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César Vallejo


Born on March 16, 1892, César Abraham Vallejo grew up in Santiago de Chuco, an isolated town in north central Peru. Vallejo's grandmothers were Chimu Indians and both of his grandfathers, by a strange coincidence, were Spanish Catholic priests. He was the youngest of eleven children and grew up in a home saturated with religious devotion.

Vallejo entered the School of Philosophy and Letters at Trujillo University in 1910, but had to drop out for lack of money. Between 1908 and 1913, he started and stopped his college education several times, working in the meantime as a tutor and in the accounts department on a large sugar estate. At the sugar estate, Vallejo saw thousands of workers arrive in the courtyard at dawn to work in the fields until nightfall for a few cents a day and a fistful of rice. Seeing this devastated Vallejo and later inspired both his poetry and his politics.

In 1913, Vallejo enrolled again at Trujillo University and studied literature and law, and read voraciously about determinism, mythology, and evolution. After receiving a Master's Degree in Spanish literature in 1915, Vallejo continued to study law until 1917. However, his life in Trujillo had become complicated by a tortured love affair and he moved to Lima.

Vallejo found work as the principal of a prestigious school. At night he visited opium dens in Chinatown and hung out in the Bohemian cafe where he met the important literary figures of the time, including Manual Gonzalez Prada, one of Peru's leading leftists. When Vallejo's Los heraldos negros was published, in 1919, it was received enthusiastically. Vallejo then began to push his talent in a new direction.

Vallejo lost his teaching post for refusing to marry a woman with whom he was having an affair. In 1920, after his mother's death and the loss of a second teaching job, Vallejo visited his home. During a feud that broke out before his arrival in Santiago de Chuco, an aide to the subprefect was shot and the general store burned to the ground. Vallejo, who was actually writing up the legal information about the shooting for the subprefect, was blamed as an "intellectual instigator." In spite of protest telegrams from intellectuals and newspaper editors, he was imprisoned for 105 days. When released on parole, he left for Lima, embittered by the affair.

In 1922, Vallejo published Trilce, a book written while in hiding before his arrest. Trilce, which placed Latin American poetry in the center of Western cultural tradition, appeared to come out of nowhere. Vallejo continued to teach while in Lima, but in the spring of 1923 his position was eliminated. Fearing that he could still be forced to go back to jail, he accepted the invitation of his friend Julio Gálvez to go to Paris. Vallejo left Peru for good in June 1923.

Vallejo and Gálvez nearly starved in Paris. It wasn't until 1925 that Vallejo found his first stable job in a newly opened press agency and began to receive a monthly grant from the Spanish government to continue his law studies at the University of Madrid. Since he was not required to stay on campus Vallejo remained in Paris, where he continued to receive the money for two years. The grant, plus the income from articles, enabled Vallejo to move into the Hotel Richelieu in 1926 and frequent exhibitions, concerts, and cafe He met Antonin Artaud, Pablo Picasso, and Jean Cocteau. The somber, straightforward works he wrote during this period form a bridge between Trilce and the densely compassionate and bitter poetry he would write in the 1930s.

In 1927, he received news from home that the tribunal in charge of his old case had given orders to arrest him, which confirmed his intuition to leave Peru. He left his post at the press agency and refused further grant payments. His economic situation worsened. By 1928, he had begun to read Marxist literature and appeared to be an actively committed Communist. In September of 1928, Vallejo made the first of three trips to Russia; he returned to form the Peruvian Socialist party with other expatriates.

In January 1929, Vallejo and Georgette Philipart, whom he met soon after his arrival in Paris, moved in together. Vallejo's Marxist studies continued, and he decided no longer to publish poetry, devoting himself instead to writing a book of Marxist theory. In 1930, Vallejo wrote his first drama. He continued to write scripts in the years to come, leaving nearly 600 pages of unpublished material at his death.

Vallejo was arrested by the police in a Paris railroad station in December and ordered to leave France within three days. He returned to Madrid where, in 1931, he wrote his only novel, El tungsteno. When the Monarchy fell and the Republic was proclaimed, Vallejo officially joined the Spanish Communist party and, once Rusia en 1931 was published, was even temporarily famous. Despite his success, however, he could not find a publisher for his new material.

In January 1932, Georgette Philipart returned to Paris to find their apartment sacked by the police. Meanwhile, Vallejo was desperately trying to establish publishing connections in Madrid. Finally obtaining a resident permit in February 1933, Vallejo left for Paris with nothing but the clothes on his back. The conditions of the permit forbade him to engage in any political activity whatsoever; the years between 1933 and 1936 were the least documented in Vallejo's adult life and may well have been his darkest.

Vallejo and Philipart married in 1934, and their financial situation took a turn for the worse. Finally, in 1936, Vallejo found a teaching position, and the Fascist uprising in Spain in July of that year inspired him to a spectacular display of sustained creativity. Absorbed by the Loyalist anti-Fascist cause, Vallejo began to build a "popular poetry," incorporating war reportage, while at the same time becoming more hermetic than ever before.

