The World Cup fever spilled into the streets of Argentina, a torrent of celebration that mirrored a deep literary loss. Just hours before the final showdown with France, news arrived that Argentine writer Marcelo Cohen had died at age 71. The shock rippled through the cultural community, and reflections poured in from peers and readers alike. Cohen stood as a towering figure in Argentine letters and a central voice across Latin America, known for a rare combination of humility and fearless artistry. He rarely sought public prestige, believing his books spoke loudly enough without flashy titles or ceremonial accolades.
Born in 1951 in Buenos Aires to a Jewish family, he built a life as both journalist and translator, shaping the Spanish-language landscape of contemporary literature in Latin America. He fled to Barcelona in 1975 to escape political upheaval and remained there until 1996. While abroad, he edited the literary journals Quimera and El viejo topo and became a regular presence in Catalan media. His time on the Iberian Peninsula became a fertile ground where his literary voice could mature and experiment.
imaginary regions
Cohen’s literary arc truly flourished in Barcelona, where some of his most defining works took shape. Early collections like the short-story series El fin de lo mismo and the novel El testamento de O Jaral showcased a distinctive voice — a nimble wit that could bend idioms into new, unsettling textures. Readers encounter zones that feel both imaginary and disquieting, realms that echo the sensibilities of writers such as JG Ballard, whom Cohen translated extensively, and, by extension, Philip K. Dick and Gene Wolfe. Yet Cohen remained unmistakably Argentine in spirit, absorbing diverse influences while resisting easy category. His writing spans fantasy-like landscapes, political currents, and utopian impulses, all braided into narratives that defy simple labeling. Critics have repeatedly noted his refusal to surrender to conventional forms, a hallmark described by Juan F. Comperatore as a tireless expansion of literature’s horizon, blending realism with fantasy in a way that feels rigorously crafted and imaginative.
Readers often debate which Cohen work stands as the pinnacle: some champion El oido absoluto (1989), others point to the sweeping epic Where I Wasn’t (2006), while many praise the opening stories in Los acuáticos. In these pages, Cohen creates a world of wide, perceptive panoramas — a delta-like landscape where ordinary geography becomes a stage for reflection and subversion. The narrator and critic Elsa Drucaroff has spoken plainly about Cohen’s effect, noting how his early explorations of post-industrial spaces and wild capitalism introduced a new lexicon for literature. According to her, Cohen’s ability to render distrust of linear progress into quiet yet potent narratives marked a turning point, and she emphasizes the remarkable breadth of his imagination and technical skill, which gave his work a tangible realism even as it trod uncharted imaginative ground.
jazz lover
Music, especially jazz, runs through Cohen’s storytelling like a bass line that you feel before you hear it. He treated sound as texture, letting imaginary tunes and real improvisations inhabit his pages. Cohen was also a prolific translator, bringing the voices of William Burroughs, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Alice Munro, Clarice Lispector, and JM Coetzee into Spanish, among others. Translation, he would note, demands discipline; it is a craft that rewards consistency and focus. It is a daily practice, much like driving a taxi through a city that never sleeps — steady, precise, and demanding. His partner in the broader cultural project was a colleague who shared his love of ideas and language, together shepherding the literary journal Otra Parte and championing plural voices within the arts. This collaborative spirit underscored Cohen’s enduring influence on contemporary Latin American letters and his role as a cultural advocate who helped keep literature vibrant and responsive to social change.