PUTINOIKA: Giannina Braschi Breaks All the Rules to Find Hope in Chaos

Braschi, our revolutionary Puerto Rican writer on why we need soothsayers instead of storytellers, the sacred power of Latinx joy, and creating art for the future—not the market!

Giannina Braschi Signing Putinoika

Giannina Braschi doesn't think about you when she writes. She's not interested in your Instagram attention span or what the algorithm thinks you want to read. The award-winning Puerto Rican author—newly honored with the 2024 Angela Y. Davis Award for social justice—is too busy breaking every literary rule in the book with her latest multi-genre epic, PUTINOIKA.

Born in San Juan and educated across Europe before earning her Ph.D. from SUNY Stony Brook, Braschi has spent decades as literature's resident revolutionary. Known as an "Avant-Rican" author and passionate advocate for Puerto Rican independence, she's the creative force behind groundbreaking works like Empire of Dreams (1988), Yo-Yo Boing! (1998), and United States of Banana (2011). But PUTINOIKA might be her most radical experiment yet.

I sat down with Braschi to discuss her new work, which she describes as a liberation from fear and anxiety through collective hope. Our conversation ranged from ancient Greek philosophy to pandemic-era Mexican musicians in the park, from the death of traditional publishing to why your iPhone is destroying creativity.

"We have enough stories. What we need now is something more than that—a truth that comes from a place of insight, of wisdom."

FREDERICK LUIS ALDAMA: Giannina, PUTINOIKA pushes boundaries in ways that are truly groundbreaking. You aren't shackled by conventional constraints of what-is logic. You invite audiences to explore the limitless creative possibilities of what-if thinking. Could you talk about this?

GIANNINA BRASCHI: Yes, exactly! PUTINOIKA is a space where possibilities are endless. For instance, in the Palinode section, I start with a thought experiment: What if Agamemnon was the one who killed the father of Oedipus? What if that moment, which we understand in one way, had unfolded differently? The entire tragedy and its systems would have shifted. This is about stepping into a world of what-ifs and asking questions that can unravel everything. The beauty of this is that it frees the mind.

FLA: But how do you get to that creative space when so much around us insists on thinking strictly in terms of what is?

GB: Hope is the key. To create, I have to transcend individualism, that sense of being alone, of isolation. Instead, I focus on the collective—the "we" rather than the "I." It's about transforming myself through the collective and letting the collective transform me. Hope, for me, is not just an individual feeling; it's a collective possibility. Through hope, we can imagine new ways of being.

"I refuse to deny joy. Even in the face of everything that's wrong in the world, we have to find a way to affirm joy."

FLA: What's the difference between hope and faith in your view?

GB: Hope and faith are very similar, yes. To hope, you must have faith, and to have faith, you must hope. They walk side by side. But the key difference, for me, is that hope looks toward an open future—it's a liberating force. Faith, in a sense, is about trusting that something will happen. Anxiety, on the other hand, is a whole different creature. Anxiety lacks a target—it's vague, and you don't even know what you're anxious about. Hope, however, is an open road. It's about imagining the future and believing in possibilities. Hope offers liberation, while anxiety binds us.

FLA: In your work, it's often the poets, philosophers, and lovers who seem to hold the keys to hope. Why?

GB: They are the ones who can open the door to hope, yes. These figures—poets, philosophers, lovers—are not bound by systems of economy or politics that reduce life to mere survival. They work with something more expansive: the future, the collective. They look beyond what is and imagine what could be. Their work isn't about conforming; it's about expressing something deeper, something that challenges the status quo.

The Problem with Your Phone (and Everything Else)

FLA: In today's world, with the rise of digital platforms, storytelling has become more immediate, more bite-sized. How do you see the relationship between modern audiences and works like PUTINOIKA that demand deeper engagement?

GB: I don't think about the audience when I write. My writing isn't for a specific audience; it's for the future, for what's to come. I write to express truths that transcend the moment. If I thought about the audience, I wouldn't be able to write at all. I would be too concerned about what they want, what they like. But that's not the point. I'm not writing for immediate consumption or to cater to market demands. In fact, I hardly use my iPhone because it's a tool that targets our anxieties and fears. It's not about liberation or hope. It's focused on fleeting emotions and impermanence. That's not what I want to engage with. I want something deeper, something more permanent.

"Destruction is everywhere. It's easy to destroy; it's difficult to create. Our world makes it harder to create and easier to destroy."

FLA: In PUTINOIKA, you write, "We don't need storytellers. We need soothsayers." What do you mean by that?

GB: We have enough stories. Stories in the traditional sense, those that follow the logic of entertainment, are everywhere. But what we need now is something more than that—a truth that comes from a place of insight, of wisdom. The kind of soothsaying that can see beyond the surface, beyond the fake news, beyond the systems that keep us in the dark. Journalism today often feels like a tool of the powerful, not a tool of truth. That's why philosophy, true philosophy, is flourishing—because people are desperate for the kind of deep, reflective truths that can help us make sense of our world.

