PRINT February 1986


FOR MANY, MEXICAN MODERN ART consists of the spectacular murals created from the ’20s on, first in Mexico, and later in the United States and other countries, by a handful of artists of whom Diego Rivera, José Clemente Orozco, and David Alfaro Siqueiros are the best known. But while mural painting may be Mexico’s most original contribution to Modern art, its birth was preceded and stimulated by important though neglected artistic activities—most notably, the workings of the group that called itself the Stridentists. This neglect on the part of art history can perhaps be attributed to the literary—as opposed to the plastic—roots of some of the leading figures of Stridentism, whose barely known work is elemental for any deep understanding of developments in Mexican art during the ’20s. Many of the Stridentists also felt that their reputations suffered at the hands of the muralists, despite early good relations between the two groups.

The historical context for Stridentism is complex. The painters who shaped the muralist revolution, most of whom finished their student years in or around the first decade of the 20th century, found few Mexican artists to inspire them. Much of the work being done in the country at the time was relentlessly copied from European academic painting; the emphasis was on ostentatious technique, and local folk material was regarded as provincial. The few painters who risked treating Mexican themes are, paradoxically, exactly the ones who remain interesting today, but back then such artists as José Maria Velasco, Julio Ruelas, Jorge Enciso, and Satumino Herrán were not taken seriously by either the general public or the specialists. José Guadalupe Posada, whose career in certain aspects parallels that of an early European Modem artist such as Henri Rousseau, and who should not be thought of as a “primitive” artist, supported himself for many years in the Mexico City shop of the printer Vanegas Arroyo, for whom he did zinc engravings to illustrate popular publications such as cookbooks and collections of tear-out posters. In recent years Posada’s engravings, particularly his calaveras—sketches involving skulls, and dealing with situations drawn from private, public, and even political life—have been widely reprinted. They are now well-known, but they received no recognition in established artistic circles in Mexico during his lifetime; while he was living it was only adolescents who went to see him work—Orozco, for example, who as a teenager was strongly affected by Posada’s designs, and Rivera, who would celebrate their virtues in a painting and a monograph in 1929. After Posada’s death, in 1913, he was “discovered” by other painters and engravers such as the Stridentists Jean Chariot and Leopoldo Méndez.

Like other countries of the Americas in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Mexico’s eyes were trained on Europe, and every artist longed to study there. Some who went, like Angel Zarraga, stayed for many years; others, like Gerardo Murillo, the curious painter who signed himself “Doctor Atl,” made frequent trips to the Continent. Francisco Goitia went to Madrid in 1904, to study with Francisco Gali; Carlos Mérida went to Paris, to Kees Van Dongen, in 1910; in 1906, Roberto Montenegro and Rivera won a grant that allowed them to work and travel in Europe for several years. Those who remained in Mexico had no choice but to study with Beaux Arts academicians, most notoriously at Mexico City’s Academia de San Carlos, whose dismal classes glorified the most pretentious, pompous art.

In 1910, however, revolution broke out in various parts of the country, and in 1911 the San Carlos students took the cue to go on strike. Two of the strike’s leaders would become famous—Orozco and Siqueiros. The school obtained a new director, the painter Alfredo Ramos Martinez; he had worked with the French Impressionists, and he introduced Modern ideas to the curriculum—in particular, the notion of working plein air. The students respected Martinez, and his successor, Atl, but they were soon dispersed by the civil war that was engulfing Mexico. For most of the teens it was impossible to paint in peace there. Many artists and intellectuals left the country, and, as the sculptor Germán Cueto, traveling abroad in 1916, observed, many of them made reputations in Europe. At home, Orozco drew for the satirical newspapers, and Siqueiros fought as a soldier in the revolutionary forces. Orozco left for the United States in 1917, while Siqueiros went to study in Europe in 1919, as the war drew to its conclusion.

