Francisco Martín Moreno: A Fiery Pen

By Bruce Jensen -- Críticas, 4/15/2007

In a former life, mega-selling Mexican historical novelist Francisco Martín Moreno spent ten years with the federal government. He wasn’t writing textbooks for the national education agency—that would have never worked. Moreno’s novels since México negro (Black Mexico, Joaquín Mortiz, 1986) fly in the face of the accepted narrative of Mexican history. They do so from a foundation of research that is documented to an extent seldom seen in this genre, with more source citations than most nonfiction. Moreno’s current bestseller México ante Dios (Mexico Before God, Alfaguara, 2007), a scathing examination of the Catholic church in 19^th-century Mexico, includes 216 endnotes and a bibliography that lists more than 150 sources. How can novels that look so heavy be so eminently readable? Críticas asked Moreno about the way his large and growing readership responds to his techniques, about some of the tools of his trade, and about the criticism he has heard from mainstream historians.

Every culture has its standard version of history that’s taught in schools but doesn’t always square with the facts. Has it been a challenge for you to overcome the traditional received beliefs of your Mexican readers?

Of course I’ve had to continuously do battle with mercenary writers of history in Mexico, those who have bargained their knowledge for a wad of money, a public post, or a prize—one of those medals that the government gives to people who stand up for its lies and deceptions. A mercenary historian is a menace to society. In Mexico, the vast majority of historians and politicians have lied to us. So we haven‘t been able to know the faces of our enemies, and at the same time it‘s been impossible to resolve the age-old problems that afflict us. How can you solve a problem when you don’t even recognize that it’s there? I’ve dedicated myself to seeking out truths that have been hidden for generations. It’s earned me a lot of enemies, some of them hidden and some out in the open. But I was born to speak, and that’s the way I’ll end my days, speaking out.

The tremendous importance of Catholicism to Mexicans is unmistakable, yet you’ve written a book that tells them in no uncertain terms that the church has long been their worst enemy—and it’s a bestseller. How do you explain this apparent paradox?

Certainly we Mexicans have long distinguished between the various elements at play here: religion, real faith, irrational dogmas, and the priests who represent the Catholic church. It’s understandable, for example, in a country as Catholic as Mexico is, that the War of Reform of 1858 was won by liberal Catholics over the conservative clerics. The liberals knew it was not a war of religion, as the church portrays it, but rather an armed conflict among Mexicans to wrest from the church some of its vast wealth and privileges that have nothing to do with the word of God. The same goes for the Cristero Rebellion. Nobody was being attacked for their religious beliefs. It was simply about making the church submit to the authority of the state, of the law, something that the church always resisted to the point of arming people to fight for the interests of the Pope. History shows us that the loyalties of the Catholic church in Mexico have invariably been to the Pope, to the Vatican, instead of to the nation. Those are the facts.

Valentín Altamirano [the imprisoned journalist at the center of México ante Dios] represents the unfortunate people of Mexico, the ones whom the Catholic church prevented from putting one stone on top of another. The Protestant church in the U.S., as far as I know, never tried to seize power from Presidents Madison or Jefferson or Washington or the others. And the Protestant church was never the owner of 50 percent of the real estate in the U.S.. It never had clandestine armies or secret police, nor did it have immense torture chambers and powerful special tribunals, all those privileges that the Mexican Catholic church did have. Mexicans shed blood in wars and revolutions to put the Catholic church under the secular control of the state. The U.S. never had such a strong and enduring enemy on its own soil as did Mexico with its Catholic church; the U.S. didn’t have to spend all its energy to get out from under the church. This is what Valentín Altamirano recounts—not his own story, but the story of the people of Mexico who suffered at the hands of a cruel, greedy, and bloodthirsty church. The Catholic church, unquestionably the worst enemy that Mexico has ever had.

Why do your novels have so many footnotes, and what do your readers think of that?

Citing my sources is very important, since much of what I relate seems implausible enough that the reader may well doubt me otherwise. That’s why I cite archives, magazines, and secondary sources so readers can recognize the truth of my assertions. If I’d written an essay dealing with the issues of México ante Dios maybe a few thousand people would‘ve seen it. Instead I did a historical novel complete with citations and sources and in its first five months it’s sold 150,000 copies, which in Mexico is a real literary milestone. And it shows that readers want to know about the truth that’s been denied them since they began at grade school.

