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Transatlantica Revue d’études américaines. American Studies Journal

2 | 2016 Ordinary Chronicles of the End of the World Chroniques ordinaires de la fin du monde

Electronic version URL: http://journals.openedition.org/transatlantica/8278 DOI: 10.4000/transatlantica.8278 ISSN: 1765-2766

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Electronic reference Transatlantica, 2 | 2016, “Ordinary Chronicles of the End of the World” [Online], Online since 31 December 2016, connection on 29 April 2021. URL: http://journals.openedition.org/transatlantica/ 8278; DOI: https://doi.org/10.4000/transatlantica.8278

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chroniques ordinaires de la fin du monde

Introduction. Chronicles of the End of the World: The End is not the End Arnaud Schmitt

The Ubiquity of Strange Frontiers: Minor Eschatology in Richard Powers’s The Echo Maker Zachary Tavlin

Writing (at) the End: Thomas Pynchon’s Bleeding Edge Brian Chappell

Apocalypse and Sensibility: The Role of Sympathy in Jeff Lemire’s Sweet Tooth André Cabral de Almeida Cardoso

The Double Death of Humanity in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road Stephen Joyce

« A single gray flake, like the last host of christendom » : The Road ou l’apocalypse selon St McCarthy Yves Davo

Hors Thème

L’usure iconique. Circulation et valeur des images dans le cinéma américain contemporain Mathias Kusnierz

Actualité de la recherche

Civilisation

Colloque « Corps en politique » Université Paris-Est Créteil, 7-9 septembre 2016 Lyais Ben Youssef

Colloque « Conflit, Pouvoir et Représentations » Université du Maine, 18 et 19 novembre 2016 Clément Grouzard

One-day symposium “Mapping the landscapes of abortion, birth control and power in the United States since the 1960s”. Université Sorbonne Nouvelle Paris 3, November 18, 2016. Judith Warner

Lecture by Jack Halberstam: “Trans*: Bodies, Gender Variance and Power” Université Jean Moulin – Lyon III, Maison Internationale des Langues et des Cultures (MILC), 24th November 2016 Sophie Chapuis

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Conference “Neoliberalism in the Anglophone World” Université Paul-Valéry Montpellier 3, 10th-11th March 2017 Jérôme Viala-Gaudefroy

Mother Figures and Representations of Motherhood: Contemporary Perspectives / Représentations et figures de la maternité aujourd’hui Université François-Rabelais, Tours, 3rd-5th April 2017 Jessica Houlihan

International Conference, “Women and Popular Culture(s) in the Anglophone Worlds: 1945-2015” Université de La Rochelle, May 4-5, 2017 Danièle André

Deuxièmes rencontres annuelles du réseau Études Urbaines Nord-Américaines (EUNA) Université Paris-Nanterre, 8-9 juin 2017 Camille Vergnaud

“Rethinking Women’s History, New Perspectives on the History of Women in the Early American Republic” CRAN/CREW (Université Sorbonne Nouvelle - Paris 3) and LARCA (Université Paris-Diderot), June 17th, 2016 Auréliane Narvaez

Littérature

Écritures déliées / Unmoored Languages 3 et 4 novembre 2016, Maison de l'université, Rouen Léopold Reigner and Mélissa Richard

Journée d'études « Littérature(s) noire(s) ? » La Colonie, Paris. 22 mars 2017 Fabrice Clément and Stéphane Gérard

International Conference “American Literature and the Philosophical” Paris, March 23-25, 2017, Institute of Advanced Studies, Hôtel de Lauzun / Université Paris Diderot Florent Dubois and Marie Fahd

The Art and Craft of Grafting in Jamaica Kincaid’s Work Université Paris 8 and Université Paris Sorbonne, in collaboration with l’Université Toulouse 2 Jean Jaurès and the Institut des Amériques, May 19 and 20, 2017 Université de Lorraine Kathie Birat

Pynchon’s New Worlds International Pynchon Week 2017 in La Rochelle, France, 5-9 June 2017 Lucille Hagège and Bastien Meresse

Recensions

Claude Boli, Mohamed Ali Peter Marquis

Lawrence Buell, The Dream of the Great American Novel Jean-Yves Pellegrin

Thibaut Clément, Plus vrais que nature. Les parcs Disney ou l’usage de la fiction dans l’espace et le paysage Nicolas Labarre

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Barbara Cantalupo , Poe and the Visual Arts Francie Crebs

Marianne Debouzy, La Désobéissance civile aux États-Unis et en France, 1970-2014 Claude Chastagner

Allyson Hobbs, A Chosen Exile : A History of Racial Passing in American Life Lawrence Aje

Liam Burke, The Comic Book Film Adaptation : Exploring Modern Hollywood’s Leading Genre // Drew Morton, Panel to the Screen : Style, American Film, and Comic Books During the Blockbuster Era Nicolas Labarre

Laura Atran-Fresco, Les Cadiens au présent. Revendications d’une francophonie en Amérique du Nord Nathalie Dessens

Lucy R. Lippard, Undermining : A Wild Ride Through Land Use, Politics, and Art in the Changing West Melanie Meunier

Megan A. Sholar, Getting Paid While Taking Time: The Women’s Movement and the Development of Paid Family Leave Policies in the United States Éveline Thévenard

Samuel Cohen and Lee Konstantinou (eds.), The Legacy of David Foster Wallace Béatrice Pire

Gilles Menegaldo et Lauric Guillaud, dirs, Le Western et les mythes de l’Ouest : Littérature et arts de l’image David Roche

Will Norman, Transatlantic Aliens: Modernism, Exile, and Culture in Midcentury America Nick Witham

Trans'Arts

« Dickheads from Dixie » : regards croisés sur les expositions Cy Twombly et Robert Rauschenberg 30 novembre 2016 – 24 avril 2017, Centre Pompidou, Paris / 1er décembre 2016 – 2 avril 2017, Tate Modern, Londres Sarah Gould

« Notes sur l'asphalte, une Amérique mobile et précaire, 1950-1990 » Vers une autre photographie documentaire : premier volet de la saison 2017 au Pavillon Populaire de Montpellier Chiara Salari

Reconnaissances

An interview with Siri Hustvedt Claire Maniez

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Arnaud Schmitt (dir.) Chroniques ordinaires de la fin du monde Ordinary Chronicles of the End of the World

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Introduction. Chronicles of the End of the World: The End is not the End

Arnaud Schmitt

1 It seems that after all, the end is not the End. This seeming paradox is perfectly encapsulated by the word “chronicle”; contrary to an overpowering narrative, such as the one of a whole world about to die, causing the demise of millions of people, a chronicle is a factual record of daily events. As opposed to canonical and macro- narratives of major apocalypses, 1 chronicles of the end of the world offer micro- narratives of daily lives, of their mundanity and physicality; they depict the way these lives are impacted but not necessarily upended by the, or more precisely by an, apocalypse that eventually turns out not to be irremediably apocalyptic. Indeed, some of the apocalypses mentioned in the works studied in the essays that follow are not imperiously final: they certainly don’t bode well for the future, but they don’t put an end to the world as we know it; they simply radically (or not) alter its physical, environmental or political order. In other words, they should be seen more as states than as outcomes, more as stases than as eschatological fireworks, and the characters described in these chronicles are shown adapting to these states, not being engulfed by them. They justify the distinction between major and minor eschatology, because, with the latter, changes might be major but the effects they entail and the adaptation techniques required are not totally remote from what we do in our current, pre-crisis lives.

2 Laura Kasischke goes even further and shows in In a Perfect World (2009) that the end can be an opportunity for personal development, to find who we really are and what we can do to help others—a meaning in other words. The world she describes is different from ours in that it progressively deprives people of the commodities they take for granted (a common denominator to many narratives mentioned in this issue), but it is first and foremost a better world for her main character: forced to be responsible for the first time, to take charge in the prolonged absence of her husband, she thrives on an ending world that doesn’t feel like it is ending: “Now that Jiselle knew she could kill an animal, and that her mother could clean it and cook it, the world could start all over again, full of possibilities. The whole house seemed radiant with these possibilities”

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(Kasischke 302-3). Kasischke’s stragegy in this novel is to go against the current of the most famous cases of post-apocalyptic narratives and de-dramatize the end. She actually pays little attention to the end per se, and flippantly brushes it aside at the beginning of her story: “No one had said the word epidemic yet, or the word pandemic. No one was calling it a plague” (5), and, in a way, the author never gives the impression that she wants her readers to know more: “Full of curious weather, meteor showers, and the discovery in rain forests and oceans of species thought to be extinct, it was the kind of year you might associate with an apocalypse if you were prone to making those kinds of associations, which more and more people seemed to be” (6). Is the apocalypse a state of mind, a mere flight of fancy? No, dramatic events, radical alterations take place, even in In a Perfect World, but the strategy is no longer to “blow the narrative out of proportion” and rely essentially on Thanatos on a grand scale, it is rather to see the apocalypse through a more practical, less dramatic prism. In Into the Forest (1996), Jean Hegland also deals with The Cause of the current or looming apocalypse in a similar nonchalant manner: “Last winter when the electricity first began going off, it was so occasional and brief we didn’t pay much attention” (12); “For a long time it was a rare day when the power came on” (13); “It’s amazing how quickly everyone adapted to those changes […]. Of course, there was a war going on” (15). The information about the war seems to come out of the blue and will never be developed. Both authors clearly signal their readers that they are willing to acknowledge the end as a narrative background, but that is as far as they will go in terms of “apocalyptic voyeurism.”

3 Kasischke’s and Hegland’s novels are just two examples of a new post-apocalyptic trend that appeared at the turn of the twenty-first century, a time when post-apocalyptic films and novels were booming, probably because “[t]he ends of centuries or millennia inevitably lead to questions, speculations and pronouncements about what has ended and what might be beginning” (Heffernan 131), but also because of a relatively new approach to the idea of the end of times: “with the emergence of modernity in the eighteenth century, apocalypse shifted from its origins as the story of the annihilation of a sinful human world to become, in novel form, the story of the collapse of modernity itself” (Hicks 2). However, this new breed of eschatological narratives seems to regard the end more as a narrative alibi than as an end in itself. As a matter of fact, the expression post-apocalyptic does not seem relevant anymore. These novels are not taking place after the End, but during a lasting and more subdued form of apocalypse, one, as noted above, that does not put an end to the world but makes adjustments to it, and forces us to see it differently: because it certainly is different, but also because we have ceased to take it for granted and this simple fact gives us a different perspective. It is almost as if the end had become a way of living, another stage in the history of mankind, until the next one. In one of the most recent and most extreme (because extremely banal) forms of minor eschatology, Lucy Corin uses the apocalypse as a ubiquitous, but in no way uncontrollable, form of living. In a way, what she describes in One Hundred Apocalypses, and Other Apocalypses (2013) is, quite ironically, the apocalyptical everyday life: it’s almost business as usual, but with a global epidemic or a nuclear accident in the background. She explores all the possible meanings of the word “apocalypse,” ranging from anecdotal incidents to environmental phenomena. But even when the crisis is global, the reaction remains low-key and personal, thus relative: “Again, he feels cozy. He can’t help it. California is burning, the fire gobbling Eureka, all that marijuana up in smoke, people and animals are dying, the air is poisoned, the ocean is boiling, fishes making for Hawaii as far as their flippers will carry them, rock

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tops exploding from sea cliffs like missiles, and he feels cozy, trying to figure out if maybe he’s attracted to Sara” (Corin 66). Patrick’s feeling of “coziness” echoes Jiselle’s sense of fulfillment: the apocalypse is not the end of the game, it simply provides a new set of rules and some people are better at this new version of the game than they were at the previous one.

4 Does this shift towards minor eschatology sound the death knell for the most spectacular forms of apocalypse? The constant flow of global disaster movies (recent examples include World War Z [2012] by Marc Forster and Independence Day: Resurgence [2016] by Roland Emmerich, which epitomize two major trends among apocalyptic movies: zombie and alien invasions) and the success of transmedial franchises such as The Walking Dead indicate just the opposite, certainly because “the paradigms of apocalypse continue to lie under our ways of making sense of the world” (Kermode 26). A high-brow novel such as Colson Whitehead’s Zone One (2011) is also a perfect example of the way an ambitious fiction can recycle tropes imported directly from zombie narratives, probably because, as noted by Peter J. Rabinowitz, “the more a writer wishes to undermine tradition, the more imperative it is that the tradition be understood to begin with. This may explain why so-called serious avant-garde authors so frequently turn to formulaic popular fiction as a skeleton on which to hang their own works” (Rabinowitz 58). Whitehead was aware of the most common post- apocalyptic tropes when he decided to use them as the foundation for his novel, and was then able to take liberties with them in order to carry out his real project: to use the ghost of New York to reflect upon the city’s current issues. Less interested in describing the new state of the world, Zone One is primarily about what was before, what is missing, the now of the reader: “He missed the stupid stuff everyone missed, the wife and the workhorse chromium toasters, mass transportation and gratis transfers, rubbing cheese-puff dust on his trousers and calculating which checkout lines was shorter […]” (198), and the list goes on. But Zone One’s dismal and barren world bears no resemblance to the one depicted by Kasischke and Hegland which can still be described as a familiar environment: Whitehead opted for a major form of apocalypse where the end is very much the End, a sudden and abrupt one: “It was happening again: the end of the world. The last months had been a pause, a breather before the recommitment to annihilation. This time we cannot delude ourselves that we will make out alive” (318). It is particularly important to stress that the choice remains between these two forms of eschatology for any author who wants to write a story about the end of our world, or simply dabble in the apocalypse. There are now two ends (the end and the End) and this underlines the fact that the trend we have decided to bring to light has an altogether different rationale, with its own set of thematic and aesthetic stakes. Needless to say that some works retain features of both trends, wavering between the fascination for destruction on a large scale and the description of daily survival on a small one. Among these narratives, The Road has a special status, spearheading this hybrid option.

The Anthropocene

5 If global disasters and survival stories still fascinate us, and will continue to do so probably for a long time, simple chronicles of the end of the world attract us for different reasons. They certainly represent an enticing form of defamiliarization as they retain the narrative edge of danger linked to any representation of the

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apocalypse, even minor ones. But they also offer an opportunity to look at our world from different angles and reflect upon the changes it is undergoing. Among these changes, our entry into the Anthropocene—an era characterized by the impact of human activities on the earth’s biological systems—seems to be the most prominent thematic feature: “In the last few years, literary responses to climate change have proliferated, to the extent that a new term—‘cli-fi’—has been coined to identify this new body of work that centrally addresses the issue of climate change and its associated environmental consequences” (Hughes & Wheeler 2). Among this “cli-fi” sub-genre, one example stands out as a perfect illustration of the mundane, almost undramatic nature of minor eschatology: Karen Thompson Walker’s The Age of Miracles (2012). The novel’s opening lines could almost serve as a manifesto for this new literary movement: “We didn’t notice right away. We couldn’t feel it. We did not sense at first the extra time, bulging from the smooth edge of each day like a tumor blooming beneath skin” (Walker 1). Actually, this tumor will remain benign for most of the novel, affecting lives, but not in a fundamental way: The Age of Miracles is above all a novel about what it means to be a teenager in an ever-shifting and uncertain environment, not about this ever-shifting and uncertain environment. Similarly to Lucy Corin’s short story mentioned above, the narrative remains essentially focused on the subtle variations of these teenage lives. In the end, the climatic changes will be too important to ignore, but the characters will be adults then, and this future will never be explored: “As I write this account, one ordinary life, our days have stretched to the lengths of weeks, and it’s hard to say which times are most hazardous now: the weeks of freezing darkness or the light” (my emphasis; 368). In fact, Karen Thompson Walker’s novel is not directly about climate change. In this story, the Earth's rotation starts to slow, a phenomenon called the “slowing,” causing days and nights to become progressively longer, and eventually having logical consequences on the climate. The reason for this slowing is never made explicit, even if readers are free to suspect that the Anthropocene might have set things in (slow) motion. The dramatic core of the novel lies elsewhere, in a different type of gravity: “But the new gravity was not enough to overcome the pull of certain other forces, more powerful, less known—no law of physics can account for desire” (53). Above all, the “slowing” enhances the main character’s teenage angst, the apocalypse exaggerates the ontological unease felt by most teenagers around the world; put differently, the apocalypse is in Walker’s novel an enhancer: “In the post-apocalypse, desire and fear find their true objects; we see what we most want and most abhor” (Berger 11).

6 If “the apocalypse is a recurrent theme in environmental discourse” (Veldman 1), literature echoes this discourse in different ways. Robin Globus Veldman tells us that “[a]s with other forms of apocalypticism in the history of religion, environmental apocalypticism is characterized by certain shared beliefs about the past, present and future” (4). Concerning these “shared beliefs” about the possible future of our planet, she goes on, there are two options: one she calls the “fatalistic mode” that she describes as the belief that “there is nothing humans can do to avert catastrophe, and the most realistic course of action is to start preparing now for a post-apocalyptic world,” and a F0 F0 second one, less dramatic, that “could be called the avertive mode 5B … 5D the story concludes by warning that humans can prevent catastrophe, but only if they act soon, and decisively” (5). When it comes to the second kind, the sort of lesser apocalypses one can find in literature and other media, this post-apocalyptic world comes in many guises and its environmental dysfunctions vary greatly from one story to another. One

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can reasonably claim that indeed, up to a certain extent, some cli-fi novels or films have a political agenda, or at least demonstrate a will to sensitize people to the negative effects many of our industrial activities have on our planet. Robin Globus Veldman gives the example of a woman she interviewed who, after reading Daniel Quinn’s philosophical novel Ishmael (1992) about the human race’s short-sighted exploitation of natural resources, drastically changed her way of life in order to be “more consonant with environmental principles” (14). Harry Harrison’s Make Room! Make Room! (1966), a novel with a similar theme, probably had a comparable objective: to raise awareness about humanity’s unreasonable carbon footprint. This novel and its 1973 film adaptation Soylent Green belong to the long tradition (started with the Bible) of major eschatology: the characters’ lives no longer resemble ours, as opposed to the examples previously mentioned, and civilization is either doomed or condemned to start from scratch. Many “contemporary eco-dystopias” (Hughes & Wheeler 3) tap into the fear of extinction and the guilt of being generally responsible for such a dramatic outcome. As noted above, The Age of Miracle’s stakes are much more restricted. And sometimes, climate change and eco-dystopias can only and quite simply be a pretext for poetic expressions, such as the descriptions of the Dune Sea in Claire Vaye Watkins’s Gold Fame Citrus (2015). In this novel’s possible world, the desertification of the American West has led to the creation of a giant dune sea that progressively spreads across the rest of the territory. Instead of dwelling on the potential fatality of this climatic shift, Claire Vaye Watkins concentrates on its poetic premise and promise, on the experience of living in this world, going as far as providing quasi-documentary representations of this “neo-fauna” (drawings included). Here again, our social and physical environment is altered, but not annihilated; readers are confronted with defamiliarization instead of annihilation, and although the defamiliarization provided by Watkins’s novel is more challenging than the one found in The Age of Miracles for instance, it nevertheless keeps at bay the obvious Thanatos syndrome most post- apocalyptic narratives suffer from (or/and draw their energy from) and instead focuses on the quirky dimension and even eccentric features of this dystopian world: “So instead of going home to the heartland he liberated a surfboard from someone backyard and made his home in the curl. He had a mind to surf through all crises and shortages and conflicts past and present. […] He was surfing the day they pronounced Colorado dead […]” (Watkins 20).

7 Minor eschatology is a matter of degree; in other words, this type of eschatology is more or less minor. For instance, the world described by Watkins is much more chaotic than the one found in In a Perfect World: He surfed as the Central Valley, America’s fertile crescent, went salt flat, as its farmcorps regularly drilled there thousand feet into the unyielding earth, praying for aquifer but delivered only hot brine, as Mojavs sucked up the groundwater to Texas, as a major tendril of interstate collapsed into a mile-wide sinkhole, killing everybody on it, as all of the Southwest went moonscape with sinkage, as the winds came and as Phoenix burned and as a white-hot superdune entombed Las Vegas. (Watkins 20-21)

8 But what both texts have in common is that their authors decide to underplay the chaotic elements and emphasize the realistic potential of this unfamiliar world. Yes, we find the familiar tropes of destruction, but in the case of cli-fi fiction, they are not caused by monsters or zombies, but simply by humanity’s stubbornness; what’s more, these tropes only provide a narrative background, one we will consider below. To sum up,

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many narratives predicting Mother Nature’s wrath certainly have a “political” agenda, but in the case of The Age of Miracles or Gold Fame Citrus, the emphasis is laid elsewhere, principally on the poetic dimension of this changing world.

9 Minor eschatology is not only a matter of degree, it is also a matter of nature. I have chosen the Anthropocene as a possible motive for the sudden rise of cli-fi fiction, however, more than its obvious relation to climate change, our era illustrates humanity’s entry into an uncertain period regarding its future, maybe for the first time in history (more exactly, for the first time in history, it has valid reasons to be concerned). The Anthropocene perfectly echoes the logic of minor eschatology. This is why this new era’s evocation should not be restricted to cli-fi fiction as it is also useful to understand the similar rise of post-pandemic fiction for instance. Although the latter is related primarily to health issues, and not directly to climate change, it also taps into the well of globalized fear or uncertainty that the Anthropocene quite certainly epitomizes. Granted, post-pandemic literature dates back to Mary Shelley’s The Last Man (1826) and even further back: “the one hand, unlike nuclear war or ecological catastrophe, pandemic has a venerable historical pedigree that leads back from current bestsellers such as Pierre Ouellette’s The Third Pandemic (1996) to the medieval horrors of the Black Death and indeed to the Book of Revelation itself” (Gomel 407). But it has recently taken a new turn, reminiscent of Camus’s La Peste (1947): rather than offering narratives of global pandemics on course to devastate the world (such as Stephen King’s The Stand or Jim Grace’s The Pesthouse), they simply are the chronicles of the lives of people in a still familiar environment, during and after the pandemic, maybe because “[u]nlike fantasies of global annihilation, pandemics are a matter of record” (Gomel 408), and as such, they are steeped in reality. For instance, in Laura Van Den Berg’s Find Me (2015), the spread of a disease that triggers memory loss and ends with death logically has consequences on the life of the main character, notably because she is immune to the disease and is kept in a research center for the first half of the novel. Once she leaves, she discovers a world that is only slightly different. As for the disease, it remains in the narrative background. The apocalyptic atmosphere described at the beginning of the book is actually based on real events or policies: “For as long as I could remember, the weather had felt apocalyptic. Y2K fever and the War on Drugs and the War on Terror” (Van Den Berg 16). Furthermore, rather than turning Joy’s life upside down, the disease almost has the opposite effect: “I thought I knew about boredom in my old life, but I was wrong. I knew about lulls in the action, stretches of stillness, but I did not know what it was like to feel time become a wet, heavy thing. I did not know days so long and familiar, you find yourself holding your breath until you’re dizzy and flushed, all for your own amusement” (41). In a way, Find Me’s first hundred and fifty pages are anticlimatic, even anti-apocalyptic. As for the rest of the novel, the main plot is Joy’s search for her mother, to some extent made more complicated by the disease, but only to some extent. The world she discovers once out of the hospital is more static than chaotic: “In the Hospital, I imagined the cities were once again filled with brightness, the clatter of alive bodies, but this one looks dark and hollow, an underground system that’s just been pulled into the light” (159). On her way to Florida, where her mother supposedly lives, she will encounter some minor threats, some unfamiliar scenes but nothing openly apocalyptic. Emily St. John Mandel’s superb Station Eleven (2014) presents us with a much more menacing world, after a sudden and devastating pandemic. The novel also contains common tropes of apocalyptic and post- apocalyptic fiction, such as the rapid and deadly spread of the virus, the desperate

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means of survival, violent hordes and crazy prophets. But they remain regularly toned down in the novel, as almost half of the novel is composed of analepses and consists in the description of the lives of the main characters before the outbreak. In the final analysis, Station Eleven’s most original and poignant passages rely more on the evocation of the past (the readers’ present) than on the imaginary construction of a dystopian future, as the latter inevitably follows the beaten track: those clinging to civilization against those ready to jettison it and enjoy a hedonistic chaos.

10 All these novels share one feature: they are always about something more important than the apocalypse and they end up conjuring up more traditional genres such as the bildungsroman or the great road trips of American literature, for instance. If in major eschatology, “[t]he modes of future-history – Utopian, dystopian, arcadian and post- apocalyptic – tend to pose a world in which the individual either disappears into an abstraction or is granted special status as the last representative of a world gone wrong” (Wheeler 2), we have seen examples where the opposite happens: the individual remains the individual as we know it. The damages inflected on our world by climate change, wars or pandemics turn out to be controlled damages, allowing our reality to remain visible, recognizable so that these narratives can still provide windows into our world.

The End as Narrative Drive

11 What is the point, then, of imagining an apocalypse if the purpose of the narrative is ultimately to focus on the present time? In other words, what purpose does minor eschatology serve? The answer lies in narrative and genre dynamics. Peter Brooks stated that “[n]arratives portray the motors of desire that drive and consume their plots, and they also lay bare the nature of narration as a form of human desire: the need to tell as a primary human drive that seeks to seduce and to subjugate listener […]” (61). The apocalypse is no doubt a strong tool of seduction. In the case of minor eschatology, the seduction is not as overwhelming, but it would be naïve to overlook its narrative power of attraction. Although their purpose is to remain focused on the mundane reality of characters living in a world that has not yet disappeared, the novels referred to above still seek to “subjugate” their readers by exploiting the macabre pull of global extinction. Knowing that humanity has been obsessed with the concept of apocalypse since the birth of civilization, now that we actually have the means to destroy our planet (or have done enough to damage the environment irreversibly), it is unlikely that this fascination will subside, hence the subjugation inherent in any novel toying with the End. If Peter Brooks writes that “plot is the internal logic of the discourse of mortality” (22), in the various cases above mentioned, one could instead state that mortality, especially on a grand scale, is the internal logic of plot; put differently, the simple evocation of a possible apocalypse, even one as remote or abstract as in Lucy Corin’s (very) short stories, provides the author with an immediate plot and the possibility to revisit much-explored topics such as coming-of-age stories without losing the interest of the reader. More than a pretext, the End looming ahead is a literal transcription of Brooks’s definition of the narrative drive: “What operates in the text through repetition is the death instinct, the drive toward the end” (102). Of course, conversely to Brooks, the end we are discussing here is not the end of the text, but the end of the world, which is essentially the means for these authors to reach their

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end: a familiar defamiliarization, or a moderate uncanny. However, more than a simple mimetic background, the apocalypse remains a deeply compelling background, one that immediately draws (and sustains) the reader’s attention, from a distance. Even when the author only provides a simple hint of an end, of any end of the world, this immediately becomes compelling, maybe because, “[t]he absence of an end does not obviate our wanting one. Or creating one” (Zamora 75). In fiction, we are prompt to imagine or exaggerate apocalyptic signs because we crave the fear and drama.

12 And yet, more than a “narrative life insurance” guaranteeing readership, this very specific form of realism provides the author with the possibility of making the real unfamiliar. Only up to a certain point. Not unlike magic realism, minor eschatology thrives on the discrepancy between its apocalyptical setting and a reality that still resembles ours. Charles Burns’s Black Hole (2005) epitomizes this discrepancy: the “bug,” or “teen plague,” evokes pandemic fiction, but its scope remains very much local and Burns’s narrative centers on a group of teenagers with preoccupations similar to other teenagers’, with one major difference: the threat of the disease and the graphic representation of these deformities that give Burns’s work its unique graphic signature and narrative tension.

13 Like other genres relying on a contradiction, or at least a discrepancy, minor eschatology is “apotropaic,” according to the definition given by J. Hillis Miller: “It is a throwing away of what is already thrown away in order to save it. It is a destroying of the already destroyed in order to preserve the illusion that it is still intact” (Miller 97-98). J. Hillis Miller’s main topic is realism and the realistic function of characters, but his remarks may be applied more generally to any mimetic representation of our world, with a slight modification: the various possible worlds in the novels that we have briefly studied are not yet “already destroyed.” They might soon be, or not, but it is the uncertainty that gives these narratives their original tone, and this uncertainty provides the characters with an almost paradoxical stability, allowing them to carry on with their lives, at least for a little while longer. In more classical post-apocalyptic narratives, this “little while longer” has already ended.

Contributions

14 Much remains to be explored regarding this new trend of minor eschatology, for instance the fact that most of these novels are written by women, their link to our collective psyche or their intertextuality: “From its earliest roots in the ancient Near East, apocalyptic literature has been profoundly intertextual, consistently borrowing and adapting material from earlier texts” (Hicks 3). The essays collected in this special issue of Transatlantica certainly help us understand the various (political, ecological, narrative) stakes and the poetic scope of this peculiar vision of an end that refuses to be the End.

15 As I pointed out before, minor eschatology is a question of degree and the following essays support this claim: from Richard Powers’s The Echo Maker to Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, there is a (colliding) world of difference. Zachary Tavlin’s The Ubiquity of Strange Frontiers: Minor Eschatology in Richard Powers’s The Echo Maker sees in Powers’s novel an echo of the United States’ rampant eschatological culture, the “ever- present links between Puritan millennialism, American Romanticism, and the settlement of the American continent,” but “Powers subverts the major eschatologies

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that populate American literary and cultural history, often stemming from Puritan typologies.” Even if there is no apocalypse per se in the American novelist’s narrative (only a “subtle apocalypse or minor eschatology of the strange”), there is, according to Tavlin, the constant denial of the American millennium, the will to turn the typical national narratives the U.S. is built on, Manifest Destiny as well as its visual counterpart (the sublime), upside down. In The Echo Maker, major American eschatologies are undermined and the everyday as the unfamiliar here and now is reinstated. If there is one apocalypse in Powers’s novel, it certainly is the one sounding the death knell for the feeling of exceptionality of a whole nation and, more generally, of major humanist paradigms; there remains instead the unfamiliar and cerebral experience of the everyday: “In other words, eventually, whenever we write about people and their psychologies we will be doing nothing more than describing—in as economical a way as possible—the neurochemical activity underlying their feelings and behaviors.”

16 In a similar fashion, Brian Chappell’s Writing (at) the End: Thomas Pynchon’s Bleeding Edge underlines another major American novelist’s deconstructionist strategies with regard to eschatological myths, an author who is in a privileged position to do so, because “[m]ore so than any other American author of the twentieth century, Pynchon documents in fiction the tectonic movements of American history, to the extent that his entire oeuvre can be viewed as a historical meta-text.” By examining how Thomas Pynchon concludes his novels, Bleeding Edge, in particular, Chappell aims at bringing to the fore the novelist’s humanist edge in a narrative set in the age of terror, surveillance, domination, and dehumanization and argues that “Pynchon’s endings convey most clearly and ardently his ‘hard-won humanism’ and exhibit his ‘mighty powers of consolation’.” Both The Echo Maker and Bleeding Edge present minor cases of eschatology: a world that has certainly gone awry, a sense of dread, a global anxiety and even a looming—but unidentified—catastrophe. But Chappell approaches the genre from a different angle and eventually argues that “[a] wide definition of spirituality and postsecularism makes room for a holistic approach to Pynchon’s response to what he perceives as invisible forces that move history.”

17 The three other essays collected in this issue examine narratives of a world gone over the edge: the apocalypse has started but the former world retains a presence and resurfaces occasionally. André Cabral de Almeida Cardoso’s Apocalypse and Sensibility: The Role of Sympathy in Jeff Lemire’s Sweet Tooth focuses on Jeff Lemire’s graphic novel that describes a world in which “most of the population has F0 F0 been killed by a devastating plague 5B … 5D , and the few survivors have mostly reverted to a savage predatory behavior.” In this world however, “all children born after the plague are human-animal hybrids who are immune to the disease that continues to infect the rest of the population.” Focusing on the representation of violence, Cardoso differentiates between empathy and sympathy and brings to light one of the key aspects of eschatological literature: the reader’s response to various representations of danger and violence. Contrary to other more extreme post-apocalyptic narratives, Sweet Tooth doesn’t neutrally depict raw violence and characters who try to survive by any means in a moral vacuum. Quite the opposite. “The post-apocalyptic setting of Sweet Tooth, far from blocking the possibility of sympathy, offers the conditions for its manifestation by presenting situations of crisis in which sympathy can be most emphatically represented.” Even more importantly, Lemire’s use of “hybridity” opens

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an interval which is both the past and the future, pre-apocalyptic and the End: a world that is radically different and yet, probably for a brief moment, still ours.

18 Finally, two essays explore Cormac McCarthy’s iconic novel, The Road. This novel sets new standards for post-apocalyptic fiction in the way it uses the most extreme tropes of the genre (cannibalism, global [nuclear?] catastrophe) while shifting the reader’s attention to the basic human experience: survival in the simplest terms (food, heat, shelter…), father-and-son relationship, bereavement. To a certain extent, McCarthy’s novel unfolds a micro-narrative set in a context of global destruction. Stephen Joyce’s The Double Death of Humanity in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road focuses exclusively on the tragic and existentialist dimensions of the novel and on how individuals would survive day-to-day in a post-apocalyptic world (summed up by these four words: “darkness, cold, barrenness, and hunger”). The Road certainly is a survival story, but it is much more than that: “[…] the post-apocalyptic genre, with its profusion of not-quite human others such as zombies, mutants, and robots, has been groping its way toward a question that is central to The Road: what is the difference between human and inhuman?” The novel’s gripping tension is the product of the constant back and forth between “[t]he ordinary details of survival in a post-apocalyptic world” and its existentialist dimension.

19 Yves Davo’s “‘A single gray flake, like the last host of christendom’: The Road ou l’apocalypse selon St McCarthy” addresses the religious dimension of McCarthy’s quest for survival and examines the author’s use of biblical metaphors and images, more particularly how the narrative is built upon a tension between the secular and the religious. Davo sees an obvious parallel between eschatological literature and theological writings. But even more importantly, Davo underlines the messianic role of the child in The Road, and shows how McCarthy toys with the myth of exceptionality but also that of constant renewal inherent in the mythology of his country: In spite of its tragic character, Davo concludes that McCarthy’s thaumaturgical novel (dedicated to his young son, John) offers a glimmer of hope at the end of a long and godforsaken road.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Works Cited

Critical Studies

BERGER, James. After the End: Representations of Post-Apocalypse. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999.

BROOKS, Peter. Reading for the Plot. Design and Intention in Narrative. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984.

GOMEL, Elana. “The Plague of Utopias: Pestilence and the Apocalyptic Body.” Twentieth Century Literature, vol. 46, no. 4, Winter, 2000, p. 405-433.

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HEFFERNAN, Teresa. Post-Apocalyptic Culture: Modernism, Postmodernism, and the Twentieth-Century Novel. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008.

HICKS, Heather J. The Post-Apocalyptic Novel in the Twenty-First Century: Modernity Beyond Salvage. Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan, 2016.

HOLSINGER, Bruce. “Empire, Apocalypse, and the 9/11 Premodern.” Critical Inquiry, vol. 34, no. 3, Spring 2008, p. 468-490.

HUGHES, Rowland and Pat Wheeler. “Eco-dystopias: Nature and the Dystopian Imagination.” Critical Survey, vol. 25, no. 2, 2013, p. 1-6.

KERMODE, Frank. The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967.

MCHALE, Brian. “Break, Period, Interregnum.” Twentieth Century Literature, vol. 57, no. 3/4, Fall/ Winter 2011, p. 328-340.

MILLER, Joseph Hillis. Ariadne’s Thread, Story Lines. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992.

RABINOWITZ, Peter J. Before Reading: Narrative Conventions and the Politics of Interpretation. Columbus, OH: Ohio State University Press, 1988.

VELDMAN, Robin Globus. “Narrating the Environmental Apocalypse: How Imagining the End Facilitates Moral Reasoning Among Environmental Activists.” Ethics and the Environment, vol. 17, no. 1, Spring 2012, p. 1-23.

WHEELER, Pat. “Representations of Dystopia in Literature and Film.” Critical Survey, vol. 17, no. 1, 2005, p. 1-5.

ZAMORA, Lois Parkinson. Writing the Apocalypse: Historical Vision in Contemporary U.S. and Latin American Fiction. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 1989.

Fiction

BURNS, Charles. Black Hole. London: Jonathan Cape, 2005.

CAMUS, Albert. La Peste. 1947. Paris: Gallimard, 1974.

CORIN, Lucy. One Hundred Apocalypses, and Other Apocalypses. San Francisco: McSweeney’s Books, 2013.

GRACE, Jim. The Pesthouse. London: Picador, 2007.

HARRISON, Harry. Make Room! Make Room! 1966. New York: Orb books, 2008.

HEGLAND, Jean. Into the Forest. New York: Bantam Books, 1996.

KASISCHKE, Laura. In a Perfect World. New York: Harper Perennial, 2009.

KING, Stephen. The Stand. 1978. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1990.

LERNER, Ben. 10:04. London: Granta, 2014.

MCCARTHY, Cormac. The Road. London: Picador, 2006.

OUELLETTE, Pierre. The Third Pandemic. New York: Pocket Star Books, 1996.

QUINN, DANIEL. Ishmael. New York: Bantam, 1995.

SHELLEY, Mary. The Last Man. 1826. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1965.

ST. JOHN MANDEL, Emily. Station Eleven. London: Picador, 2014.

VAN DEN BERG, Laura. Find Me. New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 2015.

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WALKER, Karen Thompson. The Age of Miracles. London: Simon & Schuster, 2012.

WATKINS, Claire Vaye. Gold Fame Citrus. London: Quercus, 2015.

WHITEHEAD, Colson. Zone One. New York: Anchor Books, 2011.

NOTES

1. These grand narratives being often in the collective unconscious cinematic (even though some of these films are adapted from novels): for example, The War of the Worlds and its various versions or the geopolitical The Day After (1983) and the ecological The Day After Tomorrow (2004).

AUTHOR

ARNAUD SCHMITT Université de Bordeaux

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The Ubiquity of Strange Frontiers: Minor Eschatology in Richard Powers’s The Echo Maker

Zachary Tavlin

1 What was truth, compared to survival ? Floating or broken or split or a third of a second behind, something still insisted : Me. Always the water changed, but the river stood still. – Richard Powers, The Echo Maker The brain is just the weight of God, For, lift them, pound for pound, And they will differ, if they do, As syllable from sound. – Emily Dickinson, J632.

2 At the opening of Richard Powers’s The Echo Maker (2006), Mark Schluter nearly dies on a deserted Nebraska road that could be mistaken for the end of the world if not for a rudimentary understanding of the place as part of America’s “heartland.” This essay will focus on the novel’s parallax perspective on this very relationship : between the heartland, the supposed “heart” of American normalcy and the crossroads of the nation’s frontier tradition, and the subtle apocalypse or minor eschatology of the strange. And there is no doubt that the turn the narrative takes is indeed strange, though certainly not supernatural : when Powers’s protagonist awakes from a coma, he is convinced that his sister is a fake, and he is soon diagnosed with the rare Capgras delusion, a neurological disorder in which the subject is convinced that a close family member has been replaced by an impostor.

3 The philosophical investigation of the novel includes a psycho-phenomenological look at the most stable of forms (such as a place or a face) as they become unmoored along with the brain’s interpretive system. Powers demonstrates how the typically mundane preconceptions that structure our lifeworlds can shift and bend with the slightest provocation, and re-conceives the self as made of various nodes in a scattered cognitive network rather than as a unified interior subject. To this end Powers subverts the major eschatologies that populate American literary and cultural history, often stemming from Puritan typologies that assume a master spatial and temporal frontier

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separating civilization from the dark wilderness. Instead, we re-encounter the unknown as ubiquitous and circumambient, so that one can cross into unfamiliar territory when and where one least expects to. For nearly every character in Powers’s novel as well as for the reader, passage into an unfamiliar here and now, where governing epistemic paradigms break down, can occur in the middle of nowhere, or even in the supposedly happy confines of the middle-class home.

4 I will set up my reading of Powers’s novel by giving a brief account of the recurring epistemological frontiers in American culture, focusing on the scholarly American literary studies tradition that locate ever-present links between Puritan millennialism, American Romanticism, and the settlement of the American continent. I will then read The Echo Maker as one example of an equally rich (though often neglected) counter- tradition that attends to negative spaces of that unfamiliar “here and now” instead of sublime landscapes and untamed wilderness. Though this counter-tradition is hardly apolitical, it refocuses its politics on the everyday instead of the American millennium, and on the proximate instead of the distant, substituting the imperial appetites of the all-consuming settler subject for the embodied, proprioceptive confusions of the subject faced with what Powers himself called “the amorphous, improvised, messy, crack-strewn, gaping thing” (“Echo Maker Roundtable #5”) beneath all forms of narration.

The Mythic Scale of the Western Frontier

5 Zbigniew Lewicki writes that, when it comes to the concept of “apocalyptic fiction” in American literary history or in general, “no unequivocal definition can ever be formulated” (xiii). And it is not my design to provide one. From Frank Kermode to M.H. Abrams to Lewicki himself, precise definitions often give way to catalogues of (leit)motifs, tropes, identifiable moments, or “the presence and intensity of related images” drawn directly from the Book of Revelation or alternative mythologies (Lewicki xiii).1 Rarely does a work of art contain the entirety of such a classical catalogue, even in secular form. Secularization, according to Lewicki and John R. May, was a key motor for the transformation of apocalyptic conceptions in the American nineteenth century, with “the change in meaning of apocalypse” taken as “an indicator of the direction of more fundamental changes in the American mind” (Lewicki xiv). In order to understand the “more fundamental changes” in the American late twentieth- century (literary) mind—the apocalyptic frontier I am interested in here—it is necessary to rehearse the quasi-secular background upon which its deviation can be marked as doubly meaningful.

6 In James Fenimore Cooper’s The Prairie (1827), the Great Plains of the trans-Missouri are figured as an open stage—indeed, one recently opened by the Louisiana Purchase— upon which early American archetypes struggle for their proper place in the New World’s chain of being. This stage, as several commentators have argued, takes on a traditional apocalyptic cast : the prairie is described as “bleak and solitary” (Cooper 11), a “meagre prospect [running] off in long, narrow, barren perspectives” (13), “an interminable waste” (74) with a landscape monotonous in its “chilling dreariness” (13). But, importantly, Cooper’s dark prairies are not post-apocalyptic but pre-apocalyptic, what Henry Nash Smith has called the mythic desert that tenuously preceded, in America’s optative historical consciousness, the millennium of the Western garden.

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Smith remarks on the significance of the “vast treeless plains” described by several frontiersmen as “a sterile waste like the sandy deserts of Africa” in accounts that sounded like “an impressive warning to the prophets of continuous westward advance of the agricultural frontier” ; these plains were regarded by many, he notes, “as proof that the area was [...] uninhabitable by Anglo-Americans,” a doomed expanse (Smith 175). Sabri Mnassar, more pointedly, has registered the “almost total absence of trees and verdure” (Mnassar 92) on Cooper’s prairie, where the bareness of a solitary willow, for instance, “proclaimed the frailty of existence, and the fulfilment of time” (Cooper 356). But this tree, upon which Ishmael Bush hangs his brother-in-law (Abiram White), is not just a sterile, wind-blasted remnant of a prior fertility. Cooper’s theory of American settlement takes on a more complicated sense of futurity, one that writes onto concrete spatial forms and geographical sites the stages of society’s expansion and development : The march of civilization with us, has a strong analogy to that of all coming events, which are known “to cast their shadows before.” The gradations of society, from that state which is called refined to that which approaches as near barbarity as connexion with an intelligent people will readily allow, are to be traced from the bosom of the States, where wealth, luxury, and the arts are beginning to seat themselves, to those distant and ever-receding borders which mark the skirts and announce the approach of the nation, as moving mists precede the signs of day (Cooper 66).

7 These shadows “cast before,” taking on the twisted forms both of a blasted willow and a depraved soul—Ishmael’s in particular, which is “incapable of maturing any connected system of forethought, beyond that which related to the interests of the present moment” (Cooper 14)—are like optical illusions in the slowly uncovering “mist” of historical transition. Their status as predictors of either a coming barbarism of violence and defiled nature or a rejuvenated national community of light and day that would leave the frontier’s moral restlessness behind depends upon the magnitude of man’s spirit of humility in the face of God’s creation (a drama which is played out on the pages of Cooper’s novel).

8 Of the several theories2 that posit monolithic logics of the historical unfolding of American literature, two somewhat opposed patterns tend to recur : the material significance of the American continent for the native aesthetic imagination (which has been transmuted into theories that privilege other national materialist infrastructures, such as the open road), and the allegorical Puritanism of metaphorical typologies that work and re-work the terms of an “errand into the wilderness” that binds the social to the spiritual through the covenant of text. Cooper is often figured as a linchpin for both accounts, since his novels (especially The Prairie) can be easily read either way. The premise behind Myra Jehlen’s influential American Incarnation is that, in the era of its exploration and settlement, “America did not connote society or history, but indeed in its natural parameters, geography” (5). According to Jehlen, “the decisive factor shaping the founding conceptions of ‘America’ and of ‘the American’ was material rather than conceptual ; rather than a set of abstract ideas, the physical fact of the continent” (3). Popular early republic geographers like Jedediah Morse were influential in recasting history as geography, and the sense of American progress as inherently geographical. When historical progress was conceived as primarily spatial rather than temporal, settlement and national development took on the character of an organic entelechy or the natural and inevitable unfolding of an enormous organism.

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9 Although Jehlen argues against the primacy of an allegorical America detachable from the hard “matter” of the landscape, the supposed “entelechy” of the continent—figured through novels and romances that attempted to articulate America’s latent potentials and the paths of America’s inevitable unfolding in a westward vector—still supported a millennial, apocalyptic interpretation of the American cultural frontier not totally dissimilar from that pushed by the likes of Sacvan Bercovitch. According to Bercovitch, the dominant Puritanical mindset, with its seat in New England but its historical influence unchecked, held that historical events in the New World were types of actions that had occurred already, in scripture. But they also came to be seen as fulfillments of scriptural promises which would lead in turn to the ultimate fulfillment of Apocalypse. Typology was extended to include not only major historical crises ; the Puritan must “ratify his every experience, all his thoughts and feelings, by the infallible standard of holy scripture” (Bercovitch 28). This became an ordinary “way of seeing” that extended in American letters and literature beyond the nation’s several crises of faith, secularized in content but not in form by Transcendentalism and the nineteenth- century American Renaissance.

10 With admirable explanatory power, Bercovitch claims that if the “intermediary between the Puritan and God was the created Word of scripture,” and the “intermediary between the Romantic and God was the creating imagination,” then the “intermediary between the Transcendentalist and the Oversoul was the text of America” (165). Apocalypse in America, whether conceived as a consummation of the marriage between the Old World immigrant and the fecund and spectacular New World garden, or as the fulfillment of Christian civilization for the rest of the world to behold and admire, was to occur on a grand scale. And thus, inevitably, there would be much pre-apocalyptic violence, as Cooper certainly foretold, but it would be a violence that cleansed the earth of all inessential actors or annoying obstacles, whether the parts of the landscape that were recalcitrant to possession or the Satanic non-believers who stood in the way of millennium. The frontier became a monolithic (and imaginary) epistemological wall separating (American) Self from Other, running unimpeded through discontinuous regions, dwellings, and communities.

11 At a sufficient enough distance, these stories can appear to account for all the basic rhetorical structures of American settlement, Manifest Destiny, westward expansion, and cultural exceptionalism. They work quite well when told in medias res, with an open future tense à la The Prairie, narrating events that occurred before the closing of the American frontier. They also operate on large scales of time and space, tying the narrative structures of representative texts to moments in theological or geological history, reporting what M.H. Abrams has called a “right-angled” history proper to Biblical canon (36). The significant events in a “right-angled” history are few and far between, with extended plateaus where nothing really happens (in Biblical history, there’s creation, fall, incarnation, crucifixion, resurrection, and millennium, for instance, with the intervening time of the everyday a stretched-out duration for mere reflection, for man to work out his relationship with the divine). Key events “are abrupt, cataclysmic, and make a drastic, even an absolute, difference” (Abrams 36)— including, here, the moving of the frontier, which is a rather unwieldy thing when taken to be a single conceptual-cartographical behemoth—while most of man’s allotted time is spent preparing for those cataclysms. This is also true of secular historical accounts of a religious historical mindset (or of mass-scale settlement) that apportions

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corresponding literary or cultural activity according to its place in a meta-history of national self-consciousness, always in reference to central antitypical New World events.

12 At the end of the nineteenth-century, when the Western frontier had reached the Pacific and the America’s spatial “safety valve” had closed, Frederick Jackson Turner predicted that America would continue its dynamic process of growth only by transmuting the continental frontier into a global one, extending it through “the demands for vigorous foreign policy, for an interoceanic canal, for a revival of our power upon the seas, and for the extension of American influence to outlying islands and adjoining countries” (296). Hsuan L. Hsu has argued that “scale jumping” like this was a vital tactic for nineteenth-century social movements, and that mid-to-late century American literature contributed to the production of apparently distinct scales (like the nation) that function to “compartmentalize spatial relations,” or express “anxieties, contradictions, and possibilities situated on the boundaries between different scales” (a common example is Whitman’s “Passage to India,” but Hsu extends this logic through powerful readings of Poe, Melville, and Jewett) (14-15). There is a more general feeling among critics that the failures of theologico-cultural projects predicting apocalypse, millennium, or permanent American ascendance with the settlement of the continent led to the American imaginary heading elsewhere, typically “scale jumping” upward in time and space into global geopolitical history (or, as certain eco-critics might argue, into global environmental history). Amy Kaplan and Donald Pease’s Cultures of United States Imperialism, for instance, seeks to demonstrate how “the multiple histories of continental and overseas expansion, conquest, conflict, and resistance [...] have shaped the cultures of the United States and the cultures of those it has dominated within and beyond its geopolitical boundaries” (4).

13 As informative as these critical accounts have been, there is a competing literary strategy on the part of writers accounting for the effects of the waning of the frontier’s optative mood : acts of “scale shrinking” (for lack of a better term) that retreat back into the personal or inter-personal, the subjective or the communal, and re-articulate eschatology on such a diminished scale. Though on the one hand a frontier novel engaged with the meta-narrative of Western settlement, Willa Cather’s 1918 My Ántonia primarily describes several overlapping micro-economies of gift exchange associated with semi-insular immigrant communities comprising topologically complex contact zones on the Nebraska plains. The apocalypse this novel portends is the steady elimination of these micro-economies by a spreading capitalist logic of usury and cyclical debt, a cultural diminishing rather than a grand consummation of American historical spirit (whether through mass violence or the final flowering of national democracy as a beacon to the Old World). As Reginald Dyck has argued, Cather’s song of the American plains “was a part of a social milieu, symbolized by Frederick Jackson Turner’s thesis of an America in decline as it entered a postfrontier era” (37), which often sent the cultural critic back from her analysis of social structures to an emphasis on “the relationship between individuals and their environment” (27)—a scale that appeared more appropriate to those questioning the tenability of the nation’s eschatological meta-narratives. When Jim Burden finds himself, at the end of the novel, walking out over what’s left of the “rough pastures,” searching for the tracks on the old road to the north country that “were mere shadings in the grass” (Cather 358-9), he is tracing the worn marks of the past just as Cather is, registering the fading of the promise of the end of American history (a melancholic whimper articulated too in Mr.

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Shimerda’s suicide, Wick Cutter’s attempted rape, and Ántonia’s fall from pre-sexual innocence).

14 Almost a century later, in The Echo Maker, we are not geographically far from Cather’s Black Hawk and its surrounding farms, but the spatial logic of the American frontier has closed so forcefully here that we find the Nebraska plains as the mere backdrop for a drama of the mind. With the frontier so thoroughly commodified that one can take it all in at the Great Platte River Archway Monument off I-80—complete with a “simulated buffalo stampede” and a “life-size Pony Express station” (The Echo Maker 39) for the pleasure of tourists who descend upon the area to witness the sandhill cranes’ annual migration—, the wide open spaces of American futurity and grand historical passage become bounded in the dense, complex nutshell of a damaged brain that, in Emily Dickinson’s parlance, is indeed “wider than the sky” (J632). In Powers’s novel, epistemological frontiers between subjects become frontiers within subjects, and the apocalyptic sublimity one finds throughout American literature is translated into a neurological sublime that de-centers and re-orients one’s view of the everyday, estranging it from us just as a misfiring neuron can estrange us from ourselves. But in order to get there, artful pioneer as I hope to be, I must first bridge these frontiers and contextualize the neurological sublime’s development in twentieth-century literature. For even apocalyptically-minded writers had to learn to accommodate a growing (and popularizing) neuroscientific discourse that was upending centuries’ worth of presuppositions about the mind and human life and challenging traditional and corresponding assumptions about the rightful domain of literary activity.

Interlude : Literature’s Brain Age

15 In “The Meaning of a Literary Idea,” an essay first read at Rochester in 1949, Lionel Trilling wrote, “A specter haunts our culture—it is that people will eventually be unable to say, ‘They fell in love and married,’ let alone understand the language of Romeo and Juliet, but will as a matter of course say ‘Their libidinal impulses being reciprocal, they activated their individual erotic drives and integrated them within the same frame of reference’” (285). By the time Powers wrote The Echo Maker, reality had outpaced Trilling’s satire. Philosophers Paul and Patricia Churchland are not joking one bit when they happily predict a future devoid of folk psychological concepts, with our propositional thinking, speaking, and writing about the mind reduced to sentences like Trilling’s, but backed by up-to-date neuroscience and without the superstitious attribution of impulses and drives to individual selves. Their influential (but by no means uncontroversial) position, “eliminative materialism,” holds that “our commonsense conception of psychological phenomena constitutes a radically false theory, a theory so fundamentally defective that both the principles and the ontology of that theory will eventually be displaced, rather than smoothly reduced, by completed neuroscience” (Churchland 67). In other words, eventually, whenever we write about people and their psychologies we will be doing nothing more than describing—in as economical a way as possible—the neurochemical activity underlying their feelings and behaviors.

16 We have arrived at the Churchlands and their intellectual milieu through literature as much as analytic philosophy and the underlying neuroscience (even if the last, by indeed “underlying,” makes up the discursive base of what Nikki Skillman calls the

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literary-cultural “age of the brain”). Although many writers resisted the impoverished language of eliminative accounts of the subject, several saw the necessity of integrating it into their world, for it was likely there to stay. In the mid twentieth century, epistemic frontiers newly articulable by the propositions of brain science came to be associated with lyrical intimations of apocalypse—less and less of immortality, no doubt—in American poetry. Skillman argues that poets (like Robert Lowell, Robert Creeley, A.R. Ammons, James Merrill, John Ashbery, and Jorie Graham) “who came of age as artists in the 1950s or later and bore witness to the proliferation of empirical discourses that addressed themselves with increasing optimism to investigation of the ‘mind,’ [became] more vividly conscious of the biological systems that mediate inner life than the poets of any other era” (5). In her reading of Ashbery’s Self-portrait in a Convex Mirror, for instance, Skillman links traditional apocalyptic tropes—from “environmental chaos” to “voices [...] gone mute, relinquish[ed] to oblivion”—to the “epistemological troubles” of the “finite, reflective organ of the mind itself,” no longer the Romantic egotistical sublime in league with transcendental idealism but a “portrait of consciousness [where] there is no soul,” a biological substrate “subject to entropy and decay” (186 ; 191). Even the most speculative lyric poets could no longer ignore or completely oppose the scientific and philosophical consensus particular to the twentieth century’s “cognitive revolution,” a fully post-Cartesian presupposition that the mind is wholly physical and embodied, that its origin and limits can be found in non-intentional brain matter. Such empirical and metaphysical consensus on what had seemed, throughout the history of Western philosophy and literature, like one of our great intellectual mysteries, an intractable problem of mind and body, ruptures the long “continuum of transcendental representations of human mentality that extends from Romanticism through the twilight of high modernism” (Skillman 4). Both a discursive obstacle and an open field for poetic experimentation, the age of the brain marks an omnipresent struggle for the development of new themes and forms adequate to a corresponding (or supervening) inner life ultimately physiological rather than spiritual.

17 If the question of the subject’s possible reduction to brain chemistry challenges still fiercely held Romantic assumptions about the spiritual character of inner life, the writer’s task becomes reconfiguring literary form and text to reflect and comment upon “the natural mechanisms whence they issue” (Skillman 267). Skillman reads Lowell, for instance, as a poet of “lost connections,” a phrase from “Memories of West Street and Lepke” whose internal structure is modeled “on the damaged physiological circuitry that makes imperfect sense of the given” (58). Lowell’s Notebook 1967-68 is structured by several “cognitive mutation[s]” in its stages of directionless revision, a series of minor neural apocalypses that irretrievably alter the paths of thought, that articulate thought’s movement as a series of physical thresholds or frontiers that thoroughly erase one’s “before” in the passage to “after.” Lowell—along with several others, particularly Merrill and Ashbery—thus produces through form an ethics for the brain age, a “philosophically exhausted, impassioned solidarity” with the mentally ill that puts “epistemological failure to emotional ends,” that registers pathos in the horrifying experiences—even more so when better understood—of aphasia, agnosia, and basic memory loss (Skillman 81 ; 82). “[T]he experiences of loss that riddle the phenomenology of thought,” as Merrill emphasizes in the aptly titled “Losing the Marbles,” are “symptomatic of concrete, physical conditions that are beyond the administration of human will” (Skillman 161).

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18 So what Marco Roth described in 2009 as an emergence of “the last dozen years or so,” a “strain within the Anglo-American novel” he calls the “neuronovel” (“wherein the mind becomes the brain”), has a much longer back history (139). Outside of a specifically American context, Suzanne Nalbantian draws a line “from Rousseau to neuroscience” in her study on memory in literature, arguing even more comprehensively (though far less deeply) than Skillman that “literary writers” at least from the Romantics onward—citing memory’s sensory pathways in French symbolist poetry, associative memory in stream of consciousness modernism, automatism in surrealist writing, and more—“provide beacons particularly into the dark corridors of unconscious memory yet to be explored” even by contemporary neurology (Nalbantian 152). Roth constructs his own literary category, specific to prose, within the same general neuroscientific age Skillman posits, but particularly after the “exhaustion of the ‘linguistic turn’ in the humanities, in the 1980s” and “with the discredit psychoanalysis suffered, around the same time,” coinciding with the boom in psychiatric drugs “that began to flow through the general population’s bloodstream” (Roth 140). Along with The Echo Maker, Roth cites Ian McEwan’s Enduring Love (1997), Jonathan Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn (1999), Mark Haddon’s Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (2003) and a few other novels as premier examples of a literary turn from narrative logics of “irony or fate or comeuppance” to “simple contingency ; the etiology of a neurological condition is biological, not moral,” and so now must be the author’s craft of characterization (149).

19 Yet to be rigorously theorized, however, is the relationship between literature in the “brain age” and those longstanding national and cultural allegories. Elisa New argues that American literary studies, with its “penchant for projections of national selfhood and precursor forms of self-as-nation (the Election Day sermon ; the spiritual biography ; the how-to ; and finally, the romance) is especially liable to find its methods symbiotically bound up with the endemic self-enlargements of the literary objects it studies” (7). Thus it retains, even in spite of itself, the “mythic scale” associated with Manifest Destiny, the frontier, continental (cognitive) mapping, and Puritanical system. But as Skillman, Roth, and others have noted, destiny is no longer Manifest, and certainly no longer written with a capital D. That goes for personal history and narrative—which in the era of identitarian politics (in addition to neuroscience) are only growing in importance—as well as socio-cultural critique. As the working relationship between literature, literary studies, and cognitive science becomes more and more urgent,3 revisions in our outstanding literary histories will become more and more necessary. Though I can foreground only one example here, in the context of American literary myth and frontier eschatology, I have no doubt a master study awaits in our near future.

Neural Apocalypse in the Heartland

20 In an essay on The Echo Maker and “eco-sickness,” Heather Houser makes the case that Powers’s novel is one example of several contemporary “experiments with affect” that work to conceptualize “the troubled interdependence of the individual body and large- scale environmental change” (382). While the novel undoubtedly deals with environmental crisis and the complicated entanglements between our everyday habitus and deep ecological flows like species migration and extinction—and Houser takes

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great pains to show how the novel’s “neurological plot and its theories of the interdependence of systems forges the link between ecological relations and brain function” (390)—there is another sense in which the logic of the text struggles to connect the scale of natural history to the human mind. This difference is most obviously apparent in the distinction between the prosaic expository sections of the novel, constituting the vast majority of the text and including the basic plot events concerning characters Mark and Karin Schluter, popular neurologist Gerald Weber, and everyone else in their lives, and the short, lyrical, aphoristic sections of “unfocalized narration” (Houser 388) centered on the sandhill cranes that flit in and out of the story’s background. Houser calls this oscillating form the “generator of a series of dialectics—between familiarity and strangeness, connection and disconnection, freedom and restriction—that aim to defamiliarize the everyday and activate perception” (383). This dialectic also inverts the textual scale nature writing often associates with each respective phenomenon : while the longue durée of environmental change is collapsed into short, poetic vignettes, the relatively infinitesimal span of an individual human consciousness (itself already splintered and fragmented, its unity repeatedly called into question by the narrative) is drawn out in long, precise passages of narratorial reflection and analysis.

21 Much like in Mark Schluter’s brain, the novel’s two main registers—the trans- individual ecosystem made up primarily of pre-phenomenological affective relationships and the hyper-individual phenomenon of self-reflexive ego-attachments —split and intertwine in alternating fashion. While Karin Schluter eventually throws herself into work with the Buffalo County Crane Refuge, an outfit fighting on behalf of local ecosystemic health against corporate developers, she appears to do so for deep personal reasons : the Refuge becomes her own psychological refuge from her struggle for recognition by her damaged brother, and she puts herself back in a position between her two lovers (returning, in a sense, to the same embattled position she had experienced years before). The novel’s conservationist figure, Daniel Siegel, believes with the strength of ideological certitude that he must save nature from man even as he (like everyone else around him) struggles to comprehend what “man” truly is. The inexorable joining that these narrative registers—of interior mental and exterior natural transformation—by the end of the novel leads to the reader’s recognition that there is no apocalypse in nature, only in the finite and affective mind, even as the former indeed mutates due to human involvement and destruction : Something in [the crane’s] brain learns this river, a word sixty million years older than speech, older even than this flat water. This word will carry when the river is gone. When the surface of the earth is parched and spoiled, when life is pressed down to near-nothing, this word will start its slow return. Extinction is short ; migration is long. Nature and its maps will use the worst that man can throw at it (The Echo Maker 443).

22 All the neuroscience presented in the novel suggests that we are like the cranes, but that we conceal from ourselves this fact through dreams of unity and self-consistency. The creatures enmeshed in their environments “heard humans and knew them as just part of the wider network of sounds” (325), while humans themselves project their own fears of loss and death onto a nature they foolishly separate themselves from. What the case of Mark Schluter seems to tell everyone who witnesses its mysteries is that the brain is the center of a dense, complicated ecology of the subject—immensely fragile but armed with defenses that serve to conceal that fragility from ourselves—whose

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disturbances and traumas reveal the lie of any default epistemological map of the world, any static diagram of the relation between self and other. These “disturbances” are literally self-shattering, minor apocalypses, but we find by witnessing them that underneath the personality we thought was somehow “ours” are natural processes, nodes in ecological systems that underlie both our sense of the normal and our sense of the unusual, of equilibrium and disequilibrium, of life and death.

23 Through extensive free indirect neuropsychological musings under the guise of Weber’s reflections upon his research and Mark’s case, Powers presents an extended case for distributive consciousness shot through with disturbing consequences for the illusive self-identical ego. The most banal of daily activities, like the feeling of hot water running down Weber’s body in the shower, provoke near-Cartesian doubt about the simple ownership of sensation : “The cortex’s body maps were fluid at best, and easily dismantled [...] The smallest warping could distort the map [...] Even the intact body was itself a phantom, rigged up by neurons as a ready scaffold. The body was the only home we had, and even it was more a postcard than a place” (258-60). Examples of patients with phantom limbs provoke anxiety about the self’s “border wars,” wherein “the brain maps of the amputated part” are “invaded by nearby maps” (260). Feinberg’s concept of “personal confabulation” becomes a sort of master key underlying what is essentially the reader’s own case study (Mark’s Capgras), a narrative structure shared by both the novel and every human mind, a “story to lift the shifting self back to the senseless facts,” where the fracturing of any particular phenomenological map of one’s own body leads to a redistribution of one’s “own indisputable parts in order to make a stubborn sense of wholeness true again” (164). Much like the novel itself, with its central plot fractured by lyrical passages of endless dispersal and re-combination in nature, in every psyche “a single, solid fiction always beat the truth of our scattering” (164).

24 One characteristic of the mind’s neural apocalypse that distinguishes it structurally from the major eschatologies of traditional epic is the impossibility of narrating its passage from the inside. Instead of a community of prophets, scholars, and poets who can speak for the larger society they belong to, the damaged brain destroys the individual’s “inner, generalizing map” and splits the new world of the self from the old, in essence vacating the only person who could adequately compare this phenomenological experience to that one (The Echo Maker 205). Though Mark’s Capgras is the central—though hardly the only—crisis of the novel, his accident and resulting trauma the big event that brings the novel’s characters together in the theater of small town Nebraska, the primary readers of this apocalyptic text are Karin and Weber (and, perhaps, the curious nurse’s aid Barbara Gillespie). Hence the mind-bending difficulty Karin herself has with understanding her brother’s misrecognition of her personhood : “Mark saw differences that were not there... [for Mark] every change in expression could split into a new and separate person” (150). Karin does not feel herself to be a different person now than she was one year ago. But witnessing this splintering world in another—rather than experiencing it oneself, which is conceptually impossible— estranges one’s own inner life in the end anyway. Karin eventually gives up—or at least loses her dogged grip on—the identity she had sustained over time (the very thing she measures Mark’s condition against). “Whoever that was,” she finally thinks, in the past tense (208).

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25 The point is that Mark’s condition, while rare and unusual in its specifics (for most of us go our entire lives, at least until the very end, sure in our convictions that our loved ones are at bottom the same people they have always been), reveals a truth about the way we “normally” process the sense data offered by the world as we engage our surroundings in ordinary time and space. David Milner and Melvyn Goodale’s influential “two-stream hypothesis,” which remains widely accepted due to compelling empirical data4, distinguishes the neurological pathway or visual processing stream of sensorimotor activity from that of conscious perceptual experience. On this view, separate ventral and dorsal streams (also called the “what” and “where” pathways) contribute different elements to a subject’s visual experience : as Andy Clark glosses succinctly, “the dorsal stream, projecting to the posterior parietal cortex, is said to support the kinds of visuo-motor transformation in which visual input leads to fluent actions such as reaching and grasping, while the ventral stream, projecting to the temporal lobe, seems to be especially implicated in the recognition and identification of objects and events” (1460). According to Goodale and Milner, “[b]oth systems have to work together in the production of purposive behavior—one system to select the goal object from the visual array, the other to carry out the required metrical computations for the goal-directed action” (100). Impairment to one of the two streams thus produces inconceivable perceptual responses (from the perspective of the unimpaired), including as one possible example Mark Schluter’s peculiar sort of visual agnosia, not quite face- blindness but the seeing of “differences that were not there” (The Echo Maker 150).

26 One’s ability to move seamlessly through the world, to unconsciously match faces to personalities and to comport one’s body appropriately in order to complete common tasks, is constitutively fragile because perception and sensorimotor attunement—and thus basic object-experience and basic subject-embodiment—are in principle detachable. This is but one example (albeit a very important one) of the way our neuro- anatomy is the domain of minor apocalypse : great, fundamental changes in our lifeworlds depend upon some of the smallest factors we can imagine. In fact, apocalypse happens not just out there but in here, in the crossing or re-direction of neural pathways rather than well-defined borders or frontiers, and in the temporality of brain activity rather than world history or spirit. The sort of writing Powers performs to uncover this diminished eschatology of the self—and the “pathway” this writing takes—mimics the characteristic of the case study, which Weber demonstrates so often throughout the novel : first, contextualize the individual’s life ; then bore into and reproduce his interior life through narrative. “Consciousness works by telling a story, one that is whole, continuous and stable,” Weber reads for his television audience. “When that story breaks, consciousness rewrites it. Each revised draft claims to be the original. And so, when disease or accident interrupts us, we’re often the last to know” (The Echo Maker 185). In the post-Freudian world of Dr. Weber, someone else needs to write our psyche’s story, but each translation gets us further and further from the phenomenological source of that story : from Mark to Karin to Weber to Powers to the reader (with a number of intermediate filters besides), each link in the chain of transmission contains its own micro-narrative of self that, distributed as it is among various persons and objects, bleeds into the next and changes it.

27 “What did it feel like to be Mark Schluter ?” we all ask along with Weber, to “see the person closest to you in this world, and feel nothing” (The Echo Maker 301). A non- starter of a question, of course, because “nothing inside Mark felt changed. Improvising

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consciousness saw to that. Mark still felt familiar ; only the world had gone strange” (301). “Inside” the self is experienced continuity, “outside” the self is strangeness and conspiracy, but the real trick of consciousness is that the latter is really a result of the illusion of the former. The self is a palimpsest that erases the traces of its former iterations : Mark’s accident “broke up his story, he tried to rewrite it and considers the rewritten version as the original one. The ‘original’ original therefore is lost” (Herman and Vervaeck 408). Luc Herman and Bart Vervaeck argue that this process is the whole story of The Echo Maker, but not just in the mind of Mark Schluter : “the case of Mark restructures and rebuilds the whole world around him. His Capgras infects his whole world and turns his sister, his friends, his aide and his doctor into some sort of fellow- sufferers. The Echo Maker is not just about Capgras, it is about ‘mimetic Capgras’” (410). Each mimetic act, each narrative mirror involves a micro-delusion, a sense of unwarranted assurance in one’s own mirroring capabilities—a central task in psychological diagnosis and psychoanalytic cure—and the stability of one’s subject- position as the author of the story at hand.

28 Parallel to Karin’s belated revelation of her own fractured self (“She is nothing, as toxic as anything with an ego. A sham ; a pretense. Nothing worth recognizing” [The Echo Maker 408]), is a retrospective revelation about her brother’s transformation : initially searching for an explanatory foundation for his supposed decline in an eschatological narrative of the heartland, she finally locates it in an anti-foundational insight about the ordinary human brain. In the novel’s first act Karin “cut through downtown Kearney, a business district hosed for as far into the future as anyone could see. Falling commodity prices, rising unemployment, aging population, youth flight, family farms selling out to agribusiness for dirt and change : geography had decided Mark’s fate long before his birth” (28). That is, she thinks, Mark’s Capgras is ultimately secondary in importance to the long, historical decline that has turned their hometown into the dustbin of late capital and the Midwest from the once promising herald of American greatness to a signal of the end times. But not until she sees for herself the political deadlock between business developers and conservationists—led on each side by her lovers Robert Karsh and Daniel Siegel, each a stand-in for split aspects of her desiring self—does she take “the combat inside herself, all possible positions banging around the loose democracy in her skull” : How many parts had Weber’s books described ? A riot of free agents ; five dozen specialties in the prefrontal bit itself [...] Too many parts for her brain to remember. Even a part named the unnamed substance. And they all had a mind of their own, each haggling to be heard above the others. Of course she was a frenzied mess ; everyone was [...] [T]he whole race suffered from Capgras. (The Echo Maker 347 ; italics in the original)

29 This feeling comes to be shared by Karin, Weber, and the reader, as Herman and Vervaeck conclude : “The Echo Maker suggests that any search for meaningful integration and coherence does not drastically differ from paranoia, Capgras and similar forms of misreading that are considered deviant. The reader of the novel cannot escape this predicament” (428), one that also applies to the reader of grand eschatological narratives tout court.

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Conclusion

30 That Powers is indeed breaking the coherence of the grand meta-narrative in favor of a diminutive apocalypse, however, is not an obvious position to hold. In her widely read review of the novel in The New York Review of Books, Margaret Atwood suggests exactly the opposite : The Echo Maker is a grand novel—grand in its reach, grand in its themes, grand in its patterning. That it might sometimes stray over the line into the grandiose is perhaps unavoidable : Powers is not a painter of miniatures. Of the two extremes of American mannerist style, the minimalist or Shaker chair (Dickinson, Hemingway, Carver) and the maximalist or Gilded Age (Whitman, James, Jonathan Safran Foer), Powers inclines toward the latter. He gets his effects by repetition, by a Goldberg Variation–like elaboration of motifs, by cranking up the volume and pulling out all the stops. (Atwood 60)

31 Perhaps even a minor eschatology can never be a true miniature, since by definition it involves passage, transformation, and narrative. But Bach’s Goldberg Variations are not sonatas, and Powers’s metaphysical repetitions appear as lyrical motes that conceal an expansiveness only felt through a new in-fold in the brain. If the inaccessible Keatsian birdsong of the sandhill cranes is our song too, it is only heard in snatches like “the kinds of sounds [Mark] made, crawling out of his coma [...] This was the song [Karin] would have to learn, if she wanted to know Mark again” (56). The self is indeed everywhere and thus quite large, “wider than the sky” in that maximalist Dickinsonian sense of widening Circumference, “spread thin on everything it looked at, changed by every ray of the changing light” (The Echo Maker 384). Nevertheless, we come to understand our scattering and the scatterings of nature—grand themes, no doubt—only through the case study, through the one nagging hitch in a Capgras patient’s recovery, through speculations on a single misfiring synapse, through the irreparable domestic life of a family of two in a declining Midwestern suburb.

32 Pace Atwood, the reference to Dickinson in Weber’s book title (Wider Than the Sky5) might suggest that, as we find so often in the Amherst poet’s peculiar short lyrics, all correspondence between self and world for Powers is at least filtered through consciousness, and that if the brain is wider than the sky, the sky must fit inside of the brain. But this is a problem, not a source of easy self-affirmative solace, in part because we normally look to places like Nebraska (in American literature, at least) for its big sky and the optative promise seemingly held in its deep receding horizon. The juxtaposition is the thing : the final transmutation of frontier landscape into a network of sensorimotor maps and of the romance into the “neuronovel” is nowhere more striking than in The Echo Maker. The challenge for a neuronovelist like Powers (at least in this case) is no less daunting than that which meets the epic apocalyptic novelist—to construct an intelligible narrative within the operating space of “the novel’s diminishing purview” (Roth 151). But as when enlarging one’s field of vision through a microscope, limit produces great wealth, and like applying a microscope to—or, more appropriately, producing an electroencephalogram of—characters otherwise ripe for a domestic melodrama or illicit romance story, Powers shows us how a ubiquity of strange frontiers appear everywhere we over-read and over-look.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Works Cited

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ARMSTRONG, Paul B. How Literature Plays with the Brain : The Neuroscience of Reading and Art. Baltimore, MD : The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013.

ASHBERY, John. Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror : Poems. New York : Viking Press, 1975.

ATWOOD, Margaret. “In the Heart of the Heartland.” The New York Review of Books. December, 2006, p. 58-60.

BERCOVITCH, Sacvan. The Puritan Origins of the American Self. New Haven, CT : Yale University Press, 1975.

CATHER, Willa. My Ántonia. 1918, edited by Charles Mignon and Kari Ronning, Lincoln, NE : University of Nebraska Press, 1994.

COLLINS, Christopher. Paleopoetics : The Evolution of the Preliterate Imagination. New York : Columbia University Press, 2013.

DICKINSON, Emily. The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson, Boston : Little, Brown, and Company, 1960.

CHURCHLAND, Paul M. “Eliminative Materialism and the Propositional Attitudes.” The Journal of Philosophy, vol. 78, no. 2, 1981, p. 67-90.

CLARK, Andy. “Perception, Action, and Experience : Unraveling the Golden Braid.” Neuropsychologia, vol. 47, 2009, p. 1460-1468.

COOPER, James Fenimore. The Prairie. 1827. New York : Penguin Books, 1987.

DYCK, Reginald. “Revisiting and Revising the West : Willa Cather’s My Ántonia and Wright Morris’ Plains Song.” Modern Fiction Studies, vol. 36, no. 1, 1990, p. 25-38.

EDELMAN, Gerald M. Wider than the Sky : The Phenomenal Gift of Consciousness. New Haven, CT : Yale University Press, 2004.

GOODALE, Melvyn A. and David MILNER. Sight Unseen : An Exploration of Conscious and Unconscious Vision. Oxford : Oxford University Press, 2004.

HADDON, Mark. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. New York : Doubleday, 2003.

HERMAN, David. Storytelling and the Sciences of the Mind. Cambridge, MA : The MIT Press, 2013.

HERMAN, Luc and Bart VERVAECK. “Capturing Capgras : The Echo Maker by Richard Powers.” Style, vol. 43, no. 3, 2009, p. 407-428.

HOGAN, Patrick C. Ulysses and the Poetics of Cognition. New York : Routledge, 2014.

HOUSER, Heather. “Wondrous Strange : Eco-Sickness, Emotion, and The Echo Maker.” American Literature, vol. 84, no. 2, 2012, p. 381-408.

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HSU, Hsuan L. Geography and the Production of Space in Nineteenth-Century American Literature. Cambridge, UK : Cambridge University Press, 2010.

JEHLEN, Myra. American Incarnation : The Individual, the Nation, and the Continent. Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 1986.

KAPLAN, Amy and Donald PEASE, editors. Cultures of United States Imperialism. Durham, NC : Duke University Press, 1994.

KIM, Sue J. On Anger : Race, Cognition, Narrative. Austin, TX : University of Texas Press, 2013.

LETHEM, Jonathan. Motherless Brooklyn. New York : Doubleday, 1999.

LEWICKI, Zbigniew. The Bang and the Whimper : Apocalypse and Entropy in American Literature. Westport, CT : Greenwood Press, 1984.

LEWIS, R.W.B. Trials of the Word. New Haven, CT : Yale University Press, 1965.

LOWELL, Robert. Notebook 1967-68. New York : Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1969.

McEWAN, Ian. Enduring Love. London : J. Cape, 1997.

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NALBANTIAN, Suzanne. Memory in Literature : From Rousseau to Neuroscience. London : Palgrave Macmillan, 2003.

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ROTH, Marco. “The Rise of the Neuronovel.” n+1, vol. 8, no. 1, 2009, p. 139-151.

SIMERKA, Barbara. Knowing Subjects : Cognitive Cultural Studies and Early Modern Spanish Literature. West Lafayette, IN : Purdue University Press, 2013.

SKILLMAN, Nikki. The Lyric in the Age of the Brain. Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 2016.

SMITH, Henry Nash. Virgin Land : The American West as Symbol and Myth. 1950. Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 1975.

STARR, G. Gabrielle. Feeling Beauty : The Neuroscience of Aesthetic Experience. Cambridge, MA : The MIT Press, 2013.

TRILLING, Lionel. The Liberal Imagination : Essays on Literature and Society. New York : The Viking Press, 1950.

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NOTES

1. R.W.B. Lewis identifies ten “moments” or phases of apocalypse in the Biblical tradition : “(1) periodic natural disturbances, earthquakes and the like ; (2) the advent and the turbulent reign of the Antichrist or the false Christ or false prophet (sometimes called the period of the Great Tribulation) ; (3) the second coming of Christ and (4) the resultant cosmic warfare (Armageddon)

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that brings in (5) the millennium—that is, from the Latin, the period of one thousand years, the epoch of the Messianic Kingdom upon earth ; thereafter, (6) the gradual degeneration of human and physical nature, the last and worst apostasy (or falling away from God), featured by (7) the second and briefer ‘loosening of Satan’ ; (8) an ultimate catastrophe, the end of the world by fire ; (9) the Last Judgment ; and (10) the appearance of the new heaven and earth” (196-7). 2. In addition to those considered below—Jehlen’s continental geography, Miller’s and Bercovitch’s rhetorical progresses of Puritanism, Smith’s Manifest Destiny narratives—one might add Richard Slotkin’s analysis of frontier violence, Lauren Berlant’s “anatomy of national fantasy,” and Robert Weisbuch’s transatlantic influence model (to name only a few). 3. There are many recent examples beyond the few secondary texts I have highlighted. 2013 was a watershed year for reflections on literature and narrative in the age of neuroscience, including but hardly limited to several book length studies : H. Porter Abbott’s Real Mysteries, Paul B. Armstrong’s How Literature Plays with the Brain, Christopher Collins’s Paleopoetics, David Herman’s Storytelling and the Sciences of Mind, Patrick Colm Hogan’s Ulysses and the Poetics of Cognition, Sue Kim’s On Anger, Barbara Simerka’s Knowing Subjects, and G. Gabrielle Starr’s Feeling Beauty. 4. Several demonstrations with both impaired and unimpaired subjects have been made in support of the “two-stream hypothesis.” An example of the latter includes Aglioti, Goodale, and DeSouza’s 1995 experiment involving “a graspable version of the famous Ebbinghaus or ‘Titchener Circles’ visual illusion in which two central circles are presented, each surrounded by a ring of other circles. In one case, the surrounding circles are larger than the central one. In the other, they are smaller” (Clark 1461). As an optical illusion, subjects routinely misjudge the relative size of the two central circles. However, with a “graspable” version of this set-up, subjects succeeded at forming grips that “perfectly anticipate the true size of the centre discs” (1461). Goodale and Milner later explained that “the conscious scene is computed by the ventral stream in ways that are at liberty to make a variety of assumptions on the basis of visual cues, e.g. attempting to preserve size constancy by treating the smaller circles as probably further away than the larger ones. The dorsal stream, by contrast, uses only the kinds of information that are metrically reliable and that thus present specific opportunities for elegant, fast, metrically accurate diagnosis” (Clark 1461). 5. This is also the title of neuroscientist Gerald Edelman’s 2004 book on consciousness (Wider Than the Sky : The Phenomenal Gift of Consciousness), which was likely Powers’ immediate inspiration.

ABSTRACTS

Frontiers are ubiquitous in Richard Powers’s The Echo Maker (2006). This essay first considers the recurring epistemological frontiers in American literature and culture, including within the scholarly American Studies tradition that located ever-present links between Puritan millennialism, American Romanticism, and the settlement of the American continent. Powers’s novel can be read as one example of an equally rich (though often neglected) counter-tradition that attends to negative spaces of that “unfamiliar here and now” instead of sublime landscapes and the untamed wilderness. Though this counter-tradition is hardly apolitical, it refocuses its politics on the everyday instead of the American millennium, and on the proximate instead of the distant, substituting the imperial appetites of the all-consuming settler subject for the embodied, proprioceptive confusions of the domestic subject. I argue that Powers re-conceives the major American literary-cultural eschatologies that assume a spatial and temporal frontier

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separating the known from the unfamiliar. Here, unknown space is re-encountered as ubiquitous and diffusive, so that one can cross such a frontier into strange, unfamiliar space and time virtually anywhere. In the novel, the passage into an unfamiliar here and now, where governing epistemic paradigms break down, can occur in the middle of “nowhere,” or even in the supposedly happy confines of the middle-class home.

Cet essai aborde The Echo Maker de Richard Powers par le biais de la problématique récurrente des frontières épistémologiques dans la littérature et la culture américaines, notamment à travers la tradition universitaire des American Studies qui ont mis au jour les liens permanents reliant le millénialisme puritain, le romantisme américain et la conquête de l’Ouest. Il suggère que le roman de Powers propose un exemple de la contre-tradition, tout aussi riche mais pourtant souvent peu étudiée, qui s’intéresse aux espaces négatifs de ce que l’on pourrait appeler « l’étrangeté de l’ici et maintenant » plutôt qu’aux paysages sublimes et à la nature sauvage et indomptée. Cette contre-tradition est loin d’être apolitique, mais elle recentre son attention sur le quotidien – en laissant de côté l’exceptionnalisme américain –, sur ce qui est proche et non lointain, remplaçant ainsi l’appétit impérialiste et dévorant des premiers colons par la confusion cognitive, proprioceptive du sujet empêtré dans la domesticité. Powers, ainsi que le montre cet article, envisage d’une nouvelle manière les principaux mouvements eschatologiques américains, littéraires et culturels, et leur postulat de l’existence d’une frontière spatiale et temporelle entre ce qui est familier et ce qui ne l’est pas. Dans ce roman, l’inconnu devient à nouveau omniprésent de telle façon que les personnages peuvent pénétrer virtuellement n’importe où dans un temps et un espace qui ne leur sont plus familiers. Ce passage dans cet « ici et maintenant » où les repères habituels s’effondrent peut donc se produire au milieu de « nulle part », et même au sein du foyer supposément harmonieux de la classe moyenne américaine.

INDEX

Mots-clés: apocalypse, littérature de la frontière, Richard Powers, épistémologie, l’esprit Keywords: apocalypse, frontier literature, Richard Powers, epistemology, mind

AUTHOR

ZACHARY TAVLIN University of Washington

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Writing (at) the End: Thomas Pynchon’s Bleeding Edge

Brian Chappell

1 Thomas Pynchon has spent his career writing about the end of the world, though his novels are anything but ordinary chronicles. This essay will discuss how Pynchon imbues his narratives with a humanistic, “ordinary,” response to the posthuman eschatological milieu he depicts. He does so in his endings, where vulnerability, community, and care for the souls of others take center stage. But these endings obtain their humanism by emerging from an eschatological atmosphere. Pynchon’s eschatology is often viewed in two ways. On the one hand, he depicts eschatological events, such as the falling of the rocket in Gravity’s Rainbow or the Tunguska Event in Against the Day, among many others. Alongside eschatological events, Pynchon also depicts an eschatological process. Pynchon’s earlier work exhibited a preoccupation with entropy, a process whereby the universe, and, by extension, human life reaches its natural and unavoidable end. Recently, however, Pynchon has been more directly concerned with world domination, the incremental folding of diversity under an umbrella of technocratic control. So Mason & Dixon depicts the devastation that began with the first charting of the American landscape; Against the Day chronicles the final conquest of industrial capitalism; Inherent Vice continues Vineland’s theme of the lost opportunity that was the 1960s. In Bleeding Edge, one encounters both kinds of eschatological narrative. The novel depicts the events of September 11, 2001, which heralded a new eschatological mindset. But the “atrocity,” as it is called in the novel, also occurs amid the backdrop of the dot-com meltdown of the late 1990s, whereby the Internet, formerly a bastion of freedom and anonymity, comes under the control of corporate and governmental enterprises. In each of these novels, Pynchon posits a human response, a way of proceeding in the face of these faceless forces. Such a response has been the object of some critical debate, with some lauding Pynchon’s humanism, others lamenting a perceived stance of despair, and others balking at his political naïveté. This essay falls decidedly in the first category, but for perhaps unexpected reasons.

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Eschatological Process and Its Discursive Manifestations

2 Before we can arrive at a discussion of Pynchon’s humanism, however, we must account for the fact that his humanism is, to borrow the phrase of Antonio Barrenechea, “hard-won” (5). In order to exercise his “mighty powers of consolation” (Lethem), Pynchon first exposes his readers—painstakingly, some argue—to the eschatological process that defines the age. This process contains two components: what we might call epochal shift and ontological pluralism. More so than any other American author of the twentieth century, Pynchon documents in fiction the tectonic movements of American history, to the extent that his entire oeuvre can be viewed as a historical meta-text.1 Each novel within this meta-text depicts a moment of dramatic (and usually catastrophic) change, from the moment that America was first mapped by Europeans, to the onslaught of world wars and subsequent multi-national efforts to control the world, to the failed promise of the 1960s, to the reining-in of the Internet. The epochal shifts these novels depict are open wounds, and Pynchon’s extended exploration of them leaves little room for hope, to say nothing of optimism. In general, these shifts are points that mark a movement from the openness of the world to its domination.2

3 Embedded within these macro-narratives of epochal shifts are micro-level narratives that spool out multiple worlds, both possible and impossible, human and inhuman. These worlds arrive in uncanny and modally illogical fashion, as intruding narrative levels, or ontological rabbit holes, fever dreams, or entire subterranean off-grid societies, imperceptible by the un-vigilant or too-tightly wound. They are spaces of play, freedom, privacy, and community; they are manifestations of what John McClure calls Pynchon’s “radically pluralistic, exuberantly reenchanted universe” (McClure 28). They are spaces of resistance to (or perhaps blissful ignorance of) a burgeoning world order bent on control. On the other side of the apocalyptic march of American history is the possibility of apotheosis, of discovering an alternative universe in which peace is possible, the “grace” toward which the Chums of Chance fly at the close of Against the Day (Pynchon, Against the Day, 1085).3

4 These categories of epochal shift and ontological pluralism unfold in dialogic tension throughout Pynchon’s novels. As the world changes on a global scale in the direction of total control, the vast diversity of creation adapts, survives, hides, escapes, or disappears. This tension is reflected discursively as well, in an overwhelming polyphony, a multi-voiced chorus hindering the possibility of identifying a unifying creator. In this way, Pynchon’s novels are Bakhtinian dialogues, dramatizing the interplay of monologic and dialogic voices. Particularly useful is Bakhtin’s notion of centripetal and centrifugal forces, i.e., the forces that attempt to control, align, and dominate juxtaposed with the infinitely expanding, spiraling, and inter-combining forces of freedom and dialogue. The point is that these forces constantly vie: “Alongside the centripetal forces, the centrifugal forces of language carry on their uninterrupted work; alongside verbal-ideological centralization and unification, the uninterrupted processes of decentralization and disunification go forward” (Bakhtin 272). Bakhtin’s insights are globally-minded; within any given society, the linguistic forces of what he calls ideological saturation clash with linguistic forces of ideological and social stratification. For Bakhtin the micro-locus of this tension is the utterance:

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“Every concrete utterance of a speaking subject serves as a point where centrifugal as well as centripetal forces are brought to bear. The process of centralization and decentralization, of unification and disunification, intersect in the utterance” (272). In this sense, a Pynchon novel is a Bakhtinian utterance writ extra-large. It is the locus of a cosmic struggle between top-down saturation and bottom-up stratification. On the one hand is the linear progression of epochal shifts toward domination; on the other is the proliferation of worlds in a centrifugal plurality.

Writing (at) the End: A Rhetorical Approach

5 In his review of Bleeding Edge, Albert Rolls confirms that “[t]o look for closure in such a mystery would be to expect Pynchon to have taken on the role of soothsayer rather than novelist.” Indeed, Pynchon’s fictions seem to be the embodiment of “unfinalizability” (a term Bakhtin uses frequently to describe the consequence of the dialogic tension described above). The style and structure of his novels, as they unfold in this dialogic tension, elude pinpointed explanations (in turn giving rise to a robust critical industry). Still, all novels have a beginning, middle, and end. Though Pynchon’s works are long, labyrinthine, loquacious, and vexing, they still can correspond to certain assumptions of novel reading. One such assumption Peter Rabinowitz develops is his conception of privileged positions, structural nodes within a text that crystallize its over-arching significance. Examples of privileged positions are beginnings and endings, as well as titles, epigraphs, and other surrounding texts. Rabinowitz asserts that [p]lacement in such a position does more than ensure that certain details will remain more firmly in our memory. Furthermore, such placement affects both concentration and scaffolding: attention during the act of reading will, in part, be concentrated on what we have found in those positions, and our sense of the text’s meaning will be influenced by our assumption that the author expected us to end up with an interpretation that could account more fully for these details than for details elsewhere. (Rabinowitz 300)

6 Pynchon’s novels are often read in a discursively plural fashion (where scholars can focus on one or another aspect of Pynchon’s range). They are also read as correlatives to poststructuralist theory, insofar as they purport the perpetual deferral of transcendent meaning. There is fertile critical ground, therefore, to read Pynchon rhetorically, in this case focusing on zones (to use a famous Pynchon term) of intentionality, where Pynchon seems to speak more directly, more urgently.

7 I will focus on Pynchon’s endings, given this issue of Transatlantica and its interest in endings broadly construed. I will argue that Pynchon’s endings convey most clearly and ardently his “hard-won humanism” and exhibit his “mighty powers of consolation.” Pynchon’s endings are not dramatic, in an Aristotelian sense. His novels are more often than not plotless, and whatever plots have arisen unwind and dissolve, rather than come to fruition. Readers can be left with a feeling of lapse, whereby mystery endures and the stage is cleared. These unwindings can last upwards of a hundred pages or more, but the reader senses their onset, as the questions that preoccupied earlier zones of the text are no longer raised, and no longer register as pertinent. The game is reset in a fallout space, which many interpret, counter to my assertions, to be the space of total desolation.

