Notes on Rhetoric and Aesthetic in Giménez Caballero’s
Visitas literarias (1925-1928)
David W. Bird
St. Mary’s
Ernesto Giménez
Caballero (1899-1988) is a polemic figure in the contemporary criticism of
Spanish literature. His enthusiastic
Fascism—so extreme that even the Falange asked him to leave—as well as his
inveterate elitism in later life combine to form a personage rather
unappetizing to the critic of today.
This monolithic view of GC’s1 life, however, is rather incomplete. The young man who went to Strasbourg in 1921,
who was called to military service in Morocco the same year, and who returned
to his job in France in 1923—this man was not a Fascist, and was only so
elitist as his (admittedly considerable) early enthusiasm for Ortega y Gasset
could make him (Dennis, “Prólogo” 17).
Most of our current efforts on Giménez Caballero are devoted to his
fiction writing, generally starting with Yo, inspector de alcantarillas
(1928). Unfortunately, this tendency leaves a hole in our understanding of GC’s
aesthetic evolution, as it ignores both his first novel (Notas marruecas de
un soldado 1923) and the appreciable quantity of literary journalism
produced in the 1920s under the auspices principally of El Sol and then
of La Gaceta Literaria. It might
be argued that the best way to approach Octavio Paz, Juan Ramón Jiménez or
Martin Amis is probably not through their book reviews, and there is undeniable
logic there. Nevertheless, many readers do make their first acquaintance with
novelists and poets through these sorts of literary investigations, only
afterwards proceeding to the actual artistic works.
In a similar fashion,
then, did Giménez Caballero make himself known in the mid-1920s to the Spanish
reading public. Hernando and Dennis both
note that the first issue of La Gaceta Literaria was sold out the day it
went on sale; it is not unreasonable to ask why that might have been, given the
gloomy predictions some elder critics were offering as regards the fate of a
purely literary newspaper. In hindsight,
one may identify the 1920s as a decade particularly hospitable to the diffusion
of poetic and aesthetic values by means of literary journalism (Bou 556). It is my contention that the literary
journalism GC wrote for El Sol and El Heraldo de Madrid paved the
way for the publication of the magazine he directed from #10 Recoletos, both by
providing him a public forum in which to experiment and develop an aesthetic
ideal and by bringing him to the attention of the literary figures of the day,
who (with a few exceptions like Azorín) liked Giménez Caballero and were
willing to spend time and money on him.
He was granted sponsorship by Ortega y Gasset, friendship with Pío
Baroja, and interviews with a rarefied stratum of the Spanish
intelligentsia: Menéndez Pidal, Ramón y
Cajal, and the Bishop of Madrid. The Gaceta Literaria was as successful as an
avant-garde journal could hope to be, publishing 123 issues before the general
preference for surrealism crowded it out (Bou 559) and its editorial swing to
the right made its pages less hospitable to experimental prose (Graham and
Labanyi 427). As well, during the 1920s
GC was active in the critical company of avant-garde writers like Gómez de la
Serna and Benjamín Jarnés, also scions of bourgeois families, with whom he
shared a conviction of belonging to an aesthetically privileged minority
(Mainer 244-5). The core of this
aesthetic privilege was described by the Catalan architect Josep Pijoan in 1928
as a belief that develops from the ever-accelerating increases in material and
scientific knowledge: “Más que nada
coincide con el concepto
The roots of GC’s
fascist aesthetic and political philosophy were present in the period dealt
with in this essay. There can be no doubt that Giménez Caballero the
Europeanizer perished around 1923. It
was at this time that he met his Italian-born wife and began to visit
The habit of years of
scholarship on Giménez Caballero affects the essay that proposes to discuss his
early writing, as any essay about his work prior to about 1928 requires that
quite a bit of space be spent on what he is not, rather than on more positively
descriptive or analytical concepts. GC’s essays from 1925 and 1926 do betray a
preference for Spanish themes, but this is probably unsurprising; after years
away (his first year in Strasbourg, military service in Morocco after the
disaster of Annual, and a second stay in Strasbourg) GC was rediscovering his
native city of Madrid, a city that in the dynamic period of the early 1920’s
must have changed a good deal. I think
it would be academically difficult to say that GC’s penchant for autochthonous
topics is evidence of a fascist cancer growing in his intellect. His adherence to the literary vanguard was
closer and more lucid (to use Mainer’s word) than the allegiance of some of his
contemporaries. Mainer writes that perhaps alone among the
Madrid-centered avant-garde, Giménez Caballero was fully aware “con
