American (De)solitudes: Henry Thoreau, Ralph Elison, and Jonathan Lethem Jack Horton A thesis submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the Doctorate in Philosophy degree in English Department of English Faculty of Arts University of Ottawa © Jack Horton, Ottawa, Canada, 2019 $ii Acknowledgements iv List of abbreviations vi Abstract vii Introduction 1 Chapter 1: Threshold 35 Chatper 2: Praxis 82 Chapter 3: Dispossession 128 Chapter 4: Parabola 191 Chapter 5: de/solitude 261 Conclusion 320 Works Cited 336 $iii The prison system must be dismantled and never rebuilt. $iv Acknowledgements The list of people who supported me, who helped me reach this end, and who asked nothing in return is too long to contain on these bare pages. The group of people formative in the development of this thesis are done an injustice if all we have to offer them is a mention on a page. In no way does being on this list oblige you to read this thesis. In no way does not being on this list mean you were not important to me. Here’s somewhat of a list, in alphabetical order. To: Alec Shaw, who made me a better person; your support was endless, as was your friendship. Alex Roodman, who can go ahead and put this work in read-only mode. Amir Nazempour, who is far away but never lost in translation. Ariel Airey-Lee, who—OK, thank. Brady Steeper, who has been my best friend for over a decade. [Dr.] Craig Gordon, who deserved so very much better than this. Dan Baker, who always, always asked. Danielle Henfrey, who helped, pushed, counselled, and chastised. I needed all of these. Thank you. [Dr.] David Rampton, who is quite simply the finest scholar I know—it was an honour and a privilege to work with you. Friends at the University of Ottawa, who get so little, and have made so damn much. Heidi Symonds (and Albie and Jack), who changed so many lives simply by being in them. Holtz, who uses their power to uplift and never to put down. Jennifer Baker, who is, without a doubt, the smartest and most empathetic person I know. Katie Hildreth, who taught me that nothing is out of reach. Karenza Sutton-Bennett, who is strong and dedicated to an absurd degree. Liz White, who was an everyday rock. $v Matt Bastin-Millar, who supported me when he had literally no reason to. Pour one out on your boat, bud. It’s on me. Michael Moreau, who was the best housemate (and friend) you could ever want. Nadine Mayhew, who is—quite explicitly—the only reason this thesis was ever able to exist. Thank you. Nicole Davies & Richard Horton, who not only believed in the project, but gave me the means to achieve it. Paul Frank Harris, who should probably start a podcast. Pierre Gauthier, qui a su me donner le support et l’amour que j’ignorais avoir besoin —tu m’as changé, toujours pour le mieux, et ce, même si je ne voulais parfois pas l’être. Riley Schnurr, who often confused me, but whose friendship meant a lot even when interrupted by distance, or, like, you know, the deep flaws of our personalities. Ryan Corkum, who, for some reason, decided to believe in some random guy he barely knew on the grounds of who knows what. I hope you feel you made the right choice. [Dr.] Thomas Allen, who was a steadfast reader, a wonderful critic, and someone who allowed me not just to argue what I wanted, but to say, quite clearly, what I meant. Thom Myers, who changed my life, and will go on to do so many important things. This thesis would not exist without the work of hundreds of scholars, activists, writers, and journalists. Many of them have not known freedom in decades; many face imprisonment or death for their brave works. This thesis is inspired by the work of the countless untold, silenced, and murdered voices that should have been counted, voiced, and allowed to live. I meanwhile would not exist without the queer people in my world. My endless, boundless, uninterrupted, infinite gratitude to them. Without you life would neither be possible nor wanted. I dedicate this thesis to the imprisoned. $vi List of abbreviations Chronic City—Chronic. “Civil Disobedience”—“CD.” Fortress of Solitude—Fortress. Invisible Man—IM. Thoreau’s Journal—J. Walden—W. $vii Abstract This dissertation focuses on the works of Henry David Thoreau, Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison, and a wide variety of Jonathan Lethem’s stories. Situating my argument within the nascent field of solitude studies, I argue that solitude has so far been incorrectly defined. It is not loneliness, not alienation or isolation, disenfranchisement, ennui or detachment. I say that solitude is harder to define, and I go further to claim that attempts to define solitude are doomed to fail because of the very nature of solitary practice. Solitude is a praxis through which these authors resist various totalizing narratives that seek to delimit or control bodies. I suggest that solitude as we know