{Book Reviews for People With ADHD}

LABRYNTH
OF SOLITUDE
x
YOU DREAMED
OF EMPIRES

In my continued exploration of contemporary Mexican cosmology, I chose to read two works by Mexican male authors that examine the intersections of history, cultural memory, and the duality of life/death, and preservation/rebirth: You Dreamed of Empires (2024), a historical fiction novel by Alvaro Enrigue, and Labyrinth of Solitude (1950), a collection of essays by Octavio Paz. Both works explore the cultural divide between Indigenous Mexicans and their Caxtilteca (Spaniards) colonizers, while also grappling with the complex legacy of their union, which has shaped contemporary Mexican culture—though through very different lenses of time, perspective, and intent.

Alvaro Enrigue’s You Dreamed of Empires transports us back to 1521, where he weaves historical fiction and fantasy so seamlessly that it’s easy to forget we already know how the story ends—transforming Montezuma’s great palace in Tenochtitlan into a kind of Schrödinger’s box of historical possibilities. The story unfolds over 24 hours, building up to a tense and speculative first meeting between Montezuma and Cortés. The heavy lifting of this trick is achieved through presenting an alternate view of the Mexica people that challenges the dominant historical narrative so radically, it almost feels like fantasy. Yet, he isn’t fabricating—he’s unraveling that narrative, revealing a more nuanced version of history. In this light, we begin to see Tenochtitlan and the Aztec Empire for what they truly were: a sophisticated, bustling metropolis with a population of 300,000, rivaling the greatest cities of Europe in size and complexity. By the end, both the reader and the characters are left to reflect on the possibilities of what might have been.

Paz’s essays reflect on Mexico’s historical trajectory from colonization to the early 20th century from a philosophical standpoint. He delves into the lasting impact of the Indigenous people of Mexico and their encounter with the Spaniards on the nation's cultural identity. In Day of the Dead, Paz explores how the ritual celebration of death—rooted in pre-Columbian traditions—became a central feature of Mexican identity, serving as both an affirmation of life and a bridge to the past. Here the festival is an artifact of cultural preservation that has survived in the face of colonization.

In Alvaro’s story, the anxiety of the Spanish invaders is centered around their fear of the ritual human sacrifice practiced by the Mexica. As they explore the great temple of Tenochtitlan their feelings magnify intensely as they become lost, and grow more paranoid and unsettled by their surroundings. Paired with Paz’s essay, which reflects on Mexico’s cultural acceptance of death as an intrinsic part of life, the Spaniards’ fear underscores the ideological chasm that exists between the two civilizations. While both the Spaniards and the Aztecs used violence and death as a tool for achieving dominance, the Mexica also practiced sacrificial death as a sacred duty to the gods, and a way to maintain cosmic balance. The Spaniards' horror at the idea of ritual sacrifice reveals their inability to grasp its sacred nature. However, the Mexica did not need the Caxtilteca to understand the ritual for them to become part of it. Historical records show that in the chaos and violence that came after Montezuma’s death—whether murdered by the Spaniards according to the Mexica or killed by his own people according to the Spanish—several Spaniards were captured and sacrificed to Huitzilopochtli, the god of war, in the hopes of winning divine favor in the battle against colonization.

In reading You Dreamed of Empires, Enrigue fills in contextual gaps left by Paz with jigsaw precision. While Paz critiques the gratuitousness of fiesta culture and attributes its function as one of providing release from the rigid, oppressive structures of daily life, Enrigue highlights how these gatherings were vital for maintaining the genetic diversity of Indigenous populations. Pre-colonial Mexica neighborhoods were organized around specific trades and labor, and common people worked tirelessly in support of the empire. Fiestas provided a rare opportunity for people from different neighborhoods to meet and start families. This link between death and the renewal of life elevates the Día de Muertos celebration in Enrigue’s narrative, aligning with Paz’s view of death as a life-affirming force.

Octavio Paz’s essay The Mask, explores the aspects of Mexican machismo identity through the critique of the psychological "masks" that Mexicans (especially men) wear to navigate their social and emotional worlds. Paz argues that this behavior is shaped by a sense of alienation and solitude, that stems from a legacy of conquest and colonialism—where masking of one’s true feelings and desires was a strategic assertion of strength and control. Paz seems to view this behavior as an expression of insecurity that reveals deeper fears about identity, power, and authenticity.