respecto a la significación política y moral de la posición vanguardista […] en
primer lugar, por lo que su obra tiene de tentativa de politizar la rabiosa
contemporeidad del movimiento” (245). It was GC’s fascination with the idea of new values, perversely, that
would lead to his admiration of fascism, not the other way around (Foard
10). Like most young writers of most
historical periods, GC was looking for a way to get past the legacy of his
elders, even before his fascism became a wedge between him and former mentors
like Ortega; Dennis writes of his efforts to “ponerse a tono con el combativo
espíritu juvenil que se afirma en Europa a comienzos del siglo XX” (“Palabra a
la imagen” 363). The pieces collected in
the book I examine here are not programmatic plans for the Fascist future of
Having briefly
described what the essays collected in Visitas literarias are not, it
seems cogent to say a word or two about what they are. Upon his return from
Giménez Caballero’s
reviews (reseñas) were published in 1927, but the other essays, so
difficult to pigeonhole as to genre or even motivation, remained unedited until
1995, when Nigel Dennis produced the Pre-Textos edition. It is hard to say for sure why this should be
so, but we do know that, from the outset, GC planned to continue the “visitas
literarias” in the Gaceta literaria, but never managed to get around to
it. By 1928-9, Giménez had passed more
or less completely from the europeizante camp to the influence of Ramiro
de Maeztu and other fascist thinkers; perhaps the literary essays were
insufficiently programmatic, incompletely engagés, unsatisfyingly
bourgeois. It is certainly the case that
critics of the period like Mainer have identified general differences of
attitude in the twenties and in the thirties, differences emblematized by GC’s
move from a more left-leaning to a more right-leaning form of political
vanguardism (172).
Regardless, the years
from 1925 to 1928 were prolific ones, and several dozen visitas were
published in El Sol. They generally range in length from three to seven
pages and are almost invariably directed to a specific person. This person need not be a writer, though the
early visitas are all literary ones; all of the subjects are men,
excepting only the essay on the actress La Argentinita, which barely addresses
her at all. This looseness with
topicality is another salient characteristic of the essays; they might purport
to treat one thing or another, but often GC’s impatient imagination takes over
and the essay whirls away. There is a feeling in these essays that they were
written very quickly and without revision. This furious style can occasionally
be daunting (or “histrionic,” as Dennis puts it in his prologue) but as
expository writing it is probably helpful.
In the study of the essay or of any expository prose, it is necessary to
rethink some of the background assumptions inherited cum lacte from the
New Criticism of the 1950’s. Scholars
like Wellek and Northrop Frye call the critical search for intentionality
fallacious (Frye 86-7), believing it a mistake to look for some nebulous
authorial intention in a poetic or literary text. In terms of fictional or lyric writing, I
think this is probably the case, but with the essay, the intentional fallacy is
no longer a danger. Expository writing
is fundamentally performative—it does something, it has an overt intentionality.
To complicate matters
further, the essays in Visitas literarias have an overt intentionality
that is often subverted by the writer himself. Other books of literary
“visits,” such as Amis’s Visiting Mrs. Nabokov, intend to permit the
reader to witness a privileged interaction between literary personages, thus
satisfying that reader’s need to feel a personal connection with their favorite
cultural producers as persons, rather than as texts. The successes and failures
of these literary interviews have to do more with the openness of the
interviewee than with the prose of the interviewer. To use Ortega y Gasset’s
famous analogy, the essay of literary interview is supposed to be a perfectly
transparent window into content, undistracting in its form. However, as the reader of Yo, inspector de
alcantarillas is fully aware, Giménez Caballero is not at all interested in
transparency. The texts play back and
forth across the dividing line between expository and lyric writing; they are,
to put it simply, what one expects from literary criticism written by a
dedicated member of the avant-garde. All the essays have some of the
characteristics of the standard literary essay—they purport to be about
something, which is not always true of other forms of avant-garde literary
expression. But the essay as genre, in
Derrida’s terms among the most centered of texts precisely because it can
appeal to an intentionality closed to poetic or novelistic forms, breaks down,
springs leaks, in the hands of GC. The pieces decenter themselves,
demonstrating the growing appreciation of the combinatorial tangle of language
“per se.”
