Miguel Street — Does My Sadness Make You Any Happier

I spent a whole week in spare moments finishing this book. A pleasant surprise—it felt so close. Recalling Miguel Street, the people come alive one after another, as if I lived on that street myself. Here were the finest artists, the most moving love stories, the saddest people, the loneliest, the most optimistic, and the most ridiculous. Of course there was also the woman who bore eight children by seven different fathers, two ladies who quarreled all day, a madman who wrote and drew constantly, drunks everywhere, children running everywhere, and hounds barking everywhere.

In sum, the book observes people and events on Miguel Street through the eyes of an innocent “I.” The narrator can be seen in two periods: the school-age “I,” still a pure child curious about everything, sympathetic to the pitiful, scornful of hypocrisy, dreaming of becoming a garbage-truck driver, following the much older Hart to ball games, befriending the town beggar. Slowly the “I” grew up, formed opinions about Miguel Street, grew tired of its ordinariness, began to look at it differently, and Miguel Street faded from mind until the “I” finally left—and the book ended.

The magic is not only that “I” changed. Everyone changed: tailor Bogart became a hoodlum; carpenter Pop no longer made his nameless furniture; George died and his son Elias changed; Man-man was taken away as mad; Big Foot became a coward…

Each chapter focuses on one person’s story, linked through connections between characters. Take Hart—an interesting figure who appears in every chapter yet whose own story comes last. The man who should have done “big things” did nothing at all—which fits Hart as an artist of life. Returning from court he said: “The world is so bloody funny. You wash, put on clean clothes, tie a tie, wear a jacket, polish your shoes—all for what? To stand before some stupid judge and get torn apart.” Or: “Life is a bloody mess. You know trouble is coming and you can’t do a damn thing but sit and wait.” “When a man wants something, really wants it, he fights for it; once he has it, he doesn’t like it.” “People are bloody funny. You can never understand them.”

Then there is the moving story of the poet. He was poor, almost begging. One day he came to our door and asked to see the bees in our yard. We watched bees for an hour. He said he was a poet and wanted to sell me the greatest poem ever written about a mother. My mother scolded him and refused. As he left he said I too could become a poet like him. “When you become a poet, you will cry at anything.”

One day after school I saw him at a corner. He took me to his home for mangoes; I ate six and stained my shirt. We lay on the grass and watched the stars; I memorized Orion. Then a light hit my face—the police came and asked what we were doing. He said: “For forty years I have asked myself the same question.” We became friends.

One day I asked why he left so many shrubs in his backyard. He said: “Listen, I’ll tell you a story. Once a young man and a young woman met, fell in love, married. Both were poets. He loved words; she loved grass, flowers, trees. They lived happily in a small house. One day the woman poet told the man poet, ‘Another poet will come to this home.’ But no poet came—the woman poet died, and the little poet died in her womb. The husband grieved and swore never to touch anything in her garden, so the garden remains, plants growing wild.” I understood his story.

Later he said he had a secret—the greatest poem. We walked along the wharf; I asked whether a nail would float if I threw it in the water. He said: “It’s a wonderful world. Throw it and see.” The nail sank. I asked how the poem was going; he only said it would be done soon. After that he never spoke of the greatest poem again. I felt he was growing old.

One day I went to the cottage and found him in bed—old and weak. I nearly cried. He said: “The poem isn’t going well.” He did not look at me but at the coconut tree outside and murmured: “At twenty I felt full of strength.” “But that… that was long ago.” I felt a sting, as if my mother had slapped me. I could see death on his wrinkled face. Seeing tears in my eyes, he sat up and had me sit on his knee. He gazed into my eyes and said: “Oh, you see it too. I knew you had a poet’s eyes.” He looked not sad at all, which made me cry aloud. He held me to his thin chest and said: “Do you want to hear a funny story? When I finish, promise you will leave and never come back. Can you promise?” I nodded. He said: “Good. Listen. I told you the story of the man poet and woman poet—remember? It wasn’t true; I made it up. All that about poetry and the world’s greatest poem was false too. Isn’t that the funniest story you’ve ever heard?” But his voice broke off.

I left the house, ran home crying, and like a poet cried at everything I saw. Later the house was torn down and replaced by a building. The mango, plum, and coconut trees were cut down; only brick and cement remained.