In July 1937 he left again for Spain, which was deep in civil war, and took part in the Second International Congress of Writers for the Defense of Culture. Among the 200 writers attending, Vallejo was elected the Peruvian representative. While in Spain, Vallejo visited the front briefly and saw the horror with his own eyes. Back in Paris he wrote a fifteen-scene tragedy, La piedra cansada, and then in one sustained push, from early September to early December, fifty-two of the fifty-four poems that make up Sermón de la barbarie, along with the fifteen poems of España, aparte de mí este cálize.

In early March 1938, the years of strain and deprivation, compounded by heartbreak over Spain, as well as exhaustion from the pace of the previous year, finally took their toll. Vallejo contracted a lingering fever, and by late March he could not get out of bed. Despite medical attention, his condition worsened. No one knew how to heal him; at one point, his wife even enlisted the help of astrologers and wizards. On the morning of April 15, the Fascists finally reached the Mediterranean, cutting the Loyalist territory in two. At more or less the same moment, Vallejo cried out in delirium, "I am going to Spain! I want to go to Spain!" and he died. It was Good Friday. The clinic records state that he died of an "acute intestinal infection." His body was buried at Montrouge, the "Communist" cemetery in southern Paris. In the 1960s, Georgette, who was living in Lima, had his remains moved to Montparnasse, where they now reside.

Selected Bibliography


Los heraldos negros (The Black Heralds) (1918)
Trilce (1922)
Nómina de huesos (Payroll of Bones) (1936)
España, aparte de mí este cálize (Spain, Take This Cup from Me) (1939)
Sermón de la barbarie (Sermon on Barbarism) (1939)
Poemas humanos (Human Poems) (1939)
Antologia de Cesar Vallejo (1942)
Cesar Vallejo: The Complete Posthumous Poetry
Selected Poems of Cesar Vallejo (1981)
The Complete Poetry: A Bilingual Edition (2007)


Rusia en 1931 (1932)
El romanticismo en la poesia castellana (1954)
Rusia en 1931: Reflexiones al pie del Kremlin (1959)
Rusia ante el segundo plan quinquenal (1965)
Literatura y arte (1966)
Desde Europa (1987)


La piedra cansada (1927)
Teatro completo (1979)


Escalas melografiadas, Talleres Tipografia de la Penitenciaria (1923)
Fabla salvaje (1923)
El tungsteno (1931)
Novelas: Tungsteno, Fabla salvaje, Escalas melografiadas, Hora del Hombre (1948)

César Vallejo

By This Poet


To My Brother Miguel in memoriam

Brother, today I sit on the brick bench outside the house, 
where you make a bottomless emptiness.
I remember we used to play at this hour of the day, and mama 
would calm us: "There now, boys..."
Now I go hide
as before, from all these evening 
prayers, and I hope that you will not find me. 
In the parlor, the entrance hall, the corridors. 
Later, you hide, and I do not find you. 
I remember we made each other cry, 
brother, in that game.

Miguel, you hid yourself
one night in August, nearly at daybreak,
but instead of laughing when you hid, you were sad. 
And your other heart of those dead afternoons
is tired of looking and not finding you.  And now
shadows fall on the soul.

Listen, brother, don't be too late
coming out. All right? Mama might worry.


     This afternoon it is raining, as never before; and I 
have no desire to live, my heart. 

     This afternoon is sweet. Why should it not be? 
Dressed in grace and pain; dressed like a woman. 

     This afternoon in Lima it is raining. And I recall 
the cruel caverns of my ingratitude; 
my block of ice over her poppy, 
stronger than her "Don't be this way!"

     My violent black flowers; and the barbaric  
and terrible stoning; and the glacial distance. 
And the silence of her dignity 
with burning holy oils will put all end to it. 

     So this afternoon, as never before, I am 
with this owl, with this heart. 

     Other women go by; and seeing me so sad, 
they take on a bit of you 
in the abrupt wrinkle of my deep remorse. 

     This afternoon it is raining, raining hard. And I
have no desire to live, my heart!


    Tonight I get down from my horse, 
before the door of the house, where 
I said farewell with the cock's crowing.
It is shut and no one responds. 

    The stone bench on which mama gave birth 
to my older brother, so he could saddle 
backs I had ridden bare, 
through lanes, past hedges, a village boy; 
the bench on which I left my heartsick childhood 
yellowing in the sun ... And this mourning 
that frames the portal? 

    God in alien peace, 
the beast sneezes, as if calling too; 
noses about, prodding the cobbles. Then doubts,
his ears all ears. 

    Papa must be up praying, and perhaps
he will think I am late. 
My sisters, humming their simple, 
bubblish illusions, 
preparing for the approaching holy day,
and now it's almost here. 
I wait, I wait, my heart 
an egg at its moment, that gets blocked. 

    Large family that we left 
not long ago, no one awake now, and not even a candle 
placed on the altar so that we might return. 

    I call again, and nothing. 
We fall silent and begin to sob, and the animal 
whinnies, keeps on whinnying. 

    They're all sleeping forever, 
and so nicely, that at last 
my horse dead-tired starts nodding 
in his turn, and half-asleep, with each pardon, says 
it's all right, everything is quite all right.

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