This self-conscious
decentering is, of course, a standard strategy of avant-garde prose, which
experiments more and more overtly with the conventions of the arbitrary
linguistic combinatorial system. As
Mainer notes, Giménez Caballero is (in the early and middle 1920s) a writer in
the critical company of vanguardists like Gómez de la Serna and Benjamín Jarnés,
among others (244-5). These writers, mostly (like Ortega y Gasset himself) from
a well-to-do bourgeois background, saw themselves as forming an aesthetically
privileged minority. Their awareness of particular aesthetic sensitivity
engendered, in turn, what Matei Calinescu calls a “consciousness of the
privileges and responsibilities of leadership” (104). This consciousness, characteristic of all
avant-garde movements whatever their political leaning, places Giménez
Caballero among the intellectual descendants of the regenerationists of the 1890s,
including Costa and Ganivet, writers of whom GC was deeply aware. The connection with the earlier writers is
reinforced by the fact that of Spain’s avant-garde writers, GC was perhaps the
most aware of the avant-garde position’s inevitable political consequences, as
opposed to treating it as an exclusively aesthetic renovation—Mainer maintains
that Giménez Caballero’s ultimate artistic goal was to “nacionalizar y
popularizar la obra nueva” (246). I
claim, then, that Visitas literarias fits
into this project precisely by combining an avant-garde prose structure with a
deeply national thematics—by interviewing a series of interesting and
attractive persons, and then constructing the textual artifact of that
interview in accordance with the new aesthetic, readers are in a sense
encouraged to engage materially with that aesthetic rather than to dismiss
it. Indeed, the vanguardists of the
beginning of the twentieth century sometimes resemble the postmodernists of the
1990s in their wrestling with language as a problematized artistic medium
rather than as a transparent vehicle for content of one kind or another, e.g.
Galdós or Zola’s social realism (Mainer 181).
The difference between vanguardism and postmodernism that is important
in Giménez Caballero’s case, though, is that postmodernism tends to deal with
the language/reality divide by creating purely linguistic art, whereas the
politically motivated European vanguardists tend to see the divide as a
challenge and an invitation to search for a deeper, more elemental kernel of
reality. (One might think of Juan Ramón
Jiménez’s well-known 1917 verses “¡Intelijencia, dame/ el nombre exacto de las
cosas!/…Que mi palabra sea/ la cosa misma/ creada por mi alma nuevamente”
(245), with its clear notion that the inspired use of language is capable of
privileging the poetic with transcendent insight).
At this point, a close
reading of an example from Visitas is indicated. Moving through the
text, it will become evident that while Giménez Caballero does indeed prefer
Spanish (and particularly Madrid-centered) topics, there is a total lack of
programmatic political reference. Mainer’s evaluation of Giménez Caballero as
the most politically aware of the generation of 27 is extremely relevant here,
as we ask ourselves if the author of these essays is recognizably fascist or
authoritarian. Put another way, we will
see unequivocally that GC’s aesthetic is avant-garde; the reader must ask if
the essays are transparent enough to perceive a political consciousness behind
that aesthetic. I have chosen here to
present a visita that seems exemplary of Giménez Caballero’s traits as
an essayist: the very first essay, on Pío Baroja, a personal friend of GC,
dating from February 1925. It was
originally presented in two parts, but I will treat it here as one essay. The selection I have made here is not
unproblematic, as I am forced for reasons of space and cogency to leave behind
some favorites among the essays. The
essay on Azorín, for example, is couched in the form of a soliloquy after GC is
refused entrance to the writer’s home; the essay on Juan Ramón Jiménez, a story
of walking behind the famous poet without gathering the nerve to speak to
him. [Eventually, in an early issue of Gaceta
literaria, Giménez and Jiménez would meet for a real interview (Hernando, Biografía
y valoración 74)].