Twenty years of research went into México ante Dios. I should mention that I wasn’t working all that time with a singleminded focus, but in the course of my work gathering information for my 14 books I was always running across passages about the church that didn’t fit into what I was working on at the moment. I was writing about themes very distinct from the criminal behavior of the Catholic church. Nonetheless, I continued gathering information until three years ago I realized there was enough for a book, a new novel. Going to libraries is important because, among other things, it gives me the chance to find period sources that aren’t in bookstores, and very often they’ve revealed little-known facts to me. My patronage of libraries has been crucial in the creation of my works.

In the renowned Mexican literary magazine Letras Libres, the historian Josefina Zoraida Vázquez disputed your interpretation of events described in México mutilado (Mutilated Mexico, Alfaguara, 2004 ). How do you respond to such criticism?

She did indeed criticize certain passages of that book, along with some of my sources. I answered her immediately to give her my points of view about her arguments, which seemed to me rather outlandish for a scholar of her standing. Imagine: she refuses to accept the idea that Santa Anna was a traitor. In any case, [Letras Libres editor] Enrique Krauze declined to print my side of it, holding that the article’s inflammatory title was the editors’ idea, not hers. He maintained I’d be criticizing something she never said. My response was never published but remains in the archives of Letras Libres, and in my own as well should anyone want to look into that exchange.

Isn’t it true that you gave up a secure, good-paying job to become a writer, even though you had never written much until you were in your forties?

As a matter of fact, I worked for the government for ten years. I was in the Mexican Treasury department, as a lawyer specializing in tax law. I can say that during my time in that position my blood was gradually coming to a boil as I immersed myself in historical literature. Then I decided to make a leap that brought a lot of consequences—political, financial, familial, and social. I paid a high price to get where I am as a writer, but thanks to that decision I can now laugh deeply and sincerely, in a way that appeals to some people and irritates others. Literature has enabled me to live more than 125 different lives. Who gets a chance to be a ten-term President of Mexico, occupy the White House four times, be two different Popes, an oilman, a fruit magnate, a hydraulic engineer, a general, a priest—even a prostitute on more than a few occasions?

Is there any common ground between your first career and what you do now? Was there something of a storyteller in Moreno the lawyer, and are you now as a novelist striving to sway the opinion of a jury?

Certainly there are similarities. When I set up a confrontation between two great Mexican historical figures, such as Venustiano Carranza with Álvaro Obregón or Moctezuma with Hernán Cortés, I need to immerse myself in their lives and in their political and philosophical convictions in great detail to be able to create dialog that has to be deep, intelligent, and truthful. This calls up my lawyerly side. It’s like what goes on between a prosecutor and a defense attorney. I need to keep both characters at the same level, crossing swords with powerful arguments which yes, in fact, could be taking place before a jury. Countering my adversary as a lawyer is in some respects the same thing that happens when my characters lock horns to discuss politics, history, or love.

Who are some favorite writers--ones who influenced you, and those you read today?

I always loved Flaubert, Victor Hugo, and, though he’s a very different from those two, Oscar Wilde. Alejo Carpentier penetrated my soul from one angle as did Germán Arciniegas from another. And there’s Jorge Amado himself, a slyly playful yet at the same time profound connoisseur of human frailties.

Any new projects in your plans?

Mexican history is full of lies and deceptions, so I intend to continue researching various subjects to uncover truths and try to help see to it that we Mexicans don’t continue tripping over the same stone a thousand and one times. The Mexican historical novel is waiting to be written. There’s an endless array of topics of every era that should be examined through the novel. I’d love to spend a lot of time on the Inquisition. It lasted 300 years here and it had the same kind of effect as a parent who scorches the feet of his five-year-old every single day…how is that child going to be when he reaches middle age?

What do you use to put your words on paper?

I write with various Montblanc fountain pens, the big ones, the ones they call Meisterstück, my favorites. Writing with a fountain pen is like casting a plasticine mold for a masterpiece. Fountain pens enchant me. I love ink and I’m fascinated by paper.