Alvaro Enrigue imagines the origin of this behavior as Montezuma is depicted as a figure caught between his duty as emperor and his private fears for his people and his own fate. He is not a one-dimensional stoic. In the company of his people, priests, family, and advisors he is not portrayed as a distant, all-powerful figure—there is a vulnerability to him, as he struggles to navigate the precarious balance between maintaining his empire’s dominance and dealing with the existential threat posed by the Spaniards. Yet, when interacting with the Caxtilteca, he projects such an all-powerful image that Cortés dreams of Montezuma morphing into Huitzilopochtli himself.

This dynamic portrayal of Montezuma offers a compelling origin for the "mask" that Paz critiques, illustrating how the pressures of power, colonial threat, and cultural expectations have long driven Mexican leaders, and later Mexican men, to project strength and control even when they are grappling with deep insecurities and existential fears beneath the surface.

Among Alvaro’s illustrations of the truth of the Aztec Empire, is the striking contrast between the hygienic sophistication of the Mexica people and the disease-ridden Spaniards. It challenges stereotypes that denigrate the Indigenous people as "savages" and lionize the Spaniards as the bearers of civilization. Enrigue does an excellent job of illustrating how the Mexica’s advanced knowledge of medicine and cleanliness became a double-edged sword. Their care for cleanliness and order in society kept them healthy and protected from local diseases, ultimately the same cleanliness became their downfall when the Spaniards arrived smuggling diseases like Smallpox along with their immunity to those diseases. The people of pre-colonial Mexico had no exposure to the diseases and therefore no immunity. This story becomes a thematic cautionary tale that describes how the very strengths of one culture can be weaponized against them and appears again as Alvaro imagines Montezuma’s motives for inviting the Spaniards to Tenochtitlan in the first place.

As the ruler of the Aztec empire consults with priests, and generals it becomes clear that he harbors an obsession with the Spanish horses, which the macehualli (native common folk) call "hornless deer." He insists that the Spaniards arrive at the palace on horseback and then offers to keep the caballos in the palace gardens. Throughout the story, he compulsively sends members of his court to count the horses, a fixation that mirrors his growing unease and fascination with the Spaniards themselves. His desire to possess the horses as a way to strengthen his army—renowned for dominating neighboring groups—is highly plausible. This fascination with horses, and the power they represent, also resonates with the cultural tradition of Mexican machismo, where the possession of "horsepower," whether in actual horses or modern vehicles like trucks, is a symbol of asserting manhood and authority.

Paz’s essay Sons of Malinche delves into the story of La Malinche to explain how the legacy of conquest and colonization continues to influence Mexican identity. He argues that the Mexican view of La Malinche as a traitor who embodies the nation’s historical wound has left a deep scar on the Mexican psyche, and has created a complex relationship with identity, power, and especially gender. La Malinche’s role in this version of history is seen as one of a sexual and cultural betrayal, that allowed the Indigenous world to be "feminized" and dominated by the Spanish conquerors.

The common narrative in Mexican culture often attributes all positive traits—beauty, intelligence, and strength—to European heritage. However, in You Dreamed of Empires, Montezuma’s court is portrayed in vivid detail, outclassing the Caxtilteca with their intelligence, hygiene, culinary expertise, and artistry. Among these dignified characters is Malinche herself. Here she is not portrayed as the treacherous figure of folklore, but as a survivor navigating precarious power dynamics. The Empress Atotoxtli addresses her as Malintzin, an honorific that signifies respect and high status. She is received in Tenochtitlan as royalty— a stark contrast to the vilified figure of La Chingada (literally, "The Fucked One"), a name that implies she willingly accepted her rape, betrayed her people, and resigned herself to the role of Cortés’s concubine. Malinche is presented as an intelligent, strategic ally. In one scene, when a court member asks Atotoxtli for Cortés’s true name, she replies that she doesn’t know his name, only that “they all call him ‘El Malinche,’ because if you want to speak to him, you must first speak to her.” This subverts the traditional narrative of Malinche as a passive victim and grants her agency, particularly through her linguistic skills, as she uses her fluency in Yucatec Maya, Nahuatl, and Spanish to subtly undermine Cortés’s power.

Both works, though written from different perspectives and across different times, engage deeply with the question of how Mexico’s cultural identity has been shaped by the dual forces of colonization and Indigenous heritage. By intertwining these perspectives, I can consider the enduring complexities of contemporary Mexican culture and its richness, which is often overshadowed by colonial narratives.