Quicken, Shine, Fold’: Jouissance Émue and The
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THE QUIET NOISE & ‘QUICKEN, SHINE, FOLD’: JOUISSANCE ÉMUE AND THE EROTICS OF READING QUEERLY ANNA WESTBROOK A THESIS SUBMITTED IN TOTAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY SCHOOL OF THE ARTS & MEDIA FACULTY OF ARTS & SOCIAL SCIENCES AUGUST 2013 ABSTRACT This thesis comprises two components. ‘The Quiet Noise’ is a historical novel set in post-WWII Sydney. It draws upon a 1946 unsolved murder of a young girl and the accompanying local legend to stage an imaginative recuperation of the dead and their impact on the living by working from archive and diminishing living memory for historical verisimilitude. The story follows a community of outsiders embroiled in sly grog and sex catering to thousands of returned servicemen displaced in the mercurial city recovering from war. Whilst violence, speculation, and vendetta frame the narrative, through the arc of the adolescent character Templeton Luckett, the novel is also a bildungsroman of queer desire which attempts to speak to the lacuna of queer Australian historical fiction through an affective engagement with occluded histories. The dissertation, ‘Quicken, Shine, Fold: Jouissance Émue and the Erotics of Reading Queerly’, contends that the emotional dimension of jouissance - jouissance émue - provides a new way of considering the affective encounter with the text that intervenes in contemporary debates about queer relationality. It argues that by dislodging jouissance from its phallic model, a dialogue on erotics outside of a heteronormative paradigm can be reinvigorated. Jouissance émue provides an opening into intransigent debates on queer sociality and a potential line of flight from a paranoid reading position. The first chapter charts Jane Gallop’s ‘Precocious Jouissance’ essay and takes her findings on émue to a rereading of Roland Barthes’s own jouissance and an inquiry into the place of the phallus in economies of pleasure. The second chapter examines the antisocial thesis of queer theory and the possibility of a relational jouissance involving connection rather than 2 self-shattering. It explores the queer relationships with negativity, abjection, and the death drive, and asserts the possibility of feeling, through the text, the uncanny erotic presence of the dead author, posing the aesthetic concept of duende as an analogue. The final chapter situates an erotics of reading within the greater affective turn in literary studies and braids the lesbian-feminist erotic tradition into understandings of future possibilities for reading queerly. 3 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thank you to Kaylee Hazell, Charlotte Farrell, Billie Muchmore, Carmen Huehn, Emma Thomas, Georgia Anderson, Amber Jones, S.A. Jones, Justine Doidge, Holly Zwalf, and Tamryn Bennett. To my patient and generous supervisor, Dr. Paul Dawson, cheers. Indescribable gratitude to my family, Fiona Smith and Fred Westbrook, Barbara and Clive Peterson, thanks for seeing me through. 4 TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE THE QUIET NOISE 6 PART ONE 8 PART TWO 127 QUICKEN, SHINE, FOLD 256 INTRODUCTION 258 CHAPTER ONE 281 CHAPTER TWO 306 CHAPTER THREE 332 CONCLUSION 358 BIBLIOGRAPHY 367 5 The Quiet Noise 6 Part One So night, like earth, receives this poisoned city, Charging its air with beauty, coasting its lanterns With mains of darkness, till the leprous clay Dissolves, and pavements drift away, And there is only the quiet noise of planets feeding. - Kenneth Slessor ‘City Nightfall’ 7 June 1946 Sydney, Australia 1 Templeton tilted his chin to the sky and let the smoke leak from his mouth. Rain had outfoxed the canopy of the ancient Moreton Bay he stood beneath. It rolled down his face and he breathed in the mulchy smell as water pooled in the tree roots clavicular basins. He flicked at a spent match with a grubby fingernail. Twelve he’d struck against the matchbook before a damned one would light. “Bollocks to this!” The afternoon drizzle leached his spirits as it glanced off the harbour in vitreous sheets. The fishing boats roiled against their moorings, timbers grumbling. Men scrambled to tie up the tarred ropes as thick as their arms, shouting as they went. He, only a boy and small for his age at that, sheltered his tiny ember and sucked the limp cig down to the bottom of his guts. At least it wasn’t him out there toiling in the rain. A magpie stalked past. He watched it dip its beak for worm. One marbled orange eye regarded him coolly. “Skkk,” the bird hissed. “Git!” He stamped his boot in the mud spattering his already dirty trousers. The magpie heaved itself from the ground with a flap of piebald wings and banked up the immense shelf of gunmetal cloud. He looked out after it. Glebe Point was far enough away from his sister to do as he pleased. 