it owes its life to Thoreau, but that our understanding of Thoreau’s solitude has been coloured by misinterpretations or misattributions. The hermit’s teachings reject the idea that solitude can be defined by space, time, or friendship. Solitude can be inhibited or promoted by these states, but it is never singularly caused by them. Solitary practice exists on the threshold. Thoreau as a writer had boots on the ground during the beginnings of the industrialization of the American prison system we know today; the insights he was able to glean from seeing firsthand the development of solitary confinement are especially relevant to our encounter with contemporary America. Almost all critics agree that a study of solitude must begin with Thoreau, but almost all of them immediately lose sight of the three main things Thoreau was attempting to do: resist historical hegemony, refuse ‘progress’ a voice, and remind people that however political a discussion, real bodies and real people were victims. Several important contexts inform this study, but the main discussion touches on issues surrounding gentrification, incarceration, trauma and loss, and how writing confronts $viii the unimaginable. In each section of this dissertation I emphasize especially the ontological dimension of solitude—its undeniable body—and the way writing itself can be used to disrupt or confront narrative hegemonies that seek to control or limit. I examine Thoreau’s idea of the threshold, his development of a theory of solitary practice, Ellison’s conscription of solitude as a mode of resistance against dispossessive narratives of historical progress, and Lethem’s beautifully haunting commentaries on individual and national trauma. I situate my discussion of solitude against a number of exigent contemporary issues, especially trauma and prisonhood. The American obsession with incarceration creates and perpetuates traumas both individual and national. I map Thoreauvian solitude against the modernist anti-historicist novel Invisible Man and conclude the discussion by seeing how Jonathan Lethem’s novels, especially those written after 9/11, can further explain and expand our understanding of contemporary solitudes. My argument is not developmental or chronological, other than for convenience. My purpose is not to show that things change over time; however, I do demonstrate the continuities of solitude across the past two centuries. Instead, I am engaged by the idea that solitude is a useful and versatile framework for understanding how authors might resist the prisonization or supermaxing of American culture. These authors, disparate as they might be, are all fascinated by solitude. I ask a series of questions I believe have been overlooked in contemporary Americanist studies of solitude: what happens to solitary bodies; what is going on with incarceration in America; how does solitude help us understand trauma; how does solitude affect writing? $1 “I have a great deal of company in my house; especialy in the morning, when nobody cals” (Walden 137) “The bigest problem the black community may face today is the severe isolation, distrust, and alienation created by mass incarceration” (Alexander The New Jim Crow 137) “Becoming American &is' an ideological act” (Lipset 18) Introduction In 1880, Henry David Thoreau set about to map the dates when the Spring ice totally disappeared from Walden Pond. 138 years later, his figures are still being used. The irascible naturalist’s measurements have revealed, amongst other things, that Walden Pond will soon be an unsustainable ecosystem—due, in part, to the amount of human waste introduced into the water. One team of researchers has suggested that a pool be built next to the lake, because waste management systems have so far failed to prevent the acidification (Stager et al. 1). In very simple terms: tourists won’t stop pissing in the pond. “America renews her youth here” indeed (Thoreau J 663). It suggests the question: what other value can still be found in the cranky hermit of Walden Pond? This thesis argues three things. First, the nascent field of solitude studies can learn a lot from Thoreau, in part because he refused outright to define what solitude might mean. Thoreau articulated a practice of solitude rather than a definition. Definitions could never quite get at the thing itself, so instead they had to be lived. Secondly, the practice of solitude gives us a new way to understand related, complex issues like gentrification, trauma, and $2 dispossession; it does this by emphasizing the primacy of the solitary body. Third, the practice of solitude is staged at the level of narrative, as a frame. I do not argue that solitude undergirds or structures these disparate concepts; I argue that solitude provides a new and interesting perspective on these authors and these issues that animate their writings.