, Darío, thus, is a rara avis : year by year, most of his life was spent overseas. Guatemala, Chile, Spain, and France were important destinations, and for a while became homes, too; and Darío also traveled to Gibraltar and Morocco, Italy, Cuba, and Mexico, where, by the way, he participated, in 1910, in the hundredth anniversary commemoration of El Grito de Dolores, the battle-cry for independence.
    Did Darío ever consider his roles as journalist and diplomat as important as that of poet? No, he never did. He was a poet first and foremost. None of his diplomatic work left any imprint. Actually, he often convinced friends and acquaintances to name him to a post for no other reason than to be far away from Nicaragua. As a journalist, on the other hand, he was unquestionably prolific as well as influential. Darío was active at a time when the perceptions of journalism were already being differentiated between the European model and its counterpart in the United States. In the Old Continent the view was that newspapers offered the facts with little embellishment: the duty of reporters was to be succinct in conveying the news. But on this side of the Atlantic, and especially in Latin America, the approach was to mix journalism and literature, to entertain as well as to inform. It is easy to see where Darío’s sympathies fell. He wrote: “Today, and always, ‘journalists’ and ‘writers’ must of necessity be confused with one another. Most essayists are journalists. Montaigne and de Maistre are journalists in the broad sense of the word. All observers of, and commentators on, life have been journalists. Now, if you are referring simply to the mechanical aspect of the modern profession, then we can agree that the only persons who merit the name journalist are commercial ‘reporters,’ those who report on daily events—and even these may be very good writers who with a grace of style and a pinch of philosophy are able to turn an arid affair into an interesting page. There are political editorials written by thoughtful, high-minded men that are true chapters of fundamental books. There are chronicles, descriptions of celebrations or ceremonies, written by reporters who are artists, and these chronicles might not be out of place in literary anthologies. The journalist who writes what he writes with love and care is as much a ‘writer,’ an ‘author’ as any other. . . . The only person who merits our indifference and time’s oblivion is he who premeditatedly sits down to write, for the fleeting moment, words without the glow of burnishing, ideas without the salt taste and smell of blood. . . . Very beautiful, very useful, and very valuable volumes could be made up if one were to carefully pick through newspapers’ collections of ‘reports’ written by many persons considered to be simple ‘journalists.’ ”
     
    In 1905, just as the expectations for the century were settling in, Darío offered his greetings to “la nueva era” by publishing his book Cantos de vida y esperanza: Los cisnes y otros poemas (Songs of Life and Hope: Swans and Other Poems). The volume appeared under the aegis of the Taller de la Revista de Archivos. It might be significant to remember that much like the rest of Dario’s books, this perennial classic had a first printing of only five hundred copies, which took a while to be sold. Then as now, poetry, needless to say, was not an item destined for mass consumption. Of Whitman, too, it is known that several decades after publishing Leaves of Grass, only three hundred had been sold. In spite of this “eternal truth,” Darío was dismayed. Not that he