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8 Pynchon clears the stage in such a way in order to crystallize his humanistic response. He creates an opportunity to use the rhetorically privileged position of the ending to posit something that can last beyond the book and remain in the reader’s consciousness. There are many ways to describe what happens in these zones, but I want to describe it as a move from spiritualism to spirituality. The term spirituality, which might be (very) generally defined as the intentional and deliberate cultivation of spiritual gifts, opens possibilities for important new readings of Pynchon in a changing world.4 Scholars of Bleeding Edge have noted the novel’s emphasis (carried on from recent works, especially Against the Day) on such concepts as trust, interdependence, responsibility,5 and innocence. 6 To think of these and other concepts as more than literary themes and rather as spiritual gifts that can be grown and passed on to others is to extend the discussion of Pynchon’s place as a postsecular author, a discussion begun by John McClure and others. Religion has played a significant role in Pynchon’s work across his career, sometimes prominently, as Kathryn Hume has pointed out in reference to the Catholic themes of Against the Day. But to focus on references to specific religions alone misses the opportunity to view Pynchon’s larger spiritual outlook, which is cosmic and karmic, and contains activities and stances that might be interpreted as secular and “merely” literary. But they take on new dimensions when discussed in the context of spirituality and postsecular life. We arrive at a more accurate assessment of Pynchon’s worldview.

9 As discussed, at the level of narrative Pynchon counters epochal movements toward rationalism and domination with manifestations of the irrational, supernatural, mysterious, etc. But by the close of his novels, this tension recedes, and Pynchon asserts the possibility of real human wisdom to respond to (not necessarily solve or defeat, simply respond to) the machinations of control. This wisdom—this spirituality— takes a simple form. In the face of overwhelming power, readers are left with images of shared vulnerability, which leads to communion. Basic helplessness brings people to each other, in the form of family primarily, but also companionship more broadly construed. Examples abound in what we might call Pynchon’s “long endings.” The following discusses how Bleeding Edge continues that trend.

Bleeding Edge: From Spiritualism to Spirituality

10 By the end of Bleeding Edge, what has happened? What story has been told? Amid the emotional, social, and political fallout of 9/11, Maxine Tarnow, a private fraud investigator and the novel’s protagonist, comes to perceive connections among the moneyed and powerful that created fertile conditions for 9/11, if not outright facilitated it. Her romantic involvement with Nicholas Windust, a career assassin who has worn many hats both inside and outside of government, leads to her complicity in his assassination and the consequent endangerment of her own children. New York and the world have yet to settle on a collective narrative about what has happened and what must be done, and so pockets of resistance and dissidence persist around the city.7 In terms of the dialogic factors discussed above, the novel’s generic presentation offers an interesting view. Since Bleeding Edge is ostensibly a take on the private-eye novel (altogether not inconsistent with Pynchon’s previous forays into the genre in The Crying of Lot 49 and Inherent Vice), there are fewer digressions and tangents—at every turn something pertinent occurs. This phenomenon is emphasized to an almost comic

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degree, as Maxine seems to encounter just the person she needs to see whenever she leaves her apartment. The effect is that the reader’s mind is trained on the central problems of the narrative, with the playful Pynchonian asides appearing only ever so briefly. It is a plot-oriented novel, and this mode conveys Pynchon’s sense of urgency at the level of theme, themes of human connection and communal care.8

11 These themes unfold in the dialogue between the geopolitical turmoil of the surface world and the ongoing reining-in of the Deep Web. Gabriel Ice, the novel’s billionaire antagonist, embodies this movement, as he has a hand (it seems) both in the attacks and (more directly) in the conquest of the Internet, in this case, the web space DeepArcher, the creation of Maxine’s friends Luke and Justin. Given these two tectonic movements of the novel—the rise of the War on Terror and the control of the Internet —Jason Siegel offers the most succinct account of Pynchon’s main thematic preoccupation: “What do the Internet and 9/11 have in common? As Maxine Tarnow discovers, the answer is that they both offered the hope for positive change and liberation, but instead became coercive instruments of control” (Siegel). These two epochal shifts collude to dismantle the possibility of ontological pluralism, leaving us in a posthuman landscape under the domination of, to use Pynchon’s famous term, an ever-broadening and more formidable “Them.”

12 Maxine’s father Ernie articulates this problem near the end of the novel. He and Maxine are sharing a late-night moment as she deals with the loss of Windust. When she raises the topic of his experience during the Cold War, he delivers this discourse: [Y]our Internet was their invention, this magical convenience that creeps now like a smell through the smallest details of our lives, the shopping, the housework, the homework, the taxes, absorbing our energy, eating up our precious time. And there’s no innocence. Anywhere. Never was. It was conceived in sin, the worst possible. As it kept growing, it never stopped carrying in its heart a bitter-cold death wish for the planet, and don’t think anything has changed, kid… Call it freedom, it’s based on control. Everybody connected together, impossible anybody should get lost, ever again. Take the next step, connect it to these cell phones, you’ve got a total Web of surveillance, inescapable…What they dream about at the Pentagon, worldwide martial law. (Pynchon, Bleeding Edge 420)

13 Pynchon has Maxine reply, in a self-conscious gesture, “So this is where I get my paranoia from” (420). Indeed, Ernie echoes many Pynchon characters and readers alike, who seek a conspiracy behind cultural shifts and historical events, who seek an evil entity to point to as the cause of their woes. Regardless of one’s degree of paranoia about these things, it is possible to agree that 9/11 was presented, re-presented, and then narrativized in such a way to serve the purpose of bringing the “viewing population […] back to its default state, dumb struck, undefended, scared shitless” (321). The purpose of the martial rhetoric on the part of the Bush Administration and others, using Cold War terminology such as Ground Zero, was “to get people cranked up in a certain way. Cranked up scared, and hopeless” (328). Ernie seems to be responding to this atmosphere in his “paranoid” interpretation. But the novel’s depiction of 9/11 raises questions about how the event and its aftermath were re- packaged in national(ist) discourse in order to generate a feeling of helplessness and dependency. A manufacturing of fear.

14 Siegel is the critic who has gone furthest to read this problem directly into Pynchon’s project in Bleeding Edge.9 He connects both the geopolitical response to 9/11 and the market assimilation of the Internet to the broader process of the posthumanization of

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American (and eventually global) society. “On the whole,” Siegel argues, “the novel’s plot tells the story of increasing corporate and government domination of the individual by means of the Internet technologies that make us posthuman.” In this way, the response to 9/11 is a symptom of the broader march toward total control. The novel “reveal[s] that we are all already cyborgs, that meatspace is cyberspace, and that our posthuman ontology leaves us increasingly susceptible to and complicit in the domination of the corporations, governments, and law enforcement agencies of late capitalism” (Siegel).10 Siegel sees in Bleeding Edge a culmination of Pynchon’s career- long charting of the American apocalypse, which began to unfold at the moment of European contact centuries ago. In the Internet, he perceives the tool for subjugating ordinary people. The end of the world has arrived, not in the form of an apocalyptic event, but in the form of human transformation, a final surrender.

15 But Siegel and others discuss the “ordinary chronicle” that is told within this apocalypse. In Ernie’s speech, Siegel perceives Pynchon’s consistent focus on the family as an antidote to global forces of control. He reminds us that “[t]he idea of the family as a saving grace from the rationalization, regimentation, surveillance, control, and dehumanization that result from the development of technological global capitalism has been a recurring theme in each of Pynchon’s novels since and including Vineland” (Siegel). In Bleeding Edge, a focus on family life in fact bookends the novel, further emphasizing its importance. The opening image, another privileged position, depicts the beginning of an ordinary day in the life of Maxine and her children: “It’s the first day of spring 2001, and Maxine Tarnow, though some still have her in their system as Loeffler, is walking her boys to school. Yes maybe they’re past the age where they need an escort, maybe Maxine doesn’t want to let go just yet, it’s only a couple blocks, it’s on her way to work, she enjoys it, so?” (1). Not only is this image one of family togetherness and nostalgia for more direct and necessary caregiving, but also the style itself introduces the reader to the closeness with which Pynchon’s narrator will follow Maxine. The reader experiences her thought process as she experiences it, her tender rationalizations for continuing to accompany her boys around the block. The reader gains access to some valences of her vulnerability.

16 In the final moments of the novel, this image returns, but with a new feeling. After a final encounter with March, Tallis, and Gabriel Ice, Maxine realizes that she has forgotten whose turn it is to get the boys to school. When she encounters the boys, they are ready to go, but this time without her aid: “Guess I’m running a little late, guys.” “Go to your room,” Otis shrugging into his backpack and out the door, “you are, like, so grounded.” Ziggy surprising her with an unsolicited kiss, “See you later at pickup, OK?” “Give me a second, I’ll be right with you.” “It’s all right, Mom. We’re good.” “I know you are, Zig, that’s the trouble.” But she waits in the doorway as they go down the hall. Neither looks back. She can watch them to the elevator at least. (Pynchon, Bleeding Edge 476-7)

17 So concludes the novel. The boys’ outgrowing of their mother reflects the onset of adolescence that has characterized them across the novel. But this desire for independence is especially noteworthy in light of the foiled attack on them, as retribution for Windust’s murder. Maxine has just experienced the ordeal of realizing that her own actions have rendered her family a target, which in turn yields the broader existential realization that safety (and innocence, to echo discussions across

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the novel) is an illusion. So when Maxine claims to “know” that her sons are “all right,” she is not referring to their security, but to their goodness. Pynchon plays on the word “good” here. The boys convey they are “good” in a slang sense, as in, they can handle walking to school themselves. But the reader, prompted by Maxine, understands the philosophical connotation as well. Though the boys are growing into young adulthood, they are, indeed, still good. This dual meaning of “good” invokes in both usages the real “trouble”—the inevitability of vulnerability.11 The boys may be “good” deep down, but, for Maxine at least, they are not “good” in the sense that they are ever totally safe and secure.

18 In his review of the novel, Joshua Cohen emphasizes the theme of family. He concludes the piece with a suggestion for how to read Pynchon’s humanism across his works: Bleeding Edge […] offers an indication that Pynchon has finally given up on seeking the soul of the nation his family helped found. For Pynchon—the embattled bard of the counterculture, disabused of all allegiance—the last redoubt has become the family, and the last war to be waged is between our virtual identities and the bonds of blood; a war to keep the Virtual from corrupting the Blood, if not forever, then for time enough to let the lil’ Ziggy and Otis Tarnow-Loefflers of this world live with the merest pretense of freedom (childhood). Pynchon understands that in the future there will be no secrets, no hidden complots—everything will be aired and any second life, whether in the cloud or in the firmament, will be despoiled or denied us. Adult sanity, then, must depend not on the lives we make online, but on the lives we make off it—our kids—on how we love them, and how we raise them, and the virtues and good-taste imperatives we pass on to them from our F0 F0 progenitors 5B …5D The online moguls have tried to persuade us that we’re not losing a nation, we’re gaining a world. Pynchon proposes that both are mere second lives, fakes. Only family is real. (Cohen 105)

19 Like Siegel, Cohen perceives a certain finality to Bleeding Edge. His positing of “Virtual” and “Blood” as proper nouns crystallizes a key spiritual conflict of our times. Cohen, whose novel Book of Numbers addresses the consequences of the rise of the Internet, here chooses sides in a rhetorical flourish, in a way, one might argue, that only a journalistic platform such as Harper’s can provide.

20 Siegel, writing in Orbit, an online journal devoted to Pynchon studies, also perceives a sense of finality, but, unlike Cohen, he believes that time has run out, that, to echo the title of his essay, “Meatspace is Cyberspace” (my emphasis). The worlds of the Virtual and of Blood have already blended to the point of becoming indistinguishable. Consequently, “as the end of the novel demonstrates, the family structure offers only a provisional and dubious refuge from the posthuman condition because the family is always potentially under attack” (Siegel). This is true in Ziggy and Otis’ case, but, Siegel seems to be suggesting, the point holds for all of us. For Siegel, the only possible response to the “posthuman condition” is vigilance, and he reads this point into the novel’s conclusion: If, by the end of the novel, Maxine has failed to disrupt the machinations of Gabriel Ice and the U.S. government, then she has at least gained an awareness of the status of the posthuman subject and its location within a society of control. In the novel’s opening, Maxine, imagining herself and her children as classical humanist subjects, accompanies her sons to school through the already automated New York City streets, frightened of all the physical dangers the world poses to Ziggy and Otis. At the end of the novel, Maxine lets her boys walk to school alone, but more importantly, the nature of her protective fears has changed. As Ziggy and Otis stand like conjoined towers both in “their virtual hometown of Zigotisopolis” and in their living room on the novel’s final pages, Maxine recognizes that they are not

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susceptible only to the attacks of the muggers, child molesters, violent criminals, stray bullets, and errant traffic. Now she must also worry that her sons—like the Twin Towers they resemble—may be “blown to pixels.” (Siegel)

21 This unsettled vulnerability, only exacerbated over the course of the novel, constitutes for Siegel “ordinary life.” And so prevails a disagreement about Pynchon’s belief in the potential of ordinariness. Cohen would have us believe that “Blood” offers refuge, perhaps even resistance, to the movements of the current climate. Siegel, on the other hand, posits that the end has already come, and it is too late to turn to the exhausted avenues of human community.12 There arises from this divergence of opinion an opportunity for further discernment of Pynchon’s intentionality by the end of Bleeding Edge.

22 Pynchon’s endings posit a move from spiritualism to spirituality. If his novels chart epochal shifts that push the human race toward domination, then their privileged positions, in which reside a heightened clarity of message, convey the embrace of inadequacy. Alternatives diminish, possible worlds disappear. What remains, to borrow Cohen’s phrase, is “adult sanity.” Cohen paints adult sanity as a commitment to family, to “Blood.” Within this ethic of inadequacy many spiritual gifts arise, namely mutual care in shared vulnerability, consisting of tenderness, cheer, and at times defensiveness with the threat of potentially righteous violence, to which we can add Benea’s elaboration of Hassan’s concept of trust and Maguire’s interest in innocence, responsibility, and atonement. These concepts apply not only to “Blood,” but they work to extend the concept of family into a broader community, evidenced by Maxine’s work with her network of friends, especially in the latter third of the novel.

23 The rest of this essay will unpack what such spiritual gifts look and feel like for Pynchon. We can proceed from the assumption that Siegel’s emphasis on awareness alone only repackages the paranoia for which Pynchon became famous. Though Gourley argues that “a decade after 9/11, paranoia is the more compelling perception of the internet’s surveillance potential and ubiquity” (73), Cohen and others want to go deeper. There is an opportunity to dig beneath paranoia and discover a more firmly rooted humanism.

From Helplessness to Help

24 In Pynchon’s fiction, helplessness accompanies awareness. This trend continues in Bleeding Edge, in discussions of how the powerful have shaped the narrative of the 11 September attacks in the direction of propaganda and warmongering. Characters who embody resistance, such as Heidi and especially March, find themselves defeated and marginalized. But Maxine’s example offers a way of being that productively combines strength and vulnerability, one which turns the latter into a strength. When Maxine is in this mode, Pynchon often refers to her as a “Jewish Mother,” a colloquialism describing more her tendency to worry about and to care for those around her rather than her religious identity. We have already acknowledged the novel’s ability to produce characters at precisely the moment Maxine needs to see them. In this hardboiled genre, the vertiginous landscape of New York is reduced to a tight network, which increases the pace of the plot. The chance encounters occur with such frequency that they seem ridiculous. But more than advance the pace of the plot, these encounters emphasize the theme of community, which becomes a sacred kind of

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communion through acts of mutual care. If we chart some of these relationships, we see how Maxine’s conception of herself as a mother extends beyond her nuclear household and points toward an ordinariness that copes with the eschatological atmosphere of the twenty-first century.13

25 There are several examples of Maxine’s care of those in her extended network. She consoles Heidi in her rage, and she eventually helps to set her up with Conkling. She welcomes Eric Outfield and Cassidy into her home after the attacks. She cares for the McElmo children as Vyrna, Justin, and Lucas deal with the challenges facing DeepArcher. She assuages family political tensions as her sister and brother-in-law return from a mysterious government-related mission in Israel. She looks out for Reg Despard as he makes his escape from Gabriel Ice. She actively mourns for Lester Traipse, even (perhaps especially) as she is being raped by his murderer. She welcomes Horst back into her home after the attacks (which he escaped by a stroke of strange luck) despite his buffoonish and cheating ways. Her feelings for Windust are cast as a desire to change him (and she perceives in him a desire to change), to save his soul from murdering once and for all. In these cases, Pynchon uses focalization to emphasize the bonds of affection that Maxine has cultivated with these characters. More than vehicles for plot advancement, and more than manifestations of one theme or another, these are human beings of real importance for Maxine, people who turn to her in times of need.

26 At the end of the novel, this spiritual mode is emphasized. Chapters 39 through 41, which conclude the novel, consist of nothing other than Maxine putting right her relationships with vulnerable friends, whom she now treats as family. We have already seen the concluding image with her sons. The scenes directly preceding that conclusion are characterized by a similar openness, vulnerability, and care. And each encounter arises outside of Maxine’s expectations; people seem to be sent to her, in chance encounters not unlike those that have occurred throughout the novel. These encounters share a certain set of characteristics, a thematic trajectory. They depict the setting right of relationships, a healing that takes place through food, conversation, walking, and travel around the city. These encounters are undertaken in the spirit of new understanding; Maxine and others begin to see that there are benevolent forces in the universe that have their own way of setting right human affairs on the side of good, despite whatever writing is on the wall. This recognition exposes the relative futility of violent resistance, which is diffused in one farcical attempt at sabotage, and then in a climactic moment of direct conflict.

27 Maxine’s encounter with Windust’s ex-wife Xiomara is perhaps most surprising. She emerges unbidden from the subway, which bears “messengers from whatever the Beyond has for a Third World” (439) with the money that Windust owes Maxine. In this moment of spiritual openness beneath the streets, it seems to Maxine that “Nick Windust has staggered forth again from the grave, hungry, unappeasable” (440). But rather than haunt Maxine through romantic rivalry, Xiomara offers consolation. She echoes Maxine’s desire to change Windust: “I loved him. I must have thought I could save him. And in the end it was Windust who saved me” (443). Windust literally saved Xiomara from Guatemala, but she is speaking in spiritualistic terms. She uses this tone to describe Windust’s cosmic fate; Windust has been claimed by the Guatemalan underworld Xibalba, “where another Windust was doing the things he was pretending not to do up here” (443), an “evil twin” (446) who eventually won the struggle for

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Windust’s soul. As they walk together from Brooklyn to Ground Zero, a sort of walking meditation, Xiomara reveals that Windust visited Ground Zero “more than once […] haunting the site. Unfinished business, he told her” (446). He became a ghost before the end of his life, uncertain about what kind of business he still needed to conduct. And he could not be saved. In this way Xiomara characterizes Windust in mythical terms, and she expresses a belief in other worlds which are made up of forces that balance the scales of wrongdoing in this one. She is Pynchonian through and through, emerging from and receding to a hazy space, confirming its existence, however contingent it is in present consciousness. In this case that space can be thought of as both a mythological otherworld and the world of espionage, politics, and warfare, itself a blurry ontological zone.

28 But Xiomara’s appearance in Maxine’s life also offers the kind of consolation that Maxine craves. At the end of the chapter, she lies in bed “trying to summon back something invisible and weightless and inaccountable as his spirit” (447). She attempts to conjure a remnant of his being from the underworld, but she is only able to articulate, “just before drifting downward into REM, good night. Good night, Nick” (447). Though Xiomara mythologized Windust, Maxine’s final communication with the dead is a motherly salutation, a farewell that is not necessarily permanent, but tender in its longing to understand and remember. Without Xiomara’s entrance into Maxine’s life, however brief their bond was, Maxine may have continued to wallow in her grief, without an outlet, without insight.

29 The appearance of Xiomara in the underworld of New York may strike the reader as an another example of coincidence cast as spiritualism, and her discussions of Windust’s soul seem mythologized and superstitious. But most noteworthy about this encounter is that it is a gesture of friendship, which overcomes rivalry and intends to heal. Maxine is transformed by her day with Xiomara, insofar as she is able to offer a goodbye to Windust at the chapter’s end. Spiritualism is diminished and a spirituality rooted in companionship (however brief) prevails. A similar transformation takes place in the final two chapters of the book. Chapter 40 in fact can be viewed as a precursor for Chapter 41, in that it contains a futile gesture of resistance in the form of the farcical attempt by Misha and Grisha to kidnap Tallis and send an electric pulse through Ice’s server in Poughkeepsie. That the attempt is barely noticed, “dropped into media oblivion” (468), signals, at this late stage of the novel, that resistance in the form of violence or sabotage has become (perhaps has always been) ineffectual.

30 The clearing away of resistance of this type, though potentially disheartening, creates space within the narrative for Maxine, Tallis, and March to reconnect. As it does so, it introduces a more cosmic view of power and resistance. Tallis’ current boyfriend Chazz, an Ice stooge who installs cables, puts it this way: Fiber’s real, you pull it through a conduit, you hang it, you bury it and splice it. It weighs somethin. Your husband’s rich, maybe even smart, but he’s like all you people, livin in this dream, up in the clouds, floatin in the bubble, think ‘at’s real, think again. It’s only gonna be there as long the power’s on. What happens when the grid goes dark? Generator fuel runs out and they shoot down the satellites, bomb the operation centers, and you’re all back down to planet Earth again. All that jabberin about nothing, all ‘at shit music, all ‘em links, down, down and gone. (465)

31 Though Misha and Grisha’s sabotage attempt registers little more than a blip, Chazz perceives the inevitability of a fall. His perception is rooted both in a sense of technological entropy (the march to posthumanism is unnatural and doomed) as well

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as a sense of karma, in which those who occupy a dreamlike vision of reality will be brought back into the fold. The world that Ice and his cohort have built seems to have violated the natural order.

32 Maxine is attracted to this idea, and she sees Misha and Grisha in a new light, as “surfers from some strange Atlantic coast…waiting for the wave no one else besides Chazz and maybe a couple others see coming” (465). The wave, for those who resist, is one of hope. It cannot be forced prematurely; rather it rises from a benevolent unseen force that sets right a broken cosmos. These insights lead Maxine to rethink broader effects of Misha and Grisha’s mission: Like UFO sightings, the night’s events enter the realm of faith. Hill-country tavern regulars will testify that out to some unknown radius into the Adirondacks that night, all television screens went apocalyptically dark—third-act movie crises, semifamous girls in tiny outfits and spike heels schlepping somebody’s latest showbiz project, sports highlights, infomercials for miracle appliances and herbal restorers of youth, sitcom reruns from more hopeful days, all forms of reality in which the basic unit is the pixel, all of it one down within a sigh into the frozen midwatch hour. Maybe it was only the failure of one repeater up on a ridgeline, but it might as well have been the world that got reset, for that brief cycle, to the slow drumbeat of Iroquois pre-history. (Pynchon, Bleeding Edge 468)

33 Maxine’s doors of ontological perception are widening. She is developing a belief in a karmic reset, the inevitability of benevolence, which can counteract the seeming inevitability of the posthuman future. As Maxine accompanies Tallis and March in an all-night journey toward healing, instead of lamenting the impotence of facing power and technology, she understands that even the smallest disruption is an invitation to imagine how the world might be, if only one tunes herself to the right channel.

34 In this way too the spirituality of interpersonal healing takes on the tone of the healing of the universe. Chazz, who articulates an aspect of that worldview, also offers plainspoken advice to Tallis about her mother: Your mama is the most important person in your life. The only one who can get the potatoes mashed exactly the way you need ‘em to be. Only one who understood when you started hangin with people she couldn’t stand. Lied about your age down to the multiplex so’s you could go watch ‘em teenage slasher movies together. She’ll be gone soon enough, appreciate her while you can. (Pynchon, Bleeding Edge 466)

35 In the urgency of their respective positions, March and Tallis turn to each other. They begin the work of forging new bonds that are aligned with the cosmic bond created by motherhood. This bond is expanded to include the bonds between women in general, who rely on each other to resist male domination. These compatible spiritual forces— the interpersonal and the cosmic—characterize their final encounter with Gabriel Ice. When Ice rears his hand to slap Tallis, Maxine already has her gun pulled on him. Ice’s response reflects the attitude of the technocratic class: “It doesn’t happen,” he declares in the face of the Beretta, “I don’t die. There’s no scenario where I die” (473). Here Ice articulates another vision of the cosmos, the invincibility of power, the push toward immortality that is increasingly characteristic of the billionaire class. But Maxine’s reply is rooted not only in the here-and-now justice of a loaded gun. Rather, she says, “ [A]nd the reason you don’t die? is that you come to your senses. Start thinking about this on a larger time scale and, most important, walk away” (473). Maxine offers a playful reversal of the Western-style threat. Instead of promising retribution, she invites reflection and transformation. At the moment when concrete resistance in fact

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becomes possible, Maxine chooses to continue her recent trend of healing and perspective.

36 Maxine invites Ice to return to the world of the human, echoing Chazz’ prediction. She recognizes that conventional violence will not bring him down; only some sort of human(e) conversion can set right what he has caused. Maxine already perceives that the cards are stacked too highly against him at this point: “He’ll keep running cost- benefit workups and find that there’s too many people coming at him from too many different directions […] he can’t buy them all off […] if he has any sense, he’ll pack up and split for someplace in Antarctica” (475), in the process restoring Kennedy to his mother Tallis. Though both Ice and Maxine had the capability to kill each other in this climactic moment, Maxine’s invitation to re-evaluate his character (arguably more so than her Beretta trained on his face) causes him to back off. Though he vows revenge, and though Maxine understands that “He’ll be back. Nothing’s over” (475), she (as did Chazz) perceives the inevitability of his return “back down on planet Earth again” (465).

37 From this encounter the final scenes of the novel unfold. The thematic stage is set: interpersonal bonding and a recognition of karmic forces diminish the feasibility—and the desirability—of conventional resistance in the present. A new spirituality is required. The final images of the novel solidify these ideas. As Ice peels away and the trio resumes its bonding over food and conversation, Pynchon’s narrator focuses on a pastoral image that contains the complexity of hope and ephemerality that has characterized recent events: “pear trees have exploded into bloom…for now the brightness in the street is from flowers on trees whose shadows are texturing the sidewalk. It’s their moment, the year’s great pivot, it’ll last for a few days, then all collect in the gutters” (475-6). From this image, Maxine leaves March and Tallis and returns to Horst, with whom she has reconciled: “There is nobody but you, Horst. Emotionally challenged fuckin ox. Never will be” (467). She chooses reconciliation, all around. We arrive then at the concluding image, the departure of Ziggy and Otis—alone —to school. Pynchon’s narrator describes them as caught in the same web between hope and danger: The boys have been waiting for her, and of course that’s when she flashes back to not so long ago down in DeepArcher, down in their virtual hometown of Zigotisopolis, both of them standing just like this, folded in just this precarious light, ready to step out into their peaceable city, still safe from the spiders and bots that one day too soon will be coming for it, to claim-jump it in the name of the indexed world. (476)

38 These final moments are in the hands of the boys themselves, who are good, and that is the trouble. Maxine is wiser, from many angles. In the closing stretch of the novel, her work of investigating invisible power structures becomes the work of helping souls, forging bonds, (re)establishing communities. The ominous world of terror and war, and the virtual world beneath it, recede, and a perception of even broader cosmic forces arises. This recognition solidifies family bonds. While Cohen’s appeal to “Blood” is compelling, the conclusion of Bleeding Edge expands the notion of family beyond “Blood” and into the realm of spirit.

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Conclusion: A Postsecular Approach

39 One may argue, however, that references to spirituality are unnecessary to describe the type of emotional journey these characters undergo. In fact, it might even be fruitful to place these dynamics outside of Pynchon’s fantastical depictions of religiosity and spiritualism. Why confuse these spheres and risk conflating them? It may be just as productive to speak of these themes as one does in literary contexts: these are literary themes related to character development and plot. But to speak of spirituality at the end of Bleeding Edge is to place these themes into dialogue with the forces of epochal shift and ontological pluralism that threaten to dominate Pynchon’s dramatic universe and critical discussions of it. A wide definition of spirituality and postsecularism makes room for a holistic approach to Pynchon’s response to what he perceives as invisible forces that move history. With this kind of reading, we can look to reinvigorate the discussion of Pynchon’s work.

40 Within the burgeoning field of postsecular literary studies, John McClure offers an important two-part understanding of Pynchon’s spiritual outlook. On the one hand of course is “ontological pluralism,” a phrase not coined by McClure but one that he uses overtly to describe Pynchon’s depictions of worlds. McClure perceives in Pynchon’s work a “radically pluralistic, exuberantly reenchanted universe” which is “seriously engaged in challenging secular constructions of reality” (28). On the other hand, the second part of his discussion of Pynchon’s postsecular worldview acknowledges what this essay has argued thus far: that the existence of alternative worlds alone is insufficient to the task of resisting the forces of domination that oppose them. Even more central to Pynchon’s spiritual project, McClure argues, is what he calls “preterite spirituality” (48). Within a preterite spirituality, nothing less occurs than the “reciprocal process of self-dismantling and communion with others” (45) that characterizes the spiritual traditions of the world’s major religions. The result is a “deliberate” or “productive weakening” (12-13) which provides “grounding for belief in real but limited sources of spiritual support, for commitment to the good of others and the planet, and for acceptance of the stubborn imperfection, impurity, and mortality of human seeing and being” (17). Communities form around this deliberate weakening, which are indeed […] communities of resistance, but they are founded in and seek to foster F0 F0 dispositions that reflect a sense of human limitation and historical caution 5B … 5D they are dedicated to local efforts at survival, self-transformation, and face-to-face service, and while they testify against systematic forms of injustice, they have no strongly articulated political agenda. (McClure 20)

41 In short, Pynchon “emphasizes the role of spirituality in forging sustainable communities of survival and resistance” (49). Acknowledging this aspect of Pynchon’s writing has important potential for how we read his novels. We are able to dissociate them from poststructuralist and postmodernist readings that are focused on “secular forms of political analysis and intervention” (49) and bring them into discussions of the human experience at the millennium. Critics such as Benea and Maguire acknowledge that new readings of Pynchon are required to match the new kind of fiction he is writing. Rather than label Bleeding Edge (or Inherent Vice, for that matter) as “Pynchon in a minor key” (Barrenechea 5), we should label his recent work as Pynchon in a post- postmodernist, and, I argue, a postsecularist key. Would that our readings of him followed suit. Nothing less is at stake than the survival of Pynchon and Pynchon studies

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in the twenty-first century, where literary readership and, we might as well face it, literary studies are on the wane.

42 McClure focuses his discussion on Vineland, another apology for Blood—it depicts the recovery of family in an ontologically plural world under attack from “Them.” We might also argue that Bleeding Edge, as it takes place within a similar cultural milieu, is still “at once a political novel and a novel of spiritual formation” (58). The spirit takes the form of community and communion, whereby ordinary people eat, talk, listen, and generally care for one another. In his later work, Pynchon has emphasized the spirituality of human connection. In the era of Donald Trump, Pynchon’s depictions of female friendship and family bonds ring with renewed urgency. As the machinations of lying regimes are increasingly laid bare, as the world consequently feels more eschatological and apocalyptic, Pynchon posits that we turn to each other for safety in an unsafe world. This turn is plausible because it is hard-won. Pynchon exposes his readers to the conquest of a plural world, but from that mire rises the lotus of the human spirit. Thus is Pynchon’s ordinary chronicle at the end of the world, crystallized at the end of his novels, which are worlds unto themselves.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Works Cited

ANDERSON, T.R. “Mapping the World: Thomas Pynchon’s Global Novels.” Orbit: A Journal of American Literature, vol. 4, no. 1, 2016, pynchon.net/articles/10.16995/orbit.178. Accessed 16 June, 2017.

BAKHTIN, Mikhail. “Discourse in the Novel.” The Dialogic Imagination. Translated from Russian by Michael Holquist and Caryl Emerson, Austin (TX): University of Texas Press, 1982.

BARRENECHEA, Antonio. “Thomas Pynchon, Literary Giant.” American Book Review, vol. 37, no. 2, 2016, p. 5-6.

BENEA, Diana. “Post-Postmodernist Sensibility in Thomas Pynchon’s Bleeding Edge.” British and American Studies, vol. XXI, 2015, p. 143-151.

COHEN, Joshua. Book of Numbers. New York: Random House, 2015.

---. “First Family, Second Life: Thomas Pynchon Goes Online.” Harper’s Monthly, October 2013, p. 99-105.

COWART, David. Thomas Pynchon and the Dark Passages of History. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2011.

DARLINGTON, Joseph. “Capitalist Mysticism and the Historicizing of 9/11 in Thomas Pynchon’s Bleeding Edge.” Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction, vol. 57, no. 3, 2016, p. 242-253.

ELIAS, Amy. Sublime Desire: History and Post-1960s Fiction. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001.

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GOURLEY, James. “Twisted Time: Pynchon’s 9/11 in Bleeding Edge.” Reflecting 9/11: New Narratives in Literature, Television, Film and Theatre, edited by Arin Keeble, Victoria Bryan, and Heather Pope, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2016.

HASSAN, Ihab. “Beyond Postmodernism: Toward an Aesthetics of Trust.” A Journal for Greek Letters, vol. 11, 2003, p. 303-316.

HUTCHEON, Linda. The Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction. London: Routledge, 1988.

HUME, Kathryn. Aggressive Fictions: Reading the Contemporary American Novel. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2012.

---, “The Religious and Political Vision of Against the Day.” Pynchon’s Against the Day: A Corrupted Pilgrim’s Guide, edited by J. Severs and Ch. Leise, Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 2011, p. 167-190.

---, Pynchon’s Mythography: An Approach to Gravity’s Rainbow, Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press, 1987.

IVANCSICS, Bernat. “Presence and Embodiment in Thomas Pynchon’s Bleeding Edge.” Americana: E- Journal of American Studies in Hungary, vol 11, no. 2, 2015, americanaejournal.hu/vol11no2/ ivancsics. Accessed 17 June 2017.

LETHEM, Jonathan. “Pynchonopolis: Bleeding Edge, by Thomas Pynchon.” The New York Times, 12 September 2013. nytimes.com/2013/09/15/books/review/bleeding-edge-by-thomas- pynchon.html ?_r =0. Accessed 27 Oct. 2016.

MAGUIRE, Michael. “September 11 and the Question of Innocence in Thomas Pynchon’s Against the Day and Bleeding Edge.” Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction, vol. 58, no. 2, 2017, p. 95-107.

McCLURE, John A. Partial Faiths: Postsecular Fiction in the Age of Pynchon and Morrison. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2007.

McHALE, Brian. Postmodernist Fiction. London: Routledge, 1986.

PÖHLMANN, Sascha. “’I Just Look at Books’: Reading the Monetary Metareality of Bleeding Edge.” Orbit: A Journal of American Literature, vol. 4, no. 1, 2016, pynchon.net/articles/10.16995/orbit.189. Accessed 16 June 2017.

PYNCHON, Thomas. Against the Day. New York: Penguin, 2006.

---, Bleeding Edge. New York: Penguin, 2013.

---, Gravity’s Rainbow. New York: Penguin, 1973.

---, Inherent Vice. New York: Penguin, 2009.

---, Mason & Dixon. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1997.

---, The Crying of Lot 49. New York: Penguin, 1966.

RABINOWITZ, Peter. “Reading Beginnings and Endings.” Narrative Dynamics, edited by Brian Richardson, Columbus, OH: Ohio State University Press, 2003, p. 300-12.

ROLLS, Albert. “Review of Bleeding Edge, by Thomas Pynchon.” Orbit: Writing Around Pynchon, vol. 2, no. 1, 2013. pynchon.net/articles/10.7766/orbit.v2.1.51. Accessed 27 Oct. 2016.

SIEGEL, Jason. “Meatspace is Cyberspace: The Pynchonian Posthuman in Bleeding Edge.” Orbit: Writing Around Pynchon, 2016, pynchon.net/articles/10.16995/orbit.187. Accessed 27 Oct. 2016.

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SMITH, Evan Lansing. Thomas Pynchon and the Postmodern Mythology of the Underworld. New York: Peter Lang, Inc., 2012.

SMITH, Shawn. Pynchon and History: Metahistorical Rhetoric and Postmodern Narrative Form in the Novels of Thomas Pynchon. London: Routledge, 2009.

NOTES

1. T.R. Anderson discusses this concept of the meta-text in “Mapping the World : Thomas Pynchon’s Global Novels.” 2. This essay sidesteps the broader discussion about Pynchon’s treatment of history. But the scholars who discuss this issue may find general agreement with my assessment. For further discussion, see especially Hutcheon, McHale, Elias, Shawn Smith, and Cowart. 3. This essay also sidesteps the significant work done on Pynchon’s ontological strategies, though my assessment of them are in keeping with those who have written at length about them. This is not the place to debate the finer points ; rather I am putting these factors into the context of Pynchon’s eschatology. Though I discuss McClure below, see also McHale, Hume, Elias, and Evan Lansing Smith. 4. The term “gifts” is important. It includes, but is not limited to, beliefs and practices. It also includes, but is not limited to, what we might otherwise call virtues, such as trust, vulnerability, inter-responsibility, etc. To view these factors as part of a broader spirituality will help us to read Pynchon in light of his postsecular poetics. 5. Diana Benea (2015) discusses the role of trust in Bleeding Edge, noting how the novel indicates an ongoing shift in Pynchon’s sensibilities from a postmodernist one to a post-postmodernist one. To do this she refers to Hassan’s (2003) work on trust, which he marks as a key factor of post-postmodernist culture. For Benea, “Pynchon is gesturing toward a reconfiguration of politics premised precisely upon notions of interdependence and responsibility” (150). This essay asserts that these ways of being are not only post-postmodern, but also postsecular. 6. Michael Maguire (2016) charts the development of Pynchon’s concept of innocence in Against the Day and Bleeding Edge. For Maguire, Pynchon’s interest in innocence, responsibility, and atonement echoes the philosophy of Levinas and reflects a postsecular stance, an extension of the specifically Catholic tropes outlined by Hume. 7. See Gourley and Pöhlmann for further discussion of pockets of dissidence and resistance in Bleeding Edge. 8. See Darlington (2016) for further discussion of Pynchon’s choice of genre. For Darlington, the detective mode is important, as it allows Pynchon to underscore a key factor of contemporary life : the deepening of confusion and mystery rather than the solving of mysteries. Pynchon’s choice of a detective genre, both here and in Inherent Vice ironically highlights this issue (250). 9. We might say that Siegel has gone the furthest rhetorically, as he clearly lays out the stakes of twenty-first century technology and power. Joseph Darlington elaborates upon the implications of this move toward posthumanism, noting the culture of “mysticism” surrounding technology and capitalism since the fall of the Soviet Union (247) as well as the consolidation of eschatological forces under neoliberalism (249). He praises Bleeding Edge as the first novel to successfully historicize the attacks of September 11 within the ongoing process of posthumanization and neo-liberal domination (245). 10. Bernat Ivancsics extends the discussion of “meatspace” and cyberspace. He argues that in Bleeding Edge characters’ bodies become “nodes of information,” and Pynchon’s employment of fictional characters in the novel “occurs in the form of hyperlinks and disembodied interactions” (Ivancsics).

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11. Benea’s reading of the novel’s ending is a fruitful complement to mine, as she reads this scene through Hassan’s concept of trust, which he identifies as a key element of post-postmodernist life. 12. Maguire would offer a third perspective, focusing on innocence and atonement via Levinas’ conception of responsibility toward the unknown Other. His is another self-identified postsecular perspective, a complement to my own. 13. The character of Maxine presents an opportunity for a feminist reading. This kind of reading is important, perhaps necessary, for Pynchon studies, which has been rightly criticized for its lack of attention to gender. Here, I suggest two possibilities in the discussion of Bleeding Edge. First, one might discuss the extent to which the qualities I identify in Maxine are “feminine,” and whether such a label would be limiting, or whether the label fruitfully invites a more “feminine” stance toward the world. Second, one might discuss Maxine’s relationship with Windust, in which she pines over him despite his crimes and at one point allows him to rape her, as a problematic element of whatever feminism we might identify in her (this aspect is further complicated by her relationship with Horst, who cheats and is generally a buffoon. Maxine welcomes him home, emphasizing the importance of maintaining a traditional household). I hesitate to pursue claims about these subjects here, though further discussion of Maxine and of Pynchon’s depiction of women is crucial for Pynchon studies.

ABSTRACTS

In work spanning six decades, Thomas Pynchon has depicted a plural world reduced to mechanization, automation, and control. In doing so he has done more than any American author to reveal to readers the posthuman future. This essay seeks Pynchon’s human(e) response to these eschatological forces. It does so by examining how Pynchon concludes his works. Referring to Peter Rabinowitz’s theory of endings, this essay argues that at the conclusion of his novels, Pynchon takes on a voice that speaks more urgently than the pluralism and polyphony that permeate his pages. This move from noise to clarity is a move from spiritualism to spirituality. Even though possibilities are diminishing, and the end seems near, there remains the opportunity for communion, shared vulnerability, family, and friendship. This essay focuses on how this move transpires in Bleeding Edge, a novel that presents, potentially, the culmination of historical-eschatological movements toward reduction and domination. But the novel concludes with an extended meditation on family love and female friendship, in a way that conveys Pynchon’s source of hope. Focusing on his endings reveals an enduring humanism at the core of Pynchon’s work that can fuel further study in the age of terror, surveillance, domination, and dehumanization.

Dans son œuvre, qui s’étale sur six décennies, Thomas Pynchon décrit un monde pluriel réduit à la mécanisation, l’automatisation et le contrôle. Plus que tout autre auteur américain, Pynchon a ainsi révélé à ses lecteurs le visage d’un futur post-humain. Cet article entend étudier la réponse humaine et humaniste de Pynchon face à ces forces eschatologiques. Il s’agit principalement ici de s’intéresser à la façon dont l’auteur conclut ses romans. En se référant à la théorie de Peter Rabinowitz sur la fin des romans, ce travail propose qu’à la conclusion de ses textes, Pynchon adopte un ton plus urgent, plus grave que dans le reste de ses romans habituellement caractérisés par le pluralisme et la polyphonie. Ce passage du bruit à la clarté signale aussi une

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transition du spiritualisme à la spiritualité. Même si les possibilités diminuent, et la fin semble proche, des opportunités de partager nos vulnérabilités, au sein d’une famille ou entre amis, demeurent. Cette tension transparaît dans Bleeding Edge: si le roman dépeint potentiellement l’apogée de mouvements eschatologiques menant à un anéantissement partiel ou total, il se termine sur une longue méditation sur l’amour familial et l’amitié féminine, qui exprime une singulière source d’espoir de la part de Pynchon. S’intéresser à la fin des romans de Pynchon permet ainsi de déceler un humanisme qui persiste au cœur de son œuvre, ce qui pourrait inspirer une réflexion plus large en cette période de terreur, de surveillance, de domination et de déshumanisation.

INDEX

Mots-clés: Thomas Pynchon, Bleeding Edge, postmodernisme, post-humanisme, poétique ontologique, dialogisme, narratologie rhétorique, critique littéraire post-séculaire Keywords: Thomas Pynchon, Bleeding Edge, postmodernism, posthumanism, ontological poetics, dialogism, rhetorical narratology, postsecular literary criticism

AUTHOR

BRIAN CHAPPELL Ph.D. Georgetown Preparatory School

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Apocalypse and Sensibility: The Role of Sympathy in Jeff Lemire’s Sweet Tooth

André Cabral de Almeida Cardoso

Introduction

1 Sweet Tooth, Jeff Lemire’s graphic narrative,1 literally opens with a nightmare: Gus, its young protagonist, dreams he is running through the woods, haunted by the “cold eyes” of a “big man” who looks down at him; he knows he has to run as fast as he can, for behind him there is “fire and hell and bad stuff” (Lemire, Sweet Tooth 1: 7). This dream dramatically introduces the post-apocalyptic world outlined in the rest of the narrative: most of the population has been killed by a devastating plague, towns are either abandoned or littered with corpses, and the few survivors have mostly reverted to a savage predatory behavior. More peculiarly, though, all children born after the plague are human-animal hybrids who are immune to the disease that continues to infect the rest of the population. Gus is one of these children, a human and deer hybrid who lives with his father in a cabin hidden in an abandoned wilderness sanctuary in Nebraska. The woods are a sanctuary that protects Gus from the harshness of the outside world, but this haven proves to be fragile when, after his father’s death, Gus is attacked by men who hunt hybrid children for money. He is rescued by Jepperd, the “big man” Gus had seen in his dream, who eventually becomes the boy’s fervent protector as they travel to Alaska to investigate the origins of the plague and the mystery of Gus’s birth (being nine years old, he was born before the plague hit, which should be impossible).

2 What is remarkable about the way this post-apocalyptic world is introduced in the first pages of Sweet Tooth is the consistent use of visual and narrative elements that engage the reader’s empathy. The first panel of the narrative is a close-up of Gus’s large, expressive eyes, and some of the following panels focus on either Gus’s or his father’s tears. Gus’s language is colloquial and clearly marked as that of a child, conveying his

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impressions in a naïve tone that promptly establishes his innocence (“fire and hell and bad stuff”). The use of a first-person narrative voice puts the reader in Gus’s subjective position, creating the illusion that we have immediate access to his thoughts and emotions—at least at the level of the text. At the level of the images, however, Gus is represented from the outside. This raises important questions, to be addressed in the course of this essay, regarding the representation of inner thoughts and emotions in Sweet Tooth. At this point, it is enough to observe that interactions among the characters tend to rely on the display of their facial expressions and bodily postures, and the frequent use of silent panels highlights the option to communicate meaning (especially emotional states) through expressive images.

3 This paper argues that the question of empathy is one the fundamental themes of this narrative, and a concern that informs most of the formal choices that structure it. Gus and most of the other hybrid children in Sweet Tooth are singularly unsuitable to face the violence of the disintegrating world that surrounds them. Their fragility is closely connected to their ability to inspire empathy or to feel empathy for others. The aim of this paper is to discuss how empathy and the related notion of sympathy are dealt with in a narrative which depicts fictional worlds in which they seem to have no place at all.

Innocence, Hybridity and the Representation of Violence

4 Many of the formal and narrative devices employed in Sweet Tooth to engage the reader’s empathy are part of a long literary tradition that goes back to the eighteenth century, and which have remained alive in more or less sporadic manner in melodrama and mass culture ever since. In The Culture of Sensibility, G. J. Barker-Benfield speaks of a culture of sensibility that influenced not only literature, but also philosophy, medicine, religion, and social behavior as a whole during most of the eighteenth century. A central concept in this culture was the notion of sympathy, which covers what we understand today as empathy, a term which only became current in the English language in the early twentieth century (Keen 39; 42). Sympathy involved not only an emotional engagement, but also a strong moral commitment which ideally would lead to an investigation of the causes of suffering (lending it a cognitive dimension) and to attempts at alleviating it. In the culture of sensibility, and especially in sentimental literature, the object of sympathy was also an object of scrutiny, since it was important to make sure he or she was worthy of attention and compassion. More than a victim of suffering, therefore, the ideal object of sympathy should also be virtuous, innocent, vulnerable and sensitive. Sympathy created an attachment that went beyond sharing feelings to sharing affinities and moral values; it offered itself as a model for sociability, as a fundamental factor in establishing social connections. Barker-Benfield points out that the promotion of social affections in the culture of sensibility led to the creation of a particular kind of relationship between writer and reader (226). Sympathetic identification with the typically female protagonist of sentimental fiction helped create the sensation that the reader belonged to a larger community of feeling which stood in opposition to an uncaring world, usually represented by the city, ruled by false appearances, economic ambition, power struggles and social hierarchies. Sweet Tooth creates a similar relationship of sympathetic identification between reader and protagonist, and, in doing so, reproduces the opposition between a community of

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feeling, centered on the protagonist, and the rest of the world, seen as essentially hostile.

5 Hence, while in most dystopias the protagonist “is always already in the world in question, unreflectively immersed in the society” (Baccolini and Moylan 5), in Sweet Tooth Gus is initially protected from the rest of the world in the wilderness sanctuary. This is a common feature of sentimental literature, in which the protagonist is usually raised in isolation, away from the corrupting influence of the world and unaware of its transactions. The departure from the protected environment of childhood is the event that initiates narrative development in sentimental fiction, as is also the case of Sweet Tooth.

6 In the image of the sanctuary, nature and childhood come together as symbols of Gus’s innocence. As Jeff Lemire himself points out in an interview to Entertainment Weekly, this is a central aspect of the character, since Gus and the other hybrid children in Sweet Tooth are meant to represent the innocence of childhood. When you’re a kid, you’re not as corrupted by the world at large. You’re not corrupted by prejudices. You’re much more open- minded. Much more interested in the world around you. Sweet Tooth is about the world returning to that kind of place. (Lemire, “The End of Sweet Tooth,” n. pag.)

7 The nature reserve represents “that kind of place” of innocence to which the world is supposed to return, a promise Sweet Tooth fulfills at the end of the narrative when Gus establishes a new utopian community there with his friends and allies. The demarcation of this preserved space, however, creates a tension in the symbolic structure of Sweet Tooth, since the drive towards hybridization, manifested most clearly in the figure of the hybrid children themselves, is overlaid with a search for the preservation of purity, for isolation, reproducing the logic of sentimental fiction, in which the individual must be protected from the contamination of the outside world. To a certain extent, the fluidity implied in the notion of hybridization, with its rejection of stable categories, is arrested by the fixation on nature and childhood.

8 After Gus has already been forced to leave his sanctuary, and has escaped from an attack by a violent motorcycle gang, he has a dream in which Disney-like animals (a deer and a rabbit) urge him to return to the safety of the woods in order to avoid contact with more “bad men” (1: 64-65). The connection between Gus and nature, however, has already been established in the first pages of Sweet Tooth, where we often see Gus wandering alone in the woods. It is there that he sees a stag, just after he has buried his father, who died from the plague. This brief encounter with a purified version of himself (the stag seems to represent a purely natural version of Gus, devoid of his human aspects) is interrupted when the animal is killed by a bullet shot by hunters who had entered the sanctuary to capture the boy—in fact, they had shot the stag thinking it was Gus himself (1: 22-24). This episode signals the intrusion of violence in Gus’s protected home, and is a graphic illustration of the danger not only to his life, but also to his childlike innocence.

9 In the introduction to Moral Blindness, Leonidas Donskis declares that “[e]vil is not confined to war or totalitarian ideologies. Today it more frequently reveals itself in failing to react to someone else’s suffering, in refusing to understand others, in insensitivity and in eyes turned away from a silent ethical gaze” (Bauman and Donskis 9). The scene of the killing of the stag brings to the fore precisely the demand for this “silent ethical gaze” as it focuses on the stag’s eyes at the moment of its death, and

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then on one of its eyes, which stares at the reader as the animal lies dead at Gus’s feet. The eye of the stag still interrogates the readers even after its death, appealing to their pity and their sense of justice, not to mention their anxiety concerning Gus’s safety, establishing a chain of identification that involves the readers, the boy and the animal. This mechanism of sympathetic identification through the gaze is established in the panels immediately preceding the death of the stag, which are a close-up first of Gus’s eyes as he stares at the stag, and then of the stag’s eyes as it stares back at Gus.

10 A similar dynamics of the gaze is already present at the moment in which a connection is established between Gus and Jepperd. This is represented by a sequence of three panels that extend to the full length of the page, shifting from a close-up of Jepperd’s still “cold” eyes, to Gus’s large, scared eyes, and back to Jepperd’s, which reveal amazement and surprise. As Mark Heimermann notes, this is the moment when Jepperd sees Gus’s humanity through his expressive eyes (245). It is the spectacle of Gus’s fragility that causes a change in Jepperd’s attitude towards the boy, for the previous image on the same page is a large panel showing Jepperd threateningly grabbing Gus by his antlers. This is a turning point in the narrative, since, as the reader learns later, Jepperd was himself a hunter hired to bring Gus to a lab which is running experiments on the hybrid children.

Figure 1

Sweet Tooth, vol. 1, p. 36 SWEET TOOTH © Jeff Lemire. VERTIGO and all characters, the distinctive likenesses thereof and all related elements are trademarks of DC Comics.

11 The appeal to this dynamics of the gaze is an instance of the attempt to engage the reader’s empathetic identification with the protagonist that Maria Varsam sees as a central element of dystopian fiction (205-206). The insistence with which this device is employed organizes the relationships among the different characters and orients the

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reader’s response to the narrative as a whole by stressing the act of seeing and the moral reactions it entails.

12 In the images of Sweet Tooth, eyes frequently stare back at the reader, often filled with tears, always emotional, always concerned, endlessly attempting to reproduce the “silent ethical gaze” Donskis calls for. What these eyes see is a sustained spectacle of suffering. Mangled and bloody bodies, as well as bodies riddled by disease, are often displayed in Sweet Tooth, forming tableaux that are given a prominent position on the page. The post-apocalyptic setting of the narrative offers frequent occasions for these displays, which act as one of its structuring devices.

Figure 2

Sweet Tooth, vol. 4, p. 148 SWEET TOOTH © Jeff Lemire. VERTIGO and all characters, the distinctive likenesses thereof and all related elements are trademarks of DC Comics.

13 As David Marshall points out, relying on Adam Smith’s famous description of the operation of sympathy in The Theory of Moral Sentiments ,2 sympathy depends on “people’s ability to represent themselves as tableaux, spectacles, and texts before others” (5). If, however, the spectacle of suffering is essential to create the effect of sympathy, this entails some risks. Since the gaze is the central means to establish contact not only between the characters in the narrative, but also between the readers and the characters, there remains the question of what precisely the gaze reveals. As mentioned before, the use of a first-person narrative voice in many passages of Sweet Tooth creates the illusion that we have immediate access to the characters’ inner thoughts, while the visual representation of the characters always shows them from the outside. Several formal devices are frequently used in Sweet Tooth in order to counteract the potential distancing effect that this external view of the characters might create. Some images are positioned in a way that mimics Gus’s point of view, as

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when an adult character is shown as if being seen from below. The frequently represented intense facial expressions also act as the immediate signs of emotion, often accompanied by an even more unequivocal indication of internal suffering in the form of tears.

14 But while these manifestations of emotion rely heavily on the act of gazing, the representation of the gaze itself reveals the limitations of this expressive form of representation, since although the images approximate Gus’s point of view, we never fully see the world through his eyes. Besides, the very intensity with which the gaze is represented in Sweet Tooth, with the constant repetition of staring eyes which occupy whole panels from which the rest of the face is excluded, points to something that remains without representation. For what exactly do these staring eyes say? They demand the readers’ sympathetic engagement, and they are able to move us, but it is often hard to interpret them with any precision. When Gus stares at the stag, for instance, he is obviously astonished, but does he feel fear or recognition, or some sort of identification with the animal? And when the stag stares back, is the animal threatening or afraid, or does it also feel some sort of identification with the hybrid boy? What seems to be at stake here is the act of gazing itself as a means of contact rather than the precise nature of the contact established. When this contact is brutally interrupted by the stag being killed in front of Gus, the eyes of the animal as it dies and then as it lies dead on the floor still demand a reaction from the reader (and from Gus), one of horrors in witnessing this instance of senseless violence. They demand and already represent Donskis’s “silent ethical gaze.” But ultimately, this gaze is empty, for it comes from a dead animal. The reciprocity of the gaze is interrupted, and the staring eyes become a blank screen on which the spectators project their own feelings. To a greater or lesser degree, this is the risk which attends the representation of the gaze throughout the narrative of Sweet Tooth.

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Figure 3

Sweet Tooth, vol. 1, pp. 23-24 SWEET TOOTH © Jeff Lemire. VERTIGO and all characters, the distinctive likenesses thereof and all related elements are trademarks of DC Comics.

15 But there are also risks involved in the object of the gaze. As Karen Halttunen argues, the “literary scenario of suffering, which made ethics a matter of viewing the pain of another, from the outset lent itself to an aggressive kind of voyeurism in which the spectator identified not just with the sufferings of the virtuous victim but with the cruelty of her or his tormentor” (304). Hence, while pain, in its many literary representations, could be seen as obscene, it could also be seductive and exciting (Halttunen 318). This risk is certainly present in Sweet Tooth, which offers its depiction of a dangerous decaying world as an action-packed adventure. As a blurb from USA Today printed on the cover of the first volume of the collected series promises, “SWEET TOOTH is Mad Max with antlers.” Much of the suffering in Sweet Tooth derives from fight scenes which depict in graphic detail violent attacks against the integrity of the body. The way the images of the narrative highlight these attacks, zooming in on them, establishes an aesthetics of sensationalism which creates the paradoxical effect of both indulging in the excitement of violence and displaying a pain meant to become an object of horror and empathy.

16 For Susan Sontag, images of suffering have a special power: “Photographs lay down routes of reference, and serve as totems of causes: sentiment is more likely to crystalize around a photograph than around a verbal slogan” (76). Although the subject of Sontag’s essay is war photography, much of her argument also applies to the images in Sweet Tooth. Lemire’s narrative is embedded in the experience of being constantly exposed to images of suffering which Sontag sees as typical of modern culture, “in which shock has become a leading stimulus of consumption and source of value” (2004,

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20). Such excess, and the excessive representation of violence in particular, is a characteristic of comics as a medium (Gaboury n. pag.). It could be argued that this is especially true of Vertigo, the imprint of DC Comics under which Sweet Tooth was published. Julia Round calls attention to the importance of the Vertigo imprint in reshaping American comics in the early 1990s by redefining their aesthetics and by appealing to a more mature audience. The strategy of collecting material originally published in monthly installments in the form of graphic novels, for instance, imbued the Vertigo product with a sense of permanence, adding to it a higher production value, bringing it closer to the notion of a literary text and facilitating its commercialization in bookstores, profoundly altering the perception the general public had of comics. An important element in this transformation was a revolt against the strictures imposed by the Comics Code, the internal censorship guidelines that had regulated the publication of comics since the 1950s, and its limiting influence over writers’ and artists’ self-expression and creativity (Lopes 111). This emphasis on violence and even monstrosity was a direct attack against the Comics Code, as well as the use of narrative strategies borrowed from the pulps and Gothic literature (Lopes 111-113; Dony n. pag.). As Christophe Dony argues, “Vertigo comics’ intertextual engaging with the pulp tradition revolves around the exploring of genre boundaries, ‘cheap thrills,’ and provocative as well as exploitative storytelling techniques,” in an attempt to distinguish the imprint not only from mainstream comics, but also from the tradition of alternative comics. Focusing on violence, “Vertigo comics not only acknowledge the populist and sensational origins of comic books, but also ironically play with and comment on the ‘low-brow’ status marker that is often associated with the pulp tradition” (Dony n. pag.). The presence of violence in the Vertigo imprint, then, is part of an attempt to criticize—or indeed abolish—the Comics Code, but also to create an editorial identity and to situate it within a broader cultural tradition. It is a marketing strategy, as well, which helps present Vertigo comics as being targeted to a mature (and therefore more respectable) audience, at the same time that it preserves its sensational aspects as a form of appeal to a wider public.

17 In occupying a somewhat ambiguous space between mainstream and alternative comics, between low-brow “thrills” and high-brow literary status, the Vertigo imprint in general, and Sweet Tooth in particular, destabilize formal classifications and reading practices. As Katherine Kelp-Stebbins points out, Sweet Tooth is concurrently a single issue, comic series and graphic novel, challenging the identitarian politics involved in each designation. U.S. comic book fans can buy new issues every month at speciality shops, while libraries and bookstores shelve new Sweet Tooth graphic novels bi-annually. Sweet Tooth’s collection into graphic novel form may not bridge any high art/low art divide, but it does produce variegated readership demographics, from fanboys to the New York Times subscribers. (Kelp-Stebbins 338)

18 For Kelp-Stebbins, then, the theme of hybridity in Sweet Tooth finds an echo in its hybrid form. Its narrative is fluid, in that it could be lengthened or shortened according to its commercial success, apparently open-ended in the shape of monthly installments, but finally contained when collected in book form. It is difficult to ascertain exactly how its division into issues, volumes, pages or panels influences its content, and what the precise boundaries of these divisions are (Kelp-Stebbins 338-339). Lemire himself remarks that he had an idea of how Sweet Tooth would end when he pitched the story to Vertigo/DC Comics, while “the middle part (…) was rather fluid,” and it “changed and

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grew as we went along” (“The End of Sweet Tooth” n. pag.). This form has a bearing on the representation of violence in Sweet Tooth, which is also fluid or hybrid: it retains its appeal as a sensational object of consumption, following the editorial and marketing strategies of the Vertigo imprint, while it is inserted into a more coherent narrative project structured around a sentimental discourse centered on the notion of sympathy.

The Creation of Sympathy and the Effort of Purification

19 Susan Keen contrasts sympathy and empathy in her Empathy and the Novel. Empathy is defined as “a vicarious, spontaneous sharing of affect” provoked by witnessing, hearing or reading about another’s emotional state; for Keen, empathy is an emotional and biological phenomenon, a reaction triggered by neurons wired to mirror the emotions of others (4). Sympathy, on the other hand, is “differentiated feeling for another”; in other words, sympathy is not the internal reproduction of the same emotion another is supposed to be feeling, but a distinct reaction to this emotion, and its nature is essentially moral (Keen 4-5). Empathy would involve feeling a certain degree of pain when watching someone suffer; sympathy, on the other hand, would involve feeling pity, for instance, in the same situation. While empathy may cause personal distress in the observer, and therefore is self-oriented and aversive, sympathy is other-oriented, and often associated with altruistic action (Keen 4). One of the risks involved in the representation of violence in Sweet Tooth has to do precisely with the potential failure of moving satisfactorily from empathy to sympathy. Since empathy is less morally grounded than sympathy, it is possible to be empathetically caught up in the thrill of inflicting violence rather than in the pain caused by violence—especially when the character inflicting violence is presented in a positive light as one of the “good guys,” thus inviting identification from the readers (see figure 4). It is also important to go beyond the fascination with the image of violence itself, of its merely sensational aspect, in order to elicit the proper sympathetic response. In figure 4, three points are highlighted in red circles, forming a triangle that frames the whole image. These show specific instances of violent contact in the fight, directing the readers’ gaze in order to stress the pain that the blows, cuts and perforations cause through their intensified representation. Pain, therefore, dominates the scene without erasing the excitement of the fight itself, thus establishing the initial conditions for the creation of empathy with both Jepperd and one of his attackers. Further formal strategies will be necessary to guarantee the establishment of sympathy.

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Figure 4

Sweet Tooth, vol. 1, p. 48-49 SWEET TOOTH © Jeff Lemire. VERTIGO and all characters, the distinctive likenesses thereof and all related elements are trademarks of DC Comics.

20 If, for Sontag, images impact and haunt us, it is only narrative that gives us the ability to understand by fully creating meaning (80). Therefore, it is the insertion of an image within a narrative, or the creation of a narrative around an image, that may lead to an ethical, compassionate reaction from the spectator. If the images of suffering in Sweet Tooth promote the excitement of violence, on the other hand they are part of a narrative that tries to control the way they are read. A common device employed in Sweet Tooth in order to do so is the introduction of the figure of a witness. These witnesses help guide the reader’s response by already representing the expected reactions to scenes of violence or atrocity. Hence, in Figure 4, the expression of shock and horror in Gus’s eyes offers a template for the reader, something especially important in this scene, in which Jepperd takes up the role of a traditional action hero. This image, then, is not just about the thrill of the action, it is also representative of the dynamics of the gaze that informs much of the narrative of Sweet Tooth. Gus’s horrified gaze already guides the reaction expected from the reader when confronted with violence, but it also turns Gus himself into an object of pity. In Sweet Tooth, the sympathy of the reader is frequently divided between sympathy for the victims of violence and sympathy for the characters who witness it (and who are usually sympathetic spectators themselves). The intensity with which the act of gazing is represented emphasizes its centrality in the way the world is perceived, and it also reminds the readers that they themselves are involved witnesses. Gus’s placement in figure 4 symbolizes this position of an involved witness: he appears in a panel in the left-hand corner of the page, outside the fight and the triangle formed by the three red

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circles that frame it, but still grabbed by one of the attackers and forced to watch, so that he is involved in the fight without being a direct participant in it.

21 That this dynamics of the gaze plays an important structuring role in the narrative of Sweet Tooth becomes obvious in a flashback sequence which appears in an issue drawn not by Jeff Lemire, but by guest artist Matt Kindt. Here we witness the massacre of an Eskimo tribe by a group of British sailors. The sequence culminates in a panel which shows a native woman being shot by the side of her infant baby—a hybrid child, like Gus:

Figure 5

Sweet Tooth, vol. 5, p. 64 SWEET TOOTH © Jeff Lemire. VERTIGO and all characters, the distinctive likenesses thereof and all related elements are trademarks of DC Comics.

22 The infant looks at his mother as she is killed, and cries, while the mother stares at the reader at the moment when she is shot. Again, the baby’s tears offer a template for the reader’s reaction, while the mother’s gaze engages the reader directly. As in figure 4, the reader’s sympathy is divided between victim and witness. The image also echoes the sequence of Gus’s meeting with the stag, and the mother’s gaze seems to similarly interrogate the reader. Like the stag’s dead eyes, however, hers remain enigmatic, hinting at something that stays hidden behind them; they once again act as a screen on which the readers can project their own feelings.

23 Gus plays an important role in the attempt to control the way the representation of violence is read in Sweet Tooth, acting either as a privileged witness to atrocities or as potential—or actual—victim of violence. His fragility, his obvious inadequacy to face the violent post-apocalyptic world in which he lives, paradoxically becomes a tool for survival, as it helps him obtain protection and garner allies in his journey. For R. F.

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Brissenden, the virtuous heroes and heroines of sentimental novels were “necessarily weak,” which guaranteed that they would elicit the reader’s sympathy; at the same time, although they were often defeated in their struggles against a corrupt and uncaring world, they managed to maintain their moral integrity even in this defeat, which turned into a sort of triumph (91). The theme of virtue in distress, therefore, posited the existence of a “free (and essentially moral) individual” in conflict with social conventions that threatened to crush him or her (Brissenden 135).

24 As a modern update of the sentimental hero, Gus is faced by a social world in which violence is even more blatant, and the collapse of social institutions has led brutality to be the rule. The emergence of the theme of virtue in distress, however, re-inscribes the protagonist’s fight for survival as a moral conflict in which the most important values are innocence and the capacity to feel sympathy. This becomes especially clear in specific situations of conflict in which the main characters’ moral integrity runs the risk of being compromised. When Gus is forced to kill an alligator-boy when he and other hybrid children are trying to escape from the lab, this act of aggression is mitigated by the fact that the alligator-boy was attacking one of Gus’s friends. The girl is shown defenseless and crying, yet another image of suffering and fragility, so that Gus is actually acting out of his sympathy for her. The killing itself promptly turns into an opportunity to display the characters’ compassion, as the girl herself feels pity for her attacker: “He—he was just a little animal kid like us. Probably scared. Thought we were gonna hurt him” (3: 64-66). Later, Gus uses almost the same words when he recounts the incident to Jepperd, the requisite tears in his eyes: “He was just scared… Didn’t know any better and I killed him. […] [I]t just makes me feel so bad. I don’t ever wanna kill no one ever again.” Jepperd’s reassuring response to Gus reinforces his intention of protecting not only the boy, but also the boy’s innocence: “Kid… I promise you… As long as we’re together, you won’t have’ta kill anyone ever again” (4: 132).

25 But Gus’s innocence seems to run deeper, and to be inscribed in his own body. As pointed out above, throughout the narrative, the hybrids are consistently identified with innocence, since they bring together two of its most important symbols: childhood and the natural world. They represent an intrusion of nature in the human world, and their childlike naïveté is constantly stressed. If, as Mary Douglas argues, the notion of pollution is attached to objects that contradict established classifications and blur the boundaries between distinct categories (45-50), then the hybrid is a particularly clear symbol of impurity. At a certain level, hybridity in Sweet Tooth confirms this idea, with its confusion of human and animal, or culture and nature, destabilizing representation. On the other hand, since it is also associated with the innocence of the children, it paradoxically becomes a sign of purity. The confusion of boundaries involved in hybridity has yet another important function in Sweet Tooth, for it also acts as a way to promote sympathy. The hybrids are sufficiently similar to us to facilitate our identification with them, but they also assume the aspect of safer objects of compassion: children and animals.3 They emerge as privileged objects of sympathy in Sweet Tooth precisely because they are detached from the world of cruelty, exploitation and moral compromise of the adults.

26 The connection between purity and hybridity is further complicated by the fact that the latter is caused by the contagious disease that has killed most of the world population and continues to victimize humans. Contagion itself brings to the fore the notion of impurity, but in Sweet Tooth it also destabilizes the notion of a self-contained

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identity. In its most dystopian aspects, it does so in the image of piles of bodies abandoned in deserted cities, which effaces the distinction between individuals by fusing them in a single mass, and in the erasure of personal traits by the ravages of the disease, the uniform wasting away of infected bodies covered by pustules and skin rashes. On the other hand, it evokes a whole range of contemporary discourses which postulate a fluid form of identity in which the autonomous individual is replaced by a network of connections and the human merges with other categories. As Scott Bukatman argues, these discourses, which have become pervasive in contemporary culture, manifesting themselves most explicitly in science fiction, point to a desire to transcend the human. It may be useful, then, to understand the representation of contagion and hybridity in Sweet Tooth in the context of two opposite discourses—a discourse based on the creation of binary categories typical of modernity and a discourse based on multiplicity and the explosion of categories—an opposition outlined in the work of Donna Haraway and Bruno Latour.

27 The hybrid children in Sweet Tooth could be seen as a biological manifestation of the actual hybridization of categories that the classifications of modernity, according to Latour (7-22), try to deny, or as an avatar of Haraway’s cyborg. Their association with contagion, however, suggests an analogy with Elana Gomel’s concept of the apocalyptic body. According to Gomel, apocalyptic fictions present a double-edged vision of the end: on the one hand, they linger on pain and suffering, but their ultimate object is “an image of purity so absolute that it denies the organic messiness of life” (405). The apocalyptic body arises from this tension; like Haraway’s cyborg, it is perverse and unstable, rejecting any fixed category (Gomel 406). It finds its manifestation in Sweet Tooth not only in the bodies of the sick, but also in the hybrid bodies of the children, the final products of the disease. For Gomel, in apocalyptic fiction, pestilence is a means to separate the condemned from those destined to salvation in the new millennial order, yet it remains ambiguous: “[s]ince everybody is a potential victim, the line between the pure and the impure can never be drawn with any precision” (Gomel 406). But despite its fascination with paradoxes, the narrative of Sweet Tooth is careful to eliminate this particular ambiguity: the human adults are all condemned to die from the disease, while the post-human, hybrid children are preserved. Contagion acts as a clear means of purification.

28 And so does suffering. As Elana Gomel argues, the apocalyptic body is “most of all […] a suffering body, a text written in the script of stigmata, scars, wounds, and sores,” and it is through suffering that this body, and society as a whole, is transformed, bringing in new utopian possibilities (406). The humans who fall prey to the disease are also an object of sympathy in Sweet Tooth, especially when the victim is one of Gus’s protectors. They represent the price to be paid for the establishment of a new order, just as the suffering of the hybrid children exposed to the violence of the adult world represents its justification. By acting as instruments of purification, disease and suffering imply the expurgation of the guilt that lies at the very origins of the plague.

The Guilt of Modernity

29 Of particular interest is the flashback sequence drawn by Matt Kindt. Set in 1911, it tells the story of James Thacker, a British naturalist heading to Alaska in search of Louis, his sister’s fiancé, who has joined a group of Christian missionaries who were trying to

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convert the Eskimos. This colonial enterprise proves to be disastrous, for by the time Thacker reaches the Eskimo village where Louis was headed, the missionaries have all been killed by a mysterious disease, and Louis, far from converting the Eskimos, has himself adopted their culture and married a local girl. Louis explains that in the previous spring he had wandered away from a hunting party and found a cave filled with stone cabinets with strange markings on their doors. Opening one of these cabinets, Louis was surprised to find what appeared to be the skeleton of a man with the head of a deer. Before he could investigate any further, he was dragged away by his fellow huntsmen and taken back to the village. There, he learned that he had stumbled into the tomb of the gods, a sacred place which no one but the shaman was allowed to enter. Punishment for this trespass was swift to follow: the next spring, Louis’s wife gave birth to a human-deer hybrid, a re-incarnation of the god Louis had found, and both the missionaries and the Eskimos began to succumb to the plague. “Tekkietsertok has returned to purify the world,” Louis tells Thacker. “Man’s time here is almost over. We are not worthy of this place. Soon the world will be returned to the animals… the innocents” (5: 52; emphasis in the original). Appalled by Louis’s conversion to paganism and by his hybrid child, which he sees as an aberration, Thacker retreats, only to come back a couple of days later with the rest of his expedition. Seeing himself as an agent of God fighting against native superstition, he decimates the whole tribe, taking Louis with him as his prisoner. Before they can reach England again, however, they die from the disease, together with the whole crew of the ship.

30 Structured as fragments of Thacker’s personal journal, the beginning of the flashback sequence echoes the first pages of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, where we also find the account of a voyager involved in an expedition to the Arctic circle, with similar longings for the stable, middle-class order left behind in England, and excitement (mixed with some anxiety) about the ability of science to make sense of a largely unknown territory. It also evokes the diaries Darwin wrote during his own expeditions, especially in those moments in which Thacker presents himself as a naturalist fascinated by the specimens he has collected along his way, and wondering about the new species he may find at his final destination (5: 7-9). His work as a taxidermist reveals his vision of nature as a vast repository of species to be collected, catalogued and stored—a vision encapsulated in the image of Thacker toiling in his cabin among stuffed fish and birds arranged as a museum exhibition. Science emerges as a form of control and domination, while nature becomes lifeless, reduced to objects for acquisition. Thacker’s attachment to religion is a means to reinforce his representation as a typical Victorian subject, but it also participates in the establishment of clear categories set in binary opposition: civilization versus savagery, reason versus superstition. By evoking foundational texts of both science fiction and the natural sciences, Thacker’s account points to the consolidation of scientific discourse during the long nineteenth century and its connection with colonial expansion, the increasing dominance of instrumental reason and the acquisitive logic of capitalism—in other words, the consolidation of modernity itself. The massacre of the Eskimos functions as a demonstration of the violence involved in this process.

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Figure 6

Sweet Tooth, vol. 5, p. 66 SWEET TOOTH © Jeff Lemire. VERTIGO and all characters, the distinctive likenesses thereof and all related elements are trademarks of DC Comics.

31 The sequence of the massacre activates in concentrated form the formal devices employed in the rest of Sweet Tooth to elicit sympathy from the readers, reproducing the aesthetics of the war photographs discussed by Susan Sontag in Regarding the Pain of Others. The Eskimo village is presented as yet another sheltered space of purity, especially in its connection to nature, and the primitivism of its pre-modern culture points to a state of original innocence, the civilizational equivalent of childhood. Indeed, it is the violation of this culture and of the integrity of its members that the depiction of the massacre condemns. But order is restored in the last pages of Sweet Tooth, with the foundation of a community of hybrids. Here, appeals to the primitive can also be found in the apparent lack of sophisticated technology, in the tribal organization of society and in the fact that Gus establishes this community in the woods where he spent his childhood. This “return” to innocence further reinforces the opposition to the techno-scientific order of modernity. As we learn in the last volume of Sweet Tooth, the new outbreak of the plague—now on a global scale—was occasioned by an even more drastic invasion of the sacred space of the gods by biopolitical power. A U.S. army research base had been built near the old site of the Eskimo village, the tombs of the ancient gods had been unearthed, and a laboratory had been built within the cave itself in order to clone the bodies found there. Gus was the first of these clones, grown in an artificial womb.

32 The project of modernity, with its attempts at technological control and its assertion of categories that justify exploitation (civilization dominating the primitive, science dominating nature, the powerful dominating the powerless), is seen as a kind of hubris.

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It is fundamentally uncaring and utilitarian, while the utopian society that succeeds it is conciliatory and sympathetic. Conciliation is marked by the hybrid bodies themselves, which re-establish the harmony between man and nature. And while Thacker’s expedition has exterminated those he considered to be opposed to himself, the hybrid community founded by Gus is cemented by a final act of compassion. Forced into a war with hostile humans, Gus interrupts the conflict by urging the humans to let the hybrids take care of them as they succumb to the plague: And this is a story of compassion. This is a story of how the last humans stopped fighting and came to the hybrids not as enemies… but rather as refugees. This is the story of how the hybrids let go of fear and hatred. And, despite being hunted and hated themselves […] still helped mankind in their final passage out of this world. (Lemire, Sweet Tooth 6: 188; emphasis in the original)

33 As in most utopian and post-apocalyptic fiction, the establishment of utopia in Sweet Tooth depends on the violent destruction of a previous social order. The community of the hybrids, however, is spared the guilt of carrying out this destruction by the intervention of the plague, which is partly caused by the undue interference of science over nature, but also by the intervention of a divine power intent on restoring the purity of a primordial order. The hybrids represent the conciliatory redemption of these basically destructive forces. Sympathy, then, emerges as the moral foundation for a humanitarian order which sidesteps political conflict, safely left behind with the erasure of human society—a wish-fulfilling escape from the guilt of modernity.

34 In presenting a utopian order based on the bonds formed by sympathy, Sweet Tooth suggests that utopia depends on transcending not only modernity, but also humanity itself. Its post-human hybrids are freed from the drive towards control and domination, and are the focus of sympathy in the narrative, both as its objects and as the ones most equipped to feel compassion for others. They are idealized embodiments of tenderness and sensitivity, qualities that Brazilian psychoanalyst Maria Rita Kehl sees at the same time as intrinsic to the human and as a product of humanity: humans are not necessarily sensitive, so tenderness must be preserved and cultivated; it is an objective to be achieved so that we can attain our full humanity (Kehl 453). Kehl insists on the ethical value of tenderness as a means to restrain the expansion of modern capitalist power and its utilitarian view of social relations, and to preserve what lies outside this logic of domination (461). The hybrids in Sweet Tooth, then, represent the imaginary fulfillment of the human, rather than its denial, and the accomplishment of the ethical function of tenderness.

Conclusion

35 For Paul Ricœur, sympathy is the basis for an ethical commitment to the other. But its dynamics are also an important factor in the formation of the self, which is always structured in relation to the other. According to Ricœur, sympathy establishes a real interchange between the self and the other, which overcomes the power imbalance implied in the spectacle of suffering. If the sufferer is powerless, while the observer retains a greater capacity to act, the sufferer imparts to the observer his or her own fragility, and the observer is affected by everything that pertains to the sufferer. In recognizing the fragility of the other through sympathetic identification, the observer acknowledges his or her own fragility—and ultimately, his or her own mortality. It is this recognition of mutual fragility that restores the fundamental equality between the

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sufferer and the observer. The solicitude involved in the orientation of sympathy towards the other also encompasses the perception that the other is irreplaceable, and the transference of this feeling to ourselves leads to the awareness that our own life is equally irreplaceable (Ricœur 222-226).

36 It is not hard to find in this account of the dynamics of sympathy a formulation of the modern individual as unique and irreplaceable, whose being must be protected at all costs precisely because of its fragility in the social body. Neither is it surprising that the origins of this formulation can be traced back to the eighteenth-century culture of sensibility, which flourished in a period that saw the consolidation of the modern bourgeois individual. Ricœur’s appeal to the power of sympathy to overcome otherwise irreconcilable differences points to a belief in a universal humanism that has its roots in the Enlightenment. It also presupposes the call for more tolerant social relations based on the ethical value of tenderness and sensibility. The emergence in recent years of narratives such as Sweet Tooth, and of a range of critical discourses revolving (directly or indirectly) around the concept of sympathy, shows that this idea of humanism remains appealing, even at a time in which the concept of the modern individual, and of the human itself, seems to be in question. Certain aspects of the posthuman and its connection to a fluid notion of the self, then, far from representing a radical break, are the later stages in the ongoing project to construct the individual and define its relation to society.

37 Hybridity itself becomes ambiguous in Sweet Tooth, a hybrid notion in its own right. On the one hand, it acts as an image for personal communication and mutual influence. According to Lemire, his vision of the relationship between Gus and Jepperd implied that the boy would absorb some of Jepperd’s toughness in order to survive in a violent world, while Jepperd would absorb Gus’s capacity for compassion: “We have this idea of hybrids throughout the book, and I wanted to end in this place where Gus had become a hybrid of both of them, of himself and Jepperd” (“The End of Sweet Tooth” n. pag.). In Lemire’s vision, hybridity absorbs the kind of exchange and mutual identification involved in sympathy, in which the individual is formed in relation to the other. This individual is in permanent construction, a version of the subject in eternal becoming suggested by Deleuze and Guattari as a kind of utopian dream in Mille Plateux, a subject who is also in constant change through contact with the world, and, through that contact, absorbs and becomes one with the world. Such an individual, like a camouflaged fish, blends with his surroundings by reproducing its traits, and becomes like everyone else by sending lines through which he finds a continuation in the other with whom he is conjoined (Deleuze and Guattari, 342-343).

38 This image is particularly pertinent to Sweet Tooth, not only because of its articulation of sympathy, but also because its hybrids restore the harmony between humanity and nature. On the other hand, the paradoxical association of hybridity with purity, the demarcation of a protected space isolated from the ravages of a dystopian or post- apocalyptic world, which carries to the extreme the opposition between a morally innocent individual and the corruption of modern society central to the sentimental logic that Sweet Tooth adopts, reinstates the integrity of the individual. The post- apocalyptic setting of Sweet Tooth presents a situation of crisis in which the value of sympathy and innocence emerge triumphant, together with the individual on which they are based. For while the utopian society of the hybrids that is glimpsed in the final pages of the narrative reinforces the importance of communal bonds, especially in

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terms of mutual solidarity, the kind of sympathy on which it depends still has its source in the individual. It is a personal characteristic of the hybrids, whose bodies physically represent their ability to establish a relation with the other by bridging the gap between the human and the animal.

39 Hybridity, then, acts as a kind of image for sympathy itself, symbolically connecting it to nature in its appropriation of the figure of the animal, while its artificiality is made manifest in the ambiguous origins of the hybrid children, poised between the intervention of an elemental deity and the interference of human science. Even though Sweet Tooth seems to rely on sympathy as a natural reaction to scenes of distress, its effects are carefully constructed by the narrative itself, especially in its manipulation of the dynamics of the gaze and its presentation of suffering as a spectacle.

40 The post-apocalyptic setting of Sweet Tooth, then, far from blocking the possibility of sympathy, offers the conditions for its manifestation by presenting situations of crisis in which sympathy can be most emphatically represented. However, the final illegibility of the gaze as it is represented in the narrative shows the limitations of sympathy as a means to go beyond the self and establish an actual communication with the other. This points to an ideological contradiction in the narrative of Sweet Tooth. The centrality of the gaze implies that the solution to social conflicts depends on an individual change of perspective, on the development of the personal ability to see the world—and the other—with sympathetic eyes. The apocalypse, which destroys the order of modernity and reveals the fragility of the individual, actually reinforces the importance of the self and offers the imaginary possibility of the creation of a protected space where the individual remains intact and incorruptible.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Works Cited

BACCOLINI, Raffaella and Tom MOYLAN. “Dystopia and Histories.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini, and Tom Moylan, New York and London: Routledge, 2003, p. 1-12.

BARKER-BENFIELD, G. J. The Culture of Sensibility: Sex and Society in Eighteenth-Century Britain. 1992. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996.

BAUMAN, Zygmunt and Leonidas DONSKIS, Moral Blindness: The Loss of Sensitivity in Liquid Modernity. Cambridge (UK): Polity, 2013.

BRISSENDEN, R. F. Virtue in Distress: Studies in the Novel of Sentiment from Richardson to Sade. London: Macmillan, 1974.

BUKATMAN, Scott. “Postcards from the Posthuman Solar System.” Science Fiction Studies, vol. 18, no. 3, Science Fiction and Postmodernism, 1991, p. 343-357.

DARWIN, Charles. A Naturalist’s Voyage Round the World: The Voyage of the Beagle. 1909. Facsimile edition. New York: Skyhorse, 2014.

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DELEUZE, Gilles and Félix GUATTARI. Capitalisme et Schizophrénie 2: Mille plateaux. 1980. Paris: Minuit, 2009.

DONY, Christophe. “Vertigo’s Archival Impulse as Memorious Discourse,” Comics Forum. comicsforum.org/2013/10/18/vertigos-archival-impulse-as-memorious-discourse-by-christophe- dony. Accessed 22 May 2017.

DOUGLAS, Mary. Purity and Danger. 1966. London and New York: Routledge, 2002.

GABOURY, Jonathan. “The Violence Museum: Aesthetic Wounds from Popeye to We3.” ImageTexT: Interdisciplinary Comics Studies, vol. 6, no. 1, 2011, n. pag..english.ufl.edu/imagetext/archives/ v6_1/gaboury. Accessed 23 May 2017.

GOMEL, Elana. “The Plague of Utopias: Pestilence and the Apocalyptic Body.” Twentieth Century Literature, vol. 46, no. 4, Literature and Apocalypse, 2000, p. 405-433.

HALTTUNEN, Karen. “Humanitarianism and the Pornography of Pain in Anglo-American Culture.” The American Historical Review, vol. 100, no. 2, 1995, p. 303-334.

HARAWAY, Donna. “A Cyborg Manifesto.” 1993. The Cultural Studies Reader, edited by Simon During, London and New York: Routledge, 2007.

HEIMERMANN, Mark. “The Grotesque Child: Animal-Human Hybridity in Sweet Tooth.” Picturing Childhood: Youth in Transnational Comics, edited by Mark Heimermann, and Brittany Tullis, Austin: University of Texas Press, 2017, p. 234-250.

KEEN, Suzanne. Empathy and the Novel. 2007. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2010.

KEHL, Maria Rita. “Delicadeza.” A condição humana: as aventuras do homem em tempos de mutações, edited by Adauto NOVAES, Rio de Janeiro, Agir/São Paulo: SESCSP, 2009, p. 453-468.

KELP-STEBBINS, Katherine. “Hybrid Heroes and Graphic Posthumanity: Comics as a Media Technology for Critical Posthumanism.” Studies in Comics, vol. 3, no. 2, 2012, p. 331-348.

LATOUR, Bruno. Nous n’avons jamais été modernes: essai d’anthropologie symétrique. Nouvelle édition. Paris: La Découverte, 1997.

LEMIRE, Jeff (story and art), Matt KINDT (art) et al. Sweet Tooth. 6 vols. New York: DC Comics, 2010-2013.

---. “The End of Sweet Tooth: A Deep Dive with Jeff Lemire about Wrapping up his Acclaimed Comic Book Saga.” Interview with Jeff Jensen. Entertainment Weekly. ew.com/article/2013/01/09/the- end-of-sweet-tooth-jeff-lemire. Accessed 27 May 2017.

LOPES, Paul. Demanding Respect: The Evolution of the American Comic Book. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2009.

MARSHALL, David. The Surprising Effects of Sympathy: Marivaux, Diderot, Rousseau, and Mary Shelley. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1988.

RICŒUR, Paul. Soi-même comme un autre. Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1990.

ROUND, Julia. “‘Is This a Book?’ DC Vertigo and the Redefinition of Comics in the 1990s.” The Rise of the American Comics Artist: Creators and Contexts, edited by Paul Williams, and James Lyons, Kindle edition, Jackson, University Press of Mississippi, 2010, locs. 354-579.

SHELLEY, Mary. Frankenstein. 1818. New York: Bantam, 1981.

SMITH, Adam. The Theory of Moral Sentiments. 1759. Amherst (NY): Prometheus Books, 2000.

SONTAG, Susan. Regarding the Pain of Others. 2003. Kindle edition. London: Penguin, 2004.

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VARSAM, Maria. “Concrete Dystopia: Slavery and Its Others.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini, and Tom Moylan, New York and London: Routledge, 2003, p. 203-224.

NOTES

1. Sweet Tooth was originally published in the United States by Vertigo, an imprint of DC Comics, in monthly installments from 2010 to 2013. References are to the paperback collection published in six volumes from 2010 to 2013. 2. “[a]s we have no immediate experience of what other men feel, we can form no idea of the manner in which they are affected, but by conceiving what we ourselves should feel in the like situation. Though our brother is upon the rack, as long as we ourselves are at our ease, our senses will never inform us of what he suffers. They never did, and never can, carry us beyond our own person, and it is by the imagination only that we can form any conception of what are his sensations. […] It is the impressions of our senses only, not those of his, which our imaginations copy.” (Smith 3-4) 3. Heimermann makes a similar point, but he stresses the children’s animalistic aspect as something that marks them as Other, allowing them to be exploited as guinea pigs while we are led to sympathize with them despite their animal traits (240-241 ; 244-246).

ABSTRACTS

In Jeff Lemire’s graphic narrative Sweet Tooth, the reader is faced with a world in dissolution. The cause for world-wide disaster, a deadly disease, is a traditional element of dystopian fiction. What is more unusual about Sweet Tooth is that its protagonist seems particularly ill-suited to face the challenges that confront him in a violent post-apocalyptic world, either because he is too sensitive or because he is too vulnerable. The question Lemire raises in creating this character is whether empathy has any place in an increasingly cruel and risky world. This paper discusses the role of empathy and the related notion of sympathy in a narrative that represents it in extreme circumstances. Is sympathy to be considered as a fundamental human trait in a world in which the permanence of all human values is being threatened by violence and cruelty? or can the creation of a new species through hybridization contribute a new definition of what is human?

Dans le roman graphique Sweet Tooth de Jeff Lemire, le lecteur se voit confronté à un monde en dissolution. La cause de cette catastrophe, une pandémie à l’échelle mondiale, est un élément traditionnel de la fiction dystopique. L’originalité de Sweet Tooth réside dans le fait que son protagoniste est particulièrement mal équipé pour affronter un monde de violence, soit parce qu’il est trop sensible ou trop vulnérable. En créant ce personnage, Lemire se pose la question de savoir si l’empathie peut encore exister dans un monde de plus en plus cruel et hostile. Cet article examine la fonction de l’empathie et de la notion voisine de sympathie dans cette œuvre, notamment dans des conditions extrêmes. Nous nous demanderons si la sympathie doit être envisagée comme un trait fondamentalement humain, dans un monde qui semble justement remettre en question les valeurs humaines traditionnelles, ou si au contraire l’apparition d’une nouvelle espèce hybride propose des perspectives insolites pour définir l’humain.

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INDEX

Keywords: empathy, sympathy, graphic narrative, hybridity, humanism, Jeff Lemire Mots-clés: empathie, sympathie, roman graphique, hybridité, humanisme, Jeff Lemire

AUTHOR

ANDRÉ CABRAL DE ALMEIDA CARDOSO Universidade Federal Fluminense

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The Double Death of Humanity in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road

Stephen Joyce

1 The apocalypse is an ancient genre, yet the post-apocalyptic is relatively new. While the end of the world has been prophesized since at least the Book of Revelation, the first English-language novel to feature the survivors of a civilization-ending catastrophe was Mary Shelley’s The Last Man in 1826. We may have had prior stories of lone survival, such as Robinson Crusoe, but in those cases the hero was cast out of civilization rather than civilization itself coming to an end. This sudden upsurge of popularity for seeing the decaying ruins of our world, a chief attraction of such post- apocalyptic films as 28 Days Later (Danny Boyle, 2002) and I am Legend (Francis Lawrence, 2006), is one of the curious features of our age. For the medieval mind, the idea of surviving the apocalypse would have been absurd; with the apocalypse came the Last Judgment and the final sorting of humanity into saved and damned. For a narrative to begin with a human being after the apocalypse would be impossible. It is primarily with the dawn of the atomic age that post-apocalyptic fiction began to appear in significant numbers, yet even as Cold War fears have receded, the number of post- apocalyptic narratives across all media has only increased. The causes of the catastrophe have even multiplied beyond nuclear weapons to environmental destruction, meteors, plagues, AI, aliens, chemical warfare, and the ubiquitous zombie. That we can find so many reasons for the world to end suggests that the genre is evolving beyond specific fears and towards more intangible horrors. No post- apocalyptic work captures this better than Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.