Peace finally came in 1920, but by that time many Mexican intellectuals were gone. Some were in Spain and France, gathered around Rivera, a highly visible presence; others were part of the circle in New York that included two singular figures who have rarely been given their due, and who were of importance to Stridentism, the artist Marius de Zayas and the poet José Juan Tablada, both longtime exiles. Tablada and de Zayas had been friends since the end of the 1890s. Following a dispute between his family and Porfirio Díaz, the dictator who ruled Mexico during these years, de Zayas took refuge in the United States in 1907. A brilliant caricaturist and a follower of developments in the European avant-garde, he quickly became a prominent personality in New York, and a key.intermediary between that city and Paris. Among friends on both sides of the Atlantic he counted Alfred Stieglitz, who exhibited his caricatures from 1909 on, and Guillaume Apollinaire and Pablo Picasso. It was at his Modern Gallery which he founded in 1915, that Rivera first exhibited in the United States. The active role de Zayas played in the pre-Dada period in New York is well-known, as are his connections to Francis Picabia and Marcel Duchamp, as well as to Stieglitz. The importance of his graphic work, however, has received less attention. Without losing any of the caricaturist’s bite, he incorporated Cubist abstraction and planar decomposition in his art, which was also informed by a Futurist dynamism and a proto-Dada humor. Apollinaire praised his “incredibly powerful” drawings, seeing in them “very new techniques . . . in accord with the art of the most audacious contemporary painters.”1 Too little notice has been paid to the relations de Zayas maintained with avant-garde groups in Mexico (most likely through the “little” magazines, and the travels of his friend Tablada), and to his concern with indigenous Mexican art, both pre-Columbian and contemporary.

Though Tablada and de Zayas were friends, the reasons for their exiles in the United States were quite opposite: Tablada had supported the dictator Díaz, who had been forced to leave Mexico in 1911, and he found himself in disfavor with the revolutionary government. On arrival in New York, in 1914, Tablada threw himself into the city’s cosmopolitan life, contributing both poetry—a poem in French, “La Croix du Sud” (The Southern Cross, 1921), was set to music by Edgar Varèse—and critical writing; in one article he lauded Orozco as “the Mexican Goya” Ultimately the new government, impressed by Tablada’s persistent defenses of Mexican art and literature, gave him a pardon, thus assuring itself of his collaboration from New York. Tablada pot only won the acknowledgment of Rivera and many Stridentists, but was toasted as “the poet representative of youth”2 at a banquet given in his honor in Mexico, in 1923, in the presence of the minister of culture, José Vasconcelos. The Stridentist poet Manuel Maples Arce wrote later, “Tablada, who was a restless spirit in constant transformation, seduced by every innovation, would always have a group of writers and painters in his entourage, since he was also interested in the plastic arts.”3 From the beginning Tablada developed this double vocation. If poetry is the heart of his work, his presentation of painters and shows, and his art criticism, are also an important part of it. From 1915 to 1921 he reconciled the two vocations by composing ideographic poems, many of them collected in his book Li-Po (1920). Typographic experiments such as these had already entered the artistic domain with the Futurists, and with Apollinaire’s calligrams; the uniqueness of Tablada’s work lies in the fact that the drawing often counts as much as or more than the writing, so that the poems may be “viewed” without being read.

The only major figure keeping track of the artistic and literary avant-garde to remain in Mexico after the Revolution was Doctor Atl. Like de Zayas and Rivera, he had won the approval of Apollinaire over a show of his in Paris, in 1914, but Atl was not a major painter. He himself wrote, “I was not born a painter. I was born a hobo. And the roads have lead me to a love of nature and the desire to represent it.”4 In most of his painting he remained a placid post-Impressionist, but in his activities he became, in Siqueiros’ words, “the first manifestation of the direct militancy of Mexican artists within the ranks of the Revolution.”5 Atl defended the experiments of the young painters like Rivera, Orozco, and Siqueiros, and their participation in revolutionary action. His own most notable experiments were as a colorist, and he was among the earliest of the Mexican artists of this period to explore fresco.

The first year of peace after the Revolution, 1921, would have ended on a dismal note for the arts and literature in Mexico had not a manifesto appeared that infuriated some and excited others. It was “Actual. Número Uno. Hoja de vanguardia comprimido Estridentista de Manuel Maples Arce” (Issue no. 1: avant-garde paper and Stridentist pill by Manuel Maples Arce). Its outsized format had been chosen so that it could be used as a poster, and in his memoirs Maples Arce records that copies of it were in fact pasted up alongside theater and bullfight announcements in the main neighborhoods of the city and throughout the student area. The sheet was also distributed to newspapers and mailed to various personalities in Mexico and abroad.6

