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 was a popularist, but he surely disliked one aspect of the elitism of poetry: “Ask booksellers how many editions they have published and how many copies they have sold of great poetry, of books of travel, of novels—ask them, and the reply will be terribly mortifying to your spirit! . . .”

Azul . . . , Prosas profanas, and Cantos de vida y esperanza form a triptych wherein Darío’s stylistic mission is best understood. However, compared with the other two, in Cantos Darío strikes a decidedly amending tone, reformulating his own aesthetics, arguing with his antagonists, and generally looking at his own place as a poet not only at the past and present time but also into posterity. I for one see this volume as Darío’s most compact and complete single volume, but one dealing less with innovation than with recapitulation. At a time when poets died young—among the Modernistas Martí died at the age of 42, Rodó at 46, José Asunción Silva at 31, and Gutiérrez Nájera at 36, only Lugones lived to the “advanced” age of 64—Dario was almost 40 years old, a mature man by the standards of his period. His mood makes him look back and reconsider his previous work. He also feels the need to expand, to look beyond his horizon. Octavio Paz wrote that Darío “expresses himself [here] more soberly, more profoundly, but his love for the brilliant word does not diminish.