2 Rather than see McCarthy’s The Road as transforming the genre, I argue first that the post-apocalyptic genre has been evolving in directions that converge with the major themes of McCarthy’s oeuvre. It is no coincidence that McCarthy conceived a post- apocalyptic story at a time when the post-apocalypse was unusually prevalent in pop culture. The latent possibilities of the genre for existential questions only emerged at the turn of the twenty-first century. For specific socio-political reasons, the genre as practiced in the USA in particular began to be conceived as the antithesis of the classical apocalyptic narrative, opening the door to existential questions of meaning in

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a harsh, indifferent universe that McCarthy was able to explore with unparalleled depth in his seminal novel.

3 This article argues that the post-apocalyptic genre, with its profusion of not-quite human others such as zombies, mutants, and robots, has been groping its way toward a question that is central to The Road: what is the difference between human and inhuman? While the post-apocalyptic obviously deals with the near-extinction of humanity, it also explores the moral dimension implicit in words like “inhuman” and the degree to which this ethical valuation can survive in an altered environment. No text carries this question to such a horrifying extent as The Road, which strips life to a struggle for essentials in order to lay bare how the accretion of moral terms we ascribe to the word “humane” are merely products of our particular civilization. Humanity threatens to die in a double sense: as a species and as a positive moral value, and it is the latter that provokes the greater horror. Yet despite bringing us to the brink of this conclusion, I argue that McCarthy’s writing style ultimately encourages readers to reject it. First, I will look at the evolution of the post-apocalyptic genre before examining how the bare struggle for survival in the dismal world of the novel paves the way for existential questions about human nature, before finally looking at how the writing style itself urges readers to reject the novel’s nightmarish vision of humanity’s fragility.

The Post-Apocalyptic Genre

4 Although scholars have elucidated the relationship between The Road and McCarthy’s previous works such as The Orchard Keeper and The Sunset Limited (Palmer; Tyburski), its relationship to the post-apocalyptic requires clarification as the novel draws on the development of this genre in the early 2000s. To appreciate this development, we must first understand the appeal of the classical apocalyptic narrative and how the post- apocalyptic began to emerge as its antithesis. The rhetorical attraction of the apocalypse lies in the certainty that it creates for believers. History is an open narrative with manifold possibilities at each moment, only some of which are realized, but apocalyptic narratives allow us to “project ourselves… past the End, so as to see the structure whole” (Kermode 8). The apocalypse does not refer to the end of the world but to the revelation, the aletheia, that comes with seeing history from a God-like perspective, from a position outside of time where one can see the whole arc of history. This clarity also extends to the identity and purpose of all involved. Once you know the final pattern of history, you also know your own role in the drama. The dividing line between the saved and the damned has become clear. For Stephen D. O’Leary, this is one of the apocalypse’s central topoi, that “apocalyptic discourse functions as a symbolic theodicy, a mythical and rhetorical solution to the cosmic problem of evil” (“A Dramatistic Theory of Apocalyptic Rhetoric” 407). With the apocalypse comes the Last Judgment, which purges the world of evil and prepares the way for the final victory of the good. These basic elements of the apocalyptic narrative—fixing the arc of history by projecting an imminent endpoint, dividing the world into good and evil, providing a sense of purpose and meaning to believers, and promising paradise once evil has been purged—have been used by diverse social movements to motivate their followers.

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5 Stephen D. O’Leary goes further in defining two distinct frames: the tragic and comic apocalypse. In the comic frame, predictions of impending disaster are a warning designed to trigger preventive measures in the present: “one can speak of impending catastrophe and yet remain within the assumptions of the comic frame, so long as the catastrophe is depicted as avoidable through human choice” (Arguing the Apocalypse 83). This approach is widespread in current environmental discourse and emphasizes the power of human beings to affect the future. As Jonathan Moo puts it, “the use of apocalyptic narratives to induce fear and wake people up to what is perceived as dangerous present reality or potential future catastrophe has a long pedigree in the environmental movement, dating back at least as far as ‘A Fable for Tomorrow’ in Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring” (939). In the comic frame, the apocalypse is a possible but not necessary outcome of current trends. In the tragic frame, to the contrary, nothing human beings can do will alter the course of history. “Tragic apocalyptic argument does not gain its urgency from any attempt to influence the outcome of events; rather, it seeks to orient its hearers into proper alignment toward cosmic forces locked in a titanic struggle with a predetermined outcome” (O’Leary, Arguing the Apocalypse 88). Common to both the comic and tragic frames, however, is a definite sense of meaning and purpose. History is approaching a climax and the duty of the listener in the present has been clearly defined.

6 The first major difference between the apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic genres thus begins to emerge. The comic frame has been one of the primary uses of post- apocalyptic fiction, whether warning of the dangers of a nuclear holocaust as in A Canticle for Leibowitz (William Miller, 1960) or environmental catastrophe as in Earthworks (Brian Aldiss, 1965) or genetic experimentation as in Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake (2003). Specifying the cause of the disaster, and especially making it preventable by human effort, brings the comic frame of the apocalyptic and post- apocalyptic into alignment. But if the purpose of the tragic apocalypse is to bring audiences into proper relation to the coming end, the question is: what happens after the end? What meaning is left to one’s sense of identity and purpose, or to history itself? If we project ourselves beyond the end in the tragic frame, we find only the void and thus tragic post-apocalyptic narratives seem predisposed to raise the question of whether there is any meaning to individual life or human history.

7 These questions are latent within the genre, but the historical context also provides another force shaping the development of post-apocalyptic fiction. Over the past few decades, the rise of the religious right in the USA has brought apocalyptic thinking into mainstream culture. The bestselling Left Behind series of novels is essentially a fictionalized version of the evangelical Rapture; Hal Lindsey’s The Late Great Planet Earth has been a blockbuster since it was first published, despite repeatedly getting the date of the Rapture wrong. However, it was the George W. Bush administration’s use of apocalyptic rhetoric to characterize 9/11 that really provoked a cultural backlash. A devout evangelical, Bush consistently coded his speeches with Biblical rhetoric and sought to interpret the terrorist attacks as a turning point that revealed America’s purpose, clearly divided the world between good and evil, and would lead to a righteous purging of the forces of darkness. On September 14, 2001, Bush was already casting the attacks in terms of moral theology as an apocalyptic moment that had clarified world events and the USA’s role in them: “our responsibility to history is already clear: to answer these attacks and rid the world of evil… God’s signs are not

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always the ones we look for. We learn in tragedy that his purposes are not always our own” (60). In the manner of an evangelical pastor, Bush subtly indicated that the terrorist attacks needed to be interpreted as signs from God and thus the Bible was the key to decoding their meaning. On October 7, 2001, he said, “the terrorists may burrow deeper into caves and other entrenched hiding places,” (75) thus referencing Revelation 6:15-17: And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains; and said to the mountains and rocks, “Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb: For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?” (emphasis mine)

8 Of course, an American audience would understand here that the Lamb’s surrogate is the USA, which is about to bring the wrath down on the evil men. From a rhetorical perspective, one has to admire how Bush double-coded his speech so that it would both reach a secular audience and carry extra weight for his evangelical base, which would spot the layered Biblical references. As Bruce Lincoln puts it: “this conversion of secular political speech into religious discourse invests otherwise merely human events with transcendent significance. By the end, America’s adversaries have been redefined as enemies of God and current events have been constituted as confirmation of scripture” (232).

9 What I would like to suggest is that this saturation of the body politic with apocalyptic rhetoric had a critical role in the development of the post-apocalyptic genre. As criticism of Bush mounted after the Iraq War and the Abu Ghraib scandal, the post- apocalyptic increasingly came to define itself in opposition to the messianic certainty and Manichaean worldview of apocalyptic rhetoric. Clarity and purpose are replaced by confusion and doubt, as in P.D. James’ The Children of Men. The destruction of civilization brings with it no revelation, nor has the world been purged of evil. Characters are often forced to commit immoral acts in order to survive, as happens repeatedly in The Walking Dead. In the landmark post-apocalyptic sci-fi series Battlestar Galactica (2003-9), we find a crucial piece of dialogue, broadcast months before the publication of The Road, which could have come from the mouth of any of Cormac McCarthy’s characters: “you said that humanity was a flawed creation and that people still kill one another for petty jealousy and greed. You said that humanity never asked itself why it deserved to survive. Maybe you don’t” (“Resurrection Ship Part II,” 2006). In exploring the inherent human capacity for evil and the existential question of meaning, the post-apocalyptic was converging with the major themes of Cormac McCarthy’s fiction. The Road is thus not simply an extension of McCarthy’s traditional concerns to the post-apocalyptic but a sign that the genre’s tragic frame had evolved into an apt vehicle for existentialist themes. The tragic frame enhances minor eschatology questions of how to survive day-to-day in a ruined world because the implicit question behind these ordinary acts is why one would want to survive at all.

Minor Eschatology and the Existential Apocalypse

10 From the perspective explained above, the emergence of ordinary chronicles of the end of the world can partly be seen as a shift from the comic to the tragic frame of the post- apocalyptic under the influence of specific cultural events. But this shift cannot simply

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be reduced to those events; rather, the events gave an impetus to new aspects of the genre which authors and media creators then expanded and developed. The internal logic of the tragic post-apocalyptic implies a world robbed of purpose because the end of the world provides no meaning to human civilization. This issue may best be emphasized thematically through an intense focus on the difficulties of everyday survival because these difficulties underscore the wider existential question of why one would choose to exist in a world without meaning or purpose. Whereas the comic frame raises awareness of contemporary social and political issues by positing disaster if current trends continue, the tragic frame leads us to questions that are less political and more philosophical. This is partly what makes The Road such a seminal novel within the genre, because Cormac McCarthy is a major novelist who has spent years exploring and refining the existential ideas that emerge from the tragic frame. As Steven Frye argues in relation to McCarthy’s Southwestern novels: For McCarthy, the frontier romance in all its historical scope is simply, or not so simply, a means to explore the human potential for violence, avarice, blindness, self-gratification, and depravity. The author infuses the genre with a philosophical content, using what begins as a popular form to enrich his characters both psychologically and ethically. (Frye 11)

11 Eric Carl Link sees the influence of American literary naturalism on his work, observing the shared features of “primitive, wild, or stripped-down environments and landscapes in which the mannerisms of polite and cultured civilizations are brushed aside and the elements of human nature more directly tied to the natural world itself are highlighted” (154). For Randall S. Wilhelm, in all McCarthy’s novels “the presence of evil is palpable and serves as a primal force in the world with which characters must in some way contend” (129). Such issues naturally emerge from the post-apocalyptic environment of The Road.

12 The key evidence for situating the novel in the tragic frame is that there is no explanation of the disaster that destroyed our civilization. The only direct references are the lines: “The clocks stopped at 1:17. A long shear of light and then a series of low concussions” (45). Beyond that, there is the evidence of the world itself, suffering from what appears to be a nuclear winter. Yet the devastation could equally have been caused by a meteor or a chain of massive volcanic eruptions. McCarthy himself has explicitly stated that it doesn’t matter: “but it could be anything—volcanic activity or it could be nuclear war. It is not really important” (“Hollywood’s Favorite Cowboy”). This has not stopped some critics from trying to pin the cause down to environmental destruction or nuclear holocaust, but as Kevin Kearney notes: The Road continually frustrates our desire for symbolic closure. The point seems to be missed by critics who, in a search to present the novel as either an environmentally didactic text, cautioning us against abusing the globe by illustrating the collapse of the biosphere, or as a deterrent against nuclear proliferation, tend to “fill in the blanks,” so to speak, in order to provide symbolic resolution. (Kearney 164)

13 I would add that this desire to find the cause is motivated by an urge to shift the novel from a tragic to a comic frame. In the comic frame, knowing the impending reason for catastrophe would call for political action in the present, but it would also negate the questions that arise from the tragic frame and those are the questions McCarthy focuses on.

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14 In place of a political or social message the novel concentrates on creating the feel of everyday life in this ruined environment. The gap between the story world and our own seems more salient in the tragic frame. The comic frame depends on a congruence between the post-apocalyptic world and our own so that we can make the appropriate analogies or observe the worst consequences of current trends; as the tragic frame in McCarthy’s work is not concerned with political or social commentary, such analogies fit uneasily with The Road. As James Wood puts it, the novel “poses a simpler question, more taxing for the imagination and far closer to the primary business of fiction- making: what would this world without people look like, feel like?” (“Getting to the End”). This shifts our attention from big questions of “why?” to smaller questions of how an ordinary person would survive without the advantages of civilization in a fundamentally altered world. With an intensity emphasized on almost every page, four physical aspects of the world in The Road condition the lives of the characters and separate their world from our own: darkness, cold, barrenness, and hunger.

15 Right from the beginning, McCarthy makes it clear that this world is dominated by darkness, relieved only by an ashen daylight, “like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world” (3). This is the first departure from our regular environment and one of the first we see affecting the man and the boy’s behavior. They come to a gas station and examine the pumps only to find them empty, ignoring “a metal barrel full of trash” (6). Instead they notice things that are no longer useful, a cash register, some old automotive manuals, a telephone. A quarter of a mile down the road the man comes to his senses and turns back to raid the trash for quart plastic oil bottles: “They sat in the floor decanting them of their dregs one by one, leaving the bottles to stand upside down draining into a pan until at the end they had almost a half quart of motor oil” (6). The painstaking, dull labor required for such little reward indicates their desperate need for fuel for their “little slutlamp” (7). In this post-apocalyptic world, even light is a struggle, something emphasized again in the diligent, extended account of the man crafting a new lamp (115). When the man explains that the purpose of a dam is to make electricity, the boy’s first response is “to make lights” (17), hinting at the boy’s almost pre-modern fascination with electricity’s first widespread function, the production of artificial light, rather than all the other wonders it enables. The contrast between the boy, who was born into this world, and the man, who was born in ours, provides much of the novel’s fascination. For the man, everything is an ashen grey emptiness, but for the boy this murk is the most light he has ever known and his vision has adapted accordingly: What do you see? the boy said. Nothing. He handed the binoculars across. The boy slung the strap over his neck and put them to his eyes and adjusted the wheel. Everything about them so still. I see smoke, he said. Where. Past those buildings. What buildings? (66-67)

16 Of course, the boy’s clarity of vision also has metaphorical implications. As Eric Pudney argues, “the boy is not blinded by the darkness of the world, because his innate goodness enables him to see clearly where others cannot” (322), but his eyesight also underscores the dimness to which the man cannot accustom himself.

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17 Alongside the gloom is the cold. Throughout the novel, the man and the boy must struggle against the incessant chill and the threat of death by exposure. When the novel opens they are heading south because “there’d be no surviving another winter here” (4). Like light, warmth is a hard-won commodity involving arduous labor: “They collected firewood from the north side of the slope where it was not so wet, pushing over whole trees and dragging them into camp” (30). Hypothermia is a constant threat. As the man warns the boy when he leaves him to find firewood, “Dont lie down. If you lie down you’ll fall asleep and then if I call you you wont answer and I wont be able to find you” (61). Blankets become so valuable that the man will take them even from corpses, despite the “remnants of rotted hair on the pillow” and the smell of “damp and rot” (68). In The Road, the apocalypse is signaled on every page by the crushing absence of those essentials we control today with the flick of a switch but which in this world require either hours of work to create from scratch or the violation of taboos surrounding death.

18 The third major feature of this world is its barrenness, which McCarthy frequently describes in sentences lacking active verbs, removing any possibility of action or change. “Charred and limbless trunks of trees stretching away on every side. Ash moving over the road and the sagging hands of blind wire strung from the blackened lightpoles whining thinly in the wind” (7). There are barely any signs of growth or life. With nothing left of the natural world except stone and ash, the man and the boy must scavenge what is left of our civilization. It is only the remnants of our world that give this world some sense of individuality and character. The fragments of our culture, absent of any political commentary, create an oddly archaic, elegiac effect. It is tempting to see such elements as the shopping cart as critiques of consumer capitalism, yet there is no persistent evidence that McCarthy intends to critique our culture by showing it in ruins. Instead, these features seem to suggest the futility of all human meanings in the face of death: “Odd things scattered by the side of the road. Electrical appliances, furniture. Tools. Things abandoned long ago” (168). The novel’s descriptions of now useless objects are integral to the sensation of emptiness. The presence of things underscores the absence of people who could make them meaningful. Hence there are numerous passages which consist largely of lists of objects: “They trucked along the blacktop. Tall clapboard houses. Machinerolled metal roofs. A log barn in a field with an advertisement in ten-foot letters across the roofslope. See Rock City” (18). The flat quality of such descriptions fills the novel with a quiet sense of desolation. The apocalypse in The Road does not happen with lurid visions of firestorms and panic. Instead it is seen in the isolation of objects from the contexts that gave them meaning.

19 The conditions of the world condemn survivors to scavenge constantly for food. Only once do they find something growing, some mushrooms, “a small colony of them, shrunken, dried and wrinkled” (34), but otherwise nature is barren. Early on, when the boy optimistically asks if there are fish in the lake, the man replies without hesitation, “there’s nothing in the lake” (17). The finality of his words suggests the years of frustration and disappointment scouring the natural world for a source of food. In the absence of anything that can be grown, everything the man and boy eat must be a piece of tinned or dried food, well past their sell-by date with all the attendant risks of food poisoning: “In the pantry were three jars of homecanned tomatoes. He blew the dust from the lids and studied them. Someone before him had not trusted them and in the

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end neither did he” (19). The quiet use of “in the end” subtly implies how long the man stared at this meagre food, trying to rationalize the risk of eating it. The hunger of the man and the boy is often acute, but, as with their search for light and warmth, this hunger is indicated chiefly by the lengths they will go to in order to find what they need and their struggles prepare the reader for the horrors other survivors are willing to inflict on each other.

20 As the man and the boy journey down the road, their biggest fear is not of the cold or the dark or of hunger but of other survivors. When they encounter a member of a road gang, the man kills him and afterwards thinks: “The reptilian calculations in those cold and shifting eyes. The gray and rotting teeth. Claggy with human flesh” (64). Cannibalism has become a way of life now that there is no food, but this is only the beginning of the horror. Worse is found in the locked cellar of a house: “Huddled against the back wall were naked people, male and female, all trying to hide, shielding their faces with their hands. On the mattress lay a man with his legs gone to the hip and the stumps of them blackened and burnt. The smell was hideous. Jesus, he whispered” (93). With human beings now turned into livestock and eaten piece by piece while still alive to keep the meat fresh, it seems there is no more depravity that McCarthy can throw at us, but there are always new depths to plumb. Further on down the road, they spy three men and a pregnant woman, “all of them wretchedlooking beyond description” (165). Yet the idea of pregnancy and birth offers a glimmer of hope until the man and the boy discover their camp and a “charred human infant headless and gutted and blackening on the spit” (167). Again and again readers are confronted with behavior we would consider inhuman in ways that ask us to rethink what human nature really is. As Randall Wilhelm asks, “In a world bereft of order, without the civilizing structures of generations of human history, a world seemingly in its last stages of existence, what should be the ethical behavior of a human being—to himself, to others, to higher humanistic or spiritual values?” (133). This question dominates the tragic frame of the post-apocalyptic: not why catastrophe occurred but what it means to be human when the civilization that structures our ethical beliefs has vanished.

21 In this desperate environment, the issue is not simply how to survive but why one would want to survive. This is starkly articulated by the man’s wife, who chooses suicide because there is no reason to live any more: We used to talk about death, she said. We don’t any more. Why is that? I don’t know. It’s because it’s here. There’s nothing left to talk about. (48)

22 The brutal choice between simply dying or suffering and dying pervades the novel. It is the question that haunts the father throughout the story and which he struggles to answer. If there’s no future for the boy, why should there even be a present?

23 It’s within this context that Phillip Snyder argues for an ethic of hospitality derived from the work of Emmanuel Levinas and Jacques Derrida: “her suicide demonstrates, according to Levinasian and Derridean notions of subjectivity, that when one loses the sense of responsibility to the Other, one also loses one’s self” (“Hospitality” 76). This reading illuminates the central dilemma of the text, which is how we can relate to others in a world of overwhelming necessity, where relationships burden one with impossible demands and every stranger is a competitor for dwindling supplies. However, Derrida’s proposed solution, an ethic of absolute hospitality that demands an unlimited ethical obligation to the other, seems especially problematic in the world of

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The Road. As Susan Sencindiver asks, “is absolute hospitality practically feasible? The conditions of reality will unavoidably fall short of actualizing the ideal of unconditional hospitality” (23). Even Derrida acknowledged that absolute hospitality was an ideal that was intended to temper conditional laws of hospitality, “without which the unconditional Law of hospitality would be in danger of remaining a pious and irresponsible desire” (Sencindiver 23). In a world in which conditional laws and customs of hospitality have collapsed, Snyder’s conclusion seems suspect: “As long as there is one person left alive in the world, one ‘last host in Christendom,’ there will be hospitality, as he or she awaits the coming of an unexpected, surprising Messiah who must be welcomed with the mad declaration, ‘Here I am!’” (“Hospitality” 85). Given that most of the people the man and boy meet on the road are cannibals, declaring “Here I am!” would indeed seem mad. There seems no way to resolve the dilemma. The man is dying and he knows the boy cannot survive alone, but what hope is there when other people are the threat from which he must be saved?

24 This question leads us away from Levinas and into the realm of existentialist philosophy. The connection between existentialism and The Road has been noted by Alan Noble, who states that “in the typescript copy of the first draft of The Road […] McCarthy wrote a note which implies that the novel might have a specific philosophical source: “‘(Kierkegaard: Abraham and Isaac)’” (Noble 94). In Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard discusses the problem of Abraham, who is trapped in the ethical duty to protect his son and his absolute duty to serve God when God asks him to sacrifice Isaac. The solution to this dilemma is faith, which allows Abraham to move beyond infinite resignation to a paradoxical belief that he will carry out the sacrifice God has asked of him because God will ultimately not ask it of him: “he believed by virtue of the absurd, for human calculation was out of the question, and it was indeed absurd that God, who demanded it of him, in the next instant would revoke the demand” (Kierkegaard 29). In The Road, it is not God but the ruined world that demands the man kill his son despite his ethical duty to protect him. The father repeatedly asks himself “can you do it? When the time comes? Can you?” (24) even though “my job is to take care of you. I was appointed to do that by God” (65). In the end, despite all the horrors they have experienced, the father makes the leap of faith that the boy’s life may yet be worth living, even though nothing of the world depicted makes this believable: “I cant. I cant hold my son dead in my arms. I thought I could but I cant… you’re going to be lucky. I know you are” (235). As Noble puts it, “in an inversion of Abraham’s test of faith, the father in The Road must make the absurd and unethical decision to preserve the life of his son” (103).

25 Yet what distinguishes this choice from Kierkegaard is that the novel is not invoking religious faith alone. Although Christian themes run throughout the text, there is no affirmation that there is a God to whom one can appeal. As the blind wanderer Ely cryptically remarks, “there is no God and we are his prophets” (143). The destruction of the Earth may be taken as the final proof that there is no benevolent deity watching over us, in which case the man’s leap of faith must be cast in purely human terms. This shifts the novel’s themes from Christianity and towards the existentialism of Albert Camus, who argued that if one cannot have faith in God, it is still possible to have faith in humanity: “I continue to believe that this world has no ultimate meaning. But I know that something in it has a meaning and that is man, because he is the only creature to insist on having one” (28). Yet this is where the real horror of The Road emerges. In every post-apocalyptic narrative, whatever else remains of our world, humanity always

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continues to exist. In The Road, it is not just that light, warmth, nature, and food have ceased to exist but alongside them humanity is also disappearing, leaving the man with nothing in which to have faith.

26 The double horror of The Road is not simply the end of humanity but the annihilation of the set of moral values we assign to humanity whenever we declare an act “humane” or “inhuman” or commend someone for their “humanity”: generosity, love, kindness. The post-apocalyptic genre is commonly peopled with not-quite human creatures, but these can be seen as gestures towards the disturbing suggestion in The Road that the survivors of the apocalypse will no longer be human because what we mean by “human” is a construct of our civilization and once that civilization is gone so too will all the innate morality we like to ascribe to ourselves. Throughout the post-apocalyptic genre we find intimations of such a possibility; in Richard Matheson’s I am Legend, for example, the protagonist notes that “morality, after all, had fallen with society. He was his own ethic” (50). Yet The Road surpasses any other text in exploring the horror of this idea.

27 One of the novel’s most unsettling developments in this regard is our increasing questioning of the man’s moral behavior. Inger-Anne Søfting has written that “[t]he novel’s two characters, a father and his son, are as truly ‘the good guys’ as the landscape surrounding them is ‘the bad land’” (705), but other critics have questioned to what extent we can identify the man as a moral agent. Is ordinary morality even possible after the apocalypse? In the man’s encounters with the road gangs, his violence seems justified by their appalling cruelty. However, later in the novel the father treats other isolated survivors with brutal harshness. When a lone man steals their possessions, the father does not simply reclaim them but punishes him by taking the man’s clothes, leaving him to die of exposure. The man pleads with him to at least leave him his clothes: You tried to kill us. I’m starving, man. You’d have done the same. You took everything. Come on, man. I’ll die. I’m going to leave you the way you left us. Come on. I’m begging you. (217)

28 Finally, the boy prevails on his father to go back and return the clothes, but the man has disappeared into “the empty dusk” (219). Serving a death sentence on those who threaten you seems to be the only way to stay safe in a world without institutions or ethics. A few pages later a man with a bow shoots the father through the leg with an arrow. “Oh you bastard, he said. You bastard” (221) he mutters and kills him with a flare gun. In the man’s quest to protect the boy he becomes almost indistinguishable from “the bad guys” he continually warns his son against. The road gangs justify their actions in the name of survival; the man justifies his actions in the name of his son’s survival. The difference becomes increasingly small as the novel progresses.

29 The tragic form of the post-apocalyptic pushes us to ask if there is anything of humanity in human nature, once the trappings of our comfortable civilization are stripped away. It is easy to be generous when living near well-stocked supermarkets; in a barren world, how quickly would our higher ideals vanish? This is why the boy’s natural altruism is such a miracle and why he seems so unfit for survival. The man knows this, yet he takes his own leap of faith at the end that there may be a future for the boy, even though no one and nothing they have encountered justifies this belief.

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Kierkegaard found relief from infinite resignation in religious faith, while Camus found a humanistic equivalent by substituting a common human nature for God; but McCarthy removes even that and asks us to have faith that there is more to human nature than the bare animal striving for survival and dominance he has repeatedly exposed in The Road. The ordinary details of survival in a post-apocalyptic world are thus the concrete ground on which a major philosophical question is erected.

The Style of Hope

30 What is it, though, that prompts readers to accept the man’s decision to spare his son, despite the horror of the world in which he must now survive alone? As Eric Pudney writes: Instead of providing a rational, practical answer (the kind of answer the man has demanded all the way through the novel), the reader is asked to accept on faith that the boy will survive, because he deserves to. In other words, the reader is asked to make the same leap of faith as the boy’s father has, despite the crushing weight of the evidence of all that has happened so far. (305)

31 Some have taken issue with the abruptly happy ending, in which the first person the boy meets after his father’s death is one of “the good guys” who adopts the boy into his family. Allen Josephs asks, “why drag out a deliberate and undisguised deus ex machina —no one could seriously argue that McCarthy was unaware of the fact—if what you want to do is deny any sort of deus?” (27). Alan Noble questions, “how can readers reconcile the ending, which is hopeful about the future, with the fatalism that dominates the text?” (93). If the world of The Road challenges us to believe the boy could survive, why have millions of readers so readily accepted the ending and made the same leap of faith that there is more to humanity than King Lear’s “poor, bare, forked animal”?

32 It is here, I think, that the style of The Road plays a critical role. McCarthy is justly famous for his beautiful prose, but in The Road the writing style continually asks the reader to posit a basic faith in the pair’s humanity, thus subtly preparing the reader for the novel’s conclusion. Philip and Delys Snyder in an article on McCarthy’s writing argue that The Road represents “the unplugged, stripped-down acoustic version of his style” (36). The grammatically incomplete sentences reflect a world frozen in its dying state. However, the pared down language does more than simply express the post- apocalyptic environment; it also suggests that language, as a human construct, is disappearing, for how can a human construct survive where humanity cannot? He tried to think of something to say but could not. He’d had this feeling before, beyond the numbness and the dull despair. The world shrinking down about a raw core of parsible entities. The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colours. The names of birds. Things to eat. Finally the names of things one believed to be true. More fragile than he would have thought. How much was gone already? The sacred idiom shorn of its referents and so of its reality. Drawing down like something trying to preserve heat. In time to wink out forever. (103)

33 In such a world, language becomes increasingly skeletal, but this does not make it devoid of feeling. One of the things that causes us to reject a pessimistic reading of human nature in the novel is McCarthy’s consistent use of Hemingway’s iceberg technique. As Hemingway explained in an interview for the Paris Review, “I always try to write on the principle of the iceberg. There is seven-eighths of it underwater for

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every part that shows. Anything you know you can eliminate and it only strengthens your iceberg. It is the part that doesn’t show” (“The Art of Fiction” 88). The debt to Hemingway is made explicit when the feverish man thinks of “a grey day in a foreign city… it had begun to rain and a cat at the corner turned and crossed the sidewalk and sat beneath the café awning. There was a woman at a table there with her head in her hands” (157), the extended memory a clear reference to Hemingway’s famous “Cat in the Rain” (1926). Throughout The Road, McCarthy employs the iceberg technique to prompt the reader to read emotions and thoughts into bare descriptions, thus asking us to invest the characters with a humanity that a literal reading of the text does not imply.

34 The character for whom this has the most disturbing implications is the boy, for while we are often privy to the man’s thoughts, the boy’s mind remains closed to us until the final pages. There are times when he responds to sights or events with a coldness that is potentially shocking. Early in the novel they find a barn: “Inside the barn three bodies hanging from the rafters, dried and dusty among the wan slats of light. There could be something here, the boy said. There could be corn or something. Let’s go, the man said” (18). The corpses don’t seem to bother the boy; they are simply a part of his world, like ruined buildings, like ash. It is the man who seems affected by them and leaves before they can properly search the barn for food. Their dialogues also contain moments when the boy’s refrain of “Okay” takes on horrifying dimensions: They’re going to eat them, aren’t they? Yes. And we couldn’t help them because then they’d eat us too. Yes. And that’s why we couldn’t help them. Yes. Okay. (148-9)

35 The lack of commentary on the dialogue opens up the prospect that “okay” at the end of this litany of horror is simply an uncritical acceptance of the terrifying reality the boy has just described, like a child learning the rules for crossing a road. This nightmare is his everyday life and we cannot expect what we consider ordinary human responses from him.

36 However, as readers, we struggle to experience The Road in such a manner. Reading the man and the boy’s actions and dialogues literally would be highly disturbing. We need to believe there is a human consciousness like ours behind their actions, a consciousness not manifested by most of the people they encounter. Consider how chilling the novel would be if McCarthy had written scenes from the perspective of the woman who cooked her own infant or the people who kept half-eaten human beings as food reserves in the basement: the same flat descriptions, the lack of commentary on the dialogue, their actions monstrous and incomprehensible. But when it comes to the man and the boy we need to imagine them as having what we think of as human nature. The iceberg technique in The Road consistently asks us to read human thought processes into their actions and thus prepares the reader for the man’s unjustifiable hope that the boy can have a future. Although the events of the novel imply that there is no humanity left, the style encourages us to reach the opposite conclusion.

37 This underscores the importance of stories within the narrative, the “old stories of courage and justice” (35) that the man tells the boy throughout their journey. As Russell M. Hillier argues, “the man clings to his humanity by making moral sense of his

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new world through his literary inheritance from the old world” (671). When they meet Ely, for example, the man objects to helping him while the boy asks if they can give him something to eat. The father pauses: “He stood looking off down the road. Damn, he whispered. He looked down at the old man. Perhaps he’d turn into a god and they to trees. All right, he said” (137). At the moment of decision, the man recalls the ancient story of Baucis and Philemon from Ovid and makes the humane choice. It is the old tale that prompts the leap, not rational calculation. Likewise, it is through stories that the boy develops a moral sense that allows him to criticize his father’s actions. After they have left the thief for dead and killed the man who attacked them with the bow and arrow, the boy says he doesn’t want to hear any more stories because “in the stories we’re always helping people and we don’t help people” (225). Yet it is only from the stories that the boy can learn a concept of morality independent of his father that allows him to reach such a judgment. If the style of The Road pushes us to believe there is a human nature behind the bare words, then the narrative asks us to believe that the act of storytelling itself is the source of our humanity and that simply by picking up a copy of the book we have already taken the necessary step to imagine that the boy’s goodness can survive.

Conclusion

38 Although most approaches to The Road situate it primarily in relation to McCarthy’s previous work, we should recognize the possibilities that emerge within the post- apocalyptic genre that McCarthy developed using his own unique style. First, the tragic mode of the post-apocalyptic lends itself to existentialist questions about the meaning and purpose of human existence. Whereas the comic mode of both apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic literature can be seen as a warning to the present, the tragic mode of the post-apocalyptic can no longer rely on an ending to provide meaning to history; the end has already happened, leaving the survivors in a brutal, meaningless world. Second, the shift to the tragic frame also focuses attention on the here and now of the story world rather than on drawing parallels with our time. The Road’s effect is so intense because McCarthy never lets us forget the conditions in which the man and the boy must survive. He is not interested in what sort of political structures may emerge in the ruins of the world; each page is primarily concerned with how people would stay warm, find food, and avoid a violent death and the pair’s exertions to achieve even the most basic comforts emphasize the harshness of the daily struggle. This prompts existential questions about what human civilization was all for and what a person could make of life in its absence, questions that have always been latent within the post- apocalyptic genre and that McCarthy has explored elsewhere. Finally, The Road helps us to see that the variety of mutants, zombies, and fantastic creatures in post-apocalyptic fiction are not simply standard tropes of sci-fi and fantasy but a recognition that what we mean by humanity is a product of our civilization. This idea has been explored before in novels such as I am Legend, but McCarthy raises them to a new pitch in The Road through the combination of his appalling images of savagery and the beauty of his spartan prose. If the encounters with other humans on the road try to convince us that this bestiality is all that being human really is, then the alchemy of the writing style pushes us to reject such a conclusion and believe that there is more to the bare words, that as long as we have the capacity to tell stories there must be something of humanity still, despite all that has been lost. As the father puts it, in what could be seen

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almost as a justification for the novel itself: “It’s a pretty good story. It counts for something” (227).

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Works Cited

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CAMUS, Albert. Resistance, Rebellion, and Death. New York: Knopf, 1960.

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HEMINGWAY, Ernest. “Cat in the Rain.” In Our Time: Stories by Ernest Hemingway. London: Jonathan Cape, 1926.

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HILLIER, Russell M. “‘Each the Other’s World Entire’: Intertextuality and the Worth of Textual Remembrance in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.” English Studies, vol. 96, no. 6, 2015, p. 670-689.

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JOSEPHS, Allen. “What’s at the End of The Road?” South Atlantic Review, vol. 74, no. 3, 2009, p. 20-30.

KEARNEY, Kevin. “Cormac McCarthy’s The Road and the Frontier of the Human.” LIT: Literature, Interpretation, Theory, vol. 23, no. 2, 2012, p. 160-178.

KERMODE, Frank. The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction. New York: Oxford University Press, 1967.

KIERKEGAARD, Søren. Fear and Trembling, edited by C. Stephen Evans and Sylvia Walsh, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006.

LINCOLN, Bruce. Holy Terrors: Thinking about Religion after September 11. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003.

LINDSAY, Hal. The Late, Great Planet Earth. Michigan: Zondervan, 1970.

LINK, Eric Carl. “McCarthy and Literary Naturalism.” The Cambridge Companion to Cormac McCarthy, edited by Steven Frye. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013, p. 149-161.

MATHESON, Richard. I am Legend. London: Gollancz, 2006.

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McCARTHY, Cormac. The Orchard Keeper. New York: Random House, 1965.

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---, interviewed by John Jurgensen. “Hollywood’s Favorite Cowboy.” The Wall Street Journal, Nov. 20, 2009. wsj.com/articles/SB10001424052748704576204574529703577274572. Accessed 15 Nov., 2016.

MILLER, William. A Canticle for Leibowitz. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1960.

MOO, Jonathan. “Climate Change and the Apocalyptic Imagination: Science, Faith, and Ecological Responsibility.” Zygon, vol. 50, no. 4, 2015, p. 937-948.

NOBLE, Alan. “The Absurdity of Hope in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.” South Atlantic Review, vol. 76, no. 3, 2011, p. 93-109.

O’LEARY, Stephen D. Arguing the Apocalypse: a Theory of Millennial Rhetoric. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998.

---. “A Dramatistic Theory of Apocalyptic Rhetoric.” The Quarterly Journal of Speech, vol. 79, no. 4, 1993, p. 385-426.

PALMER, Louis. “Full Circle: The Road Rewrites The Orchard Keeper.” The Cormac McCarthy Journal, vol. 6, 2008, p. 62-68.

PUDNEY, Eric. “Christianity and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.” English Studies, vol. 96, no. 3, 2015, p. 293-309.

SENCINDIVER, Susan Yi. “Introduction.” Otherness: A Multilateral Perspective, edited by Susan Yi Sencindiver, Maria Beville, and Marie Lauritzen, Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2011, p. 17-43.

SHAKESPEARE, William. The Tragedy of King Lear. Edited by Jay L. Halio. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2005.

SHELLEY, Mary. The Last Man. London: Henry Colburn, 1826.

SNYDER, Delys, and Philip Snyder. “Modernism, Postmodernism, and Language.” The Cambridge Companion to Cormac McCarthy, edited by Steven Frye. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013, p. 27-38.

SNYDER, Philip. “Hospitality in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.” The Cormac McCarthy Journal, vol. 6, 2008, p. 69-86.

SØFTING, Inger-Anne. “Between Dystopia and Utopia: The Post-Apocalyptic Discourse of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.” English Studies, vol. 94, no. 6, 2013, p. 704-713.

TYBURSKI, Susan J. “‘The Lingering Scent of Divinity’ in The Sunset Limited and The Road.” The Cormac McCarthy Journal, vol. 6, 2008, p. 121-128.

WILHELM, Randall S. “‘Golden Chalice, Good to House a God’: Still Life in The Road.” The Cormac McCarthy Journal, vol. 6, 2008, p. 129-146.

WOOD, James. “Getting to the End.” New Republic, 21 May 2007. newrepublic.com/article/64041/ getting-the-end. Accessed 15 Nov., 2016.

Films:

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ABSTRACTS

This article situates Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (2006) within the tragic frame of post- apocalyptic narratives as they began to develop in the USA in response to the Bush administration’s messianic belief in 9/11 as a form of apocalyptic moment. Whereas the comic frame of the apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic genres posits a catastrophe that could be prevented by human actions in the present, the tragic frame of the post-apocalyptic posits a situation in which the end of the world has provided no overarching meaning to human history. This leads to an intense focus on how individuals would survive, a minor eschatology that concentrates on the day-to-day struggle for life in a ruined world, in order to raise existentialist questions of why anyone would want to survive in a meaningless universe and what it means to be human when the civilization that structured our understanding of that term has passed away. However, the bleak pessimism of the narrative world and the disturbing suggestion that humanity has been wiped out not just as a species but as a moral quality is offset by McCarthy’s prose style, which encourages readers to reject nihilistic perspectives and accept the unlikely optimism that concludes the novel.

Cet article entend situer The Road de Cormac McCarthy (2006) dans le cadre tragique des narrations post-apocalyptiques qui se sont développées aux Etats-Unis, sous l’ère Bush, en réponse à une forme de messianisme qui voyait dans le 11 septembre un moment apocalyptique. Tandis que le cadre comique du genre apocalyptique et post-apocalyptique postule une catastrophe qui pourrait être évitée dans le présent par l’action humaine, le postulat tragique du post-apocalyptique est que la fin du monde a privé l’histoire humaine de toute signification. De là l’intérêt aigu porté à la survie des individus, et le développement d’une eschatologie mineure qui se concentre sur la lutte pour la vie, au jour le jour, dans un monde en ruines. S’ensuit également un questionnement existentialiste: pourquoi survivre dans un univers privé de sens? que signifie être humain, quand la civilisation même qui a structuré notre compréhension de ce terme n’est plus? Pourtant, le pessimisme qui habite la diégèse, le trouble qui ne manque pas de surgir à la suggestion que l’humanité a été anéantie non seulement en tant qu’espèce mais aussi en tant que qualité morale, trouve une contrepartie dans le style de McCarthy, qui encourage les lecteurs à rejeter le nihilisme et accepter l’optimisme qui, contre toute vraisemblance, vient clôre le roman.

INDEX

Mots-clés: post-apocalyptique, apocalypse, tragique, 11 septembre, existentialisme Keywords: post-apocalyptic, apocalypse, tragic, 9/11, existentialism

AUTHOR

STEPHEN JOYCE Aarhus University, Denmark

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« A single gray flake, like the last host of christendom » : The Road ou l’apocalypse selon St McCarthy

Yves Davo

1 L’idée de la fin du monde a toujours été une préoccupation majeure dans la littérature, un trou noir dans lequel celle-ci aime à se laisser happer, un point aveugle qui attire toutes les visions d’apocalypse. La représentation de la fin du monde permet de lire ce qui normalement reste illisible, à savoir le futur ou le proche avenir, et ce qu’il en est de la destinée humaine. En fait, l’imaginaire de la fin est un « principe de lisibilité » (Gervais 4) dans lequel « la sémiotique apocalyptique laisse la place à la poétique apocalyptique » (Gervais 8) : la littérature n’a pas pour objet de convaincre mais de décrire la fin, voire de l’imaginer comme une métaphysique. Ainsi, les protagonistes d’une littérature de la fin peuvent être rapprochés de ceux de la littérature théologique dans la mesure où ce type de récit, de science-fiction, est souvent marqué par la description d’expériences de crainte et de fascination, description que l’on peut considérer comme déterminant l’expérience religieuse. Selon Jean-Guy Nadeau en effet, « la science-fiction est un instrument d’interrogation théologique » (Nadeau 93). The Road, le roman de science-fiction1 post-apocalyptique de Cormac McCarthy publié en 2006, ne déroge pas à cette règle et nourrit la sensibilité religieuse du lecteur. La présente étude, à travers une analyse des figures métaphoriques et des motifs bibliques, visera donc à faire apparaître cette symbolique religieuse qui sous-tend le texte de McCarthy, dans lequel la chronique ordinaire d’une (sur)vie, tout comme le commentaire politique propre au genre de la science-fiction, sont supplantés par sa vision millénariste.

2 Le roman met en scène un père et son fils marchant vers un sud indéterminé, à travers un paysage dévasté et vidé de presque tous ses habitants, après une catastrophe dont le lecteur ne saura jamais rien. Le voyage erratique mais obstiné, depuis une région du nord jugée dangereuse vers un sud guère plus engageant, rythme et structure la narration en une série de paragraphes courts, sans chapitres ni sections, égrenant les quelques rencontres et événements du périple comme autant d’étapes vers une

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destination incertaine pour les deux protagonistes comme pour le lecteur. Chez McCarthy, la route n’est ni prometteuse ni ouverte, mais plutôt sur le point de disparaître, sous les cendres. Quant au voyage, il est chemin de croix, chronique ordinaire d’une vie de l’après, à travers un espace mort, où aucune nature ne semble pouvoir survivre. Le récit en lui-même ne décrira jamais ni l’impact initial dévastateur, ni le monde reconstruit : il se situe dans l’entre-deux, comme un purgatoire dans lequel les derniers vestiges de l’humanité semblent être confinés, vestiges dont les deux personnages, anonymes, condamnés à marcher sans fin, sont les ultimes pèlerins2. Dans cette perspective biblique, la rédemption du père, pécheur condamné chez McCarthy, ne pourra passer que par l’achèvement de sa mission sur cette « terre vaine » : par sa mort, il sauvera son fils, qui incarne ainsi la figure messianique du Sauveur, offrant par là-même aux derniers Hommes la possibilité d'un avenir. En cela, The Road n’anéantit le monde que pour mieux magnifier l’existence miraculeuse de l’enfant né pendant la catastrophe et qui y survivra tel un dieu vivant3. La rhétorique puritaine qui entoure l’idéologie exceptionnaliste américaine n’est donc pas réfutée dans The Road mais plutôt reformulée en des termes post-apocalyptiques, où la wilderness est transformée en terre dévastée, où le peuple élu par Dieu pour (re)construire cette « ville sise au sommet d’un mont »4 ne se résume plus qu’à un enfant portant le feu en lui.

3 Au sens étymologique du terme, « apocalypse » vient du grec apo-kálupsis qui pourrait être traduit par « dévoilement ». Ainsi, The Road, roman de l’apocalypse, s’attache-t-il à dévoiler la fin d’un monde plus que la fin du monde5, tandis que le rôle messianique de l’Amérique peut se perpétuer dans l’innocence salvatrice de l’enfant, dans l’espoir d’un dépassement, d’un renouveau. L’apocalypse, dans son rapport aux écritures saintes6, suppose en outre une révélation de choses cachées, qui concernent l’avenir et renvoient à l’espérance. Il est ainsi malaisé de définir exactement la frontière séparant le genre apocalyptique du genre prophétique, dont il n’est en quelque sorte qu’un prolongement. Les évocations du roman ne valent pas simplement pour elles-mêmes, mais pour le symbolisme dont elles sont chargées, car, dans une apocalypse, tout a une valeur symbolique auréolée de mystère. Celui-ci, terme clé dans l’œuvre de McCarthy, vient d’ailleurs littéralement conclure le roman et infuser ainsi rétrospectivement l’ensemble du récit7. Ce mystère ultime pose in fine la question primordiale, inaugurale, celle du divin, pour laquelle McCarthy propose une langue hantée et rythmée par les Saintes Écritures8, jusqu’aux dernières pages de son récit. Ainsi tenterons-nous tout au long de cette étude, avec pour guide le motif omniprésent de la cendre, de mettre en évidence cette finalité théologique9 pour pouvoir dépasser en dernière analyse les critiques parfois émises à la sortie du livre autour de la scène finale du roman en inscrivant celui-ci dans le genre du récit apocryphe élaboré comme une parabole biblique, dans laquelle l’infra-ordinaire d’une survie se transfigure en une extraordinaire parousie10.

Partout la cendre

4 La dimension du voyage, la chronique des pérégrinations des deux protagonistes inscrivent le roman dans la longue tradition d’une littérature américaine tournée vers l’inconnu, vers la découverte, ces road trips rendus populaires par John Steinbeck ou encore Jack Kerouac. Chez Cormac McCarthy cependant, la route incarne plutôt un chemin où l’on se cache, où l’on se terre, sinuant le long d’un décor trop grand. Le

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paysage décrit est d’ailleurs toujours infini mais indéfini, indistinct, indéterminé, il est en fait toujours le même : un immense terrain vague couvert de cendre, tel le paysage désolé décrit en 1922 par T.S. Eliot : Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains […] Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand11. (Eliot 37)

5 À travers ses descriptions d’espaces éliotiens, McCarthy use et abuse de la couleur grise et de ses nuances pour contaminer toute sa narration : l’accumulation lexicale de ces gris fonctionne comme une chape sur le roman qui évacue toute lumière, uniformise tout l’espace en un monochrome du dénuement. Le lecteur, comme les deux protagonistes, se retrouve ainsi au beau milieu d’un paysage lunaire : la figure métonymique de la cendre et tout le champ sémantique qui l’entoure imprègnent le roman jusqu’à l’étouffement12 car, dans le monde post-apocalyptique de McCarthy, « tout a été réduit en cendre »13. S'il y a bien deux personnages principaux, errant sur les routes dévastées, il y a aussi et surtout l’omniprésence des cendres qui les accompagnent partout dans leur périple, prenant ainsi la place d’un troisième protagoniste. Mais le choix lexical effectué par McCarthy, univoque dans les termes, redondant jusqu’au malaise, n’a pas qu’une valeur de décor personnifié, il renvoie in fine le lecteur vers un « avant », les cendres n’étant par essence que les traces, volatiles mais visibles, d’un passé disparu, la mémoire d’une histoire engloutie, au même titre que la figure des ruines chez Walter Benjamin14. Au niveau de la narration, en effet, les cendres fonctionnent comme la métaphore du souvenir, celle de traces mnésiques qui continuent de faire vivre la mémoire. En outre, c’est la condition du souvenir lui-même qui est interrogée, mise à mal. Lorsqu’il arrive dans une ville calcinée et abandonnée, le père, voulant protéger son fils de la vision macabre et certainement traumatisante d’un « cadavre desséché comme du cuir »15, formule un avertissement qui a tout d’un adage : « the things you put into your head are there forever » (McCarthy 12). L’enfant lui demande alors : « you forget some things, don’t you ? ». Innocemment, la réponse du père invoque un concept clé du traumatisme freudien, le retour du refoulé : « Yes. You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget ». Ce passage très court, au détour d’un paragraphe, souligne bien l’importance du souvenir, bon ou mauvais, conscient ou inconscient, dans la construction du moi, qu’il soit intime ou collectif. Lorsque seul subsiste le souvenir, après que tout a disparu sous les cendres, garder en mémoire et ne rien oublier est donc selon McCarthy le seul véritable travail à accomplir pour permettre une transmission : « A forest fire was making its way along the tinderbox ridges above them, flaring and shimmering against the overcast like the northern lights. [...] The color of it moved something in him long forgotten. Make a list. Recite a litany. Remember » (McCarthy 31). Cette imploration au souvenir faite par le père repose ainsi sur la litanie récitée, ritualisée, réinventée ici en une nouvelle liturgie. Cependant, à mesure que la narration progresse et que la lutte entre mémoire et oubli se fait plus prégnante pour le père, ce « souviens-toi ! » shakespearien disparaît lui aussi inexorablement sous les couches de cendres neigeuses et grises : The world shrinking down about a raw core of parsible entities. The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colors. The names of birds. Things to eat. Finally the names of things one believed to be true. More fragile than he would have thought. How much was gone already ? The sacred idiom shorn of its referents and so of its reality. Drawing down like something trying to preserve heat. In time to wink out forever. (McCarthy 88-89)

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6 Roman dystopique par excellence, The Road interroge notre relation au passé, met en cause le travail de la mémoire et, ce faisant, tend un miroir peu flatteur au monde contemporain. Dans ce contexte de fable allégorique, le roman dessine ainsi en creux une Amérique exsangue, dont le souvenir d’opulence n’est plus que cendre et poussière. Car, après l’allégorie benjaminienne de la ruine, et le sublime gothique que celle-ci symbolise, McCarthy nous informe que l’allégorie moderne pourrait bien être celle de la cendre, tant celle-ci symbolise la violence de l’histoire contemporaine. Jacques Derrida, dans son essai de 1999 intitulé « Feu la cendre », avait déjà utilisé cette figure pour définir les traumatismes du XXe siècle. Selon lui, la cendre, en tant que reste ineffable de signification, porte en elle ce privilège signifiant de la trace, même dans son effacement : Cette chose dont on ne sait rien, ni quel passé porte encore cette poussière grise de mots, ni quelle substance vint s’y consumer avant de s’y éteindre, [...] une telle chose, dira-t-on encore qu’elle garde même une identité de cendre ? Au présent, ici et maintenant, voilà une matière – visible mais lisible à peine – qui ne renvoyant qu’à elle-même ne fait plus trace, à moins qu’elle ne trace qu’en perdant la trace qu’elle reste à peine – mais c’est justement ce qu’il appelle la trace, cet effacement. (Derrida 25-27)

7 En ce sens d’effacement qui porte encore en lui une certaine présence, la prose minimaliste de McCarthy pour décrire un monde de cendre se rapproche de celle de Samuel Beckett16, elliptique et fragmentée, dont l’ensemble de l’œuvre peut être vue comme une réponse désespérée aux désolations de la Seconde Guerre mondiale, et à l’Holocauste en particulier. Puisque tout (holos) est brûlé (caustos), seule la langue, volatile comme la cendre, reste présente, l’unique lien tangible avec ce qui a été et qui n’est plus. L’engagement de Beckett dans la représentation des limites de la langue peut ainsi se retrouver dans la prose nue de McCarthy lorsqu'il s’agit de décrire un autre spectacle de désolation. Pour les deux auteurs, le désastre apparaît donc dans la béance de la langue dont parle Maurice Blanchot, celle qui omet plus qu’elle ne nomme. Les souvenirs tombent en ruine, entre les lignes décharnées du récit et les poussières de mots17. Ainsi, The Road décrit l’effondrement d’un monde dans une langue sèche, presque vide, à travers les errements de deux personnages, tels Vladimir et Estragon (Beckett, 1952), ou encore Hamm et Clov (Beckett, 1957), prisonniers eux aussi d’un monde en fin, d’une fin du monde ayant perdu tout lien avec une quelconque détermination, temporelle ou géographique. Dans son roman, McCarthy nous décrit lui aussi un univers indistinct et indéterminé. Après l’apocalypse en effet, le temps chez McCarthy, comme chez Beckett d’ailleurs, est à jamais suspendu : « he thought the month was October but he wasnt sure. He hadnt kept a calendar for years » (McCarthy 4). Le récit post-apocalyptique est en soi hors du temps : utiliser la répétition en agençant le récit tel un ostinato, c’est aussi chercher à abolir le temps et éliminer le présent, cette réalité qu’on ne peut plus endurer et qui se trouve enfin diluée dans la récurrence ad infinitum des mêmes scènes de survie ordinaire. La véritable catastrophe, nous dit McCarthy, est donc moins une rupture qu’une « paralysie de l’histoire », pour reprendre l’expression de Michel Puech18. La conception de l’apocalypse selon McCarthy nous interdit ainsi de penser un « avant » ou un « après » : nous sommes dans un éternel « pendant » qui donne au récit son caractère mystique.

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Une mythologie en cendre

8 Dans sa description d’une fin du monde où toute forme de civilisation a disparu, où les derniers rescapés sont réduits à une sous-humanité affamée, crasseuse et effrayée, le roman de McCarthy semble déconstruire le mythe fondateur américain de l’exceptionnalisme. Souvenons-nous en effet que dès les années 1830, dans le but d’accélérer l’expansion géographique vers l’Ouest du continent, cette vision d’une destinée manifeste trouve son symbole dans la nature sauvage américaine, la mythique wilderness qui sublime les paysages vierges et s’offre comme une terre inviolée, un jardin d'Eden pour un peuple élu. Dans The Road pourtant, le sublime des paysages étasuniens s’est effacé sous les cendres pour devenir une vaste terre brûlée et stérile : « [...] the country as far as they could see was burned away, the blackened shapes of rock standing out of the shoals of ash and billows of ash rising up and blowing downcountry through the waste. The track of the dull sun moving unseen beyond the murk » (McCarthy 14). La défiguration de la nature abîme sévèrement le mythe américain jusqu’à empêcher toute assimilation du roman aux canons d’une littérature célébrant cette nature comme paysage ultime : la route suivie par les deux protagonistes symbolise au contraire l’ultime frontière après laquelle il n’y a que la mort. À travers cette déconstruction, McCarthy semble donc proposer une lecture critique de cette psyché exceptionnaliste, dont les racines sont éminemment puritaines.

9 Pourtant, une autre vision se fait jour dans The Road, qui contredit cette critique : l’héritage puritain de prédestination, de providence divine et de valeurs morales contamine en effet la narration, conférant à celle-ci des accents de parabole biblique. Chez McCarthy en effet, l’Amérique semble ne pas pouvoir échapper à ses racines puritaines qui voient en toutes choses un perpétuel combat du Bien contre le Mal. Dans cet univers sépulcral se fait jour la tension paradoxale entre la certitude qu’il n’y a plus de dieu et un besoin de transcendance qui affleure partout dans les références à Dieu : « There is no God. / No ? / There is no God and we are his prophets » (McCarthy 170). Cette réplique, prononcée par un vieillard rencontré par les deux errants, qui a pris pour pseudonyme Ely19, apparaît de prime abord hermétique et contradictoire. Elle affirme pourtant que si Dieu semble les avoir abandonnés, il faut continuer de croire. Cette forme de tension, d’illogisme sémantique, crée chez le père et le fils, comme chez le lecteur, une double contrainte, un « régime primaire de dualité »20 qui doit être dépassé. La négation de Dieu par le vieillard Ely est d’autant plus surprenante que dans la Bible, au chapitre III, versets 23-24 de Malachie, il est écrit : « Voici que, moi, je vous envoie le prophète Élie avant que vienne le jour de Iahvé, jour grand et terrible. Il ramènera le cœur des pères vers les fils et le cœur des fils vers leurs pères, de peur que je ne vienne frapper d’anathème le pays ». Chez McCarthy, le personnage d’Ely contribue en effet à unifier les cœurs du père et du fils dans un dernier sursaut de foi, dans le but de tenir à distance l’anathème divin. Ainsi, le road trip, au sens physique du terme, n’est pas le seul voyage que les personnages entreprennent : une quête spirituelle se produit également dans le roman, dans lequel le père lutte pour faire émerger une signification à partir du chaos qui les entoure. Car Cormac McCarthy invente un monde dont les paysages aux vallées grisées par la cendre, aux vents hurlants et aux arbres morts, dessinent les contours terrifiants d’un lieu abandonné par Dieu. La question posée par le roman jaillit alors de manière obvie : comment peut-on

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déceler la présence de Dieu quand la nature est intégralement dévastée ? Si The Road décrit en effet une nature stérile et sans foi21, dont la sécularité a tout emporté22, si Dieu a disparu, et avec lui ses prophètes23, il faut pourtant persévérer dans l’espérance d’une survie comme forme de rédemption. Au-delà du voyage littéral qui structure le récit, le voyage spirituel décrit en creux par McCarthy donne une résonance et une complexité nouvelles au roman : celui-ci insuffle la spiritualité qui fait défaut au monde qu’il décrit. The Road prend alors la forme hyperbolique d’un récit digne du Nouveau Testament dont l’exégèse fournirait un enseignement moral qu’il convient de mettre en lumière.

Le Mercredi des Cendres

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard ; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within the world and for the world ; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled About the centre of the silent Word. (Eliot 59)

10 Cette strophe, jouant magnifiquement sur les sonorités comme sur les majuscules, est extraite du long poème de T.S. Eliot, écrit en 1930, intitulé « Ash-Wednesday ». Le titre, comme les références religieuses au Verbe, témoigne d’une forte influence de la rhétorique chrétienne chez Eliot24. De même, le père dans The Road, abandonné dans un monde en perdition, (re)devenu poussière, sait que le Verbe divin, aussi ténu et silencieux soit-il, reste son seul viatique. Cette correspondance intime avec les vers d’Eliot renforce encore le caractère sacré de la mission du père, qui pourrait bien être le dernier « homme du Verbe ». Quant au titre du poème d’Eliot, il tisse des liens plus étroits encore avec le roman de McCarthy : le chemin suivi par les deux protagonistes dans les cendres d’un monde dévasté n’est-il pas la parabole de ce temps de pénitence, ce temps de prière, d’aumône et de jeûne appelé Mercredi des Cendres (Ash-Wednesday), qui prépare à la résurrection du Christ ? N’est-il pas une manière pour le chrétien de s’unir au Christ, qui lui-même a jeûné quarante jours dans le désert pour se préparer à sa mission, celle de sa mort et de sa résurrection ?

11 C’est dans cette même perspective de parabole biblique qu’il convient de lire l’étrange rêve qui ouvre le roman. Tandis que, dans le monde diégétique, c’est le père qui guide l’enfant à travers ces terres de cendres et de désespoir, dans l’espace chimérique du rêve c’est bien l’enfant qui montre le chemin à l’adulte à travers une caverne abritant une créature monstrueuse : In the dream from which he’d wakened he had wandered in a cave where the child led him by the hand […] lost among the inward parts of some granitic beast. […] And on the far shore a creature that raised its dripping mouth from the rimstone pool and stared into the light with eyes dead white and sightless as the eggs of spiders. (McCarthy 3-4)

12 Ainsi, la figure biblique du Léviathan apparaît au père, qui entrevoit dès l’introduction du roman le rôle de guide qu’endosse son fils : puisque le monde extérieur a définitivement épuisé toute forme du divin, Dieu est à retrouver au plus profond de l’enfant. Le premier geste que fait l’homme en se réveillant est alors de tendre le bras et

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de toucher celui-ci, de s’assurer qu’il respire encore. Cette scène donne le ton de la relation qui unit les deux protagonistes tout au long du périple diégétique. Aux yeux du père, l’innocence du fils incarne le dernier vestige d’une présence divine. Il sera la Parole de Dieu au sens littéral et biblique25 : « If he is not the word of God God never spoke » (McCarthy 5), ou encore son réceptacle : « He sat beside him and stroked his pale and tangled hair. Golden chalice, good to house a god » (75). In fine, arrivés à la conclusion tragique de leur périple, le père associera le fils au Tabernacle, lieu de culte qui, dans la tradition juive, abrite la Torah, la Parole de Dieu une fois encore (Exode 25 : 8-9) : « In the road looking back at him from some unimaginable future, glowing in that waste like a tabernacle » (273). Grâce à ces quelques exemples, et dans le prolongement de l’analyse critique proposée par Edwin Arnold autour du motif du Sacré chez McCarthy26, il nous apparaît évident que le message délivré par le roman est inextricablement lié à une quête spirituelle vue comme seul et unique pilier pour ne pas sombrer dans l’abomination d’un monde en déréliction. Dans ce paysage où il ne reste que très peu de traces matérielles, la simple convocation du nom de Dieu suggère que le roman, tout en opposant la substance et l’immatériel, les rend pourtant inséparables. En effet, si Beckett dénie toute signification à ce monde absurde qui ne finit jamais, McCarthy, lui, pousse ses personnages à persévérer toujours dans leur foi : « We just have to keep going, the man said. Come on. [...] We’ll just take it one step at a time. Okay. Dont let go. No matter what » (McCarthy 233). L’homme comme l’enfant doivent « continuer »27, à avancer et à croire, parce qu’au bout de la route il y aura peut-être un salut, une rédemption possible et donc un avenir à construire : « The man took his hand, wheezing. You need to go on, he said. I cant go with you. You need to keep going. You dont know what might be down the road. We were always lucky. You’ll be lucky again. You’ll see. Just go. It’s all right » (278). Dans son attachement à la symbolique liturgique, McCarthy va incarner cette volonté de croire, qui ne doit pas mourir, à travers la figure du feu, qui ne doit pas s’éteindre : We are going to be okay, arent we, Papa ? Yes. We are. And nothing bad is going to happen to us. That’s right. Because we’re carrying the fire. Yes. Because we’re carrying the fire. (83)

Sous la cendre, le feu

13 Le feu, agent de destruction au sens propre, figure négative qui brûle les corps et les paysages28, se révèle donc aussi rédempteur au sens figuré, protection symbolique qui offre un refuge d’espoir et de survie. L’acharnement à « porter le feu » est ainsi psalmodié tout au long du roman, tel un mantra, comme pour tracer une ligne morale entre Bien et Mal, et s’y tenir : We wouldnt ever eat anybody, would we ? No. Of course not. [...] No matter what. No. No matter what. Because we’re the good guys. Yes. And we’re carrying the fire. And we’re carrying the fire. Yes. (McCarthy 128-129)

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14 C’est à la fin du roman, lorsque le père est sur le point de mourir, que l’image du feu va prendre tout son sens liturgique, symbolisant le Saint-Esprit qui réunit le Père et le Fils en une Sainte Trinité : It’s all right. This has been a long time coming. Now it’s here. Keep going south. Do everything the way we did it. You’re going to be okay, Papa. You have to. No, I’m not. [...] I want to be with you You cant. Please. You cant. You have to carry the fire. I dont know how to. Yes you do. Is it real ? The fire ? Yes it is. Where is it ? I dont know where it is. Yes you do. It’s inside you. It was always there. I can see it. (278-279)

15 En outre, par-delà la puissance métaphorique de ces images, et dans sa volonté de figurer ce récit d’une survie ordinaire au plus juste, Cormac McCarthy s’attache aussi à reprendre dans ses descriptions la technique picturale de la « Nature Morte »29. Sa façon de détailler chaque objet, chaque situation, donne à l’ensemble son caractère réaliste. Cette technique pourtant n’est qu’une autre forme de la métaphore : Guy Davenport indique en effet que ce genre particulier, qui remonte à l’ancienne Egypte et aux cultures hébraïques, s’est toujours attaché à métaphoriser les objets choisis dans leurs rapports au temps et aux spéculations métaphysiques. Plus tard, en particulier à partir des motifs du memento mori et des vanitas, l’accent des Natures Mortes fut mis sur l’incertitude et la brièveté de la vie terrestre (Davenport 7). Brièveté et éternité, beauté et mortalité, espoir et croyance, les éléments qui président à la Nature Morte oscillent entre un état physique ancré dans le présent et le spectre métaphysique d’un futur comminatoire. Cette dualité intrinsèque au genre entretient ainsi un sentiment d’anxiété, voire de crainte envers l’avenir. De ce point de vue, dans The Road, ces objets ordinaires, ces (non)événements dépeints dans la veine de la Nature Morte, revêtent eux aussi une signification double, qui confère au roman sa dimension métaphysique. Ainsi, grâce à ce procédé stylistique, la description de la mort du père, au-delà de ce corps gisant au centre du tableau sépulcral, se lit aussi comme une « nature morte », au sens littéral, qui fait ressentir au lecteur une puissance d’humanité, celle du devoir moral accompli envers son prochain, qui n’est autre que son propre fils : He walked back into the woods and knelt beside his father. He was wrapped in a blanket […] and the boy didnt uncover him but he sat beside him and he was crying and he couldnt stop. He cried for a long time. I’ll talk to you every day, he whispered. And I won’t forget. No matter what. (McCarthy, 286)

Conclure, au-delà des cendres

16 Alors que la plupart des études critiques ont toujours souligné le caractère violent, voire nihiliste de l’œuvre de Cormac McCarthy, il nous semble tout aussi primordial d’y lire un profond humanisme moral et religieux, déjà suggéré par Edwin Arnold : « there is also evident in his work a profound belief in the need for moral order, a conviction that is essentially religious » (Arnold, « Naming, Knowing and Nothingness » 46). De la

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même manière, Steven Frye pointe avec force l’entre-deux qu’occupe l’œuvre de McCarthy, en tension permanente entre une position misanthrope et sombre d’un côté, et une vision de la foi religieuse rédemptrice de l’autre. Son travail sur l’imagerie de The Road en particulier, mise en regard avec l’iconographie biblique classique, démontre de manière très convaincante cette « ambiguïté torturée »30 qui donne toute sa profondeur symbolique à l’œuvre (Frye 185-191). En effet, en dépit de son caractère tragique, le roman du thaumaturge McCarthy (qui a dédicacé celui-ci à son jeune fils, John) insuffle une (faible) lueur d’espoir au bout du chemin de croix : au-delà de l’apparition soudaine de la famille, tel un Deus ex Machina porteur d’une ouverture diégétique souvent décriée et mal reçue, le père a réussi dans sa mission, celle de construire pour l’enfant une possibilité d’avenir, fragile mais ondoyante comme les truites de torrent, dont l’image poétique et mystérieuse vient conclure le roman. Ainsi, chez Cormac McCarthy, le récit se résout non pas sous la forme d’une épiphanie, qui n’est qu’une illumination de nature poétique et immanente, mais plutôt sous celle d’une hiérophanie, qui est, elle, de nature métaphysique et transcendante.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Ouvrages cités

ALTER, Charles. Pen of Iron : American Prose and the King James Bible. Princeton, NJ : Princeton University Press, 2010.

ARNOLD, Edwin T. « McCarthy and the Sacred : A Reading of The Crossing. » Cormac McCarthy : New Directions. Éd. James Lilley. Albuquerque, NM : University of New Mexico Press, 2002, p. 215-238.

---. « Naming, Knowing and Nothingness : McCarthy’s Moral Parables. » Perspectives on Cormac McCarthy. Éd. Edwin T. Arnold and Dianne C. Luce. Jackson, MS : University Press of Mississippi, 1999, p. 45-69.

BAUER, Sylvie. « Le Spectre du sens dans The Road de Cormac McCarthy. » Revue Française d’Études Américaines, n° 143, 2015, p. 96-105.

BECKETT, Samuel. En attendant Godot. Paris : Éditions de Minuit, 1952.

---, Fin de partie. Paris : Éditions de Minuit, 1957.

BENJAMIN, Walter. Origins of German Tragic Drama. New York : Verso, 1998.

La Bible de Jérusalem. Paris : Les Éditions du Cerf, 1998.

CATES, Anna. « Secular Winds : Disrupted Natural Revelation & the Journey toward God In Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. » The Internet Review of Science Fiction. Février 2010. www.irosf.com/ q/zine/article/10637.

DANTA, Chris. « “The Cold Illucid World” : The Poetics of Gray in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. » Styles of Extinction : Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Éd. Julian Murphet and Mark Steven. New York : Continuum Books, 2012, p. 9-26.

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DAVENPORT, Guy. Objects on a Table : Harmonious Disarray in Art and Literature. Washington, DC : Counterpoint, 1998.

DERRIDA, Jacques. Feu la cendre. Paris : Des Femmes Éditions, 1999.

DICK, Philip K. Nouvelles 1947-1953. Paris : Denoël, 2000.

ELIOT, T.S. The Waste Land and Other Poems. London : Faber and Faber, 1972.

ENGELIBERT, Jean-Paul. Apocalypses sans royaume, Politique des fictions de la fin du monde. Paris : Classiques Garnier, 2013.

FRYE, Steven. « Fate Without Foreknowledge : Style and Image in the Late Naturalism of Suttree. » The Cormac McCarthy Journal, n° 4, 2005, p. 184-94.

GERVAIS, Bertrand. « En Quête de signes : De l’imaginaire de la fin à la culture apocalyptique. » Religiologiques. Automne 1999, p. 193-209.

McCARTHY, Cormac. The Road. New York : Vintage Books, 2006.

MOREL, Michel. Eléments d’axiocritique. Paris : L’Harmattan, 2015.

NADEAU, Jean-Guy. « Problématiques du religieux dans la littérature de science-fiction. » Laval Théologique et Philosophique. Février 2001, p. 95-107.

PUECH, Michel. « Les Catastrophes lentes. » Le Portique, n° 22, 2009, leportique.revues.org/2003.

SHEENAN, Paul. « Road, Fire, Trees : Cormac McCarthy’s Post America. » Styles of Extinction : Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Éd. Julian Murphet and Mark Steven. New York : Continuum Books, 2012, p. 89-108.

TROTIGNON, Béatrice. « The Persisting Relic of Prayer in The Road by Cormac McCarthy. » Revue Française d’Études Américaines, n° 141, 2014, p. 197-209.

WILHELM, Randal S. « “Golden chalice, good to house a god” : Still Life in The Road. » The Cormac McCarthy Journal, n° 6, Automne 2008, p. 129-146.

WINTHROP, John. A Modell of Christian Charity. Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society. Boston, 1838, 3rd series, p. 31-48.

NOTES

1. Nous entendons ici la science-fiction telle que définie par l’un de ses maîtres, Philip K. Dick : « C’est notre monde disloqué par un certain genre d’effort mental de l’auteur, c’est notre monde transformé en ce qu’il n’est pas ou pas encore. Ce monde doit se distinguer au moins d’une façon de celui qui nous est donné, et cette façon doit être suffisante pour permettre des événements qui ne peuvent se produire dans notre société – ou dans aucune société connue présente ou passée. Il doit y avoir une idée cohérente impliquée dans cette dislocation ; c’est-à-dire que la dislocation doit être conceptuelle, et non simplement triviale ou étrange – c’est là l’essence de la science-fiction, une dislocation conceptuelle dans la société en sorte qu’une nouvelle société est produite dans l’esprit de l’auteur, couchée sur le papier, et à partir du papier elle produit un choc convulsif dans l’esprit du lecteur, le choc produit par un trouble de la reconnaissance. Il sait qu’il ne lit pas un texte sur le monde véritable » (Dick 25-27). 2. « like pilgrims in a fable » (McCarthy 3). 3. Ce que Jean-Paul Engélibert appelle « la perspective théologique de McCarthy » (Engélibert 18). 4. « Vous êtes la lumière du monde. Une ville ne se peut cacher, qui est sise au sommet d’un mont », évangile selon Mathieu 5:14. Il s’agit de la parabole biblique dite du sel de la terre tirée

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du Sermon sur la montagne. La métaphore renvoie bien entendu aussi à John Winthrop, gouverneur de la Colonie de la baie du Massachusetts, évoquant cette idée de peuple élu de Dieu dans sa célèbre métaphore « City upon a Hill » pour dire que la communauté puritaine de Nouvelle-Angleterre avait été choisie comme modèle pour les autres communautés du monde et que le sol américain n’était autre qu’un nouvel Israël, terre élue et bénie de Dieu vouée à une mission particulière, une mission divine (A Modell of Christian Charity, 1630). 5. Il est intéressant de noter que le roman débute par un voilement du monde : « Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world » (3). 6. C’est bien une apocalypse que McCarthy décrit, documente et dissèque, une apocalypse telle qu’elle est mise en mots par Jean : « Il se fit un violent tremblement de terre, et le soleil devint noir comme une étoffe de crin, et la lune devint toute entière comme du sang, et les astres du ciel s’abattirent sur la terre et le ciel disparut » (Apocalypse de Jean 6 : 12-13). 7. « they hummed of mystery » (287). 8. Les correspondances entre le style employé par McCarthy et celui de la Bible ont été limpidement tracées par Charles Alter, qui a pu noter les parataxes, les simplicités phonétiques ou encore les monosyllabes qui reprennent le cadre formel du récit biblique. Par ailleurs, ce travail exhaustif de recension inspire aussi l’article de Béatrice Trotignon qui vient éclairer de manière très convaincante les soubassements théologiques du roman de McCarthy. Son étude revient par exemple sur les différentes occurrences du terme “Dieu” dans le roman, liste sur laquelle nous ne reviendrons donc pas ici (Trotignon 200). 9. « like the last host of christendom » (McCarthy 16). 10. Cette nouvelle apparition divine est décrite dans l’Apocalypse de Jean (1 : 17) : « À sa vue, je tombai à ses pieds, comme mort ; mais il posa sur moi sa main droite en disant : “Ne crains pas, je suis le Premier et le Dernier” ». De manière saisissante, la seule allusion à la catastrophe du roman de McCarthy est son heure, « 1:17 » (McCarthy 52). 11. Cette proximité littéraire avec Eliot n’est pas fortuite et dépasse les descriptions de paysages. Dans nos analyses suivantes, nous aurons l’occasion d’évoquer la portée spirituelle et religieuse qui unit les deux œuvres. Nous renvoyons en outre à l’article de Paul Sheenan (2012) pour d’autres liens entre McCarthy et Eliot. 12. Les particules cendreuses contaminent jusqu’aux poumons du père, le condamnant à une mort inéluctable, sa vie ne tenant elle aussi qu’à un souffle : « The ashes of the late world carried on the bleak and temporal winds to and fro in the void. Carried forth and scattered and carried forth again. Everything uncoupled from its shoring. Unsupported in the ashen air. Sustained by a breath, trembling and brief » (11). 13. « all was burnt to ash » (14). 14. Pour le philosophe, la figure de la ruine symbolise en effet la quintessence de l’Histoire, la marque d’un passé qui entre en collision avec le présent (Benjamin 178). 15. « a corpse in a doorway dried to leather » (12). 16. Chris Danta propose lui aussi un parallèle entre le gris de McCarthy et celui de Beckett : « McCarthy pays tribute to Beckett in The Road by building a story around the anti dialectical and non luminous aspect of the color gray—by invoking the noir gris or the “ash grey” of being ». Mais il voit en McCarthy une « vibration purement humaine » qu’il ne retrouve pas chez Beckett (Danta 13). 17. Cette défaite de la langue est analysée avec acuité par Sylvie Bauer : « L’absence de ponctuation participe à l’impression que le langage se déroule une fois encore sans arrimage, comme si toute syntaxe structurante faisait défaut » (Bauer 104). 18. Voir son article « Les Catastrophes lentes » (cité par Engélibert 122). 19. « Is your name really Ely? / No » (McCarthy 171).

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20. Dans son lien au texte littéraire, Michel Morel définit cette forme de tension dite « d’injonction paradoxale » comme un oxymore métaphorique, ou encore une pratique bipolaire qui se veut « auto-évidente » (Morel 19, 21-29, 34-35). 21. « Barren, silent, godless » (McCarthy 4). 22. « Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular » (274). 23. « No godspoke men. They are gone and I am left and they have taken with them the world » (32). 24. Son poème se lit comme une litanie rituelle associant liturgie sacrée et mystique profane. 25. « Au commencement était le Verbe/et le Verbe était auprès de Dieu/et le Verbe était Dieu » (Jean 1 : 1-2). 26. « We might rightly identify McCarthy as a mystical writer, a spiritual author who venerates life in all its forms, who believes in a sense of being and order deeper than that manifested in outward show and pretense of human individuality » (Arnold, « McCarthy and the Sacred » 216). 27. « They went on » (234) ; « They went on » (235) ; « They went on » (236) ; etc. 28. « He was as burntlooking as the country, his clothing scorched and black. » (McCarthy 49) 29. La Nature Morte chez McCarthy a été mise en avant avec une grande clairvoyance par Randal S. Wilhelm dans son article de 2008 sur The Road (p. 130 en particulier). 30. « a tortured ambiguity » (Frye 185).

RÉSUMÉS

Cet article s’attache à décrire et comprendre le point de vue religieux dans The Road (2006) de Cormac McCarthy, et explore comment, à travers métaphores et images bibliques, s’y développe une vision singulière de l’apocalypse. Trouver Dieu dans un monde sans dieu est au coeur du projet de McCarthy. Le motif des cendres, ici privilégié, rend compte de l’aspiration théologique de ce texte et de la manière dont une nouvelle liturgie eschatologique s’y fait jour à travers la réinvention de la Sainte Trinité.

This article focuses on Cormac McCarthy’s religious viewpoint in The Road (2006) and highlights the biblical metaphors and images that bring about a new vision of the apocalypse. Finding God in a godless world lies at the core of McCarthy’s project. Through the motif of the ashes, this essay studies McCarthy’s theological aspiration and the emergence of a new eschatological liturgy thanks to a reinvented Holy Trinity.

INDEX

Mots-clés : Cormac McCarthy, apocalypse, chrétienté, cendres, exceptionnalisme étasunien, hiérophanie Keywords : Cormac McCArthy, apocalypse, Christendom, ashes, American exceptionalism, hierophany

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AUTEUR

YVES DAVO Université de Bordeaux

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Hors Thème

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L’usure iconique. Circulation et valeur des images dans le cinéma américain contemporain

Mathias Kusnierz

Introduction : le tournant réflexif à Hollywood

1 Avec l’avènement du cinéma post-moderne, l’industrie hollywoodienne a fait un bond de géant dans sa capacité à fournir des images immersives fondées sur des effets spéciaux photoréalistes (Jameson, « Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism » ; Jullier 36, 60, 84, 133 ; Odin 134). Ce bond en avant se traduit, depuis les années 1990, par un tournant réflexif que l’on peut observer dans le cinéma d’action et de science-fiction : de la parodie (True Lies, Pulp Fiction) à la mise en abyme (la trilogie Matrix, Inception), en passant par le film dans le film (Last Action Hero), le métafilm1, l’hommage (Jackie Brown), le pastiche (Starship Troopers) ou l’emprunt intertextuel (Kill Bill), le cinéma américain ne cesse d’interroger ses modes de représentation avec les moyens les plus divers. À telle enseigne que théoriciens et critiques reprochent régulièrement à Hollywood de ne plus s’intéresser au monde mais seulement aux films (Thoret ; Malausa). C’est la raison pour laquelle tant de blockbusters, depuis vingt ans, ont pour thème et enjeu figuratif le faux et la contrefaçon, de True Lies (James Cameron, 1994) à Inception (Christopher Nolan, 2010) en passant par Mission: Impossible (Brian De Palma, 1996), The Bourne Identity (Doug Liman, 2002) et The A-Team (Joe Carnahan, 2010). La séquence d’ouverture de Starship Troopers (Paul Verhoeven, 1997), par exemple, est présentée au spectateur comme s’il s’agissait d’un reportage de guerre sur des événements qui seront intégrés plus tard au récit. Dans les fictions hollywoodiennes d’aujourd’hui, les images telles qu’elles sont mises en scène précèdent toujours la réalité et cela même si, contrairement à ce qu’affirme Baudrillard, les films continuent d’accuser la distinction entre le réel et l’image (Baudrillard 155-161).

2 Le présupposé derrière ce reproche adressé à Hollywood est l’opposition exclusive traditionnelle entre réflexivité et référentialité. Les films auraient en quelque sorte à

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prendre position : parler du cinéma ou parler du monde et du réel. À la sortie d’Inglourious Basterds (2009) et Django Unchained (2012) par exemple, une certaine presse intellectuelle américaine, tout en louant la qualité du film, a reproché à Quentin Tarantino le choix d’un traitement post-moderne (intertextuel, spectaculaire et excessif) qui ferait disparaître la réalité concrète de l’Histoire derrière l’illusion spectaculaire et la prolifération de références cinéphiles (Bradshaw ; Ebert). Le cinéma hollywoodien perd le spectateur dans un labyrinthe où les images renvoient toutes les unes aux autres, à la manière des architectures rêvées par les personnages d’Inception.

3 Mon hypothèse de départ est la suivante : tous les films que produit Hollywood aujourd’hui sont d’une certaine façon réflexifs dans la mesure où leurs images renvoient toujours à d’autres images, dans un processus infini de signifiance (Kristeva 219 ; Barthes 447-452) que Derrida nomme « différance » (Derrida, L’écriture et la différence 423 ; 1972, 60-61, 208-209, 379) ; dans la mesure aussi où, telles des fossiles, les images de cinéma portent en elles la trace de leur passé (Reynolds). La séquence d’ouverture de True Lies (1994) rappelle l’atmosphère expressionniste et lugubre des films d’espionnage de Fritz Lang comme Man Hunt (1941) ou Ministry of Fear (1944) ; le décollage vertical du jet Harrier sur fond de soleil couchant après que les terroristes ont été neutralisés évoque les premiers plans d’Apocalypse Now (1979) et les images des hélicoptères bombardant le Viêt Nam au napalm. Dans Starship Troopers (1997), la séquence de l’attaque des arachnides sur le fort de la planète P est nourrie d’images issues de westerns célèbres comme They Died with Their Boots On (Raoul Walsh, 1941), Fort Apache (John Ford, 1948) ou The Alamo (John Wayne, 1960), tandis que les images de l’atterrissage sur la planète K semblent décalquées du long métrage de guerre tourné par John Ford, George Stevens ou Samuel Fuller (Metz 23-25 ; Natoli XI). À ce titre, Inception et ses rêves enchâssés les uns dans les autres dans une récursivité infinie sont, par excellence, la métaphore d’un système de production d’images qui ne renvoie plus qu’à lui-même. Le cinéma, ce dispositif que les premiers théoriciens ont rapproché du rêve éveillé (Cavell 155, 209-212 ; De Amicis ; Gorki), s’observe désormais en train d’usiner des rêves.

4 L’usage que je fais ici du mot « image » ne la confond ni avec l’idée de plan ni avec la bande-image. Il s’agirait plutôt de la représentation immatérielle (du monde, d’un objet) telle qu’elle est envisagée à partir de la matérialité de son support. Aussi l’image n’est-elle jamais simplement la représentation ; elle est plutôt un idéologème, soit un signe chargé de valeur (Jameson, L’inconscient politique 20). Comme on le verra dans la suite de ce texte, ce sont souvent des séries de plans montés entre eux qui forment une image, rarement des plans isolés. Les films font donc circuler des images que l’on peut définir, ainsi que je vais m’employer à le montrer, comme des représentations chargées d’une valeur idéologique. Celle-ci vient aux images comme un effet du discours des films, mais également comme une mémoire dont elles sont porteuses : c’est parce que les images des films contemporains renvoient à d’autres images venues du passé du cinéma qu’elles en réactivent la valeur idéologique, voire qu’elles en extraient une valeur idéologique qui en était peut-être d’abord absente, de façon structurelle plus qu’intentionnelle (Verevis 129-150).

5 Lorsqu’il évoque la question de l’image, Deleuze ne la réduit pas au seul champ du cinéma. Elle est, d’après lui, un état de la matière, elle-même toujours perçue comme mouvement (Deleuze, L’image-mouvement 18-22, 37-39, 86-88). Autrement dit, notre perception du monde et nos souvenirs relèvent aussi de la catégorie qu’il nomme

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« image ». Le cinéma est constitué d’images tout comme le sont notre perception du monde, notre pensée ou nos souvenirs (Hême de Lacotte 68-71). C’est la raison pour laquelle l’image cinématographique est, pour Deleuze, un analogue de la pensée (« Le cerveau, c’est l’écran »). Ainsi, quand les images d’un film renvoient à d’autres images, ces dernières peuvent aussi bien provenir d’autres films qu’être ancrées dans notre mémoire ou circuler dans l’espace social. On peut donc dire qu’elles agissent sur le réel : elles ne sont pas confinées à la sphère du cinéma.

6 Je voudrais nuancer ici l’affirmation, très en vogue depuis les travaux de Baudrillard sur le cinéma dans les années 1980, selon laquelle le cinéma ne parle plus du réel. Peter Szendy transforme la célèbre phrase de Derrida, « Il n’y a pas de hors-texte » (Derrida, De la grammatologie 227-228) en « Il n’y a pas de hors-film » (L’apocalypse-cinéma 142). Pour Szendy comme pour Derrida, la réalité est toujours déjà structurée comme un film (ou comme un texte) ; il n’y a donc guère de raison d’opposer le cinéma et le réel ; et par conséquent, l’idée que le cinéma ne parlerait plus du réel devient caduque. Qui plus est, de récentes approches théoriques battent en brèche le présupposé de l’impossible coexistence de la référentialité et de la réflexivité. Du concept d’iconomie forgé par Peter Szendy (dans « Iconomie et innervation ») aux équivalences construites par Jonathan Beller entre table de montage cinématographique et chaîne de montage industrielle, ainsi qu’entre le dispositif de projection d’images et l’appareil industriel de production de marchandise et de valeur (132-134, 234-235, 302-308), les théoriciens du cinéma cherchent à montrer que, plutôt que de parler du réel, la réflexivité2 agit sur le réel (Bredekamp), notamment par des mécanismes dématérialisés de production de valeur qui se traduisent, hors de la salle de cinéma, par des effets économiques, idéologiques et politiques concrets.

Le concept d’iconomie et l’œil comme chaîne de montage

7 Peter Szendy (« Iconomie et innervation » ; Le supermarché du visible) fonde sa réflexion sur un bref passage de Cinéma 2. L’Image-temps : « L’argent est l’envers de toutes les images que le cinéma montre et monte à l’endroit, si bien que les films sur l’argent sont déjà, quoique implicitement, des films dans le film ou sur le film. » (L’Image-temps 104) Deleuze signifie ici que les plans d’un film sont le résultat d’opérations financières complexes. À travers eux, ce sont donc ces opérations monétaires qui sont montées et assemblées. Les images de cinéma non seulement sont destinées à circuler dans l’économie mondialisée, mais elles sont la forme même de l’échange (Beller 49-59, 72-77). Elles permettent de troquer un peu de lumière, des affects, des percepts et des concepts (pour parler comme Deleuze) et un temps vécu plus intensément (émotions diverses, suspense, empathie) contre l’argent et le temps brut du spectateur (Beller 104-110).

8 Le concept d’iconomie permet d’expliquer comment les images se chargent en valeur, par delà la vente des tickets de cinéma aux spectateurs. Jonathan Beller pose comme axiome le devenir-image de la marchandise et, réciproquement, le devenir- marchandise de l’image (1-2, 67-69, 243). La valeur d’échange des objets contemporains, explique-t-il, tient à leur pouvoir d’attraction esthétique et à leur marque (7-12). La griffe d’un vêtement est le réceptacle de sa valeur ; elle est un signe de prestige, certes conventionnel mais qui se traduit en valeur monétaire. C’est la raison pour laquelle les

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produits tendent de plus en plus à se confondre avec leur image. Ainsi, l’abstraction et la rationalisation croissantes de l’échange des marchandises ne sont autres que leur devenir-image, et par conséquent aussi celui des consommateurs. C’est d’abord l’image des produits griffés que je consomme à travers eux ; ce faisant, je consomme aussi ma propre image d’« individu-qui-les-consomme ». C’est que nous achetons certains produits en raison de leur valeur symbolique plutôt que pour leurs qualités intrinsèques, parce qu’ils sont des signes extérieurs de prestige ou de richesse (Moulier-Boutang 59). De fait, nous tendons à en faire des fétiches (Waarenfetisch) (Marx, Das Kapital 102-105, 120-121) ; nous développons un rapport affectif avec eux, nous nous identifions à leurs marques, desquelles nous tirons des formes d’expériences et d’affects qui nous semblent plus précieuses que celles que nous apportent des produits dépourvus de griffe (Szendy « All the Marxes at the Big Store »). Lorsque nous faisons usage de ces produits, nous propageons leur image dans l’espace public, c’est-à- dire que nous faisons aussi concrètement circuler la marchandise et accroissons ainsi les échanges de valeur (Beller 245-249).

9 Pour Beller, le cinéma est le dispositif technique qui pousse à son terme le devenir- image de la marchandise (19-23). En effet, si nous consommons les produits de marque comme des images, nous consommons aussi celles-ci comme des marchandises, en tant qu’elles sont l’équivalent spectral de la marchandise (75-76). Cette première forme de consommation des produits, purement optique en quelque sorte, finit par nous pousser à leur consommation matérielle. L’écran sur lequel nous voyons apparaître les objets en est comme la vitrine : il rend la marchandise désirable et accessible autant qu’il nous en barre l’accès et, par ce jeu dialectique, il en attise le désir.

10 Le concept d’iconomie élaboré par Peter Szendy rend donc compte de la manière dont les images se chargent de valeur symbolique et monétaire, et de la nature visuelle de cette valeur monétaire. Le cinéma, d’une certaine façon, ne nous fait pas seulement consommer les images comme des marchandises : il nous propose de faire l’expérience de ces produits, grâce à l’interface de l’écran (Beller 76-79, 243-248). En nous identifiant aux personnages, nous vivons avec eux l’usage qu’ils font des marchandises (Kasprowicz et Hippolyte 203-209 ; Leveratto 187-188, 259 ; Metz). Et nous nous mettons ainsi à les désirer. C’est probablement la raison pour laquelle, de plus en plus, les publicités pour les produits de luxe font appel à des stars du cinéma hollywoodien (Dyer ; Dyer et McDonald ; Nacache, L’acteur de cinéma 145-157) : premièrement, afin que l’expérience de la publicité soit, toujours plus, une expérience cinématographique ; deuxièmement parce que les acteurs projettent leur pouvoir d’attraction sur les produits qui apparaissent à l’image avec eux. Le désir que nous éprouvons pour les stars hollywoodiennes devient un désir des produits qu’elles représentent.

11 Selon le principe marxiste de la valeur d’échange (Tauschwerth) (Das Kapital 69-74, 80-81) et de la forme équivalent (Aequivalentform) (Das Kapital 87-92), si la marchandise tend à devenir image, l’image tend réciproquement à devenir marchandise. Le principe du placement de produit nous permet ainsi de consommer l’image des marques qui apparaissent à l’écran, puis de les consommer dans le réel comme des images, puisque nous les achetons pour leur valeur symbolique avant tout.

