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The memoirs of Luis Bunuel (1900-1983)
Guest piece by Sauvik Chakraverti

It is through sheer luck –- or should it be called serendipity -– that I came across this extract, in a book called Journeys: An Anthology edited by Robyn Davidson (Picador India: 2002). Luis Bunuel lived to the age of 83 and wrote these words towards the end of his life.

I can’t count the number of hours I’ve spent in bars, the perfect places for the meditation and contemplation indispensable to life. Sitting in bars is an old habit that’s become more pronounced through the years…. I’ve spent long quiet hours daydreaming, nodding at the waiter, sometimes talking to myself, watching the startling sequences of images that pass through the mind’s eye. Today I’m as old as the century and rarely go out at all; but all alone, during the sacrosanct cocktail hour, in the small room where my bottles are kept, I still amuse myself remembering the bars I’ve loved.

For the next couple of pages, Bunuel takes the reader through many great bars, all over the world: New York, Paris, Mexico, Madrid and so on. Then, he goes on to say:

Talking about bars leads me inevitably to the subject of drinks…

The next two pages describe Bunuel’s favourite drinks, from red wine to French aperitifs which he regrets are going out of fashion (to the detriment of civilization itself!) to the dry martini. Bunuel also offers his own recipe for the dry martini, and it sounds drier than the Sahara. He goes on to describe how he has benefited from alcohol and bars: how a great idea in a great bar after two dry martinis saved his film and so on. Bunuel then states his position very plainly:

I should take this moment to assure you that I am not an alcoholic. Of course, I’ve occasionally managed to drink myself into oblivion, but most of the time it’s a kind of ritual for me, one that produces a high rather like that induced by a mild drug, a high that helps me live and work. If you were to ask me if I’d ever had the bad luck to miss my daily cocktail, I’d have to say that I doubt it: where certain things are concerned, I plan ahead.

And then Bunuel moves on to tobacco:

To continue this panegyric on earthly delights, let me just say that it’s impossible to drink without smoking. I began smoking when I was sixteen and have never stopped…. I am particularly fond of Spanish and French cigarettes (Gitanes and Celtiques especially) because of their black tobacco.

If alcohol is queen, then tobacco is her consort. It’s a fond companion for all occasions, a loyal friend through fair weather and foul…. What lovelier sight is there than that double row of white cigarettes, lined up like soldiers on parade and wrapped in silver paper? If I were blindfolded and a lighted cigarette placed between my lips, I’d refuse to smoke it. I love to touch the pack in my pocket, open it, savour the feel of the cigarette between my fingers, the paper on my lips, the taste of tobacco on my tongue. I love to watch the flame spurt up, love to watch it come closer and closer, filling me with its warmth.

Sometime later, Bunuel even offers his reader some important advice: “Don’t drink and don’t smoke. It’s bad for your health.” Then, he moves on to sex:

It goes without saying that alcohol and tobacco are excellent accompaniments to lovemaking – the alcohol first, and then the cigarettes.

Bunuel then talks about how his Spanish Catholic upbringing had stifled his sexuality, how he was disgusted when he first saw men and women kissing openly in Paris, and even living together outside marriage. He then says ‘much of this has changed, of course, over the years.’ And then he makes a startling confession:

Lately, my own sexual desire has waned, and finally disappeared, even in dreams. And I’m delighted; it’s as if I’ve finally been relieved of a tyrannical burden. If the Devil were to offer me a resurgence of what is commonly called virility, I’d decline. ‘Just keep my liver and lungs in good working order,’ I’d reply, ‘so I can go on drinking and smoking!’

What I really like is the author’s honesty. He also shows how ‘rationally’ a free man pursues pleasure and thereby enjoys his life to the fullest. He did not become an alcoholic, he enjoyed his black tobacco to the end, and he came to the realization that sex is no big deal. This essay should be handed out to all those meddling do-gooders who believe Man will fall prey to vices unless prevented by the Law and the State. And to all those women who nag their men over the evening drink.