8 “Get out from under our feet and go and flog the papers,” she’d told him that morning. “If you want your tea why don’t you go out and earn a bob for once? A bit of honest work. Ha! Do ya good,” Annie had snapped as she wriggled into her best dress – the blue one with the wide bib collar. “Help me with this would ya?” She looked from Dot to Sally to Margot; her arms twisted behind her plucking into space for the buttons and then looked in the mirror and frowned, pulling a missed roller from her butter-coloured hair. Templeton caught her gaze in the glass, eyes that could snare blokes soon as look at them; they narrowed. Dot did Annie up as she broadened her lips with pencil and dabbed more powder over her skin where it was red and dry around the nose from last night’s boozing. “Bugger me. I’m so blotchy I look like a Dalmatian.” “Nah. You can’t see it,” Margot squinted. “I’ve got bags under my eyes the size of plums!” “But I don’t want honest work. I want to come with you!” Templeton grumbled. “Where you going looking so fine anyway? Why you putting all them nice things on?” Annie straightened Sally’s blouse and moved up to her hairpins: “Stand still Sal.” “Templeton keeps banging into me,” Sally complained, pouting into the mirror. Templeton was oscillating on his feet like a mechanical wind-up toy. He could never be still. “Well just pinch him then,” Annie advised. “Lucky, get out of the way. Unless you want some of this?” She pointed the lip pencil at him. “Are you going shopping? Are you going into town?” He was still talking as they gradually hustled to the door and talking still as he was swept 9 along in their midst: “Are you catching the tram? David Jones. You’re going to David Jones, aren’t you? I knew it!” “Here’s a shilling. Be good. Don’t get into trouble,” Dot patted him on the cheek. He coloured at the touch of her finger on the light downiness that had sprung up there in the last months and waited for the wisecrack. Instead she smiled at him and tossed him the salute that was their code with each other that meant everything was right-o. “Quit whingeing like a bloody girl and get going,” Annie pushed him off the kerb and almost smack dab into an iceman plodding up the gutter, epaulet of hessian sacking over his shoulder the plinth for his gleaming delivery. He knew their game. He had sat on the Glebe tram picturing them in the Ladies Department at David Jones, or Mark Foy’s, Grace Brothers even. Annie would hold her hands tightly clasped so the holes in her gloves couldn’t be seen. She would muster a long breath and pause, then enter with chin cocked and face serene, like Daddy owned a shipping company. The others would be waiting nearby. He knew their game. Annie would return with stockings and ribbons mostly, and the occasional fancy hat. She liked the ones with the ostrich feathers, the ones that were the hardest to smuggle. “Where do you hide a hat?” He’d asked. “I like a challenge,” she’d winked. “What’s an ostrich?” Sally had lazily fingered one of the newest prizes. “It’s like… a big parrot, I think…” Margot had replied. “No it’s not. You pair of dolts!” Dot scorned. “It’s like an emu, only from Africa.” “Surely not. Is that right, Annie?” 10 “Darned if I know.” Annie could look like a real lady if she tried, one off to the spring races at Randwick. He could imagine her as through he were peering through the arched windows trying things on. She would sashay and twirl asking the salesman this and that and jabbering all kinds of nonsense whilst the other girls snuck in and put their deep-pocketed dustcoats to use. The salesman would be an old bloke, or a nancy, or a fellow who was a bit odd with a finger off or a leg brace or thick, Coca-Cola bottle spectacles. It had been that way since the start of the war with schoolteachers, tram drivers, you name it. All the other men had left. Templeton knew she’d cuff him that evening for shirking, but all he had thought of was the breeze peeling off the sea and salting his nostrils. Milk vans splashed through the puddles flecking passersby with brown water. He hated the job at Railway Square and always felt the hot stares of the other paperboys and the sharpness of their unfriendly smiles. “No money to be made on a day like this anyway,” he muttered to himself. He had watched the oystermen for most of the afternoon and walked about before defiantly spending Dot’s shilling on smokes.