As manifestos often are, “Actual. Número Uno” is vehemently and willfully aggressive. It opens with a series of insults, printed in bold type, to various national and international figures: “Death to Hidalgo the Priest. Down with Saint Raphael, Saint Lazare. . . . ” and, farther on, “Chopin to the electric chair.” Flanking a large portrait of the author, who looks very much the dandy are the manifesto’s 16 points, mainly attacks on “the old literature which agonizes and infests” and “the retarded and especially stupid body of academia.” The artists and poets praised were largely French (Apollinaire, Blaise Cendrars, Pierre Reverdy, Erik Satie, Georges Braque) and Italian (Paolo Buzzi, Gian Petro Lucini, and particularly Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, from whom Maples Arce borrowed the slogan “an automobile in motion is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace”). Spanish and Catalan influences (Guillermo de Torre, Joan Salvat-Papasseit) are also cited, as well as North and South Americans (Walter Arensberg, George Bellows, and Vicente Huidobro).

Maples Arce’s manifesto was a potpourri of the pronouncements and theoretical declarations that had quickly succeeded each other over the previous fifteen years in Europe. The author wrote,

In strident tones pitched at the level of propaganda, we must exalt to everyone the current beauty of machines, the athletic bridges with steel muscles newly hurled across riverbanks, the smoke of factories, the cubist emotions of the great transatlantic liners with red and blue smokestacks anchored like horoscopes—Huidobro—along effervescent, congested docks, the industrial regiment of the palpitating metropolises, the blue overalls of the explosive workers of this moving, exalting epoch: all the beauty of the century. . . .

Stridentism rejected any literary or artistic school that did not share this objective. It urged its adherents to

make art with native and inborn elements impregnated with its own atmosphere. . . . To make a pure poetry suppressing all foreign or denaturalized elements (description, anecdote, perspective). To suppress, in painting, all mental suggestion and the false literaturism so praised by our ridiculous critics. . . . A new art, as Reverdy stated, requires a new syntax; Braque states it positively: the painter thinks in color; from this we deduce the need for a new colorist syntax.

The manifesto denounces naturalist, post-Impressionist, and Symbolist esthetics, but avoids mentioning the quarrel over abstraction and realism that had been raging in European artistic circles since several Cubists had returned, at least temporarily to a more realist figuration (Picasso, Auguste Herbin, Roger de la Fresnaye, and also Rivera, all between the years 1915 and 1919.) In fact, the Stridentists were a heterogeneous group: Fermín Revueltas flirted with abstraction, for example, while Méndez kept to a figurative expressionism.

The Stridentist manifesto deals most directly with literature and the plastic arts, but it does not ignore music or, in later versions, the cinema. While the desire to treat all the arts may have been new to the Americas, the idea had haunted Apollinaire, some of the Cubists, and certainly the Futurists. The Stridentists did not wish to deny what they owed to their predecessors, and the manifesto concluded with a long list, an international hodgepodge of writers, painters, sculptors, and musicians. Maples Arce’s “directory of the avant-garde” riddled with misprints, places the Futurists and the Cubists side by side with the entire School of Paris, Jorge Luis Borges with Morgan Russell, Tristan Tzara with Max Weber. It contains a number of personal friends of Rivera’s (Adam Fischer, Angelina Beloff, and Marevna, for example), artists virtually unknown even in Paris; Rivera had recently returned to Mexico, and presumably he helped Maples Arce to assemble the list. Charlot, another recent arrival from France, also seems to have had a hand in it. Central to the growth of an indigenous Mexican Modernism was the emergence in its activities of older Modernists such as Rivera; Tablada, de Zayas, Siqueiros, and Atl all gladly collaborated in Stridentist events and publications, even from outside the country. The public, however, including many of those who read the manifesto, were as ignorant of its Mexican advocates as they were of foreigners like Mikhail Larionov, Umberto Boccioni, and Duchamp.

In the main, and especially in its dynamist energy, the Stridentist program resembles a Mexicanized Futurism. Yet the movement was eager to create its own identity: “No step backward. No Futurism. Only the world in front of us, calm, marvelously illuminated in the admirable vertigo of the present moment.” Paraphrasing Cendrars, Maples Arce posited an artistic vision in which “ideas are not continuous but simultaneous and intermittent” The Futurism of Marinetti and of his Catalan predecessor, Gabriel Alomar, had been known quite early in the Hispanic world; the Nicaraguan Rubén Dario had been writing about it since 1909. Now the Stridentists insisted on separating themselves from it. In 1922 Maples Arce denounced “the frigidity of Marinetti,” and in 1924 condemned his “poetry for the future, that is, a poetry as reactionary as colonial poetry, which steers clear of current innovation”’ The pro-Fascist leanings of Italian Futurism at the beginning of the ’20s were also attacked. This antipathy led to exaggerated claims on the part of the Mexicans, as Maples Arce wrote,