12 Grâce à cet axiome Beller postule une équivalence entre la chaîne de montage industrielle et le regard du spectateur (38-42, 132-147). Devant un film, dit Beller, le spectateur accomplit une série de micro-opérations cognitives automatiques grâce auxquelles il assemble les images une à une, comme la chaîne de montage industrielle

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assemble les unes après les autres les pièces d’une automobile (201-204). Ces micro- opérations sont fort diverses : montage des plans, articulation entre sons et images, construction du point de vue, rapprochements d’éléments narratifs et décryptage du discours sont quelques-unes des tâches que le spectateur accomplit lorsqu’il regarde un film. La séquence de Blow Out (Brian DePalma, 1981) dans laquelle Jack Terry assemble en un film les photos de l’accident de voiture illustre un tel principe. Le montage des plans muets issus du magazine et de la bande-son qu’il a réalisée alors qu’il était involontairement témoin de l’accident révèle, par la conjonction des images et du son, la vérité de l’assassinat du gouverneur McRyan et produit ainsi un discours politique. Dans d’autres cas, le spectateur assemble l’image en une marchandise et la consomme. Comme sur une chaîne de montage industrielle, aucune valeur n’apparaît au cours de ce processus. C’est seulement au moment où les images forment une unité narrative, discursive et sémantique (une séquence ou un film) que la valeur économique et idéologique dont elles sont chargées apparaît. De même, la valeur de l’automobile n’apparaît pas tant qu’elle n’est pas achevée et proposée à la vente. En effet, dans la théorie marxiste, la valeur n’est pas contenue dans la marchandise mais apparaît comme une émanation de cette dernière, puisqu’elle est immédiatement échangeable avec n’importe quelle autre (Das Kapital 80-81, 92-94). Le spectateur participe activement, quoique inconsciemment, à la production de cette valeur. Ainsi, alors même qu’il a échangé de l’argent contre ces images, il travaille pendant qu’il les regarde, et ce travail est producteur d’une valeur qui ne revient pas au spectateur mais que l’industrie hollywoodienne accapare (Beller 66-79). En termes marxistes, le spectateur effectue donc un surtravail (Mehrarbeit) grâce auquel Hollywood engrange une survaleur3 ( Mehrwerth) (Das Kapital 226-227, 237-248). Yann Moulier-Boutang a nommé ce phénomène le « capitalisme cognitif » (57-61, 94-95, 199). Une analyse de la séquence de fabrication de fausse monnaie qui ouvre To Live and Die in L.A. (William Friedkin, 1985) va permettre de fonder en théorie et en pratique cette idée et donner corps à la citation de Deleuze en montrant comment les plans sollicitent l’œil du spectateur afin de faire émerger la valeur économique ou idéologique de l’image.

13 L’ensemble de la séquence repose sur un montage elliptique et paratactique de quarante-cinq gros plans qui exigent du spectateur qu’il en construise lui-même, en l’absence de raccords évidents, la continuité logique. Aussi est-ce la connexion, par le regard du spectateur, de chacun des plans entre eux qui permet d’aboutir à la production du récit et de comprendre qu’il est ici question de contrefaçon de billets de banque. Friedkin a par ailleurs avoué qu’en tournant cette séquence, l’équipe falsifiait réellement de la monnaie et se trouvait en tort au regard de la loi ; c’est que, dans la sphère du cinéma, il n’y a pas de distinction possible entre un faux billet et son image, entre un faux véritable et l’accessoire qui l’imite (Friedkin 384, 387, 392-393). Les plans relatent la fabrication des coupures de 20 dollars étape après étape (photographie des originaux, développement du négatif, transfert de l’image sur une plaque de cuivre par insolation, gravure de la plaque à l’acide, préparation de l’encre, impression), de sorte que le regard épouse ici le rythme et le fonctionnement de la presse offset qui imprime la monnaie. Le montage mental auquel se livre le spectateur à partir des gros plans paratactiques est donc l’analogue de la fabrication réelle des billets ; en somme, le spectateur élabore mentalement l’image de la monnaie quand la presse qui apparaît à l’écran imprime véritablement ces fausses devises. Qui plus est, le flash au début de la séquence et le défilement des planches de billets dessinent un parallèle possible entre la confection de la fausse monnaie et le regard cinématographique. La fabrication

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semble artisanale et s’apparente à l’héliogravure, mais le spectateur, en tant que témoin unique, accorde son crédit à ces faux billets, d’autant plus que l’analogie est appuyée par les quelques inserts sur Dafoe. Dès lors que le spectateur peut faire confiance à la fausse monnaie en tant qu’elle est un faux viable, efficacement trompeur, il peut croire au récit. Et c’est parce qu’il croit au récit que les images font apparaître une valeur symbolique qui peut être ensuite convertie en valeur réelle selon le mécanisme décrit par Beller (66-68, 132-147). Si To Live and Die in L.A. ne fait pas surgir une valeur économique particulière de ses images (tout au plus le film met-il en valeur les santiags de Petersen et la Lamborghini noire de Dafoe), il interroge au moins les valeurs idéologiques de son temps, notamment pendant la première séquence où l’on entend, dans l’oreillette de Michael Greene, le discours sur les impôts que prononce Ronald Reagan. Sur le plan idéologique, les images peuvent être tout aussi trompeuses. À la fin de Starship Troopers (1997), par exemple, les personnages apparaissent dans un film de propagande, c’est-à-dire des images réduites à la valeur idéologique qu’elles véhiculent. Elles sont la fausse monnaie dont le gouvernement de la Fédération paie les soldats qu’il mène à l’abattoir.

14 L’analyse de Beller permet également d’expliquer pourquoi les mécanismes tels que le placement de produit fonctionnent efficacement (66-68, 132-147). Jurassic World (Colin Trevorrow, 2015) est truffé d’objets de marque, comme des jeeps Mercedes ou des casques audio « Beats by Dr. Dre », dont l’apparition à l’écran est une publicité dissimulée, achetée par de grands groupes industriels. Mais les mécanismes économiques que les films mettent en jeu ne se réduisent pas au placement de produit. Après To Live and Die in L.A., Willem Dafoe a vu sa cote grimper à Hollywood (Friedkin 394) : sa carrière se limitait jusqu’ici à de petits rôles ; il tourne ensuite avec des réalisateurs prestigieux (Stone, Scorsese, Parker, Lynch) et est nominé aux Oscars pour Platoon (Oliver Stone, 1986). Dans le récent Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation (Christopher McQuarrie, 2015), quand Tom Cruise se met physiquement en danger au cours de la séquence de plongée en apnée, sa valeur croît, car l’assurance le couvre en cas d’accident et constitue l’étalon-or qui atteste la valeur de l’acteur. Comme le montre Beller, le devenir-image des corps en fait des produits dotés d’une valeur d’échange et d’investissement (104-110, 245-249). Plus Tom Cruise croît en valeur au cours d’un film, plus celle-ci sera réinvestie dans les prochains films de l’acteur ou de la franchise Mission: Impossible, et plus elle engrangera de bénéfices. De fait, ce même mécanisme fait de l’image des acteurs un investissement publicitaire rentable4.

Valeur d’usage, valeur d’échange et forme équivalent

15 Réfléchissons à présent à partir des catégories que Marx développe dans Le Capital. Les images n’ont pas une valeur d’usage (Gebrauchswerth) (Das Kapital 75-80) mais une valeur d’échange (Tauschwerth) (Das Kapital 69-74, 80-102), exprimée en forme-monnaie (Geldform) (Das Kapital 100-102) : elles s’échangent contre de l’argent à la caisse du cinéma ; leur « fonction sociale spécifique, et conséquemment [leur] monopole social, est de jouer le rôle de l’équivalent universel dans le monde des marchandises5 » (Le Capital. Paris 1872-1875 50) parce que « la marchandise disparaî[t] dans l’acte de sa conversion en argent6 » (Le Capital. Paris 1872-1875 86).

16 La question, à présent, est de savoir ce que les images font de leur valeur d’échange. Le Capital contient peut-être la solution à ce problème. Les images sont une forme

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équivalent, c’est-à-dire qu’elles peuvent être échangées contre n’importe quelle autre forme de valeur. Marx définit de la sorte la forme équivalent (Aequivalentform) : « En tant que valeurs, toutes les marchandises sont des expressions égales d’une même unité, le travail humain, remplaçables les unes par les autres. Une marchandise est par conséquent échangeable avec une autre marchandise, dès qu’elle possède une forme, qui la fait apparaître comme valeur7. » (Le Capital. Paris 1872-1875 37) En tant que valeur, toutes les marchandises sont l’expression équivalente de la même unité, le travail humain, et toutes sont échangeables. En conséquence, chacune d’entre elles peut être échangée contre n’importe quelle autre, dès lors qu’elle possède une forme qui lui confère sa valeur.

17 Aussi les images sont-elles des expressions du travail humain, remplaçables les unes par les autres. Leur nature échangeable est d’ailleurs un critère de définition possible du cinéma post-moderne : toutes les images se valent et se remplacent potentiellement les unes les autres. Ce fait structurel explique la prolifération des remakes, sequels, prequels ou reboots à Hollywood. La trilogie Spider-Man, réalisée par Sam Raimi (2002, 2004 et 2007), a donné lieu, dix ans plus tard, à son reboot dirigé par Mark Webb, The Amazing Spider-Man (2012 et 2014), qui à son tour a engendré un autre reboot, Spider-Man: Homecoming (Jon Watts, 2017). Dès lors que les images de la trilogie de Raimi ont fait la preuve de leur valeur d’échange, celle-ci peut être réinvestie en de nouvelles images de substitution. Différentes mais équivalentes, elles sont une version alternative des trois premiers films, dont la valeur tient à ce qu’elles les rejouent autant qu’elles les remplacent. Jacqueline Nacache (« Comment penser les remakes américains ? ») et Raphaëlle Moine (« Remake et citation » 105-108) l’ont bien montré : à travers les remakes, Hollywood n’a de cesse d’organiser son propre oubli de façon à fluidifier le fonctionnement de la production en série8. C’est le cas de Total Recall (Total Recall : Mémoires programmées, Len Wiseman, 2012), un remake du film de Paul Verhoeven (1990) dont l’ambition semble précisément de proposer une nouvelle version plus qu’une actualisation du film original (Zanger 30-37, 101-115 ; Kolker, 1998) ou un hommage (Moine, « Remake et citation » 102, 108-116). Le remake est en effet très différent du premier film : si le thème et la trame du récit sont similaires et si certaines images emblématiques reviennent du premier au second film, le script a été largement modifié. Les noms des personnages principaux pourtant identiques donnent le sentiment au spectateur qu’il regarde une version alternative ou récrite du script d’origine, un palimpseste d’images. Ce motif est d’ailleurs une figure du film : à deux reprises, les personnages portent autour du cou un collier holographique qui dissimule leur visage sous un flux visuel incessant, un motif que l’on avait déjà vu dans A Scanner Darkly de Richard Linklater (2006). Ce défilement, dans lequel le visage de Colin Farrell s’échange avec d’autres visages, figure précisément le caractère équivalent et échangeable des images ; il est une métonymie du régime post-moderne d’équivalence des images.

18 En tant qu’expression du travail humain, les images sont équivalentes, mais sont-elles égales ? Si l’on avise que deux images, à quantité de travail égale, ne produisent pas la même survaleur (Mehrwerth), elles ne le sont pas. Ainsi une spéculation sur les images est-elle rendue possible, qui va en accroître la valeur, au travers de la consommation et de la circulation des films.

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Circulation, amplification et inversion de la valeur : trois thèses sur l’énergie iconomique

19 Citons à nouveau les mots de Deleuze : « L’argent est l’envers de toutes les images que le cinéma montre et monte à l’endroit, si bien que les films sur l’argent sont déjà, quoique implicitement, des films dans le film ou sur le film » (L’image-temps 104). Pour bien saisir la portée de cette pensée, il faut en formuler la réciproque : tout film dans le film ou sur le film équivaut à de l’argent et crée de l’argent. Un film dans le film est donc une forme de spéculation, au triple sens économique, théorique et visuel de ce mot : une opération financière visant à dégager un profit des variations du marché, une recherche abstraite et une manière de réfléchir les images. En d’autres termes, les formes de la réflexivité au cinéma revêtent une fonction économique parce qu’elles font circuler les images en les faisant se référer les unes aux autres ; ces échanges iconiques créent de la valeur. Mais plus encore : toute image dotée de valeur possède une dimension réflexive, dans la mesure où elle est échangeable et prête à circuler, et parce qu’elle contient la structure de ses échanges à venir. C’est probablement la raison pour laquelle le cinéma hollywoodien aujourd’hui semble si constamment réflexif, chaque image renvoyant à celles qui la précèdent et qui lui succèderont. Comme si la réflexivité dont les films font preuve entre eux (en organisant la circulation des images) et dont le résultat est qu’un plan renvoie toujours à d’autres images avant de renvoyer au réel démultipliait la valeur monétaire de chacune d’entre elles. En somme, les images s’échangent de film en film avec usure : en circulant avec intérêt – c’est-à-dire en se démultipliant – elles accroissent leur valeur puisqu’elles augmentent en quantité. C’est cet accroissement de la valeur dans le circuit fermé des images que je nomme « énergie iconomique ». Deleuze écrit ainsi : Ce que le film dans le film exprime, c’est ce circuit infernal entre l’image et l’argent, cette inflation que le temps met dans l’échange, cette « hausse bouleversante ». Le film, c’est le mouvement, mais le film dans le film, c’est l’argent, c’est le temps. L’image-cristal reçoit ainsi le principe qui la fonde : relancer sans cesse l’échange dissymétrique, inégal et sans équivalent, donner de l’image contre de l’argent, donner du temps contre des images, convertir le temps, la face transparente, et l’argent, la face opaque, comme une toupie sur sa pointe. Et le film sera fini quand il n’y aura plus d’argent… (Deleuze, L’image-temps 105) Selon Deleuze, tout plan équivaut à de l’argent – ne fût-ce que l’argent nécessaire à son élaboration – et fait apparaître une valeur ; toute transaction d’images échange simultanément de la valeur. Dans la quadrilogie Jason Bourne (2002-2016), où le script de chaque film est similaire à celui des trois autres, chacun des épisodes appelle une suite qui en prolonge le récit autant qu’elle le rejoue à l’identique ou presque. Au sein de la trame des films, qui suit toujours le même format, Bourne est pourchassé par un tueur solitaire avec lequel il échange les mêmes répliques9, aidé par un gradé de la CIA quand le reste de l’agence cherche à l’éliminer. La traditionnelle poursuite automobile a lieu d’abord à Paris avant d’être dupliquée à Moscou, New York et Las Vegas. Ce n’est pas là un simple effet du caractère sériel des productions à gros budget d’Hollywood. C’est aussi que les images marquantes d’un film préparent le spectateur à demander des images identiques ou équivalentes au prochain épisode, et le film à les lui offrir. La reproduction par équivalence et l’échange des images des films à gros budget sont ainsi structurellement inscrits en elles. Chaque film de la franchise Terminator (1984-2015) multiplie les références aux autres volets de la série et en rejoue les répliques les plus

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célèbres comme « I’ll be back » ou « Come with me if you wanna live » pour la même raison. Et, dès lors que Spider-Man de Sam Raimi a prouvé son potentiel économique, les images des deux autres épisodes contiennent en elles le circuit d’échange qui déterminera leur réinvestissement dans la nouvelle trilogie. L’argent dématérialisé en images condamne celles-ci à circuler indéfiniment, avec intérêt.

20 Or, en tant que forme équivalent, l’image a ceci de particulier que sa valeur est instable (elle croît ou décroît) et qu’elle n’est pas une expression égale du travail humain. Cette différence de valeur fait que certaines images peuvent croître en valeur plus que d’autres, de même que, dans la théorie marxiste, c’est la différence entre le temps de travail nécessaire (nothwendige Arbeitszeit) et le temps de surtravail (Mehrarbeitszeit) qui crée la survaleur (Mehrwerth) (Marx, Das Kapital 192-210, 237-239). Par conséquent, plus les images circulent, plus les spectateurs travaillent à partir d’elles et créent de la valeur (Beller 113-114, 199-204).

21 Si de l’argent s’échange au travers des images, alors leur diffusion propage la valeur. En tant qu’entité immatérielle, l’image de cinéma se reproduit pour circuler et accroît ainsi sa valeur (elle ne circule pas à valeur constante). De fait, ce sont les films qui bénéficient du plus grand nombre de copies qui circulent le plus et qui accroissent le plus leur valeur (Beller 64-69, 258-259). Non seulement peut-on reproduire les images pour les diffuser à plus grande échelle mais elles essaiment, et inséminent davantage la valeur qu’elles portent dans d’autres images (Morin-Ulmann 67 ; Valantin 231). C’est en cela que l’on peut affirmer que les films sont le lieu d’une usure iconique : plus les images essaiment et plus leur omniprésence les rend susceptibles d’agir sur les consciences.

22 On pourra objecter ici que cette thèse va à l’encontre de la théorie benjaminienne de l’aura. En effet, si l’on suit Benjamin, « le hic et nunc de l’original détermine le concept de son authenticité. » (19) Ce hic et nunc confère à l’original son aura (50). Or, le cinéma étant fondé sur la reproduction des copies, il abolit le hic et nunc de l’acteur. Benjamin le confirme : « Ce qui s’étiole de l’œuvre d’art à l’époque de sa reproductibilité technique, c’est son aura. » (22) Le fait même que l’acteur joue devant une caméra sans public, avec pour horizon la duplication massive des prises de vue auxquelles il participe, a pour conséquence qu’il « renon[ce] à son aura » (50). Ce phénomène est aggravé par le fait même que la performance de l’acteur n’a plus d’unité mais qu’elle est découpée en petites unités de temps et montée (52-53). Avec l’usure iconique, tout se passe comme si le processus que décrit Benjamin opérait de manière inverse. La construction de la star de cinéma et la multiplication de son image tendent à la rendre omniprésente. Le corps réel de l’acteur s’abolit, pour le spectateur, au profit d’un corps lumineux duplicable à l’infini. Cette gloire immatérielle, prête à parcourir le globe, ne doit-elle pas être considérée comme un genre d’aura particulière, précisément fondée sur la reproductibilité et l’immatérialité ? Benjamin semble paradoxalement en avoir conscience, puisqu’il évoque cette dématérialisation de l’acteur. Le trouble de l’acteur devant les appareils, tel que le décrit Pirandello, est à l’origine de même nature que celui de l’homme face à son image dans le miroir. Or, ce reflet peut désormais être détaché de l’acteur, il est devenu transportable. Et où cela ? Devant le public. L’acteur de cinéma en est à tout moment conscient. Il sait, tandis qu’il se tient devant les appareils, que c’est au public qu’il a affaire en dernière instance : au public des consommateurs, qui constituent le marché. […] Le cinéma répond à l’affaiblissement de l’aura par la construction artificielle, à l’extérieure du studio, d’une personality. Le culte des stars encouragé par le capitalisme du cinéma

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entretient ce charme magique de la personnalité, désormais perverti depuis longtemps par sa dimension mercantile. (Benjamin 56-60 ; en italique dans le texte original) Ce que nous percevons, aujourd’hui, comme le fondement de l’aura d’un acteur (la duplication de son image, son exploitation par le capitalisme, sa dimension transportable) réduit ce dernier, pour Benjamin, à un produit ou un accessoire. On comprend à la lecture de ces lignes que c’est le rapport de consommation entre l’acteur et le public qui détruit l’aura. Mais cette thèse ne repose-t-elle pas sur un présupposé contestable, à savoir que la culture bourgeoise de la tradition, antérieure à la reproductibilité technique (où le musée et le théâtre savant tiennent une bonne place), serait pure de ce rapport de consommation qui définit la culture de masse ? Plusieurs décennies de travaux sur les théories d’Adorno et d’Horkheimer ont remis en cause cette distinction étanche et exclusive entre une culture de consommation et une culture savante (Adorno et Horkheimer, 2012). L’hypothèse que je formule ici pour expliquer que l’usure iconique inverse le processus de dégradation de l’aura étudié par Benjamin s’appuie sur le contexte intellectuel dans lequel vivait Benjamin. Ses amitiés philosophiques (Arendt, Adorno, Horkheimer), son rapport critique au capitalisme et sa culture livresque expliquent peut-être qu’il n’ait pas été en mesure d’anticiper qu’avec le triomphe des technologies du cinéma, les spectateurs ne feraient plus la différence entre aura et personality, et que la machine (qui en 1936 détruisait l’aura) deviendrait très vite le facteur d’une intensification de l’aura des stars – et ce d’autant plus que l’image de cinéma tendra, dans la seconde moitié du XXe siècle, vers sa dématérialisation.

23 Le processus d’usure iconique et d’insémination des images évoqué plus haut a lieu à deux niveaux. Premièrement, ce sont les images elles-mêmes qui influencent la production d’images. Celles-ci sont copiées, recyclées, réemployées selon des cycles infinis de variations. C’est le principe de la production par cycle ou par genre qui prévaut à Hollywood depuis les années 1920 (Altman 30-48). Une image A produira par décalque une image B à qui elle transmettra tout ou partie de sa valeur, voire amplifiera la valeur d’origine. Aussi la valeur se transmet-elle d’image en image et s’accroît. Deuxièmement, ces images inséminent les consciences des spectateurs et se reproduisent ainsi dans l’imaginaire collectif (Kasprowicz et Hippolyte 203-209 ; Leveratto 13-14 ; Mauss, « Les techniques du corps » ; Sociologie et anthropologie 368). C’est la raison pour laquelle on croise régulièrement, dans le réel, des individus ayant façonné leur apparence à l’image d’acteurs célèbres, comme Johnny Depp ou Ryan Gosling10. La valeur économique des images se prolonge donc en une valeur idéologique ; elle façonne des attitudes et des manières d’être au sein du réel.

24 Ce principe de dissémination et d’insémination des images a un corollaire : il est impossible de contrôler les différents facteurs grâce auxquels une image fait apparaître de la valeur. Je propose donc de distinguer entre l’énergie iconomique, qui désigne la puissance en réserve de l’image, et la valeur que l’image fait apparaître comme une émanation à partir de cette énergie iconomique. Je définis l’énergie iconomique comme une tension productrice de valeur, une différence de potentiel entre des formes et des signes idéologiquement ou économiquement marqués. Par exemple, la séquence de poursuite automobile finale de Jason Bourne (Paul Greengrass, 2016) produit une différence de potentiel entre la chase sequence attendue et la Dodge que pilote le héros, magnifiée par les cascades et la lumière. L’association entre la voiture en tant que marchandise et signe économiquement marqué et sa mise en jeu sur un mode

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spectaculaire crée une différence de potentiel productrice de valeur monétaire : nous consommons la Dodge à travers le film, qui lui-même la consume en la détruisant (Bataille, « La notion de dépense »). De la même façon, dans True Lies, la différence de potentiel entre les scènes de fusillade et les terroristes djihadistes figurés par des signes idéologiques (leur langue, leur accent, leurs vêtements et leurs répliques les désignent comme tels) produit une valeur idéologique, en l’espèce un discours impérialiste et raciste qui assimile les individus arabes au Djihad et essentialise tout à la fois origine ethnique et religion (Moine, Remakes 167-173).

25 Mon hypothèse est que la différence de potentiel créée par les films entre des formes (fusillades, poursuites automobiles) et des signes (marchandises diverses, clichés ethniques) décuple la valeur idéologique et/ou économique de ces signes. Ce sont les codes et les formes du film d’action qui donnent son efficacité au discours raciste de True Lies (lequel nous est administré de manière indolore par un récit haletant) ou qui confèrent leur puissance économique aux marchandises de Jason Bourne. C’est la raison pour laquelle l’énergie iconomique fait apparaître la valeur comme une émanation des images, mais n’est pas cette valeur. Elle est une force productrice de valeur qui se nourrit de signes.

26 Cette énergie est une matière volatile et instable, qui peut s’amplifier comme se dissiper. Son mode de productivité est donc réversible : selon la manière dont le film et son discours mobilisent cette énergie iconomique, l’image fera apparaître des valeurs différentes, voire opposées. Cette réversibilité de la valeur fait de l’énergie iconomique un outil idéologique puissant. Afin de vérifier cette hypothèse, analysons comment un même motif – une explosion au ralenti – circule à travers trois films différents et comment une énergie iconomique identique fait apparaître une valeur chaque fois différente. Il s’agit de la séquence de l’explosion de la maison dans Zabriskie Point (Michaelangelo Antonioni, 1970), de l’explosion de l’arbre dans Sorcerer (William Friedkin, 1977) et de la séquence de pyrotechnie qui clôt First Blood (Ted Kotcheff, 1982). L’énergie est ici iconomique au sens propre : l’image y est un moment de dépense, c’est- à-dire de profusion visuelle et de destruction rituelle dont la valeur est autant symbolique que proprement économique (Bataille, « La notion de dépense » ; La part maudite ; Mauss, Essai sur le don). En outre, la fabrication de ces images spectaculaires est immédiatement lisible en termes de coûts : elles exhibent en quelque sorte leur revers, c’est-à-dire l’argent qu’elles ont coûté11.

27 Dans Zabriskie Point, l’explosion de la maison, imaginée par Daria, a une valeur contestataire : elle signifie la mise à mort fantasmée de la société de consommation par les images et par la forme spécifiquement cinématographique du ralenti de plans montés en rythme. Le fétichisme de la marchandise (Fetischcharakter der Waare) devient ici le fétichisme de sa destruction (Marx, Das Kapital 102-113). Le ralenti nous permet en effet d’observer attentivement les milliers de débris projetés dans les airs et de jouir de leur dispersion. Sorcerer reprend ce motif de l’explosion au ralenti, mais sa violence politique devient nihiliste : l’explosion ne signifie plus rien d’autre que la volonté panique de survie des personnages. Sorcerer est un remake du Salaire de la peur d’Henri- Georges Clouzot (1953) : les personnages en sont quatre criminels exilés qui acceptent de convoyer un dangereux chargement de nitroglycérine en échange d’un salaire qui leur permettra de rentrer chez eux. Après la traversée en pleine tempête d’un pont suspendu où ils ont risqué leur vie, ils se retrouvent bloqués par un arbre déraciné gigantesque. Leur investissement (fondé sur leurs vies, qu’ils ont misées sur le pont) se

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retrouve soudain réduit à néant par cet obstacle qui les empêche d’atteindre leur destination. Ils inventent alors un moyen de faire exploser l’arbre, à l’aide d’un peu de nitroglycérine et d’un retardateur artisanal, une poche de sable qui, une fois vide, actionne un percuteur. Grâce au plan de la poche de sable trouée, la scène montre l’écoulement du temps qui va soit sauver, soit tuer les personnages12. Lorsque la poche est vide et le temps écoulé, l’engin explosif préparé par les personnages pulvérise l’obstacle en un ralenti semblable à celui de Zabriskie Point. La similitude des deux séquences souligne l’écart de valeur accompli d’un film à l’autre. Dans Zabriskie Point, l’explosion correspond à une dépense révolutionnaire où le règne de la marchandise prend fin dans l’image, tandis que dans Sorcerer l’explosion n’incarne plus que la pulsion de mort des personnages que l’appât du gain pousse vers leur propre destruction. Et pour cause : les deux agents qui détruisent l’arbre – la nitroglycérine et le temps – sont aussi ceux qui les détruisent physiquement et psychiquement. Dans les deux cas, il est remarquable que l’image soit retournée contre la marchandise et l’argent afin de signer leur échec ou leur inanité, et les vider de leur valeur économique et idéologique, alors que dans le cinéma hollywoodien mainstream, l’image amplifie le plus souvent cette valeur.

28 Enfin dans First Blood, l’explosion devient le mécanisme d’une brutale révision de l’histoire par la violence. Elle est le seul moyen que trouve John Rambo pour faire entendre et imposer sa propre version reaganienne de la guerre du Viêt Nam, selon laquelle l’armée aurait pu gagner la guerre si elle n’en avait pas été empêchée par les responsables politiques (Kac-Vergne 216-220 ; Ross 251-253). Traqué comme un animal sauvage par la police, il ne peut faire entendre publiquement sa voix qu’après avoir détruit une partie de la ville par le feu. À la fin du film, retranché dans le commissariat et acculé à la reddition par la police, il explique au colonel Trautman venu le tirer d’affaire qu’il est devenu un moins que rien depuis que la classe politique a trahi l’armée américaine en la faisant échouer au Viêt Nam, avant d’éclater en sanglots. En faisant contrepoint à la pyrotechnie déployée quelques minutes plus tôt, le pathétique force ici l’adhésion du spectateur au discours reaganien (Rossinow 14, 24, 35-39, 78 ; Wood 144-167). First Blood reprend donc un motif politiquement marqué du cinéma contestataire – la destruction du capitalisme ou de la communauté par le feu – pour le retourner en outil de réaction politique. Le récit travaille d’ailleurs dans sa totalité à un tel renversement. Il commence en effet comme un film contestataire des années 1970 : John Rambo, un vagabond aux cheveux longs dont on ne sait pas encore qu’il est un ancien béret vert, débarque dans une petite ville des États-Unis et est immédiatement pris à partie par un shérif agressif et visiblement réactionnaire, qui lui interdit l’accès à sa ville. L’absence d’attaches du personnage, son allure de hobo et le conflit qui l’oppose de suite aux autorités sont autant de traits qui le définissent comme un rebelle aux yeux du spectateur. Qui plus est, la vision critique de la guerre du Viêt Nam (la première séquence nous montre Rambo à la recherche d’un ancien camarade, mort d’un cancer dû à l’Agent Orange) a tôt fait d’annexer le film à la veine contestataire du Nouvel Hollywood. Mais les signes du cinéma contestataires ne sont en réalité mis à profit que pour être renversés et servir le discours reaganien avec plus de force : ici, l’énergie iconomique tient dans la force d’entraînement des images, dont le film inverse la trajectoire et la valeur (Busch ; Collins 11-14). Elles seront réinvesties trois ans plus tard de façon beaucoup plus univoque encore dans Rambo: First Blood Part II, parangon du film reaganien.

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Conclusion

29 L’examen des modalités réflexives du cinéma hollywoodien fait apparaître que, loin de proposer une réflexivité repliée sur eux-mêmes, à la manière des deux miroirs qui se font face dans Inception, les films déploient une réflexivité ouverte. Non seulement leurs images renvoient à d’autres images et d’autres films, mais elles agissent sur le réel à l’aide de mécanismes que cet article a tâché de mettre en évidence. Le plus important d’entre eux est le devenir-marchandise de l’image, qui accélère la circulation des produits par leur dématérialisation et se traduit par des effets économiques concrets. Objets d’échanges toujours plus intenses, les images se chargent en valeur monétaire et idéologique et façonnent imperceptiblement le réel dans lequel nous évoluons.

30 Parce qu’elles ne cessent de renvoyer les unes aux autres, les images produites par Hollywood aujourd’hui dessinent un labyrinthe borgésien. Elles se réfèrent au réel et, simultanément, à une infinité d’autres images dans un circuit d’échange ouvert et sans fin. Par leur circulation, elles inséminent dans d’autres films la valeur dématérialisée dont elles sont le véhicule, valeur qui peut désormais croître, mais aussi dans certains cas décroître ou se transformer. C’est que le devenir-marchandise des images et leur circulation ressortissent à la spéculation : elles renvoient en miroir les unes aux autres (Moine, « Remake et citation » 123-124) et, dans ce jeu de reflets et d’échanges, leur valeur devient instable. Cela explique pourquoi le cinéma hollywoodien, bien qu’il soit si chargé en idéologie, ne contraint jamais ses spectateurs à penser de manière univoque et reste toujours ouvert à la possibilité de lectures plurielles, voire contradictoires. Cette instabilité de la valeur explique également le pouvoir qu’a l’énergie iconomique d’orienter certains signes vers une signification ou une autre. Aussi les signes de la contestation idéologique sont-ils inversés en un discours de réaction dans First Blood, grâce à l’énergie iconomique du déluge pyrotechnique final. Celle-ci met en jeu des signes au travers de formes, c’est-à-dire qu’elle introduit entre ces deux éléments un jeu, un espace de liberté qui peut gauchir de manière plus ou moins importante le sens initial des signes. De fait, plutôt que de former un discours achevé, les images des films sont une matière susceptible de changer de signification dès lors qu’elles passent dans d’autres films. Le renversement d’une valeur idéologique en son contraire permis par la productivité spécifique de l’énergie iconomique montre ainsi que les mécanismes réflexifs qui organisent la circulation des images ont prise sur le réel, dans un rapport de détermination mutuelle. En réfractant la structure sociale à travers leurs circuits infinis d’images, les films hollywoodiens la façonnent aussi de manière imperceptible. À travers le montage des images, c’est le réel lui-même qu’Hollywood contribue à construire.

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Filmographie

Apocalypse Now, Francis Ford Coppola, 1979, États-Unis, United Artists.

A Scanner Darkly, Richard Linklater, 2006, États-Unis, Warner Bros.

Blow Out, Brian De Palma, 1981, États-Unis, Filmways Pictures.

Django Unchained, Quentin Tarantino, 2012, États-Unis, The Weinstein Company.

Drive, Nicolas Winding Refn, 2011, États-Unis, Bold Films.

First Blood (Rambo), Ted Kotcheff, 1982, États-Unis, Orion Pictures.

Fort Apache (Le Massacre de Fort Apache), John Ford, 1948, États-Unis, RKO.

Inception, Christopher Nolan, 2010, États-Unis, Warner Bros.

Inglorious Basterds, Quentin Tarantino, 2009, États-Unis, The Weinstein Company.

Jackie Brown, Quentin Tarantino, 1997, États-Unis, Miramax.

Jason Bourne, Paul Greengrass, 2016, États-Unis, Universal Pictures.

Jurassic World, Colin Trevorrow, 2015, États-Unis, Universal Pictures.

Kill Bill: Volume 1, Quentin Tarantino, 2003, États-Unis, Miramax.

Kill Bill: Volume 2, Quentin Tarantino, 2004, États-Unis, Miramax.

Last Action Hero, John McTiernan, 1993, États-Unis, Columbia.

Le Salaire de la peur, Henri-Georges Clouzot, 1953, France, Vera Films.

Man Hunt (Chasse à l’homme), Fritz Lang, 1941, États-Unis, Twentieth Century Fox.

Ministry of Fear (Espions sur la Tamise), Fritz Lang, 1944, États-Unis, Paramount.

Mission: Impossible, Brian De Palma, 1996, États-Unis, Paramount.

Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation, Christopher McQuarrie, 2015, États-Unis, Paramount.

Platoon, Oliver Stone, 1986, États-Unis, Orion Pictures.

Pulp Fiction, Quentin Tarantino, 1994, États-Unis, Miramax.

Rambo: First Blood Part II (Rambo II : La Mission), George Pan Cosmatos, 1985, États-Unis, TriStar Pictures.

Sorcerer (Le Convoi de la peur), William Friedkin, 1977, États-Unis, Universal Pictures.

Spider-Man, Sam Raimi, 2002, États-Unis, Columbia.

Spider-Man 2, Sam Raimi, 2004, États-Unis, Columbia.

Spider-Man 3, Sam Raimi, 2007, États-Unis, Columbia.

Spider-Man: Homecoming, Jon Watts, 2017, États-Unis, Columbia.

Starship Troopers, Paul Verhoeven, 1997, États-Unis, TriStar Pictures.

The A-Team (L’Agence tous risques), Joe Carnahan, 2010, États-Unis, Twentieth Century Fox.

The Alamo (Alamo), John Wayne, 1960, États-Unis, United Artists.

The Amazing Spider-Man, Mark Webb, 2012, États-Unis, Columbia.

The Amazing Spider-Man 2, Mark Webb, 2014, États-Unis, Columbia.

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The Bourne Identity (La Mémoire dans la peau), Doug Liman, 2002, États-Unis, Universal Pictures.

The Bourne Supremacy (La Mort dans la peau), Paul Greengrass, 2004, États-Unis, Universal Pictures.

The Bourne Ultimatum (La Vengeance dans la peau), Paul Greengrass, 2007, États-Unis, Universal Pictures.

The Matrix (Matrix), Andy et Larry Wachowski, 1999, États-Unis, Warner Bros.

The Matrix Reloaded (Matrix Reloaded), Andy et Larry Wachowski, 2003, États-Unis, Warner Bros.

The Matrix Revolutions (Matrix Revolutions), Andy et Larry Wachowski, 2003, États-Unis, Warner Bros.

The Terminator (Terminator), James Cameron, 1984, États-Unis, Orion Pictures.

They Died with Their Boots On, Raoul Walsh, 1941, États-Unis, Warner Bros.

Terminator 2: Judgement Day (Terminator 2. Le Jugement Dernier), James Cameron, 1991, États-Unis, TriStar Pictures.

Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines (Terminator 3. Le Soulèvement des machines), Jonathan Mostow, 2003, États-Unis, Warner Bros.

Terminator Salvation, McG, 2009, États-Unis, Warner Bros.

Terminator Genisys, Alan Taylor, 2015, États-Unis, Paramount.

To Live and Die in L.A. (Police fédérale Los Angeles), William Friedkin, 1985, États-Unis, MGM.

Total Recall (Total Recall. Voyage au centre de la mémoire), Paul Verhoeven, 1990, États-Unis, TriStar Pictures.

Total Recall (Total Recall : Mémoires programmées), Len Wiseman, 2012, États-Unis, Columbia.

True Lies, James Cameron, 1994, États-Unis, Lightstorm Entertainment.

Zabriskie Point, Michaelangelo Antonioni, 1970, États-Unis, MGM.

NOTES

1. Marc Cerisuelo définit le métafilm de la façon suivante : « La détermination est d’abord négative ; le métafilm n’est ni le film en abyme, ni le backstage film, ni une simple représentation du monde du cinéma. Le métafilm est une fiction qui prend pour objet le cinéma en représentant les agents de la production (acteurs, cinéastes, scénaristes, producteurs, etc.), procure une connaissance d’ordre documentaire ou vraisemblable, et élabore (cf. le métatexte) un discours critique à propos du cinéma. » (10) 2. Ici la réflexivité se fait aussi intertextualité, renvoi permanent d’une image à d’autres images, lequel les fait entrer en un jeu de miroirs incessant. 3. La plupart des traductions du Capital donnent « plus-value » pour « Mehrwerth ». Aujourd’hui les germanistes et les philosophes préfèrent traduire « Mehrwerth » par « survaleur », plus conforme au terme allemand. « La période d’activité, qui dépasse les bornes du travail nécessaire, coûte, il est vrai, du travail à l’ouvrier, une dépense de force, mais ne forme aucune valeur pour lui. Elle forme une plus-value qui a pour le capitaliste tous les charmes d’une création ex nihilo. Je nomme cette partie de la journée de travail temps extra et le travail dépensé en elle surtravail. S’il est d’une importance décisive pour l’entendement de la valeur en général de ne voir en elle qu’une simple coagulation de temps de travail, que du travail réalisé, il est d’une égale importance pour l’entendement de la plus-value de la comprendre comme une simple

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coagulation de temps de travail extra, comme du surtravail réalisé. Les différentes formes économiques revêtues par la société, l’esclavage, par exemple, et le salariat, ne se distinguent que par le mode dont ce surtravail est imposé et extorqué au producteur immédiat, à l’ouvrier. » (Marx, Le Capital. Paris 1872-1875 178) 4. J’ai fait le choix, pour cet article, de n’envisager que le cas de stars dont la valeur augmente. Il reste à envisager le cas spécifique d’acteurs et d’actrices plus éphémères. Il y aurait ainsi toute une réflexion à mener sur les fluctuations de la valeur dans un paysage médiatique où les dispositifs de diffusion d’images (réseaux sociaux, Youtube, VOD) tendent à accentuer l’obsolescence programmée. 5. « Es wird ihre specifisch gesellschaftliche Funktion, und daher ihr gesellschaftliches Monopol innerhalb der Waarenwelt die Rolle des allgemeinen Aequivalents zu spielen. » (Das Kapital 100) 6. « Man sieht dem Geld daher nicht an, welchen Schlags die in es verwandelte Waare. Eine sieht in ihrer Geldform grade aus wie die andre. Geld mag daher Dreck sein, obgleich Dreck nicht Geld ist. » (Das Kapital 134) et « Da die Waare in ihrer Geldwerdung verschwindet, sieht man dem Geld nicht an, wie es in die Hände seines Besitzers gelangt oder was in es verwandelt ist. » (Das Kapital 135) 7. « Die Aequivalentform einer Waare ist folglich die Form ihrer unmittelbaren Austauschbarkeit mit anderer Waare. » (Das Kapital 88). Voir aussi l’édition de 1887 du Capital à Londres : « Therefore, when we say that a commodity is in the equivalent form, we express the fact that it is directly exchangeable with other commodities. » (Capital 47) 8. Peut-être faudrait-il ajouter ici, en tenant compte des réflexions de Constantine Verevis sur la fonction de sauvegarde culturelle du remake, que cet oubli se joue seulement à la surface de la mémoire des spectateurs, mais qu’il n’efface pas celle, plus durable et plus secrète, dont les images de cinéma sont porteuses et que j’ai évoquée au début de cet article (Verevis 38, 96, 129-150). Le paradoxe, ici, est que les remakes sollicitent la mémoire culturelle du spectateur tout en s’en affranchissant. 9. Dans le premier épisode de la franchise, Clive Owen disait à Matt Damon, avant de mourir : « Look at us… Look at what they make you give. », une réplique que Matt Damon donne mot pour mot à Edgar Ramirez à la fin du troisième épisode. 10. J’ai été très frappé de constater combien de jeunes gens se sont mis à arborer une coupe de cheveux et un look vestimentaire identiques à ceux du personnage que Gosling incarne dans Drive (Nicolas Winding Refn, 2011) lorsque la cote de popularité de l’acteur a explosé à la sortie du film. 11. Au cinéma, plus les images sont spectaculaires, plus l’adage « Time is money » se vérifie : un plan bref sans donnée spectaculaire coûtera peu d’argent tandis qu’un long plan-séquence riche en effets spéciaux coûtera très cher et son coût augmentera à proportion de sa durée. 12. En effet, dans le film, la probabilité de mourir des protagonistes augmente à mesure que le temps s’écoule, mais aussi la probabilité qu’ils soient sauvés. Le film prend ainsi l’allure d’un étrange pari : avec le temps, les personnages voient augmenter leurs chances de tout perdre, mais aussi de tout gagner. C’est d’ailleurs au moment même où Serrano, un peu plus tard dans le film, consulte sa montre et déclare qu’il est 9 heures à Paris que son camion explose par accident (Thoret 40-41).

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RÉSUMÉS

Le cinéma hollywoodien post-moderne se caractérise par sa réflexivité endémique : les images y semblent toujours renvoyer à elles-mêmes ou à d’autres images avant de représenter le monde. Par conséquent, la critique et certains théoriciens affirment que le cinéma hollywoodien ne prend plus le réel pour objet. À l’aide de la théorie de la valeur de l’attention de Jonathan Beller et du concept d’iconomie de Peter Szendy, cet article s’efforce de montrer que, plutôt que de renvoyer au réel, la réflexivité des images filmiques agit sur le réel grâce à un phénomène que nous théorisons ici et que nous nommons « énergie iconomique ». Celle-ci fait circuler les images avec usure, c’est-à-dire qu’elle accroît leur valeur idéologique. En nous appuyant sur cet ensemble de concepts, nous montrons comment la réflexivité peut être envisagée comme une intervention sur le réel qui fait du cinéma hollywoodien un outil de façonnage idéologique autant que d’émancipation.

Postmodern Hollywood cinema has been characterized as a highly reflexive art, in which images refer to other images or to themselves—not to the world. As a result, theorists often come to the conclusion that Hollywood cinema no longer speaks about the real. This article counters this assumption by examining the various ways in which images do act upon the real. Relying on Jonathan Beller’s “attention theory of value” and Peter Szendy’s concept of “iconomy,” this article proposes that reflexivity does impact the real, particularly through what we call iconomic energy. Iconomic energy circulates images with usury and thereby increases their ideological value. Once reflexivity has been recognized as a multiple and indirect way of impacting the real, Hollywood cinema emerges as an ideological instrument as much as a tool for emancipation.

INDEX

Keywords : Iconomy, iconomic energy, value, usury, ideology, Hollywood cinema, blockbuster, editing, attention economy, fake Mots-clés : Iconomie, énergie iconomique, valeur, usure, idéologie, cinéma hollywoodien, blockbuster, montage, économie de l’attention, faux

AUTEUR

MATHIAS KUSNIERZ CERILAC, Université Paris-Diderot

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Actualité de la recherche

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Actualité de la recherche

Civilisation

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Colloque « Corps en politique » Université Paris-Est Créteil, 7-9 septembre 2016

Lyais Ben Youssef

1 Le colloque international « Corps en politique », organisé par Sonia Birocheau, Karine Chambefort, Mélanie Grué et Guillaume Marche, de l’Institut des mondes anglophone, germanique et roman (IMAGER – Université Paris-Est Créteil), a réuni une trentaine de chercheurs qui ont réfléchi à la relation entre corps et politique en prenant ces deux termes dans leurs dimensions littérale et pratique, plus que symbolique et métaphorique. Pour reprendre les termes de l’appel à communications, « Le corps en politique s’entend en premier lieu comme le corps au service de la politique, le corps pour la politique. Toutefois, la proposition réciproque est tout aussi propice à l’analyse d’une multiplicité d’objets dans le monde anglophone. Le corps en politique, en effet, peut aussi être abordé avec la perspective inverse de la politique pour le corps et de l’emprise du politique sur les corps. » L’objectif était « d’envisager les corps individuels et collectifs dans un double rapport gouvernant/gouverné, afin de dégager les différentes manières dont les corps s’expriment dans le cadre politique et dont la politique s’imprime sur les corps ».

Atelier n°1 : « Débordement des corps politiques / Embodying the Nation »

Anne-Catherine de Bouvier-Lobo (Université Caen-Normandie) « Prolifération, maladies et soubresauts. Les corps en Irlande perçus par les élites, 1820-1850 »

2 Anne-Catherine de Bouvier-Lobo s’est intéressée à la stigmatisation du « corps » irlandais au Royaume-Uni au milieu du XIXe siècle, que ce soit dans les discours officiels ou scientifiques, « racialisation » destinée à justifier la domination britannique.

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Erin Dwyer (Oakland University, États-Unis) « The Poisoned Body (Politic) »

3 Erin Dwyer s’est proposé d’expliquer les différences de perceptions entre la France et les États-Unis concernant l’utilisation de poisons aux XVIIIe et XIXe siècles. Dans les colonies françaises, l’empoisonnement était passible de la peine de mort. Par ailleurs, à Saint-Domingue au XVIIIe siècle, la peur de mourir empoisonné était omniprésente et la plupart des personnes mises en cause étaient esclaves. Tandis que, dans les colonies françaises, la question était traitée avec le plus grand sérieux et la plus grande sévérité, ce ne fut pas toujours le cas aux États-Unis. En effet, comme l’a expliqué Erin Dwyer, la loi n’était pas toujours appliquée aux États-Unis. La raison principale était d’ordre économique et les esclaves étaient plus souvent vendus qu’exécutés, ce qui permettait aux propriétaires de ne pas perdre leurs « biens ». Ce sont d’ailleurs les propriétaires victimes qui défendaient le plus souvent les accusés devant la justice, dans le but de ne pas perdre la valeur marchande de leurs esclaves. Ce qu’Erin Dwyer a démontré, c’est que les différences de traitement dans les cas d’accusations d’empoisonnement sur les territoires où vivaient de nombreux esclaves dépendaient principalement d’aspects culturels ou législatifs propre à chaque région : par exemple, si différentes lois dépendantes des États s’appliquaient aux États-Unis, il n’y en avait qu’une dans les territoires français.

Conférence plénière / Keynote Address

James Sharpe (University of York) « The Female Body and the Politics of the Parish: Witches and Infanticidal Mothers »

4 James Sharpe a mis en relation la façon dont la justice traitait les cas de sorcellerie et d’infanticides dans l’Angleterre des XVIe et XVIIe siècles. La société semblait soumise à différentes influences, telles les politiques patriarcales, de genre, de subordination, d’autorité, etc. Mais c’est, selon lui, la « politique de la paroisse », c’est-à-dire le rôle des églises, qui exerçait la plus grande influence. Mais, d’après James Sharpe, à cette époque déjà, les politiques morales des paroisses ne correspondaient plus aux politiques des élites anglaises.

Atelier 2 : « Stigmates et répression / Stigmatization and Repression »

David Crawford Jones (Ohio State University) « Colonial Spectacles: Corporal Punishment and Scandal in Modern Namibia »

5 David Crawford Jones a abordé le problème des punitions corporelles et de leurs conséquences politiques en Namibie au XXe siècle. Pour ce faire, il a interrogé de nombreuses victimes sur le terrain, à la recherche de données qualitatives afin de démontrer que le recours à la répression violente par le gouvernement namibien trouve ses origines dans les politiques coloniales.

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Lucile Pouthier (Université Paris-Est Marne-la-Vallée) « Politique de la peau, identité criminelle. Les tatouages des gangs de rues et de prison au Cap »

6 Lucile Pouthier s’est intéressée aux gangs de prison, aux tatouages arborés par les prisonniers et à leurs significations politiques supposées où réelles. Elle s’est rendue dans une prison du Cap afin de s’entretenir avec des prisonniers membres de gangs. Lucille Pouthier a présenté les problèmes du tatouage dans le temps, passé (indélébile, le tatouage inscrit à vie les agissements passés de celui qui le porte) comme futur.

Atelier 3 : « Instrumentalisation des corps athlétiques / Instrumentalizing the Athletic Body »

François Doppler-Speranza (Université de Strasbourg) « Le corps en mouvement. Basket-ball et diplomatie publique sur la base militaire américaine de Chambley-Bussières (1954-1958) »

7 François Doppler-Speranza a présenté un cas pratique afin d’illustrer la diplomatie publique et militaire américaine au sortir de la Seconde Guerre mondiale. Ainsi, par l’exposition de leurs corps en mouvement, les soldats sont devenus un instrument de la diplomatie publique américaine vis-à-vis de la population française. Les rencontres sportives entre les militaires américains et les équipes locales ne pouvaient avoir lieu qu’avec l’autorisation des services diplomatiques et militaires afin que puisse s’exercer un contrôle de l’image et des contacts avec la population française. À partir de 1954, des compétitions entre équipes de basket militaires américaines furent organisées sous l’impulsion du réseau de la politique culturelle des États-Unis en France. François Doppler-Speranza a donc exposé en filigrane comment on passa alors d’un contrôle militaire à un contrôle culturel, mais toujours à des fins de diplomatie publique.

Nicolas Martin-Breteau (Université Charles-de-Gaulle Lille 3) « Corps sportif, arme politique. Réflexions sur la construction corporelle de la démocratie américaine »

8 Nicolas Martin-Breteau a abordé la façon dont le corps était utilisé dans la lutte pour l’égalité dans laquelle étaient engagés les noirs américains à la fin du XIXe siècle et jusqu’au milieu du XXe. Au-delà des victoires acquises dans les différentes compétitions sportives (Jeux olympiques, etc.), Nicolas Martin-Breteau propose d’élargir la façon dont l’utilisation du corps est comprise et utilisée par le biais du sport. Si des noirs utilisent le sport comme tactique d’élévation de la race, cela passe aussi par d’autres pratiques corporelles telles que l’habillement ou le comportement afin de détruire les préjugés. C’est donc en reprenant les codes des blancs que, d’après Nicolas Martin- Breteau, les noirs essayaient d’incarner la respectabilité, la dignité. D’ailleurs, il rappela que le terme « dignité humaine » était plus utilisé que « droits civiques » dans les années 1950-1960. Enfin, selon Nicolas Martin-Breteau et paradoxalement, la question de l’identité semblait vraiment centrale pour certains noirs américains, dont le but était bien de subvertir la vérité établie par les blancs tout en en adoptant certains

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codes. L’engagement des Africains-Américains se faisait donc non seulement par la parole, mais aussi par le corps dans le cadre d’une tactique infra-langagière.

Atelier 4 : « Politiques publiques / Public Policies »

Fabrice Mourlon (Université Paris 13) « Quand le corps témoigne. Les survivants du conflit nord-irlandais »

9 C’est en commençant par évoquer l’exposition Silent Testimony de Colin Davidson que Fabrice Mourlon a introduit la notion de récit post-traumatique lié à la perte d’un proche. Il s’est penché sur cette question au travers de témoignages de survivants du conflit nord-irlandais pour conclure que c’est la nécessaire exposition des émotions qui permettra un début de réconciliation dans la société irlandaise, qui reste fortement clivée.

Corinne Nativel (Université Paris-Est Créteil) « Le corps comme objet des politiques de workfare »

10 Corinne Nativel propose de s’intéresser au workfare, système qui prévoit l’allocation d’aides sociales en échange d’un travail fourni, y compris pour les personnes à capacité réduite. Corinne Nativel réfléchit à l’impact du workfare en tant qu’instrument de système de production capitaliste et des politiques d’austérité.

Atelier 5 : « Corps, normes et transgressions / Bodies, Norms and Transgressions »

David Latour (Aix-Marseille Université) « Transidentité, transgenderisme, transsexualité, transparentalité chez Pat Califia »

11 David Latour a présenté la vie de Pat Califia, auteur et activiste transgenre FTM (female to male) qui a notamment axé son activisme sur la pratique du sadomasochisme et dont la vie personnelle, comme la contribution à l’activisme féministe et LGBT, consiste à tester les limites du genre et du sexe, en ayant par exemple un enfant par fécondation in vitro porté par son conjoint également transgenre FTM. Il est également à noter que les prises de position de Pat Califia sont très controversées, surtout dans le mouvement féministe (notamment de la part de la féministe anti-pornographie Catherine Itzin) et ce, en raison de son soutien à la pornographie et au sadomasochisme.

Juliette Melia (Université Paris-Diderot) « Jo Spence. Politique du corps hors norme et autoportrait nu »

12 Avec une présentation de l’artiste britannique Jo Spence, Juliette Melia a montré qu’une série d’autoportraits peut amener le public à prendre conscience de préjugés sur les femmes. D’après Juliette Melia, l’artiste a surtout contribué à ouvrir le débat sur la politisation du corps des femmes en créant notamment des photos représentant les

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exclus, ou encore en montrant sa poitrine après une ablation d’une tumeur au sein pour alerter sur les souffrances subies inutilement à cause du regard des autres.

Cédric Astay (Université Jean-Moulin Lyon 3) « Le corps et la sexualité en Utopies »

13 Au plan politique, l’individu est généralement tenu pour responsable de ce qu’il fait, mais aussi parfois de ce qu’il ne fait pas, le débat étant de savoir s’il est préférable de réprimer l’énergie sexuelle ou de la libérer. À partir des utopies et dystopies de Th. More, F. Bacon, A. Huxley et G. Orwell, Cédric Astay a présenté le débat entre les utopistes sur l’utilisation du corps et de la sexualité à des fins politiques.

Atelier 6 : « Mises en scène politiques / Staging the Body in Politics »

Fiona Rossette (Université Paris-Nanterre) « Embodying the Nation... and Forming One Body: A Study of Enunciative Setup and the Materiality of Delivery in Several Speeches by Barack Obama »

14 Fiona Rossette s’intéresse ici à l’utilisation du corps dans le but de faire passer un message politique. Plus précisément, c’est la gestuelle adoptée par Barack Obama durant ses discours qu’elle analyse. Alors que, politiquement, prendre la parole est en soi une forme d’engagement, Fiona Rossette montre combien Barack Obama maîtrise de nombreuses techniques gestuelles utiles pour se montrer convaincant, associant pleinement son corps à la rhétorique, mettant ce corps en avant et ce, afin de toucher dans un premier temps son public immédiat, celui qui est face à lui, mais aussi le public « invisible », c’est-à-dire les téléspectateurs et les internautes. Fiona Rossette démontre que si le corps est utilisé dans un but stratégique, l’orateur a surtout besoin d’adopter des techniques précises afin d’exprimer, par le biais de cette construction gestuelle, qu’il prend bien à son compte l’oralité de son discours.

Anaïs Le Fèvre-Berthelot (Université Paris-Nanterre) « “She’s shrill”. Voix et genre dans la campagne d’Hillary Rodham Clinton »

15 La campagne électorale des primaires pour l’élection présidentielle américaine de 2016 aura offert son lot de remarques désobligeantes à propos des candidats de la part de leurs opposants. Anaïs Le Fèvre-Berthelot s’est intéressée au traitement médiatique réservé à la première femme candidate à la mandature suprême au nom de l'un des deux principaux partis politiques, Hillary Clinton. Anaïs Le Fèvre-Berthelot met en avant certains débats qui ont porté sur l’apparence physique d’Hillary Clinton, et particulièrement sur sa voix qui a été la cible de nombreuses attaques personnelles. Anaïs Le Fèvre-Berthelot montre que celles-ci reprennent souvent les stéréotypes classiques sur les femmes, Hillary Clinton étant de ce fait victime d’attaques sexistes plus que politiques. C’est cette dimension historique des attaques fondées sur le genre qu’Anaïs Le Fèvre-Berthelot a donc mise en avant, dans un contexte où l’adversaire politique d’Hillary Clinton a lui-même été critiqué à plusieurs reprises pour certaines

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de ses réflexions désobligeantes sur les femmes. Selon Anaïs Le Fèvre-Berthelot, du fait de cette discrimination historique, les femmes ont aujourd'hui encore beaucoup de mal à se faire entendre.

Kenneth Cohen (St Mary’s College of Maryland, États-Unis, et Université Felix Houphouët-Boigny, Côte d’Ivoire) « “A Strong Hand,” “Fine Style,” and “South Training”: Sporting Representations of Candidates in Britain and America, 1750-2016 »

16 Kenneth Cohen a exploré l’histoire des représentations de personnalités politiques par les images durant les trois derniers siècles des deux côtés de l’Atlantique. Apparus en Angleterre au milieu du XVIIe siècle, les sporty cartoons représentaient les hommes politiques en sportifs, comme pour mieux accentuer l’aspect compétitif de la politique. En présentant les archives, Kenneth Cohen met en avant le fait que les hommes politiques avaient une apparence jeune et athlétique, ni gros, ni maigres. Aussi, étaient- ils représentés chevauchant l’animal qui correspondait à l’image que l’opinion publique se faisait d’eux. Si, en Angleterre, on retrouvait généralement ces images après les élections, la presse en publiait énormément avant les élections aux États-Unis et ce, afin d’influencer les électeurs. Kenneth Cohen décrit donc combien l’utilisation du corps en politique est une pratique ancienne.

Atelier 7 : « Performances et revendications / Performance as Politics »

Claudie Servian (Université Grenoble-Alpes) « Le corps dansant, outil d’expression et de revendications individuelles et collectives aux États-Unis »

17 Claudie Servian s’est intéressée à l’utilisation du corps à des fins politiques par le biais de la danse durant un siècle aux États-Unis, de la guerre de Sécession à la guerre du Vietnam, c’est-à-dire du milieu des années 1860 au milieu des années 1960. Elle s’est intéressée en premier lieu à la dimension politique qui s’exprime implicitement : Claudie Servian démontre que ce corps en mouvement s’inscrit dans une culture et dans une histoire, et que la danse est donc le reflet d’un contexte socio-politique. La danse a aussi incarné le signe de la libération du corps, symbole de l’émancipation féminine, à l’image des danseuses Isadora Duncan ou Ruth Saint Denis, mais aussi avec les danses exotiques. Surtout, le corps a souvent véhiculé un message idéologique. Du début du XXe siècle à l’entre-deux-guerres, par exemple, la danse est devenue une arme des pauvres dans la lutte des classes, exprimant aussi la solidarité ou le combat contre le fascisme (avec le Popular Front ou l’American Artists’ Congress).

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Adeline Chevrier-Bosseau (Université Paris-Est Créteil) « Fanny Esslers in America, 1840-1842: The “Political Capital” of the Ballerina’s Body »

18 La danse était encore à l’honneur avec cette analyse par Adeline Chevrier-Bosseau de la carrière de Fanny Esslers, première danseuse ballerine aux États-Unis. Le contexte entourant l’arrivée de Fanny Esslers aux USA dans la première moitié du XIXe siècle ne pouvait en rien lui être favorable. En effet, comme l’a rappelé Adeline Chevrier- Bosseau, l’égalité entre hommes et femmes était secondaire pour nombre d’Américains. Dès lors, le fait que de nombreux hommes considèrent à cette époque les spectacles de danse comme des invitations à la débauche ne facilita pas l’intégration de la ballerine. Qui plus est, elle était mère de deux enfants nés de deux pères différents, ce qui ajouta un élément supplémentaire en sa défaveur dans cette Amérique puritaine du XIXe siècle. Ironie du sort, plus Essler était critiquée par les hommes, plus elle attirait de jeunes femmes à ses spectacles. Ce qu’Adeline Chevrier-Bosseau a pris soin de montrer, c’est qu’Essler participa à l’ouverture d’un débat sur la place des femmes dans le pays bien qu’elle n’ait pas pris le risque de s’exprimer publiquement sur les accusations qui étaient portées contre elle.

Atelier 8 : « Corps genrés, corps militants / Gendered Bodies, Activist Bodies »

Elsa Devienne (Université Paris-Nanterre) « Gender Trouble on the Beach: Muscle Beach, Gender Performance and Spatial Politics on Los Angeles’ Beaches, 1940s-1960s »

19 Entre 1940 et 1960, certaines plages de Los Angeles furent le théâtre de représentations du corps en action (acrobaties, concours de beauté) devenant de fait des endroits où se rassemblaient des adeptes de la culture physique. Elsa Devienne a mis en avant la complexité des rapports que les Américains entretiennent avec le genre, la sexualité et l’exhibition du corps en public durant cette période. De plus, elle a exploré dans une perspective économique et politique les problèmes soulevés par Muscle Beach dans la presse, puis au sein de l’opinion publique (problèmes de pudeur, accusations de perversité sexuelle qui amenèrent à la fermeture de la plage...). Elle démontre en effet quels étaient les enjeux non avoués : les promoteurs immobiliers, appuyés par les pouvoirs politiques avaient ainsi réussi à s’approprier le terrain où se tenaient de très populaires exhibitions, dans le but d’y construire des immeubles de logements luxueux. Plutôt qu’une interprétation de la fermeture de Muscle Beach qui serait liée aux débats moraux, Elsa Devienne privilégie donc une explication fondée sur l’intérêt économique.

Mathilde Bertrand (Université Bordeaux-Montaigne) « Le “Peace Camp” de Greenham Common (1981-1991). Usages politiques et symboliques du corps militant féminin »

20 Pour clôturer le colloque, Mathilde Bertrand a choisi de parler de femmes qui, dans les années 1980, ont mis en avant leurs corps afin de protester contre l’installation d’un

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dépôt d’armes nucléaires à l’ouest de Londres. Ce mouvement aura ouvert la voie à d’autres formes de contestation de la part des mouvements féministes.

AUTEUR

LYAIS BEN YOUSSEF Université Paris-Est

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Colloque « Conflit, Pouvoir et Représentations » Université du Maine, 18 et 19 novembre 2016

Clément Grouzard

1 Ce colloque international, organisé dans le cadre du le laboratoire 3L.AM par Éliane Elmaleh et Xavier Lachazette, a exploré des champs d’études très divers. De l’histoire contemporaine à la littérature, en passant par la sociologie du droit et la sociologie de la culture, ce colloque a offert un large panorama des notions de pouvoir en termes aussi bien thématiques que géographiques en traitant de problématiques spécifiques à la France, au Brésil, aux États-Unis etc. Nous ferons ici un compte rendu des différentes interventions ayant abordé une thématique en lien avec les États-Unis, toutes disciplines confondues. Les interventions en rapport avec le domaine américain n’ont pas échappé à la diversité disciplinaire et thématique des rapports au conflit, au pouvoir et à leur représentation : du XVIIIe siècle à l’époque contemporaine, ce colloque a permis de rendre compte de différentes approches possibles dans la définition de la notion de pouvoir à travers divers contextes historiques et produits culturels.

2 Les communications se répartissaient en deux ateliers différents pendant les deux jours où se sont succédé les intervenants. L’un des ateliers du vendredi matin, où sont intervenus Pierre Guerlain, Salah Oueslati, Salim Kerboua et Gelareh Yvard-Djahansouz, fut le premier de deux ateliers à traiter des conflits en politique américaine et dans les relations internationales. La communication de Pierre Guerlain (Paris-Ouest Nanterre La Défense) a abordé les prises de décision du pouvoir dans l’engagement d’une nation dans des conflits armés. Il s’est concentré sur la politique des États-Unis vis-à-vis des conflits au Moyen-Orient depuis l’intervention en Afghanistan du président Georges W. Bush après les attentats du 11 septembre 2001 jusqu’au refus ou à l’impossibilité de l’armée américaine d’intervenir dans le grand Moyen-Orient sous l’administration Obama, qui a remis en question l’hégémonie américaine sur la scène géopolitique mondiale. Ensuite, le pouvoir a été envisagé comme acteur des conflits entre différentes classes sociales. La communication de Salah Oueslati (Poitiers) a présenté l’accroissement des inégalités sociales aux États-Unis depuis les années soixante-dix. Il affirme que la lutte des classes a tourné en faveur des classes dominantes qui ont pu

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asseoir leur domination grâce à une politique de communication agressive menée par les lobbies des milieux d’affaires. Puis, Salim Kerboua (Biskra, Algérie) a sondé les conflits idéologiques des différentes mouvances conservatrices au sein du Parti républicain. Après avoir examiné l’évolution idéologique des différentes factions politiques se revendiquant toutes du « vrai conservatisme », il a remarqué que, malgré ces divergences idéologiques, les différentes mouvances partagent une vision similaire en matière de politique étrangère. Enfin, Gelareh Yvard-Djahansouz (Angers) a rendu compte des différents conflits idéologiques au sein des pouvoirs exécutif, législatif et judiciaire. En prenant l’exemple de la politique environnementale menée par Barack Obama, politique non seulement influencée, mais aussi définie par les différentes institutions du gouvernement américain, Gelareh Yvard-Djahansouz a mis en exergue les conflits émergeant de la complexité des structures administratives et juridiques du gouvernement des États-Unis.

3 En parallèle, l’autre atelier du vendredi matin, « Conflits dans l’histoire des idées », comprenait deux interventions en rapport avec le domaine américain : la première, de Linda Garbaye (Clermont-Ferrand), portait sur l’abolition de l’esclavage et sur la citoyenneté des Africains-Américains dans l’État du New Jersey au XVIIIe siècle, et la seconde, de John Dean, définissait la portée du rôle démocratique d’Internet dans la société américaine contemporaine. Ces deux interventions traitaient de l’exercice citoyen, même si elles abordaient le sujet dans des périodes différentes et donc dans des espaces d’expression radicalement différents. Le pouvoir se définit, selon ces deux interventions, par sa force de communication, dans la mesure où les conflits idéologiques se soldent par un changement ou par une légitimation du paradigme social et/ou juridique en faveur du camp qui a su le mieux faire entendre sa voix.

4 Les quatre ateliers du vendredi après-midi ont donné lieu à cinq communications en rapport avec le domaine américain. Lotfi Bennour (Belfort-Montbéliard), intervenant dans l’atelier « Conflits sociaux et de genre », a traité, d’une part, la question de la représentation des femmes dans le gouvernement américain et, d’autre part, les changements que cette représentation implique dans l’exercice du pouvoir par des femmes. Il établit ainsi l’existence d’une politique genrée, qu’il détermine en fonction des manières de gouverner et de représenter la nation. Ensuite, Raphaël Ricaud, Michael Stricof et Delphine Ramos sont intervenus dans la deuxième partie de l’atelier « Conflit en politique américain et relations internationales ». Raphaël Ricaud (Montpellier) a proposé une étude sur le choix du groupe de musique Ozomatli comme ambassadeur culturel des États-Unis sous l’administration de Georges W. Bush. Malgré les divergences idéologiques qui les séparent, Raphaël Ricaud considère que la tournée mondiale d’Ozomatli a néanmoins légitimé le gouvernement américain. Cette légitimation a été rendue possible par l’américanité culturelle que le groupe incarne comme symbole de la liberté d’expression, mais aussi par la diversité ethnique de ses membres. Ces facteurs ont pu relayer au second plan leur engagement politique contre le gouvernement Bush, permettant ainsi de le légitimer. Puis, Michael Stricof (Aix- Marseille) a abordé la politique étrangère de l’administration Clinton au prisme de la philosophie politique afin de définir la notion de conflit pour éventuellement prédire l’évolution de ce concept dans l’avenir. La perception des conflits internationaux, dominée par la définition « réaliste » du tous contre tous établie par Thomas Hobbes au XVIe siècle, subit un changement radical de paradigme, selon Michael Stricof, sous l’administration Clinton, où le monde est désormais régi par un état de paix perpétuelle. Finalement, Delphine Ramos (Grenoble) a articulé sa communication

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autour de la politisation du discours anti-terroriste aux États-Unis : elle y explore non seulement l’influence de ce discours sur la scène politique américaine, mais aussi son impact social. En effet, Delphine Ramos affirme que le pouvoir utilise le discours anti- terroriste à des fins de légitimation, soit en banalisant la menace terroriste, soit en montrant l’importance des moyens mis en œuvre pour la combattre. Une dernière communication en rapport avec le domaine américain a été exposée par François Doppler-Speranza (Strasbourg), dans laquelle il développe le concept de para-bellicisme et explique ses applications concrètes en France après la Seconde Guerre mondiale, où les activités sportives organisées entre militaire américains et civils français ont permis une certaine légitimation de la présence américaine en France.

5 Finalement, trois communications en rapport avec le domaine américain ont eu lieu le samedi après-midi. Christelle Ha Soon (Rouen) a abordé le thème de la représentation de la discrimination raciale aux États-Unis dans le roman de Toni Morrison The Bluest Eye (1970). La discrimination raciale y est représentée comme intériorisée par le personnage principal du roman, Pecola, et se manifeste par la réduction au silence de ce personnage. Cependant, Christelle Ha Soon affirme que, paradoxalement, la représentation du silence de Pecola est également un moyen de donner une voix aux opprimés de la société américaine. Ensuite, Danièle André (La Rochelle) a évoqué différentes représentations fictives d’une nouvelle guerre civile, telle qu’elle est imaginée dans plusieurs œuvres de science-fiction de la culture populaire américaine. Les bandes-dessinées DMZ (2005-2012) et Civil War (2006-2007) ainsi que la série Jericho (2006) représentent l’avènement d’une deuxième guerre civile dans une situation où le pouvoir fédéral ne parvient pas à maintenir l’ordre. Ainsi, ces différents récits ne proposent pas une critique du pouvoir lui-même, mais suggèrent plutôt la fragilité de l’État fédéral. Enfin, la dernière communication américaniste de ce colloque a été effectuée par Nawal Issaoui (Bordeaux), qui a exposé l’influence du pouvoir judiciaire dans la définition de la liberté de religion. Elle explique que la liberté religieuse aux États-Unis est limitée aux croyances et non aux pratiques. Ces dernières pouvant entrer en conflit avec les lois fédérales, le système judiciaire américain doit avoir recours à des aménagements juridiques, c’est-à-dire à une modification de la loi fédérale qui rende ces pratiques légales ou, plus simplement, à des dérogations aux lois fédérales.

6 Ce colloque a permis de mettre en lumière la diversité des notions à l’aide desquelles le pouvoir peut être abordé. Le pouvoir n’est pas seulement institutionnel, avec pour acteurs principaux les professionnels de la politique. Il est aussi judiciaire, financier, citoyen et, dans tous les cas, les répercussions sociales des actions qu’un pouvoir met en œuvre sont palpables, c’est d’ailleurs à cela qu’on reconnaît le pouvoir : il ne peut pas être inerte. La notion de conflit n’a pas non plus échappé à cette polysémie : il a été tour à tour armé, idéologique, intérieur et judiciaire. La communication est également centrale pour le pouvoir qui se manifeste par ses représentations. Ces représentations prennent des formes aussi diverses que les pouvoir et les conflits qu’elles dépeignent. Souvent militantes, les représentations se veulent, elles aussi, des formes de pouvoir capables de résoudre ou de prévenir les conflits qu’elles mettent en scène.

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RÉSUMÉS

Ce compte-rendu résume les différentes communications en rapport avec le domaine américain durant le colloque international du 18 et 19 novembre 2016 à L’Université du Maine, intitulé Conflit, Pouvoir et Représentation et organisé par Éliane Elmaleh et Xavier Lachazette.

This review sums up the different presentations linked to American Studies during the international conference of November 18th and 19 th in Université du Maine, Le Mans, France. Entitled Conflict, Power and Representations, this conference was organized by Éliane Elmaleh and Xavier Lachazette.

INDEX

Keywords : power, conflict, representation, American studies, interdisciplinarity Mots-clés : pouvoir, conflit, représentation, domaine américain, interdisciplinarité

AUTEUR

CLÉMENT GROUZARD Université du Maine

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One-day symposium “Mapping the landscapes of abortion, birth control and power in the United States since the 1960s”. Université Sorbonne Nouvelle Paris 3, November 18, 2016.

Judith Warner

Introduction

1 On Friday November 18th, 2016, a one-day symposium entitled “Mapping the Landscapes of Abortion, Birth Control and Power in the United States since the 1960s” was held at the Université Sorbonne Nouvelle. The symposium was organized by three Université Sorbonne Nouvelle doctoral candidates: Christen Bryson, Anne Légier and Amélie Ribieras. The parallel between the topic of the symposium and the recent political election and its potential aftermath in the United States was tackled throughout the day and it was related to the symposium’s topic. Indeed, the resonance between the 2016 presidential election of Donald Trump and the prospects of a “pro- life” Congress and the Supreme Court hearing a case on reproductive rights made the debates during the symposium seem all the more pressing. Abortion, birth control, reproductive rights and the question of power over women’s bodies are and have been personal and political issues in the United States since the 19th century. The topics of women’s reproductive rights and reproductive justice are bound to matters of social class, race, gender, age, education, and religion. This symposium, in addition to addressing these research perspectives, also raised the question of how geographically- related reproductive rights and legislation are. The symposium aimed at exploring the political, economic, geographic and ideological spaces surrounding women’s rights and reproductive justice.

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Hélène QUANQUIN (Associate Professor of American civilization, Université Sorbonne Nouvelle – Paris 3), “The Early Feminists… Were Overwhelmingly Pro-Life: The Place of the Nineteenth Century in Contemporary Abortion Debates”

2 Though the symposium intended to focus on reproductive issues from the 1960s onwards, Hélène Quanquin, the first keynote speaker, demonstrated the link between the contemporary debate and the 19th century feminist movement. This foray into the past allowed her to question the legacy and the parallels between the two movements. Revealing the continuities, the ruptures, and the influences of the past on the present, Hélène Quanquin pointed out that the pivotal contemporary question of abortion and abortion rights was not a central debate in the 19th century. The influence of the 19th century movement on today’s is mainly to be found through quotes and references to important figures and activists of the time, such as Susan B. Anthony and Margaret Sanger. Women’s rights activists of the 19th century tried to keep away from controversial issues, abortion being one, because of its possible link with “free love”.

3 Hélène Quanquin noted that 19th century and 20th-21st century feminists did not have the same discourse and might not have agreed on some issues. Some 19th century activists might even have been anti-abortion. However, since the issue was not dealt with directly or in public at the time, it remains a blurry point of the 19th century debates. This ambivalence might be the result of the toxicity of such a topic at that time. Nevertheless, this ambiguity has allowed contemporary pro-life activists to claim that suffragettes were, in fact, “pro-life.” The relevance of the 19th century feminist movement to contemporary feminist movements therefore stems from the desire to create a sense of continuity between the past and present, and from the use of important historical references and famous figures. However, the present situation has given voice to certain past controversial issues, abortion being prominent among them. The 19th century fight for women’s rights was focused on suffrage, but it was certainly not a pro-abortion movement.

Anne LÉGIER (PhD candidate, Université Sorbonne Nouvelle – Paris 3), “The Reverend Spencer Parsons, an Abortion Crusader”

4 Anne Légier drew from her doctoral research, focused on Chicago, Illinois, to present on the important work of Spencer Parsons, a clergyman who fought for women’s rights to abortion in the 1960s and 1970s. He is a peculiar figure due to his position in society as a white, middle-aged clergyman fighting on behalf of what was at the time a very controversial and illegal procedure. As a clergyman, Reverend Parsons had access to a public platform from which he could advocate for abortion rights, but he maintained his social position of respectability, which allowed him to express controversial matters without having to fear repression. Reverend Parsons officiated in Chicago’s Hyde Park neighborhood, at the Rockfeller Chapel on the University of Chicago campus. Hyde Park, being a politically progressive area at the time, might have helped him in his

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endeavor. He fought not only for abortion rights, but also more broadly for women’s reproductive rights: from the legalization of birth control to access to condoms and greater respect for women’s choice. Parsons could therefore be seen as a precursor/ contributor to the contemporary “pro-choice” battle/debate.

5 This unique activist led this fight from within his religious sphere. Parsons was a Baptist, an advocate of freedom of conscience, and opposed the Catholic doctrine defining life at conception that supports defining abortion as a crime. The religious aspect of his fight allowed him to reframe the moral and ethical landscape of abortion. Parsons counseled and helped women by giving them information about abortion and birth control, creating a safe space for women to talk about, and deal with, those issues when they were in need. Reverend Parsons’s personal and professional status helped him build a different environment where his power was used in a cause not usually associated with the life and occupational hazards of a clergyman. Parsons is therefore an original case regarding the fight for abortion rights in the 1960s as he used his power, social status, and ecclesiastical platform to do something others could not. Though he has been left out of the historiography on this era and location, Anne Légier insisted that Parsons’s personal and political distinctiveness merits attention.

Sandrine PIORKOWSKI-BOCQUILLON (PhD, Aix- Marseille Université), “Sterilization in the United- States: The Dark Side of Contraception in the 1960s and 1970s”

6 This original research paper touched upon an aspect of birth control that is commonly left by the wayside: sterilization. Sandrine Piorkowski-Bocquillon focused on the historical and ideological dimensions of sterilization in 1960s and 1970s America.

7 The history of sterilization is linked to that of eugenics and the idea that the state can exert control over reproduction. In the 1960s, a coercive method of sterilization was used on mostly uninformed female patients. The state’s attempt to sterilize uninformed women was especially problematic as it was directly linked to racial and economic inequality: it was mainly poor women of color who were affected by sterilization policies. The targeted women were typically seen as already having too many children. One of the official arguments was that they might not be able to provide for more and would therefore become social and financial burdens on the state. Where white, middle-class and upper-class women could opt to go through this irreversible medical procedure, lower-class women and women of color frequently did not have that choice. In fact, low-income, minority women underwent this irreversible procedure without giving proper consent, because they were misled and coerced or asked to sign documents they could not understand—or read, in the case of non-English-speaking women.

8 The ideological and (un)ethical aspect of birth regulation through sterilization can also be linked to a question of ownership of, and power over, women’s bodies. Indeed, most members of medical committees at that time were male physicians. Sandrine Piorkorwski-Bocquillon highlighted the example of Puerto-Rican women’s fight for reproductive freedom and reparation for forced or unconsented sterilization. The practice was widespread on the island, an official measure taken by the state—in

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accordance with the Eugenics Board—to control overpopulation. Studying this practice puts the emphasis on the fact that at the time these women did not have full control over their own bodies. Sandrine Piorkorwski-Bocquillon’s presentation also questioned the link between the feminist movement and sterilization, echoing Hélène Quanquin’s talk. Indeed, some 19th century feminist activists, such as Margaret Sanger, held eugenicist views, which adds to the ambivalence of their legacy on the advancement of reproductive rights. Sterilization as a coercive method of birth regulation thus falls within the social, racial, and power-related dynamic of reproductive rights, justice and freedom.

Carole JOFFE (Professor, Dept. Of Obstetrics, Gynecology and Reproductive Sciences, University of California, San Francisco), “Race and Abortion in the United-States”

9 The second keynote speaker, Carole Joffe, specializes in research about reproductive justice. She referred to reproductive justice rather than reproductive rights as she explained that the struggle for legal rights was not enough and reproductive justice encompasses more than just legal rights. The latter also includes access to enough resources for women to raise their children in decent living conditions, the ability for women to prevent or end unwanted pregnancies, and the ability to have the children when they want.

10 Carole Joffe talked about the central and ever-present role of race and class in the debates and discussions on abortion. Race and class were already factors in the eugenics movement. Echoing Sandrine Piorkowski-Bocquillon, Carole Joffe stressed the fact that, in the 19th and early 20 th centuries, some white ethnic minorities were believed to have too many children—such as the Irish, Italians, and Eastern Europeans —as were Blacks and Latinos living in rundown urban centers. Also echoing Sandrine Piorkorwski-Bocquillon’s presentation, Carole Joffe briefly reminded the audience that the first birth control campaigns were funded by the government, thus birth control and reproductive justice have long been governmental and political issues linked to race and class, since the primary targets were and still are ethnic minorities and poor women. In economically disadvantaged and racially stratified areas today, these two factors often collide as the women targeted are often African American and poor. The issue of reproductive justice thus becomes part of gender politics. Therefore, the discussion surrounding race, class and abortion is also demographic. Carole Joffe sees women of color as collateral damage of a fight against abortion led by anti-abortion activists and economic conservatives. In addition, the fight against anti-abortion is made difficult in these communities because of deep religiosity, memories of eugenics, a general mistrust of the healthcare system and because members of NGOs or foundations that reach out to women of color are mostly white Americans. Thus, Carole Joffe argued that in those communities, anti-abortion activists are sometimes successful in their fight.

11 The discussion surrounding abortion in the United States at the moment focuses on two main topics: the controversies around Planned Parenthood clinics and the

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reproductive movement’s fight for genuine reproductive justice. Both the pro- and anti-abortion movements broach these two topics in hope of gaining ground.

Amélie RIBIERAS (PhD candidate, Université Sorbonne Nouvelle), “Phyllis Schlafly and the Polarization of the Political Landscape: Making the Republican Party Pro- life”

12 Amélie Ribieras’s presentation focused on one particular activist, the anti-abortion, pro-life, conservative Phyllis Schlafly. For many years, Schlafly struggled to shape the political landscape within the Republican Party. She is best known for her STOP ERA campaign in the 1970s, which successfully prevented the ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA). Schlafly’s militancy subsequently became rooted in the pro-life movement. She adopted a pro-life ideology and an anti-feminist attitude. Schlafly’s struggle was vocal from the 1960s-1970s until her death in 2016. Amélie Ribieras argued that the pro-life movement has been instrumental in the growing strength of the Republican Party and Schlafly played a pivotal role in this reshaping. Schlafly’s militancy was presented as both strategic and well-conceived. By adopting an anti- feminist attitude, Schlafly built a strong conservative discourse based on moral matters from the 1960s to the 1980s. She opposed recreational sex and the Women’s Liberation Movement (1960s-1970s), demonizing sexual liberation and the demand for access to abortion as endangering life and devaluating motherhood. Schlafly addressed abortion through her public struggle against the ERA. Visually and ideologically speaking, her anti-abortion/pro-life campaigns were in continuity with the anti-ERA campaign. The moral part of her struggle allowed her to appeal to religious conservatives and their defense of the life of “unborn babies,” thus adopting the pro-life ideology, also called “embryo politics,” that a fetus already is a living being. Though Schlafly’s fight was not political at first, Amélie Ribieras argued, she became a central figure in the transformation of the Republican Party into the pro-life party. Schlafly’s militancy became strongly political in the 1980s. Ronald Reagan’s campaign and presidency were anti-abortion, and the moral righteousness of the anti-abortion argument was combined with an economic argument. Abortion was presented as a waste of taxpayer’s money and became central to Reagan’s campaign for the presidency. The Republican Party, from 1980 to 1982 at least, was a strong pro-life party, though the pro-life and pro-choice division reappeared later. According to Amélie Ribieras, Phyllis Schlafly helped establish the ideological and organizational strength of the Party. Her influence as a vocal public figure and a successful conservative activist allowed her to embed the defense of the life of “unborn children” into the Republican doctrine. As such, Amélie Ribieras concluded, Schlafly was a “cultural warrior” of the pro-family movement, though she remained a very controversial and highly criticized figure throughout her life.

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Christen BRYSON (PhD, Université Sorbonne Nouvelle, CRAN, CREW), “Family Planning in Idaho and Oregon: Shared Borders, Divided Politics”

13 To conclude the symposium, Christen Bryson’s presentation continued on the political and geographical dimensions of abortion and reproductive rights by studying two states—Oregon and Idaho—that have different political and cultural treatments of the question of sex education. Focusing on these two opposite states allowed her to question the ideological, social and geographical mapping of the debate on reproductive justice in the contemporary United States.

14 The Population Institute is a non-profit that promotes family planning and gives grades to each state based, in part, on the “quality” of sex education in schools. Oregon received an A+ whereas Idaho received an F-. Idaho State law 33-16-08 (1970) provides that sex education should be, first and foremost, carried out in the home. The church and schools should only be complementary to the sex education taught by parents. The Idaho Health Content Standards requires sex education courses in public schools to rely exclusively on scientific knowledge, i.e. the study of anatomy and physiology of reproduction. Abstinence played a primary role before the standards were reformed in 2010. Nevertheless, parents can opt out of their children attending these classes. In some Idaho schools, teaching children about the sex act is problematic for fear that the school or school board may be accused of encouraging premarital sex. With its newly enacted focus on scientific knowledge, Christen Bryson argued, Idaho appears to be moving towards a more progressive form of sex education. Yet, when looking at the school curricula of the state’s two largest school districts, there is much debate as to whether or not that is actually the case. In Oregon, by contrast, sex education classes and curricula are much more progressive. The courses focus on overall health and a fight against the spread of STIs. In 2005, the state adopted a “sex positive” approach: sexual activity is presented to students as a natural and healthy part of their personal development. The way sex education is taught reflects more general ideological and political divisions regarding states policies. Supporters of sex education in public schools defend the idea that young people should receive information and become sexually responsible adults. Supporters of abstinence, on the other hand, fear that sex education teaches young people how to have sex, overrides parental authority and, in some extreme arguments, promotes homosexuality.

15 According to Christen Bryson reproductive health, rights and justice also raise the issue of the local and state-level access to birth control. Population Institute assessments rely on four criteria: effectiveness, affordability, accessibility and prevention. In 2016, Oregon had already reached the highest standards, as had Washington. Yet, their neighbors—Idaho, Utah and Wyoming—all failed. In Oregon reproductive health and rights are treated as basic human rights, no laws obstruct access to abortion and abortion providers are easily accessible, which is not the case at all for Idaho. The latter is populated by social, political and religious conservatives who frame the political debate regarding these issues in moral terms. It is also harder for women to have access to abortion clinics because they are geographically scattered throughout the state and not as easily accessible to rural women. Christen Bryson concluded her talk on the role that pro-life politics played during Donald Trump’s presidential campaign and his expressed belief that questions about abortion and reproductive rights as a whole

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should no longer be handled at the federal level. If in the future the Supreme Court rules in accordance with such a view, geographical discrepancies on these matters will only intensify.

Conclusion

16 This one-day symposium was fueled with the tensions and questions raised by the new President-elect and his future administration. The topics of abortion, reproductive justice and health appeared to be especially pressing. This symposium tackled issues regarding the moral and geographical dimensions of reproductive justice, rights and health in the United States since the 1960s, but also in the near future. It debated the definition of the family since the 1960s through the 2015 legalization of same-sex marriage, and the way the Trump Administration may handle it in the future. The symposium laid the basis for discussions of the past, present and future, as well as the different political, moral and ideological perspectives surrounding abortion, abortion rights, and reproductive justice and freedom.

ABSTRACTS

United-States, reproductive rights, reproductive justice, abortion, women’s rights, women’s health

INDEX

Mots-clés: États-Unis, droits reproductifs, justice sexuelle et reproductive, avortement, droit des femmes, santé des femmes

AUTHOR

JUDITH WARNER Université Sorbonne Nouvelle Paris 3

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Lecture by Jack Halberstam: “Trans*: Bodies, Gender Variance and Power” Université Jean Moulin – Lyon III, Maison Internationale des Langues et des Cultures (MILC), 24th November 2016

Sophie Chapuis

1 On November 24th, 2016, the IETT (Institut d’Études Transtextuelles et Transculturelles) welcomed Jack Halberstam1, Professor of English and Gender Studies at Columbia University. He was invited by Pierre-Antoine Pellerin, Associate Professor of American Literature at Université Jean Moulin – Lyon III. The lecture was part of a series of seminars entitled “Genre, sexualités, décolonialité”.

2 A prominent academic and renowned lecturer in the United States, Jack Halberstam delivered his first talk in front of a French audience composed of academics and students. It was an opportunity for him to take stock of, and reflect on, two decades of groundbreaking work about transgenderism and identity politics. Halberstam’s ambition was to assess the changes that have occurred in the representation of transgender lives and bodies at a time when transgenderism has become widely accepted and is even at risk of normalization. Surveying two decades of change, Halberstam analyzed the various mechanisms of inclusion that have dramatically increased the visibility of transgender people in the public scene, celebrating it as a sign of progress, but warning at the same time about the potential dangers it entailed. At stake is indeed the future of gender and the fate of the transgendered body which, to Halberstam, can still be perceived as a site of peril now that lines between the margins and the center have been redrawn.

3 While transgendered figures used to be seen as deviant and monstrous, they have now become icons featured on the covers of international magazines. Laverne Cox was the first transgender actress to appear on the cover of Time Magazine2 in 2014 and Olympic gold medal-winning athlete Caitlyn Jenner, formerly known as Bruce Jenner, got on the front cover of Vanity Fair3 in 2015. The latter was photographed by no less an iconic

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photographer than Annie Leibovitz, who also produced a series of portraits of former soldier Chelsea Manning for the September 2017 American issue of Vogue Magazine4. These three examples show that transgender figures have lately been endorsed by mainstream media and mostly celebrated as glamorous and powerful people.

4 Because living on the edge no longer seems desirable, Halberstam voiced concern about rampant trans-normativity, which even led Donald Trump to stand for LGBT rights in his campaign, declaring at the 2016 Republican National Convention: “As your president, LGBT people, I will fight for you” – a promise he was to break less than a year later when signing, on August 25th, 2017, a directive asking the U.S. military not to accept transgender men and women as recruits. Yet, Halberstam insisted on the necessity to watch out whenever transgender figures are systematically forced into the national narrative, whether by politics or by mainstream culture.

5 He specifically highlighted the danger it represented for children, who now have a whole lexicon allowing them to voice gender nonconformity at a very young age. Being queer used to be a disruptive element that challenged the family, but it no longer tends to be the case. Parents now stand for the rights of their children instead of letting them fend for themselves or themselves. But a child, Halberstam argued, is a figure of ambiguity and becoming and, as such, can easily shift. Transgenderism used to be an adult phenomenon until a few years ago, but today’s activism largely centers on the figure of the child. Because the fight is led by parents and no longer by transgendered subjects themselves, children might grow up unaware of the past struggles and come to dis-identify with transgender history. Besides, he has lately observed a tendency to preserve norms rather than dispute them. The parents’ struggle to facilitate acceptance of their children in schools and social institutions often reveals a desire to conform to heteronormative standards.

6 Dating the “transgender tipping point”5 to the last couple of years, Halberstam’s talk looked back on two decades of change and offered a survey of different aesthetic forms that have been used to represent trans* bodies. He remembered that when he published Female Masculinity back in 1998, masculine women were still seen as monstrous and transgendered bodies were largely perceived as bodies in distress. Transgenderism was some exotic phenomenon that triggered the fascination of the media but failed to be understood other than as a deviance verging on insanity. This is the case in Brian De Palma’s 1980 movie Dressed to Kill in which a psychiatrist and his transgender patient turn out to be the same person and, what is more, a murderer. Such a movie, Halberstam argued, featured the transgender body as a metaphor for unstable identities and associated transgenderism with illegibility and monstrosity.

7 It took a decade before some directors found new ways of representing gender transitivity. Halberstam chose three movies from the 1990s that, to him, have allowed for a remapping of gender. The Crying Game, directed by Neil Jordan (1992), was the first movie not to center on the character’s transgenderism, but rather used transitivity as a political metaphor. Halberstam praised the movie for taking a distance from the transgender body to include it in a wider plot that engages a reflection on nationhood, race and sexuality. In this film, a black British woman who happens to be a male-bodied woman is involved in a relationship with a black soldier, but the story unfolds against the backdrop of the Northern Ireland conflict and, to Halberstam, the radicalism of the film lies in its political project.

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8 The second movie example is the Oscar-winning Boys Don’t Cry, directed by Kim Pierce (1999), which revolves around the true story of Brandon Teena, a trans man who was raped and murdered in 1993 at the age of twenty. The movie offers a different take on transgenderism by allowing the viewer to see through the eyes of a transgender character and adopt what Halberstam calls the “transgender gaze”, a way of looking at the world from within the transgender body.

9 The last movie Halberstam analyzed was released at the turn of the 21st century. It was directed and played by Harry Dodge and Silas Howard. By Hook or by Crook (2001) is a road movie starring two transgender characters who are on a quest and whose transitional process is more central than the actual motives of their transition. Because the movie does not focus on a single transgendered character nor explicitly mentions the gender of the two friends, the film is not about transgenderism, but rather a tale about friendship.