I will begin the
reading of the essay dedicated to Baroja with a look at the narrative
technique. While expository writing is not often examined from a narratological
perspective, these essays are not quite purely expository, as I mentioned
above. There is invariably an
intradiegetic narrator that pops up in the essays, a technique that prefigures
New Journalism a la Wolfe or Talese as well as opening the essays to Genette’s
third definition of narrative: “an event
that consists of someone recounting something: the act of recounting taken in
itself” (26). The question of the visitas’ “literariness” is one that must be
examined on a case-by-case basis, as it is not constant throughout the
collection.3 Thus it is
unsurprising to find even in GC’s expository prose a technique of narration and
focalization that could be borrowed from any film script. GC uses the technique in a variety of ways;
generally characteristic is the opening “shot” of the Baroja family’s
Hay en
el número 34 de la calle de Mendizábal, aquí, en Madrid, una casa cuya vida individual y autónoma merece el haber
sido seguida con una atención de novelista.
Cosa que no puede ofrecerse a la mayoría de las casas madrileñas, por su
espíritu de falansterio, comunista, de paquetes de nichos, de ladrillos
entrepisados y nuevos, tan vacías de historia y de pátina interesante. (85)
It is this observation
that starts GC on the first of many tangents that will characterize the entire
collection of Visitas literarias.
Purporting to write about Pío Baroja, GC permits himself a flight of
vitriol that encompasses both the abovementioned “paquetes de nichos”
characteristic of the lower class housing available at the time as well as the
gigantic townhouses of the Paseo de la Castellana, palaces that “tienen algo de
tenderetes en lugar sin mar.” While the
workers’ housing saps any chance of individualism, the palaces destroy whatever
aristocracy was left in the scions of Castile’s great noble families—no matter
how rarefied one’s social position, “nunca dejará de parecer, ahí, en ese
paseo, un salchichero enriquecido por la guerra” (GC 86).
Baroja’s street,
however, appears to benefit from his presence. It is full of “una alegría
delicada y finamente madrileña,” permitted this quietude by the absence of
passers-by and a general sense of isolation.
The discourse here is entirely metonymic; the characteristics GC
attributes to the house are evidently those he will later emphasize in Baroja
the writer. As the narrative “camera”
moves over the façade of the house, it rises gradually to settle on a sort of
belvedere that crowns it: “…en todo lo alto un receptáculo, un verdadero nidal
de pájaro para un miembro familiar que debía ander disperso y sin afincamiento
[…] Este miembro era Pío Baroja” (87).
In this manner, the reader is situated for the discussion with Baroja
that is to come—that is, the reader is now figuratively located at the base of
the large house, craning the neck to better peer up at the Parnassian height of
the master’s work-space.
The house, “la casa,”
is now transformed into a symbol of Baroja’s House, his “Casa,” the better to
facilitate Giménez Caballero’s idea of genius as proceeding at least partially
from good family inheritance. “La
familia Baroja-Nessi, unida a la de Caro-Raggio, en esa casa media señorial,
medio comerciante, es un caso de pureza de tradiciones y de emigraciones
raciales” (88). If one possible motive for the examination of
these essays is the location of potential seeds of GC’s later fascism, we have
found one here. Foard, in his discussion
of the conflicts between Giménez Caballero and the “mainstream” thought of the
Falange as exemplified by José Antonio Primo de Ribera and Ledesma, emphasizes
the distinction nationalist/internationalist
(14). The Falange as a whole was primarily a Spanish nationalist
movement, more interested in the restoration of valores castizos and the
destruction of syndicalism than in the establishment of a Fascist state. Giménez Caballero, on the other hand,
believed in the need for a world fascist state, probably headed by Mussolini,
based on Latin values—in effect, a reinvention of the
This “genio racial” is
what GC is looking for in his interview with Baroja; the typical avant-garde
sensibility looks constantly for the regeneration and rejuvenation of
linguistic media, and Giménez Caballero is convinced that the Basque writer has
what the moribund literary press is lacking; he comes to Baroja to acquire “algunos
comentarios inéditos del escritor de la casa [...] que viniesen a animar algo
la inmovilidad, sosa y aburrida, a que la Prensa está condenada” (89). To
complete the cinematographic introduction to the built environment, the
“camera” focuses on the figure of GC himself approaching the house, proceeding
from general description of the house to a focalized point-of-view, moving from
the street into the atmosphere of Baroja’s house, “acogedor y aristocrático.”