The Mexican movement has a revolutionary intent and a tremendous vital depth that are absent from the esthetic aspect which characterizes other trends. The revolutionary idea is present with an insistence that proves its human value. It’s absurd to say that Marinetti has influenced me. . . .8

The Stridentist painter Ramón Alva de la Canal also rejected the influence of the Futurists: “It was only their names working on our imaginations, since we never saw their works.”9 But Chariot, a Stridentist fellow traveler, acknowledged the contrary: “It is enough to read the magazines, the manifestos, and especially the books of Stridentist poetry, and to see their plastic works, to understand their relation to Futurism.”10

Who was this Manuel Maples Arce, author of the Stridentist manifesto, and what lay behind his sudden fame? Maples Arce was a 21-year-old lawyer who had published a few poems. Well before he issued his manifesto he had defended the totally unknown painters, his own age and younger, who would form the Stridentist group. (His ombudsman-ship occurred in the absence of those who would become the standard-bearers of the Mexican artistic renaissance in the ’20s, Rivera and Siqueiros, then in Europe.) In an article published in April of 1921, Arce wrote not only about the established painters Rivera and Zarraga (then in Paris), but also about his friends Fermín Revueltas (then aged 18), Méndez (19), and Rufino Tamayo (21). He was especially close to the Revueltas brothers, the painter Fermín and the musician Silvestre, who played an important role in the musical events that the Stridentists loved to arrange for their public meetings and exhibitions. Maples Arce was also well-informed about developments abroad; he recounts in his autobiography how the publication of one of his poems in the Ultraist Spanish review Cosmopolis in 1921 provoked an international response of different manifestos and publications that thrilled him and his friends:

“From France and Italy I got books and pamphlets which I read with great interest. Marinetti sent me his Futurist manifestos and some illustrated monographs on the painters of his movement—Boccioni, [Gino] Severini, and [Artengo] Soffici. From France I received magazines and books by Pierre Reverd,y André Salmon, Blaise Cendrars, Pierre Albert-Birot, Philippe Soupault; I stayed in touch with some of them. Great was my joy when I saw the parcels with foreign stamps arriving, which brought me the avant-garde books and reviews. In some of these publications the paintings of Picasso, Juan Gris, Braque, and several other painters appeared, which I showed to my friends. . . . ”11

After the publication of the manifesto the original Stridentist nucleus—Maples Arce, the Revueltas, Méndez, and later Alva de la Canal and Chariot—was joined by the poets Salvador Gallardo and Germán List Arzubide, the Guatemalan novelist Arqueles Vela, and the sculptor Cueto. The group published still more manifestos, both serious and idiotic—“Long live turkey ragout!,” proclaimed the statement of January 1, 1923. Also to appear were several important if ephemeral magazines: Actual (1921–22), Ser (1922–23), Irradiador (1924), and Horizonte (1926–27). The Stridentist movement had its own bookstore and press, Ediciones Estridentistas. It met at the Café de Nadie, in Mexico City, and Alva de la Canal did several paintings of this café and the group. One shows Maples Arce, Gallardo, List Arzubide. Fermín Revueltas, Vela, Cueto, and Alva de la Canal himself, all portrayed through a collection of geometric faces, abstract forms, and collages of print material. More or less indecipherable inscriptions identify the members. The Stridentists organized poetry readings and exhibitions of painting and sculpture, and offered concerts in the cafés and gardens of the city; this extensive activity won them the sympathy of Rivera, Siquciros (when he returned home, in 1922), and the photographers Edward Weston and Tina Modotti, then established in Mexico. All these artists assisted the Stridentist effort with engravings, photographs, or reproductions of paintings, and Rivera made calligrams imitated from Apollinaire. The Stridentists’ greatest successes were collaborative works—El Movimiento estridentista (1926), a book written by List Arzubide and illustrated by Alva de la Canal; Maples Arce’s Urbe (1925), with woodcuts by Chariot; and the reviews such as Horizonte, magnificently designed and illustrated.