10 All three movies brought massive change in their representation of gender variant bodies and led Halberstam, in a second part of his argument, to consider other possible options to rethink gender today and find new ways of embodying gender. Since the transgender body has mostly been portrayed figuratively, Halberstam called for more abstract ways to represent it. To do so, he turned to various artists whose works provide abstract representations of the body. He examined for example the work of American artist Eva Hesse, whose sculpture “Bodies Without Organs” goes beyond the surface of the body. Since the body is unframed and has no envelope, it resists embodiment.

11 Using Sara Davidmann’s work as a last example, Halberstam argued that the transgendered body should be considered as a fragmentary site. In Ken. To be Destroyed (2013-2015), British artist and photographer Sara Davidmann6 uses family archives to reflect on gender variance in the Fifties. She discovered that, from the age of three, her uncle had always wished to be a woman and secretly dressed as a woman when family was away. He kept it secret from his wife, Hazel, who only learnt about it four years after they got married. Davidmann restores and sometimes reframes photographs to portray her uncle as a woman. The alteration of surfaces, frames and material is meant to point at the inherent indeterminacy of the transgendered body and leads Halberstam to defend a haptic understanding of it. A haptic perspective encourages one to see not only with their eyes, but to sense with their whole body. Since it focuses less on sight than touch, viewing is no longer limited to the visual, but depends on a variety of senses. The haptic is a form of representation that favors illegibility and welcomes indeterminacy. Halberstam’s use of the word haptic highlights the constant transitioning of the transgendered body, which forever remains unfinished, like a site in construction.

12 The word trans* belongs to the vocabulary of the haptic as the asterisk forbids any definite meaning: this Boolean search operator indeed leaves a blank that allows for multiple interpretations. Jack Halberstam compellingly argued in favor of the term trans* because it resists the polarization and sheer binary between a trans man and a trans woman. Transgender is an umbrella term used to refer to people who identify as a gender other than the one that was assigned to them at birth. By contrast, trans* opens endless possibilities for the diacritical mark is resolutely indefinite. Halberstam suggested that the asterisk might be construed as a question mark or simply a sign that emphasizes the transitioning process instead of the final form. The asterisk also aims at

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encompassing different gender identities across the gender spectrum. The truncation forbids any classification process just as it refrains from naming or defining.

13 As the talk was delivered in the fortnight that followed Donald Trump’s election, the question and answer session quickly approached the possible threats faced by trans* people. Halberstam acknowledged that their rights could potentially be undermined but insisted on the fact that transgender people no longer represented a threat. On the contrary, white or wealthy transgendered figures like Caitlyn Jenner or Chelsea Manning have been embraced by the media as icons, but their acceptance is only partial victory for it silences other issues like incarceration, racial bias or social inequalities to mention just a few. Halberstam repeated that we should be cautious when examining these new forms of tolerance for they have not eradicated the logic of exclusion that has long presided over the history of the United States. Addressing an audience of students and academics who asked many questions about the presidential election, Halberstam lamented the fact that academics had retreated to their departments and had unfortunately been unable to communicate with non-university audience. Thus, an abyss was created between people who have received an education and those who have not, which, to him, is one among the multiple reasons that contributed to Trump’s election.

14 Mixing references from literature, visual arts or aesthetics, Halberstam’s blend resulted in a thought-provoking lecture that constantly strove to build bridges between academia and popular culture. Defining his work as counter-intuitive, Halberstam has always favored what he calls anti-disciplinary forms of knowledge production and his talk, fraught with humor and irreverence, urged for ever-more questioning and constant reexamination of existing paradigms.

NOTES

1. Jack Halberstam is the author of five books that have not yet been translated into French. They include Skin Shows: Gothic Horror and the Technology of Monsters (Duke UP, 1995), Female Masculinity (Duke UP, 1998), In A Queer Time and Place (NYU Press, 2005), The Queer Art of Failure (Duke UP, 2011) and Gaga Feminism: Sex, Gender, and the End of Normal (Beacon Press, 2012). Part of this talk comes from Halberstam’s forthcoming essay Trans*, A Quick and Quirky Account of Gender Variability (U of California P, forthcoming January 2018). 2. http://time.com/132769/transgender-orange-is-the-new-black-laverne-cox-interview/ (last accessed on August 25th, 2017) 3. https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2015/06/caitlyn-jenner-bruce-cover-annie-leibovitz (last accessed on August 25th, 2017) 4. http://www.vogue.com/article/chelsea-manning-vogue-interview-september-issue-2017 (last accessed on August 25th, 2017) 5. Jack Halberstam borrowed this expression from the title that accompanied Time Magazine’s cover which featured Laverne Cox in May 2014. 6. http://www.saradavidmann.com/ken.html (last accessed on August 25th, 2017)

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AUTEUR

SOPHIE CHAPUIS Université Jean Monnet, Saint-Etienne

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Conference “Neoliberalism in the Anglophone World” Université Paul-Valéry Montpellier 3, 10th-11th March 2017

Jérôme Viala-Gaudefroy

1 This international conference was hosted by the Université Paul-Valéry Montpellier 3 (EMMA, Études Montpelliéraines du Monde Anglophone) and sponsored by CHCSC (Centre d’Histoire Culturelle des Sociétés Contemporaines) and the Université de Versailles Saint-Quentin-en-Yvelines and CRECIB (Centre de Recherches en Civilisation Britannique). It was organized by Simon Dawes, Associate Professor at the Université de Versailles’s IECI (Institut d’Études Culturelles et Internationales) and Marc Lenormand, Associate Professor at the Université Paul-Valéry. The two-day conference comprised eight workshops and two keynote sessions.

2 As the conference organizers noted in their call for papers, the relevance of “neoliberalism” is noticeable in the increasing number of citations to articles whose titles include the term “neoliberalism” or “neo-liberalism” between 1992 and 2015, as well as in the abundance of public debate following the global financial crisis of 2008. This crisis has arguably resulted in the questioning of neoliberal logic and in a renewed scholarly focus on the impact of neoliberalism, not only in political science and economics, but also in area studies, history, social science, literature and linguistics. The ambitious aim of this conference was to cover these different fields from a wide range of perspectives in the Anglophone world that extends from the US and the UK to other English-speaking areas, including South Africa and India. The result was a very rich mix of contributions from scholars focusing on such diverse research objects as politics, economics, ethics, education, the state, the city, gender, race, sexuality, media, and culture.

3 This account will focus on the speakers who tackled neoliberalism more specifically in the United States. A list of the papers mentioned can be found at the end of this review.

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1) The historical framework of the concept

4 Most speakers pointed out the absence of an explicit definition of the concept of neoliberalism by those who use it, including scholars. Jean-François Bissonnette (Université Paris-Nanterre) called “neoliberalism” a “catch-all term” lacking precision while Jacob Hamburger (École Normale Supérieure de Paris) noticed it is often used for everything that has gone wrong under the so-called “Washington Consensus.” When it is defined, often in very vague terms, neoliberalism is most commonly related to the declining role of government in social and economic affairs. Lucie de Carvalho (Université Charles-de-Gaulle Lille 3) and Bradley Smith (Université Paris 8 Vincennes Saint-Denis) laid out the idea that neoliberalism is frequently defined as the antinomy of Keynesianism: whereas the Keynesian model advocates state intervention to “steer” markets in a socially desirable direction, the “neoliberal” model is often defined by its promoters and opponents alike in terms of opposition to state intervention. The traditional historical periodization considers that the Keynesian model dominated Western policymaking between the 1930s and the 1970s, and was followed by a “neoliberal revolution” that has brought about the pre-eminence of the neoliberal model since the late 1970s. As Andrew Diamond (Université Paris-Sorbonne) explained, this outlook prevails among historians and was largely influenced by Marxist geographer and social scientist David Harvey, who views the 1970s and 1980s as the pivotal moment of the neoliberal turn.

5 Neoliberalism, however, cannot be reduced to its opposition to Keynesianism. Jacopo Marchetti (Università di Pisa) identified three different historical phases that shaped the neoliberal philosophy: 1) the Walter Lippmann Colloquium in Paris in 1938, where the term “neoliberalism” was first coined; 2) the formation of the Mont Pélerin Society led by Friedrich Hayek in 1947; 3) the advent of American hegemony in the liberal intellectual community from the 1960s. This third phase entails that the ascendancy of neoliberalism in the United States in the late 1970s and 1980s may not simply be the outcome of the so-called “Reagan revolution”.

6 Diamond aimed precisely at demonstrating that the change actually proceeded step by step. By focusing on urban policy at the local level between the 1920s and the 1980s, he showed that the market logic only gradually penetrated political institutions and the broader political cultures of American cities. This means that neoliberalization should be considered a process that took place over decades rather than a dramatic shift. Similarly, de Carvalho and Smith chose to talk about a “neoliberal turn” rather than a “revolution”. Their point was that, contrary to common assumption, the American and British state apparatuses have not ceased to intervene and “steer the markets” over the past four decades. More specifically Smith convincingly established that through a combination of indirect means such as financial incentives, targeted deregulation and guarantees, the United States government has encouraged investment in such sectors as housing and mortgages. A pointing example is the continuous deregulation of the banking industry between 1980 and 1999 through three pieces of legislation that effectively repealed the Glass-Steagall Act of 1933. This, according to Smith, illustrates what he called “neoliberal interventionism,” which has been constant, though more or less direct, depending on specific political objectives.

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2) A moral framework

7 As much as these neoliberal reforms have been designed to provide a framework for markets, they are not without moral justifications. In this respect, Smith used the example of the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act passed in 1999, which contributed to the repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act at the end of the Clinton era. The rationale was that it was supposed to encourage banks to provide more housing loans to low-income families. This same moral rationale was also used by the George W. Bush administration.

8 In fact, in the last four decades, both Republicans and Democrats have not only accepted, but even made the case for the moral nature of the free market that is at the heart of the neoliberal philosophy. This is particularly visible in presidential rhetoric since Ronald Reagan. Thus, Jérôme Viala-Gaudefroy (Université Sorbonne Nouvelle Paris 3) showed that all post-cold war presidents, with the exception of President Trump, used similar metaphors providing a deterministic economic model that makes free market and free trade the only natural course to follow. He analyzed how, in presidential discourse, the market is presented as a moral agent that is benevolent, omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent, which are all traditional features of the divine. He concluded that Donald Trump’s break from the presidential rhetoric of the last forty years may be seen as a form of heresy that may precisely explain his success.

9 Bissonnette also demonstrated that this “moral economy” has permeated the American society through the development of credit, which is supposed to provide access to middle-class status symbols, such as homeownership and higher education. This echoes what Gabriele Ciampini (Università degli Studi di Firenze) called a “strategy to bring the individual to the market economy model.” Both Bissonette and Ciampini acknowledged the influence of Foucault’s philosophy on their analyses of neoliberalism, particularly his concept of “governmentality” and the idea that political power might encourage individuals to adapt to the discourse of the “entrepreneurial self” and competition.

10 Bissonette focused on the topic of debt and credit in the United States to exemplify the neoliberal turn in public policy that has resulted in turning individuals into economic subjects. Credit has had a strategic value in this process. As a consequence, there has been a growing acceptance of a “payback morality” and self-discipline on the part of those subjects, including systemic surveillance in the form of credit-scoring and transaction-tracking algorithmic technologies. The role of IT in reinforcing neoliberalism has also been argued by David Harvey, as Charles Egert (Télécom École de Management) also noted in his paper. More generally, Bissonette considered that a “culture of indebtedness” has been generated in the last decades, particularly in the major Anglophone countries and primarily in the United States. This culture is attested by other scholarly research showing that risk has shifted from collective and public to individual and private entities. In other words, it is no longer government but private debt that is now supposed to ensure the security and well-being of individuals.

3) An “American” neoliberalism?

11 Ciampini also identified discipline as a major element of neoliberalism’s moral framework that may be more specifically American in its nature. This, he claimed,

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comes with other distinctively American moral assumptions such as a positive view of competition, a spirit of independence, the belief in freedom of initiative, and mistrust of an intrusive central government. For Ciampini, all these elements are not only constitutive of the American cultural identity, but also more specifically of the Southern conservative culture. Drawing on the thought of two influential conservative thinkers, James Buchanan and Russel Kirk, he explained that their opposition to Keynesianism was prompted by a fear of the abandonment of those traditional American values. He emphasized their belief in the moral superiority of small communities as a way to resist state power. His conclusion was that neoliberalism is indeed closely related to a politically conservative view.

12 The word “conservative”, however, can also be a catch-all term that probably needs to be defined. Hamburger made an important distinction within the conservative movement between neoliberals and neoconservatives, even though both have allied to defend the Western model of capitalism within the Republican Party. This distinction lies in the difference in their motivations for the defense of American-style capitalism. His study of Irving Kristol, the “Godfather of Neoconservatives”, illustrates how neo- conservatism is primarily founded on anti-communism and is first and foremost motivated by the defense of political liberalism and liberal democracy. Neoliberal thinkers, on the other hand, such as Milton Friedman, focus almost exclusively on economic liberalism. Hamburger noticed that these two ideologies are often confused as they were brought together in the late 1970s and early1980s, primarily within the Republican Party.

13 Another distinct feature of American neoliberalism, according to Marchetti, is to interpret all human action as economic action, thus endowing economics with a distinct heuristic value from the wider perspective of social sciences. For Marchetti, this particular branch of neoliberalism, which he called “the second generation of neoliberals,” developed first in the United States and was influenced by Milton Friedman and the Chicago School of Economics. They must be differentiated from the early proponents of neoliberalism that began with the Austrian School of Economics such as Friedrich Hayek who connected economic choices with political arguments and social science premises.

14 In addition to this academic approach, a series of speakers also focused on how neoliberalism has resulted in a series of social changes that have fundamentally altered the use of space, particularly in urban areas, as well as artistic expressions since the 1980s. In this regard, Diamond emphasized the important role of urban historians in illuminating the effect of neoliberalism at the local level. More specifically, Marine Dassé (Université Paris-Nanterre) examined the relationship between anti-homeless laws and the neoliberalization of public spaces in Los Angeles. She argued that the city’s attempt to “clean up the street” in Skid Row was part of complex neoliberal politics that started in the 1980s. Her point was that this particular example illustrates a larger phenomenon of trying to make the streets more elitist by blurring the boundaries between public and private, and by restricting their access to such categories of people as artists, non-conformists or the poor. Focusing on territory and the arts, Egert analyzed the struggle between artists in the New York City metropolitan area in the 1980s and what he termed the “controllers of mass media.” He showed how artists defended alternative identities and languages against the growing monopoly

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and control of the mass media, and against the territorial encroachment of neoliberalism in inner cities.

15 Paradoxically, however, mass cultural production can also participate in challenging the neoliberal order when, for instance, the economic crisis becomes its subject matter. Juliette Feyel (Lycée Uruguay-France) and Clémence Fourton (Université de Poitiers) studied the representations and narratives of the 2008 crisis in fictions and documentaries that have been met with commercial or critical success in the US and in the UK. While these cultural productions operate as spaces where narratives of the crisis can emerge, these narratives can be either amplified or silenced. This may take the form of an indictment of neoliberal capitalism, as in the documentary Inside Job (2011), or of a rather didactic stance when discussing the crisis, as in the fictional feature The Big Short (2015). Feyel and Fourton developed a typology of representations of the crisis where the socio-economic can either remain in the background or become a key dramatic element.

CONCLUSION

16 This conference contributed to the advancement of American studies by offering a platform of discussion that delineated the contours of neoliberalism and assessed how neoliberal ideas and policies have developed in the United States in the past four decades. Three points of convergence seem to emerge. First, it appears that beyond the so-called Reagan revolution, the shift towards a neoliberal philosophy has been a long process rooted in conservative movements. It was reinforced and made more visible from the 1980s onward, thanks to political, societal and technological changes, and the increasingly global spread and influence of neoliberal think-tanks and lobbyists. Secondly, one can only conclude from the different panels that, despite what is generally assumed, the government has played an active role both at the local and federal levels in promoting neoliberalism, regardless of party affiliation. Finally, it is clear that this shift was popularized by a moral discourse that made such changes acceptable by the general population. Further analysis of a growing anti-neoliberal sentiment might also be necessary in future discussions.

17 Overall, however, this conference confirmed the richness and variety of the research done in relation to neoliberalism. Notwithstanding this wealth of scholarly analysis, it also highlighted how the academic world remains largely influenced by two traditional critical approaches: a Marxist perspective, illustrated by the work of David Harvey who was often cited in the papers (Egert, Feyel and Fourton, Diamond, Dassé), and a Foucauldian approach through his theory of governmental rationality (Bissonnette, Ciampini). If the academic discussion today continues to be heavily indebted to the legacies of these philosophies, it is certainly because neoliberalism is about the nature of power in modern society and the relationship of individual subjects to this power. These approaches, however, also reflect two contrasted outlooks on power: on the one hand, an emphasis on ideology and a binary class struggle in which power is owned by the dominant class (Marxism) and, on the other hand, a focus on discourse and a more dynamic and positive view of power that can be owned by individuals and does not necessarily flow from top to bottom (Foucault). While these approaches are different, they may also be complementary, as illustrated in urban studies (Diamond). Nonetheless, it might be necessary to widen and renew the scope of academic

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theoretical and methodological approaches in order to adjust to the challenges of understanding such a complex phenomenon and controversial topic as neoliberalism.

List of the papers mentioned:

• Bissonnette, Jean-François, “Credit as Political Technology: Finance and the Production of the Neoliberal Subject” • Ciampini, Gabriele, “The Conservative Neoliberalism of James M. Buchanan and Russell Kirk and the Moral Justification of Economic Austerity” • De Carvalho Lucie, and Smith, Bradley T. “Has the State Stopped Steering Markets? Rethinking Periodization and Neoliberal Interventionism in the United States and the United Kingdom” • Dassé, Marine, “The Broken Window Theory, Anti-homeless Laws and the Neoliberalization of Public Spaces in Los Angeles” • Diamond, Andrew, “Historicizing Neoliberalization at the Grassroots” • Egert, Charles, “Urban Arts in the 1980s: Dreams and Deceptions” • Feyel Juliette, and Fourton, Clémence “Representations of the 2008 Crisis in British and American Films: What Makes a Successful Crisis Narrative?” • Hamburger, Jacob, “Irving Kristol’s Conservative Liberalism: When the Neocons Were Critics of Neoliberalism” • Marchetti, Jacopo, “Birth and Changes of Neoliberal Policies from 1930s to 1980s: In and Out of the ‘Myth’ of Free-Market” • Viala-Gaudefroy, Jérôme, “Mythification of Market-Based Economics through Metaphors in Post-Cold War US Presidential Discourse”

AUTHOR

JÉRÔME VIALA-GAUDEFROY Université Sorbonne Nouvelle Paris 3

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Mother Figures and Representations of Motherhood: Contemporary Perspectives / Représentations et figures de la maternité aujourd’hui Université François-Rabelais, Tours, 3rd-5th April 2017

Jessica Houlihan

1 Throughout the history of English-speaking societies, mothers have occupied a contradictory space in political and popular culture. Often regarded as the pinnacle of “correct” womanhood, motherhood broaches a complex dialectic between gender politics and personal autonomy. As a subject and thematic concern, motherhood must therefore be approached by scholars as an institution, an ideology and as lived experience. The “Mother Figures and Representations of Motherhood in English- speaking Societies” conference, hosted by the Université François Rabelais and organised by Professor Fabienne Portier-Le Cocq and Dr Cécile Coquet-Mokoko, offered a range of innovative and interdisciplinary perspectives on motherhood. Representations and accounts of mothering were considered in relation to race, gender, class, sexuality and religion, and the role of the mother contextualised and politicised in terms of social policy and reproductive rights. While varied in nature and capacious in their scope, a salient theme among all papers was motherhood as a site of conflict between disempowerment and agency.

Day One: Monday 3rd April

2 Professor Martine Sagaert’s (Université de Toulon) keynote address, “Procréation et création, de Simone de Beauvoir à Marie Darrieussecq” was a fitting opening to the conference. Drawing on Simone de Beauvoir’s seminal text The Second Sex (1949), Sagaert discussed the “constructedness of womanhood” and the central issues that mothers continue to face nearly 70 years after Beauvoir’s work first appeared. Her

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paper elucidated Beauvoir’s claims that pregnancy and motherhood are experienced differently depending on whether they take place in rebellion, resignation, satisfaction or enthusiasm. She also broached the paradoxes of the pregnant body, whereby a woman can feel both fuller and maimed, that she possesses and is possessed by her child. Sagaert’s paper also introduced contextual comparisons between the women’s liberation movements that mobilised in the US and in France, exploring the impact such movements had on the social, political and economic conditions of motherhood.

1. “Representations of Motherhood”

3 The first two panels of the day addressed representations of motherhood in literary, film and media cultures. Ilana Larkin’s “The Emotional Life of Food: Mothering, Eating and National Identity” (PhD Candidate, Northwestern, USA) held a contemporary interest, focusing on popular food blogger and self-fashioned “Pioneer Woman” Ree Drummond.1 Larkin explored how this mother’s seemingly innocuous blog promoting “simple country living” is heavily underscored by considerations of national identity, race, class and nostalgia. Larkin claimed that food is saturated with continually changing cultural meaning, and food preparation itself an inherently political ideology in which certain erasures are enacted in the wider narrative of the American kitchen. Dr Anne-Lise Marin-Lamellet’s (Université Jean-Monnet, Saint-Etienne) paper then took us across the Atlantic, away from the middle-class American blogosphere, to examine “The Mother and the Whore: Working Class Motherhood in British Cinema (1956-2016).” Marin-Lamellet highlighted the matrilocality of working-class households in British film, and a recurrent binary opposition between working-class mothers’ “warmth” and middle-class mothers’ “coldness.” This paper was complemented by Kira Hussing’s “Maternal Conflict in Contemporary Irish Film” (PhD Candidate, Maynooth University, Ireland). With her analysis of Glassland (2014) and Mammal (2016), Hussing utilised E. Ann Kaplan’s categories of “bad mother” to assess the religiously informed relationship between “mothering and morality” in contemporary Irish cinema, while insisting that the films offer a more nuanced view of motherhood than the categories imply. In keeping with the theme of the “bad mother,” Emma Heishman’s, “Motherlove was a Killer: Representations of Black Motherhood in the Media” (PhD Candidate, Aix-Marseille Université) introduced considerations of race and violence. Heishman posited that, while motherhood is traditionally framed as antithetical to violence, African American mothers have frequently been excluded from this non-violent ideal. She argues that black female characters on screen are often reformulations of the “mammy,” “jezebel,” “matriarch” or “welfare mother” image, reinforcing pejorative stereotypes of the “black mother as bad mother.” Heishman draws attention to the highly praised Precious (2009) and Moonlight (2016) which, despite their critical success, continue to reinforce these types.

4 The second panel of the day continued the focus on representations of motherhood, beginning with Dr Anne Sweet Fédé’s “When an ‘Action Chick’ Gets Knocked Up: Pregnancy, Motherhood and Televised Action Heroine” (Ponts et Chaussées). Despite the rise of “Girl Power” as a commercial phenomenon in the 1990s and 2000s, and the emergence of characters who married sexual attractiveness with heroism, Fédé argued that their empowerment as women often found itself at odds with their disempowerment as mothers. Her analysis identified four distinct tropes among her chosen texts: motherhood as the loss of mastery over one’s own body; childbirth as

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horrific; mother’s giving birth to supernatural or alien babies; and mothers being either poorly portrayed or dead. She also noted that, while these shows did not shy from a more realistic portrayal of the symptoms of pregnancy, this was often used for comic effect. Dr Charles Joseph’s “Super-Moms: Mothers and Motherhood in American Comic Book Culture” (Université Rennes 2) addressed similar themes of motherhood and heroism. Like Fédé, Joseph identified four defining tropes in the representation of mothers in comic book culture: mother gives up child; mother gives up career (he notes there is no equivalent of this for father superheroes); mother repeatedly puts child at risk; mothers cast as purely monstrous, evil, neglectful or absent. A fundamental question emerged from Joseph’s work, one central to wider scholarship on “the maternal”: do we trivialise motherhood if it is not presented as a giant cosmological change for a woman, or does it allow her to be an individual first, and not a mom? With “Postcolonial Economics and Motherhood from Emecheta and Adichie,” Professor Laurie Edson (San Diego State University, USA) shifted our focus to the portrayal of motherhood in Nigerian literature. Centring her work on Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus (2003) and Buchi Emecheta’s The Joys of Motherhood (1979), Edson identified the mother as a nexus between the private violence of the domestic space and the public violence of the post-colonial state.

2. Mothers’ Unseen Economic and Cultural Transmission

5 Continuing with the topic of economics, Dr Coralie Raffenne ( Université Paris- Dauphine) delivered a paper on “Feminist Economics and the Deconstruction of Mothers’ Soluble Self.” She demonstrated the ways in which prevalent economic models are sustained by a dichotomy between (male) productive labour and (female) reproductive labour. Raffenne suggested that this paradigm promotes the “Rational Economic Man,” able to detach “self” from the market, and the “Mother” who exists as a soluble self. According to Raffenne, it is the objective of feminist economics to fashion alternative methodologies in order to overcome the patriarchal bias of these neoclassical models. Kasia Choluj’s “Reinventing Mother Pole / Matka Polka through Home-making and Parenting Practices in the New Polish Diaspora in Britain” (PhD Candidate, University of Kent, UK) took us from discussions of economic transmission to cultural transition. Choluj introduced us to the symbolic “Mother Pole,” a cultural script configuring Polish mothers into moral guardians of Polish nationhood and Catholic faith. Toni McCallum’s case study “Intersectionality in Race, Class, Gender: Co-Mothering in Logan, Australia” (PhD Candidate, University of Newcastle, Australia) held a number of distinct parallels with work on co-mothering practices in African American communities, in particular Carol B. Stack’s 1974 ethnographic study All Our Kin and Patricia Hill Collins’ seminal Black Feminist Thought [1990]. McCallum’s research found that community mothering was prevalent in black, minority and working-class families, and served as a strong counter to the white, middle-class model of intensive mothering. McCallum suggested that othermothering in these communities functions as a form of social citizenship and that, for most mothers, work is an extension of their mothering, not the antithesis to it.

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Day 2: Tuesday 4th April

3. Biopolitics/Biosocial: Rethinking Motherhood

6 Day two of the conference began with the second keynote address, delivered by Professor Val Gillies (University of Westminster, UK) and Professor Rosalind Edwards (University of Southampton, UK). In “(M)othering and the Politics of Early Intervention: Biologisation and the Reproduction of Gendered, Classed and Raced Inequalities,” Gillies and Edwards discussed the policy of early intervention in child development, arguing that this strategy—while ostensibly positive—contains an inherent neuro-sexism. They suggested that concepts of early intervention manipulate tenets of brain science into a new mechanism for “mother blaming,” holding them responsible for a child’s ills and pathologies. Gillies and Edwards claim that while grounded in scientific principles, the theoretical applications of early intervention are largely based on myth. Their research also highlighted that early intervention is based on a white, middle class, Eurocentric model of motherhood, which ignores alternative cultural values and care-giving practices, even highlighting some as a potential “risk” to children. From neuroscience to maternal care, Cigala Peirano’s paper then addressed the “Medicalisation of Maternity in Brazil and Chile” (Master's degree, Université Paris 8/UFSC Brazil). Peirano argued that maternity began to be conceptualised as a medical issue in Chile and Brazil during the early 20th century, coinciding with the emergence of the nation-state and increased urban development. In turn, “transgressive” practices, families and sexualities began to be policed by the state, an initiative that was both hygienist and eugenicist in nature. In “Beyond Public Health: How Mothers in Quebec relate to Breast Feeding,” Annick Vallières (PhD Candidate, Université de Montréal, Canada) explored the axiom of “breast is best” as a combination of medical science and moral injunction. Her case studies problematised both medical and cultural narratives of “correct” breast feeding practices, and interrogated the ways in which the positioning of women on axis of social oppression affects breast feeding attitudes.

4. Unsettling Mother Figures and Unsettling Rhetoric

7 In the first of this panel of papers, Dr Rachel Jarvie (University of Exeter, UK) discussed “Renewed Older Motherhood: A Qualitative Exploration.” Her case studies consisted of nine narrative interviews with British women, all of whom had given birth over the age of 35 and had at least a ten-year age gap between their children. All subjects had experienced negative criticism from friends and strangers, which Jarvis linked with media narratives and attitudes within the medical profession. With age a multifarious source of stigma for many mothers, Sarah Bekaert (PhD Candidate, City University, UK) addressed the socio-political responses to teenage pregnancy in Britain. In “Why Do I Always Become Pregnant when I’m on the Pill? Legitimizing Narratives, Contemporary Expectations, Silencing Teen Mothers,” Bekaert explored the impetus of the Teenage Pregnancy Strategy 1997, an initiative that was slightly devolved following a change of government in 2010. She explained how these social policies, and the rhetoric surrounding them, often silence and disempower the voices of teenage mothers themselves. Joelle Bradley’s “Alternative Narratives of Teenage Motherhood” addressed similar themes, this time from the perspective of a UK Activist. She

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described how teen parenthood is frequently associated with poor health, lower education and fewer economic opportunities, with emerging studies on the positive experiences and benefits of young motherhood largely ignored by policy makers. But Bradley’s work also highlighted the emergence of alternative spaces for these affirming narratives on social media. In “Mother Figures Behind Bars: Pregnant Women in English Prisons,” Dr Katherine Albertson (et al.) (Sheffield Hallam University, UK) discussed the “double deviancy” of mothers in prison. With women in prison “bad mothers” by definition, Albertson’s research explored this in relation to the competing discourses around the “correct nurturing environment” for child development, and the dominant idea that a mother and child should not be separated.

5. Rights and Issues / Rights and Ethics

8 Dr Eva-Sabine Zehelein’s “‘Her Uterus, My Baby’: Gestational Surrogacy and Reconceptualisations of Motherhood” (Goethe Universität, Frankfurt, Germany) examined the Intended Parent memoirs of U.S. women who had received a child through surrogacy. Zehelein explained how surrogacy, while against normative institutional understandings of motherhood, serves as a form of agency for women who can’t conceive, and a means of circumventing biological restriction. Zehelein’s study drew attention to the class disparity between the biological and surrogate mothers, with surrogacy itself in many ways a commercial enterprise. She also highlighted the discourses of incomplete motherhood for both women; a biological mother who did not give birth and a surrogate mother who cannot fulfil a maternal obligation. This was followed by a paper from Dr Florence Binard (Université Paris-Diderot) on “Lesbian Motherhood: Lesby-boom, Comparison between Britain and France.” Binard’s work addressed the socio-historical trajectory of rights for lesbian mothers, and identified the decriminalisation of homosexuality, introduction of more progressive abortion laws and increased access to contraception as key factors affecting the “lesby-boom”; if heterosexual women could choose not to have children, by extension lesbians could choose to have them. Dr Anthony Castet’s “Lesbian Mothers and Citizens: The Morality Test at the Supreme Court of the United States” (Université François-Rabelais, Tours) then approached the rights of lesbian mothers in relation to the federal judicial system. With same-sex marriage a key tenet of the American “culture wars,” Castet explored how this paradigm catalysed traditional moral discourses whilst also providing a platform for lesbian mothers. Drawing on the precedents set by DeBoer v. Snyder (2012) and Obergefell v. Kasich (2015) Castet argued that the democratisation of the matrimonial institution is only the first step in establishing equality for lesbian mothers. In a shift from the legal to the literary arena, Dr Sophie Large (Université François-Rabelais, Tours) then discussed “Atypical Mothers in the Novels of Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro.” Large claimed that this Puerto-Rican author’s novels offer non- hegemonic representations of motherhood in the form of lesbian, lone, plural mothers, and in doing so present a critique of mono-maternalism as an ideological doctrine at the intersection of patriarchy, heteronormativity, capitalism and Eurocentrism. She cites motherhood in these novels as a locus of conflict, power relations and frustration, and a not always positively represented experience. Large suggests that the narratives are, to an extent, reliant on patriarchal models and heteronormative clichés, and claims that these models are rooted in internalised heterosexist thought-patterns with both colonial and class dimensions. She identified the boom of evangelical churches in

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Latin America and the Caribbean as a significant influence on these patterns and trends.

Day three: Wednesday 5th April

6. Religious Traditions and Constructions of Motherhood/Maternity

9 Continuing the focus on religion, the final panel began with “On the Wet of the Womb: Constructions of Mothers in Anti-abortion Action in the UK.” Here, Dr Pam Lowe and Dr Sarah Jane Page (Aston University, UK) explained that, despite high support for abortion in the UK, there has been a significant rise in anti-abortion activism outside clinics, a phenomenon derived from similar practices in the United States. Their ethnographic project consisted of observations and interviews, and found that most activists were Catholic. Cognisant of the fact that religious discourses were unlikely to be effective in the secular climate of the UK, these participants often employed biologically-based arguments in their literature that personified the foetus. They found that the mothers themselves, however, were often the main focus of the campaigns, which sought to “reawaken” a supposed latent maternal instinct and convince them that abortion would violate something basic in their nature. In “That Motherhood Fails to Be Adequately Supported by the State Exemplifies the Lack of Social Services–and Benefits–in the Republic of Ireland,” Professor Philippe Brillet (Université François- Rabelais, Tours) assessed the reasons for motherhood remaining a “low-key issue” within the Irish political space. He suggested that, with the pre-eminence of the Catholic faith, reproductive rights continue to dominate political discourse, while poverty, housing and lack of social services continually fail to be addressed as “family issues.” The conference closed with a paper from Dr Élisabeth Bouzonviller (Université Jean-Monnet, Saint-Etienne) on “Female ‘Transformational Energy’ in Louise Erdrich’s Works.” Here Bouzonviller addressed motherhood in Native American literature, and in particular the impact of colonisation and Christianisation. She argued that the novels and autobiographies of Louise Erdrich offer a counter to WASP models of mothering, instead focusing on female power and mothers as agents of transmission, resilience and healing. In doing so, Bouzonviller suggests, Erdrich is not only presenting an alternative to white Eurocentric models of motherhood, but these maternity patterns also offer an alternative narrative of American history and society.

NOTES

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AUTHOR

JESSICA HOULIHAN University of Essex

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International Conference, “Women and Popular Culture(s) in the Anglophone Worlds: 1945-2015” Université de La Rochelle, May 4-5, 2017

Danièle André

1 This first edition of the International Conference on “Women and Popular Culture(s) in the Anglophone Worlds” organized by Elodie Chazalon, under the aegis of the research unit CRHIA (Centre de Recherche en Histoire Internationale et Atlantique) at the University of La Rochelle, examined through popular culture whether women, over the past 70 years, have achieved equality and fairness of treatment, managed to invest sectors they were previously barred from, and invented specific spaces. The conference offered a wide panel of representations and of formats that expressed the need for a reassertion of feminist politics and fights.

Kim Akass (University of Hertfordshire, UK), “Motherhood, Maternal Representation and Popular Culture”

2 In her paper, Kim Akass shows how, even at the beginning of the 21st century, women are linked to biology and reproduction, which is well exemplified in the three HBO series Sex and the City, The Sopranos and Game of Thrones. The latter has been criticized for its depiction of women, mainly used for their reproductive capacities even though they manage to gain power. But the fantasy world and medieval background it depicts can explain these archetypes. That is not the case for The Sopranos, whose setting is contemporary and in which mothering is a cause of discrimination against women. Women live in a patriarchal society where they are used as commodities and reproductive partners. By contrast, Sex and the City shows motherhood through the eyes of women and nothing much has changed since it was first aired: women, when they have children, still have to face workplace discrimination and cultural pressure to

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stay at home. Strangely enough, it seems that the representation of womanhood has gone from a high point with Sex and the City to a low point with Westworld. Hence, until women are represented equally and fairly, womanhood will never escape the patriarchal institution of motherhood.

Rim Latrache (Université Paris 13, France), “The Representation of Arab/Muslim Women in American Popular Culture: Stereotypes and Reality”

3 Rim Latrache explains how the immigration of Arab/Muslim people changed over time for geopolitical reasons, and also because the immigrants’ gender, religious, and social backgrounds have changed. Most Arab/Muslim women lived in traditional families, but when they arrived in the USA, they were prepared to assume an active economic role. The representation of Arabs and Muslims in popular culture have long been stereotypical, but they changed with World War II, the American policy in the Middle East, and 9/11. The Arab/Muslim population has mainly been described as monolithic despite its diversity, and the Second World War and recent terrorist attacks have led to a backlash against them in the USA and to a shift in their representation – from a monolithically stereotypical exoticism to the no less stereotypical image of terrorism. Thus, prejudices still prevail although there were and have been independent and active Arab women in the USA.

Emma Heishman (Aix-Marseille Université, France), “She Ain’t No Lady: Women and Blaxploitation”

4 For a long time, Black women have been excluded from the movies, have been deprived of non-stereotypical roles, and so have been defined by others. In the 1970s, a new genre was born in the wake of the civil rights movement: Blaxploitation. It was independent, marketed for a Black audience with a low budget, and it rested on the overwhelming presence of black actors and actresses. However, in Blaxploitation films, the very stereotypes that were to be mocked were often unintentionally reinforced. Women were aware of the stereotypes they were embodying, but they did it all the same in order to fracture the white monopoly on the movie industry. And indeed, Blaxploitation women continue to influence popular culture (with directors such as Quentin Tarantino).

Corentin Fricard (Université de Limoges, France), “Unbinding Gender and Sexuality in Ryan Murphy’s Asylum”

5 Corentin Fricard demonstrates how Ryan Murphy, the creator and producer of the TV series American Horror Story: Asylum, gives his audience food for thought about current social issues. By addressing the 1960s, Murphy highlights the ostracism and violence women were and are still the victims of. What happens in the past to the non- normative and extra-normative women in the show warns today’s audience of the

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threat certain currently pending legislations would represent if they were to be passed. Although set in the past, the series thus shows how the same fights and discussions have to be repeated; it also presents different family models and norms. This show may be seen as a feminist tale encouraging women and queer families to fight for their rights.

Elisabeth Lechner (Universität Wien, Autriche), “Against the Silencing Politics or TMI or Creating Spaces for ‘Disgusting’ Female Bodies in Popular Culture”

6 Elisabeth Lechner’s presentation focuses on female artists who resist against the normativity imposed on female bodies, taking as a case study Lena Dunham. This artist (who is an actress, a writer, a producer, a director, and a feminist) tries to promote the visibility of “non-normative” female bodies, to make the entertainment industry more feminine and to promote feminist ideas through her works. However, she has also been criticized for the lack of racial diversity in Girls, the TV show she has written, and for its lack of understanding of intersectional feminism. She is also described as a cunning marketing strategist who uses the fight against normativity for her own benefit. By giving the examples of other artists, Elizabeth Lechner also shows how their works’ success depends on their use of atypical female bodies (old, wrinkled, fat etc.) to trigger disgust. By siding with what is deemed disgusting, they subvert pop feminist culture.

Hélène Tison (Université de Tours, France), “Female Strippers! Women Cartoonists in the US”

7 Hélène Tison explains how at the turn of the 20th century, many of the few female cartoonists were early feminists. The genre evolved up until the 1950s and the recession that hit the industry. For example, the publishing house DC comics survived and focused on super heroes, while feminist comics lost ground. However, there was a new change in the 1970s when the female cartoonists’ need for freedom and emancipation combined with frustration: they launched their own magazine in order to have their work published. The first women’s comics magazine was called It Ain’t Me Babe. Feminism was a central concern, and the cartoonists dealt with social emancipation, social justice, and race issues. They fought for the control of their own bodies, criticized fashion for being detrimental to female bodies, and depicted beauty standards as either a mask or a weapon.

Sandrine Galand (Université du Québec à Montréal, Canada), “Artists under Free Fall: Profaning in North- American Popular Feminism”

8 For Sandrine Galand feminism is back and the word itself is fetishized in contemporary discourse. In fact, feminism plays an important part in the current collective imagination, but it has been taken over by, and has adapted to, the consumer society

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and has broken free from traditional thought. In feminism, the core question is the self and the representation of the self. In “popular feminism,” women speak in the first person and use their bodies in their creations and shows. Bodies are neither fetishized nor idealized, they are shown in their crudity to be desecrated. Some artists profane their own bodies to legitimize female bodies, to give them freedom and complexity, and to win the right to irreverence. Hence, “popular feminism” may question a structure that is mainly masculine and that tries to domesticate it.

Christian Chelebourg (Université de Lorraine, France), “Would You Like Some More Princesses? Socializing Disney Icons (1999-2017)”

9 In 1999, Disney launched the Princess line. Disney set up a gender-oriented market, and Christian Chelebourg has identified several golden rules Disney follows to create its new princesses. For him, the young girl turns into a princess after a slight conflict that represents an estrangement from second-wave feminism and from previous generations of women. In such stories, emancipation can only be achieved by going back to the origins, so the past is erased, the princess is connected to women of the pre-1970s generation, and her quest is for a happy future. Thus, these princesses take charge of their people’s destiny, which seems to be feminist since it is to the benefits of a pleasure-dominated female order. This pleasure revolution leads the princess to go and seek in the past the wished-for optimism. The message is for little girls to retrieve the sense of wonder to bring back hope in a world stricken by post-modernity.

Janet McCabe (Birkbeck, University of London, UK), “Disconnected Heroines, Global Femininities: Bron/ Broen (The Bridge) and Future Directions for Feminist TV Studies”

10 Janet McCabe asserts that it is time to put politics back in feminism and to give the audience a history of race and gender. Nowadays, fighting for women’s rights is perceived as reactionary and so the only way to permanently achieve those rights is to move beyond the notion of gender. She then focuses on the Danish and Swedish show Bron/Broen (The Bridge, 2012) that addresses the issue of female bodies and the diversity of feminist discourses. However, what is striking in the show is how badly protected by the law women are, even in the presence of female police officers. The other element to be underlined is women’s representation and place in the workplace: equality is far from achieved as there is no political talk about it and all the female police officers have difficulties to make themselves heard. What is underlined, McCabe concludes, is that being a woman is in itself the core incapacity. But these representations prevail because they belong to media flows that shape the audience’s vision of society.

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Laurence Gervais (Université Paris-Nanterre, France), “Women and Space in the Neoliberal American City: Using and Manipulating Gender Stereotypes and Representations in the Building of New Spaces”

11 For Laurence Gervais, since the 1970s and the theories developed by Foucault, space has been found to be not only determined by materiality, but also the product of social practices and power relations. It enhances multiple differences and how cities are divided. Chicago is the field of this research: the new spaces created by the privatization of the city must be approached as new geographical areas with new symbolic relations. In these new spaces, class, gender and race interact, but spaces created for women only reflect the gender construction and the normative gender roles that prevail in society. Thus, urban spaces can reproduce gendered stereotypes and in turn help convey them. There is a need to re-problematize public and private spheres.

Aurélia Michaud-Trévinal (Université de La Rochelle, France), “Ideology of Consumption and Imageries of Women in US Series: A Semiotic Analysis of Desperate Housewives, Sex & the city, Gossip Girl and The Carrie Diaries”

12 Aurélia Michaud-Trévinal explains that consumers are constantly surrounded by codes and imageries, and that TV series are vehicles of ideologies that are self-replicating views of power and of inclusion and exclusion. Moreover, almost no research has combined semiotic and consumption-based approaches and it is necessary to focus on the ideology of consumerism. Michaud-Trévinal shows how women in these shows appear subversive because they are different, but in fact they are just as passive as in the traditional model of consumption. Even though shopping may seem like a form of protest, in fact they have integrated the hysteria of consumption and are not critical of it, especially since the shopping environment they seek to appropriate has been created by men for women.

Emmanuelle Delanoë-Brun (Université Paris-Diderot, France), “From Cagney and Lacey to Rizzoli and Isles: Is There such a Thing as a Feminist Cop Show?”

13 Since the 1980s most cop shows have featured females, and Emmanuelle Delanoë-Brun wonders whether these series really challenge cultural and gender stereotypes, and whether women’s profane – as opposed to men’s all but sacred – leadership has been recognized. To do so she focuses on Cagney and Lacey, and on Rizzoli and Isles to see what degree of feminism is promoted. Cagney and Lacey was explicitly intended to carry a feminist agenda, and so this 1980s show focuses on females who are cops and not the reverse. It refuses gender stereotypes and, by dealing with female issues, also publicizes the agenda of organizations and associations supporting women. Three decades later,

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Rizzoli and Isles has a similar approach, but does not tackle any political and social issues; instead, the show suggests that the fight against sexism has been won and that what matters is finding the right mate. Even if the show is aimed at women, it seeks to attract the male gaze and relies on a marketing strategy that somehow participates in, and glamorizes, violence against women.

Noémie Moutel (Université de Caen Normandie, France), “Ecofeminism and Eco-psychology: Counter- cultural Proposals toward a Grassroots Future”

14 Noémie Moutel first clarifies the notion of pop culture by using Theodore Roszak’s definition, according to which it can be understood as a breakthrough and a novelty. This definition is relevant to observe the legitimacy and legacy of counter-cultural feminism and ecology. Like the historian of counterculture Roszak, Starhawk – a California-based ecofeminist and pagan writer – aims to bridge the gap between academic research and popular culture. Roszak insisted on science and psychology, and criticized technocracy and society. Strahawk adopted a more alternative lifestyle by being an activist involved in nonviolent actions who favored ecofeminism, mysticism and nature. However, both chose to make their research available to the public. They tried to have ecopsychology and ecofeminism converge to underline the pain humans feel because of the troubled relation they have with the planet they inhabit.

Alice Morin (Université Sorbonne Nouvelle Paris 3, France), “Women’s Representations in Fashion Magazines at the Turning Point of the 1970s: the Production and Reception of Stereotypes”

15 According to Alice Morin, fashion magazines are spaces of negotiations insofar as they are part of women’s daily lives and modes of production. Until the 1950s, these magazines targeted an elite audience, but in the second half of the 1960s, with the feminist second wave, they were accused of participating in the patriarchal system of oppression. The critique was twofold since they were said to ascribe stereotypical roles to women and to legitimize these roles through the repetition of these role models. The 1970s were a good time for the magazines because it was an in-between era when Americanness served as a unifying element. And so, between 1967 and 1979, the discourse on femininity in these magazines went through three stages, from insolence, to natural beauty, to escapism. Nowadays, while these magazines are not monolithic, they have a hard time trying to avoid stereotypes since it means targeting a narrower audience and not depending on advertisement.

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Andrei Illi Popescu (Université de Strasbourg, France), “Forever the Woman to Beat: Margaret Thatcher, Political Strong(wo)man and Demise Representations/ Narratives”

16 Andrei Popescu’s paper tackles the evolution of the representations of Margaret Thatcher in popular culture. She has been rather prominent because she was a multifaceted person who embodied both the masculine and the feminine, and who was both a strong woman and a warrior queen. She started to become unpopular after her third victory. She is associated with evil figures and is often described and represented as a dictator or a tyrant even though literally she was not. But rather than seeking to establish the historical truth, Popescu focused on popular perceptions of the facts and argued that many Thatcher survivors feel the need to have Thatcher and Thatcherism buried.

Stéphanie Mercier (Université de Poitiers, France), “Representing Early Modern Women through Modern Popular Culture”

17 Stéphanie Mercier focuses on Shakespeare’s plays and on the devices used to adapt them to the modern television gaze. Even in 21st century TV productions, the interpretation of Shakespeare’s plays is still male-dominated and conveys a patriarchal point of view. Thus, even the adaptations of plays that should give preeminence to women mainly focus on male-dominated situations and issues. However, these adaptations are multifaceted rewritings intended to explain the original text for a contemporary audience.

Cristina Diamant (Universitatea Babeș-Bolyai, Roumanie), “Dolorous Lilith, Lolita, on Page, Screen, and in Graphic Novels”

18 Cristina Diamant begins with a reminder that Nabokov’s Lolita was published more than a century ago and that the word “Lolita” has since become a common noun. Lolitas have proliferated in popular culture even though these representations do not correspond to the boyish girl the original was supposed to be in the novel. It is problematic that these representations sexualize a child and that they are conveyed not only by men, but also by women. This has entailed a Lolita complex in the US, where the image of the Lolita verges on the illegal and the immoral. There are no such negative connotations in Japan, where the Japanese have two words to describe Lolitas, one for the specific esthetic of the Lolita and the other the fantasies of young girls with which men engage; indeed, for the Japanese, only actual sex is about sexuality, whereas everything else is about fiction.

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AUTHOR

DANIÈLE ANDRÉ Université de La Rochelle

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Deuxièmes rencontres annuelles du réseau Études Urbaines Nord- Américaines (EUNA) Université Paris-Nanterre, 8-9 juin 2017

Camille Vergnaud

Enjeux et objectifs de la journée d’étude

1 Les deuxièmes rencontres annuelles du réseau Études Urbaines Nord-Américaines (EUNA) qui ont eu lieu les 8 et 9 juin 2017 à l’Université Paris-Nanterre s’inscrivent dans la continuité des premières rencontres du 4 mai 2016 ayant donné lieu à la naissance du réseau EUNA. Elles poursuivent la visée initiale du réseau autour de quatre objectifs, annoncés dans l’appel à communication et rappelés en introduction par Pascale Nédélec (ENS Paris) : • faire un état des lieux des études urbaines menées par des chercheurs francophones de toutes disciplines sur les villes nord-américaines et mettre en lumière la spécificité de l’approche francophone par rapport aux recherches nord-américaines ; • offrir un espace d’échange à des doctorants, jeunes chercheurs et chercheurs plus confirmés, habituellement dispersés dans diverses institutions de recherche sur tout le territoire français (voire européen), pour confronter et discuter les approches méthodologiques, les perspectives théoriques et des résultats des recherches ; • faciliter la constitution de futures collaborations qui pourront se matérialiser dans des publications ou dans des programmes de recherche collectifs ; • faciliter la diffusion et la visibilité des travaux des chercheurs francophones dans la communauté scientifique internationale.

2 Cette deuxième rencontre de juin 2017 a approfondi la démarche d’interconnaissance et de construction collective initiée en 2016, avec dix-neuf communications présentées à partir d’une quarantaine de réponses à l’appel à communication, réunissant une cinquantaine de personnes sur la journée. Elle a également consolidé l’approche pluridisciplinaire (géographie et urbanisme, mais aussi histoire, sociologie et

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civilisation des pays anglophones), et renforcé la dimension nationale et internationale des échanges avec des intervenants franciliens, grenoblois, états-uniens, québécois et belge.

3 Le format de la journée, présenté par Sonia Lehman-Frisch (Université Paris-Nanterre), s’organise en deux temps : la matinée est consacrée à la présentation rapide de travaux de recherche par grandes thématiques, suivant le modèle de la première journée d’étude ; tandis qu’un nouveau format est proposé lors de l’après-midi coordonnée par Laurence Gervais (Université Paris-Nanterre), avec des communications plus longues portant sur la question des « Inégalités dans les villes nord-américaines ».

Première partie : « Présentation des travaux de recherche »

Session 1 : « Pratiques touristiques et commerciales »

4 La matinée commence avec une session portant sur les « Pratiques touristiques et commerciales » et regroupant trois communications. La première intervention (Nathalie Lemarchand, Université Paris 8) propose d’enrichir une vision aménagiste et fonctionnelle du commerce de détail par une approche culturelle. À partir de terrains en France, en Russie et au Canada, les espaces marchands – comme les marchés, les centres commerciaux – sont alors étudiés à travers leur fonction structurante de la ville, mais aussi et surtout comme lieux de transaction identitaire et culturelle.

5 Les deux autres communications insistent davantage sur la dimension touristique, en lien avec les fonctions commerciales. Dans sa communication intitulée « Enjeux urbains de la valorisation touristique des espaces en friche : comparaison Detroit/Berlin », Aude Le Gallou (Université Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne) présente sa recherche doctorale. À partir d’un champ théorique croisant géographie urbaine, géographie du tourisme et géographie culturelle, elle propose d’étudier des pratiques d’exploration urbaine dans leur évolution d’une subculture anti-touristique à une possible forme de ruin tourism, en intégrant une réflexion sur les formes de normalisation et de commercialisation d’expériences initialement en marge de la légalité (exploration ou squat d’espaces infrastructurels comme les tunnels de métro, ou d’espaces abandonnés comme des ruines industrielles). Une attention particulière est également portée à la question du rôle des imaginaires pour comprendre le processus de revalorisation touristique de ces friches urbaines.

6 Les rapports entre tourisme et commercialisation sont au cœur de la troisième intervention intitulée « Les recompositions touristiques à Las Vegas : diversification, casinos et espaces publics ». Dans la continuité de ses travaux de thèse, la présentation de Pascale Nédélec porte sur la construction normative de la production urbaine à Las Vegas, en particulier la fabrique des espaces touristiques qu’elle qualifie d’enclaves dans la ville. En effet, l’apparition et la diffusion d’espaces publics ouverts (rue piétonne, tables en libre accès) sur le Strip (principale artère commerciale et touristique de Las Vegas) marque un renouveau de ces espaces par une diversification de l’offre, et par une inversion des modèles de valorisation commerciale touristique traditionnellement fondés sur la fermeture et la séparation. Mais cette recomposition s’inscrit au final dans un processus de privatisation de l’espace public et de

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dérégulation de la fabrique urbaine, les promoteurs renforçant la logique néolibérale de la production de l’offre touristique à Las Vegas.

7 Ces trois présentations, par leur analyse des relations entre pratiques touristiques et commerciales, ont permis de croiser les approches et les terrains d’étude sur plusieurs thématiques, notamment : le statut et l’appropriation de l’espace, les rapports entre public et privé, légal et illégal, les processus de normalisation des pratiques ; mais aussi la place des espaces marchands et touristiques dans le marketing urbain, avec une insistance sur la valorisation de l’espace public dans la fabrique de la ville par les acteurs tant publics que privés (dans les centres commerciaux au Canada comme les casinos à Las Vegas) ; et enfin les pratiques et représentations des habitants et usagers de ces espaces, y compris le rôle des images et des imaginaires.

Session 2 : « Espaces communs matériels et immatériels »

8 La deuxième session de la journée d’étude réunit quatre présentations variées thématiquement et disciplinairement autour de la question des « Espaces communs matériels et immatériels ».

9 Elsa Devienne (Université Paris-Nanterre) présente une partie de sa thèse, consacrée à l’histoire sociale et environnementale du littoral de Los Angeles au XXe siècle. Son intervention analyse l’évolution des représentations et des politiques d’aménagement des plages de la ville, en particulier dans les années 1920-1930. Au cours de cette période, Los Angeles devient un lieu d’expérimentation et de réflexion sur la modernisation des littoraux aux États-Unis, et cristallise des débats entre acteurs publics et privés de l’aménagement. Une attention particulière est donnée aux questions des normes, de l’accessibilité et de la ségrégation sociale et raciale de ces plages, vastes espaces publics devenus iconiques de la ville de Los Angeles.

10 L’intervention de Stéphane Tonnelat (CNRS, CIRHUS/LAVUE), architecte et sociologue urbain, s’appuie sur une ethnographie de la ligne 7 du métro de New York présentée dans un ouvrage paru en 2017 et dirigé avec William Kornblum, International Express : New Yorkers on the 7 Train (New York, Columbia University Press). Reliant Times Square à Main Street (Queens) avant son prolongement, cette ligne de métro est considérée comme un archétype du multiculturalisme états-unien. En 1999, elle a été classée au registre des « sentiers historiques nationaux » par la Maison Blanche pour son importance dans l’histoire de l’immigration aux États-Unis. Un extrait vidéo issu du projet de recherche présente un itinéraire commenté par l’un des habitants de Main Street, depuis le quartier jusque dans une rame de la ligne 7 en passant par une des stations de métro. La présentation de Stéphane Tonnelat ouvre des réflexions sur le partage de l’espace public, sur les représentations et compétences des usagers dans un « contexte d’hyper diversité », et sur les méthodes d’enquête ethnographique.

11 C’est ensuite une doctorante en sociologie, Yannicke De Stexhe (Université Catholique de Louvain) qui aborde « les mécanismes d’effacement et de reconnaissance révélés par et présents au sein des Black Lives Matter ». À partir d’un cadre théorique ancré dans la sociologie pragmatique, les théories féministes et les subaltern studies, ses recherches visent d’une part à établir une cartographie spatiale et organisationnelle de Black Lives Matter, et d’autre part à étudier les critères d’inclusion ou d’exclusion des participants au sein de l’organisation du mouvement. En effet, pour Yannick De Stexhe, Black Lives Matter exprime une volonté de déconstruction des paradigmes de marginalisation dans

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une perspective intersectionnelle. Ses recherches proposent donc d’étudier comment ces valeurs sont mises en pratique et quelles sont les difficultés rencontrées ou identifiées, à partir d’une observation d’espaces de discussion virtuels (comme Facebook) ou matériels (terrain à Harlem).

12 Enfin Laure Heland (École Nationale Supérieure d’Architecture de Paris-La-Villette) clôt la deuxième session par une présentation intitulée « Système alternatif de gestion des eaux pluviales à Seattle : appropriation des dispositifs et nouveaux usages dans les espaces publics ». Ces stratégies de gestion visent à rendre public le cycle de l’eau afin de traiter le ruissellement et le traitement des eaux pluviales sur place avant leur rejet, dans le but de restreindre la pollution du milieu naturel. Cette mise en public symbolique (l’eau comme bien commun), technique (entretien et gestion) et matérielle (ouverture des réseaux souterrains) se heurte à différents freins notamment techniques et juridiques (difficulté d’identifier la propriété exacte et les responsabilités d’entretien). Sont alors développées par les pouvoirs publics diverses stratégies : soutien technique, projets expérimentaux servant de vitrine, communication et formation, incitations réglementaires et fiscales.

13 La discussion suivant cette 2e session a notamment abordé les enjeux de l’enquête de terrain, transversaux aux différentes présentations : la question du recrutement et du paiement d’habitants locaux pour effectuer des itinéraires commentés sur le trajet de la ligne 7 du métro à New York ; l’identification de terrains numériques et physiques (Harlem) pour l’étude de Black Lives Matter et les questions d’intégration et de légitimité en tant qu’ « extérieure observante dans des groupes racisés » émergeant à partir de la présentation de Yannicke De Stexhe.

Session 3 : « Acteurs et aménagement(s) »

14 La dernière session de la matinée regroupe trois interventions autour de la thématique « Acteurs et aménagement(s) ». Pour commencer, Matthieu Schorung (Université Paris- Est) a introduit ses terrains de recherches dans le cadre de sa thèse portant sur « le transport ferroviaire de passagers aux États-Unis : réappropriations politique, conflictualités institutionnelles et processus de territorialisation ». Dans un contexte de développement de la grande vitesse ferroviaire pour le transport interurbain de passagers aux États-Unis, ses travaux analysent les projets de gare et de quartiers de gare principalement dans trois régions : la Californie du Nord (baie de San Francisco), le corridor des Cascades de Seattle à Portland et le projet « All Aboard Florida » de Miami à Orlando.

15 Ensuite Camille Vergnaud (Université Paris-Nanterre) a présenté ses travaux de thèse concernant l’implication territoriale des universités et des universitaires en France et aux États-Unis. Plusieurs processus, qui se déclinent aux échelles nationale et locale, renouvellent l’ancrage territorial des universités comme enjeu pour les équipes dirigeantes des établissements : une contextualisation de la production scientifique, une territorialisation des politiques de gestion des établissements et une construction institutionnelle des universités. À travers deux études de cas, l’université privée de Syracuse aux États-Unis et l’université Paris-Nanterre en France, elle interroge la construction de « territoires universitaires » par les établissements via des stratégies de communication et des politiques de valorisation de leur territoire d’ancrage.

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16 Enfin, la matinée est clôturée par une intervention de Cynthia Ghorra-Gobin (CNRS, CREDA) présentant l’intérêt de la démarche comparatiste en études urbaines par le biais de plusieurs exemples portant sur la question métropolitaine en France et aux États-Unis. Sont mentionnés, entre autres : des travaux sur la gouvernance urbaine des Twin Cities (Minneapolis et Saint-Paul, dans le Missouri), sur les modalités d’urbanisation en particulier par les gratte-ciels, ou encore sur les processus politiques de délimitation des circonscriptions pour les recensements démographiques à Los Angeles, en comparaison avec Paris. Sa communication montre ainsi que la recherche multi-située et la perspective comparatiste contribuent à la construction de l’objet étudié et constituent un choix épistémologique enrichissant, sur le plan tant empirique que théorique.

17 Dans la continuité de cette présentation, la discussion s’ouvre sur la démarche comparative et les recherches multi-situées, que ce soit au sein du cadre national (Matthieu Schorung) ou à l’échelle internationale (Camille Vergnaud). Le cas de San Francisco, terrain de recherches de plusieurs participants, suscite également le croisement de réflexions variées autour de la fabrique et de la gouvernance urbaine à partir du cas des projets de gare.

Deuxième partie : « Inégalités dans les villes nord- américaines »

18 La deuxième partie de la journée d’étude, introduite par Laurence Gervais, apporte une évolution par rapport aux premières rencontres du réseau Études Urbaines Nord- Américaines, en proposant trois sessions réunies par la thématique des « inégalités dans les villes nord-américaines ».

Session 1 : « Construction historique des inégalités »

19 La première des sessions porte sur la « construction historique des inégalités » et commence avec une présentation d’Andrew Diamond (Université Paris-Sorbonne) intitulée « Towards a New History of Neoliberalization in the Twentieth-Century American City ». Dans sa communication, Andrew Diamond propose d’aborder le tournant néolibéral de la société américaine selon une double approche. La première reflète un point de vue top down qui analyse entre autres comment des idéologies économiques ont transformé et transforment les modes de gouvernance publique, en particulier après la Seconde Guerre mondiale. Mais, selon Andrew Diamond, une approche bottom up serait à valoriser pour mieux comprendre comment cette néolibéralisation transforme les manières dont les États-Uniens vivent et donnent sens à leur vie, et comment elle est vécue, subie et parfois contestée par les habitants et par les mobilisations locales (grassroots).

20 Tamara Boussac (Université Paris-Sorbonne) présente ensuite le cas d’une controverse issue d’une réforme fiscale amenant à une baisse des aides aux familles en difficulté sociale et économique dans le cadre de la mise en place du Temporary Aid to Needy Families (remplaçant le dispositif Aid to Families with Dependent Children) à Newburgh en 1961. Sa thèse en cours, intitulée « Pour une histoire urbaine du déclin de l’État providence : retour sur la crise de Newburgh, New York (1961) » examine les différentes

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positions des acteurs impliqués, en particulier celle des conservateurs, concernant cette réforme des politiques publiques. Elle propose l’angle des inégalités urbaines comme schéma explicatif de l’avènement de cette controverse, en particulier la discrimination envers les populations noires et l’impact du racisme dans les politiques d’accès au logement et de relogement.

21 Marion Marchet (Université Paris-Sorbonne) s’inscrit dans la perspective historique de cette session avec une présentation de sa thèse en cours : « Les dessous du Rêve américain dans la banlieue pavillonnaire noire du Mid-Ouest : mobilités et enfermements de la classe moyenne noire de 1970 à 2000 ». À partir de terrains menés à Euclid et à Cleveland, Marion Marchet prend comme objet d’étude des banlieues qui ne correspondent pas à l’image classique des banlieues aisées blanches. Ce sont les trajectoires et représentations de la nouvelle classe moyenne noire qui sont analysées, notamment sa « longue marche pour l’intégration politique », et sa position dans des banlieues présentées comme partie intégrante du Rêve américain et devenant des espaces de paupérisation.

Session 2 : « Construction spatiale des inégalités »

22 La deuxième session de l’après-midi s’ouvre avec l’intervention de Violaine Jolivet (Université de Montréal) à propos de « processus de discrimination / stigmatisation territoriales dans les quartiers nord-est de Montréal ». Ses travaux croisent l’étude des discriminations raciales, présentées comme un impensé des études urbaines à Montréal, et l’analyse des discriminations territoriales, définies comme une distinction de traitement des territoires associée à une stigmatisation territoriale des habitants. Deux études de cas sont présentées, à partir de terrains marqués par la pauvreté et par une forte minorité haïtienne : un projet de renouvellement urbain métropolitain dans le quartier de Saint-Michel et le traitement médiatique d’émeutes qui ont lieu en 2008 dans le quartier de Montréal-Nord. L’analyse des politiques publiques et des représentations des habitants et usagers montre alors « le rôle des attributs spatiaux » dans le processus de discrimination/stigmatisation des populations racisées et des minorités à Montréal. Ainsi le projet de requalification urbaine dans le quartier de Saint-Michel se construit à l’échelle métropolitaine, comme un « projet urbain hors- sol ». L’accès au nouveau parc en transports en commun est par exemple favorisé à l’échelle métropolitaine, mais délaissé à l’échelle locale. Bien que la fermeture des anciennes carrières et la transformation d’une décharge en parc urbain aient été décidées suite à la mobilisation communautaire locale, les habitants du quartier sont exclus des dispositifs de concertation et peu pris en compte dans l’aménagement du projet. Ils se sentent menacés par la gentrification en cours et dépossédés de l’histoire de leur quartier.

23 Sylvestre Duroudier (Université Paris-Diderot) propose ensuite une analyse des configurations spatiales des ségrégations dans vingt-neuf villes intermédiaires aux États-Unis. Il aborde la question de la construction spatiale des inégalités sous l’angle des discontinuités, caractérisées par une proximité spatiale associée une distance sociale entre deux unités d’étude. Sa présentation intitulée « Les villes intermédiaires des États-Unis au prisme des discontinuités socio-spatiales » montre les limites des approches des inégalités par indices de ségrégation. Parmi ces limites, sont évoquées la prégnance du modèle centre-périphérie et des critères ethnoraciaux, ainsi que

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l’invisibilisation des configurations spatiales (damier, gradient, centre-périphérie par exemple) par une mesure agrégée a-spatiale. Ses travaux de thèse proposent alors la construction d’un indice de fragmentation pour mesurer les discontinuités, afin de mieux prendre en compte les diverses configurations spatiales de la ségrégation.

24 Enfin, dans sa communication : « San Francisco, ville inégale, ville injuste ? », Sonia Lehman-Frisch expose son travail sur les relations entre inégalités/égalité et injustices/justice à travers l’analyse des inégalités de revenus à San Francisco. Il s’agit alors de questionner le caractère injuste (ou non) d’inégalités selon trois axes. Le premier interroge quelles sont les configurations spatiales de revenus considérées comme les plus injustes, par exemple entre deux quartiers égaux en pauvreté ou en richesse et entre deux quartiers contrastés. Le deuxième axe analyse le passage du sentiment d’injustice aux mobilisations effectives, dans le contexte de la ville de San Francisco marqué par la gentrification et l’importance du secteur High Tech. Le troisième axe considère les politiques municipales progressistes mises en place à San Francisco, notamment concernant le salaire minimum ou les logements sociaux.

Session 3 : « Résistances et mouvements sociaux face aux inégalités »

25 La question des mouvements sociaux est au cœur de la troisième et dernière session de cette journée.

26 Elle débute avec Michael Foley (Université Grenoble Alpes) et son intervention « “On Market Street” : Punk Resistance to Neoliberal Urban Policy in San Francisco ». La subculture punk est présentée comme une forme d’engagement politique direct à San Francisco à la fin des années 1970, en particulier sous la forme de lutte contre les évictions immobilières et comme tentative pour construire des micro-modèles de société alternatifs. Moins mis en lumière que les mouvements punks à Los Angeles ou à New York, le punk à San Francisco s’inscrit pourtant dans ce foyer historique de mobilisation pour le droit de multiples minorités (chicano, noire, gay…). Il est analysé ici comme une avant-garde de la résistance locale contre le néolibéralisme et comme un appui et un partenaire fort lors des mobilisations sociales (résistances contre des évictions immobilières, lutte pour l’hébergement de sans-abris).

27 La présentation « “It Stops Today” : remarques sur Black Lives Matter dans l’Amérique “post-raciale” d’Obama » de Charlotte Recoquillon (IFG/CRAG, Université Paris 8) porte à nouveau sur le mouvement Black Lives Matter, à partir d’un point de vue plus géopolitique que la communication de Yannicke De Stexhe. Charlotte Recoquillon présente trois principaux axes de réflexion pour approfondir ses recherches entamées sur le développement de Black Lives Matter. Le premier concerne le contexte d’ « Amérique post-raciale », en particulier le rôle joué par les minorités hispanique et africaine-américaine dans l’élection d’Obama, et « l’importance croissante des questions raciales au cours de ses deux mandats ». Le deuxième axe d’analyse porte sur l’émergence d’un mouvement de contestation élargi – Black Lives Matter – en réaction aux violences policières, au traitement médiatique et aux décisions de justice concernant deux meurtres, celui de Trayvon Martin en 2012 et celui de Michael Brown en 2014. Enfin un troisième axe concerne la géopolitique interne de Black Lives Matter en interrogeant la manière dont le mouvement poursuit et renouvelle les luttes

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raciales, et en questionnant les différents positionnements et organisations qui coexistent en son sein.

Conclusion de la journée d’étude

28 Laurence Gervais apporte la conclusion à cette journée d’étude en mettant en avant la richesse de l’interdisciplinarité sur les questions urbaines et l’importance du recul historique concernant la construction de l’espace urbain, en particulier sa ségrégation et sa néolibéralisation. Elle souligne également l’actualité des débats portant sur la définition même des inégalités en lien avec l’injustice, et sur les manières de mesurer et d’aborder spatialement ces inégalités (ségrégation, fragmentation, discontinuité…). L’approche géographique met ainsi en lumière l’inscription des inégalités dans l’espace et ses effets de discrimination territoriale. Elle permet également d’aborder les pratiques d’appropriation territoriale et de résistance mises en place par les habitants et usagers face à des processus divers de normalisation et de domination.

Structuration du réseau Études Urbaines Nord- Américaines (EUNA)

29 La matinée du 9 juin était consacrée à la structuration du réseau Études Urbaines Nord- Américaines (EUNA) : réflexion sur les stratégies de communication au sein du réseau et à l’extérieur (liste de diffusion, développement numérique), projets et collaborations possibles, index des thèses, organisation de l’animation et coordination des responsabilités.

30 La possibilité de constituer le réseau en association afin d’améliorer l’accès aux financements a été abordée. Cette association serait portée par le comité de pilotage actuel, composé de Martin Lamotte (Laboratoire d’Anthropologie Sociale, ENS de Paris), Sonia Lehman-Frisch (Laboratoire Mosaïques/LAVUE, Université Paris-Nanterre), Pascale Nédélec (UMR CREDA, Membre associée de l’IRG, ENS de Paris), Charlotte Recoquillon (Institut Français de Géopolitique CRAG, Université Paris 8) et Matthieu Schorung, (Laboratoire Ville Mobilité Transport, Université Paris-Est).

31 Le format de la journée d’étude a été retenu, associant des présentations succinctes, une ou deux sessions thématiques et un temps d’assemblée générale. Ces rencontres annuelles seraient idéalement complétées par des séances de séminaires en amont, réparties tout au long de l’année. En termes de communication, les propositions de création d’une liste de diffusion par mails et de renforcement de l’annuaire existant ont été retenues, tandis que l’idée d’un site internet a également été mentionnée pour compléter la page Facebook existante (https://www.facebook.com/ EtudesUrbainesNordAmericaines).

32 Au vu de la richesse thématique, disciplinaire et géographique de ces deuxièmes rencontres de juin 2017, on ne peut qu’encourager cette dynamique de structuration du réseau Études Urbaines Nord-Américaines (EUNA), ouvert à une pluralité de chercheurs dont les terrains, les ancrages théoriques et les stades d’avancement sont variés, et qui offre un cadre d’échanges et de construction collective nécessaire et apprécié.

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AUTEUR

CAMILLE VERGNAUD École Doctorale 395 MCSPP, ATER Université Paris-Nanterre

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Auréliane Narvaez

1 Since the 1970s, and the historiographical paradigm shift that brought to the fore previously neglected fields of scholarship intent on recovering the trajectories of ethnic, sexual, cultural, and social minorities, women’s history has been dramatically refashioned. Fighting the consensual approach that envisioned American history as a grand narrative of linear progress tailored by men’s thoughts, writings, desires, and actions, women’s studies have enlarged the scope of our historical perspective and opened new methodological and interpretative vistas to critical theory thinkers and historians. “Normal is anti-feminist,” American feminist historian Lori Ginzberg argued in her keynote address. This perplexing and highly stimulating contention captures the challenges of deciding to engage in women’s history. Does writing about the margins mean writing marginal history? And how can women’s history assert its subversive and dissenting nature while leaving the margins of American history in order to occupy the center of the historical stage? These questions remain of paramount importance to our present time, as the conference held on July 17th 2016 aptly demonstrated.

2 Entitled “Rethinking Women’s History, New Perspectives on the History of Women in the Early American Republic,” the conference was organized by Hélène Quanquin (Université Sorbonne Nouvelle – Paris 3) and Augustin Habran (Université Paris- Diderot) with the support of the research groups CRAN/CREW and LARCA. Devised as an opportunity for French and American scholars to reflect on their methodology, sources, and perception of women’s and gender history, this one-day conference allowed historians to engage in a conversation on the necessity or mere possibility of rethinking women’s history and crafting new approaches to this scholarly field. As

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Hélène Quanquin highlighted in her opening remark, the early American republic is a particularly engaging and fertile ground for women’s historians insofar as the period was the stage of interlocking changes in women’s perception of themselves as the concepts of race, gender, womanhood, intimacy, and sexuality underwent tangible, sometimes radical transformations.

Rethinking power

3 The first panel “Women’s Empowerment: Families, Communities, Networks,” chaired by Nathalie Caron (Université Paris-Sorbonne), explored the ambivalent strategies of empowerment implemented by women in the early American republic and the porous relationship between seemingly antagonistic notions such as freedom and dependence, power and subordination, individuality and community.

4 In her paper entitled “From Dependence to Independence: Women and the Negotiation of Power in the Early American Republic,” Jacqueline Beatty (George Mason University) examined how women in this era took advantage of their social, economic and legal dependence to gain certain degrees of independence from their husbands. Building on the apparent paradox of using the language of subordination as a means to obtain freedom, Beatty argued that women’s gendered discourse on female inferiority could be used to their own advantage when they filed petitions for divorce. By capitalizing on their husbands’ abuses or deficiencies, women were able to take advantage of the legal framework and conventional rules of feminine behavior in order to release themselves from the very constraints of marital dependence. This aspect of women’s empowerment complicates the traditional interpretation of women’s emancipation as a departure from the linguistic, legal and social norms of female subordination. Indeed, the divorce petitions revealed that it was from their very position of dependence that women could undermine the system that kept them under submission, gain agency, and declare their right to certain protections.

5 Turning to a less agonistic view of conjugality, the second paper traced the biographical trajectory of a French immigrant couple, Charlotte and Waldemard Mentelle, and showed how their difficult adaptation to the early American republic compelled them to refashion the terms of their matrimonial engagement and renegotiate the traditional power relations between husband and wife. In his presentation entitled “A Parisienne in Antebellum Kentucky: The Transatlantic Life of Charlotte Mentelle 1770-1860,” Marcel Delperne (Université de La Rochelle) underscored how the couple challenged the theory of separate spheres and subverted the traditional dichotomy between private and public realms, which associates men with the outside world and women with domesticity. Indeed, while Waldemard was in charge of the household and children, Charlotte engaged in a teaching career and was deeply invested in the social and cultural life of Lexington, Kentucky, where she opened her own boarding school for young ladies in 1820. Though disappointed by the hardships of Frontier life and Kentuckians’ lack of manners, Charlotte succeeded in carving out a distinct space for herself in the early American republic’s turbulent environment, especially through her ability to maintain and establish intellectual, professional, and business networks.

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Rethinking womanhood

6 The conference tackled a more intimate dimension of women’s perception of themselves in the second panel chaired by Myriam Boussahba-Bravard (Université Paris-Diderot) and entitled “Reconsidering Cultural Ideals of Femininity.” The two presentations that followed considered the different ways in which women attempted to unsettle the traditional paradigm of “true womanhood” and explored how women negotiated with, and reframed, the sexual, physiological, and scientific imperatives ascribed to their gender.

7 Considering women as desiring subjects, Carol Faulkner (Syracuse University) challenged the historiographical paradigm of true womanhood and offered a historical investigation into a competing ideal to women’s alleged passionlessness. In her paper “Love vs. Virtue: Reconsidering the Ideal of Female Sexual Purity,” Faulkner examined another impetus that shaped women’s desires—“true love”—and proposed a reappraisal of the sexual experiences of white, middle-class women by showing how some of them tried to reframe the marriage institution along more sensitive and emotional lines. Mary and Sherman Booth exemplified the trajectory followed by a variety of American reformers in the 1840s and 1850s, and the difficulty of negotiating the defiance of social customs with the legal dependence imposed on married women. As the couple settled into conventional domesticity, the ideal of “true love” gradually disintegrated. Sherman’s repeated marital betrayals and Mary’s dissatisfaction with her husband’s lack of sexual self-control eventually exposed their incompatible individual desires and divergent perceptions of “true love.” Mary eventually rebelled against social conventions to explore alternatives to the heterosexual, monogamous ideal of “true love” as she opened herself up to sensual pleasure and same-sex relationships in the 1860s.

8 The panel’s second presentation investigated the dialectics of womanhood and knowledge by reconsidering women’s history through the lens of science or, rather, what counted as science in the early republic. In her paper “Finding Women in the History of Science: Female Physiognomists in Early America,” Rachel Walker (University of Maryland) explored women’s access to scientific knowledge but also their practice of science and conception of human nature during the period through the study of physiognomy. After reminding the audience of the prominent status of this popular discipline (now largely discarded by the scientific community) in the early republic, Walker argued that women’s appropriation of physiognomic analysis and rhetoric and the way they adapted scientific knowledge to their own purposes allowed them to engage in larger debates concerning female beauty, intellect, and place within society. Thus, physiognomy was used by women to positively reevaluate their cognitive capacities, undermine allegations of intellectual inferiority, and defend their right to serve as legitimate scientific practitioners.

Mainstreams and cutting edges

9 In a thought-provoking and highly stimulating keynote lecture entitled “Mainstreams and Cutting Edges: Women’s History and the Grand American Narrative,” historian Lori Ginzberg (Pennsylvania State University) addressed the political and radical implications inherent to women’s studies, and reflected upon the possibility of

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imagining a new grand narrative that would be utterly inextricable from the feminist, antiracist, and critical theory movement. In considering the relationships between historical mainstreams and cutting edges, Ginzberg first acknowledged the relative dullness which currently plagues political, radical, and feminist edges and invited the audience to ponder over the problem of incorporating women’s histories into a mainstream that has remained remarkably unchanged by the challenges posed by the feminist critique. Underscoring the difficulty of navigating the tension between dissenting on the margins and transforming the mainstream, Ginzberg also recognized that despite their efforts since the 1970s to challenge mainstream narratives and radically reshape political, social and national histories, women’s and gender historians have failed to bring the margins into the limelight of historical center stage. As American high-school textbooks reveal, feminist historians have seemingly been doing their work in a well-fenced backyard. Indeed, women’s history continues to occupy little boxes in the corners of the textbooks’ pages, amidst, but separate from, the bulk of the text where white men’s conversations figure prominently. Ginzberg did not interpret this incapacity to bring the margins into the center as a result of intellectual laziness. On the contrary, this seems to be the result of a deliberate effort to maintain the presumption that what white men think, say, and do matters more than other people’s lives and stories.

10 One of the main obstacles to reworking that narrative has to do with the perception of democracy in the United States and the seductive idea that the American political system required only minor adjustments to embrace new groups. Noting that all historical narratives are intrinsically linked to nation-building, Ginzberg argued that consensus history has flattened, obscured, and dismissed margins and other voices that did not fit in the linear, teleological narrative of American progress. The greatest challenge facing feminist scholars therefore consists in stepping outside their comfort zone and claiming the right to reorder the world along new radical, sometimes uneasy perspectives. Ginzberg’s most provocative claim probably lay in her critique of the term “gender,” which, she argued, downplays the political nature of women’s studies and fails to seize how overlapping systems of dominance shape our society. The incorporation of women’s history into gender studies is also problematic in the sense that, by including but not naming women, gender moderates the claims voiced by feminist critique, makes it more palatable and by implication less political. After two decades trying to untangle ideas that were deemed unthinkable within the mainstream historical narrative of the United States, Ginzberg eventually raised the audience’s awareness on the pressing necessity to displace women’s studies from the story of white, married middle-class women, whose liberal demands for inclusion were always the first to be met, but also resharpen cutting edges in order to remodel the grand narrative of American history.

11 Lori Ginzberg’s keynote provided ample grounds for thought on the future of research and led to an inspiring discussion in the Q&As, which fittingly paved the way to the conference’s last panel.

Rethinking methodologies

12 The conference tackled the metahistorical dimension of women’s history in the closing panel chaired by Hélène Le Dantec-Lowry (Université Sorbonne Nouvelle – Paris 3) and

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entitled “Writing and Recovering Women’s History and Histories: Methods and Challenges.” The two presentations that followed explored the methodological and historiographical difficulties inherent to women’s history, and identified some new avenues and perspectives that remain to be explored by scholars of the discipline.

13 In her paper “Gender and Passing in the Early American Republic,” Catherine Kerrison (Villanova University) reflected upon the theoretical and archival challenges of writing the historical biography of Thomas Jefferson’s daughter Harriet Hemmings. Instead of considering women of color as comparative models or mere indicators of the general structure of American society with respect to racism and sexism, Kerrison aimed at studying Harriet Hemmings for herself, as an individual. Researching the trajectory of a woman of color who hid her black origins and intended to pass as white necessarily raised the difficulty of uncovering histories where anonymity was central. Hemmings’s passing was neither a sign of embracing a liberal ideology of empowerment, nor a rejection of her black relatives, but represented the only strategy for freedom in a time when slavery was legally protected nationwide. By deviating the course of her family history and passing as a freeborn white woman, Hemmings not only silently challenged racial binaries and hierarchies, but she also escaped sexual oppression and radically reinvented herself at the cost of losing her family and community.

14 Based on a state-of-the-field article to be published in the William and Mary Quarterly, the last presentation entitled “Gender and Recent Developments in Early Republic Historiography” discussed the possibility of radically reversing the scholarly perspective on the period by placing women and gender at the center of the historical narrative. In her paper, Sarah Pearsall (Cambridge University) argued that the recent expansion of both language and geography in the field of early American history allowed scholars to encompass new territories of knowledge worthy of historical examination and enabled them to reevaluate the margins as focal subjects of analysis. Works on Native American populations, ethnogenesis, Frontier life or borderlands have made tentative, but often limited attempts to put women first and analyze their varied forms of agency as more than a mere negotiation of power with men. The traditional historiographical approach to the Revolution and early republic is largely indebted to a racial and sexual politics, which Pearsall deemed largely outdated and inadequate for our present time. Despite promising works by Elizabeth Fenn, Kathleen DuVall or Ann McGrath, reappraising the history of the period from women’s perspective largely remains to be written. However challenging the enterprise might be, Pearsall contended that reshaping standard historical narratives through the lens of women’s history was essential to the understanding of the early American republic.

AUTHOR

AURÉLIANE NARVAEZ Université Paris 4

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Actualité de la recherche

Littérature

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Écritures déliées / Unmoored Languages 3 et 4 novembre 2016, Maison de l'université, Rouen

Léopold Reigner et Mélissa Richard

1 Le texte littéraire, à l’évidence, n’entretient pas envers le monde un simple rapport de représentation – un énoncé qu’il convient aussitôt de corriger, la représentation n’étant jamais simple. Pour l’auteur comme le lecteur, l’expérience est avant tout langagière : le texte semble parfois se générer lui-même, au fil de phénomènes de ressemblance, de parenté ou de filiation, au point de ne plus paraître faire référence qu’à du texte, qu’il s’agisse d’autres œuvres de l’histoire littéraire, d’autres textes du même auteur, ou d’autres passages du même texte. Aussi, l’écriture déliée appelle-t-elle une lecture « dé-liante », selon des modalités rappelant celles de l’écoute psychanalytique. Tout au long du colloque, l’analyse littéraire, linguistique ou philosophique, a eu pour horizon la vision du langage reflétée par le texte, ainsi que le rapport du langage au monde. Quelle que soit l’approche choisie, les communicants se sont demandés en quoi le texte délié peut multiplier les modalités de relation possible, et par là, décupler les forces du lecteur.

1. Rob Stephenson (écrivain, New York, États-Unis) : « Trans(positions) (mutations)(formations)itions »

2 Rob Stephenson a commencé par détailler sa préparation à son intervention, démarrée par une liste désordonnée d’idées diverses à exploiter. Cette méthode l’a amené à se pencher sur l’intérêt des idées provisoires, et leur différence avec la présentation d’un contenu étoffé. Chaque idée provisoire constituait une possibilité spécifique, permettant sa mutation en musique, mots et images. L’auteur a ensuite mêlé à son exposé plusieurs voix, plusieurs personnages, dont une jeune fille de 12 ans, Jenny, qui tout en rêvant a décrit la porosité de notions opposées, comme la séparation et le continu, la lenteur et la vitesse, et l’importance du jeu. Rob Stephenson s’est appuyé sur les citations de plusieurs penseurs, dont Edmund Burke, Rudolph Steiner, et Vincent

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Descombes, dont il a utilisé la réflexion sur le nom donné par un auteur à ses personnages (« nommer un personnage de fiction revient à ne rien nommer, car c’est nommer ce que personne n’est »). Il s’est ensuite penché sur le rôle des lettres, thème important du colloque puisqu’il a également fait l’objet de la communication de Monica Manolescu. Cependant, Stephenson a rapidement étendu cette réflexion à tous les symboles et leur potentialité de non-sens, mêlant des abréviations à des formules mathématiques, puis énumérant des chiffres et des formules de liaisons anglaises, utilisées d’habitude pour créer les liens entre les idées d’un texte, et le lier, mais qui ainsi détournées créaient un discours entièrement délié. Rob Stephenson a achevé sa communication par la lecture d’un texte accompagné d’un enregistrement de voix en plusieurs langues, qui constituait une illustration de son discours initial, les images et les sons déconnectés mais superposés manifestant l’écriture déliée.

2. Melissa Bailar (Rice University, Texas) : « Variations on G[e]orges P[e]r[e]c’s Lipogram: Th[e] Hyp[e]r- Pr[e]s[e]nt Abs[e]nc[e] of th[e] Vow[e]l ».

3 L’intervention de Melissa Bailar portait à la fois sur les notions d'inspiration et de contraintes chez les auteurs tels que ceux du groupe de l'Ouvroir de littérature potentielle, généralement désigné par son acronyme OuLiPo (ou Oulipo), groupe international de littéraires et de mathématiciens se définissant comme des « rats qui construisent eux-mêmes le labyrinthe dont ils se proposent de sortir. » Se pose alors la question de l'inspiration mais aussi de la réception comme dans l'œuvre de Georges Perec La Disparition où l'auteur écrit sans jamais utiliser la voyelle « e ». Cette règle peut apparaitre comme une contrainte, une difficulté insurmontable mais aussi comme une source de création. De même, à un autre niveau, la traduction d'un tel texte soulève de grandes difficultés mais aussi de nombreuses possibilités littéraires. Mélissa Bailar donne l'exemple d'une traduction japonaise où le traducteur a davantage joué sur les sons et les sonorités que sur la contrainte visuelle. Les contraintes peuvent finalement créer une forme de fluidité et révéler de nouveaux espaces d'invention littéraire.

3. Paule Lévy (Université de Versailles-Saint Quentin) : « Figures de la déliaison dans Leaving the Atocha Station de Ben Lerner ».

4 Ben Lerner, est avant tout un poète, auteur de 3 recueils. En 2011, il prend cependant un nouveau tournant en publiant son roman qui retrace le parcours d'un Américain à Madrid. Le personnage a pour objectif de composer un long poème narratif mais cette mission semble plus être un simulacre qu'une véritable ambition. L'action se déroule lors des attentats du 11 mars 2004. L'œuvre montre l'image typique du poète au statut décalé qui observe la vacuité de son existence comme un reflet de son époque. C'est avant tout un récit sur l'auto-fiction et l’apprentissage qui s'accompagne de l'insertion de nombreuses reproductions, tableaux et légendes fantaisistes. Le motif de la déliaison se retrouve également dans le fait que le narrateur semble coupé du monde (drogué/ bipolaire) mais la forme du récit invite néanmoins à un possible changement. Le côté

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instable et désabusé du personnage participe à cette aura de mystère, l'instabilité devient finalement elle-même créatrice de sens.

4. Maud Bougerol (doctorante, Université de Rouen) : « Ré-ancrer la langue ? The Wavering Knife de Brian Evenson »

5 Maud Bougerol s’est plus particulièrement intéressée à la nouvelle « Moran’s Mexico », parodie d’article académique basée sur la critique par le narrateur de la traduction du guide touristique de son grand-père par le personnage nommé Moran. Selon Maud Bougerol, Brian Evenson effectue une déviation de l’usage du langage comme outil de communication, en donnant au lecteur l'accès à un monde qui est familier mais biaisé par le langage. Brian Evenson joue sur le rapport au lecteur, en ajoutant des notes ridiculisant le texte principal, et abritant des digressions sous forme d’anecdotes apparemment sans rapport. Le cadre classique du texte académique est sans cesse remis en question, mais jamais brisé. Maud Bougerol a fait appel aux théories d’André Green concernant l’écriture déliée, qui selon lui trompe l’attente du lecteur, et le force à devenir écrivain en reliant lui-même le texte. Maud Bougerol a donc ensuite posé la question de la possibilité de ré-ancrage par la lecture, et a énuméré de nombreux obstacles, comme le mélange de voix différentes, le fait que plusieurs propositions mutuellement exclusives sont données pour vraies dans le corps du texte, les digressions qui ralentissent le rythme de lecture etc. La conclusion, selon elle, est que l’effet produit par une telle écriture déliée n’est pas le ré-ancrage par le lecteur, mais l’émergence de toutes les lectures déliantes du texte.

5. Monica Manolescu (Université de Strasbourg) : « ‘Listen for a change’ : parole et transformation dans The Flame Alphabet de Ben Marcus ».

6 Pour commencer son intervention, Monica Manolescu a évoqué les difficultés qu’elle avait rencontrées, en tant que locutrice non-native, pour assimiler la langue française. Cette assimilation, vouée à l’imperfection, l’avait menée à parler un langage propre, compréhensible pour elle mais délié pour ses interlocuteurs. Monica Manolescu a comparé cette expérience au sujet du roman de Ben Marcus, « fable philosophique et esthétique qui nourrit une réflexion métalinguistique » en décrivant un monde où la parole est devenue toxique. Elle lie cette analyse à la théorie de la déliaison de Sylvie Triaire (Une esthétique de la déliaison: Flaubert (1870-1880)), selon laquelle il existe à la fois un côté négatif (selon le préfixe dé-) et positif (avec l’étymologie non pas ligare mais delicature, souplesse). Dans le roman, cela se manifeste par une parole qui contamine les personnages, réduits au silence (déliaison par absence de parole), jusqu’à la création d’une lettre artisanale. La démarche d’écriture est ainsi remise en question, comparée à une souffrance physique, les lettres entaillant le corps de l’auteur. Monica Manolescu a également abordé le rôle important et ambivalent des personnages enfants, en conflit avec les adultes et à la fois bourreaux et victimes, symboles de la difficulté de communication. Elle a conclu son intervention par la cécité de l’artiste, manifestée dans le roman par la surdité du personnage, finalement immunisé et imperméable au

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langage, qui représente un état d’existence non-linguistique. Pour Monica Manolescu, le roman représente la dualité de la déliaison, le langage toxique illustrant le côté négatif, et le tour de force de l’expérimentation linguistique le côté positif.