FLA: Do you think this is something we're also seeing in cinema and publishing? That they've become too narrow, too focused on economic gain?

GB: Absolutely. Cinema, publishing, even literature, are all becoming more narrowly defined because they're driven by economic concerns rather than the pursuit of truth or new creative expression. It's a similar issue in publishing. Everything is targeted, limited. We're losing the expansiveness of thought, the sense of possibility. And what does that do to creativity? It limits it. What I try to do with PUTINOIKA is to break through these narrow constraints. I want to free creativity from those shackles. We don't need to cater to a market. We need to open the door to the unknown, to possibility.

Finding Sacred Joy in the Pandemic

FLA: One of the remarkable aspects of PUTINOIKA is its ability to balance biting political critique with moments of joy and humor. How do you navigate that tension?

GB: It's all about staying true to my own desires and feelings. I refuse to deny joy. Even in the face of everything that's wrong in the world, we have to find a way to affirm joy. In PUTINOIKA, I express that through a celebration of my culture, of Latinx culture, which is so deeply rooted in the belief that joy is possible, that we can create joy in our lives even when the world around us seems to be crumbling. I remember during the pandemic, I'd go to this park and see a group of Mexicans, playing music and eating sandwiches, laughing together. That kind of joy is sacred. It's a reminder of what we can hold onto, even when everything else seems bleak.

"Orality, for me, represents life, movement, progression. It's the opposite of the rigid, specialized thinking we see today."

FLA: In PUTINOIKA, there's a strong connection to ancient Greek philosophy. Can you explain the role of this ancient connection?

GB: For me, the Greeks weren't just thinkers; they were also deeply engaged with orality, with the sound of words. PUTINOIKA is influenced by that ancient Greek connection to sound, to orality. I'm more interested in the flow of language, the rhythm, the way words sound and feel, than in perfecting written form. The Greeks, in their pursuit of knowledge, were more concerned with thinking through processes, through multiple angles, rather than arriving at a single, objective truth. They didn't have the kind of objectivity we're taught to pursue today. What I love about the Greeks is that they sought wisdom that was fluid, open to multiple interpretations. It's that fluidity I'm after in PUTINOIKA—the ability to flow between ideas, languages, and forms.

FLA: What were some of the biggest challenges you faced while writing PUTINOIKA?

GB: Every moment of writing was a challenge. After finishing United States of Banana, I felt there was so much more to say. PUTINOIKA is a continuation of that book, but it was still a massive undertaking. Every section, every genre, every language was a challenge. Even the structure itself was difficult to map out. I wanted to bring together so many elements—the Bacchae, ancient Greek thought, philosophy, politics, joy—into one cohesive narrative. And I think the hardest part was making it all come together in a way that felt true to the larger themes of hope and possibility.

FLA: You've mentioned that PUTINOIKA was inspired by your surroundings in New York—how did your environment influence the writing?

GB: The environment around me, particularly the art scene in Chelsea, provided a new lens through which to view the city. Moving from 37th Street to Chelsea, I was surrounded by galleries, new forms of expression, new ways of thinking. The architecture, the street life, the diversity of voices—all of this seeped into my work. The Trump era, the pandemic, the political unrest—they all played a role too. PUTINOIKA was written in the midst of all of that, and you can feel that tension in the book. It's a response to the world around me.

Advice for the Next Generation

FLA: Imagine you're here with my class, and they're all excited about unlearning storytelling in conventional ways. What would you advise them?

GB: Storytelling is part of a cosmology of the world that you have to figure out yourself if you want to be a great writer. Like Ovid's Aeneid, where we see clearly that it's not about storytelling alone. He had a cosmology, an idea of the world, and an aesthetic vision that transformed storytelling into something else. You have to have an aesthetic vision. To write great storytelling, you must find a way of doing it differently—something that works musically, but not only musically. It can create a new structure of the world. And you have to study more than storytelling. You need to forget about the specificity of storytelling completely. Look at philosophy, math, science, and other fields so that you can create a cosmology of the world and craft a work of art that transcends the narrow confines of traditional storytelling.

"The creators of tomorrow will be the ones who can push beyond the limits of traditional mediums and engage with the world in new ways."

FLA: Lastly, where do you see the future of art heading? What kind of creators do you think will define the next generation?

GB: The future is always open. I hope the next generation of artists will move beyond the individual, beyond the ego, and into a collective space. The creators of tomorrow will be the ones who can push beyond the limits of traditional mediums and engage with the world in new ways. We need creators who can engage with the political, the philosophical, and the human experience at its deepest level. They'll work in digital spaces, in physical spaces, through music, through visual art, through words. Art will continue to be the space where we push boundaries and imagine what's next.

FLA: Thank you for this gorgeous conversation, Giannina. It's been an honor to hear your thoughts on creativity, hope, and the future of art.

GB: The pleasure is mine. Thank you for this opportunity to share.

PUTINOIKA is available wherever books that challenge everything you thought you knew are sold.