It was Alva de la Canal, one of the most talented of the Stridentists, who was responsible for the visual brilliance of Horizonte. His graphic work, whether in drawings or in woodcuts, is more impressive than his painting; he excelled in black-and-white visions of utopian architecture and in powerfully dynamic urban scenes. His abstract portraits, with their splendid black-and-white contrasts, probably owe a debt to de Zayas’ work. Today, critics generally mention Alva de la Canal only to speculate as to whether he or Chariot did the first mural using the fresco technique at the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria, the national preparatory school, in Mexico City, in 1922. Minister Vasconcelos had proposed to Rivera, now back in Mexico, that he decorate the school, and he had turned to the Stridentists as collaborators. (Later, a few others, Siqueiros and Orozco among them, came in.) The debate over who was first to use fresco—Rivera painted in encaustic—is secondary, however, since this kind of painting had been a part of the Mexican tradition since the precolonial period. Alva de la Canal certainly created the frescoes for the large monument on Janitzio island to the 19th-century revolutionary José María Morelos, which was designed by Guillermo Ruíz in 1934. Today it is difficult to appreciate Alva de la Canal’s work; he spent much of his time in teaching and illustrational art, and his adoption of a more traditional painting style in the ’50s has overshadowed his innovative work of the ’20s.

Alva de la Canal’s friend and rival, Chariot, was of French origin. Born in Paris, in 1898, Chariot was so taken with Mexican culture that he settled in the country in 1922, after a first visit there the preceding year. Whether or not his fresco Massacre in the Major Temple, 1922, in the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria, was the first to be realized by a Modern painter, the work is a strong one. Chariot was less active in Stridentism than its other members, and properly belongs to the history of the muralist movement. As with Alva de la Canal, it is his graphic work that has genius; his woodcuts for Maples Arce’s Urbe, with their massive black forms, show a considerable advance over his portfolio Chemin de croix (Stations of the Cross), published in France in 1920. The body of his work, including the woodcuts and lithographs, is of a consistent quality, and is marked by a love ofpopular art forms.

These kinds of art also captured Méndez’s interest. Though he executed frescoes and easel paintings, he was primarily an engraver; after several avant-garde experiments in the early ’20s, he showed himself a direct descendant of Posada. To reach the masses, Méndez executed direct, abrupt engravings, and Maples Arce, in his monograph on the artist, compares him to Frans Masereel and Käthe Kollwitz, “with whom he shows simultaneously an affinity of conception and style.”12 In 1937, with Alfredo Zalce and several other engravers, Méndez founded the Taller de Gráfica Popular (Studio of popular engraving), whose activities were decisive in the revival and expansion of the art throughout Mexico.

The true painter among the Estridentistas may have been Fermín Revueltas. Both he and his brother, Silvestre, died young. Fermín was a versatile artist, producing both representational and completely abstract works; a fresco, now destroyed, that he did in 1923 for the railroads union was abstract, for example, but his Homage to the Virgin of Guadelupe, 1922, at the Escuela Nacional Preparatoria, was highly figurative. With Alva de la Canal and Chariot, Revueltas threw himself into mural painting early on, and he also experimented with stained-glass windows. Some critics, however, such as the painter and writer Merida, prefer his productions done in a more modest format, especially his aquarelles, to his immense wall paintings. Revueltas’ premature death was a great loss to Mexican art.

In this rapid survey of Stridentism we mustn’t neglect Cueto, long deprived of public recognition. This sculptor, born in 1893, taught himself his art by direct observation, both in Mexico and during the trip he made to Europe in 1916. Like many of his friends, he spent a lot of time teaching. The Stridentists stimulated him; during his involvement with them he created a series of violently colored, grimacing masks portraying his colleagues in the movement. These were exhibited at the Café de Nadie. At first working in plaster and papier-mâché, Cueto moved on to explore a variety of materials—stone, wood, bronze, iron wire, sheet metal, cement, cardboard, and mosaic. For him, no one medium was nobler than another. He continued to make masks, creating dozens of them throughout his career. In 1927, when the Stridentist group had dispersed, Cueto went to Paris, where his work became almost completely abstract; in fact, a model he presented for a monument to the revolution on his return to Mexico, in 1932, was judged too abstract and was never realized. His taste for the popular and performing arts led to a number of jobs in those fields—director of a puppet theater and of a dance school, model-maker for the museum of industry, set decorator Far from diminishing Cueto’s activities as a sculptor, these tasks seem to have inspired him to new investigations of materials and forms, especially in his work with masks.