6. Zach Linge (Université du Texas, San Antonio) : « Theory of/and Original Writing After Deconstruction ».

7 Zach Linge, lui-même poète, se pose la question du rôle du poète comme créateur, médiateur. Dans les nombreuses lectures proposées de ses propres poèmes, Zach Linge s’interroge sur les notions de patchwork, d’associations, de conflits ou de déchirures. Le poème a sa propre unité mais révèle aussi l’absence d’unité de l’auteur qui dévoile de multiples facettes et une personnalité changeante, variable et multiple qui s’offre au lecteur. Le poète peut tout autant inviter le lecteur à participer à la construction du poème et donc l’inviter à créer une identité multiple et partagée comme dans cet extrait de poème ouvert : « I (verb phrase) (noun) (verb phrase) and I didn’t have a gun » Le poème peut se revêtir de nombreuses facettes, superposées qui illustrent la construction d’une unité par la multiplicité, multiplicité à laquelle le lecteur est invité à contribuer en écrivant à son tour dans les espaces vides du poème.

7. Yannicke Chupin (Université de Cergy) : « Annotations et déliaison dans The Mezzanine de Nicholson Baker et Brief Interviews with Hideous Men de David Foster Wallace ».

8 Yannicke Chupin part du constat que la note de bas de page n'est plus à la mode depuis une décision de 1984 liée au format MLA qui préconise son abandon ou du moins la limitation de son utilisation. D'autres auteurs la voient néanmoins comme une source de création et de nouveauté. Nabokov la perçoit comme un laboratoire de création d’une trame romanesque. Yannicke Chupin montre que la note, qu'elle soit encyclopédique, intrusive ou digressive, participe à un dédoublement de la voix narrative. Chez Baker, elle peut être source de fantaisie, de réminiscence, de doute, de conflit créatif tandis que chez Wallace elle sert plus la transmission d'une forme de conscience, et illustre les difficultés et les émotions du narrateur. La note est aussi, par essence, un art de la fugue : elle est rejetée, sous le texte, entre parenthèses comme révélatrice d'une tension, d'un désir de s’échapper hors du cadre de la structure narrative. Le récit semble à l’opposé peu propice à l'expression de la pensée. La note crée un deuxième niveau narratif sans les contraintes du récit. Dans l’œuvre de Wallace, elle est l'expression d'un refuge, d’un détachement thérapeutique : une forme de transgression de l’autorité et des normes dans un plaisir transgressif d'émancipation. Il arrive que la note devienne elle-même à l’origine de son propre récit ; elle s'écarte et forme sa propre trame narrative dans une nouvelle construction presque indépendante. Elle est l'histoire d’une création partagée avec le lecteur, un espace de réflexion où la difficulté de construire un récit est mise en avant. Elle provoque chez Wallace une sorte d’empathie chez le lecteur et participe donc à la

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naissance d’une nouvelle version du réalisme : une voix plus proche, une stratégie métafictionnelle plus humaine.

8. Judith Roof (Rice University, Texas): « Becket’s Jazz. »

9 La communication de Judith Roof a abordé un aspect particulier de la déliaison, celui de la sonorité. Judith Roof a analysé l’écriture de Samuel Beckett selon la sonorité de la déliaison, en effectuant un parallèle avec le Jazz, dont la musique délie les rythmes classiques pour créer des « beats » déliés, parfois improvisés. De nombreux extraits de Beckett ont été cités, comme les pièces de théâtre (Fin de Partie, Not I, Rockaby), mais également les enregistrements et émissions radios et télévisées de l’auteur (Words and Music, Quad II). Le déplacement effectué dans le langage de Beckett équivaut au déplacement effectué dans la musique, Becket utilisant les sonorités comme des notes, et effectuant des contorsions avec le rythme et le mouvement. Judith Roof s’est également penchée sur la problématique de la scène, commune aux deux médias, musique et écriture théâtrale, puisque la scène est liée à la vue, tandis que le langage et la musique sont liés à l’ouïe. Ainsi, l’artiste peut créer la déliaison en jouant à la fois sur l’absence (vue) et le silence (ouïe).

9. Stéphane Vanderhaeghe (Université de Vincennes) : « Tentative d’approche d’une fiction spéculative ».

10 Le premier geste, le geste initial pour cerner la fiction spéculative et tout autre discours critique est d’en définir les frontières, les limites. Dans un premier temps un lien s’établit avec l’objet, un lien qui pousse le lecteur à spéculer, à s’interroger. Mais comment s’interroger si la fiction elle-même est coupée de toute référence. Le paradoxe tient dans le fait que le texte qui créé du lien avec un monde est lui-même créé de toute pièce mais c’est aussi cela qui le fait advenir. C’est un désir de s’affranchir, de création qui transparait dans la fiction spéculative qui s’oppose alors aux mécanismes langagiers habituels (l’auteur fait fi des modalités narratives, les étiquettes vacillent et une forme de fuite ou d’écoulement s’opère). La question principale qui se pose alors est la suivante : peut-on lire ces livres ? Comment créer du lien avec le lecteur s’il n’y a plus de contrat ou de codes habituels ? Quel sens peut-il encore y avoir pour le lecteur ? Une réponse possible serait pour le lecteur d’abandonner le sens, la signification pour aller vers les sens, la sensation et se plonger dans une lecture détachée, sans lien à autre chose que soi-même.

10. Thomas Byers (University of Louisville, Kentucky) : « Weighing Anchors: the Pleasures of the Reader ».

11 Thomas Byers a d’abord précisé que le titre de son intervention comportait un jeu de mots entre le sens de « weighing an anchor », lever l’ancre, et « weigh » qui signifie peser, mesurer. Il s’est ensuite penché sur les passages de textes parfois ignorés par les

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lecteurs, et a cité un commentaire sur Derrida, selon lequel les notes de bas de page constituent un sens alternatif au récit principal. Il a poursuivi son étude par une suite de jeux de mots en français et en anglais, et a souligné, comme d’autres interventions, la nature problématique du préfixe dé- négatif de « déliées ». Une lecture « déliée » serait une contre lecture, qu’il a résumée par un jeu de mot sur le nom « délire » et le néologisme homographe « délire » formé par le verbe « lire » et le préfixe « dé ». Il s’est également appuyé sur Barthes et Le Plaisir du texte pour proposer une interprétation de l’opposition « écriture liée » et « écriture déliée » selon laquelle l’écriture « liée » participe d’une lecture « saine » tandis que l’écriture « déliée » encourage une lecture délirante. Selon cette interprétation, le rôle du lecteur est extrêmement important, puisque l’auteur est vu comme le fournisseur d’un amas de mots que le lecteur utilise pour construire un texte. Thomas Byers a, à cet effet, cité Rob Stephenson : « I want people to put it back together in ways that are personal to them ». Thomas Byers a également insisté sur la forte relation qui lie auteur et lecteur, et l’expérience de déconstruction et reconstruction qui définit toute lecture. Selon lui, le lecteur d’un roman développe une relation avec une version fictive de l’auteur. En conclusion, il a rapproché l’idée d’écriture « liée » d’une idée de narration, d’histoire, tandis que l’écriture « déliée » se défait de l’histoire pour créer un ensemble de mots entièrement disponibles à l’interprétation du lecteur. Selon Thomas Byers, le roman de Rob Stephenson Passes Through rassemble les deux types d’écriture, « liée » et « déliée ».

11. Celia Galey (Université Denis Diderot) : « Partage et partition dans les poèmes chorégraphiques The Pronouns (1964) de Jackson Mac Low ».

12 Jackson Mac Low est poète et « performer ». Son œuvre est à la fois écrite, performée et interprétée. The Pronouns est une performance organisée, écrite pour être vécue, dansée. Des annotations viennent guider le lecteur mais elles sont indéterminées, ce qui rend la performance d’autant plus difficile. Rien ne se passe comme dans le texte. Les pronoms semblent n’avoir aucune identité ou référence propre et le danseur qui interprète la pièce devient alors co-auteur à travers ses choix de mise en scène.

AUTEURS

LÉOPOLD REIGNER Université de Rouen, doctorant

MÉLISSA RICHARD Université de Rouen, doctorante

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Journée d'études « Littérature(s) noire(s) ? » La Colonie, Paris1. 22 mars 2017

Fabrice Clément et Stéphane Gérard

1 Le 22 mars 2017 s'est tenue une journée d'étude où furent discutées les littératures dites « noires ». Cette journée prend place dans le cadre du séminaire « Histoire des populations noires en France : du préjugé de couleur à la color-blindness ( XVIIe-XXe siècles) », organisé depuis plusieurs années à l’Université Paris 8 par Audrey Célestine, Sarah Fila-Bakabadio, Sylvain Pattieu, Emmanuelle Sibeud et Tyler Stovall. Ce séminaire aborde la notion de « race » dans une perspective transatlantique et comparatiste. La race n’est pas prise suivant une définition biologique mais comme le résultat de processus sociaux, politiques, économiques et bien sûr historiques à l’œuvre en France, aux Amériques, dans la Caraïbe ou en Afrique.

2 Cette journée a permis de rassembler des intervenants venus de différents champs universitaires (l’anthropologie, la philosophie, l’histoire, la littérature) et de différentes universités (université Paris 8, université de Marne la Vallée, université Lille 3, université de Franche-Comté, université de Cergy-Pontoise) mais, aussi des journalistes, notamment du Monde Littéraire, des dramaturges tels Gustave Akakpo et Penda Diouf, des éditeur.ices comme Isabella Checcaglini, fondatrice des éditions Ypsilon, des traducteur.ices, dont Sika Fakmabi, Sarah Vermande et Etienne Dobesnesque et bien sûr des écrivain.es, dont Nii Ayikwei Parkes, Ti Malo ou Elitza Gueorguieva. Les écrivain.es invité.es ont des identités personnelles et artistiques très diverses (ils et elles sont d’origines caribéenne, africaine et vivent sur différents territoires : de l’Amérique à l’Afrique et l’Europe). Qu’ils ou elles soient francophones ou anglophones, tous se voient régulièrement catégorisés comme des auteur.es de « littérature(s) noire(s) » voire d’ « auteur.es noir.es ».

3 Mais que suppose cette catégorie d’« auteur.es noir.es » ? Qui est susceptible de l’intégrer ? En quoi peut-elle influer sur l’écriture des auteur.es ? Comment l’appréhendent-ils/elles ? Certains la revendiquent-ils ou la subissent-ils ? À ces

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questions se sont mêlées des lectures d’extraits de James Baldwin, Aimé Césaire ou Léon Gontran-Damas et des performances qui ont fait écho aux discussions.

4 Cette journée, organisée en trois tables rondes thématiques (« Existe-t-il des littérature(s) noire(s) ? », « Traductions et hybridations », « Circulations »), a rencontré un franc succès. Au-delà des trente participants, plus d’une soixantaine d’auditeurs sont venus assister à chaque table ronde.

5 En prenant le parti de privilégier les tables rondes, cette journée a pu déborder du seul cadre scientifique et académique pour devenir une plateforme d'échange d'expériences entre universitaires, artistes et professionnel.les du milieu littéraire. La complémentarité de leurs points de vue a permis d'approcher dans toute leur complexité les enjeux sociaux, politiques et historiques dans lesquelles se développent ces « littératures noires ».

I. Catégorie

6 La première table ronde a d’emblée posé la question du titre de la journée : « Littérature(s) noire(s) ? ». En effet, ce dernier soulève, en soi, certaines questions : existe-t-il une catégorie « littérature noire » et si oui, doit-on l’employer au pluriel ou au singulier ?

7 La modératrice, Audrey Célestine, politiste à l'université de Lille 3, propose d'en envisager la plasticité et de s'interroger sur la possibilité pour la catégorie « noire », adoptée en histoire et en politique, d'être pertinente pour décrire la littérature.

8 Jean-Paul Rocchi, professeur de littérature américaine à l'université de Paris Est Marne- la-Vallée, répond le premier en se basant sur les déclarations d'auteur.es comme James Baldwin ou Toni Morrison pour justifier sa méfiance envers cette catégorie. Conscient des tensions que le mot « noir » génère, il évoque l'écart de sens entre le nom et l’adjectif, utilisés soit par des auteurs, des éditeurs, des critiques ou des universitaires. Il note que dès que ce terme se répète, il ne s’agit plus seulement de penser les catégories mais plus largement les formes de catégorisation. Selon lui, questionner le mot « noir » suppose aussi d’interroger comment cette catégorie signifie « le blanc », « l'occidental » ou « l'européen » et ainsi dévoiler cette référencialité blanche qui ne donne pas de nom et qui, pourtant, embrasse la posture de l'universel. Pour Jean-Paul Rocchi l’opposition entre « l’universel » et le « particulier » rappelle celle entre le politique et l’esthétique qui, elle-même, ouvre vers des débats autour des littératures dites « minoritaires » ou « formalistes ».

9 Cette réflexion se prolonge dans la réponse de Claire Joubert, professeure de littérature anglaise à l'université de Paris VIII, qui fonde son approche interdisciplinaire dans le croisement des méthodologies historique et poéticienne. S'appuyant à son tour sur les réflexions autour de la catégorisation menées par James Baldwin mais aussi sur les débats du Premier Congrès des Écrivains et Artistes Noirs (Paris, 1956), elle propose d'étudier ce que la formule « littérature noire » produit politiquement d'abord en interrogeant « noir » par « littérature », mettant ainsi en avant les recherches artistiques et tentatives littéraires d'expression des auteurs dans une lutte contre la racialisation ; puis en interrogeant « littérature » par « noir » et situant ainsi cette discipline dans son histoire liée à la forme d'État-nation et à la bourgeoisie.

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10 Isabella Checcaglini, fondatrice des éditions Ypsilon, revient quant à elle sur la catégorisation en racontant son expérience autour du lancement d'une collection consacrée à la littérature noire américaine. Dans un premier temps, son travail a consisté à définir la série par un espace géographique et une période chronologique. Elle a ensuite sélectionné des œuvres américaines qu’elle jugeait importantes et qui, pourtant, n’avaient jamais été traduites en français. Elle évoque des périodes qu’elle souhaitait et souhaite explorer (la Renaissance de Harlem, la lutte pour les droits civiques, les années 1970), des auteurs et des figures politiques (James Baldwin, Malcolm X, Langston Hughes ou Claude McKay) finalement peu connus en France.

11 De son côté, l'écrivain et universitaire Néhémy Pierre-Dahomey pose la question de ce que cette catégorie fait aux auteurs. En repartant à son tour du Congrès des Écrivains et Artistes Noirs, il envisage de comparer la catégorie « littérature noire » à un genre littéraire qui donnerait une direction aux auteur.es concerné.es et interroge leur capacité à sortir de ce lieu où on les attend, dès lors que leur place est définie avec les mots des autres. En effet, ces auteur.es sont jusqu'ici contraints à écrire dans la langue des autres plutôt que dans leur langue première et à diffuser leurs œuvres dans les circuits éditoriaux des autres. Il insiste cependant sur la nécessité de s'affranchir de ces logiques en arguant que la régionalisation est la condition même de la littérature, celle- ci dépendant du lieu singulier depuis lequel on écrit. Pour conclure, il détourne la catégorie de « littérature noire » comme un moyen de penser la couleur des mots et la responsabilité des auteur.es dans leur recolorisation.

12 Le dramaturge Gustave Akakpo part de sa situation personnelle pour penser les dynamiques opposées de l'usage de ces catégories. Après les avoir définies comme des fenêtres, nécessaires pour voir le monde mais aussi capables de borner la vision, il détaille comment il est parvenu à rendre son travail visible, notamment à des lieux d’expression de la francophonie comme le théâtre Le Tarmac, avant de réaliser que ceux-ci pouvaient aussi limiter la diffusion de ses œuvres au-delà de ces espaces. Il remarque avec humour comme il est drôle que la France ne soit pas incluse dans la francophonie.

13 La comédienne et documentaliste au Musée du Quai Branly, Sara Darmayan, a ensuite lu un extrait de Chroniques d'un pays natal de James Baldwin qui, dès 1955, évoquait l’étroitesse de cette appellation : « Dans le contexte du problème racial, ni les Blancs ni les Noirs, pour d'excellentes raisons qui leur sont propres, n'ont le moindre désir de regarder en arrière ; mais je pense, moi, que seul le passé peut donner une cohérence au présent et qu'il conservera d'ailleurs toute son horreur tant que nous refuserons de F0 F0 l'inventorier honnêtement. 5B ….5D ». Puis elle a lu un extrait de Black label de Léon- Gontran Damas où l’auteur revendique sa négritude.

14 La compositrice Amélie Nilles propose une réinterprétation de Strange Fruit de Billie Holiday utilisant des bruits de cordes et de bois tordus enregistrés dans la nature. Enfin, des auteures diplômées du master de création littéraire de l'université Paris VIII (Amélie Durand, Elitza Gueorguieva et Louise Mutabazi) restituent au moyen d'une performance le travail mis en place lors d'ateliers avec des artistes rwandais.es (Désiré Bigirimana, James Rwasa, Jean-Paul Kayumba Kitatire et Natacha Mugiraneza).

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II. Traduction

15 La deuxième table ronde a été l’occasion de discuter des traductions et des hybridations. Le terme « hybridation » est ici proposé pour aborder le croisement entre différentes cultures et différentes langues dans un même récit. Comment traduire un texte mélangeant plusieurs dialectes, plusieurs langues dans une même histoire ? Comment les traducteur.ices décident-ils de se saisir de ces textes et d'en prendre en charge la traduction ? Afin d’en discuter, cette table ronde a réuni Sika Fakambi, traductrice, Nii Ayikwei Parkes, écrivain ghanéen, Étienne Dobenesque, traducteur et Ti Malo, écrivain et poète guadeloupéen, auteur de littérature en créole.

16 Les traducteur.ices se sont accordé.es pour dire que la langue n’avait pas d’importance en soi. Elle est davantage un outil pour traduire la réalité, la pensée que l’auteur.e souhaite transmettre. On traduit une histoire et non une langue.

17 Le traducteur Étienne Dobenesque confirme que la langue n’est pas une question pertinente en soi, en prenant pour exemple son travail sur la revue littéraire Fire (1926), œuvre centrale de la Renaissance de Harlem, qu'il a récemment traduite pour les éditions Ypsilon. Il explique qu'il ne faut pas se contenter de traduire d’une langue à une autre mais qu’il faut également saisir la signification, la revendication de l'auteur.e dans son époque. Zora Neale Hurston, l'une des auteur.es de la revue, dans son article, travaille sur les usages linguistiques afro-américains. Elle a volontairement laissé parler l’homme noir avec sa propre langue. En prenant l'exemple de l’anthropologue et romancière Françoise Brodsky qui avait dû se confronter à la difficulté de traduire un dialecte dont il n’existe aucun équivalent en français, Étienne Dobenesque rappelle que traduire signifie parfois retranscrire ce que l'on pourrait appeler un accent. Il reprend les mots de Françoise Brodsky, traductrice de renom : il faut faire preuve de créativité pour traduire une œuvre. Dobenesque précise que cette dernière se refuse à utiliser un dialecte ou un créole existant du français pour transposer les accents. On revient alors très souvent à une retranscription correspondant à un « parlé populaire français ».

18 Le choix de la langue n’est pas anodin. Dans le cas de Nii Ayikwei Parkes, il n’y a pas de revendication particulière à écrire dans une langue plutôt qu’une autre. Ce dernier veut davantage traduire la réalité du Ghana et retranscrire ce qu’il appelle un « parlé réel ». En revanche, Ti Malo, dans son roman Diablès (autoédition, Guadeloupe, 2015) fait le pari d’écrire en créole guadeloupéen. La langue n’est plus un simple outil, mais permet à l’auteur de revendiquer une identité, une volonté de se soustraire au français. Le choix des langues pose aussi la question du marché. Dans une volonté de toucher un public plus large, on peut être amené à utiliser une langue plutôt qu’une autre. C’est pourquoi on retrouve très peu de récits écrits en créole et que l’œuvre de Ti Malo apparaît en ce sens comme novatrice. Néanmoins, tou.tes les intervenant.es se sont accordé.es pour dire que la question du marché ne se pose pas comme un préalable à l'écriture. Écrire revient avant tout à raconter une histoire et le traducteur ne doit pas être confronté à cette question. En réalité, cette problématique est davantage liée à l’édition. Elisabeth Monteiro Rodrigues, traductrice lusophone, Samuel Lietmann, travaillant à la création sonore, Nii Ayikwei Parkes, Florence Boudet, graphiste, Anna- Lisa Dieter, traductrice, Sarah Vermande, lectrice ainsi que Sika Fakambi nous ont livré une lecture à plusieurs voix de poèmes extraits de la collection Corp/us créée en 2017 aux éditions Isabelle Sauvage. Les langues (portugaise, française, anglaise et allemande), les sonorités se mélangèrent, faisant ainsi écho à la pluralité de langues

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évoquée lors de la séance. Ces lectures ont eu le mérite de démontrer toute la diversité et la richesse linguistique présente dans la collection. Puis Nii Ayikwei Parkes proposa son interprétation de Negus de l’écrivain barbadien Kamau Brathwaite délivrant une performance impressionnante, avec un rythme soutenu et rapide ainsi que des rimes bien amenées.

III. Circulations

19 La troisième table ronde « Circulations », portant sur les différentes expériences d'auteur, est présidée par Yala Kisukidi, maîtresse de conférences en philosophie à l'université de Paris VIII. A partir d'un questionnement sur la décolonisation des arts et des savoirs, elle invite les intervenant.es à repenser la catégorisation des auteur.es comme noir.es, les injonctions à la représentation des peuples noirs et la question d'une authenticité dans la négritude (au sens de blackness) en France, le tout en termes politiques, esthétiques, décoloniaux ou sensibles.

20 La dramaturge Penda Diouf explique ses difficultés à évoluer au sein de ces catégories en tant que femme noire née en Bourgogne, héritière de la culture de ses parents venus de l'Afrique Occidentale Française (Côte d'Ivoire et Sénégal) et riche d'un vocabulaire et d'une expérience régionale. Elle pense être difficile à situer géographiquement lorsque l'identité se divise entre « française » et « africaine » et que son écriture se révèle trop exotique pour être française mais sans correspondre au fantasme projeté sur l'écriture africaine. Pour prolonger ce récit, la journaliste spécialiste de littératures française et américaine Gladys Marivat revient sur une enquête qu’elle a menée auprès d'une quarantaine d'auteur.es noir.es sur leur expérience en France. En se basant sur ces entretiens (particulièrement sur les récits de Wilfried N'Sondé et Fabienne Kanor), elle observe que les assignations sont nombreuses et remarque que la perception de ces auteur.es et leur catégorisation tient aussi à l'homogénéité du profil des éditeurs et critiques littéraires (comme parisiens, blancs, âgés, bourgeois), plus enclins selon elle à être guidés par des réflexes intellectuels exotisants.

21 Fiona McCann, professeure de littérature à l'université de Lille, travaille sur les circulations entre les littératures irlandaises et les littératures afro-caribéennes, en prenant comme point de départ le livre How the Irish Became White (Noel Ignatiev, 1995). Elle observe que dans l'espace littéraire anglophone, la catégorie équivalente « Black British » dépasse les auteur.es afrodescendant.es pour inclure les auteur.es asiatiques. Elle donne ensuite des exemples d'auteur.es négociant avec ces catégories, en citant l’écrivaine sud-africaine Zoe Wickham, qui interroge la blackness à partir d'identités métisses. Elle rappelle aussi combien les prix littéraires peuvent être déterminants dans la définition de ces catégories.

22 L'anthropologue du théâtre et des arts du spectacle, Christine Douxami, insiste aussi sur les assignations thématiques pour les auteur.es catégorisé.es comme noir.es à partir d'exemples afro-brésiliens qui sont sa spécialité. Elle revient sur l'histoire coloniale et esclavagiste pour penser les circulations entre les différentes régions du Brésil, les rapports entre le Brésil et le reste du continent américain (qu'il s'agisse d'auteur.es haïtien.nes ou de l'héritage de la Renaissance de Harlem) et enfin du lien à l'Europe à propos de la traduction d'auteur.es comme Léopold Sedhar Senghor au Brésil mais aussi parce que le vieux continent demeure, selon elle, un centre pour la question de

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l'édition qui impose ses propres logiques aux relations entre littératures et identités (nationales, religieuses).

Conclusion

23 Cette journée riche et intense en discussions sur les littératures noires s’est achevée par les conclusions d’Emmanuelle Sibeud et Sarah Fila-Bakabadio. Emmanuelle Sibeud, professeure d'histoire à l'université Paris VIII, prolonge les réflexions de la journée par quelques remarques et interrogations nourries de ses recherches sur l'histoire de la colonisation. Elle constate d'abord que la littérature semble être en avance par rapport aux sciences sociales par sa diversité, sa grande richesse et la plus grande liberté dont font preuve les auteur.es. Doit-on accepter ou lutter contre ces catégorisations ? Elle observe que le seul fait de les discuter permet de faire apparaître la présence d’un référent « blanc » qui se prétend universel sans l'être.

24 Elle a ensuite expliqué pourquoi, afin de discuter de ces catégorisations, il est nécessaire de faire l’histoire des assignations raciales dont on hérite aujourd’hui. Pour comprendre cette histoire, elle propose de partir de 1945 lorsque les identités et la racialisation se reformulent en France. Le Congrès des Écrivains et Artistes Noirs, qui réunissait en 1956 des écrivains noirs de divers horizons, affirmait une identité, une culture noire (négritude ou blackness) et un désir d’indépendance face à une domination occidentale toujours très présente. Une étude de cet évènement représenterait pour elle un exemple de ce que les historien.nes peuvent apporter : une conscience de la nature contemporaine et immédiate de ces débats sur l'assignation identitaire, trop souvent renvoyés à tort à ses racines du XVIIe siècle. C'est, au contraire, de l'histoire néocoloniale récente (l'arrivée d'étudiant.es africain.es par exemple) que nous sommes tributaires et qu'il est encore possible de renverser.

25 La littérature lui apparaît en avance, sur les sciences sociales avec des auteurs faisant preuve de liberté, incluant des langues diverses d’Afrique et d’ailleurs. Elle oppose à la création les propos de l'orientaliste Jacques Bergue qui espérait la formulation de théories non occidentales et dont on peut constater qu'elles tardent à émerger.

26 Sarah Fila-Bakabadio, historienne à l'université de Cergy-Pontoise ayant travaillé sur les nationalismes afro-américains au XXe siècle choisit de revenir sur la dialectique, la dualité entre assignation et liberté de création. Admettant que les phénomènes de racialisation imposent un comportement, un positionnement dans l’espace public, social et parfois historique, elle constate que la littérature est traversée par ces questions tout comme le champ scientifique. Au cours du XXe siècle, les Afro- Américain.es ont retourné l’adjectif « black » pour l'affirmer en « blackness ». Elle demande alors si le paradigme afro-américain serait trop teinté du contexte états- unien pour être déplacé et s'il existerait jusque dans le champ littéraire et artistique.

27 Toutes ces questions sont autant d'occasions pour la communauté scientifique de s'intéresser aux circulations abordées durant la journée. Elle souligne que c'est d'autant plus pertinent que les écrivain.es ne sont pas isolé.es du monde et sont, au contraire, influencé.es par des inspirations, des idées qui circulent à travers le temps et les âges. Elle conclut en indiquant que la catégorisation des auteur.es comme « noir.es » est le résultat d'un manque de décentrement et suppose une attente liée à des façons occidentales de se représenter le monde. Elle propose de questionner l'eurocentrisme

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de ces attentes depuis des expressions multiples en s’intéressant, notamment, à cette littérature décoloniale qui exprime une réflexion peu visible en France et pourtant présente depuis longtemps.

NOTES

1. Les auteurs remercient Mohammed Er-Reguieg, étudiant en master recherche à l’Université Paris VIII, pour son aide précieuse.

AUTEURS

FABRICE CLÉMENT Université Paris 8

STÉPHANE GÉRARD Université Paris 8

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International Conference “American Literature and the Philosophical” Paris, March 23-25, 2017, Institute of Advanced Studies, Hôtel de Lauzun / Université Paris Diderot

Florent Dubois and Marie Fahd

1 The international conference “American Literature and the Philosophical” was held in Paris on March 23-25 and was organized by Richard Anker (Université Clermont Auvergne), Thomas Constantinesco (Université Paris Diderot / IUF), Mathieu Duplay (Université Paris Diderot), Cécile Roudeau (Université Paris Diderot), and Stéphane Vanderhaeghe (Université Paris Vincennes Saint-Denis). For three days, the forty-seven speakers examined how literature can be apprehended as a philosophical discourse in its own right. Although they resorted to various schools of thought and examined a very diverse set of literary texts, the speakers all showed how literature can articulate its own theory—or how literary texts sometimes engage directly with philosophy (panels 2, 6, and 9)—and even how, in the case of Emerson, the literary can serve the philosophical (panel 1 and keynote 3). Such explorations naturally led the participants to ponder the boundaries that separate literature and philosophy, a problem that was more directly approached by Ralph Berry in his keynote speech. On the whole, the conference made it clear that the major questions of philosophy could all be tackled through literature. The speakers addressed political and ethical questions—how a community is formed (panel 3), how the other can be acknowledged as a subject and thus integrated into the community (panels 3, 7, and 8), how to understand power and sovereignty (panel 8, 15, and keynote 1)—as well as more metaphysical interrogations on the self (panel 11), conscience (keynote 1), agency (panel 15), non-consent (panel 10), will (panel 13), time (panel 10), and the relationship between body and mind (panels 4 and 13). Slightly more peripheral to philosophy, perhaps, but central to literature were the questions of how philosophical concepts or theories inform literary texts (panels 4, 5, 10, 12, 14, and 15) and how literary critics use philosophical tools to approach their objects (panels 12 and 15).

2 Aside from these profound questions, the program included a few simpler pleasures. On the first day the participants, most of whom had come over from abroad, were given a

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taste of historic Paris at the 17th century Hôtel de Lauzun on the Île Saint-Louis (4 th arrondissement), before assembling for the next two days in one of the brand-new buildings of the Grands Moulins campus of the Université Paris Diderot (13th arrondissement). On the first evening of the conference, they were treated to a recital by soprano Amélie Halary, a graduate student in English at Paris Diderot and a voice student at the Conservatoire de Paris. Accompanied at the piano by Valéria Monfort- Suchkova, she presented a selection of songs and arias by Purcell, Mozart, and Richard Hundley. On the second evening, the participants enjoyed a traditional French dinner in the rustic atmosphere of the Coupe-Chou restaurant (5th arrondissement).

Keynote 1: Nancy Ruttenburg (Stanford University): “Conscience, Rights, and the ‘Delirium of Democracy’”

3 The title of Nancy Ruttenburg’s presentation finds its origin in one of Ruttenburg’s current books in progress entitled Conscience, Rights, and the ‘Delirium of Democracy’ which explores the secularization of conscience in post-revolutionary America. Bringing to the fore the idea of the inner voice of conscience, the “phenomenon” of conscience itself, Ruttenburg emphasized in her presentation the problematic “reconceptualization” of conscience from colonial to (post)revolutionary America as inalienable. Shedding light on conscience and its antinomian turn, Ruttenburg referred to Charles Brockden Brown’s Memoirs of Carwin, the Biloquist as a case in point, as well as to Wieland. Focusing on the secular form of “the embodied/disembodied” corporate and individual voice, Ruttenburg demonstrated how Brown’s eponymous protagonist Carwin the ventriloquist epitomized the “desacralizing” effects of conscience redefined as inalienable right. Ruttenburg threw into relief the two ways in which Carwin’s voice may be considered inalienable, namely Carwin’s right of “self-preservation” and the “tautology” that is to be found in Carwin’s voice, the latter leading the ventriloquist to conceal his power since the only proof of Carwin’s voice, as Ruttenburg put it, is the voice itself. Introducing Ludloe, Carwin’s enigmatic mentor who is planning to establish a new nation, Ruttenburg confronted the “totalitarian visions” that are at stake in the novel namely Ludloe’s political, authoritative and radical view and Carwin’s view of the self as “invisible” and immensurable. Citing French philosopher Claude Lefort, Ruttenburg analyzed the limits of totalitarian ideology in the novel. She concluded that Carwin, who is not to be seen as Ludloe’s democratic counterpoint, “literalizes” the double status of no‑bodiness and nobody‑ness.

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Panel 1: Emerson & Philosophy

David Greenham (University of the West of England): “The Embodied Eye: Emerson, Metaphor and the Epistemology of Form” David Robinson (Oregon State University): “The Transcendental Ordinary: Cavell from Thoreau to Emerson” Yves Gardes (Université Paris Dauphine): “The Emersonian Poet and the Conceptual Persona”

4 It was quite natural for a conference on American literature and philosophy to devote its first panel to Emerson, a figure that Stanley Cavell has taught us to regard as the source of a truly American philosophy—distinct from analytical philosophy, which originates in Europe. David Robinson traced the evolution of Cavell’s reading of Emerson, whom he first called a “secondhand Thoreau” (in The Senses of Walden [1981]) before acknowledging him as a serious philosopher able to provide an answer to Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. David Greenham was interested in the way Emerson’s thought seems to be inseparable from the form of his writing—what he calls an “epistemology of form”—and provided a stimulating reading of the image of the “transparent eyeball” in Nature using Lakoff and Johnson’s Cognitive Metaphor Theory (CMT). Yves Gardes used Deleuze and Guattari’s formulation of the “conceptual persona” of the philosopher in order to account for the apparent contradiction between Emerson’s defining himself as a poet and his conception of the poet as an unattainable ideal. The audience was curious to know how the panelists confronted the conflicting perception of Emerson’s philosophy as either anchored in the body or detached from it. The panelists were adamant that Emerson’s was an embodied philosophy.

Panel 2: Contemporary Crossings 1

Nicholas Manning (Université Paris Sorbonne): “‘Explaining Is Where We All Get Into Trouble.’ Anti-Philosophical Philosophies in the Contemporary American Novel” Sylvie Bauer (Université de Rennes 2): “‘Literally, Everything I Utter is a Metaphor’: Thought Unhinged in Percival Everett's Novels”

5 In this panel, the aim was to point out the philosophical and literary crossings in contemporary American Literature. Nicholas Manning explored the “anti- philosophical” discourses and the paradoxes of American Realism in the fiction of Richard Ford (The Bascombe Trilogy), Don DeLillo and Philip Roth. Shedding light on the well-known logical antinomy between anti-philosophical philosophy (action, life, experience) and philosophy (logos), Manning questioned the very notion of immediacy which pertains to anti-philosophical discourse. Bringing into the open the constant ambiguity that stems from these discourses, Manning both outlined and put into question the solipsistic philosophy that lurks behind contemporary American literary realism which gives prominence to the “existence period” and claims to overthrow philosophy. Manning therefore stressed the inconsistency of such an anti-philosophical philosophical discourse. In this respect, Manning made it clear that if realism stands as

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a mode of critique of philosophy, the critique is itself a reflection, thus a meditation on life, instead of life per se. In her paper dedicated to “thought unhinged” in Percival Everett’s The Water Cure, Sylvie Bauer investigated the inextricable links between American Literature and the Philosophical which, as Bauer explained, give rise to an exploration of thought, that of a “gesture” that annihilates categories, as called for by the substantive “Philosophical”. Sylvie Bauer examined Everett’s fragmentary writing that rejects the very idea of frame. Underscoring the discrepancy of such texts that promote disconnection from meaning while putting the question of sense at their core, Sylvie Bauer highlighted the power, the violence and the manipulation of language within the writing process. In Percival Everett’s novels, signs and meanings are being disarticulated. Grammar itself is akin to a “simulacrum” insofar as it is misleading, “equating sense with belief.” Drawing upon Jean-Luc Nancy’s concept of “the not- knowing,” Sylvie Bauer concluded that thought is in itself an “adventure” in the Water Cure for thought is “unhinged” in its refutation of fixed forms.

Panel 3: Thinking and Writing the Community

Thomas Claviez (University of Bern): “A Metonymic Society? Towards a New Poetics of Community” Marianne Noble (American University, Washington D.C.): “A Motive to Love your Fellow Man: Hawthorne, Stowe and Sentimental Moral Philosophy”

6 In this panel, both speakers focused on literary and philosophical models of community that endeavored to bind members together. In the first paper, Thomas Claviez placed the emphasis on the “reconceptualization” of the very notion of community. According to Claviez, the pervading “metaphoric” conception of community, grounded in the existence of a third, no longer applies to the United States. With the advent of globalization and its impact (migration, mobility), “metonymic” community, as Claviez put it, now stands as a “modern” experience of community where two of its tropes prevail, contingency and contiguity in space. Drawing on Whitman’s “Song of Myself” and Melville’s “Bartleby,” Claviez asserted that the United States should be regarded as “the first historical case” of a modern and metonymic society. Citing contemporary philosophers Agamben and Deleuze, Claviez demonstrated how Bartleby, “the man without references” (Deleuze), was “in” and “of” metonymic society, epitomizing contiguity itself in such an “inoperative community” (Jean-Luc Nancy’s concept of communauté désoeuvrée). Throwing into relief its resistance to transcendence, Claviez explained how metonymic community is akin to globalized community insofar as members of both communities rely on “the mutual” and “ethical exposure” to otherness (Levinas). In the second paper, Marianne Noble highlighted the “circularity” of love and lovability inherent in sentimental literature. Exploring the sentimental aesthetics of “sympathetic identification,” Noble pointed out the performative role of the reader. While acknowledging the influence of Adam Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments in the fiction of Hawthorne and Stowe, Noble demonstrated how both writers departed from Smith’s view—which erased the individuality of others—and succeeded in creating a literary form of community that “revises” the concepts of sympathy. Noble concluded that difference truly acts as the very essence of sympathy.

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Panel 4: Melville & Philosophy

Michael Jonik (University of Sussex): “Melville and Spinoza” Edouard Marsoin (Université Paris Diderot): “Melville: the Belly Philosophical (Melville, Nietzsche, and the Ascetic Ideal)” Chad Luck (California State University, San Bernardino): “The Aesthetics of Usury: Melville, Derrida, and the Interesting”

7 The three talks given in this panel pointed to Melville’s ambiguous relationship with philosophy, showing him both as a (probably secondhand) reader of Spinoza (Jonik) and as an antiphilosophical fiction writer, à la Nietzsche (Marsoin) or à la Derrida (Luck). Michael Jonik’s presentation was an overview of his current research on the complex genealogy of Spinozist thought in Melville. Commenting on Melville’s markings in his copies of Matthew Arnold’s works—in particular, the essay “Spinoza” and the poem “Heine’s Grave,”—Jonik showed how Spinoza came to embody “non- anthropocentric philosophy” for Melville, a philosophy that he seems both to embrace —in his reading of Goethe’s poetry, for instance—and to deride—in a few satirical passages where Spinoza or Spinozist characters appear. Following recent critics who uncovered hidden affinities between Melville and Nietzsche, Edouard Marsoin engaged in a close reading of passages in Melville and Nietzsche where digestion serves as both a metaphor for the thought process and a reminder of the physicality of this process. He then proceeded to analyze a few Melville novels in light of this connection, relying mainly on Derrida’s reading of Nietzsche. In the wake of “new economy” scholars who have shown how economic metaphor structures society, Chad Luck proposed to explore the homologies between literature and economics by examining how usury is represented and used as metaphor in the “China Aster” subplot in The Confidence-Man. To this end, he drew from Derrida’s narrative of the development of philosophy from concrete metaphors to abstract concepts through a process similar to usury, in which something is added to the original value of the metaphor every time it is taken up, to the point of eventually obscuring the metaphorical origins of the concept. Luck argued that the China Aster story is not only a satire of Transcendentalism—as critics have often remarked—but also a proto-Derridean critique of the naïve faith in origins or originality and a meditation on the generation of new texts through borrowing.

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Panel 5: Echoes of Pragmatism: William James in Literature

Chloé Thomas (Université Paris 8): “‘That is where philosophy comes in’: Gertrude Stein making the Making of Americans” Michael Manson (American University, Washington D.C.): “Running to Philosophy: Robert Frost’s Struggle to Write Poetry” Jessica Luck (California State University, San Bernardino): “Lyn Hejinian, William James, and the Phenomenology of the New Sentence”

8 Centered on the dynamic relation of philosophy and literature, the three talks of the panel thus focused on the echoes of pragmatism in American Literature. Chloé Thomas analyzed the interaction of philosophy and literature in Stein’s composition of The Making of Americans, and from there threw light on the inner meaning Stein gives to the word “philosophy.” Thomas first pointed to the scientific quality of the very notion of description in Stein’s writing that is in keeping with William James’s concept of “habit.” Thomas then highlighted Gertrude Stein’s shift from empirical characterology to logical characterology in her making of the Making of Americans. Thus, Thomas provides a deep insight on the pervading influences of the scientist William James—rather than the philosopher—and the logician Alfred North Whitehead whom Stein regarded as a philosopher. Dwelling on the experimental writing process of the novel, Thomas disclosed Stein’s approaches to philosophy through and within literature. Thomas concluded that philosophy, which is also to be found within the reading experience of the reader, acts as a form of transcendence of failure, The Making of Americans being perhaps the result of such an experimental and philosophical process. In his paper, Michael Manson first underpinned Robert Frost’s “struggle” to write poetry and then analyzed how Frost transformed philosophy into art. Taking Frost’s poem “The Lost Faith” and its later version “The Back Cottage” as contrasting case studies, Manson explained how Frost’s aim had been redefined, the portrayal of the world’s “psychological” complexity now taking precedence over Frost’s former attempt at persuading the reader of the truth. By showing how Frost put different beliefs into play in “The Black Cottage”, Manson demonstrated how Frost came to turn pragmatist philosophy into poetry. In the end, Manson tackled Frost’s political poems in order to throw into relief the pragmatist playfulness of such a writing process while explaining at the same time how Robert Frost turned humor into “wit,” so making philosophy into literary art. Last but not least, Jessica Luck explored Lyn Hejinian’s “phenomenology” of the “new sentence” in the light of William James’s work. Drawing on Hejinian’s experimental autobiography My Life, Luck regarded the “new sentence” and the fragmented postmodern mind and self as consonant with William James’s stream and in stark contrast to Frederic Jameson’s heap. In the wake of William James’s discovery of the “law of intentionality of consciousness,” Luck demonstrated how Hejinian propounded intentionality as a “space of praxis” in her writing, thus providing the reader with what Hejinian called “the consciousness of consciousness.”

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Panel 6: Systems of Relations in the Nineteenth Century

Mary Grace Albanese (Columbia University): “Poe’s Caribbean Cosmologies” Paul Hurh (University of Arizona): “Irrelative Scale in Poe’s ‘Washer- Woman’ Philosophy” Dorri Beam (Syracuse University): “Collective Efforts: Literary and Social Assemblage in the American Age of ‘Fourier’”

9 The panel tackled the complex systems of relations in the nineteenth century. In the first paper, Mary Grace Albanese investigated the development and connection of two Caribbean phenomena, namely the calenda (“a Caribbean slave dance”) and the calenture (“a febrile hallucination” depicted by white mariners in the early Atlantic world). Using The Narrative of the Life of Arthur Gordon Pym as a starting-point, Albanese dwelt on the parallel between these two Caribbean cosmologies that portended an Atlantic world of “convertible” and “unstable ontologies” (men can thus be transformed into women and slaves can become masters). In Poe’s novel, as Albanese explained, this chaotic mode is embodied thrice through “colonial expansion,” “oceanic mobility,” and “systematic enslavement.” Albanese conclusively illuminated how Poe’s Pym enabled the creation of no less than an “alternative philosophical tradition” that brought into the open the Caribbean cosmologies that lurked behind what Albanese called the “American epistemologies of reason.” In the second paper, Paul Huhr considered the concept of “irrelative scale” through the figure of Eureka’s “washer- woman philosopher” with the view to re-evaluating Poe’s aesthetic and cosmological “theories of detachment.” Huhr demonstrated how incoherence (between levels of scale), although it undermined Poe’s “analogical devices,” acted as and turned into the very “source” and space of Poe’s aesthetics. In the third paper, Dorri Beam explored the literary and social assemblage in the American Age of the French philosopher Fourier, regarding Fourier’s radical philosophy as an “alternative” history of the American Renaissance. Using Emily Dickinson’s fascicles of 1858-1862 as a case in point, Beam demonstrated how the aesthetics and the social experiment of the age could be precisely “thought together.” Beam elucidated the role of Dickinson’s new process of assemblage that not only conjured up other worlds but led the author to experiment “seriality” within the writing process itself.

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Panel 7: Skepticism, Pragmatism, and Phenomenology in African-American Literature

Jennifer Lewis (Bath Spa University): “‘Tak[ing] care of the philosophy’: Frederick Douglass’s phenomenological interventions” Harvey Cormier (Stony Brook University): “W. E. B. Du Bois, William James, and Literature” Greg Chase (Boston University): “Trying to Build a Bridge of Words: Other-Mind Skepticism in Wright’s Black Boy and Ellison’s Invisible Man”

10 This panel was the occasion to reflect on the ways in which African American authors have engaged with philosophy, a discipline that was once considered to be reserved to the white man. When Frederick Douglass began framing his accounts of his life in broader political and ethical claims, his white friends told him that people would start doubting he truly was a slave, one abolitionist urging him, “Give us the facts, […] we will take care of the philosophy.” Jennifer Lewis argued that Douglass’s philosophizing was not limited to political statements and indeed developed toward a phenomenology of the black body. Using Fanon and Merleau-Ponty, she showed how Douglass became aware that his forgetting his blackness among his white friends, a new feeling which he first welcomed, was another form of coercion applied to his body, one in which he was made to deny his experience as a black slave. On the plantation, black bodies learn to make themselves invisible; here Douglass was taught another form of invisibility. This notion of invisibility was also tackled by Greg Chase using Stanley Cavell’s notion of “acknowledgement” of the other. He claimed that Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison used writing as a way of making white readers acknowledge them as human beings, their narratives showing how white people constantly fail to acknowledge black people as adult subjects. W. E. B. Du Bois, Harvey Cormier contended, tried to provide his readers with a different worldview from their own, following William James’s pragmatic theory of truth and meaning.

Panel 8: Henry James as Philosopher of Power and Vulnerability

Julie Rivkin (Connecticut College): “Maisie’s Body and Butler’s Radically Inequitable Corporeal Vulnerabilty” Phyllis van Slyck (City University of New York, La Guardia): “‘I See Nothing But You’: Vulnerable Levinasian Encounters in James’s Late Novels” Rory Drummond (Independent scholar): “Henry James, Guy Debord and the Critique of Spectacular Power”

11 The three speakers, all Henry James scholars, submitted their papers together, offering the organizers an already coherent panel. The first two speakers were interested in what Judith Butler calls the “precariousness of life.” Following her observation that

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“corporeal vulnerability” is “distributed globally” in “radically inequitable ways” (in Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence [2004]), Julie Rivkin proposed a reading of What Maisie Knew that focused on the correlation between power and embodiment. Rivkin showed how Maisie’s body is dislocated by the shock induced by her parents’ divorce and how that dislocation paradoxically leads both to her being identified with subaltern subjects like the domestics and to the rejection of non- European bodies, as if, Rivkin hinted, xenophobia could be a response to the dislocation of the sense of safety. Phyllis van Slyck explored scenes from The Ambassadors, The Wings of the Dove and The Golden Bowl, in which protagonists recognize the vulnerability of the other—the recognition being conveyed through close-up effects—and yet avoid absorbing him or her into their own selves. She contended that those scenes reveal a Levinasian ethical ideal at the heart of Jamesian fiction. After two papers more concerned with James’s psychological insights, Rory Drummond looked at James as a social critic who shared some intuitions with Guy Debord, among which the power of the spectacle, the sense of alienation it entails, the advent of the city as spectacle or the redefinition of celebrity in the infancy of mass media.

Panel 9: Wallace Stevens: The Life of Thought

Bart Eeckhout (University of Antwerp, NIAS Fellow): “The Philosopher’s Poet: 21st- Century Perspectives on Wallace Stevens” Charles-Henry Morling (Université Paris Sorbonne): “Wallace Stevens’ and A. N. Whitehead’s Modes of Thought” Respondant: Juliette Utard (Université Paris Sorbonne): “The Necessary Angel’: A Few Words on Stevens’ Theory as Poetry and his Poetry as Theory”

12 The three papers of this panel were dedicated to Wallace Stevens. In the first paper, Juliette Utard dwelt on Wallace Stevens’ paradoxical status. While his work continues to be constantly affiliated to philosophy, Stevens is presented in both literary and philosophical studies as “the impossible philosopher’s man” and as a “philosopher’s poet.” Utard looked for places where Stevens’ philosophy is to be found in his work since his essays are not construed as philosophical. By paying attention to the titles of Wallace Stevens’ essays and poems, Utard highlighted the “crossing of genres” at stake in his writing process. Utard expounded on the blatant “chiasmus” that occurs in Stevens’ writing poetry, as poetry “masquerades” as theory and vice versa. In the second paper, Bart Eeckhout, a Stevens scholar and chief editor of The Wallace Stevens Journal, investigated the evolution of contemporary writings on Stevens’ work from a philosophical perspective. As part of his new research project, Eeckhout brought into play two types of approaches that are at variance with each other. Drawing on an article by American poet and professor David Baker entitled “Feeling Thinking,” Eeckhout exposed how contemporary American poets such as Baker— focusing much more on form than content—dodge the issue of philosophy as philosophy and “refuse” to consider the philosophical weight of Stevens’ work. Referring to Alain Badiou, Paul Weiss and Peter H. Hare, Eeckout brought to light the thorny question of the philosophical status of Stevens’ work from the points of view of contemporary philosophers, from the post-marxist French line (that of Badiou) to the American

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pragmatist one, that of Hare, the latter contemplating Stevens’ epistemologies as “metaphorical structures.” In the third paper, Charles-Henry Morling highlighted a new approach on Stevens the “metaphysical poet” by exploring the relation between Wallace Stevens’ and Alfred North Whitehead’s modes of thought.

Panel 10: Contemporary Crossings 2

Naomi Morgenstern (University of Toronto): “The Post-Kantian Child in Contemporary American Fiction” Cindy Weinstein (Caltech): “The sound of time in Nabokov’s Ada, or Ardor” Andrea Pitozzi (Università degli Studi di Bergamo): “Time-Images in Don DeLillo’s Writing” Arkady Plotnitsky (Purdue University): “Demons of Chance: Thomas Pynchon’s Novels and Philosophy of Randomness and Probability”

13 The four papers of this panel examined the contemporary crossings between philosophy and postmodern literature. In the first paper, Naomi Morgenstern explored the figure of the “post-Kantian” child in contemporary American fiction. At first placing the emphasis on the historical emergence of the “wild child,” Morgenstern referred to the well-known case of Victor of Aveyron who epitomized the “border status” between nature and reason. Taking Shriver’s novel We Need to Talk About Kevin as a case in point, Morgenstern then analyzed how the post-Kantian child in twenty- first century American narratives embodies the “crisis” of consent and of being, Kevin typifying the figure of “non-consent” in this post-humanist perspective. In the second paper, Cindy Weinstein pondered the sound of time in Nabokov’s Ada, or Ardor and the “ubiquitous” presence of the sound “or.” Drawing upon Van Veen’s opus entitled the “Texture of Time” in which the novel’s protagonist conceives time as sound, Weinstein demonstrated how Nabokov’s novel takes up Veen’s philosophical discourse about time and how the novel itself astutely reenacts it “artistically” within the writing process itself. In the third paper, Andrea Pitozzi investigated the role of “time-images” in Don DeLillo’s twenty-first century novels, throwing light on the change that occurs in DeLillo’s writing process, the recent novels being much more philosophically oriented, namely towards time, than his earlier works. Pitozzi therefore explored the congruence between DeLillo’s treatment of time and images in his most recent novels and Deleuze’s cinematic concept of the Time-Image. In a similar manner, Pitozzi also investigated how Bergson’s concept of “duration” prevailed in DeLillo’s experimentation of time in his writing. In the fourth paper, Arkady Plotnitsky analyzed the interrelation between Thomas Pynchon’s novels and the philosophy of randomness, citing Pynchon’s work as “allegories” of quantum theories. Underscoring the very “game of contingency” which is at stake in Pynchon’s novels, Plotnitsky confronted prominent scientific and philosophical thinkers and concepts with the purpose of questioning the nature of chance and probability.

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Panel 11: Poetic Speculations

Antoine Cazé (Université Paris Diderot): “Emily Dickinson and the Question of ‘Giving Death’” Aurore Clavier (Université Paris 8): “The American Modernist Poem, or the Infinite Prolegomena” V. Joshua Adams (University of Louisville): “No Puzzle: James Merrill and the Philosophy of the Self”

14 The “poetic speculations” at stake here should not be misconstrued as instances of poetry waxing philosophical; they reflect, rather, how poetic form in itself is a kind of philosophical investigation. In the first paper, Antoine Cazé underscored how rarely Derrida’s philosophy had been applied to Dickinson’s poems even though such notions as “bord,” “marge,” or “lisière” seem particularly apt to start an exploration of her poetry. Cazé used Derrida’s notion of the “gift of death” to perform a close reading of the poem “It was not Death, for I stood up.” Attending to the polysemy of some of the words or lines, he showed how Dickinson approached her own mortality through an emphasis on the indefinite and a “negation of negation” that eventually “buries” her own presence in the poem. Aurore Clavier started with the proposition that modernist poetry’s constant questioning of form was a way of striving toward some ontological truth. She then sought to show how poems by Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams, or Marianne Moore in fact systematically eschew any kind of ontology and linger rather at the threshold of logical discourse. This refusal of pushing further than the “beginnings” of thought reveals, she argues, a broader American tradition of beginnings, in which a constantly new America is only roughly sketched so as to perpetually postpone the fixation of the ontological contours of the New World. Following recent reappraisals of James Merrill’s reputation as a poet of surfaces, according to which he might have been more philosophical than expected, V. Joshua Adams showed how his poem “Lost in Translation” presents a model of selfhood as translation, which interestingly challenges narrative models of the self while preserving the continuity between past and present that narrative models provide.

Panel 12: History and Influence

Russell Sbriglia (Seton Hall University): “‘The Fervid and Tremendous IDEA’: Whitman, Hegel, History” William Flesch (Brandeis University): “Three Blackbirds: The Anxiety of Influence, Decision Theory and Preferences among Preferences in American Literature” Jeffrey Di Leo (University of Houston, Victoria): “Who Needs American Literature? From Emerson to Marcus and Sollors”

15 Russell Sbriglia presented a chapter on Whitman from his forthcoming book on the relationship between American Romanticism and German Idealism. He showed how Whitman was sensitive to Hegel’s views on history and how he substituted America or

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democracy—two interchangeable terms—for the Idea. William Flesch used decision theory to show how, in the wake of “Bartleby,” a supposedly American conception of preference could be observed in a variety of American texts. He suggested that American writers tend to prefer what things are not to what they are, mirroring their desire not to be literary—i.e. not to follow old models—precisely in order to be literary. Jeffrey Di Leo argued that 9/11 was a watershed in American literature, pointing to America’s incapacity to understand the other. Based on Cavell’s analysis of the relationship between philosophy and poverty in Emerson and his conclusion that wealth prevents us from understanding the other, Di Leo’s argument suggested that the need for a national literature is not as urgent now as it used to be, as evidenced by the fact that more and more publishing houses tend to favor writers who have a global perspective, rather than those who have only a narrowly national one.

Panel 13: Body and Mind in the Nineteenth-Century

Andrew Sydlik (Ohio State University): “Revolution and Cure: Molyneux’s Problem, Denis Diderot’s Letter on the Blind, and Royall Tyler’s The Algerine Captive” Dorin Smith (Brown University): “Melville’s Neuroanatomies and the Organs of Personality” Jennifer Fleissner (Indiana University, Bloomington): “Maladies of the Will: The American Novel and the Symptomatology of Modernity”

16 The three talks of the panel focused on the body and the mind in nineteenth century philosophy and literature. Concentrating on the concept of blindness in the philosophy of the Enlightenment through Molyneux’s problem, Sydlik examined the influence of Diderot’s Letter on the Blind on Royall Tyler’s American novel The Algerine Captive. Sydlik demonstrated how the protagonist Underhill experienced two tropes of the Enlightenment, namely the blind man given sight and the wandering in a foreign land, leading Underhill to become a “better” American, developing sympathy and learning how “to see and know” from a distance. Paying close attention to Melville’s “engagement” with neuroscience and the philosophy of mind, Dorin Smith emphasized Melville’s concern about phrenology as a “neuro-hermeneutic method.” Drawing on the work of Sharon Cameron, Paul Ricoeur and Catherine Malabou, Smith explored Melville’s questioning about the self and what Smith deftly called “the ontological dependency of the human self on the nonhuman brain.” Finally, Jennifer Fleissner provided the audience with the theoretical framework of her current book on nineteenth century American fiction entitled Maladies of the Will: The American Novel and the Symptomatology of Modernity which aims at reframing the American novel’s understanding of modern subjectivity around the concept of the will.

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Keynote 2: Ralph Berry (Florida State University): “But Can Literature Know Itself and Not Become Philosophy”

17 The title of Ralph Berry’s presentation is a reversal of the last sentence of Stanley Cavell’s Claim of Reason, “But can philosophy become literature and still know itself?” Noting that literature and philosophy scholars share a common self-consciousness in their use of concepts—whose definitions are always problematic—, Berry used Wittgenstein’s Philosophical investigations and Cavell’s reading of it in order to think about how we acquire an understanding of such a concept as that of the novel. Wittgenstein notes that when questioned about what we mean by this or that concept we naturally resort to examples, revealing how the meaning of a word is inseparable from the “language-games” associated to that word. Consequently, Berry proposed that instead of directly trying to provide a definition of the novel we first ask ourselves why we enjoy reading novels, thus shifting the focus onto the praxis surrounding the novel. Taking To the Lighthouse as case study, he showed that our notions of what a novel, a character, or a story are have been changed by our reading Woolf’s novels. It is when we read novels that challenge our idea of what a novel is that we revise our definition of the novel. Therefore, Berry insists that we should be aware of how much what we have read and our appreciation of what we have read shape our conception of literature. Such an approach might not solve every epistemological issue faced by literary studies but it could at least help us displace our way of thinking about certain topics. Thus, when asked how he would himself answer the question of his title, Berry declared that literature itself provides the answer to that question—a truly Wittgensteinian response!

Panel 14: Thinking in Figure

Francie Crebs (Université Paris Sorbonne): “Kant vs. Cant: Poe’s Materialist Sublime” Ali Chetwynd (American University of Iraq, Sulaimani): “Joseph McElroy’s Plus and the Peircean Optimism of US Postmodernism’s Philosophy of Action”

18 Following cancellations and flight delays, this panel had little to do with what was originally scheduled. Of the three people who were supposed to speak here, only Francie Crebs remained and Ali Chetwynd was reassigned from panel 2 to this panel. Therefore, the two papers had little in common, one being on Poe and the other on postmodernist novel Plus. Although critics have often reduced the Kantian sublime in Poe to the dynamic sublime, Francie Crebs argued that such tales as “The Sphynx” provide examples of mathematical sublime that allow for a materialist reading of Poe’s fiction—just as the mathematical sublime, according to Paul de Man, is what allows a materialist reading of Kant. Ali Chetwynd contended that most critics of postmodernist fiction, including McHale, Hutcheon, and Jameson, had shown a negative appreciation of postmodern fiction and presented it as a fiction devoid of agency. Using Peirce’s pragmatism, he undertook to demonstrate that postmodern novels could be

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constructive and that more care should be given to the specific style of these texts. His radical stance prompted a lively discussion.

Keynote 3: Isabelle Alfandary (Université Sorbonne Nouvelle): “Unfounding an American Tradition or the Performative Invention of Self in R. W. Emerson”

19 Isabelle Alfandary examined Emerson’s texts to show how he founded a specifically American tradition by refusing to establish a tradition, his foundation, therefore, being an “unfounding.” She stressed how to undo the umbilical cord that connects America to Europe it was necessary for Emerson to do away with the foreign element in himself. She showed how his calls to understand the world without the mediation of the previous generations of thinkers went hand in hand with the surfeit of perceptions that America offered. Emerson underlines the uniqueness of the real that stands in front of our eyes and the importance to trust one’s instinctual reactions to this real. Thus, American philosophy is born through the performative act that rejects all ties—what Emerson in “Self-Reliance” calls “Whim,” for lack of a better word. The “I” becomes the authority of philosophy and this new subject is authorized only by himself.

Panel 15: The Politics of Thought

Philipp Reisner (Heinrich Heine University Düsseldorf): “Ancilla Theologiae: The Rivalry of Philosophy and Theology in American Cultural and Literary History” Paul Downes (University of Toronto): “Hobbes in America, or, Is there a Democratic Sovereignty?” Owen Cantrell (Georgia Institute of Technology): “‘Only Hegel is fit for America’: Dialectic and Parataxis during the Market Revolution” Elizabeth Duquette (Gettysburg College): “Tyranny in America: Napoleon, Tocqueville, Séjour”

20 Philipp Reisner offered to reconsider the “rivalry” between theology and philosophy in American cultural and literary history by looking at the reception of Cotton Mather, an early Evangelical who viewed philosophy as “ancilla theologiae,” and at the often- neglected religious import of Wallace Stevens’s poetry. Paul Downes also aimed to challenge traditional American cultural history by emphasizing the covert influence of Hobbes in lieu of the more obvious one of Locke. He suggested that Hobbes’s theory of sovereignty could provide keys to understand a vast array of American texts from those of the New England Puritans to Moby Dick. Responding to Lukács’s and Jameson’s definitions of the dialectic, Owen Cantrell argued that parataxis provided a better model to study literature than the dialectic, which has a totalizing tendency that risks foreclosing texts whose openness to a variety of readings is the very reason why we study them. Elizabeth Duquette explored the figure of Napoleon in American literature and showed how it unsettles the traditional values of American democracy by uncovering hidden tyrannical impulses at its core.

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AUTHORS

FLORENT DUBOIS Université Paris Diderot

MARIE FAHD Université Paris Diderot

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Kathie Birat

The Art and Craft of Grafting in Jamaica Kincaid’s Work

Program of the conference

1 The International Conference devoted to Jamaica Kincaid and “the art and craft of grafting” was an occasion for scholars from both sides of the Atlantic to explore the

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idea of grafting as a fruitful link between Kincaid’s persistent interest in the natural world, plants and gardening and the ways in which her writing makes it possible to see “creolization,” a concept often used to theorize the integrative capacity of Caribbean culture, as a form of grafting. Through the multiplicity of domains evoked—including botany, history, colonization, slavery, weaving, knitting and gardening—the participants in the conference proposed perspectives for viewing the writer’s unique and occasionally abrasive approach to the heritage of colonialism, with its obsession for classifying and giving names. They looked at grafting as an act of resistance to the limits imposed by slavery, colonialism and gender-biased visions of the world, but also as an ingenious interweaving of practice and reflection in Kincaid’s works on gardening and plant gathering, as well as a crossing of generic boundaries.

2 In her opening remarks, Professor Nadia Setti sketched a framework for a reflection on the “art and craft of grafting” in the writing of Jamaica Kincaid.

3 She began by evoking the many different connotations that the word “grafting” can assume in relation to art. Grafting, coming from a Germanic root meaning “to dig,” can be seen as both “incision and inscription” and thus as a metaphor for writing. Given Kincaid’s interest in gardening, it also invites us to think of the tools she evokes in My Garden (Book):—the hoe, the rake, the spade, the fork—but also Gertrude Jekyll’s gardening boots, to which she refers, a reminder that art is a way of being rooted in the world.

4 The notion of grafting also provides a framework for evoking questions of identity and filiation as represented in Kincaid’s writing, as can be seen in The Autobiography of My Mother, in which Xuela’s problematic relation to the circumstances of her birth becomes a way of talking about the dilemma of the Caribbean people and their search for a lost origin. The colonial system itself can be seen as a process of tearing up and transplanting, the botanical garden encapsulating the very idea of colonialism. The way in which Kincaid evokes the idea of a “wild garden” in My Garden (Book): reflects Kincaid’s stance as an artist, her “constant state of discomfort” and what Ms. Setti calls her “art intranquille” which constantly solicits the reader’s participation.

5 The first keynote speech, entitled “Jamaica Kincaid: Caribbean Space and Living Dislocations,” was given by Carole Boyce Davies, Professor of Africana Studies and English at Cornell University (USA).

6 Carol Boyce Davies’ talk revolved around the ideas of migration and dislocation and the ways in which artists and intellectuals like Frantz Fanon and Stuart Hall have responded to displacement. Highlighting Kincaid’s often quoted remark about discomfort (“I am in a constant state of discomfort”), she evoked the ways in which Kincaid has rejected spatial confinement, a stance that she likened to Zora Neale Hurston’s “fighting back.” Rather than waiting for herself to appear, Kincaid was able to seize space, an impulse captured in Annie John by the narrator’s remark, “I’m looking at the world and I want to go there.” Kincaid’s desire was for an expanding space, although her experience in the United States in the 1970s confronted her with American racism and the activist challenges to it.

7 Looking at Kincaid through the prism of migration, Davies addressed Kincaid’s “discourses of subjectivity” as migrations of the subject, migrations which included “creative uses of anger,” but also the exploration of sexuality, as in the narrator’s relation to the “Red Girl” in Annie John. Kincaid also practiced a kind of “reverse

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anthropology,” as in her study of the Brooklyn carnival, and generally speaking, in the observations of American life found in pieces published in the New Yorker. Her sense of herself as a Caribbean subject can be seen in her description of Manhattan: “I now live in Manhattan. The only thing it has in common with the island where I grew up is a geographical definition.”

8 Davies linked Kincaid’s “migration” as a subject to other expressions of dislocation and displacement by writers from the Caribbean: Stuart Hall’s evocation of Caribbean people as “the forerunners,” Dionne Brand’s list of “forgotten locations,” C.L.R. James’s reference to the Caribbean people as the first to experience dislocation, Brathwaite’s “tidalectics.” Kincaid’s gardening, bringing colour to Vermont, springs from the same awareness and the same impulse. However, she also pointed out the ambiguous nature of Kincaid’s travelling, the way in which it placed her simultaneously in a colonial role and in the position of a migrating subject.

9 Finally, she pointed to the difficulty related to the use of the term “grafting,” which she sees as essentially a colonial metaphor and a reflection of the way that Caribbean subjects were moved around.

10 The first two panels brought together scholars talking about Kincaid’s novel See Now Then. The first presentation, “Grafting as Joining Together, Grafting as Persistently Flirting: Jamaica Kincaid’s Creolization of Cultures, Narrative and Kinship” was given by Giovanna Covi, Professor of American Literature and Gender Studies at the University of Trento. The second paper, presented by Jamie Herd, who is preparing a PhD at Paris 8, was entitled “Rootstock or Scion: Grafting Radical Difference in Jamaica Kincaid’s See Then Now.” The paper read by Antonia Purk (a doctoral student from the University of Erfurt, Germany), was entitled “Texere: The Handcrafting of the Past in Jamaica Kincaid’s See Then Now.” The second panel was concluded by Kathleen Gyssels, Professor at the University of Antwerp, Belgium, who presented a paper focusing on Mr. Potter entitled “About Jamaica Kincaid’s Kin. The Black-Jew Craftswomanship in Caribbean Literature.” Giovanna Covi insisted on the idea of grafting as both reactive and proactive in the writing of Kincaid. In her talk she developed Kincaid’s vision of kinship as an elastic concept, a deconstruction of the binary concepts of “I” and “other,” calling upon numerous theoreticians like Judith Butler, Walter Benjamin, and Edouard Glissant to demonstrate the idea of grafting as produced by plurality. According to Covi, Kincaid’s paratactic style reflects her refusal of a hierarchical view of relations. She drew particular attention to Kincaid’s use of the image of Medusa, reminding the audience that the severed head of Medusa produced coral, an image of both life and death. Jamie Herd’s focus was mainly on the notion of anger as a creative force in the novel. Starting from a common vision of the novel as “thinly disguised vengeance for divorce,” Jamie Herd pointed out that critics have missed the point of Kincaid’s anger in linking the novel directly to her life. Herd concentrated on Kincaid’s use of intertextuality as a form of grafting, allowing the author to “graft her own tales onto old rootstock.” She looked at her use of music, “grafting popular music on literary rootstock,” the importance of cultivating food and making garments as images of her craft, as a way of “weaving threads into the garment that was her life.” Her doubles are thus Arachne, the trickster, Medusa, the fates. To the question “Can one lead a good life in a bad life?” Kincaid answers through her art that the good life must also embody a critique of one’s life. Kincaid’s writing can finally also be seen as a form of knitting: the author re-knits the order of things, re-ordering the relationship between narrator and

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character. Antonia Purk also looked at See Now Then from the point of view of knitting as a metaphor of creation. Adopting a feminist point of view, and underlining the fact that in Freud’s view the only female invention was “that of plaiting and weaving,” Purk showed how Kincaid presents Mrs. Sweet as making her own life by writing, revealing “how she came to be herself” by interweaving the strands of her life differently. She also called upon Barthes’s idea of the text as related to textile to show how the text for Kincaid produces a non-hierarchical conception of the relation of self and other, in this respect echoing the remarks made by Giovanna Covi concerning Kincaid’s vision of human relations as open, horizontal and non-hierarchical. This idea emerged over the course of the conference as an important leitmotif of Kincaid’s writing. Kathleen Gyssels talked about the Jewish diaspora as “the hidden diaspora under the visible one.” Focussing on Mr. Potter, she looked at the ways in which the different characters presented in the book (the doctor Mr. Weizenger, the owner of the garage, Mr. Schoul) represent Caribbean culture as a crossroads where the African diaspora is confronted with other diasporas, in particular the Jewish one. Like Simone Schwarz-Bart (who was married to André Schwarz-Bart), Jamaica Kincaid, who converted to Judaism and whose second husband was Jewish, is aware of the complex and sometimes problematic consequences of this form of cultural contact.

11 The following session included three scholars focussing on Kincaid’s literary treatment of the garden. Kamila Bouchemal, who obtained a PhD in Gender Studies and Comparative Literature from Paris 8, spoke about “The Name as Graft in the texts of Jamaica Kincaid.” Josette Spartacus, independent researcher, entitled her paper: “Grafting and Graphing: Jamaica Kincaid’s Dialogic Garden Memoirs.” Pauline Amy de la Bretèque, a doctoral student at Paris IV, talked about “Grafting and Cutting: a Botanics of Creation.” Kamila Bouchemal looked at naming, an important theme in Caribbean literature, representing the presence of public History in personal histories, as a form of grafting. It is the sign both of an uprooting, an imposing of names inherited from colonialism, and a re-conquering through renaming. This can be seen in the author’s own renaming of herself as Jamaica Kincaid, a way for her of both remembering and re-inventing herself. In the same way, Kincaid reinvents the names inherited from colonialism in her works as a way of repossessing the Caribbean space. In The Autobiography of My Mother, Xuela bears the same name as her mother, who died giving birth to her. The repeating of the name Xuela thus represents a form of survival in the face of the extermination represented by colonialism. Josette Spartacus likewise looked at the relation between grafting and writing as one that takes into account both the situation of the conquered and the possibility of becoming a conqueror through “flowers that represent a network of conquests, conquest of memory and memory of conquest.” According to her Kincaid dialogizes the garden, thus rejecting the machine of the plantation described by Benitez-Rojo in favour of a planting which “graphs” the history of her people onto a larger history. However, there is also a form of discomfort created by the very in-betweenness of her situation. Pauline Amy de la Bretèque discussed this complex relation between the situation of the conquered and the need to re-possess and re-invent through the idea of creolization. The garden is more than just a garden and becomes a space for the invention of a creolized nature. By creating a garden in Vermont, Kincaid was re-inventing the natural world of the Caribbean. Seen from a historical point of view, grafting can be seen as a form of controlled hybridization that reflects the colonial appropriation of nature, as opposed to

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creolization, which is unpredictable. Finally, from an aesthetic point of view, gardening and writing can be seen as complementary, as processes that both repeat and renew.

12 A complete session was devoted to discussions of The Autobiography of My Mother. Simone Alexander, Professor of English, Africana Studies and Women and Gender Studies at Seton Hall University, New Jersey, spoke about “Postcolonial Hauntings: Ghostly Presence in The Autobiography of My Mother.” Kaiama Glover, Associate Professor of French and Africana Studies at Barnard College, Columbia University, entitled her talk “Caliban’s ‘Woman’ and the Procreative Trap: Jamaica Kincaid’s The Autobiography of My Mother” and Natacha D’Orlando, a doctoral student at Paris 8, presented a talk entitled “Grafts and Parasites: aborted body, decolonized body in The Autobiography of My Mother.” Simone Alexander examined the novel in its generic dimension, exploring the way in which the disguising of the novel as an autobiography blurs the borderline between the two genres and in so doing also generates the mother as a “ghostly presence,” making possible the creation of an “exemplary space for recreation of self and community beyond patriarchy.” What Alexander calls “ghosting” can thus be seen as a form of grafting; the mother is both hypervisible and invisible and helps her daughter both to refuse to be used, or commodified, by others as a mother, thus refusing to replicate the history of the island, and also to mother herself. Kaiama Glover also addressed the issue of Xuela’s refusal of maternity, but essentially through the intertextual relation to The Tempest, which can be seen as an Urtext of Caribbean letters. Taking up and extending the question raised by Sylvia Wynter in Out of the Kumbla (ed. Carole Boyce Davies) concerning Caliban’s woman, Glover argued for seeing Xuela as Caliban’s counterpart rather than his woman, thus placing her “beyond Wynter’s beyond.” She emphasized the significance of Xuela’s refusal of the notion of women as gifts suggested by the relation to Shakespeare’s play. Natasha D’Orlando took up the multiple implications of abortion in The Autobiography of My Mother. According to D’Orlando, the novel revolves around problems of transmission which have both personal and historical resonance in the novel. The body is both decolonized and overcolonized; through the actions of what are called “serial fathers,” the female branch of the family is left without names or stories. The desire of Mrs. Labatte to use Xuela to compensate for her own inability to produce children constitutes a repetition of the colonial exploitation of women’s bodies. From a personal point of view, Xuela cannot accept to become a mother for, having been deprived of a model for maternal affection, she finds herself carrying two children, one of which is her own unloved self.

13 The morning session ended with a keynote speech given by Daryl Dance, Professor Emerita from the University of Richmond and author a several books, most recently In Search of Annie Drew.

14 Daryl Dance talked about Jamaica Kincaid’s mother Annie Drew (1919-1999), accompanying her comments on Kincaid’s family and the people surrounding her in Antigua with a series of photographs. The focus of her talk was Kincaid’s complex relationship with her mother, a mother Kincaid claimed had undermined her desire to write. From talking with Kincaid’s older brother Joseph and other people who knew both Kincaid and her mother Annie, such as the minister from the Methodist church Annie Drew attended, Dance was able to get a more complete picture of the woman who clearly played an important, perhaps the most important, role in Kincaid’s life. People described her as a woman who spoke her mind, who was active in politics and who considered she had done “all [she] could” for her daughter. Although she insisted that

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what her daughter wrote was fiction, she was shocked by the details revealed in her daughter’s books, to such an extent that Reverend Lee declared, “I think those books hastened her death.” She concluded her talk by referring to Toni Morrison’s notion of the reader’s “response-ability” in approaching Kincaid’s mother from angles not necessarily provided by Kincaid in her own writing, thus making it possible to have a more complete picture of a very complex mother/daughter relation.

15 The final session returned to the question of gardening which is of course at the root of the notion of grafting as a metaphor for Kincaid’s writing. Eleonor Byrne, Senior Lecturer at Manchester Metropolitan University, presented a paper entitled “After the Plantation: Tropical Gothic and the Globalised Garden.” Paola Boi, Professor of Anglo- American literature at the University of Cagliari, Italy, examined Jamaica Kincaid and James Baldwin in a paper entitled “From the Other Side: James Baldwin, Jamaica Kincaid and the Extravagance of Double Consciousness.” Myriam Moïse, Senior Lecturer at the University of the Antilles in Martinique, also examined the question of gardening through a comparison with the poetry of Olive Senior in a paper entitled “Jamaica Kincaid and Olive Senior: Gardening through History, Cultivating New Female Subjectivities.” Eleonor Byrne, starting from an evocation of the colloquial British use of the term “hard graft” to mean digging, looked at Kincaid’s gardening discourse as a way of “digging” up a buried past in order to reveal “unfolding narratives of conquest” and to make an addition to a garden that can be seen as “an open wound.” She finds the notion of “postcolonial gothic” or “tropical gothic” useful as a way of accounting for the ways in which the establishing of connections between different areas of the globe produces a kind of “intercultural flow.” Connecting up, or “worlding” can be seen as a form of grafting and produces a sense of the uncanny through the revelation of links between things not previously understood as having a connection. It also generates an “extreme intimacy,” revealing the ways in which the local is also uncanny, and Kincaid’s garden is full of ghosts. These ghosts provide a clue to the numerous forms of grafting, like the grafting of colonial names on plants, which can be seen as the historical traces of the various forms of stealing and destruction involved in colonialism. Paola Boi compared Kincaid and Baldwin as “angry people” involved in a struggle with an inescapable reality associated to a past of slavery which subverts the idea of normalcy. For both of them, leaving their native land was a way of surviving through a “radical transplant.” Both Baldwin and Kincaid can be viewed through Deleuze’s idea of the separation that precedes creation. She evoked Kincaid’s ambiguous relation to the island as both home and exile and her relation to plants as a metaphor for conquest; here also Kincaid was sensitive to the ambiguity involved in her gardening, which was creating a new geography of herself but which also made of her a member of the “conquering class.” Following such a line of investigation, Myriam Moïse looked at gardening as a way of digging into the earth in order to investigate the past and define oneself. She approached the question from the perspective of women’s umbilical relation to the land. The garden becomes a metaphor for identity construction beyond borders; the garden is “expandable” in Carol Boyce Davies’ sense of the term. In Kincaid’s writing and Senior’s poetry there is a sense of discomfort but also a rejection of the “normative space” of the garden. The seed can be seen as a natural colonizer (Senior’s focus on the berry/ovary) but also as a sign of resistance. It becomes the “fluid and elastic space” described by Paul Gilroy and in Kincaid’s and Senior’s writing creates a fluidity connecting it to “wider garden of the earth.”

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16 The conference also included activities that extended and enriched the discussions. On the evening of Thursday 18th Marc Jeanson, one of the curators of the exhibit “Jardins” at the Grand Palais and Manager of the National Herbarium at the Musée national d’histoire naturelle, offered a guided tour of the exhibit to the participants at the conference. On the evening of Friday 19th, the group “Lectures féministes” from Paris 8 invited the attendees to participate in a reading of a medley of Kincaid’s texts. The actor Théophile Choquet proposed readings of translated versions of texts from The Autobiography of My Mother and Mr. Potter.

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Pynchon’s New Worlds International Pynchon Week 2017 in La Rochelle, France, 5-9 June 2017

Lucille Hagège and Bastien Meresse

Introduction

1 On the heels of Thomas Pynchon’s 80th birthday last May, the 2017 edition of International Pynchon Week, organized by Bénédicte Chorier-Fryd (University of Poitiers) and Gilles Chamerois (University of Western Brittany), was a chance to take stock of a more than fifty-year literary career. With more papers investigating Pynchon’s later novels—Against the Day (2006), Inherent Vice (2009), and Bleeding Edge (2013)—, the conference sought to map Pynchon’s “new worlds” as well as reinvestigate the old. Throughout the week, scholars noted a more nuanced representation of both gender and family, a growing interest in “genre-poaching” and a continued attention to the politics of space. An evermore-varied theoretical toolbox also offered new insights into Pynchon’s literary output as a whole. Along with stimulating archival research, postcolonial studies, affect studies and even stylometry were all solicited this year to great effect, opening up new avenues of research for future Pynchon scholars.

Treasure trove

2 Archival findings, in particular, shed new light on decades-old mysteries this year. A notable highlight was the father-daughter collaboration of Nina Engelhardt (a lecturer in English literature at the University of Cologne) and Harald Engelhardt (a biologist at the Max-Planck-Institute for Biochemistry), who finally closed the book on Gravity’s Rainbow’s flummoxing second equation. Presenting original documents on German rocket research during the Second World War, they convincingly demonstrated that the equation is not nonsensical, as was previously thought, but an accurate representation of motion control which echoes nicely the wider theme of control in the novel1. Biographical and genetic research also illuminated Pynchon’s early intellectual development. Matthew Cissel (University of the Basque Country) postulated a link between the young Pynchon and an influential New York family, the Meyerhoffs, while

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Ali Chetwynd (American University of Iraq) investigated Pynchon’s materials at the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center. Chetwynd contended that early drafts of V. and the unfinished musical Minstrel Island signpost a significant shift in Pynchon’s early conceptualization of gender and violence.

Gender politics

3 This week aimed at continuing the work on gender laid out two years before in Athens. While a collection of essays, Thomas Pynchon, Sex, and Gender, is still to be edited in the wake of research dedicated to Pynchon’s career-long engagement with such questions, several panelists scrutinized his changing constructions of gender in his most recent novels. Basing his research on Pynchon’s pastiche of Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe novels and the Coen brothers’ film The Big Lebowski, Sean Carswell (California State University Channel Islands) examined the deviation from the tough guy in Inherent Vice, proposing that Pynchon’s later novels explore more fluid gender tropes than in the past. Kostas Kaltsas (University of Southampton) focused on the unexpected reclaiming of the nuclear family in Bleeding Edge, which introduces a mother as main character. He contended that by choosing a successful mother, Pynchon addresses previous criticisms of his work and suggests that he has unambiguously moved beyond his early sexism, and beyond the failure of normative motherhood that stained the reception of Vineland.

Genre Poaching

4 One of the most striking features of this edition of the conference was the influential way in which Brian McHale’s genre-poaching theory has been shaping recent Pynchon studies. In his essay, he argues that Pynchon engages in the practice of “mediated historiography – the writing of an era’s history through the medium of its popular genres,” (McHale, 25) seeking to bring to light “the repressed content of the genre itself.” Outlining a subgenre termed Hollow Earth Stories, popular in the 19th century, Kyle Smith (Perth College University) used the exploration of the bowels of the earth in Against the Day to show how these narratives examine otherness, moving through a variety of alternative landscapes. Bastien Meresse (University of Paris Sorbonne Nouvelle) framed his analysis by looking at the politics of flânerie in Bleeding Edge: by choosing to parody chick-lit, Pynchon features degraded versions of consumption. His characters are faced with the decaying forces of the new, signaling the obsolescence of the walker as a figure of resistance. Several panelists also looked for new literary filiations. Among them was Chad Hegelmeyer (New York University), who turned to New Journalism’s relationship to truth to examine Pynchon’s non-fiction piece “A Journey into the Mind of Watts.” His demonstration delved into the consequences of metaphorically describing a situation in which differences of experience and racial identity constitute distinct worlds, and how Pynchon’s article takes interest in maintaining these poles while trying to subvert them.

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Sensing Pynchon

5 If Pynchon’s novels poach other genres, they also borrow liberally from literature’s competing sister arts. Pynchon’s frequent references to the visible (cinema, photography, but also painting) and the audible (music, soundscapes, the withheld breath of an ellipsis) are countless adumbrations of the invisible. Lucille Hagège (University of Paris-Sorbonne) suggested that, in Gravity’s Rainbow, ekphrastic descriptions of paintings and other references to visual art act as “stilled” counterpoints to cinema, freezing and framing the politically overlooked. Arkadiusz Misztal (University of Gdańsk) evoked the “convergence of silver, time and light” (Against the Day, 454) in the early process of photography, a metaphor to which Pynchon returns in both Gravity’s Rainbow and Against The Day in order to articulate the temporal dimension of political or civic engagement.

6 It is also at the edges of the visible that the sounds of the silenced dwell, and whisper of revolution. Justin St. Clair (University of South Alabama) argued that Pynchon’s elision of the visible world in Mason & Dixon via references to sound, and silence, heightens both the power of listening and the political import of sounded space. In the same novel, Zofia Kolbuszewska (Wroclaw University) saw Jenkin’s ear, and the museum that houses it, as a cryptophore and a heterotopic space, where visual modernity undergoes de-familiarization, allowing the ear to function as a means of alternative communication. Finally, Christian Hänggi (University of Basel) visually rendered the “silent” songs that pepper Pynchon’s prose in an exhaustive statistical analysis of musical references in all his works.

Places of Power

7 A fair number of presentations also attempted to map Pynchon’s use of space to articulate power and resistance. Tiina Käkelä-Puumala (University of Turku) and Inger Dalsgaard (Aarhus University) both focused on the structural influence of real estate in Pynchon’s framing of power arrangement in his later fiction, and suggested that real estate continues Pynchon’s long-standing equation of land and conquest. Heidi Lavine (Westminster College, Missouri) examined the New World as a site over which Pynchon inscribes transatlantic relationships of power: the coffee and sugar-producing islands of the Caribbean in Mason & Dixon, and the character’s ubiquitous overindulgences and complicity with systems of global trade. Virtual space in Pynchon’s most recent novel, Bleeding Edge, also suggested new areas of research. Delving into virtual reality as narrative, Melissa Leismer (University of Granada) surveyed new modes of description in Pynchon’s quasi-imagined world, Deep Archer, and the novel’s lackluster retelling of 9/11.

“It’s code’s all it is” (Bleeding Edge, 356)

8 Technology also provided a segue into discussions of literary style. Martin Eve (Birkbeck, University of London) introduced Pynchon scholars to ‘computational stylometry’, the measurement of stylistic properties of texts using computers. As a quantifying method, stylometry has a long and varied history, from legal court cases

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where the accused was acquitted on the basis of stylometric evidence, to literary authorship attribution. Using, as an example, the mistaken attribution of Adrian Jones Pearson’s Cow Country to Pynchon, Eve demonstrated the possibilities and limitations of tools, such as “most-frequent-word comparisons” and “part-of-speech frequency comparisons” to contrast the two authors’ styles. Though still being perfected, the tools of literary forensics could have useful applications in the field of stylistics (or, as some luddites fear, allow computers to write fiction on their own, and thus spell the end of literature as we know it… A rather Pynchonian vision). Using more traditional stylistic analysis to break fresh ground, Erica Tasch (Minneapolis Northeast Middle School) presented a study of economic metaphors in Pynchon’s early short story “The Secret Integration” (1964). Metaphors of payment and debt in his work, she argued, are foundational to Pynchon’s experimentations with racial “passing” and the relationship between whiteness and capitalism.

Coming up Next

9 The conference’s forays into these “new worlds” allowed scholars to move even further beyond the somewhat worn-out postmodern approaches to the Pynchonian corpus and uncover productive new areas of research. Archival work, investigations of race, gender and space, generic studies and the use of new technologies are sure to be explored further in the next edition of International Pynchon Week, which is scheduled to take place in Rome in 2019. A call for papers will be broadcast in early 2018. In the meantime, the conference’s full program and recorded proceedings can be found here.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

McHALE, Brian, “Genre as History: Pynchon’s Genre-Poaching”, in Jeffrey Severs and Christopher Leise, dir., Pynchon’s Against The Day: A corrupted Pilgrim’s Guide, Newark, NJ, University of Delaware Press, 2011, 15-28

PYNCHON, Thomas, Against the Day, New York, The Penguin Press, 2012 [2006].

PYNCHON, Thomas, Bleeding Edge, London, Jonathan Cape, 2013

NOTES

1. For further details and images of the Engelhardts’ source material, please see their upcoming publication in Orbit: A Journal of American Literature.

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AUTHORS

LUCILLE HAGÈGE Université Paris-Sorbonne, doctorante

BASTIEN MERESSE Université Paris-Sorbonne, doctorant

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Recensions

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Claude Boli, Mohamed Ali

Peter Marquis

REFERENCES

Boli, Claude, Mohamed Ali, Paris: Gallimard, Folio biographies, 2016, 303 pages + appendices, 8,20 €, ISBN: 978-2-07-045410-5

1 Some say he is indeed the “greatest”, the best-known person on earth, ahead of Pélé or Michael Jackson1. From the sidewalks of big cities where peddlers sell posters of his knock-out punches to the genteel halls of universities and museums where his memory is celebrated, “Mohammed Ali” is a worldwide phenomenon that cuts across racial, ethnic, and class lines. Ali’s life has been recounted so many times and in so many formats that the prospect of learning anything truly new about “the Greatest” – a nickname Ali gave himself – is always slim2. Claude Boli’s biography, published in 2016 a few weeks after the boxer’s death, achieves this feat. Although it does not break any new ground in terms of biographical details or historical interpretation, it is an important book for francophone readers interested in putting Ali’s life into context as it raises issues related to sports and politics, the media, and race relations.

SUMMARY

2 Boli starts off with a well-informed portrayal of racial realities in the US between the 17th century and 1942 when Ali, then known as Cassius Marcellus Clay, Junior, was born to black parents in the segregation-stricken West End of Louisville, Kentucky. “Cash” Senior, his flamboyant father, worked several jobs (advertisement painter, night-club entertainer), while his religious mother cleaned white families’ houses (11-23). Louisville, a city at the gate of the Jim Crow South, offered few opportunities for its nonwhite residents, except for the more athletically gifted. At 12, Clay Junior discovered boxing in “Sergeant” Joe Martin’s gym , which according to legend, he entered to vent his anger after somebody had stolen his brand new bicycle (25).

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3 Clay Junior grew up to be a fast, smart, and disciplined boxer, who stayed away from alcohol and women. He was groomed by Joe Martin who led him to his first breakthrough at the Golden Gloves, a local and national tournament (35-44) followed by the 1960 Rome Olympics where he won gold, beating the Polish favorite Pietrzykowski (45-59).

4 For his homecoming in Louisville, a group of local businessmen – mostly Black lawyers – founded a committee to represent his business interests, which guaranteed Clay a decent living away from mobsters (61). Under his new coach Angelo Dundee – who stood in his corner throughout his career – Ali managed to take advantage of idiosyncratic body skills to invent a new form of boxing; he was in effect a lightweight in the body of a heavyweight. After a few years of easy wins against lesser opponents (74-84), Clay turned professional and went on to contend for the heavyweight championship. He trained daily in a ramshackle gym in Miami’s black district of Overtown where he led an austere life (83) under the supervision of Coach Dundee who managed to get the best of Ali’s creativity by never instructing him what to do (167-170).

5 Ali knew how to cater to the media: thanks to his press conferences filled with rapped poems and rhymed quips, often coined by his sidekick Drew Brown “Bundini,” he upped the promotional ante before a fight. With phrases like “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” Ali became the darling of the press. However, many thought he was but a clown and few believed he had the stuff to defeat the truly great punchers of the time, like Floyd Paterson or Sonny Liston (85-107). In 1963, he started a literal media blitzkrieg (109) to destabilize Sonny Liston, the title-holder and undisputed favorite. On February 25, 1964, against all odds, Clay beat him thanks to his unmatched celerity, derring-do and powerful left jabs and despite rumors that Liston had tried to blind him with an irritating substance (123). The next day Clay announced he was a member of the Nation of Islam and that he wished to be known as Muhammad Ali so as to free himself from the slave name given to his ancestors (126-139).

6 His joining the “Black Muslims” turned the well-liked showman into a sudden pariah. The New York press corps, led by Jimmy Cannon, Dick Young or Red Smith, cast him as an ungrateful, spoiled kid, spewing racial hatred, Black separatism and dubious anti- Americanism (138). To many black leaders of the Civil Rights Movement, he was dangerously undermining decades of efforts to bridge the racial gaps. Floyd Patterson, another heavyweight contender that Ali beat in 1965, made for a much better spokesperson for the nonviolent integrationist strategy they had chosen (142-144). Taking his cue from his once close friend and mentor Malcolm X, Ali refused to wait for the “white man” to give the “black man” crumbs of opportunity. He also refused to conform to any model of behaviors set by others. He famously said, “Yes, I will be the people’s champ, but not the way you want me to be” (quoted in Mann’s movie, Ali).

7 In the boxing rings, Ali remained the undefeated world champion for three years using a combination of thunder-fast leg moves (“the Ali shuffle”) and well-adjusted jabs and hooks to disarm his strongest opponents. He also engaged in mental warfare by giving nicknames to his adversaries and taunting them at every occasion (150-157). His verbal attacks – that “Marvelous Mouth,” in Tom Wolfe’s words – earned him a swath of criticism, compounded by a nasty campaign characterizing his boxing style as too showy and tricky, not hard-hitting enough. In 1967, faced against opponent Ernie Terrel, Ali insisted the latter call him Ali, not Clay anymore. Terrel demurred for the

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sake of promoting the bout (161), but as Ali went on to demolish him in the ring, repeatedly shouting “What’s my name?”, the press corps lambasted the fighter from Louisville for being a cruel, barbaric butcher. Obviously, Ali’s fault was his belonging to the Nation of Islam and being surrounded by a “black guard” (173-180), and some “white niggers” (181-185) like Norman Mailer or ABC sportscaster Howard Cosell.