Having concentrated in
the first half of the essay on the built environment that surrounds and
characterized Pío Baroja, the second half focuses on his person and manera
de ser. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the essay opens focalized on Baroja’s head,
specifically in the Basque-style beret he enjoys wearing around the house. Following the cinematographic style that
flavored the first half of the essay, in a sort of montage the image of the
writer’s head crowned with boina is followed immediately by the image of
the belvedere atop the house, this time from inside, where Baroja eats, sleeps,
and writes. The combination of the two
images in quick succession leads the reader to feel that GC is actually taking
us into the writer’s head, showing us some privileged view of Don Pío. This establishment of privilege is a constant
in Giménez Caballero’s literary essays, as well as in the entire genre. While one might take offense at a perceived
play-up of the writer’s special powers of access, narratologically it is an
evidently necessary assertion of narratorial authority—in an expository essay,
no matter how literary, it is to be expected that the writer clarify what
contexts permit them to make certain statements authoritatively. GC, especially in an essay written in 1925
when he was still largely an unknown element, is obliged to explain
himself. I am sure it did his ego no
harm either.
Inside the belvedere
of the house that is also in a certain sense the inside of Baroja’s head, we
find an image of the artist seated with his mother. GC uses this image to remind the reader of
Baroja’s attachment to the Basque Country in general and to the family in
particular; as we have seen, this attachment to the autochthonous and the
familial is very important for Giménez Caballero. But because GC’s text is not
an academic essay on Baroja, but a “literary visit,” the narration subsequently
leaves the writer’s eyrie behind to descend, focalized on Baroja himself, to
examine how the family life of such a “gens” or noble clan differs from
that of the urban mob outside. The purpose
of many of the Visitas literarias is to humanize their subjects, whether
motivated by mischief, e.g. the essay on Azorín, clearly intended to bring him
down a bit, or by affection, especially the essays on Juan Ramón Jiménez and
the one on Baroja I examine here. The
narrator here is a reader like any other, differentiated only by the nature of
his access to the writer at hand.4
This access, then, is
what permits GC to explain Baroja’s intimate daily routine. In cinematographic language, this point in the
essay is a question of focus and zoom: “Cuando
no come ni duerme, ni trabaja, desciende al piso principal a reunirse en torno
a la mesa del salón comedor, y charlar, charlar con toda su gente y con el
amigo que llega” (91). Not only does GC know what Baroja does, but
as the “camera” zooms in on him and the members of his family, the reader
begins to pick out distinctions between the writer and the others, some of whom
are also well known in the artistic establishment: “Baroja, al contrario que su hermano Ricardo,
que siempre anda dándose los paseos de un tigre que tuviese bolsillos en los
pantalones, le gusta charlar sentado, bien arrellanado, bien cómodo, si es
posible, algo tumbado” (91). As is often
the case in film, the zoom terminates in the beginning of some kind of sound.
The narration, previously focalized on the physical characteristics and
movement of the people and the setting, now transfers its attention to the
dialogue. One advantage the writer has over the cinematographer, though, is
control of pace. Writers can stop and
examine one point for some time without the reader becoming too incommoded; the
filmmaker is obliged to continue moving.
This probably has more to do with the linear nature of narrative
language than anything else—a description of an object continues to move even
if the point of view and the object itself are at rest, as otherwise the
description would end. A camera’s POV
shot could hypothetically be infinite, as the image does not require the
sustenance of continuous narration.
The essay moves, as do
all essays, from the general to the particular. In propositional terms, it
opens with the statement “There is a house.”
Then “There is a man in the house.”