When Rivera came back to Mexico, in the summer of 1921, he immediately found himself in sympathy with the Stridentists. The union of Stridentism and mural painting happened naturally for the different artists’ objectives were the same: to make a public art, accessible to all, founded on the principles of the Revolution. Realizing that the Stridentists’ esthetics were more advanced than those of some of the other muralists, Vela explained with pride, “We were in communion with our Mexican reality”13 Such remarks are typical of the Stridentists’ romanticized enthusiasm for the Revolution. Like the Russian Futurists, they connected the esthetic revolution to the social one. Maples Arce wrote in 1922,

Locomotives, shouts / shipyards, telegraphs. / Life and love / are now syndicalists. . . .14

The Stridentists undertook the humblest tasks in order to put art within the reach of the common people, yet never worried that the abstract style of much of their work would be greeted with incomprehension. They were not esthetes; their magazine Horizonte published not only literature but social and political articles by writers such as Anatoli V. Lunacharsky and H. G. Wells. Looking back at this time, Octavio Paz wrote in The Labyrinth of Solitude,

The intellectuals became the secret or public advisers of the illiterate generals, the labor or peasant leaders, the political bosses. It was an immense task and everything had to be improvised. The poets studied economics; the jurists, sociology; the novelists, international law or pedagogy or agronomy. Except for the painters—who were supported in the best’possible manner. by being given public walls to cover with murals—all the intelligensia was enlisted for specific and immediate ends.15

In 1926 Maples Arce became an advisor to General Heriberto Jara, head of the government of the city of Jalapa. Many of his friends joined him there, seeking to rechristen the town “Stridentopolis.” Yet unlike Rivera, Siqueiros, and Orozco, who became major figures, the group did not distinguish itself from the rest of the public in its cultural and social actions, and between 1927 and 1928 it dissolved into the Revolution it wanted to serve.

Serge Fauchereau is a writer and critic based in Paris. He is preparing the exhibition “Futurismo & Futurismi,” which will take place at the Palazzo Grassi, in Venice, from May to October of 1986.

Translated from the French by Peter James LaVerne.



Few works have studied Stridentism. The pioneer is Luis Mario Schneider’s El Estridentismo: una literatura de la estrategia, Mexico City: Edicione de Bellas Artes, 1970, a work that keeps to the movement’s literature; the review La Palabra y el Hombre, published by the University of Veracruz, devoted a special edition to Stridentism in October-December 1981. Recently the movement was studied within its broader artistic context by this author, in Les Peintres révolutionnaires mexicains, Paris: Editions Messidor, 1985.

1. Guillaume Apollinaire, Chroniques d’art, Paris: Gallimard, 1960, p. 409; and in L. C. Breunig, ed., Apollinaire on Art: Essays and Reviews, 1902–1918, New York: Viking Press, 1972, p. 419.

2. José Juan Tablada, Obras I, Mexico City: Universidad autónomas de Mexico, 1971, pp. 620–22.

3. Manuel Maples Arce Soberana Juventud, Madrid: Editorial Plenitud, 1967, p. 163.

4. Quoted in Antonio Rodriguez, Dr Atl, Buenos Aires: Editorial Codex., S.A., 1966, p. 6.

5. David Alfaro Siqueiros, Atl. el precursor, 1945, privately printed.

6. Maples Arce, op. cit., p. 123.

7. Quoted in La Palabra y el Hombre, University of Veracruz, October-December 1981, pp. 66 and 73.

8. Maples Arce, interview in Plural, Mexico City, November 1976, p. 54.

9. Ramón Alva de la Canal, interview in Diorama, Mexico City, December 6, 1981.

10. Stefan Baciu, Jean Charlot, Estridentista silencioso, Mexico City: Editorial del Café de Nadie, 1982, p. 68.

11. Maples Arce, Soberana Juventud, p. 124.

12. Maples Arce, Leopoldo Méndez, Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1970, p. 34.

13. Arqueles Vela, quoted in La Palabra y el Hombre, p. 88.

14. Maples Arce, Andamos Interiores, 1922, reissued in Las Semillas del tiempo, Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1981, p. 36.

15. Octavio Paz, The Labyrinth of Solitude, trans. Lysander Kemp, New York: Grove Press, 1961, pp. 157–58.