8 In April 1967, Ali’s career stopped suddenly after his refusal to be inducted into the US Army to fight in the Vietnam War, although he would have likely received preferential treatment as an athletic supervisor. For refusing the draft he was sentenced to a 5-year imprisonment by a federal court (195) as well as stripped of his titles and boxing license. Ali’s rationale is well captured in his response to a journalist asking for explanations: “I ain’t got no quarrel with them Vietcong. No Vietcong ever called me a nigger” (188)3. His insubordination unsurprisingly furthered the campaign to vilify him: Murray Robinson called him “a coward,” Red Smith “a scoundrel,” Jimmy Cannon “a beatnik” (189-190); former star athletes like Joe Louis – one of Ali’s heroes – or civil rights pioneer Jackie Robinson berated such an “unpatriotic” attitude. The FBI put Ali under surveillance in order to make him bend, fearing his civil disobedience in the name of religious beliefs and personal freedom might discourage black youth to enlist (195).

9 Deprived of his boxing revenues, Ali turned to public speaking to make a living. From 1967 to 1970, he gave about 200 lectures, first at historically black colleges like Fisk, then in integrated universities such as Purdue, Harvard, or Yale. A plainspoken orator, he galvanized youth crowds with engaging themes such as Vietnam, race relations, black nationalism, interracial marriages, drug use and other societal topics, about which his white liberal audience often differed (196-202). Because he admitted to seeking to return to the ring for money, he was excommunicated from the Nation of Islam, which lent him further support from black radicals and antiwar leaders (203).

10 Thanks to a support campaign led by Esquire, Ali managed to get back in the boxing business in 1970 in Atlanta, where he defeated Jerry Quarry. In the capital of Georgia, Ali was crowned king of “Black power and Black money” (210) by the affluent black community who turned out in droves, including such figures as The Supremes, Bill Cosby, Ralph Ellison, and most civil right leaders.

11 Yet, his true comeback occurred in March 1971 against Joe Frazier, the illegitimate world champion whom Ali called a “gorilla.” Frazier was known as a brutish fighter who had punched his way out of poverty in the rings of Black Chicago. Their face-off was a multi-million dollar event that took place in New York City’s Madison Square Garden (214). With the world watching – TV had by then fully developed its symbiotic relationship with the sports world – Frazier beat Ali after 15 rounds of outstanding boxing (218-219)4. Subsequently, Frazier was defeated by George Foreman whom Ali decided to challenge in order to regain his championship belt.

12 Enters Don King, the black sports promoter who took the world by storm when he set out to stage the first heavyweight championship on the African continent. King struck a golden deal with Mobutu who was leading his country – Zaire – through a wave of nationalistic and modernizing reforms. While in Kinshasa for a few weeks before the match (postponed to October 1974 because Foreman suffered an injury) Ali became the idol of “Kin’s” population as he displayed a genuine interest in mingling with the locals, wearing African garb, and learning a few phrases in the vernacular. His attempt to bridge black America and Africa spread to the whole continent, notably in the Ivory

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Coast. Here, Claude Boli takes obvious pleasure in narrating Ali’s reception by the residents of Abobo, where the author’s own ancestors come from, such as his brother Basile, a hero of French football, who was known there as “Mohammed Ali” for his pugilistic skills (248).

13 Ali won the “Rumble in the Jungle” after eight painful rounds, against the predictions of most experts who thought his time away from the rings at the prime of his career would have made him an easy prey for Foreman’s devastating hooks to the flanks. In fact, Ali outsmarted Foreman by retreating to the ropes so that the latter would gradually lose speed and stamina, a technique now known as "Rope-a-Dope." The revenge match, once again run by Don King, took place in Manila, Philippines (“the Thrilla in Manila”, October 1975).

14 As the second part of the 1970s wore on, Ali, now in his mid-30s, refused to hang up his gloves5, much to the chagrin of his relatives and sportswriters who resented that he fought beyond his capacities against better, younger opponents who – nonetheless – wouldn’t bring themselves to humiliating the legend by “finishing” him with a knock- out. More alarming was Ali’s deteriorating health: he started to show early signs of Parkinson’s, probably because of the repeated blows he had to endure during training and competitions.

15 Throughout the 1980s and 90s, Ali the pariah, the Vietnam dissenter and overall black menace to the establishment, acquired a new public image as the embodiment of American courage and freethinking. The reinvention took place through a series of stages, including President Ford’s instrumentalization of Ali in 1974 (270) as well as Carter’s when he sent him as an ambassador of good will to the USSR (281). In 2005, even his hometown of Louisville – oblivious to its former denigration of Ali (192) – embraced the boxer’s heritage by opening a museum and a cultural center dedicated to the values he embodied.

16 In 1996, Ali’s debilitating disease was displayed to the world when he appeared at the Olympic Games Opening Ceremony in Atlanta to be the last carrier of the torch. Millions of viewers held their breath as the three-time heavyweight champion strove to light up the cauldron, his left hand shaking incessantly. The cauldron lit and kept burning for 17 days. Instantly – according to Boli - the boxer was reborn as an icon of the 20th century, a symbol of resilience that heralded Barack Obama’s election at the head of a so-called post-racial America.

APPRAISAL

17 Claude Boli, who was trained as a sociologist and historian in France and the UK, is to be commended for achieving the rare feat of writing a biography that is highly readable yet doesn’t simplify or overlook the context in which the studied life unfolded. Among other very compelling passages, the pages he dedicates to the co-development of Ali’s fame and renewed black nationalism (126-149) or the rise of television as the number one medium for communicating to the masses and generating profit (101-110) will be very useful for francophone readers looking to go beyond the usual simplistic snapshots. Boli also proves an expert in analyzing the various styles in heavyweight boxing (153-157) and knows how to render the thrills of a fight. He is also very

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convincing when explaining that in the 1960s, Islam was viewed as the religion of the marginalized, while Christianity was thought to support and serve white power (128).

18 The main shortcoming of Mohamed Ali stems from its very nature as a general audience biography. Because of editing constraints – or so I assume – Boli rarely cites his sources when making his most compelling points, thus forcing the reader to take his word at face value. More frustrating for the historian, the number of primary sources is limited to about fifty, most of which are articles from sporting publications. Even general audience biographies would gain from using first-hand sources and expanding the pool of studied material to areas outside the scope of the subject matter, for example, urban history, media studies, or critical race theory. In this respect, I was surprised to see a trained sociologist use the French phrases “noir”, “africain-américain” or “gens de couleurs” uncritically and interchangeably.

19 Another minor shortcoming lies in the failure of the author to situate his book within the rich list of works published on Ali. Ironically, Boli devotes three pages (189-191) to the presence of Ali in the printed world, from Mailer, through Hauser, Marqusee, Remnick, Early, Oates and Philonenko, but he fails to exploit his extensive knowledge of the existing literature to lay out his thesis or at least suggest a possible reading of Ali’s life.

20 Also surprisingly absent is a thorough discussion of Ali as a businessman or product. Although Ali did well for himself and died a millionaire, he made a lot of rich people richer thanks to his virtual sacrifice in boxing rings. Boli, who wrote about the making of Manchester United as a cultural and economic powerhouse, had the conceptual tools to broach this question. As a social scientist, he could have also introduced the broader audience to concepts such as blackness, masculinity, and social mobility so as to discuss how these played out in Ali’s life and public reception. To state the obvious, Ali is one of the best known incarnations of the “American Dream,” which reinforces the illusion that sports and hard work will inevitably lead to social mobility.

21 Finally, a few questions remain unanswered: Why did Ali accept the accolades of Civil Rights leaders like Coretta King or Ralph Abernathy in October 1970 (210) whereas he had been so condescending of “Uncle Toms” throughout the 1960s? What was Ali’s impact in US public diplomacy, be it in the USSR or during his fight for human rights in Bosnia in the 1990s (Bayne)? Lastly, what is one to make of his reinvention as “an object of heritage” (297)? I would like to discuss this last point in relation to his mediated image and subsequent “branding” (301), both being insufficiently analyzed by Boli in my opinion.

DISCUSSION

22 As well shown by Boli but even more compellingly by Remnick, Ali was a polarizing figure not only between black and white America, but also within the black community. His stance for Islam, for black nationalism, for black pride and against Blacks’ sacrifice in Vietnam led to a “blacklash” (Townsend) evidenced by the negative coverage he received from black newspapers such a Frank Stanley’s Louisville Defender. Indeed, Ali’s ways of “achieving equality were antithetical to the views of the Black middle-class establishment in Louisville and across America” (ibid). This would not be so significant if Ali had not been such a mediated figure, or to use Bayne’s pun “a ringmaster of the media ” (Bayne). Throughout his career he featured in movies (his first as early as 1962)

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and TV series, sang for Columbia Records in 1963 with Miles Davis and other luminaries, wrote many autobiographies, and appeared countless times in the mainstream press or illustrated magazines. In other words, Ali was as much a boxer as he was a showman, or a chameleonic Zelig who could amuse the audience by impersonating clowns, animals, TV presenters, northern and southern black folks, etc. Because he was self-aware and knew how to laugh at himself, his message on the plight of black Americans became more palatable.

23 At a time when politics and sports were thought to be incompatible, at a moment in US history when race had been calcified in a white/black opposition, he became an acceptable figure of dissent because he knew how to both play the media and be played by it. His antiwar stance in 1967 – however damaging to his career - encouraged someone like Reverend King to also speak up against the war. Besides, his rousing speeches on campuses “helped to create African American studies courses and Black cultural centers” according to McGregor, who goes so far as to characterize Ali as an “important figure within the New Left”.

24 Ali astoundingly managed to achieve all this without a proper PR agent; he was his own impresario, quite a feat in the age of Brian Epsteins and Malcolm McLarens. But the price of independence was steep: when stripped of his boxing license in 1967, few of his former friends showed solidarity, except Howard Cosell, the white ABC sportscaster who also supported Smith and Carlos in Mexico in 1968. Even Houdini and Elijah Muhammad’s son left him financially stranded, as cruelly shown in Mann’s biopic Ali. Ali’s return to the rings in 1970 symbolically played out as a conditional reintegration: America had redeemed him so he had a debt to repay, the full extent of which can be properly gauged in Ali’s post-mortem career. At his funeral, as noted by Townsend, the emphasis was laid on his courage not his subversive messages: “Ali was transformed from a firebrand activist to a Zen-like figure of global unity and peace,” Townsend writes.

25 The subsequent Disneyfication of Ali (to borrow from Cornel West’s assessment of the neutralizing of Martin Luther King’s radicalism) came hand in hand with the transformation of his name as a brand. In fact, even some his famous quips have been monetized: if one wanted to print the phrase “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” one would have to pay copyright fees to a company called ABG (301). The “initial danger” (Zirin) that Ali represented has been subsumed to buzzwords and selling catchphrases; “the nexus of faith, arrogance, virtue, compassion, violence, pride, determination, lyricism and autonomy” (Townsend) that he embodied has been chewed, digested and regurgitated under a new “Rebel Sell” (Heath) non-subversive form which ironically derives its appeal from its facade of danger and subversion. Thus Ali fits well into postmodern readings of the real as simulacrum and society as spectacle (Baudrillard).

26 It was clearly not Boli’s intention to write a biography informed by critical theory, yet one can pity the fact that such interpretations of our contemporary world as the ones presented by Baudrillard, Frank, or Zirin are rarely integrated into books for the general audience. What are we, scholars, trying to protect when isolating “facts” from “ interpretation”? We can only wish for more biographies, especially in the realm of sports, which engage not only with the context but with interpretations of the context, in the fashion of Sylvie Laurent’s on Martin Luther King.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

REFERENCES

ABDEL-SHEHID, Gamal, “Muhammad Ali: America’s B-side,” Journal of Sport and Social Issues 26, 2002, 317-325.

BAL, Candice (avec Yann Dherbier), Mohammed Ali: les images d’une vie. Paris: YB, 2009.

BAUDRILLARD, Jean, Simulacra and Simulation. Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press, 2006 (tr. from French).

BAYNE, Bijan C., “Muhammad Ali: Ringmaster of the Media,” Sport in American History Blog, 6 February 2017, online at https://ussporthistory.com/2017/02/06/muhammad-ali-ringmaster-of- the-media/

BEAUCHEZ, Jérôme, “Mohamed Ali, ou l'institution d'une figure agonistique à la charnière du ‘spectacle intégré’” in Gasparini, William (ed.). L’Institution des pratiques sportives et de loisir, Paris, Le Manuscrit, 2007, 95-116.

BOLI, Claude. Manchester United: l’invention d’un club : deux siècles de métamorphoses, Paris, La Martinière, 2004.

FRANK, Thomas C., The Conquest of Cool: Business Culture, Counterculture, and the Rise of Hip Consumerism, Univ. of Chicago Press, 2006.

GORN, Elliott J., ed., Muhammad Ali, the People's Champ, Urbana & Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1995.

HASIC, Albinko, “Muhammad Ali and the Fight Against Genocide,” Sport in American History Blog, 9 February 2017, online at https://ussporthistory.com/2017/02/09/muhammad-ali-and- the-fight-against-genocide.

HAUSER, Thomas, Muhammad Ali: His Life and Times, London, Robson, 2004.

HEATH, Joseph, and Andrew Potter. The Rebel Sell. How the Counterculture Became Consumer Culture, Oxford, Capstone, 2006.

LAURENT, Sylvie. Martin Luther King: une biographie intellectuelle et politique. Paris, Éditions du Seuil, 2015.

LELORAIN, Patrice. La Légende de Muhammad Ali, Paris, La Table ronde, 2007.

McGREGOR, Andrew, “Ali at Purdue: Reconsidering the Impact and Legacy of His Campus Speeches,” Sport in American History Blog, 16 February 2017, online at https:// ussporthistory.com/2017/02/16/ali-at-purdue-reconsidering-the-impact-and-legacy-of-his- campus-speeches.

MARQUSEE, Mike, Redemption Song: Muhammad Ali and the Spirit of the Sixties. London: Verso, 2000.

PHILONENKO, Alexis, Mohammed Ali, Un Destin américain, Paris, Bartillat, 2007.

REMNICK, David, King of the World: Muhammad Ali and the Rise of an American Hero, New York, Random House, 1998.

TOWNSEND, Stephen, “Life after Death in Louisville,” Sport in American History Blog, 20 February 2017, online at https://ussporthistory.com/2017/02/20/life-after-death-in-louisville.

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WEST, Cornel, “Dr. King Weeps From His Grave,” The New York Times, 25 August 2011, online at https://nyti.ms/2kRUYs5.

ZANG, David. “The Greatest: Muhammad Ali’s Confounding Character” in Zang, David, SportsWars: Athletes in the Age of Aquarius, University of Arkansas Press, 2001.

ZIRIN, Dave. A People's History of Sports in the United States: 250 Years of Politics, Protest, the People, and Play, New York, New Press, 2009.

NOTES

1. I owe a debt of gratitude to Darcy Ballister for her help with an earlier version of this review. 2. Boli’s biography complements a handful of books in French (Philonenko 2007; Lelorain 2008; Bal 2009) and a plethora in English (Gorn ed. 1995; Remnick 1998; Marqsee 2000; Hauser 2004), to name but a few.

F0 F0 3. Ali is also reported to have said, “5B Why should I be required to5D drop bullets and bombs on Brown people in Vietnam why so-called Negro people in Louisville are treated like dogs” (quoted in Townsend). 4. This match and many others are rewatchable on YouTube (https://www.youtube.com/watch? v=ctKAGKVpCUU). 5. He held his last match in 1981 at age 39 – a loss to Trevor Berbick, only the fifth in his two- decade career.

AUTHORS

PETER MARQUIS Université Rouen-Normandie

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Lawrence Buell, The Dream of the Great American Novel

Jean-Yves Pellegrin

RÉFÉRENCE

Buell, Lawrence, The Dream of the Great American Novel, Cambridge, London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2014. 567 pages, 21,75 €, ISBN 978-0-674-05115-7

1 Jean-Yves Pellegrin, Université Paris-Sorbonne

2 L’idée du « Grand Roman américain » ne fait plus guère rêver la critique universitaire. Depuis les années 1960-1970, la perception de la littérature américaine comme fruit de multiples influences, et non plus comme produit autonome d’un territoire, a émoussé l’intérêt de la théorie pour la définition d’un corpus canonique et frappé d’un soupçon d’exceptionnalisme les approches cherchant à restaurer la vision d’une littérature nationale. Tout en reconnaissant les forces centrifuges à l’œuvre dans la littérature américaine, The Dream of the Great American Novel entend faire contrepoids au désintérêt de la critique pour le sujet. Lawrence Buell maintient que si elle est en crise en Amérique, l’idée de nation demeure et que les textes susceptibles d’incarner le grand roman américain, loin d’être des démonstrations de nationalisme, insistent au contraire sur la vanité des prétentions de l’Amérique à la supériorité et à la grandeur ; paradoxe qui justifie à lui seul qu’on prenne la question au sérieux.

3 L’ouvrage comprend cinq parties divisées en chapitres, encadrées par une introduction et un épilogue, assorties d’un appareil de notes de 73 pages et d’un index de 26 pages, composante très utile pour appréhender la somme considérable d’informations que propose cet épais volume.

4 L’introduction – après avoir esquissé le plan d’ensemble du livre (un panorama général suivi d’études de cas illustrant les quatre scénarios qui constituent selon Buell l’ADN du Grand Roman américain) – présente les facteurs qui ont présidé à l’émergence de la notion et en assurent la pérennité. Si le désir de légitimation culturelle et l’affirmation

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d’une identité nationale dans un contexte postcolonial en sont indubitablement les catalyseurs, ils n’expliquent pas que le rêve du Grand Roman américain ait perduré après l’accession des Etats-Unis à la puissance littéraire et politique. Quatre autres ressorts plus durables et proprement américains sont à considérer : le défi lancé à la représentation littéraire par l’immensité du territoire ; le débat sur la capacité d’une littérature régionale à exprimer l’identité nationale ; le lien tissé par l’idéologie de la réussite entre histoire nationale et récits de destinées individuelles ; la tradition qui imagine l’Amérique tournée vers l’avenir et pousse chaque génération à écrire le nouveau Grand Roman américain.

5 La première partie, intitulée « The Unkillable Dream », dresse un panorama diachronique de l’évolution de l’idée du Grand Roman américain : sa naissance, son épanouissement dans la seconde moitié du XIXe siècle et son déclin (chapitre 1), puis sa renaissance à l’ère contemporaine (chapitre 2). Buell rappelle que l’expression « the Great American Novel » (le GAN pour reprendre l’acronyme de Henry James) fut introduite par John W. De Forest dans un essai de 1868 pour appeler de ses vœux l’écriture d’un roman de facture réaliste qui saisirait l’âme américaine en embrassant dans sa totalité la géographie et la culture nationales. Au lendemain de la guerre de Sécession, aucun consensus n’avait encore émergé sur ce qui pourrait constituer une littérature nationale dans un pays qui fut une entité politique avant d’être une nation. Dans le contexte de la Reconstruction, le rêve du GAN advient ainsi pour consolider l’idée nationale et donner corps à la fable de la réunification entre le Nord et le Sud. Si jusque dans les années 1920, le GAN demeure une formule vague, il ressort néanmoins de ce flou certains traits caractéristiques : le Grand Roman américain ne peut être court. Ses héros doivent être emblématiques. Le GAN peut prendre une région pour toile de fond pourvu qu’il en élargisse l’horizon. Il lui faut aussi mener une réflexion sur l’histoire du pays et ses institutions fondatrices : démocratie, individualisme, capitalisme, immigration, expansion territoriale, diversité ethnique… Le GAN ne fait pas pour autant le panégyrique de la nation. Dès l’origine – que Buell assigne à la publication de Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1852) – il se montre critique à l’égard de la réalité américaine.

6 Si ces caractéristiques font l’objet d’un large consensus, d’autres aspects du GAN sont débattus dans les premières décennies du XXe siècle. Le Grand Roman américain doit-il se cantonner à la scène américaine ou peut-il s’en éloigner ? La question du réalisme panoramique (associée d’emblée par De Forest à l’idée du GAN) fait aussi l’objet d’une remise en question dans les années 1930 avec l’essor du modernisme qui exprime une insatisfaction croissante à l’égard des insuffisances du réalisme traditionnel. La contestation du réalisme marque aussi l’heure de la première attaque contre l’idée même du grand roman américain. Avec The Making of Americans (1925), Gertrude Stein ne se contente pas de lancer un audacieux défi au réalisme traditionnel, elle parodie les stéréotypes qui ont pris corps autour du GAN, ouvrant la voie à d’autres réalisations comme The Great American Novel (1938) de Brion Davis. Marche vers l’Ouest, conflit Nord-Sud, essor industriel, image de la famille comme microcosme de la nation y figurent parmi les traits désormais rebattus du Grand Roman américain. Toutefois, la parodie n’est pas simple discrédit jeté sur le GAN ; elle témoigne de la persistance de l’aspiration à traduire en fiction l’expérience nationale et contribue à prolonger le rêve en l’empêchant de se prendre trop au sérieux. La vraie disgrâce vient plutôt de la critique qui se professionnalise dans l’entre-deux-guerres et relègue la quête du GAN au rang d’un maniérisme daté. Pourtant, soutient Buell, le désintérêt de la critique pour le

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GAN dans la deuxième moitié du XXe siècle a moins tué le rêve qu’elle ne l’a relancé. En portant son attention sur d’autres objets, notamment les classiques du panthéon américain (The Scarlet Letter, Moby-Dick, Huckleberry Finn), l’exégèse a remis sur le devant de la scène des textes susceptibles justement d’incarner le GAN. La notion est en effet étroitement liée au développement d’un canon. Celui-ci s’est peu à peu élargi aux romans majeurs du XXe siècle tout en s’affranchissant de l’emprise de l’establishment universitaire, notamment dans les dernières décennies via l’essor de la blogosphère. Pour donner un aperçu du caractère de plus en plus hétérogène du GAN, Buell referme cette première partie sur l’étude concise de deux romans que tout semble opposer mais qui comptent aujourd’hui parmi les textes les plus souvent décrits comme de Grands Romans américains : les Rabbitt de John Updike et Beloved de Toni Morrison. Le premier s’inscrit dans la veine d’un réalisme à la Howells, ancré dans une description de la classe moyenne blanche. Le second rompt avec cette tradition et évoque l’expérience noire en Amérique. La comparaison montre cependant que l’idée du GAN n’est pas indéfiniment extensible ; des constantes demeurent et les projets sont moins antithétiques que réciproques. Chez Updike comme chez Morrison, les récits posent la question du centre et de la marge en Amérique et témoignent des stratégies employées par les protagonistes pour affronter un passé traumatique et un présent menaçant.

7 La deuxième partie – intitulée « Script One : Made Classic by Retelling » – étudie le premier scénario constitutif du GAN : la canonisation d’un texte par ses relectures et réécritures successives. Le chapitre 3 prend pour exemple prototypique The Scarlet Letter (1850) que rien ne prédisposait à entrer dans la catégorie du Grand Roman américain et qui acquit malgré lui le statut de « master text » instituant le mythe des origines coloniales de la nation. Telle n’était pourtant pas l’ambition de Hawthorne qui ne reconnaissait pour toute patrie que la Nouvelle-Angleterre. L’américanité de la célèbre romance se révèle problématique à plusieurs titres. L’auteur revendique des sources d’inspiration européennes, comme Andrew Marvell, Walter Scott ou La Nouvelle Héloïse dont l’intrigue anticipe le ménage à trois de The Scarlet Letter. La dimension nationale du récit est également remise en question par le fait que l’Amérique y est toujours vue à travers le prisme de l’Europe : les protagonistes sont des immigrants tout imprégnés de l’esprit du Vieux Monde. The Scarlet Letter se rattache ainsi à une tradition « euro-diasporique » remontant au Moyen Age, sans ancrage précis dans une époque ou un lieu. Enfin, le Nouveau Monde y apparaît comme un projet incertain : il s’agit moins de consolider la colonie ou de construire la nation que de témoigner des épreuves de la transplantation. Hawthorne ne dit donc pas « Voici la fiction nationale » mais interroge : une telle fiction peut-elle et doit-elle exister ? Faut-il que la nation soit la référence fondamentale de l’identité politique et de l’imagination collective ?

8 Ces questions expliquent que le roman de Hawthorne ait suscité de nombreux intérêts critiques aux Etats-Unis et que s’en soient multipliées les lectures. Buell reprend ici les plus connues, comme celle de Sacvan Bercovitch qui veut entendre dans le texte la voix du compromis, symbiose du consensus collectif et de la dissidence individuelle au cœur de la vie américaine, ou celle de la critique féministe – toutes donnant au roman une portée nationale plus ou moins explicite. En outre, les hésitations de la voix narrative, sa manière d’insinuer que toute l’histoire n’a pas été révélée, suscitent le sentiment que les potentialités du roman ne sont pas entièrement réalisées. Ceci peut expliquer selon Buell les multiples récritures qui font la fécondité de The Scarlet Letter en tant que grand texte national. De cette appropriation ressortent des thèmes présents seulement en germe dans le texte de Hawthorne, qui seront ensuite exploités par le GAN, faisant de

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The Scarlet Letter son prototype inattendu : un conte provincial écrit contre les limites du provincialisme, une réflexion sur les formes de la collectivité démocratique.

9 La troisième partie de l’ouvrage – « Script Two : Aspiration in America » – est consacrée au deuxième scénario typique du GAN. L’Amérique a élaboré son propre paradigme du roman de formation, plus égalitaire que celui d’Europe. La réussite sociale d’un personnage aux origines modestes constitue le plus spécifique des mythes américains. Le chapitre 4 en retrace la généalogie et l’évolution jusqu’à l’aube du modernisme. L’image, promue à la période coloniale, d’une Amérique moins enfermée que le Vieux Monde dans le carcan des classes, a influencé l’imaginaire national et donné naissance à divers types de récit (Rêve américain, self-made man) aux soubassements idéologiques spécifiques. Dans la jeune république, Benjamin Franklin est le grand modèle de la réussite. Son ascension, légendaire dans l’Amérique du XIXe, renforce l’idée selon laquelle tout est possible aux Etats-Unis. Cependant, le prototype divise. Si le « Franklinisme » est une source d’inspiration pour les chefs d’Etat et les capitaines d’industrie, il représente aussi l’apothéose de l’utilitarisme (néfaste selon Thoreau et Melville à l’essor des arts en Amérique). En résulte une certaine inhibition des lettres américaines à l’égard de ce modèle. Dès la parution des premières « up-from stories », l’ascension du self-made man ne semble tolérable que si elle s’accompagne d’une maturation spirituelle et d’une haute conscience morale. Ce n’est qu’avec le darwinisme social et l’essor de la fiction naturaliste au tournant du siècle que la légitimité de l’aspiration humaine à la réussite matérielle est enfin acceptée. Apparaissent alors des romans de « masculine self-making » sans alibi moral, dont Martin Eden (1909) est le premier exemple ; masculine car jusqu’à la fin du XIXe, les personnages féminins tiennent les premiers rôles dans les romans de maturation. Contrairement à leurs homologues de l’autre sexe (Ishmael, Dimmesdale, Huck), qui persévèrent dans leur être en s’accrochant à l’innocence rêvée de l’enfance et de l’Amérique, les héroïnes grandissent avec le pays. The Lamplighter (1854) de Maria Cummins en fournit l’une des premières illustrations, suivie par d’autres textes qui en compliquent le modèle, comme Portrait of a Lady (1881) ou The Song of the Lark (1915). Henry James comme Willa Cather y décrivent la transformation de jeunes provinciales en cosmopolites raffinées. Si le premier pointe le péril moral qu’entraînent la réussite matérielle et la sophistication, la seconde en revanche met l’accent sur l’émancipation offerte par la réussite d’une ambition. C’est aussi la perspective retenue par Edith Wharton dans The Custom of the Country (1913), premier roman associant inextricablement la réussite matérielle et la construction de soi. Wharton entame ainsi une refonte du scénario que poursuit le Grand Roman américain au XXe siècle.

10 Le chapitre 5 examine cette refonte. A une époque où le Rêve américain est perçu de plus en plus comme une illusion datée, Dreiser, Fitzgerald et Faulkner mettent en scène un désir d’ascension et d’accomplissement de soi dont ils dénoncent simultanément l’impossibilité. Dreiser montre l’individu écrasé par des mécanismes qui le dépassent ; Fitzgerald décrit la formidable machine que construit Gatsby pour courir à sa perte. Avec Absalom, Absalom !, Faulkner peint quant à lui l’erreur d’un homme qui s’obstine à vouloir établir une dynastie après que la guerre de Sécession a détruit le système de la plantation. A travers le personnage de Sutpen, figé dans son innocence adolescente, Faulkner, plus que Dreiser et Fitzgerald, met au jour le caractère régressif de l’aspiration à la grandeur. Dans chacun de ces romans, la présence d’un narrateur observateur signale la distance critique qui s’est instaurée vis-à-vis du mythe. Ces récritures se prolongent avec le modernisme ethnique. Native Son (1941) en est une

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illustration grinçante, qui donne à l’expérience du minoritaire une valeur exemplaire. Cependant, même frappé de faillite, le mythe conserve son aura comme en témoigne The Adventures of Augie March (1953) de Saul Bellow dont la prose prend des accents néo- whitmaniens pour décrire la maturation, sinon l’ascension, d’un fils d’immigrant.

11 Le chapitre 6 envisage plus avant la transformation des récits de construction de soi dans l’Amérique plurielle (hyphenated) en convoquant notamment Ralph Ellison et Philip Roth. Invisible Man (1952) est le texte avec lequel Ellison s’attaque expressément à l’écriture du Grand Roman américain. Il revendique l’influence de Twain et des Adventures of Huckleberry Finn dont il retient surtout l’humour, trait définitoire à ses yeux de la littérature américaine. L’humour est en effet la marque d’un décalage entre l’idéal démocratique américain et la réalité quotidienne qui en révèle l’hypocrisie, décalage dont Twain identifiait déjà la trace exemplaire dans la condition du Noir en Amérique. Si Invisible Man adopte ce constat, il propose aussi une expérience de lecture différente de celle du roman de Twain en récapitulant le parcours d’un homme qui, à l’inverse de Huck, passe de l’innocence à la maturité et dont l’expérience prend, contrairement à celle de Jim, une valeur nationale : l’homme invisible est autant le Noir que l’Américain. Invisible Man efface la ligne de partage entre littérature minoritaire et mainstream et exprime la conscience de leur indissociabilité. La trilogie américaine de Roth – American Pastoral (1997), I Married a Communist (1998), The Human Stain (2000), trois récits d’ascension sociale depuis une enclave ethnique, présente des similitudes avec Invisible Man : la méditation sur la nature de l’ethnicité, la fusion de l’individuel et du paradigmatique. Les différences sont cependant tout aussi importantes : le scénario de l’ascension chez Ellison appelle l’Amérique à reconnaître la présence occultée d’une minorité qui tient une place primordiale dans le processus de construction nationale ; chez Roth, l’ascension est d’abord celle d’une classe moyenne déjà intégrée et les romans qui la racontent sont des fables sur le prix de cette ascension. Pour clore cette partie, Buell considère la part croissante des minorités ethniques dans les récits de maturation de la fin du XXe siècle. Celle-ci n’implique pas selon lui la mise au rebut du vieux rêve américain et du GAN qui l’incarne. Buell soutient que ce rêve reste au contraire vivant en tant que thème même s’il est soumis à une récriture profonde. Les romans de Julia Alvarez, Bharati Mukherjee, Chang Rae Lee, Ha Jin révèlent en effet une dépréciation radicale du rêve américain tenu pour une illusion dangereuse dont il faut se prémunir même lorsque l’aspiration à l’élévation sociale demeure.

12 La quatrième partie – « Script Three : Romancing the Divides » – expose le troisième scénario caractéristique du GAN : la cristallisation de l’idée de fracture (géographique, idéologique, ethnique, socioculturelle), son effacement et sa réinvention. Uncle Tom’s Cabin (chapitre 7) illustre la difficile négociation des lignes de faille traversant le pays. Si Harriet Beecher Stowe s’efforce de penser au-delà de la fracture Nord-Sud et de franchir intellectuellement la frontière entre Blancs et Noirs, elle adopte aussi la plupart des stéréotypes qui les distinguent dans l’imaginaire blanc du Nord. Le roman hésite ainsi entre deux pôles qui renversent et affirment tout à la fois les séparations et les inégalités. La fiction réformatrice postérieure à Uncle Tom’s Cabin – par exemple, Ramona (1884) de Helen Hunt Jackson – présente selon Buell un traitement plus lucide des questions sociales et idéologiques qui sous-tendent les divisions intra-nationales.

13 Autre Grand Roman de la fracture, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (chapitre 8) éclipse Uncle Tom’s Cabin à la fin du XIX e siècle pour devenir le GAN de l’esclavage et de la culture sudiste. Si les deux romans sont souvent mis en balance par la critique, Buell

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soutient qu’ils partagent aussi de nombreuses caractéristiques : humour et sentimentalisme moralisateur, contraste entre la corruption de l’esprit et la bonté du cœur. La spécificité de Huckleberry Finn tient à la satire indirecte du nouveau Sud après la Reconstruction et à la conscience aiguë de l’obstacle séparant la pensée du Blanc de celle du Noir (l’ambiguïté du lien d’amitié entre Huck et Jim en témoigne). Le progressisme de Twain est donc plus implicite que celui de Stowe, presque clandestin, caché sous la satire équivoque. Pour Buell, ceci explique que Huckleberry Finn ait attiré un plus vaste lectorat que d’autres romans de la question noire et sudiste qui la traitent pourtant avec plus d’exactitude historique. Buell évoque notamment Marrow of Tradition (1901) de Charles W. Chesnutt.

14 Le chapitre 9 établit un parallèle entre le roman majeur de Faulkner Absalom, Absalom ! (1936) et Gone With the Wind (1936) de Margaret Mitchell. Le premier interroge la fracture Nord-Sud et la séparation entre Blancs et Noirs en évoquant l’emprise de la mythographie de la plantation sur l’imaginaire national pour la vider de sa substance et dévoiler l’hallucination ruineuse qu’elle constitue. Gone with the Wind, au-delà des abîmes qui le séparent du roman de Faulkner, dénonce comme lui la vacuité des codes sudistes en leur opposant un personnage féminin fort qui y contrevient. Comme Absalom encore, le roman ne se résout pas à renier le modèle qu’il semble pourtant mettre à mal et réhabilite l’idéal aristocratique sudiste (ce que Faulkner ne fait pas). Mitchell témoigne ainsi d’une fascination/répulsion pour la mystique de l’ordre ancien analogue à celle de Faulkner, même si ce dernier en montre la décadence anachronique là où Mitchell cherche à raviver le souvenir d’un passé excitant. Le chapitre se clôt sur une étude de la thématique du mélange racial (qui traverse le scénario du divide) dans des réalisations plus tardives : Strange Fruit (1944) de Lilian Smith et The Narrows (1953) d’Ann Petry. Ces deux ethnographies de la ségrégation dans l’Amérique des petites villes présentent des tableaux identiques du Nord et du Sud, racistes, constitués de communautés repliées sur elles-mêmes, où le métissage n’apparaît pas plus que dans les romans antérieurs comme une manière crédible de réduire la fracture.

15 Beloved (1987) fait l’objet principal du dernier chapitre de cette partie. Buell y montre comment le roman de Toni Morrison réinvente la ligne de partage entre le Nord et le Sud, le Blanc et le Noir, à travers l’exhumation des racines africaines de l’expérience noire-américaine. Beloved replace l’esclavage et ses conséquences dans le temps long du contexte afro-diasporique et insiste sur le fait que le souvenir du passé ne peut figurer qu’entre guillemets, récupéré dans le contexte de ce qui en bloque l’accès : barrière linguistique, érosion de la mémoire, séparations forcées, brumes du cauchemar et de la peur, nécessité de se protéger d’un fardeau de souffrance et d’humiliation potentiellement écrasant. Dans Beloved l’esclavage n’est plus inscrit dans le seul cadre d’un récit américain. L’africanité cependant reste une mémoire incomplète, la diaspora un élément à la fois incontournable et irrécupérable – sinon par le biais de (re)constructions imaginaires – de l’identité afro-américaine. Pour conclure ce chapitre, Buell aborde d’autres lignes de fracture. De nouvelles frontières se dessinent au XXIe siècle, plus poreuses encore que celles abordées jusqu’ici, pour des identités toujours plus complexes et hybrides. Dans de telles conditions, le troisième scénario du GAN pourrait être en péril si aucun paradigme dominant pour la fiction des frontières ethno-territoriales ne devait se faire jour.

16 La cinquième et dernière partie de l’ouvrage, intitulée « Script Four : Improbable Communities », réunit trois romans – Moby-Dick (1851), U.S.A. (1929-1938) et Gravity’s

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Rainbow (1973) – qui reflètent l’évolution socio-économique des Etats-Unis en des périodes de crise et montrent comment cette évolution menace de compromettre les principes démocratiques du pays sous le prétexte de les promouvoir. Buell rattache ce dernier scénario du GAN à une longue tradition de défiance envers les risques de dérive du système démocratique (exposés par exemple dans The American Democracy (1838) de J.F. Cooper, De La Démocratie en Amérique de Tocqueville ou The American Commonwealth (1888) de James Bryce) : dissolution de l’individu dans la foule, délégation de son pouvoir à de lointains représentants qui favorise le fatalisme des masses, réapparition et aggravation sous l’effet de l’essor industriel des inégalités sociales et des oligarchies que la démocratie prétend abolir. Dans chacun des textes étudiés, la conscience narrative échoue à expliquer et à maîtriser les formes de plus en plus subtilement dépersonnalisées d’une autorité qui entrave l’émergence d’une solidarité cohérente entre agents libres et égaux.

17 Parmi les multiples facettes de Moby-Dick, une seule est retenue dans le chapitre qui lui est consacré (chapitre 11). Buell y voit une enquête sur l’état et le devenir de la société démocratique américaine à l’ère du capitalisme industriel naissant. Sur le Pequod, Achab règne en despote paranoïaque et Ismaël se soumet à son autorité, tout comme Pip et Starbuck, pas seulement parce que la discipline est nécessaire à la conduite d’un navire mais aussi par fatalisme et en vertu d’un plaisir masochiste de soumission. En outre, Ismaël perd au cours du récit le contrôle de la voix narrative – celle-ci s’efface, conséquence du règne absolu d’Achab. Cet effacement signifie la suppression de la principale voix contestataire du roman et non la victoire d’Achab, figure de l’individualisme dévoyé et incarnation d’une démocratie dans l’impasse. Car le Pequod constitue aussi un laboratoire d’utopies politiques : un homme de couleur peut y être officier et un harponneur maori gagner plus que son homologue blanc inexpérimenté. C’est un village international qui plaide en faveur d’une république universelle tout en interrogeant l’idée même de démocratie : un équipage d’agents indépendants peut-il tracer sa route sans une quelconque forme de discipline imposée d’en haut ?

18 Le chapitre 12 est consacré à la trilogie U.S.A de Dos Passos, Grand Roman américain de l’effondrement et complément macrocosmique du microcosme du Pequod. Buell y lit la chronique des promesses trahies de la démocratie industrielle, satire d’une société de la désindividualisation et de la standardisation, de la manipulation orchestrée par la propagande du capital ; un monde aux interactions sociales diffuses, abstraites, médiées et compartimentées. Le confinement du Camera Eye – incarnation de la conscience narrative de la trilogie – à des enregistrements intermittents rappelle l’effacement de la voix d’Ismaël dans Moby-Dick. La langue elle-même, faite de platitudes et de clichés, évoque la bande sonore d’une société urbaine soumise à la régulation institutionnelle de l’information. Malgré la prolifération des scènes et des personnages, U.S.A. déploie un panorama social moins hétérogène que celui du Pequod. Dos Passos fait l’anatomie des pathologies de la culture dominante telle qu’elle s’imagine (soit empreinte du code WASP). Dos Passos ne s’inscrit donc pas dans la veine du roman prolétarien ni du manifeste ethno-national. Buell note qu’à ce titre The Grapes of Wrath (1939), l’autre Grand Roman collectif de la Dépression, pourrait présenter une alternative à U.S.A. Le texte de Steinbeck modernise et renverse l’odyssée mythique de la migration vers l’Ouest pour peindre la déchéance du vieux peuple des fermiers de souche américaine. Au-delà de ce cadre cependant, le roman inclut les tribulations de tous les petits et déracinés pour présenter une conception souple et plurielle d’une

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communauté humaine reposant sur l’entraide, dont les contours dépassent le cadre de la nation.

19 Le dernier chapitre du volume établit un parallèle entre Gravity’s Rainbow et Moby-Dick. Le premier est l’allégorie d’un Etat devenu autoritaire après les révolutions manquées de 1848 en Europe ; le second, une fable sur les peurs de conspiration attisées par la Guerre froide. Ces deux romans de la quête ultime d’un symbole phallique de pouvoir – baleine blanche ou V2 – dissèquent des régimes totalitaires de surveillance et de manipulation. Dans ce contexte, toute individualité est vouée à la disparition. Comme Ismaël dont la présence s’efface, Slothrop, protagoniste « principal » du roman, se désagrège. Figure focale susceptible de susciter l’intérêt du lecteur et de représenter à ses yeux une individualité et une humanité familières, le personnage est contenu, déformé et éclipsé par des champs de forces incontrôlables et incommensurables. Gravity’s Rainbow se présente ainsi comme un récit de la victimisation de l’humanité ordinaire par les puissants, récit encore plus sombre que celui de Melville, à l’apocalypse finale plus radicale. A travers l’évocation des « preterite » – les oubliés de Dieu dans la doctrine puritaine, mais aussi toute population sacrifiable en quelque lieu ou époque que ce soit, manipulée et détruite par des puissances supérieures – Pynchon trace une filiation directe entre les racines de l’Amérique et le IIIe Reich. Cependant, Gravity’s Rainbow ouvre des brèches dans sa dystopie en dépolarisant par exemple les images conventionnelles et manichéennes associées aux Etats-Unis et à l’URSS. Mais surtout, la farce parodique est l’instrument essentiel d’une mise en question du diagnostic posé par le récit.

20 L’ouvrage se referme sur un « épilogue » qui esquisse différents avenirs du GAN, entre d’une part sa possible extinction avec la fin du « siècle américain » et la tendance des romanciers contemporains à concevoir leurs projets en termes d’affiliations plus larges que simplement nationales et, d’autre part, sa probable perpétuation : puisque que le GAN d’hier n’a cessé de dire une Amérique sur le déclin, pourquoi celui de demain n’en ferait-il pas tout autant ?

21 Impressionnant d’érudition, l’ouvrage de Lawrence Buell embrasse un vaste panorama de la littérature américaine. L’approche de l’auteur est avant tout celle d’un historien des idées. Elle privilégie donc, au moins à l’intérieur de chaque partie, la chronologie, les mises en contexte, les filiations intellectuelles et convoque la critique pour dessiner l’évolution, au fil des périodes, du regard posé sur les œuvres étudiées. A ce titre, The Dream of the Great American Novel constitue un précieux ouvrage de référence pour tout américaniste, étudiant ou chercheur, en quête de l’arrière-plan idéologique, économique, social ou politique susceptible d’informer une interprétation des textes majeurs de la fiction américaine. L’objet même de l’étude justifie ce recours à l’histoire. Le Grand Roman américain a vocation, selon Buell, à dresser un état des lieux de la nation et ne peut y parvenir sans une nécessaire conscience historique. L’idée du Grand Roman américain est en outre liée à l’établissement d’un canon qui ne peut se constituer que par révisions, relectures et rapprochements successifs dans des contextes changeants ; les Grands Romans d’hier ne sont pas toujours ceux d’aujourd’hui. Cette perspective présente l’intérêt de délimiter des ensembles thématiques dans le corpus de la littérature américaine dont certains confirment des filiations connues, comme celle qui lie Moby-Dick et Gravity’s Rainbow, tandis que d’autres suggèrent des voisinages moins attendus – celui de Steinbeck avec Melville ou

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de Stowe avec Twain – voire résolument improbables, comme le mariage (bancal certes mais mariage malgré tout) de Faulkner et de Margaret Mitchell.

22 C’est ici peut-être qu’apparaissent les limites principales de la démarche de Buell. Comme l’auteur le souligne, le Grand Roman américain est un concept fuyant. L’établissement des critères retenus pour le définir implique une part d’arbitraire et le lecteur ne peut que s’interroger sur la légitimité des scénarios retenus quand ceux-ci se montrent élastiques au point d’englober le disparate. Pour ne retenir qu’un exemple pris dans la troisième partie de l’ouvrage, il est difficile de bien comprendre ce qui fédère les récits de « l’aspiration en Amérique » quand ceux-ci regroupent des objets trop hétéroclites ou insuffisamment définis comme le roman de maturation, le rêve américain, le récit du self-made man… Il n’est pas certain en définitive que le concept du GAN soit ici autre chose qu’une étiquette dont Buell cultive volontairement le flou, moyen commode d’aborder dans un même volume des textes pour la plupart canoniques mais qui, en dehors de ce trait et de quelques thèmes partagés, restent d’irréductibles singularités. Sans doute est-ce en raison de ces singularités que l’analyse de détail emprunte volontiers les sentiers de l’excursus, en marge des scénarios qu’elle doit illustrer (ceci est particulièrement sensible dans l’étude de Beloved). Inversement, certains textes majeurs, ceux de Don DeLillo, David Foster Wallace et William Vollmann par exemple, sont trop rapidement abordés, comme s’ils ne pouvaient entrer dans leur scénario désigné qu’au prix d’un lointain survol.

23 L’autre faiblesse de la perspective retenue par Buell tient à son approche souvent trop thématique des textes. Sans doute ne peut-il en être autrement quand il s’agit de définir les sujets du Grand Roman américain, mais cette perspective ne relègue pas seulement à l’arrière-plan les questions de forme et d’esthétique, dont on pourrait légitimement attendre qu’elles jouent un rôle bien plus important dans la définition d’un canon littéraire, elle tend aussi à instrumentaliser les textes pour voir d’abord en ceux-ci les manifestations d’un activisme politique ou idéologique. On peut être surpris par exemple de trouver The Bostonians enrôlé sous la bannière de la lutte contre la fracture Nord-Sud et la défense de l’émancipation féminine, quand on sait le prix que James accordait lui-même à la liberté de son art et la distance ironique qu’il entretenait à l’égard des discours.

24 Malgré ces réserves, The Dream of the Great American Novel reste un ouvrage utile et de belle envergure qui rassemble une masse d’informations considérable et donne au lecteur le plaisir de redécouvrir sous un jour parfois neuf les grands (et moins grands) textes du corpus romanesque américain.

AUTEURS

JEAN-YVES PELLEGRIN Université Paris-Sorbonne

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Thibaut Clément, Plus vrais que nature. Les parcs Disney ou l’usage de la fiction dans l’espace et le paysage

Nicolas Labarre

RÉFÉRENCE

Clément, Thibaut, Plus vrais que nature. Les parcs Disney ou l’usage de la fiction dans l’espace et le paysage, Paris : Presses Sorbonne Nouvelle, 2016, 285 pages, 23,50 €, ISBN : 978-2-87854-628-8

1 Dans Plus vrais que nature, Thibaut Clément propose d’explorer les parcs Disney, espaces de narrations plurielles, élaborées dans un va-et-vient constant entre la direction, les créateurs du parc et les visiteurs. L’objet de cette étude est très circonscrit, puisqu’en dépit de leur indéniable notoriété, seuls six parcs Disney ont été ouverts dans le monde depuis le premier Disneyland, en 1955. Leur importance dans l’imaginaire des Etats- Unis, mais aussi dans la culture populaire contemporaine excède pourtant de loin ces bornes géographiques.

2 Ces parcs et la conception du récit qui les traversent inspirent en effet des romans de science-fiction contemporains (Cory Doctorow, Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom), la série HBO Westworld (une filiation nettement plus marquée que dans le film de 1973), des blockbusters cinématographiques (la franchise Pirate des Caraïbes, inspirée de l’attraction éponyme), les jeux vidéo de la série Mario, à partir de Super Mario World (Audureau, 2011, 324-330) et plus généralement les formes narratives visant à construire des mondes fictionnels à explorer (Carson, 2000).

3 Au-delà de la question de la mondialisation culturelle, dont ils ont souvent été le symbole, ces parcs apparaissent donc comme des prototypes importants de formes narratives ou ludiques contemporaines. La pertinence de l’étude proposée dans Plus vrais que nature apparaît dès lors clairement.

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4 L’ouvrage prend le parti de traiter des parcs non comme des phénomènes sociaux, mais comme des œuvres collectives, résultant du travail des « imachineurs » (imagineers), comme les appelle la Walt Disney Company, terme qui contracte « ingénieur » et « imagination ». Clément accorde dès lors une large place non seulement à l’analyse du lieu, mais aux discours produits à son endroit par ses créateurs, que ce soit au sein de documents officiels (guides, manuels, etc.) ou dans des espaces moins contrôlés (interviews rétrospectives, forums, etc.) afin d’« examiner les hypothèses implicites [qu’ils] formulent au sujet de la cognition et des conduites des visiteurs » (18). Dans un second temps, Clément s’intéresse à la façon dont les acteurs du parc – hôtes et visiteurs – vont investir l’espace narratif ainsi créé, en investissant les rôles et fonctions que leur assigne cet environnement, le « script censé réguler leurs interactions » (19). L’ouvrage est donc organisé en deux parties, centrées respectivement sur le parc lui-même, comme environnement et comme ensemble de parcours possibles, puis sur les usages sociaux qu’il invite ou qu’il permet, entre jeu et jeu de rôle.

5 Dans la première partie, Clément introduit plusieurs concepts théorisés par les imachineurs eux-mêmes, comme celui de « réalité accrue » (heightened reality) qui fait du parc un monde « non tel qu’il est mais tel qu’il devrait être, purifié des accidents et des contingences de l’histoire » (54), un projet nécessairement normatif et empreint de nostalgie, au cœur de la signification politique du lieu. L’ouvrage détaille aussi dans cette première partie la façon dont est construit cet environnement narratif potentiel, conçu moins comme un ensemble de récits que comme un monde fictionnel habité, parcouru d’histoires que les visiteurs ne percevront qu’à l’état de trace, un monde « in medias res » (47) invitant le visiteur à réassembler les fragments dont il dispose. On perçoit bien dans cette description la similitude entre cet environnement et les récits transmédias théorisés par Henry Jenkins, eux aussi conçus sur le principe d’un monde à parcourir, dont le récit maître resterait toujours hors de portée, accessible uniquement par des fragments : Most often, transmedia stories are based not on individual characters or specific plots but rather complex fictional worlds which can sustain multiple interrelated characters and their stories. This process of world-building encourages an encyclopedic impulse in both readers and writers. We are drawn to master what can be known about a world which always expands beyond our grasp. (Jenkins, 2007)

6 Ce parallélisme n’est pas mentionné dans l’ouvrage (ni Henry Jenkins ni Marie-Laure Ryan ne sont mentionnés dans la bibliographie). Pour autant Plus vrais que nature apparaît dans ce domaine comme une contribution importante aux projets actuels d’écriture d’une archéologie des pratiques narratives transmédias (Freeman, 2017 ; Freeman, 2015), que ce soit dans l’élaboration du monde fictionnel ou dans la façon de penser les rôles multiples des spectateurs/visiteurs.

7 L’ouvrage rend en effet compte de façon détaillée des mécanismes qui contrôlent ou guident les comportements des visiteurs et leur entrée en fiction. La métaphore opérante dans le parc est en effet celle de l’entrée dans le film (70), à ceci près que le regard du visiteur ne se contrôle pas comme le champ de la caméra. Clément détaille donc les jeux de perspective et les choix géographiques ou techniques qui visent à guider ce « voyage fictionnel » (76), comme le choix de wagonnets dont les sièges profonds bloquent les regards latéraux (134). L’œil du visiteur n’est cependant pas un simple dispositif d’enregistrement, puisque Clément suggère aussi que ce parcours

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narratif repose sur un parcours moral (91-117), facteur d’engagement dans la diégèse, mais aussi affirmation idéologique. Les attractions exaltant le monde sauvage (« Animal Kingdom », « Expedition Everest » ou « Frontierland ») célèbrent ainsi la nature au prisme de sa conquête par la technologique, et exaltent en les euphémisant « les valeurs portées par les récits de conquête et de colonisation du territoire » (103). Plus vrais que nature détaille aussi la façon dont l’attraction « Pirate des Caraïbes » a fait l’objet de transformations graduelles visant à mettre en conformité sa morale avec les évolutions sociétales, sans cesser pour autant de présenter des significations contradictoires qui invitent le visiteur à une négociation in situ des normes sociales dominantes.

8 Cette dimension d’appropriation et de négociation est celle qui structure la seconde partie de l’ouvrage, dans laquelle Thibaut Clément s’intéresse au parc comme un espace de jeu, à la fois au sens ludique et au sens théâtral. Le parc apparaît en effet comme un espace propre au « faire comme si », tel que le décrit Roger Caillois ; on pense aussi au « cercle magique » que mentionne Huizinga dans sa définition du jeu, cercle matérialisé par un remblai physique bien réel destiné à occulter le monde extérieur dans le Magic Kingdom. Informel, ce jeu dispose pourtant de règles, que les employés se chargent de faire respecter en rabrouant avec plus ou moins de tact les visiteurs qui « rompent le charme » en remettant en question les « critères de vraisemblance qui régissent l’univers fictionnel » (153). Ces règles invitent bien entendu à des détournements, auxquels se livrent à la fois visiteurs et employés, dans un régime qui n’est pas celui du refus du monde fictionnel, mais bien de la « triche » : le tricheur est certes malhonnête, mais il ne cherche en aucun cas à mettre fin au jeu (157). Le détournement des dispositifs de photos sur le vif dans les attractions fait partie de ces « triches », qui violent la règle mais nécessitent bel et bien une connaissance experte des dispositifs et des parcours (158-160).

9 Ces jeux donnent aussi lieu à des « performances », le jeu au sens théâtral cette fois, un aspect particulièrement contraint pour les employés du parc, invités à intérioriser les conduites jugées compatibles avec le bon fonctionnement du parc via des textes officiels qu’il est difficile de ne pas trouver glaçants. C’est sans surprise autour de cette question du « jeu » des employés et de leur autonomie que se cristallisent certaines des oppositions les plus nettes entre les employés et leur direction.

10 Plus vrais que nature s’appuie sur un impressionnant travail de collecte de documents internes et de discours produits par les acteurs du parc eux-mêmes. Ces documents permettent de comprendre à la fois l’ambition du dispositif – justifiant amplement de traiter celui-ci comme une œuvre collective, délibérément signifiante – et les tensions qui le parcourent. La question de l’auctorialité traverse par exemple l’ouvrage : imachineurs, direction du parc, animateurs et fans contribuent en effet tous à l’écriture des récits du parc, provoquant régulièrement des réactions de rejet ou de défiance de la part des autres parties impliquées – là encore, on peut penser à ce qu’écrit Henry Jenkins dans Convergence Culture sur les productions de fans (Jenkins, 2006, 131-168). De façon peut-être plus attendue, le parc apparaît aussi comme le lieu de multiples tentatives de contrôle social, s’exerçant à la fois sur les visiteurs et sur les employés, notamment à travers l’injonction de réaliser la « bonne » performance ou les tentatives pour bannir tout discours métatextuel ou ironique (204-206). En liant étroitement cette question du contrôle social aux dimensions ludiques et narratives, Thibaut Clément éclaire cependant cette question politique d’un jour nouveau.

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11 L’ouvrage n’est cependant pas exempt de quelques reproches. Sur un plan technique, quelques références citées dans le texte sont par exemple absentes de la bibliographie (des entrées sur Kristin Thompson, notamment) et quelques répétitions surgissent de loin en loin. On regrettera aussi un arsenal théorique un peu trop foisonnant – comme cette mention de la notion de « frames » (145) empruntée à Gregory Bateson, dont il n’est pas fait usage par la suite – qui surcharge certaines parties de concepts et de guillemets sans bénéfice patent. Enfin, on peut regretter l’absence d’illustrations, en dehors de quelques schémas décrivant le fonctionnement des attractions. Une carte du domaine public de Disneyland aurait sans doute bien servi le propos de la première partie.

12 Il s’agit pourtant là de réserves mineures, qui n’enlèvent rien à l’ambition de l’ouvrage ou à son utilité. Plus vrais que nature apparaît en effet comme une entreprise novatrice et précise d’exploration d’un lieu narratif prototypique, au plus loin des discours simplificateurs et des discours sur « l’idéaltype de la fin de la culture» (Baudrillard, 1986, 96). Parfois critique, toujours documenté, l’ouvrage de Thibaut Clément parvient à restituer les multiples contradictions du lieu et donne à lire une part de la fascination qu’il peut exercer sur ceux qui y travaillent ou le visitent.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

AUDUREAU, William, et Florent Georges, L’Histoire de Mario : 1981-1991, l’ascension d’une icône, entre mythes et réalité, Triel-sur-Seine, Pix’n love éd., 2011.

BAUDRILLARD, Jean, Amérique, Paris, Grasset, 1986.

CARSON, Don, « Environmental Storytelling : Creating Immersive 3D Worlds Using Lessons Learned from the Theme Park Industry », Gamasutra, 1er mars 2000, http://www.gamasutra.com/ view/feature/131594/environmental_storytelling_.php (page consultée le 13 mars 2017).

FREEMAN, Matthew, Historicising Transmedia Storytelling : Early Twentieth-Century Transmedia Story Worlds, New York, Routledge, 2017.

---, « Up, Up and Across : Superman, the Second World War and the Historical Development of Transmedia Storytelling », Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television 35.2, 2015, 215‑239.

JENKINS, Henry, Convergence Culture : Where Old and New Media Collide, New York, New York University Press, 2006.

---, « Transmedia Storytelling 101 », Confession of an Aca-fan, 22 mars 2007. http:// henryjenkins.org/2007/03/transmedia_storytelling_101.html (Page consultée le 3 mars 2017).

AUTEURS

NICOLAS LABARRE Université Montaigne Bordeaux 3

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Barbara Cantalupo , Poe and the Visual Arts

Francie Crebs

REFERENCES

Cantalupo, Barbara, Poe and the Visual Arts, University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2014. 197 pages, 37,86 €, ISBN: 978-0-271-06309-6

1 On the first page of her book Poe and the Visual Arts, Barbara Cantalupo underlines Poe’s “graphicality,” a word coined by the 19th century author himself. This “graphicality” is attested to by Poe’s continued presence in popular visual culture: in film (for example Twixt by Coppola, 2011), in television (the series The Following, 2013-15) and as an action figure, bobble-head or finger puppet. Cantalupo decides to enter into this rich field through the lens of 19th-century painting.

2 Indeed, the first half of the book is devoted to Poe and painting. Cantalupo begins her analysis with the paintings that Poe could have seen during his lifetime, those shown at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts while he lived in Philadelphia (1838-1844), and those hung at the National Academy of Design while Poe lived in Manhattan (1844 and 1845). In addition to giving a comprehensive listing of the paintings shown in these two venues, her first chapter analyzes some “stand-out” pieces, such as paintings by Nicolas Poussin, Salvator Rosa and Asher Durand and connects them to Poe’s visual aesthetics. In the process, a lively picture is painted of the art world and the beginning of museum culture during Poe’s time in Philadelphia and New York, and how Poe might have been connected to them. The text provides a wealth of empirical, geographical detail, such as the observation that the Chinese museum opened in 1838 by the collector Nathan Dunn in Philadelphia was located “only a few short blocks from Poe’s home on North Eighth Street” (90).

3 The geographical frame remains important in the second chapter as Cantalupo moves on to look at the artists and paintings Poe explicitly mentions in the tales and sketches written or revised while he lived in Philadelphia and New York. In addition to

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providing in annex a comprehensive list of Poe’s references to artists, paintings, drawings and sculptures, Cantalupo looks in more detail at some of the tales and sketches in which painting is expressly referenced (such as “The Fall of the House of Usher,” “The Philosophy of Furniture” and “The Landscape Garden”) and offers an interpretation of why Poe chose those specific allusions. The reproduction of individual paintings alongside the relevant references to painters in Poe’s texts is particularly evocative and valuable.

4 The second half of the book is devoted to an exploration of the “painterly” aspects of Poe’s work. Chapter 3 is devoted to descriptions of “homely interiors” in “The Devil in the Belfry,” “William Wilson,” “The Philosophy of Furniture,” and the landscape sketches. The idea is to explore the “ordinary and undervalued objects” (87) in these texts, in order to bring out an aesthetic of the common in Poe. This tack enables the author to give a novel interpretation of “William Wilson,” in particular, in which one is more accustomed to find the gothic emphasized.

5 The author then moves on to explore “visual tricks” (chapter 4) in select tales, such as the myopia of the protagonist in “The Spectacles,” or the error in scale in “The Sphinx.” The bulk of this chapter is however devoted to an analysis of anamorphosis in “Ligeia,” which provides the author with a useful and productive key to analyze the aesthetics of the bridal chamber showcased in this story.

6 Finally, the book ends with an exploration of how Poe constructed himself as an art critic (chapter 5), and the key role played by in this process by Charles Briggs, sometime owner and editor of the Broadway Journal. Briggs wrote the art criticism articles for the Journal probably up until July 1845. He was a particularly harsh critic, in particular when he considered that the cause of educating the American taste was at issue. Poe subsequently fashioned his own voice as an art critic in the Journal both in continuity and in contradistinction to Briggs: “Like Briggs, Poe knew that the public was vulnerable to fashion’s whims and lacked an appreciation for aesthetic principles, but unlike Briggs, Poe simply disdained that tendency and was not concerned with educating the public” (155).

7 On the whole, Poe and the Visual Arts paints a very detailed picture of the art-world in Poe’s time, providing the reader with a rich background against which many of the tales are revisited. It is quite possible to imagine how many other tales might also benefit from such an approach. Its very pertinence nonetheless raises some questions.

8 The author’s choice to begin her analysis with a focus on exhibits that occurred in Philadelphia and New York during Poe’s time in these cities is the result of philological and historical rigor, but it is not without risks for the strength of the analysis. If there is concrete proof that Poe actually went to these exhibits, the author does not clearly bring it out. Rather, she speaks repeatedly (particularly in her introduction to the chapter on these exhibits) of “opportunities”: “the opportunity to see” (19), “many opportunities to discuss … art” (20), “plenty of opportunities to discuss the arts” (20). Thus the author seems to rely on a kind of informed conjecture on Poe’s exposure to painting and his involvement in the art world. The following quotation is a good example of how her argumentation in this part of the book functions: Of course, we do not have any direct quotes to confirm what Poe thought of the paintings by Thomas Cole—or Asher Durand or Frederic Church (specifically the latter’s ethereal Twilight Among the Mountains, which hung in the National Academy of Design’s 1845 show). However, Poe’s own landscape writing strongly suggests

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that he would have been drawn to these works, especially to Cole’s romantic imagery, dramatic color, and fine craftsmanship. Like Briggs, Poe would have faulted Cole for the didactic nature of his Course of Empire series, but he could not have faulted Cole’s overall technique, which produced profound effects. Poe had already shown that he could quite harshly criticize even highly regarded painters such as Henry Inman—one of the founders of the National Academy of Design—for poor technique. However, Poe saw Cole’s work a number of times both in Philadelphia and in New York, and he must have viewed it in a positive light since he applauds Cole’s predecessor Claude Lorrain. (48)

9 We begin with an acknowledgement that “there are no direct quotes to confirm what Poe thought.” Then a series of informed conjectures are listed: “he would have been”, he “would have faulted,” “he could not have faulted.” These informed conjectures seem to reinforce each other to such an extent that we end with a certainty: “Poe saw Cole’s work a number of times.”

10 This shift might be simply anecdotal if the author’s elaboration of Poe’s aesthetics in this early part of the book, which is carried forward throughout, were not so firmly grounded in this initial analysis of paintings he might have seen. Part of the author’s argument is indeed that Poe’s aesthetics are grounded in the paintings that he had the “opportunity” to see, and the aesthetics of the beautiful that she derives from these “opportunities” informs all her subsequent analyses of Poe.

11 The author’s definition of “the visual arts” also gives rise to question. As may have been gleaned from the above remarks, the phrase “the visual arts” functions as virtually synonymous with painting. The endeavor to reconstruct Poe’s visual universe is a valuable one, but might have gained from a broader conception of the visual arts. For example, an analysis of the visual environment of the magazines in which Poe published his tales might have yielded productive insights. Engraving in particular is mentioned in passing a few times—particularly with regard to paintings Poe could have known such as Facing the Enemy by Francis William Edmonds which also exists as an engraving—but not systematically envisaged, although it was an important aspect of magazine publication in Poe’s time, and one he clearly regarded as important.

12 Finally, a question arises regarding the argument of the book as a whole, which the author sums up aptly in the book’s “Coda”: “This book pictures Poe as many may not have known him before. As the evidence presented here reveals, Poe’s youthful dedication to beauty did not fade; in fact, his mature work shows a move away from the grotesque and the sublime and toward an appreciation of homeliness and beauty” (159). The privilege of an aesthetics of the beautiful (derived from the paintings analyzed) over an aesthetics of the sublime comes up again and again in the book. These two notions are, however, somewhat undertheorized, which is all the more regrettable since they can take on (and have taken on, especially in the poststructuralist discussion since the 1980s) an array of very different meanings. For example, the sublime can either be thought of as a superlative version of beauty (as in Bouvard’s wording: “le Beau est le Beau, et le Sublime le très Beau”) or as radically heterogeneous to the beautiful and in this case (for example, in Kant’s famous elaboration) the one completely excludes the other. It is not possible to tell on which side of this demarcation the author’s conceptions of the beautiful and the sublime fall, and this uncertainty somewhat weakens the otherwise quite productive contention that the late Poe turns away from the sublime toward the beautiful.

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AUTHORS

FRANCIE CREBS Université Paris – Sorbonne

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Marianne Debouzy, La Désobéissance civile aux États-Unis et en France, 1970-2014

Claude Chastagner

RÉFÉRENCE

Debouzy, Marianne, La Désobéissance civile aux États-Unis et en France, 1970-2014, Rennes : Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2016, 197 pages, 18 €, ISBN : 978-2-7535-4857-2

1 Avec La Désobéissance civile, Marianne Debouzy propose une enquête originale sur une forme majeure et très actuelle de protestation. Un des aspects les plus remarquables de l’ouvrage est qu’il s’intéresse tout autant à la France qu’aux États-Unis. Ce type d’approche comparative reste relativement rare en histoire, en partie en raison de la difficulté de la tâche, mais aussi par doute quant à sa pertinence. Pourtant, dans ce cas précis, les origines outre-Atlantique de la plupart des formes prises en France par la désobéissance civile justifient amplement ce choix qui permet d’éclairer avec précision leurs fondements et leur histoire. L’ouvrage offre par ailleurs un bornage temporel inhabituel. Si le concept de désobéissance civile est fréquemment associé aux années soixante, pour des raisons qui tiennent autant à la réalité historique qu’au marketing médiatique, Marianne Debouzy a eu l’à-propos de s’intéresser aux années qui suivirent, choix d’autant plus audacieux que ces années sont souvent assimilées à une phase de réaction conservatrice qui aurait entraîné un reflux de l’engagement militant. L’enquête menée par Marianne Debouzy montre que malgré les apparences, ce ne fut pas le cas et l’ouvrage s’achève sur les formes les plus contemporaines prises dans les deux pays par la désobéissance civile, preuve de l’actualité de cette forme de militantisme.

2 À partir d’une introduction qui définit l’arrière-plan historique, terminologique et conceptuel de la notion, La Désobéissance civile offre une étude historique minutieuse des actions menées au cours des quarante dernières années en France et aux États-Unis,

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dans sept domaines : la lutte contre l’armée, le nucléaire et les OGM, la défense des mal logés et des sans papiers, la protection de l’environnement et la question de l’avortement, cette dernière catégorie étant beaucoup plus paradoxale dans la mesure où les actions de désobéissance dans ce domaine (certaines de l’ordre du simple refus d’appliquer la loi, d’autres d’une violence beaucoup plus radicale) furent, et sont encore le plus souvent, le fait de militants situés à l’autre extrémité de l’échiquier politique que les activistes des autres catégories. Marianne Debouzy conclut par un regard à la fois rétrospectif et prospectif qui met en lumière avec beaucoup d’évidence les convergences et les divergences entre les mouvements français et étatsuniens et « fait apparaître les lignes de force qui traversent ces deux sociétés » (27). L’ouvrage est complété par une bibliographie particulièrement riche, bien organisée, qui inclut les grands classiques comme des références plus récentes, la presse occupant une place de choix. On peut néanmoins regretter l’attention relativement restreinte accordée aux ressources en ligne, blogs, sites web, etc., qui jouent pourtant un rôle important dans les mouvements abordés par l’ouvrage.

3 Dans la première partie, qui sert d’introduction générale à l’ouvrage, Marianne Debouzy contextualise les différentes formes prises par la désobéissance civile en évoquant la tradition étatsunienne du « dissent » et les figures tutélaires que sont Thoreau, Gandhi et Martin Luther King, en revenant sur les différentes définitions que des philosophes ou des politologues comme Rawls, Dworkin ou Arendt ont données du concept et en rappelant les difficultés à rendre en français les nuances du mot « civil » tel qu’il apparaît dans l’expression anglaise « Civil Disobedience » et les rapports complexes et souvent parfois conflictuels entre « désobéissance » et « non-violence ». Cette introduction permet également de rappeler le cadre conceptuel dans lequel la démarche comparative de l’auteur s’inscrit, rappel nécessaire dans la mesure où « la conception de l’État, la place de l’individu dans la société, le droit ne sont pas les mêmes [en France et aux États-Unis], tout comme la religion dominante et les traditions de lutte politique » (14). Ainsi, alors qu’aux États-Unis, « les citoyens ressentent en général une grande méfiance à l’égard de l’État (fédéral) » (15) les Français gardent un attachement plus marqué envers les institutions nationales. Marianne Debouzy insiste également sur les différences qui existent dans le traitement que réservent aux « désobéisseurs » les instances juridiques des deux pays, les États- Unis étant souvent plus enclins à autoriser ce type de démarche.

4 Dans les chapitres suivants, s’appuyant sur un impressionnant ensemble de sources primaires et de documents journalistiques, Marianne Debouzy dresse un catalogue raisonné des actions de désobéissance civile qui se sont déroulées au cours quarante dernières années dans les deux pays. Elle s’attache à présenter les justifications et l’interprétation qui sont proposées par les auteurs de ces différentes actions. L’ouvrage rend ainsi compte de façon détaillée des combats menés contre l’extension du camp militaire du Larzac ou la School of the Americas, organisme de formation militaire où le général Aussaresses, de sinistre mémoire, a enseigné différentes techniques d’interrogation ; pour la protections des homeless par le mouvement Sanctuary ou les militants (et les prêtres) de l’église Saint-Bernard. Marianne Debouzy revient également sur le scandale des subprimes et les désastreuses foreclosures et expulsions qu’il entraîna. Elle détaille l’aide que diverses associations étatsuniennes ont apportée aux victimes, que Debouzy compare au travail effectué en France par le DAL. L’auteur explore également longuement la dimension religieuse qui sous-tend la lutte contre l’avortement aux États-Unis comme en France. Elle affirme que la dimension

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meurtrière prise par cette lutte aux États-Unis n’a plus grand chose à voir avec de la désobéissance civile et rappelle que si cette violence ne se retrouve pas au même degré en France, l’opposition à l’avortement s’y est néanmoins inspiré du modèle américain. Les derniers chapitres soulignent également à quel point le mouvement écologique français dans son ensemble, en particulier le mouvement anti-OGM ou les actions plus ponctuelles pour sauver des espaces verts, à Grenoble ou Ferney-Voltaire, ou encore la mise en place de la ZAD de Notre-Dame-des-Landes doit aux éco-activistes étatsuniens, que ces derniers œuvrent à la défense des séquoias ou luttent contre le mountain top removal. La conclusion de l’ouvrage offre une analyse des points communs et des divergences entre les deux pays quant à la mise en œuvre de la désobéissance civile, qu’il s’agisse de son inscription dans l’histoire et de son rapport au politique. Marianne Debouzy s’attarde avec raison sur les rapports entre désobéissance et démocratie, mais aussi sur le plaisir que de telles pratiques peuvent induire et les nouvelles formes de vie qu’elles contribuent à créer.

5 L’ouvrage n’est pas exempt de quelques reproches. Ainsi, l’approche comparative, qui fonctionne parfaitement dans le chapitre introductif et dans la conclusion, prend parfois la forme d’un historique juxtaposant les différents combats dans chaque pays. C’est en particulier le cas pour le chapitre consacré à la lutte contre le nucléaire, mais la gageure était difficile à tenir sur la longueur. On pourra également juger que la « désobéissance » n’est pas toujours suffisamment différenciée d’autres formes de protestations (manifestations, rassemblements, procès, etc.). Un mot également sur la couverture, par ailleurs très réussie : l’éditeur aurait pu choisir, surtout avec un tel sujet, d’en indiquer l’origine, puisqu’en l’occurrence il s’agit de l’affiche d’un documentaire de Christian Rouaud, Tous au Larzac (2011).

6 Ce sont là de mineures réserves, qui n’enlèvent rien à l’intérêt de ce livre important qui constitue non seulement un ouvrage universitaire au sens classique, apportant au chercheur de précieux éléments de réflexion, des informations et des pistes bibliographiques traités avec toute la rigueur qu’on est en droit d’attendre, mais aussi un texte militant, engagé, à l’écriture dynamique, rappelant la nécessité et la difficulté des combats passés et présents. À la lumière de l’actualité politique et sociale des deux pays concernés, il s’avère d’une incomparable acuité et utilité.

AUTEURS

CLAUDE CHASTAGNER Université Paul-Valéry Montpellier 3

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Allyson Hobbs, A Chosen Exile : A History of Racial Passing in American Life

Lawrence Aje

REFERENCES

Hobbs, Allyson, A Chosen Exile : A History of Racial Passing in American Life, Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 2014, 382 pp. , € 27.00, ISBN 9780674368101

1 The last two decades have seen a considerable increase of publications on the issue of racial passing in the United States. Some studies have examined racial passing through personal or family stories (O’Toole ; Sharfstein ; Williams). Others have sought to adopt a quantitative and synchronic approach to the phenomenon (Nix & Qian ; Mill & Stein) or to analyze how cases of racial passing were litigated in courts (Kennedy ; Gross). A number of edited volumes have recently focused on the cinematic and literary representations of racial passing in American popular culture, whereas some studies have been keen on expanding the notion by examining instances of ethnic or gender passing (Dawkins ; Gayle ; Ginsberg ; Wald ; Nerad).

2 Yet, in this flurry of publications, Allyson Hobbs’s A Chosen Exile: A History of Racial Passing in American Life, is a valuable contribution that distinguishes itself as the first full-length historical monograph to comprehensively tackle and complicate this sensitive and emotionally charged topic. This ambitious study is a revised version of Hobbs’s 2009 dissertation in history which she defended at the University of Chicago.

3 A Chosen Exile historicizes the practice of racial passing in the United States, by outlining, from the period of slavery to the early 1970s, how fair-skinned Blacks, whom the author designates as “racially ambiguous individuals”, managed to navigate the troubled waters of race undetected. In keeping with the findings of her predecessors, Hobbs confirms that the main reason that motivated racial passing was social advancement. Hobbs however differentiates herself from other scholars who have,

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according to her, paid far more attention to the benefits derived from passing as White instead of focusing on what she deems is a more fundamental and hitherto neglected aspect of the practice, namely, that by leaving their colored relatives or friends behind, passing translated into a loss of intra-racial sociability and, to some extent, the loss of one’s self. A Chosen Exile is underpinned by two intertwined objectives : a historical examination of the personal motivations behind racial passing and a simultaneous assessment of the consequences of rejecting one’s “black racial identity” (11) — an act Hobbs qualifies as being tantamount to a racial exile.

4 Hobbs dismisses our commonly held assumptions about a lack of archival evidence that would limit our understanding of the phenomenon of racial passing. She manages to piece together a general history of racial passing in the United States by relying on a set of disparate primary and secondary sources such as private letters, family histories, newspaper advertisements, novels, as well as correspondence between authors and their publishers. By mining such a wide array of sources, Hobbs successfully manages to shed light on a practice that was meant to remain hidden.

5 A Chosen Exile starts with a prologue, which serves as a general introduction, and is composed of five chapters of approximately the same length (i.e., approximately fifty pages each). Each chapter covers a historical period and features case studies, generally in the form of an analysis of personal or family trajectories. The book is interspersed with useful illustrations that allow the reader to visually associate the historical actors under discussion with their phenotypic features. A Chosen Exile is a well-researched book, which has close to 82 pages of notes. The monograph ends with acknowledgments and a very handy and well-organized thematic and proper name index.

6 Chapter 1, “White is the Color of Freedom”, focuses on the history of passing before the general abolition of slavery in the United States in 1865. The implementation and rigid enforcement of the one-drop rule which accompanied the legal codification of racial slavery, provided that an individual’s legal status — bond or free, free white or free person of color —would be predicated on any visible or known black lineage. Hobbs argues that, during slavery, racial passing was, first and foremost, a means to escape bondage rather than a desire to deny one’s black ancestry. Hobbs identifies the 1820s as a turning point after which “passing as free gave way to the phenomenon of passing as white” (42) — a shift she attributes to the increasing tightening of the socio-racial order. Building on Ariela Gross’s work on the performative nature of race and race litigations during the antebellum period, this chapter reveals how light-skinned slaves sought to challenge their enslavement in courts on the grounds that they were unlawfully held in bondage. As racial passing raised concerns about racial purity and miscegenation, the whole white community, by means of popular juries and witnesses, policed racial boundaries in the courts. Yet, as race could not always be determined by physical inspection, racially ambiguous individuals were expected to meet a number of requirements to be considered white. Demonstrating behaviors or enjoying rights which were commonly associated with white people such as voting, being articulate, literate or well-dressed, influenced the jury’s decision to assign, or deny, an individual the white racial (and legal) status. Hobbs concludes this aptly titled first chapter by arguing that miscegenation ultimately undermined the socio-racial hierarchy as light- skinned offspring took advantage of the prejudicial association of servility with black skin. To illustrate her point, Hobbs provides the reader with striking examples of fair-

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skinned slaves, such as Ellen Craft or Henry Bibb, who were able to simply walk off to freedom by assuming the “airs of importance” of their white masters.

7 Chapter 2, “Waiting on a White Man’s Chance”, focuses on the period of Reconstruction and the advent of Jim Crow. In the aftermath of the Civil War, some African Americans believed that the prevalence of racism in the United States would hinder their integration and chose to migrate to Liberia. However, much as during the antebellum period, the majority of Blacks, who identified as colored Americans and rejected any link to Africa, felt it was time to demand full citizenship. The post Civil War period was characterized by an increased geographic mobility for the African-American southern population. Emancipated slaves massively left rural regions to settle in developing southern and northern urban centers where they could land jobs. This migration translated into greater social mobility. Hobbs contends that, during Reconstruction, fair-skinned blacks did not see the need to pass, as more social and political opportunities were made available to them in what she describes as “America’s first experiment in creating a ‘postracial’ society” (74). To prove her point, she examines the personal trajectories of notable light-skinned Black politicians and their spouses (Josephine and Blanche Bruce, P.B.S Pinchback) who chose not to pass and how these fair-complected individuals were received in Washington D. C. circles. Hobbs also devotes a significant passage of this chapter to light-skinned writer Charles Chesnutt, an octoroon who also chose not to pass but who sought to complicate the black/white dialectical racial opposition by envisaging the possibility of a “new race”.

8 The second half of chapter 2 discusses the end of Reconstruction and the extent to which the 1896 Supreme Court case of Plessy v. Ferguson was the fulcrum point which paved the way for the extension of de jure racial segregation in the United States. The implementation of Jim Crow laws put an end to the optimism engendered by the possibility of greater fluidity in race relations that had characterized Reconstruction. As discriminatory practices based on race became generalized and severely curtailed economic opportunities, racially ambiguous individuals increasingly chose to pass, in order to work as whites in white-collar, or white only, jobs.

9 Chapter 3, “Lost Kin”, covers the time period from the 1890s to the 1920s. It examines how the generalization of legally endorsed racial discrimination was enforced by violence and not only led to the disenfranchisement of African-Americans, by way of different restrictive measures, but also to their migration. The settlement of African- Americans in large anonymous cities, during the Great Migration of the 1910s, encouraged a growing number of light-skinned blacks to pass in the work place or when they attended college. While some individuals passed permanently, others chose to do so only temporarily in a practice known as “nine to five passing”. Hobbs explains that passing temporarily, in order to benefit from a wider range of economic choices, still came at a cost. These individuals could not be seen commuting from their black neighborhoods and sometimes had to ignore black relatives or friends in public. Although it sometimes happened, passers were rarely betrayed by other African- Americans who had detected their black lineage.

10 In reaction to the threat of passing, southern authorities adopted stricter legislation to preserve racial integrity and to prevent miscegenation. For example, whereas antebellum Virginia law had enabled an individual to be considered as white beyond a certain degree of racial mixing, in 1924, the state’s legislature provided that, henceforth, only those who bore “no trace of other blood” could claim the status of a

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white person. Hobbs recounts how, in the 1920s, eugenicists such as Walter A. Plecker, a physician and the state registrar of Virginia, adamantly strove to police the color line by investigating individuals suspected of trying to pass as white. These suspected passers sometimes claimed a Native American heritage, as the Virginia law allowed people with 1/16th Indian ancestry to be classified as white. In this fascinating section of chapter 3, we learn that midwives were sometimes subject to investigation for having voluntarily racially misclassified black babies to enable them to “pass off” as whites. This little known and surprising practice contradicts the common assumption that racial passing was an act which was necessarily undertaken by an individual on his own volition, or at the instigation of a close relative, thereby giving the process a collective nature.

11 In chapter 4, entitled “Searching for a New Soul in Harlem”, Hobbs examines the different and sometimes complex relationship of three major authors (Jean Toomer, Nella Larsen and Langston Hughes) to African-American identity. Hobbs argues that the Harlem Renaissance, just as Reconstruction, offered alternative responses to racial passing. Contrary to the past, African-Americans who were now portrayed in a more positive light, as artists and intellectuals, sought to create a new race that stemmed out of black folk culture. The Harlem Renaissance opened up “new discussions for racial ambiguity and new possibilities for racial identification” (177), most notably by allowing the recognition of mixed-race identities. During that era, rejecting a black racial identity did not necessarily translate into passing as white. The time was thus propitious to a more inclusive racial identity that departed from the either/or racially binary exclusive perspective. Yet, quite surprisingly, whereas the period was more accepting of racial ambiguity, the theme of racial passing became very popular in literature and in musicals. In addition, although African-American identity underwent a refashioning during the Harlem Renaissance, prevailing ideas about race prevented the emergence of a new and more complex African-American identity as individuals, regardless of their very light skin complexion, were still lumped together with the black group and expected to express themselves and behave in certain ways.

12 As the title of the last chapter suggests, “Coming Home” examines how between the Great Depression and the early Civil Rights Movement, more specifically from 1932 to 1947, more and more light-skinned Blacks who had chosen to pass “returned to the race”, in what Hobbs describes as a “critical turning point in the history of passing” (220). The desegregation of public housing and facilities, of the military and of the police, of juries, sports teams and primary elections, were among many significant social and political advances brought about by World War II and the Civil Rights Movement that allowed individuals to live as Blacks, as well as citizens, at the same time. In this context of civil rights activism, and of social, political and economic progress for African-Americans, the practice of passing was disavowed and considered to be an extreme act of treachery. According to Hobbs, by the 1970s, many African- Americans perceived passing as “a relic of the past” (263).

13 Chapter 5 focuses largely on the story of Albert Johnston’s family, a fair-skinned African-American physician who chose to pass with his family, before finally revealing his black racial identity in the late 1940s and becoming an outspoken civil rights activist. The Johnston family’s skin complexion was brown enough to cast doubts on their racial origin. Yet the family’s deportment and social status enabled its acceptance by white neighbors. Hobbs analyzes how the Johnston family’s story of passing made

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the headlines of the press by convincingly showing that magazines such as The Reader’s Digest, Life, Look and Ebony all sought to make a profit out of their readership’s fascination with this sensitive subject. Quite interestingly, these magazines also showcased this sensational story as it served as an encouraging sign of the racial liberalism and tolerance of the Johnstons’ white neighbors, which signaled better days ahead, in terms of racial integration.

14 Hobbs concludes her study with an epilogue that overviews contemporary discourses on race and how the possibility of identifying as mixed-race in the 21st century, in the context of Barack Obama’s historic 2008 election, has broadened (African-)Americans’ racial options.

15 By following the personal trajectories of those who passed and by crafting a collective history of racial passing, Hobbs sheds light on a phenomenon which has hitherto never been analyzed with such scope and depth. One of the greatest achievements of A Chosen Exile is to historicize the phenomenon of racial passing by showing how the practice evolved through time. By situating stories of passing in their historical context, Hobbs examines the specific geographic, social, economic, and political variables, which fostered the practice as well as the stakes it raised. A Chosen Exile examines the tension between the performative and constitutive aspect of race. It also stresses how subjectivity can be influenced and constructed by one’s social perception. Hobbs successfully demonstrates how challenging one’s ascribed racial status was a subversive act which proved to be dangerous as it equated to usurping a racial identity one was not legally entitled to. Hobbs provides a perfect illustration of the vulnerability of the passers by shedding light on the unknown phenomenon of racial outing, whereby, in the 1940s, the black press sought to expose the racial identity of individuals, such as Elsie Roxborough, who tried to pass (139). She also conclusively reveals how passing was sometimes an open secret that was protected by employers, coworkers, neighbors and friends as long as the passer behaved appropriately.

16 Hobbs does not shy away from broaching controversial aspects of racial passing by arguing that one of the reasons for the prevalence of the practice was political and economic opportunism. And, interestingly enough, whereas Hobbs implies that once an individual passed “there was simply no turning back” (4), she contradicts herself in many instances by brilliantly documenting how some passers chose to “return home” to their race. One striking example provided by Hobbs is the trajectory of Syphax who changed his name to McKee and decided to pass after he graduated from Columbia Law school in 1902. After having married a white woman and spent his whole career working as a prominent Wall Street lawyer, he chose to cross the color line again in 1940 in order to inherit a large fortune left by his black grandfather.

17 Despite its many qualities, A Chosen Exile presents some argumentative weaknesses. Contrary to recent research undertaken by Emily Nix and Nancy Qian that has used information extracted from the US census between 1880 to 1940 to quantify the extent of the practice of racial passing by measuring the percentage rate of black men who passed for white between each census interval or Mill and Stein’s ongoing analysis which has sought to identify all siblings who passed for white over a thirty year period, by using a sample of 12,000 African-American families whose digitized records were matched across the 1910 and 1940 censuses, in Hobbs’s study, the exact number of those who chose to pass can only be guessed at. Indeed, Hobbs’s statement whereby between the “late eighteenth and the mid-twentieth centuries, countless African

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Americans passed as white” (4) would need more additional empirical and quantitative evidence to be substantiated.

18 Consequently, the representativeness of Hobbs’s corpus may sometimes be questioned. For instance, in chapter four, Hobbs limits her analysis of racial passing to three literary actors of the Harlem Renaissance, thereby ignoring the phenomenon in society at large in those years. In the same vein, one may question the extent to which the Johnstons’ exceptional story can be seen as representative and exemplary as it only provides a window on a family’s experience. Hobbs’s choice to include a fictional character from Frank J. Webb’s 1858 novel as a comparative referent to historical actors is also puzzling (64-67).

19 Hobbs’s interchangeable use of African-American and Black problematically partakes in sustaining mutually exclusive racial categories by reinstating the one-drop rule that has characterized the United States’ approach to racial classification. It could also be argued that equating racial passing with a loss somewhat paradoxically perpetuates the longstanding trope that has prevailed in the tragic mulatto literature. A final regret is that A Chosen Exile does not study how affirmative action policies not only diminished the need for racial passing, but also encouraged racially ambiguous individuals to take advantage of their black ancestry. Including this aspect in her study would have enabled Hobbs to examine the issue of “soulmaning”, a practice whereby whites have claimed an African-American ancestry and passed as Blacks in order to broaden their educational or professional opportunities.

20 Despite these minor criticisms, A Chosen Exile is on the whole a convincing study that provides important insights into the evolution of racial identity politics in the United States. In so doing, Hobbs addresses the relatively neglected issue of changing patterns of group identity in the African-American population, a group which has often been perceived as racially monolithic. One of the great merits of this monograph is to place the phenomenon of racial passing in the general history of the United States and to inscribe it in the conversation on race that has fundamentally structured the country’s power relations. For all these reasons, Hobbs’s A Chosen Exile is a landmark contribution to the scholarship on racial passing in the United States that will prove of invaluable benefit to both scholars and to the general public.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Works cited

DAWKINS, Marcia A., Clearly Invisible : Racial Passing and the Color of Cultural Identity, Waco, Tex., Baylor University Press, 2012.

GINSBERG, Elaine K.,, ed. Passing and the Fictions of Identity, Durham, NC, Duke University Press, 1996.

GROSS, Ariela J., What Blood Won’t Tell : A History of Race on Trial in America, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 2008.

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KENNEDY, Randall L., “Racial Passing.” Ohio State Law Journal 62, no. 3 1145 (2001) : 1-28.

NERAD, Julie Cary, ed., Passing Interest : Racial Passing in US Novels, Memoirs, Television, and Film, 1990-2010, Albany, State University of New York Press, 2015.

O’TOOLE, James M., Passing for White : Race, Religion, and the Healy Family, 1820-1920, Amherst, University of Massachusetts Press, 2002.

NIX, Emily & QIAN, Nancy, “The Fluidity of Race : ‘Passing’ in the United States, 1880-1940”, National Bureau of Economic Research Working Paper No. 20828, January 2015, 1–75.

Mill, Roy & Stein, C.D. Luke. “Race, Skin Color, and Economic Outcomes in Early Twentieth- Century America” working paper, Stanford University, November 2012, 1–53.

Sharfstein, Daniel J. The Invisible Line : Three American Families and the Secret Journey from Black to White. New York : Penguin Press, 2011.

Wald, Gayle. Crossing the Line : Racial Passing in Twentieth-Century U.S. Literature and Culture New Americanists. Durham N.C. : Duke University Press, 2000.

Williams, Gregory H. Life on the Color Line : The True Story of a White Boy Who Discovered He Was Black. New York, N.Y. : Dutton, 1995.

AUTHORS

LAWRENCE AJE Université Paul-Valéry Montpellier 3

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Liam Burke, The Comic Book Film Adaptation : Exploring Modern Hollywood’s Leading Genre // Drew Morton, Panel to the Screen : Style, American Film, and Comic Books During the Blockbuster Era

Nicolas Labarre

REFERENCES

Burke, Liam, The Comic Book Film Adaptation : Exploring Modern Hollywood’s Leading Genre, Jackson : University Press of Mississippi, 2016, ISBN : 978-1-4968-0970-4 Morton, Drew, Panel to the Screen : Style, American Film, and Comic Books During the Blockbuster Era, Jackson : University Press of Mississippi, 2016, ISBN : 978-1-4968-0978-0

1 Adaptation studies underwent a profound transformation from the late 1990s to the mid-2000s. In a perceptive review published in Image[&]Narrative in 2007, Heidi Peeters slyly remarked that : “The ultimate acknowledgement of the academic acceptance of adaptations, however, would be someone like, say, Linda Hutcheon writing a book on the phenomenon,” before reviewing Linda Hutcheon’s landmark book, A Theory of Adaptation (Peeters 2007). In addition to rejecting a hierarchical view of narrative media, Hutcheon explicitly sought to broaden the scope of adaptation studies beyond the canonical novel/film pairing, around which the field had been hitherto defined (Hutcheon 2006). Thomas Leitch in Film Adaptation and its Discontent (Leitch 2007) similarly discussed comics, video games and other sources, as did Henry Jenkins in Convergence Culture (Jenkins 2006), in the course of his discussion of transmedia storytelling, an intertextual and industrial strategy with close ties to adaptation.