Third, “Sometimes the man in the house likes to talk.” What the reader is permitted is access to the
more privileged idea of how this man likes to talk. For Giménez Caballero, one of the most attractive
things about Baroja is his polymathism:
“Su táctica dialogadora es sencilla, sagaz y peligrosa, de filósofo a
la antigua, es decir, de verdadero filósofo, amigo de chismes y cuentos, a lo
Sócrates, a lo Pirrón, a lo Luciano, a lo Lucrecio, a lo Séneca, a lo Erasmo” (92). Baroja’s ability to talk to anyone about
anything is essential to his roots in Spanishness. Another film technique, the sudden cut to a
different context, permits GC to instantly show what he means. The essay’s narration moves to Vera, the town
in
It is of signal
importance that Baroja “habla lo mismo que todo el mundo,” especially in the
context of the literary visit, for the purpose of humanizing him in a positive
light. In fact, when Giménez Caballero
tries to talk to Baroja on literary topics, he is forced to take the artist out
of his accustomed social setting, because Baroja simply refuses to bore others
with subjects not interesting to them:
Hace
falta retirarse con él un poco, lejos de su núcleo habitual, para que aborde
temas puramente del oficio y se entregue a su género favorito de la divagación,
ya libre del pudor de no causar molestias a otras gentes con cosas que no les
importen apasionadamente. (93)
After all of these
setting-up exercises, the essay finally reaches its avowed goal: Giménez Caballero asks Baroja some questions
of literary bent. It is worthwhile to remember the date of this essay’s
publication (13 February 1925) for the first question, “¿Qúe le ha parecido a
usted el arte de hacer novelas que recomienda Ortega?” Baroja’s response, a cryptic “Ahora le voy a
contestar” (93), is evocative. They refer, of course, to Ortega y Gasset’s
recently published essay “Ideas sobre
la novela,” the introduction of which directly addressed a public debate that
Ortega and Baroja had carried on through respective publications—Ortega in the
hospitable pages of El Sol, Baroja in a theoretical introduction to
his novel La nave de los locos (Ortega 151). One
of the great readerly pleasures of the literary interview or essay is hearing
one well-loved writer talk about another behind his or her back, and this essay
is no exception. Asked about Ortega’s now-famous strictures for the “arte
joven,” Baroja dryly comments, “Ortega, en sus folletones, viene a
decir, en último término, que para hacer novelas hay que ser novelista, cosa
que se tenía ya por sabida” (93). While this is certainly a simplistic account
of Ortega y Gasset’s phenomenology and typology of avant-garde art, it is the
one Baroja uses to justify his disdain for the current literary trends. GC goes along, provoking some questions from
the scholarly reader. While GC was never
a disciple of Ortega in the manner of Jarnés or even Rosa Chacel, there can be
no doubt that his novel Yo, inspector de alcantarillas is an avant-garde
novel. What, then, to make of his
enthusiasm for Baroja’s dismissal of the avant-garde aesthetic?
Narratologically, one might refer to the text protecting itself, the narrator making certain sacrifices that the narration might continue. As the interview continues, Baroja’s attitude—both intellectual and personal—toward Ortega y Gasset is the main focus. While Giménez Caballero is known to have been rather suspicious toward his elders, I suspect that he manipulated the interview in this way because he thought it would make interesting reading. I don’t wish to sound simplistic, but the questions called up by GC’s highly individual use of the essay genre can be answered if we take the essays to be primarily works of art rather than reportage. For example, why does it take GC so much space to arrive at the supposedly crucial part of the article, the interview? It must be that the essay has some purpose outside that of presenting the interview, that there is some other force at work. That force is the one common thread that binds all of the Visitas literarias together. It is the expression of the literary avant-garde in that most unlikely of genres, literary criticism. While Renato Poggioli does admit the possibility of an avant-garde criticism, the examples he describes do not resemble what GC writes. These essays are the product of a mind that appropriates everything as means, not feeling a responsibility to mimesis or anything else.
Notes
(1) Using Giménez Caballero’s initials in this fashion (pronounced Gecé) is quite common in essays about him. It was not unusual for GC to refer to himself in this way; Miguel Angel Hernando’s 1975 book includes it in the title. Rather like calling Gómez de la Serna simply “Ramón,” it is a convention. It is sometimes misunderstood by English-speaking historians like Douglas Foard, who asserts in his “Forgotten Falangist” that the nickname “Gecé” is derived from Giménez Caballero’s close identification with the Gaceta literaria. This is doubtful, as GC’s book Carteles was published in 1927 under his nickname, before the Gaceta had reached anything like an apogee of success.
(2) The first printing of Notas marruecas sold out in two weeks
and landed him in a military prison for eight months (Dennis, “Prólogo”
16-7). Raymond Carr mentions one of the
stranger laws in Spanish history, passed in 1906: the Law of Jurisdictions. This rule, adopted at a time when the army
seemed to threaten mutiny against the
(3) See particularly Sandie Holguin’s excellent study of fascist film, “Taming the Seventh Art,” which is replete with references to Giménez Caballero’s ideas and ideals for Spanish film as a national phenomenon.
(4) And sometimes not even characterized by access, as in the case of the visit to Juan Ramón Jiménez, who does not realize that he is being profiled; the essay is written from the point of view of a passer-by in the street who notices a famous person stroll by.
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