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2 Film and Comic Books, the first significant volume specifically dedicated to adaptation in comics, appeared the same year as Hutcheon’s book. The groundbreaking collection of essays, edited by Ian Gordon, Mark Jancovich and Matthew P. McAllister, has since been followed by a number of volumes exploring the relationship between comics and film (in that order) and literature and film (in that order as well). Though the work on the literary sources of comics has not abated, it has recently been overshadowed by a genuine explosion of publications centered on the translation from comics into films. This reflects the growing inclusiveness of adaptation studies but also the immense and perhaps surprisingly long-lived popular success of contemporary comic book movies, which has positioned them as relevant objects of studies.

3 Liam Burke’s The Comic Book Film Adaptation (2015) and Drew Morton’s Panel to the Screen (2016), both published by the University Press of Mississippi and both written by media studies lecturers, exemplify this trend in their shared emphasis on contemporary films and in their choice to focus primarily – though not exclusively – on the circulation from comics to films. While Burke’s text seeks to present a holistic view of the phenomenon, with an emphasis on reception and genre construction, Morton’s is more closely focused on the remediation process and with issues of style. Both, however, approach their object of study from the standpoint of cultural history, with a keen eye on critical reception and commercial success.

4 The Comic Book Film Adaptation starts by examining comic book films as an economic and cultural phenomenon. Liam Burke argues that the existence of the current “golden age” of comic book filmmaking cannot be explained by one single factor, be it political adequacy, improvement in special effects, conglomerate strategies, or the emergence of a new generation of movie directors and executives familiar with the original material. Discussing the oft-mentioned notion that the success of super-hero movies stems from their political discourse (heroes, vigilantism, and patriotism), Burke echoes David Bordwell (2008) in arguing that : “[these political allusions] seem to be less about meaningful engagement than creating a semblance of sociopolitical relevance” (Burke 2015, 37). Burke does not discount the commercial efficiency of this ambiguous surface engagement but demonstrates that no single cause suffices to explain the success of a series of films caught in a constant negotiation between conflicting imperatives, such as franchising/merchandising and political relevance. This is a frustrating but hardly avoidable conclusion, meant as a corrective to journalistic rather than academic discourses.

5 In his second chapter, Burke uses audience reception and close attention to peri- and paratexts to show that comic book movies function as a genre as defined by Rick Altman : a cluster of recurrent textual elements whose “family resemblance” is adjudicated by a variety of users, producers, critics, academics and audience. This is a bold move, since as Burke himself points out, Leitch and others have argued that adaptation is a label but rarely a genre onto itself (Leitch 2007, 106). However, Burke demonstrates not only that movie producers and distributors have tended to align the various comic book movies through intertextual and intericonic relations, regardless of similarities in the original material (Dan Clowes’ Ghost World shares very little with Green Lantern, except for their comic book origins) but also that audiences read these movies in this light. Having established the genre as discourse, Burke then seeks to identify the cluster of textual elements around which these discourses revolve and offers the following definition :

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The comic book movie genre follows a vigilante or outsider character engaged in a form of revenge narrative, and is pitched at a heightened reality with a visual style marked by a distinctly comic book imagery. (Burke, 2015, 106)

6 Burke’s eagerness to align comic book movies with the western and the vigilante/ outsider storyline is not the most convincing aspect of the book – he acknowledges that Ghost World does not fit this approach easily – but his identification of a “heightened reality”, a specific style of “aggressive remediation” (220) of the comic book aesthetic indeed appears to be a key common thread linking the comic book movies, “even if it is inconsistent with the source material” (116). This is the very subject of Morton’s Panel to Screen.

7 Having thus defined and characterized his corpus, Burke pays close attention in the following chapter to the various possible receptions for theses texts, from comic fans viewing them as adaptations (Hutcheon 2006, 120‑28) to non-fans, who perceive them as belonging to a cinematic genre, but may have not have any specific knowledge of the original material. Using original audience research, industry numbers and reviews, Burke delineates these non-mutually exclusive categories and highlights the continuing commercial importance of perceived fidelity to the source material, even among non-fans. Fans adjudicate this fidelity criticism, which is then amplified by mainstream audience beyond the boundaries of fandom (141). This has led movie makers and producers to establish a dedicated participatory culture around comic book filmmaking, though Burke also points to the limits of such participation within the “culture industry” (151-4), especially since these fans ultimately make up just a fraction of the comic book audience, vocal and influential as they may be.

8 In the final two chapters of the book, Burke asks precisely what fidelity means in the context of movies which frequently hint to decades of accumulated publishing history. Drawing on Tom Gunning’s analysis of early cinema, he underlines the importance of “peak moments” in many of these adaptations : ’iconic’ moments, which have been ratified through comics covers, pin-up images and frequent references […} such as Superman lifting a car above his head in Superman Returns [as seen on the cover of Action Comics n° 1, the first appearance of the character] (161)

9 Fidelity to the source material, however, is mostly conveyed through the development of a specific aesthetic, which seeks to “narrow the semiotic gap between comics and cinema” (168). Using Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics as a reference point, Burke delineates the overlaps and disjunctions between the way cinema and comics tell stories, before enumerating the ways in which film-makers have sought to emphasize the correspondences, in self-referential, subtle, or blatantly transgressive ways ; this includes finding equivalences to bridge ontological differences in the representation of time, space and sound, but also a deliberate borrowing of comics conventions regarding framing, the representation of the human body, the use of stereotypes and even a nod to a now obsolete use of color in comics. Burke also notes that these innovations have seeped into non-comic book movies, leading to a “comic book inflection” in 21st century comic-book filmmaking (267), though he expresses doubts about the long-term prospects of the genre.

10 Drew Morton’s, Panel to the Screen seizes on the themes broached in these last two chapters of The Comic Book Film Adaptation, in seeking for “stylistic remediation” (Morton, 2016, 5), later defined as “the remediation of formal and stylistic attributes that are specific to one medium or the other” (24). To do so, the book presents a series

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of case studies, which serve to highlight the way certain attributes of comics are remediated into film and vice-versa.

11 Morton differs from Burke at the outset, since he seeks to separate adaptation from remediation, “the representation of one medium in another”, as defined by Bolter and Grusin in 1999, stating that “stylistic remediation differs from adaptation in two ways : it is not tied to a specific text, and it can be linear or dialogical” (8). Puzzlingly, he suggests that an adaptation is not necessarily a remediation, though this definition would seem to position adaptation either as a specific case of remediation or a phenomenon existing at a different level altogether. In any case, the existence of a shared “comic book aesthetic” among contemporary adaptations – as demonstrated by Burke – means that this distinction is a moot point, as nearly all these movies are adaptations as well as remediation of the comics form. This bold theoretical option is reflected in the bibliography, which does not include either Leitch or Hutcheon, though Morton refers to Robert Stam’s work on several occasions. In order not to get sidetracked by the difference in cultural and industrial practices in Japan and in Europe, Morton focuses exclusively on contemporary films (1978-2013, from Superman to Man of Steel) based on American comics.

12 The book is divided into three parts. In the first, “Definitions and Historical Context”, Morton uses Edgar Wright’s Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010) as a case study. The film was both a financial failure and a case of fan-pleasing multi-faceted stylistic remediation ; this remediation affects the construction of time, space, the image ratio and various visual disjunctions, such as a flashback using comics images while the film uses a photographic apparatus (21-31). Morton also points out that Scott Pilgrim’s borrowing from other sources, notably video games, creates a “transmedia style”, a stylistic counterpart to Henry Jenkins’s concept of transmedia storytelling : “Transmedia style […] can be defined as a unified series of texts in different media that a unified by a unique stylistic approach” (35). This is an important and effective concept, in that the Scott Pilgrim comics, film and video games do echo and reinforce each other but does not reward involvement through interlocking narratives. Morton observes that Scott Pilgrim’s box-office failure, though not entirely attributable to its stylistic choices nevertheless seemed to demonstrate that overt stylistic remediation, even when appreciated by fans, was a risky gamble.

13 A second chapter in this first part presents a capsule history of comic book films from 1934 – the year comic books were invented – to 2013 in 20 pages. Morton describes Burkes’ “golden age” of comic book film as “The High Fidelity Cycle” of such films, following the Superman Cycle (1978-1987) and the Batman Cycle (1989-1997). This fidelity is manifest in the way certain storylines are referred to, in the implication of fans or even of the original creators – Frank Miller being credited as the co-director of Sin City – and in some cases in stylistic remediation. The high point of this chapter is the discussion of the 1978 Superman film and its stylistic choices, which has received less attention from academics that the later Batman movies, for instance, though it inaugurated the modern age of superhero movies with panache and a historical awareness of its predecessors.

14 The second part examines two key examples of stylistic remediation, Dick Tracy (Beatty, 1990) and Hulk (Lee, 2003). Morton uses these two case studies to examine the way characteristic elements of the original comics – the construction of space, caricature and in Hulk’s case, the multiframe, the arrangement of panels on the page – can be

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recreated or approximated on the screen. While both examples have been discussed extensively by other scholars, Morton resorts to comics theorists such as Eisner, McCloud and Groensteen to provide an insightful analysis of the Hulk’s incomplete spatial remediation of the layout of the comics page through various split screen configurations. From these two examples, Morton concludes that stylistic remediation is and remains expensive in spite of digital imagery, but also that such a remediation is likely to result in “a degree of stylistic noise”, a series of compromises which undercut the attempts at visual fidelity (86). He then moves on to examine Zach Snyder’s 300 (2006) and Watchmen (2009), focusing again on remediation but also on the marketing strategies accompanying these films, which resulted in a contrastic outcome : an unexpected success for the former and a disappointing result for the latter. Finally, American Splendor allows Morton to examine the remediation of the specific relation between texts and pictures in comics, notably through the inclusion of on-screen thought balloons. Again, and even though the adaptation is one of the most elaborate examples of stylistic remediation, Morton concludes that “the formal vocabulary of the remediating medium – film – dominates” (108).

15 In a third and final part, Morton examines the dialogic process of remediation, as opposed to the unidirectional adaptation presented before. He demonstrates how comics informed Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns, whose influence can in turn be detected in modern comics in a western setting. The use of the “bullet time” in Matrix is connected to the representation of time and speed in comics, and this example allows Morton to delineate more clearly the way in which his notion of transmedia style can be articulated with Henry Jenkins’s transmedia storytelling. Finally, the example of the Joker and a careful examination of Frank Miller’s career in comics and in Hollywood serves as examples of the way comics and cinema constantly draw from each other’s formal and narrative innovations, which Morton calls a “dialogic stylistic remediation” (173).

16 His conclusion suggests that while stylistic remediation has become “a lucrative means of drawing fans and potential readers towards both synergistic and transmedia texts” (177), a string of economic failures and a form of “cultural fatigue” (180) appears to have reversed that trend.

17 The Comic Book Film Adaptation and Panel to the Screen have much in common. The salient examples and even specific discussions, such as the use of “bullet time” in Matrix are repeated from one book to the next. They also resort to the same theorists for the most part, from Groensteen and McCloud to Bordwell and Thompson to Jenkins, which reinforces this overlap and strongly suggests that a core theoretical corpus exist for these comics adaptation studies.

18 Their focus and method differ, however, as Morton’s book is more interested in theory, formalism and close readings, while Burke’s is especially successful in charting and characterizing audience reception. The thematic approach in The Comic Book Film Adaptation also produces a more satisfying overview of the phenomenon of comic book films, and the framework of genre theory proves helpful in charting the various discourses which surround these films. The film by film approach in Panel to the Screen, while helpful in providing a syncretic view of the various examples, also leads to a degree of repetition and structural indeterminacy (it is unclear, for instance, why American Splendor was included in the chapter which also discusses Zach Snyder’s films). The Comic Book Film Adaptation, also the longer of the two books, is therefore a preferable

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entry point into the phenomenon, grounded in an impressive amount of original research, undergirded by a solid and extensive theoretical framework.

19 Panel to the Screen, is less inclusive in that it barely mentions the films which Burke describes as employing a “subtle” remediation, such as Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy and most of the Marvel films. The book is thus focused on examples of overt remediation, which have often been widely discussed by other scholars, including Burke. It does succeed however in arguing for the recognition of stylistic remediation as a distinct creative and commercial strategy. The notion of “transmedia style” also offers a welcome corrective to the excessive attention paid to narrative in multimedia and transmedia franchises at the expense of style and design. It makes it possible to question franchise incarnations by deploying the crossmedia/transmedia dichotomy : does the work repeat an existing story or does it expand on the already available narrative ? But this questioning is also achieved via a transmedia style/singular style dimension : does the work adhere to the stylistic choices made in other parts of the franchise, and if not, why ? These advances make it a recommended reading for scholars interested in the evolution of transmedia, a field recently enriched by a number of significant historical and theoretical works.

20 Taken together, these two books attest to the vitality of the field of comics-centric adaptation studies. Their publication by the University Press of Mississippi over the course of 18 months also points to the fact the interest generated by the adaptation of comics into films does not extend to other adaptation practices involving comics. It is striking, to name but one example, that neither book mentions “official” adaptations of films into comics, of the kind regularly produced by comic companies since the 1940s. Adaptation studies have struggled for nearly fifty years to move beyond their exclusive focus on the novel-to-film translation. Despite the undeniable quality of the two books under review, it would be disheartening to see comics-to-film studies similarly eclipse the many other existing circulations between comics and other visual media.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Works cited

BORDWELL, David. « Superheroes for sale ». Observations on Film Art. 16 August 2008. http:// www.davidbordwell.net/blog/2008/08/16/superheroes-for-sale/. (visited on July 15, 2017)

« Bullet Time ». 2017. Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php ? title =Bullet_time&oldid =799216226. (visited on August 30, 2017)

BURKE, Liam. Comic Book Film Adaptation : Exploring Modern Hollywood’s Leading Genre. Jackson : University Press of Mississippi, 2015.

DAVIS, Blair. Movie Comics :Ppage to Screen/Screen to Page. New Brunswick, New Jersey : Rutgers University Press, 2017.

HUTCHEON, Linda. A Theory of Adaptation. New York : Routledge, 2006.

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JENKINS, Henry. Convergence Culture : Where Old and New Media Collide. New York : New York University Press, 2006.

LEITCH, Thomas. Film Adaptation and Its Discontents from Gone with the Wind to The Passion of the Christ. Baltimore, Md. : Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 2007.

MORTON, Drew. Panel To The Screen : Style, American Film, And Comic Books During The Blockbuster Era. Jackson : University Press of Mississippi, 2016.

PEETERS, Heidi. « Linda Hutcheon, A Theory of Adaptation (review) ». Image [&] Narrative, no 16 (février 2007). http://www.imageandnarrative.be/inarchive/house_text_museum/peeters.htm. (accessed on August 30, 2017)

AUTHORS

NICOLAS LABARRE Université Bordeaux Montaigne

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Laura Atran-Fresco, Les Cadiens au présent. Revendications d’une francophonie en Amérique du Nord

Nathalie Dessens

RÉFÉRENCE

Atran-Fresco, Laura, Les Cadiens au présent. Revendications d’une francophonie en Amérique du Nord, Québec : Presses de l’Université Laval, Collection Langues Officielles et Sociétés, 2016, 263 pages, ISBN 978-2-7637-2820-9, Prix $ 32,95

1 Résolument francophone jusqu’au début du XXe siècle, la région de la Louisiane désormais appelée Acadiana qui regroupe vingt-deux paroisses de culture acadienne et française, s’est effacée au cours du XXe siècle dans la Louisiane anglophone, perdant en partie son identité particulière, avant d’entamer un lent mouvement de revalorisation de son exception linguistique et culturelle dans les cinquante dernières années. Ce renouveau de la francophonie louisianaise a été encore peu étudié en tant que processus identitaire. Ainsi que le souligne la préface de l’ouvrage, Les Cadiens au présent. Revendications d’une francophonie en Amérique du Nord vient combler ce vide scientifique en portant un regard neuf sur le renouveau francophone de la Louisiane. Aux ouvrages existants, présentant plutôt des études folkloristes ou des réflexions militantes, Laura Atran-Fresco vient ajouter une réflexion théorique, fondée sur un travail de terrain original et fouillé. Le présent ouvrage est une étude passionnante du mouvement de renouveau identitaire cadien aujourd’hui.

2 Une introduction efficace et pédagogique présente une problématique claire : la volonté d’analyser les « processus de revendication identitaire de la population cadienne », une « population en situation minoritaire » (3), et le paradoxe qui consiste, pour cette population, à ressentir le besoin d’affirmer sa légitimité tout en s’inscrivant dans le monde extérieur. L’introduction fournit également un arrière-plan théorique serré, en insistant sur les trois processus complémentaires que sont l’intégration dans

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le monde francophone, l’institutionnalisation, et la conscientisation de la jeunesse, qui serviront de fil conducteur à l’ouvrage. Elle pose un cadre clair, portant une attention toute particulière à l’élément conceptuel.

3 Le chapitre introductif est à la fois historique et théorique. Il retrace l’histoire du pays cadien depuis le Grand Dérangement jusqu’à nos jours, se concentrant sur la migration qui a conduit des Acadiens en exil à se fixer en Louisiane, avant d’examiner le processus d’anglicisation qui a abouti à la marginalisation et la quasi-disparition du français, et de revenir sur l’histoire de la renaissance culturelle qui a ravivé l’identité cadienne dans les trente dernières années du XXe siècle. Ce chapitre examine enfin la langue, la culture et l’identité cadiennes dans les relations qu’elles entretiennent entre elles, soulignant le rapport dialectique qui existe entre langue et culture et l’importance de la préservation des deux éléments pour une construction identitaire plus efficace. Le cadre théorique de l’étude qui suit est ainsi posé avec beaucoup de soin.

4 Le second chapitre détaille les liens de cette francophonie louisianaise avec les autres francophonies, en particulier celles du continent américain. Si la position de faiblesse de la Louisiane au sein de l’Assemblée parlementaire de la Francophonie rend difficile une revitalisation institutionnelle du français louisianais, les derniers développements ont permis un renforcement de cette revitalisation qui repose principalement sur une « solidarité panfrancophone » (60). La création, en 2008, du Centre de la francophonie des Amériques, a largement participé au renforcement de cette solidarité qui a permis à la Louisiane une meilleure intégration dans cet espace francophone. Le chapitre présente les actions phares de cette intégration à la francophonie américaine. Laura Atran-Fresco insère sa réflexion dans une pensée théorique linguistique, étudiant, en particulier, les enjeux de la transcription du cadien, resté, jusqu’à la fin du XXe siècle, une langue orale.

5 Le troisième chapitre se concentre sur l’institutionnalisation de la francophonie en Louisiane, examinant les actions des élus locaux et du CODOFIL (Council for the Development of French in Louisiana), fondé en 1968 à Lafayette. Une présentation très détaillée du programme d’immersion française lancé par le CODOFIL est fournie, aboutissant à une étude des objectifs (linguistique, académique et culturel) du programme, puis à une évaluation de la réalisation de ces objectifs. L’organisation institutionnelle, les financements, le recrutement des enseignants sont examinés avec soin. Dans ce chapitre, sont détaillées les premières enquêtes menées par Laura Atran- Fresco auprès d’enseignants en programme d’immersion. La première, en 2011, auprès de 25 enseignants en programme d’immersion, avait pour but de déterminer les objectifs du programme tels qu’ils étaient envisagés par ceux-ci. La seconde, également menée en 2011, cette fois-ci auprès de 51 enseignants rassemblés à Bâton-Rouge dans le cadre d’une rencontre pédagogique organisée au sein du programme d’immersion, visait à évaluer la conception qu’avaient ces enseignants de l’identité franco- louisianaise et la façon dont ils l’utilisaient dans leurs enseignements. Par volonté d’objectivité, Atran-Fresco compare les résultats qu’elle a obtenus avec ceux d’une précédente étude, menée en 2009 par C. Brian Barnett, spécialiste de Sciences de l’Education, et conclut sur la bonne disposition des enseignants du programme d’immersion, pour l’essentiel non-cadiens, vis-à-vis de la langue vernaculaire cadienne, tout en reconnaissant la difficulté qu’ils ont à mettre en pratique ces bonnes dispositions, souvent par manque de connaissances des langues et cultures louisianaises. Pour Atran-Fresco, le programme d’immersion est globalement utile,

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voire efficace. Avec beaucoup de lucidité, elle en souligne toutefois les faiblesses relatives et relève l’absence d’une mise en œuvre parallèle de programmes de revitalisation linguistiques et culturels dans l’espace public, malgré les efforts considérables réalisés ces dernières années. Elle étudie, enfin, l’institutionnalisation universitaire du renouveau linguistique et identitaire au moyen d’une enquête menée auprès des départements membres du Consortium des universités et collèges de Louisiane, fondé en 1974 pour conseiller le CODOFIL. Sur les vingt-cinq départements universitaires offrant des cours de français dans les vingt institutions louisianaises membres du consortium, elle a obtenu 15 réponses, lui permettant de tracer un tableau détaillé des cursus, de la place qu’y prennent les vernaculaires louisianais, des liens qui sont établis avec l’enseignement des éléments du folklore louisianais. Les résultats de cette enquête sont passionnants et montrent bien la difficulté de cette institutionnalisation universitaire, malgré, là encore, les avancées sensibles qu’elle permet d’attester.

6 Le quatrième et dernier chapitre, enfin, se propose d’évaluer la réussite de ces programmes dans la conscientisation de la jeunesse louisianaise sur la nécessité de revitaliser l’identité cadienne, au-delà de la langue française. Deux enquêtes complémentaires ont été menées dans ce but. Une enquête par questionnaires, conduite en 2012 auprès des étudiants de français de l’Université de Louisiane à Lafayette, et une enquête par entretiens semi-directifs auprès de 6 étudiants de l’Université de Louisiane à Lafayette ayant suivi le programme d’immersion d’été de Sainte-Anne, en Nouvelle-Ecosse, au Canada. Le taux de réponse à la première enquête est excellent : 305 réponses sur les 320 étudiants inscrits. L’enquête était divisée en deux parties, la première pour tous les étudiants, la seconde pour ceux qui avaient auparavant suivi le programme d’immersion. Là encore, le travail est efficacement mené et ses résultats révélateurs examinés avec soin. Le dernier travail de terrain, dont Laura Atran-Fresco reconnaît qu’il n’est pas numériquement significatif en raison de la taille de l’échantillon, mené auprès des 6 étudiants du programme d’immersion de Sainte-Anne, est pourtant tout aussi révélateur et finalement sans doute plus représentatif qu’il n’y paraît, en raison de la très grande uniformité des réponses obtenues.

7 L’ouvrage de Laura Atran-Fresco est passionnant. Elle prend la peine de tracer un cadre théorique et méthodologique très strict. Les premiers chapitres, plus généraux, la conduisent à présenter et justifier son corpus avec beaucoup d’attention. Fondant son étude sur des sources souvent originales (des manuscrits archivés à la bibliothèque de l’Université de Louisiane à Lafayette, par exemple), elle examine avec soin la question de la transcription de la langue cadienne, étudie la littérature cadienne, encore peu profuse et peu valorisée à l’exception notable de la poésie, justifie parfaitement le travail effectué sur les paroles de chansons, dans une dimension diachronique extrêmement bien menée. Les textes, dont de nombreux extraits sont cités dans le corps de l’ouvrage, sont aussi, pour certains, reproduits à la fin de l’ouvrage.

8 Les annexes sont d’ailleurs d’un grand intérêt. On y trouve la reproduction d’un courrier de Barry Ancelet prenant parti, en 1994, dans la polémique à propos de la transcription du cadien, la traduction d’une nouvelle de Maupassant en cadien, le très émouvant poème Je suis Cadien de Jean Arceneaux (1994), et les quatre questionnaires ayant servi de base aux travaux de terrain. La dernière annexe est constituée de 28

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tableaux qui viennent compléter ceux répartis dans l’ensemble de l’ouvrage, analysant les résultats des différentes enquêtes.

9 Ce qui fait l’intérêt principal de l’ouvrage sont les cinq enquêtes menées auprès d’enseignants de programme d’immersion, auprès des établissements d’enseignement supérieur dispensant des cours de français en Louisiane et auprès des étudiants de français de l’Université de Lafayette. Les questionnaires ont été soigneusement élaborés, sont parfaitement justifiés et tout à fait efficaces. Les études menées ont été préparées avec beaucoup de soin et ont suscité des réponses nombreuses qui permettent une étude approfondie (25 des 48 enseignants en immersion de la paroisse de Lafayette, pour la première, 51 de la centaine de personnes présentes à la rencontre à Bâton-Rouge, pour la seconde, 15 des 25 départements enseignant le français dans les établissements d’enseignement supérieur de Louisiane, 305 des 320 étudiants de français de l’Université de Louisiane à Lafayette). Elles présentent l’avantage de la complémentarité, se concentrant sur des éléments essentiels de cette revitalisation de la langue française en Louisiane auprès des divers acteurs impliqués dans l’entreprise. Les études des résultats, complétées par de nombreux tableaux synthétiques, sont parfaitement réalisées et toujours soigneusement commentées.

10 S’il fallait trouver quelques faiblesses dans ce passionnant ouvrage, elles relèveraient de deux ordres. Le balayage historique, s’il est très utile pour des personnes n’ayant que peu de connaissances sur le sujet, est parfois un peu simplifié, probablement en raison du format-même de l’ouvrage. L’historien y regrettera une absence de présentation de l’historiographie ainsi que quelques raccourcis et restera surtout sur sa faim quant à la définition de la Créolité et au référencement des sources permettant éventuellement de se renseigner plus avant. La deuxième faiblesse relative, si elle est parfaitement compréhensible, concerne la différenciation entre Créole et Cadien au sein des études successives. Il est évident qu’il s’agit d’un point épineux qui rend toujours les études sur la francité louisianaise un peu floues. Il serait intéressant qu’une étude ultérieure tente de différencier davantage les deux cultures et langues vernaculaires, même si une dizaine de pages leur sont consacrées. C’est peut-être d’ailleurs plus un contexte détaillé des différences entre les deux cultures qui aurait été nécessaire à une meilleure appréciation des résultats de l’enquête menée.

11 Au-delà de ces deux points, qui relèvent sans doute plus de la frustration ressentie par le présent lecteur que d’une faiblesse analytique, l’ouvrage de Laura Atran-Fresco est un très bel ajout aux travaux existants et on ne saurait trop en conseiller la lecture à tous ceux qui s’intéressent à la Louisiane ou plus largement aux questions de revendications identitaires des langues et cultures en situation minoritaire. Même si tel n’était pas le but premier de l’ouvrage, sa lecture attentive permettrait aussi à ceux qui s’impliquent dans l’institutionnalisation du renouveau identitaire cadien (dans le monde politique mais aussi dans l’espace public et au sein de l’université), ou plus largement de renouveaux identitaires en situation linguistico-culturelle minoritaire, d’avoir des éléments leur permettant de mettre en place des politiques plus efficaces et de participer plus largement au processus de revitalisation engagé.

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AUTEURS

NATHALIE DESSENS Université de Toulouse

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Lucy R. Lippard, Undermining : A Wild Ride Through Land Use, Politics, and Art in the Changing West

Melanie Meunier

REFERENCES

Lippard, Lucy R., Undermining : A Wild Ride Through Land Use, Politics, and Art in the Changing West, New York, The New Press, 2014, ISBN 978-1-59558-619-3, 200 pages, $ 21.95, € 21,08

1 In an interview in 2012, Lucy R. Lippard recounts that she had always been interested in the word and the image, but that her efforts always fell somewhere in between and “you knew you could never get it” (Interview 2012). In Undermining, Lippard combines the two methods of expression, placing an essentially environmentalist narrative between colorful visual supports (photographs, paintings, collages) covering the top third of each page, and the artists’ explanatory captions at the bottom. The result offers an experience that appeals to both visual and intellectual levels of comprehension. In a sense, it is the reverse process of curating : rather than writing a text about an artist’s body of work, she has solicited many artists to provide visuals that enhance her text. Photography dominates her choices, because, like many contemporary artists, she considers it the best medium to convey “a way of seeing that flattens and blurs” (Undermining, 17) the West’s wide-open spaces. The text, taken alone, could figure on the bookshelf of an environmentalist scholar. The visuals and their captions, taken alone, could constitute an artistic presentation of the contemporary West. Together, the visuals and the text present something that is hard to classify, a work that weaves stories of historical events into the present-day context of multinationals, fracking and climate change.

2 Her text could be read as an environmental “rant” (Interview 2014), as she called it, covering a variety of subjects : degradation of the land, of the cultural patrimony and of

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natural resources. Lippard recounts how a local gravel contractor swept away her preconceived ideas about small local mining companies, explaining to her that she should direct her attention to the multinationals, which come in, buy up the small businesses, and expand operations with no regard for the local quality of life. Furthermore, she and consumers all over the country are complicit in the destruction insofar as that they use gravel for their driveways, cement to build houses, etc. Her exchange with this man was one of the inspirations for writing Undermining.

3 Perhaps one of the most powerful aspects of this work is that it is very personal. Lippard starts from her own hometown and her own experience. As she affirms in an interview with Lauren O’Neill-Butler, “I’m a great believer in the idea you take responsibility for the place you are, and work on that” (Interview 2012). Undermining opens with a description of the Galisteo Basin in northern New Mexico, where she has lived for the past 25 years in a town of 250 people – quite a contrast to New York City, her previous abode for over 30 years. To illustrate the dissimilarity, photos of the apartment building in New York and her present house in New Mexico figure above the text, adding a distinctly personal tone to the work as a whole.

4 Lippard mentions her participation in local committees to influence land use decisions, doing watershed restoration and fending off oil and gas development (Interview 2012). She cites her opposition to the expansion of a quiet, two-lane road into a multi-lane throughway : My own little house by the highway lies next to a two-lane rural artery that runs straight through the heart of our village, where once a wide, undefined dirt plaza in front of the church centered a community surrounded by fields and orchards... But now we see more than thirty gravel trucks per day, as well as gas and oil tankers weighing some 40 tons, tearing through from Moriarty, 28 miles south, passing over a concrete bridge built by the WPA in 1936, with a 15-ton capacity. The extraction process itself is problematic enough, but these behemoths barreling through tiny adobe villages spew dust and stones, shake historic adobe buildings to their foundations, crack these chunks of cultural history and rend the illusion of quiet village life. (19)

5 Above the text is an aerial photo of the hills and dirt roads surrounding a gravel pit with a tiny hamlet nearby, and the next page features a photo of a twelve-wheel transport truck. While images sometimes are more powerful than words, in this case, Lippard’s description conveys much more of the lived experience than these photos can. This example of the gap between the text and the images reinforces the perception that photography and art are thought-provoking, but far from adequate to influence policy : hands-on involvement in the decision-making process through committees, demonstrations, talks, letter writing, and lobbying is capital. Lippard sums up her approach : “I argue now for the nearby, a microview of land and art, grassroots connections rather than macropronouncements” (88).

6 Lippard also constantly links local problems to national and global issues. Throughout the book, a major leitmotif connecting the many examples is the subversive power of the capitalist system, which puts profit first and undermines the landscape and the local quality of life, desecrates native sacred and Spanish historical sites, pollutes scarce aquifers and fuels climate change. Lippard frequently returns to the complex issues of Native American rights in New Mexico, observing that mining or other development interests commonly trump the respect for Natives’ burial sites, water rights and land rights guaranteed by treaties that were signed and then disregarded.

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“Western mountains may be sacred to Native people, but they are also grist to industry’s many mills” (52). One illustration is the 1872 General Mining Act, which, despite its obsolescence, continues to “bleed the nation” (69). Originally established to encourage settlement of the West, the law “actually requires taxpayers to underwrite the pillaging of some of the finest lands in America” (Lippard quotes William Least Heat-Moon, 68). Leases to private companies of public land for the extraction of gravel, precious metals, uranium, oil and gas are cited as examples of congressional and administrative failures to protect national resources and Native American heritage. On the subject of fracking, Lippard speculates on whether a multinational has tunneled under her house in the quest for shale gas, tunnels that may one day cause the house to collapse. The policies adopted in the four corners region, where the states of New Mexico, Utah, Colorado, and Arizona meet, are “emblematic of the short-term thinking that also characterizes the official US response to climate change” (70). The presence there of the two most polluting power plants in New Mexico and Lake Powell, created by the flooding of beautiful canyons and thousands of archaeological sites, are two of several examples given to illustrate her statement. Thus, national interests – and multinationals’ profits – proceed with little regard for the negative impact extraction has on the local communities. Lippard uses the metaphor of subterranean activity to look below the surface of contemporary practices to see how the present system is undermining the integrity of the land to the detriment of the local culture. Given the sheer number of cases of land abuse in Undermining, Lippard appears to be more activist than art lover in this work.

7 Lippard’s attention has shifted from the esthetic to the practical, from landscapes and land art to land use in the Southwest. Indeed, one of the central questions Lippard raises is the relevancy of art to the complicated issues cited above. Lippard remarks, “Sometimes, the tools I bring from a lifetime in and on the edge of the arts are pretty useless when confronting land use and abuse” (3). She criticizes land art as too often being “a pseudo rural art made from metropolitan headquarters, a kind of colonization in itself... Cultural geography and the politics of land use have replaced land art in my windshield over the years I’ve been living in the West” (88).

8 Given the emphasis on the politics of land use rather than art, student of art Maya Harakawa found Undermining to be disconcerting and wondered how it fit into the realm of art criticism. Coming from a civilizationist/environmental perspective, what struck me was how Lippard is able to succinctly summarize these situations without falling into pessimism. Since the beginning of the environmental movement in the United States, concerned scientists and laypersons have made dire predictions about the future of the earth, nature and humanity. Environmentalists have been criticized for painting apocalyptic scenarios in which action must be radical and immediate to avert disaster. One example is the population scare of the 1970’s, epitomized by Paul Ehrlich’s The Population Bomb (1968), in which he prophesied human decimation through starvation in the 1970’s and 1980’s. Today, some believe that climate change will eradicate humans from the earth if we do not act immediately. Al Gore, former Vice President, gained a wide audience in 2006 with his documentary An Inconvenient Truth. In an interview in 2013, he stated (in less drastic terms than the language of the 1970s) : “The truth is that we’re at a critical juncture in the history of our species and if we don’t act soon, we could inhabit a world we don’t recognize anymore.” James Hansen, reputed NASA scientist and foremost authority on climate science, has repeatedly sounded the alarm. The title of his book, Storms of My Grandchildren : The

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Truth about the Climate Catastrophe and Our Last Chance to Save Humanity (2009), attests to his belief in the urgency of the situation, and is worded to jolt readers out of their complacency.

9 Lucy Lippard takes a different track : she is obviously very concerned about global issues such as climate change and the quest for new sources of energy, like fracking. Concentrating on her immediate surroundings and the larger region of the Southwest, she has crafted a book that addresses these challenges in a way that does not accuse, goad, or try to frighten the average person through doomsday prophecies. Instead, she gives matter-of-fact accounts of examples of land abuse and calls on the art community to become activist, too, and perhaps get the message across in a more palatable way. Lippard affirms, “Writing about conceptual, feminist and political art, I’ve concluded that the ultimate escape attempt would be to free ourselves from the limitations of preconceived notions of art, and in doing so, help to save the planet” (9). Undermining is a call for action, especially to artists, to use their creativity in order to raise awareness and play a role in devising “alternative futures.”

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Ehrlich, Paul R., The Population Bomb, New York, Sierra Club/Balantine Books, 1968.

Guggenheim, Davis, dir., Al Gore, screenplay, An Inconvenient Truth, Paramount Classics, 2006.

Hansen, James, Storms of My Grandchildren : The Truth about the Climate Catastrophe and Our Last Chance to Save Humanity, New York, Bloomsbury Press, 2009.

Harakawa, Maya, review of Undermining, July 15, 2014, www.brooklynrail.org/2014/07/ art_books/undermining-a-wild-ride-through-land-use-politics-and-art-in-the-changing-west consulted July 25, 2016.

Lippard, Lucy R., Undermining : A Wild Ride Through Land Use, Politics, and Art in the Changing West, New York, The New Press, 2014.

O’Neill-Butler, Lauren, Interview of Lucy Lippard, September 2012, http://www.artforum.com/ words/id=33579 consulted August 22, 2016.

O’Neill-Butler, Lauren, Interview of Lucy Lippard, May 12, 2014, http://artforum.com/words/ id=46694 consulted July 24, 2016.

Gore, Al, “The Most Important Truth,” Origin Magazine, September 1, 2013, http:// www.originmagazine.com/2013/09/01/al-gore-the-most-important-truth-the-power-of-your- own-voice/ consulted August 24, 2016.

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AUTHORS

MELANIE MEUNIER Institut d’Etudes Politiques, Strasbourg, EA2325 SEARCH

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Megan A. Sholar, Getting Paid While Taking Time: The Women’s Movement and the Development of Paid Family Leave Policies in the United States

Éveline Thévenard

REFERENCES

Sholar, Megan A., Getting Paid While Taking Time: The Women’s Movement and the Development of Paid Family Leave Policies in the United States, Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2016, 240 pages, ISBN: 978-1-4399-1295-9, $ 29.95

1 How can a country which has had the most vibrant women’s movement in the world be at the same time the only developed country that does not mandate paid maternity/ family leave, a benefit which is now recognized as essential for the health and economic security of families, and whose absence is a source of gender and class inequality? In her book, which traces the evolution of the women’s movement on the issue and the role of various women’s organizations in the policymaking process regarding work-family balance, political scientist Megan Sholar provides significant clues. The first chapters of her well-researched book highlight the historic ambivalence of American feminists towards supporting policies encouraging women to work and raise children, and the division of the women’s movement over maternity coverage. But the main interest of Getting Paid While Taking Time lies in its case studies of State level initiatives, an area somewhat neglected by researchers with the exception of the State of California.1 This pioneering work covers in depth the reasons for the success of paid leave campaigns in the four States which had passed legislation by March 2016 (California, New Jersey, Rhode Island and New York) as well as those leading to the failure of such attempts in four States where advocates have led similar efforts. It concludes on the prospects for passage of a national program at a time of growing

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political momentum for family friendly policies. Two dynamics are at work there: feminism as a social movement and its power to produce social change both through the legislative process and grassroots mobilization, and the capacity of States to fill a policy void and pass progressive legislation blocked at the federal level.

2 Sholar’s qualitative research approach draws on multiple sources, including archival materials and dozens of interviews with activists involved in historic and recent campaigns for family leave. She focuses on the diversity of women’s movement actors and their grassroots, lobbying and legal strategies to achieve their goals. Her study also identifies other influential actors such as unions, children’s advocates, senior groups and legislators.

3 Chapter two highlights the unity which eventually prevailed within the movement and helped mobilize public opinion for passage of the Pregnancy Discrimination Act in 1978, a pivotal moment in the fight for workplace equality strongly influenced by the civil rights movement. Sholar contrasts it with the tensions and fragmentation which marked the lengthy debate over the adoption of the Family and Medical Leave Act as the campaign’s focus shifted from what radical feminists saw as women’s rights in the workplace to a labor/family approach to appeal to a broader coalition. Although it adds little to the existing, abundant scholarship on the legislation and on the equality vs. difference controversy among feminists, this section provides the necessary historical perspective on the issue. It clarifies the role of the various women’s organizations, and highlights the split between NOW (who did not support the bill because it was unpaid and had other priorities) and other groups such as the Women’s Legal Defense Fund. The latter saw family leave as a major issue, and was instrumental in building the coalition which led to its passage in 1993 and (as the National Partnership for Women and Families) would be at the forefront of the battle for paid family leave several decades later. Nevertheless, the division within the women’s movement and competing priorities on its agenda (such as reproductive rights, workplace discrimination or domestic violence) weakened the bill and hampered the efforts to achieve further gains nationally in the following decades.

4 However, the limitations of the FMLA (in addition to being unpaid, it currently leaves out 40% of workers) and its failure to challenge gender norms to meet the needs of a changing workforce and to promote economic opportunity for women drove activists to renew their efforts to enact paid leave. Since the early 2000s, with varying degrees of success, in the face of congressional inaction, initiative for policy innovation has shifted back to the States, many of whom had adopted their own family and medical leave before the federal law.

5 In her account of the policymaking process which led to the adoption of paid leave in four States, Sholar focuses not only on women’s organizations, but also on other advocates and on the political environment which prevailed at the time of the campaigns, as well as on the institutional framework which allowed the smooth implementation of the programs. The case studies highlight both the common elements which led to successful campaign outcomes (broad coalitions, legislative lobbying, outreach campaigns at the grassroots levels, democratic control of state government,) and the specificities of the local contexts. Although the programs promoted and the laws passed differ somewhat in their generosity (number of weeks, job protection, wage replacement levels) they are all gender-neutral and employee-funded, through the States’ temporary disability insurance program.

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6 Unlike other State campaigns, the California initiative has been amply documented. Sholar supplements the usual sources with interviews of women’s movement activists, in particular the Coalition of Labor Union Women and 9to5, National Association of Working Women. Although feminists were united in pushing for the legislation, it appears clearly that the women’s organizations which were at the forefront of the fight for paid leave in California were those which had historically strong ties with the labor movement whose support was essential.

7 The first detailed account of the Rhode Island campaign provides rich insights into the role women actors played in its successful outcome, whether as legislators or members of women’s organizations. In this small New England State, a relatively quick victory was achieved thanks to the activism of a key actor, State Senator Gayle Goldin, a former policy analyst at the Women’s Policy Institute of the Women’s Fund of Rhode Island, who was determined to push paid leave on the legislative agenda and get it passed even if it meant agreeing to major concessions. She worked hard to garner support inside the legislature and convince lawmakers of the economic and social benefits of the new program for the State. She benefited from the support of two crucial actors in control of the policymaking process: the President of the Senate and a highly respected member of the House, both women. And outside the legislature, a coalition of community, senior, labor and women’s organizations led an effective grassroots campaign.

8 The lengthy fight for paid leave in New York (a first bill failed to pass in 2005; the program, offering 8 weeks of job-protected paid family leave, will be gradually phased in by January 2018) illustrates the complex factors which contribute to the success of what have become broader social justice campaigns more than battles for women’s rights. If women’s groups were active members of a big tent coalition similar to those which achieved victory in the other States, other concerns (reproductive rights, domestic violence, equal pay) had mobilized their energy and resources for several years, reflecting the difficulty of activists in prioritizing the issue at the national level. They did move it to the top of their agenda in 2015 along with other community organizations, but if the strong advocacy campaign built support both inside the legislature and among the public, it was Governor Cuomo’s decision to support paid family leave and make it a priority which was crucial to its passage in March 2016. This unexpected turnaround (he had previously opposed it due to the hostility of the business community), due to a combination of personal but mostly political reasons, allowed advocates to score a victory which had long eluded them.

9 However, while U.S. federalism traditionally fosters innovation and experimentation in social welfare programs, these victories will be difficult to replicate. Just as interesting are the lessons to be drawn from the failure of several States to pass similar legislation despite repeated attempts and progressive political cultures, which points to the limits of policy diffusion across the States as a potential pattern of social change. Women’s groups were active members of the coalitions which led awareness raising campaigns and lobbied legislators to pass paid leave programs in Washington, Oregon, Massachusetts and Hawaii. However, these States do not have a temporary disability insurance system to build on (only five States do) and the lack of a funding mechanism is a major obstacle to the creation of such programs (Hawaii has a TDI system but it has been privatized). Washington did pass legislation in 2007 but it was never implemented. On the other hand, in recent years paid sick days have taken precedence over paid

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family leave in activists’ top concerns, even if grassroots campaigns initially mobilized around family leave as in Oregon. Paid sick leave can be framed as a more sensitive workplace justice issue, especially among low wage, low skilled workers, and has attracted union support, which has been crucial to achieving success at the State and local levels. As for partisanship, although success is more likely in Democratic dominated States, the situation is more complex than it appears: in Hawaii and Rhode Island, two historically nominally Democratic States, party identification hardly means anything in the local context.

10 In addition to the entrenched opposition of the business community, which argues that it would add to their costs (despite studies showing the impact on employers being positive or neutral), paid leave as a public policy faces several major obstacles. It is a low priority issue for legislators which rarely features at the top of their political/ policy agendas. Although the topic is popular with the public, it is hard to unite a constituency around it: highly paid workers usually have access to some form of privately provided paid leave, while at the grassroots level it has been tough for activists to mobilize the people who need it the most: low wage, low skilled, mostly female workers who lack the time and resources to get engaged. And while earlier victories were anchored in a mass movement for social change and in second wave feminism, paid family leave, unlike reproductive rights, has failed to generate such vibrancy. There have been no mass demonstrations in favor of paid family leave similar to those in the 60s and 70s in favor of reproductive rights or gender discrimination. On the other hand, in more subtle ways, new modes of communications have contributed to organizing a dispersed constituency through the feminist blogosphere. Sholar notes the crucial role Momsrising, a grassroots, online-based advocacy group, played in several States campaigns. The organization, founded in 2006, aimed at giving working mothers a voice in the digital space to voice their concerns, submit suggestions on issues such as childcare, flexible scheduling and paid sick/family leave, and appeal to government officials to find solutions. This bottom-up approach has produced surprising results in terms of membership and political activism both online and offline, with a million members who can mobilize from home and flood legislators with e-mails to back a bill.

11 What future then, for paid family leave in the United States? Significant victories have been achieved at the State and local levels, and the issue has gained prominence thanks to the efforts of activists. It has attracted frequent media coverage and featured on candidates campaign agendas in 2016. In order to attract and retain workers, a growing number of corporations now offer generous packages. However, these perks only benefit the highest paid workers, and only 13% percent of private sector workers in the United States have access to any paid leave. If bills have been introduced in Congress, partisan polarization and a lack of political will from the Democrats have sharply reduced the likelihood of success for national legislation in the near future. On the bright side, under Barack Obama, in addition to administrative action and rhetorical efforts to promote paid family leave, the federal government has bypassed Congress and relied on the States to achieve its progressive policy goals, providing financial incentives to encourage them to set up their own programs. Given the current political climate, an incremental, State-by-State approach seems to be the likeliest, albeit unsatisfactory path towards this crucial benefit. As for women’s organizations, Sholar concludes that when paid leave is high on their agenda, they can initiate a movement and build coalitions, but without the support and resources of unions and elected

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decision makers they will not be able to influence the policy making process. The narrative has changed, and paid family leave is now part of the national conversation, but there is a long journey ahead before it becomes a universal benefit.

12 Getting Paid while Taking Time is a valuable contribution to the research on family policy, women’s studies, and federalism. It provides an interesting perspective on the way women’s movements influence agenda setting and policy formulation. It offers a convincing analysis of the complex interplay of contextual factors and critical actors in the shaping of paid leave policy and it demonstrates both the promise and the limits of states as laboratories of innovation. Occasionally though, the book suffers from repetition. Thus Chapter 6 insists on the division within the women’s movement as the major cause of the failure to pass family leave legislation, which was already largely analyzed in Chapter 2. Aside from that, the emergence in the mid 2000s of new women’s organizations and advocacy networks (Family Values at Work or A Better Balance), which unlike traditional women’s groups prioritize paid leave and which have played a major role in the successful outcome of state campaigns, might have deserved further discussion. What is perhaps also missing is the broader context of the recent State and local campaigns and their possible interconnection with other battles and social justice movements (fair scheduling, fight for fifteen) led by labor/community organizations in their fight against economic inequality in the aftermath of the Great Recession.

NOTES

1. See in particular: Ruth MILKMAN and Eileen APPELBAUM, Unfinished Business: Paid Family Leave in California and the Future of U.S. Work-Family Policy, Ithaca NY, ILR Press, 2013.

AUTHORS

ÉVELINE THÉVENARD Université Paris Sorbonne

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Samuel Cohen and Lee Konstantinou (eds.), The Legacy of David Foster Wallace

Béatrice Pire

RÉFÉRENCE

Cohen, Samuel and Konstantinou, Lee (eds.), The Legacy of David Foster Wallace, University of Iowa Press, 2012, 270 pages, 13,84 $, ISBN-10 : 1609380827

1 The Legacy of David Foster Wallace, recueil de textes critiques édités par Samuel Cohen et Lee Konstantinou en 2012, semble déjà ancien, eu égard aux innombrables ouvrages parus depuis lors sur le même auteur. L’universitaire pionnier en la matière, Stephen Burn, professeur à l’Université de Glasgow et auteur de la première analyse d’Infinite Jest (David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. A Reader’s Guide, Continuum, 2003) dirige même depuis l’année dernière une collection entièrement consacrée aux études wallaciennes chez Bloomsbury. Avec Marshall Boswell (Understanding David Foster Wallace, University of South Carolina Press, 2004), il constitue la première génération critique, pré-suicide (2008) pourrait-on dire. Cohen et Konstantinou appartiennent à la seconde génération (avec David Hering), chacun ayant, à sa manière, dirigé un livre généralement issu de colloques ou de congrès. Mais celui-ci présente une particularité : il rassemble à la fois des essais universitaires et des textes d’écrivains, amis de Wallace pour la plupart, comme Don DeLillo, George Saunders, Rick Moody, Dave Eggers ou Jonathan Franzen. Dans leur introduction, Cohen et surtout Konstantinou – universitaire un peu espiègle qui a publié en 2016 un nouvel ouvrage consacré aux personnages cool de la fiction américaine (Cool Characters: Irony and American Fiction, Harvard University Press, 2016) – s’excusent de ce mélange inhabituel, rejeté par Jakobson lorsqu’il avait été envisagé que Nabokov enseignât dans le département des lettres d’Harvard. Allait-on alors embaucher des éléphants pour enseigner la zoologie ? Constatant que les éléphants siègent à présent largement dans les universités – les ateliers d’écriture en particulier –

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les auteurs ont choisi cette forme hybride qui aère l’ensemble et ménage pour le lecteur des moments d’attention critique soutenue et des temps plus distrayants.

2 Le livre se divise en trois parties intitulées « history », « aesthetics » et « community ». La première comprend deux articles critiques et deux textes prononcés lors de la cérémonie d’hommages rendus à David Foster Wallace le 23 octobre 2008 à New York, quelques semaines après sa mort par pendaison en Californie. Paul Giles interroge la dimension proprement américaine de l’œuvre. A certains égards, elle prolonge la tradition transcendentaliste, celle d’Emerson en particulier dans sa relation au pragmatisme et à l’éthique, dans son articulation du local au sacré. Giles fait même dialoguer certains textes journalistiques de David Foster Wallace (celui de la foire agricole dans l’Illinois, celui écrit juste après le 11 septembre) avec des textes de Lincoln, de façon particulièrement lumineuse et convaincante. Mais cet ancrage dans une langue, un espace et des valeurs intrinsèquement américaines est tempéré par la représentation d’un monde technologique et mondialisé qui fragilise cette identité et lui prête une dimension plus impersonnelle et abstraite. Encadrant un second article portant sur le journalisme littéraire de David Foster Wallace, commenté à la lumière du concept nietzschéen d’oubli, figurent les hommages de DeLillo et Saunders. Certains aphorismes de DeLillo sont déjà devenus des phrases d’anthologie : « dead serious frolic of addicted humanity » ; « scroll fragments of a distant future » ; « equal to the vast, babbling, spin-out sweep of contemporary culture » ; « This is Dave’s voice, American ». Usant de formules aussi frappantes que « terrified-tenderness » pour qualifier la prose de David Foster Wallace, Saunders le replace, comme précédemment, dans une longue filiation littéraire d’éveil, de célébration et d’ensemencement.

3 La seconde partie du recueil contient deux articles de ses éditeurs. Samuel Cohen interroge le genre d’Infinite Jest et avance l’hypothèse que le roman puisse être un Künstlerroman, comme le Portrait de l’artiste joycien, plus qu’un roman d’apprentissage. Selon lui, il faut prendre l’œuvre à rebours et considérer que les premières pages écrites à la 1ère personne (l’histoire de Hal) sont, sur le plan de la diégèse, postérieures aux dernières pages écrites à la 3ème personne (la trame de Don Gately et des terroristes canadiens) – fin qui a souvent donné aux lecteurs un sentiment d’irrésolution et d’inachèvement. Lee Konstantinou, quant à lui, explore chez David Foster Wallace un thème qu’il a traité chez d’autres auteurs contemporains comme Pynchon, Eggers, Lethem ou Egan : l’ironie. Récusant les termes d’anti-ironie ou de méta-ironie pour qualifier David Foster Wallace, il lui préfère le terme de « post-ironie » : l’écrivain a été, selon lui, un des premiers à pointer les impasses de l’ironie métafictionnelle et postmoderne des décennies précédentes, à décrire la culture contemporaine comme triste, cynique, narcissique et toxique et à réclamer la nécessité d’un contre-pouvoir naïf et éthique à l’incrédulité ironique : le type du « croyant » (« believer ») capable de briser ce que Konstantinou appelle le « quatrième mur » du texte. Cette partie contient aussi l’hommage de Rick Moody, empreint de modestie voire de timidité envers Wallace, presque tenu pour un frère aîné : Moody y relate un dîner au cours duquel Franzen et Wallace rivalisaient dans les citations d’Americana ou une réunion des AA à laquelle ils avaient ensemble assisté. L’introduction à Infinite Jest, commandée à Dave Eggers pour le dixième anniversaire de sa parution, est d’une autre teneur. Moins funèbre que les autres car David Foster Wallace n’était pas encore mort, elle énonce, avec ferveur et générosité, le « devoir » – puisque la question a été posée par un étudiant en ces termes – de lire le magnum opus dont un des adjectifs adéquats pour le

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décrire serait : « holy shit ». Eggers tient l’œuvre pour l’une des plus étranges et singulières publiées ces vingt dernières années, fruit d’une « folie contrôlée », « obsessionnelle » qui « épingle la conscience d’une époque » (146) et différentes formes de perte (dans la structure familiale, dans la nation, dans le temps) comme l’aspiration à un sens et à un lien communautaire recouvré.

4 La troisième et dernière partie du recueil traite justement de ce sujet et explore les différents types de communautés qui se sont formées autour de Wallace. Elle comprend une analyse de la note de bas de page ainsi qu’une étude de sociologie littéraire sur la place de Wallace dans le marché du livre et sur les réseaux de lecteurs (recommandations données sur Amazon par exemple). Un autre chapitre relate l’Infinite Summer lancé après 2008, lecture en relai d’Infinite Jest organisée sur l’ensemble du territoire et pendant plusieurs semaines. D’autres contributions – un entretien avec Michael Pietsch, l’éditeur, et le témoignage de la bibliothécaire en charge des archives Wallace au Harry Ranson Center à Austin, concourent à parfaire cet ouvrage particulièrement dense et varié. On y trouvera enfin l’hommage presque déchirant de celui qui fut son plus proche ami, Jonathan Franzen, et le récit de leurs dernières conversations téléphoniques, éprouvantes jusqu’au silence. « He’d gone down into the well of infinite sadness, beyond the reach of story, and he didn’t make it out. But he had a beautiful, yearning innocence, and he was trying » (181).

AUTEURS

BÉATRICE PIRE Université Paris 3 - Sorbonne Nouvelle

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Gilles Menegaldo et Lauric Guillaud, dirs, Le Western et les mythes de l’Ouest : Littérature et arts de l’image

David Roche

RÉFÉRENCE

Menegaldo, Gilles et Lauric Guillaud, dirs, Le Western et les mythes de l’Ouest : Littérature et arts de l’image, Rennes : PUR, 2015, 560 pp, ISBN 2753542635, Broché 25 € Kindle 11,99 €.

1 Cet opus magnus dirigé par Gilles Menegaldo et Lauric Guillaud, professeurs émérites des Universités de Poitiers et d’Angers, fait suite au colloque de Cerisy qu’ils ont organisé en 2012. Il comprend une introduction, 31 chapitres répartis en six parties, une présentation des auteurs, une annexe comprenant quelques images de grands classiques et un index. Après un hommage touchant à Jean-Louis Leutrat (1941-2011), critique français dont les écrits sur le Western constituent une véritable œuvre, l’introduction fait le point sur les approches théoriques anglo-saxonnes et françaises avant de présenter le contenu du livre.

2 La première partie, « Sources, cultures mythes, institutions », ouvre avec le chapitre très utile de Lauric Guillaud qui propose une généalogie du genre, en insistant sur le rôle des biographies, des dime store novels, de la peinture et du Wild West Show de Buffalo Bill Cody dans la constitution d’un Ouest mythique fondé dès le départ sur une vision ambiguë de la wilderness (à la fois sublime et gothique) et de la Frontière (la barbarie existant des deux côtés) que le cinéma reprendra dès la fin du XIXe siècle. Les textes de Jean-Louis Leutrat et de Jocelyn Dupont examinent deux célèbres hors-la-loi, Leutrat à travers une étude chronologique de Billy the Kid qui postule que le manque d’intérêt relatif de Hollywood pour le personnage provient du fait que sa biographie est moins liée à l’histoire de la nation, et Dupont à travers une analyse du splendide The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (Andrew Dominik, 2007), western réflexif qui déploie une esthétique « hypnagogique » afin de mettre à distance à la fois

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la légende et les conventions du genre. Yann Calvet se penche ensuite sur l’évolution d’un genre cinématographique qui a construit un Ouest « synthétique » dont la pertinence a tout à voir avec la manière dont il cristallise la relation entre l’ancien et le moderne. Le chapitre de Zachary Baqué offre une brillante analyse de la représentations des institutions politiques dans The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (John Ford, 1962), ce « sur-Western » confirmant la tendance du genre à nier le rôle de l’idéologie fédérale afin de valoriser les individus qui l’incarnent. Paul Bleton passe en revue les manifestations qui témoignent de la réception de la musique country en France, notamment dans les festivals.

3 La deuxième partie, « Parcours de cinéastes », débute par l’étude pertinente et rondement menée par Jean-Marie Lecomte des westerns hollywoodiens lors de la transition du muet au parlant, en particulier In Old Arizona (Irving Cummings, 1928), The Virginian (Victor Fleming, 1929) et Hell’s Heroes (William Wyler, 1929) ; si les conventions génériques étaient largement en place, le discours a été pris en charge par les personnages tant au niveau narratif qu’idéologique. Dans les chapitres suivants, Jean- Pierre Esquenazi met en avant l’évolution idéologique dans le cinéma de John Ford (du libéralisme au conservatisme à l’incertitude) en se penchant sur les scènes rituelles dans plusieurs films essentiels dont Stagecoach (1939), My Darling Clementine (1946) et The Searchers (1956). Gilles Menegaldo examine à la fois les caractéristiques du genre et les spécificités du cinéaste dans les Westerns de Jacques Tourneur, tandis que Philippe Roger – qui a l’audace de décrire Duel in the Sun (1946) comme le pire western de King Vidor ! – souligne, à travers une étude chronologique, la relation entre le physique et la métaphysique, thème central de l’œuvre du réalisateur. Enfin, Christophe Damour analyse avec brio l’intégration problématique des acteurs issus de l’Actor’s Studio (Montgomery Clift, Marlon Brando, Paul Newman) dans un genre associé à un jeu plus classique et moins névrosé.

4 La troisième partie, « Avatars génériques, adaptations et réécritures », s’ouvre et se clôt par des études de cas très convaincantes : Isabelle Singer montre comment la déconstruction du genre (en termes de conventions narratives mais aussi politiques) opérée dans Dead Man (Jim Jarmusch, 1995) passe par la création d’un personnage faible mais rusé qui rappelle Ulysse ; la formidable série Deadwood (HBO, 2004-2006), dans la démonstration de Christophe Chambost, semble faire de même, puisque la révision du Western doit autant au cinéma des années 1970 qu’à la tragédie grecque qui imprègne cette critique du capitalisme d’un pessimisme certain. Pessimisme que l’on retrouve, comment le souligne Anne-Marie Paquet-Deyris, dans les westerns de l’écrivain Cormac McCarthy et leurs adaptations filmiques – All the Pretty Horses (Billy Bob Thornton, 2000) et No Country for Old Men (Ethan et Joel Coen, 2007) – qui décrivent un parcours sans régénération, lors duquel le protagoniste est mis face à sa vulnérabilité dans un monde absurde. Suivent le passage en revue des westerns comprenant des vampires de Jean Marigny et les spéculations sur les similitudes entres Western et science-fiction (traitement de l’espace, thèmes de la civilisation et de la conquête) de Roger Bozzetto. Le chapitre solide et précis de Benjamin Thomas sur le chambara met alors en évidence les circulations entre cinéma américain, japonais et italien à la fois en termes de contextes, d’influences et de motifs repris avec variation.

5 Les deux premiers textes de la quatrième partie, « Western et idéologie », se penchent sur la relation entre le genre et le contexte idéologique : Mathieu Lacoue-Labarthe détaille de manière convaincante comment le maccarthysme a exacerbé la tendance

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conservatrice du genre, les redskins incarnant aussi bien les reds que les traîtres, à l’exception de quelques films aux sous-textes anti-maccarthiste, dont High Noon (Fred Zinnemann, 1952), Johnny Guitar (Nicholas Ray, 1954) et The Hanging Tree (Delmer Daves, Karl Malden et Vincent Sherman, 1959) ; Jean-Jacques Malo rappelle ensuite les influences croisées entre Western et films sur le Vietnam. Christian Viviani révèle que la présence de protagonistes féminins centraux dans Johnny Guitar représente l’aboutissement d’un cycle de films produits par Republic Pictures selon trois démarches : hybridations génériques avec la romance ou la women’s picture et/ou mise en avant d’une star comme Barbara Stanwyck, véritable spécialiste du genre. Marianne Kac-Vergne se penche alors sur la seconde vague de westerns hollywoodiens révisionnistes dans les années 1990 ; elle insiste sur les efforts et les limites d’un discours multiethnique et féminin, constatant notamment que le patriarcat et la fonction du Blanc sont préservés dans des films comme Dances with Wolves (Kevin Kostner, 1990) et Bad Girls (Jonathan Kaplan, 1994). Après un compte-rendu critique du troublant The Ballad of Little Jo (Maggie Greenwald, 1993) dont Suzanne Liandrat-Guigues pointe les innovations, Céline Murillo propose une analyse diachronique subtile de la figure de l’Indien acculturé dans Redskin (Victor Schertzinger, 1929), The Devil’s Doorway (Anthony Mann, 1950), The Outlaw Josey Wales (Clint Eastwood, 1976) et Dead Man, figure dont le nomadisme signifie passage, notamment culturel.

6 La cinquième partie, « Le Western et son décor », contient une indispensable étude du désert dans le western menée par Xavier Daverat ; les diverses fonctions du lieu (génériques, narratives, dramatiques, symboliques) sont examinées à la lumière des notions puritaines d’individualisme et de régénération dans des films comme Escape from Fort Bravo (John Sturges, 1953) et Fort Dobbs (Gordon Douglas, 1958). Maureen Turim rappelle que les paysages sont finalement assez rares dans les westerns classiques mais incarnent, dans Red River (Howard Hawks, 1948), She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (John Ford, 1949), Devil’s Doorway et Bend of the River (Anthony Mann, 1952), des obstacles au niveau narratif et des synecdoques de l’histoire au niveau symbolique. Maryse Petit analyse le sens de l’usage métaphorique du terme « Mohican » dans les feuilletons français du XIXe siècle, et Isabel Limousin examine la création du Roden Crater (débuté en 1977) par James Turrell et l’architecte Jane Cross, œuvre souterraine qui invite paradoxalement à contempler les étoiles.

7 Dans la sixième partie, « Arts visuels, photographie et bande dessinée », Sophie Lécole Solnychkine prolonge les réflexions de Turim en insistant sur le paradoxe du paysage westernien, synecdoque de la géographie et de l’histoire de l’Ouest alors même qu’il est, chez Ford par exemple, décroché de la réalité historique et doit énormément à la tradition picturale européenne (la pastorale, l’orientalisme). Jean Arrouye présente le travail de Gaylen Hansen, dont les tableaux intègrent un cow-boy post-hippie dans des situations stéréotypées de western rendues décalées par une ambiance onirique. Enfin, les trois derniers chapitres sont consacrés au Western comme genre à part entière dans la bande dessinée européenne : Jean-Paul Meyer s’intéresse à Blueberry (créé en 1963 par Charlier et Giraud) et Adela Cortijo Talaverra à Gus (2004, 2006) de Christophe Blain et El bueno de Cuttlas (1983-) de Calpurnio Pisón. Ils montrent comment ces artistes jouent sur les clichés du genre, souvent de manière réflexive, tout en se les appropriant à travers leurs styles personnels. Faisant écho aux chapitres de Leutrat et de Dupont, Liliane Cheilan étudie les différents traitements réservés au personnage historique de Calamity Jane, selon que les artistes aient été inspiré par la légende dans Calamity Jane (1967) de Goscinny et Morris, par la biographie et la réalité historique dans les volumes

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de Matthieu Blanchin et Christian Perrissin (2008-2012) ou par la vie intérieure évoquée dans Calamity Jane’s Letters to Her Daughter (1976) dans Calamity (2004) de Sylvie Fontaine.

8 Comme son titre l’indique et son introduction l’explicite, Le Western et les mythes de l’Ouest n’est pas organisé autour d’une problématique resserrée. Il a plutôt l’ambition d’être un état de la recherche, un livre-somme composé de déclinaisons autour de la dimension mythique du Western que la plupart des chapitres évoque. En cela, il est une réussite. Si la majorité des textes abordent le Western hollywoodien, on y rencontre aussi le cinéma japonais (Thomas), l’architecture (Limousin), la country (Bleton), la littérature française (Petit), la peinture (Arrouye) et la bande dessinée européenne (Cheilan, Meyer, Talavera) – si bien qu’on en viendrait à regretter l’absence de textes sur le Western allemand, australien et surtout italien, ainsi que sur les peintres et photographes (Albert Bierstadt, George Catlin, William Henry Jackson, Thomas Moran, Charles Marion Russell, Charles Schreyvogel) qui ont largement influencé l’imagerie de l’Ouest et auxquels plusieurs chapitres (Guillaud, Solnychkine) font bien sûr référence. La diversité des approches méthodologiques et théoriques est elle aussi bienvenue, les études de cas (Arrouye, Chambost, Dupont, Liandrat-Guigues, Limousin) et les études plus auteuristes (Esquenazi, Menegaldo, Paquet-Deyris, Roger) côtoyant les chapitres sur la relation entre contexte et production (Lacoue-Labarthe, Malo, Viviani), les politiques identitaires (Kac-Vergne, Murillo) et le jeu d’acteur (Damour). Par ailleurs, certains chapitres (Baqué, Calvet, Daverat, Guillaud, Lacoue-Labarthe, Lecomte, Murillo) seront un apport précieux pour la préparation du programme aux agrégations externe et interne d’anglais de 2018. Indispensable, donc, malgré ses quelques longueurs, Le Western et les mythes de l’Ouest est à l’image de son sujet : une vaste étendue devant laquelle le lecteur devra surmonter le saisissement initial afin de s’aventurer dans ses contrées variées et découvrir les merveilles qu’elle recèle.

AUTEURS

DAVID ROCHE Université Toulouse Jean Jaurès

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Will Norman, Transatlantic Aliens: Modernism, Exile, and Culture in Midcentury America

Nick Witham

REFERENCES

Norman, Will, Transatlantic Aliens: Modernism, Exile, and Culture in Midcentury America, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2016, 263 + xii pages, ISBN 9781421420943, $ 45.00

1 The experience of transatlantic exile was freighted with emotional and political significance for those who fled the horrors of mid-twentieth century European imperialism, totalitarianism, and genocide. At the same time as they recognized the democratic possibilities offered by life in the United States, many exiled Europeans chafed against American mass culture and Cold War politics. Transatlantic Aliens is an erudite and invigorating study of seven cultural figures who underwent this troubled process: the intellectuals C. L. R. James, Theodor Adorno and Simone de Beauvoir, the writers Raymond Chandler and Vladimir Nabokov, and the artists George Grosz and Saul Steinberg. In undertaking a comparative analysis of their approaches to cultural politics in the period between the 1930s and the 1960s, Will Norman not only sheds new and perceptive light on the work of these important transatlantic émigrés, but also provides a cogent and innovative account of the politics of literary and artistic modernism in the early years of the Cold War.

2 Norman’s central question is as follows: “what was the fate of European high culture in the United States at midcentury, and how did its representatives negotiate the dramatic shifts in the cultural field they entered?” (2) His answers destabilize the boundaries between national and transnational frames of analysis, between high and low culture, and between modernist studies and American studies. In Chapter 1, Norman argues that the work of James and Adorno provides comparable insights into

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exilic experience because of the way they used European philosophy to analyse the alienating qualities of mass culture. The German theorist and the Trinidadian historian-activist both watched movies whilst thinking of Hegel and Marx, and shaped their views of the United States accordingly. George Grosz, on the other hand, is presented in Chapter 2 as a skilled mediator between the practices of European abstractionism, especially Dada, and those of commercial advertising. In drawing these disparate modes together, Norman argues, Grosz paved the way for the emergence of pop art in the 1960s. In describing Raymond Chandler as a “transatlantic modernist” preoccupied with hardboiled literary style, Chapter 3 posits that the novelist’s work negotiated “differences in cultural prestige” between his native England and his adopted home in Southern California (94). Chapter 4 sees Norman comparing the “intellectual road trips” narrated in de Beauvoir’s little-known memoir America Day by Day (1948) and Nabokov’s classic novel Lolita (1955). Again, the theme of alienation is key, this time because of the way memories of recent European history rendered the “darkness of the movie theater and the bright lights of the drugstore…disorientingly confused” (127). Finally, Chapter 5 sees Norman tackle Steinberg’s magazine illustrations and their relationship to the emergent discourse of the “cultural Cold War”. The Romanian cartoonist was able to mount a critique of US imperialism at the same time as he remained culturally invisible when compared to more famous midcentury artists such as Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning. According to Norman, this was “Steinberg’s vanishing trick, in the sense that he was interested in becoming both present and invisible” (159).

3 The persuasive concluding argument of Transatlantic Aliens, which mobilises Raymond Williams’s concept of the “structure of feeling”, is that James, Adorno, Grosz, Chandler, de Beauvoir, Nabokov and Steinberg were not only drawn together by their shared experiences of European social crisis, but also by a world view, drawn from their forced migrations, that was “mobile and unstable, leading to double vision, interference, and feedback, the experience of the transatlantic uncanny” (197). From a methodological perspective, Norman’s best work comes in the chapters on Grosz and Steinberg, when he mobilizes archival material from the artists’ personal papers. These documents provide a depth of biographical insight that is not achieved in the rest of the book, where Norman relies on published editions of letters and diaries to make his case alongside close readings of various texts.

4 A more significant limitation is the book’s relative inattention to questions of race and ethnicity. Norman positions his work alongside the influential American studies scholarship of Michael Denning, Alan Wald and George Lipsitz, whom he praises for their “formidable archaeologies of socialist culture” in midcentury America (5). However, all three of these historian-critics, whilst centrally concerned with the proletarian experience, have also been finely attuned to the complex racial logic of American social relations. Put simply, in their work the politics of racial and ethnic identity are deeply embedded with the politics of social class. A comparable level of sophistication rarely appears in Norman’s work. This is particularly disappointing because, on occasion, he does demonstrate a keen eye for the racial dynamics of transatlantic émigré culture. For example, the chapter on Steinberg discusses the work he undertook for the US installation at the Brussels World’s Fair in 1958, entitled The Americans. As he worked on the project, Steinberg wrote to his friend Aldo Buzzi to ask, “the subject is people in the US. How do you draw the blacks?” (193) Norman makes imaginative use of this question, comparing Steinberg’s work with Ralph Ellison’s novel

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Invisible Man (1952) to demonstrate the significance of race to the artist’s understanding of both the United States and his place within it as an alien European. However, there are numerous other occasions in the book where the opportunity to discuss questions of race and ethnicity seem obvious, but go untaken. The sections on James, for example, barely mention his location within the complex imperial networks of the Black Atlantic, the chapter on Chandler fails to discuss his routine use of crude racialized tropes to describe African Americans and Latinos, and at no point does Norman engage in sustained discussion of the question of anti-Semitism.

5 These are missed opportunities. Nevertheless, Transatlantic Aliens is an exceptional book. The intellectual and cultural history of midcentury America is well-trodden scholarly ground. So, too, is the study of American modernism. That Norman is able to make an original and important contribution to both fields is testament to his considerable interdisciplinary skill: he is dauntingly comfortable discussing politics, economics, art, fiction and theory, sometimes all in the same chapter. The picture of the émigré imagination that emerges is an intricate one: centrally concerned with questions of nationality, mobility, cultural prestige, and political engagement, his subjects negotiated their outsider status in ways that destabilized the power of the modern nation-state at the same time as they theorized the emergence of the United States as a global superpower. It was the deep contingency and uncertainty of these aliens’ existence in both time and space that provided such concrete and penetrating insights into the development of modern culture on both sides of the Atlantic.

AUTHORS

NICK WITHAM University College London

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Trans'Arts

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Sarah Gould

1 Three Dickheads from Dixie : c’est le titre que Cy Twombly aurait volontiers choisi pour présenter un livre ou une exposition avec ses deux amis, Robert Rauschenberg et Jasper Johns1. Cet événement n’a pas vu le jour mais au Centre Pompidou et à la Tate Modern ont eu lieu, au même moment, deux rétrospectives retraçant le parcours de deux de ces « enfants terribles » de l’art américain du XXe siècle2. Il s’agit dans un cas comme dans l’autre d’une première exposition monographique depuis leurs décès respectifs, en 2008 pour Rauschenberg et en 2011 pour Twombly.

2 Si l’on associe souvent Rauschenberg à Jasper Johns, l’un de ses amants, avec lequel il a longtemps travaillé, on peut également le lier à Twombly avec lequel il entretenait une relation analogue. Après leur rencontre à la Art Students League de New York en 1951, ils passèrent un été ensemble au Black Mountain College avant de voyager autour de la Méditerranée grâce à une bourse d’étude que Twombly avait obtenue du Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. C’est lors de ce périple initiatique que virent le jour des œuvres communes, contenant en germe des thèmes de leur production future, comme cette boîte de fétiches présente dans l’exposition Rauschenberg et qui rappelle les débris d’un naufrage, l’un des leitmotivs de Twombly.

3 D’un point de vue historiographique, Cy Twombly et Robert Rauschenberg occupent une position comparable, à l’intersection de l’expressionnisme abstrait et du pop art, mais leurs parcours artistiques sont très distincts, ce que reflètent les expositions qui leur sont consacrées : accrochage minimaliste pour Twombly au Centre Pompidou, présentation foisonnante pour Rauschenberg à la Tate. Les liens entre ces deux artistes d’une même génération invitent à observer la manière dont leurs parcours se font écho.

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Minimalisme/Luxuriance

4 On entre dans l’exposition Twombly comme on pénètre dans un espace sacré. La série Fifty Days at Illiam (1978) est d’ailleurs exposée dans une pièce séparée, partiellement fermée par de grands poteaux, tels les colonnes d’un temple grec, invitant ainsi à la contemplation. Jonas Storvse, le commissaire (à qui l’on devait déjà la dernière rétrospective Twombly à Paris en 2004, de ses dessins), a choisi de ne pas rompre le silence qui règne dans les salles. Peu de discours entourent les œuvres : cartels réduits au minimum, et guère d’images d’archives, mis à part quelques cartons de vernissage dans la dernière pièce. À l’entrée de chaque salle, un encart contextualise de manière parcimonieuse le moment de création des œuvres. Pourtant, ce ne sont pas les textes qui manquent sur Twombly. De Roland Barthes (qui a publié deux des écrits les plus forts sur l’artiste) à Giorgio Agamben, « tout le monde » a parlé de lui. D’ailleurs, le catalogue qui accompagne l’exposition abonde en détails sur sa vie et son œuvre. Ce choix louable du commissaire laisse ainsi place à l’expérience esthétique et fait la part belle au mythe qui entoure l’artiste. Contrairement au héros Jackson Pollock ou à la star Andy Warhol, Twombly, qui exposait à intervalles irréguliers, est resté longtemps secret. Le mystère qui l’entoure est présent jusque dans son patronyme. Qui y a-t-il dans un nom ? Et dans ce nom plus particulièrement ? Dans son essai Non multa sed multum, Barthes choisit de l’appeler TW, poussant ainsi plus loin la conceptualisation du nom, pour lui donner davantage d’aura (Barthes, 1982, 145). Les critiques en ont souvent joué. Simon Schama, par exemple, imaginait qu’il s’agissait d’un substantif : « Twombly n. m. — un trait qui n’en fait qu’à sa tête. » (Schama, 2004, 27) Ce pseudonyme est en fait hérité de son père, un joueur de baseball surnommé lui-même Cyclone. Chez Twombly, le mythe s’étend de la personne aux références qui sous- tendent ses œuvres.

5 Dans la première salle, deux peintures de sa période Black Mountain College, très différentes de ses autres toiles, évoquent un archaïsme primitif. Noires, grises et blanches, comme goudronnées, elles offrent des contrastes qui font ressortir leurs formes, à la manière de peintures tribales. Dans le même espace, une série de peintures d’un blanc sale, cassé, contraste les murs immaculés et rappelle les Dirt Paintings de Rauschenberg (1953).

6 Dès son départ pour l’Italie, Twombly s’inscrit dans les marges : les marges de l’avant- garde américaine, mais également celles que sont ses peintures, offrant des bribes d’un langage idiosyncratique, comme des notes prises à la va-vite dans un livre ou encore des signes griffonnés. Sur les toiles de Twombly, Criticism, Academy, Free Wheeler ou Untitled, réalisées entre 1955 et 1958, des réseaux chaotiques de lignes au crayon à papier et au pastel laissent apparaître une ou deux images, tel ce pictogramme de phallus parmi l’enchevêtrement de traits.

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Cy Twombly, Dutch Interior, 1962

Crayon à la cire, mine de plomb, huile sur toile 265 x 300 cm, Cy Twombly Foundation © Cy Twombly Foundation, Courtesy Archives Nicola Del Roscio.

7 La première partie de l’exposition fait également la part belle à certaines œuvres iconiques comme Venus ou Apollo and the Artist (1975). Dans cette dernière, sous le nom du dieu de la beauté, Twombly trace deux listes, l’une de noms propres « PHŒBUS, MUSAGETE… », l’autre de noms communs, ayant trait au monde végétal et animal : « LAUREL, PALMTREE, SWAN, HAWK… ». Cette alliance du divin et du quotidien caractérise toutes ses œuvres, jusque dans leur matière-même, ses peintures étant souvent faites de coulures et d’empâtements, à la croisée de l’abstrait et l’abject. Certaines toiles aux taches presque scatologiques sont souvent accompagnées de titres académiques tels que School of Fontainebleau (1960), Dutch Interior (1962) ou School of Athens (1961). Cette dialectique entre la corporalité la plus crasse et l’élégance la plus fine réapparaît dans Nine Discourses on Commodus (1963), réponse de Twombly à l’assassinat de John F. Kennedy. Avec son fond gris et ses éclatements centraux jaune, blanc, rouge et rose, la texture évoque à la fois une chair déchirée, ouverte, boursoufflée et la délicatesse d’un bouquet de fleurs. Lors de son exposition à la galerie Leo Castelli à New York, cette série, considérée comme trop précieuse et européenne, fut la cible des critiques et de l’artiste Donal Judd3. Cet événement marqua une pause dans la carrière de Twombly qui arrêta d’exposer pendant quelques années. Les peintures qu’il présenta par la suite, exposées dans la pièce suivante au Centre Pompidou, sont ses tableaux minimalistes où le peintre adopte la posture du mauvais élève traçant des boucles à la craie sur le tableau noir (Untitled, 1967).

8 Une salle majestueuse, qui offre une vue panoramique sur les toits de Paris, marque une transition entre deux moments de l’exposition. Selon les gardiens du musée, lors des pics de pollution dans la capitale, nombreux étaient les visiteurs qui venaient y capturer la beauté paradoxale d’un ciel chargé en particules fines. Une vingtaine de

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sculptures de Twombly y sont rassemblées sur un grand socle rectangulaire, qui compte sans doute parmi ses œuvres les plus intéressantes. Ici, la poésie est matériellement incarnée dans l’objet : une feuille de papyrus, un roseau. On regrette l’absence d’autres sculptures, similaires à celles-ci, que Twombly coula dans le bronze pour ensuite les repeindre avec de la peinture industrielle et ainsi les rendre en apparence identiques à leur modèle original. De manière générale l’exposition fait la part belle à la peinture, médium privilégié par rapport au dessin, à la sculpture ou à la photographie, des pans de son œuvre moins connus.

9 L’exposition consacrée à Rauschenberg s’ouvre sur des photographies de lui prises par Twombly. Dans ce parcours, la figure de Twombly semble couper à travers l’œuvre de Rauschenberg, comme dans ses White Paintings, réalisées pour leur exposition commune à la Stable Gallery en 1953, réinterprétations de monochromes pouvant être refaits à l’infini et que Twombly a en partie repeints.

10 Aussi, la première impression qui ressort de la rétrospective Rauschenberg est la dimension prolifique de son œuvre. Très riche, l’exposition témoigne de son exploration de différents types de médium (peinture, sculpture, photographie, film, performance ou encore impression numérique). Beaucoup plus que l’art des expressionnistes abstraits ou celui de Jasper Johns, l’art de Rauschenberg fait écho au très contemporain. Il apparaît ainsi à la fois comme le père de l’image post-moderne et de l’art environnemental. À mi-parcours, on trouve une œuvre pour la première fois exposée en Angleterre, la Mud Muse, une piscine d’environ 4000 litres de glaise et d’eau en ébullition, dont les gargouillements, comme ceux d’une marmite ou d’un geyser, sont enregistrés et repassés en boucle. Dans la liaison du mécanique et de l’organique qu’elle opère, cette installation est une des plus poétiques de Rauschenberg, évoquant des motifs post-apocalyptiques et transhumanistes qu’on trouve chez de nombreux artistes contemporains comme Samara Scott ou Pierre Huyghe.

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Bob + Cy, Venice, 1952

Verticalité/Horizontalité

11 Palimpseste photographique, Bob + Cy, Venice (1952) fait figurer côte à côte, par le biais de la technique de l’exposition multiple, les deux artistes, annonçant en quelque sorte leur co-présence dans les deux expositions, plus tangible à Londres, où Twombly est à la fois auteur avec Rauschenberg de certaines de ses œuvres et mentionné dans les textes qui les accompagnent.

12 Twombly est en avant et pose de biais alors que Rauschenberg, en retrait, fait face à l’objectif à l’image de leurs postures artistiques : celle de l’artiste en marge, du beatnik- dandy, contre celle de l’avant-garde, du prolétaire. Deux axes s’y dessinent : l’un vertical, voire archéologique, exprimant l’obsession de Twombly pour le passé, et l’autre plus horizontal de la pratique de Rauschenberg, privilégiant le parcours géographique (arpentage des rues), associatif (collaboration avec d’autres artistes) ainsi que sa technique (toile posée à même le sol).

13 Ici, la figure de Twombly semble superposée à celle de Rauschenberg, évoquant un phénomène de strate présent dans les deux rétrospectives. Twombly procède par couches de références : à la mythologie grecque, à la guerre de Troie ou aux poésies romantiques et symbolistes. En mettant l’accent sur les séries, comme le cycle des quatre saisons (1993-1995), l’accrochage met en évidence de tels réseaux de citations à l’œuvre. Artiste du collage et de l’agrégat, Rauschenberg transforme l’anodin en artefact. Mais à l’inverse de Twombly, la modalité de la sédimentation est moins littéraire que littérale, ancrée dans le présent. D’ailleurs, l’exposition est sonore et

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vivante, comme le studio de Soho de Rauschenberg d’où les fenêtres laissaient entrer le bruit de la rue et où la télévision était toujours allumée. Dans sa performance First Time Painting, réalisée pour la première fois à Paris en 1961, un micro est accroché à la toile pour amplifier le son de chaque coup de pinceau. Son geste irrévérencieux est celui du glaneur, comme dans son œuvre iconique Monogram (1955-1959) où une toile abstraite posée au sol, comme une sorte de drip painting à la Pollock, sert de socle à la pénétration d’un pneu par un bouc angora empaillé. Une anecdote raconte que pour une autre de ses Combines, Bed (1955), Rauschenberg n’ayant plus d’argent pour s’acheter des toiles, avait utilisé la couverture en patchwork (le quilt) d’une de ses amies artistes pour la tendre sur un châssis (Tomkins, 2005, 125-26). Ses peintures/sculptures sont souvent faites de matériaux de récupération (détritus, parasols, journaux, mouchoirs, cartons, ampoules, ou même table à repasser). Déjà présent chez Picasso et Braque, par exemple et, aux États-Unis, chez les néo-dadaïstes, cet art de la récupération prend une ampleur particulière dans l’œuvre de Rauschenberg, par son usage récurrent et le format gigantesque de ses productions, comme c’est notamment le cas de Automobile Tire Print (1963), œuvre pour laquelle il avait demandé à John Cage de conduire sa Ford dans la peinture noire puis sur une bande de vingt feuilles de papier.

14 L’exposition rend également compte d’une horizontalité « collaborative ». Dès les premières salles, on déambule parmi des œuvres créées avec sa femme, Susan Weil, avec laquelle il passa les premières années de sa vie d’artiste. D’autres sont réalisées avec ses amis du Black Mountain College : Twombly, bien sûr, mais également Jasper Johns, John Cage, Trisha Brown ou Merce Cunnigham. Dans le Combine Short Circuit (1955), le coin en haut à droite contient une œuvre de Weil, alors que celui de gauche renferme un petit drapeau de Johns. En 1965, alors que le tableau de Johns est volé, Rauschenberg n’hésite pas à demander à Elaine Sturtevant de repeindre le même pour le remplacer. Au sein de son association Experiments in Art and Technology (E.A.T), fondée dans les années 60, Rauschenberg promeut aussi les collaborations entre artistes et ingénieurs.

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Robert Rauschenberg, Cy + Relics, Rome, 1952

Dé-création/Re-création

15 Pour sa pièce iconique, Erased De Kooning (1953), Rauschenberg demanda une de ses œuvres à De Kooning, un des artistes les plus en vue à l’époque, pour pouvoir l’effacer. Si le geste iconoclaste de Rauschenberg peut apparaître comme un acte manifeste, consistant à se démarquer de la génération précédente, c’est surtout un hommage plein d’humour, de l’ordre de la private joke — l’œuvre était d’ailleurs censée rester privée (Sooke, 2016).

16 Les deux artistes ont en commun un rejet du médium pur et un intérêt pour la chose, pour le résidu. Rauschenberg et Twombly traitent avec amusement et dérision le geste grandiloquent de l’expressionnisme abstrait et le déconstruisent. Dans le catalogue de l’exposition Twombly, Agamben décrit le processus de l’artiste comme relevant de la « dé-création » (Agamben, [1998] 2016, 210), un terme qui pourrait s’appliquer à Rauschenberg, chez qui la création « en négatif » passe par l’effacement, la salissure, la brisure. Rauschenberg parlait d’ailleurs de son « régime Joseph Albers »4, une anecdote qui témoigne, encore une fois, que son rapport aux autres artistes relève de l’ordre de la digestion. C’est également une forme de blague au sujet du maître du Bauhaus.

17 Les deux expositions rendent compte d’un processus à l’œuvre chez les deux artistes dans la deuxième phase de leur carrière, qu’on pourrait qualifier de « re-création ». L’accrochage souligne la dimension plus politique des œuvres plus tardives, comme en témoignent les posters de Rauschenberg créés dans le cadre du projet ROCI (Rauschenberg Overseas Cultural Interchange project) dans les années 1980. On peut

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l’identifier à partir des années 1970 chez Twombly, dans la deuxième phase de l’accrochage, avec des séries narratives comme Commodus ou Pan (1980), ou plus tard dans les larges boucles rouges de la série Bacchus (2005), peinte au moment de la guerre en Irak et dédiée au dieu romain du vin. Dans cette série Twombly, célébrant le médium pur, se délecte de la coulure et lui organise une fête. À Beaubourg et à la Tate Modern, l’écart qui se crée entre deux entrées très distinctes dans les univers d’artistes de la même période, laisse de l’espace pour un sous-texte plus personnel, centré sur une amitié et un sens de l’humour en commun, celui de deux « dickheads from Dixie ».

Robert Rauschenberg, Erased de Kooning Drawing, 1953

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Cy Twombly, Nine Discourses on Commodus, 1963

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Cy Twombly, Untitled (Bacchus), 2005

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

AGAMBEN, Giorgio, "Beauty that Falls" dans Cy Twombly, Jonas Storvse ed., Paris, Éditions du Centre Pompidou, 2016, 210. Initalement publié dans Kate Nesin, Cy Twombly: Eight Sculptures, American Academy, 1998, New York and Rome, 1998, 5.

BARTHES, Roland, "Non multa sed multum", L’Obvie et l’Obtus, Paris, Le Seuil, 1982, 145.

CAMPBELL, Lawrence, Art News, vol. 63, no. 3, May 1964, 13.

CROW, Tom, “Rise and Fall: Theme and Idea in the Combines of Robert Rauschenberg” in Paul Schimmel, Robert Rauschenberg, Los Angeles, The Museum of Contemporary Art, 2005, 231-55.

JUDD, Donald, Arts Magazine, vol. 38, nos. 8–9, May–June 1964, 38.

MANN, Sally, Hold Still, a Memoir with Photographs, New York, Little Brown and Company, 2015.

RAUSCHENBERG, Robert, « J'aime le mouvement de la main », propos recueillis et traduits par Bérénice Bailly, Le Monde, 8 août 2005.

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SCHAMA, Simon, "Cy Twombly" dans Cy Twombly, Cinquante années de dessins, Paris, Gallimard, Centre Pompidou, 2004, 27.

SOOKE, Alaistair, Robert Rauschenberg – Pop Art Pioneer, BBC documentary, 2016, https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=yELmPbQNx9M (page consultée le 15 mai 2017).

TOMKINS, Calvin, Off the Wall: A Portrait of Robert Rauschenberg, 1980 rev. ed., New York, Picador, 2005.

TWOMBLY, Cy, interview by Nicolas Serota, The Guardian, 3 June 2008.

NOTES

1. Cy Twombly cité dans Sally Mann, Hold Still, a Memoir with Photographs (New York : Little Brown and Company, 2015). 2. Twombly disait que Rauschenberg avait toujours été « un enfant terrible » pour lui : “Bob, who was always an enfant terrible… ”, in “I work in waves”, interview de Cy Twombly par Nicolas Serota, The Guardian, 3 June 2008. 3. Voir le compte rendu de Donald Judd publié dans Arts Magazine, vol. 38, nos. 8–9, mai–juin 1964, p. 38. Ou le compte-rendu de Lawrence Campbell dans Art News, vol. 63, no. 3, mai 1964, p. 13. 4. Robert Rauschenberg, « J'aime le mouvement de la main », propos recueillis et traduits par Bérénice Bailly, Le Monde, 8 août 2005.

AUTEUR

SARAH GOULD Paris 1-Panthéon Sorbonne

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« Notes sur l'asphalte, une Amérique mobile et précaire, 1950-1990 » Vers une autre photographie documentaire : premier volet de la saison 2017 au Pavillon Populaire de Montpellier

Chiara Salari

1 La saison 2017 du Pavillon Populaire de Montpellier offre au public l’occasion de plonger dans la photographie américaine à travers un cycle de trois expositions offert par le directeur artistique Gilles Mora comme un voyage au cœur de l’Amérique, entre 1950 et 1990. Tandis que le deuxième et le troisième volets sont consacrés respectivement au photographe autodidacte William Gedney (en première mondiale à Montpellier) et à l’œuvre Trilogie de l’artiste new-yorkais Ralph Gibson (dont l’apport à l’édition photographique fut essentiel dans les années 1970), l’exposition introductive « Notes sur l’asphalte, une Amérique mobile et précaire, 1950-1990 » révèle les travaux de six chercheurs dans les champs de l'architecture, de l'urbanisme et du paysage : Donald Appleyard, John Brinckerhoff Jackson, Allan Jacobs, Chester Liebs, Richard Longstreth et David Lowenthal.

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Fig. 1 Le Pavillon Populaire de Montpellier, photographie de l’auteure

2 Les commissaires Jordi Ballesta1 et Camille Fallet 2 ont regroupé près de 200 photographies qui n’avaient jusqu’alors été montrées que dans le cadre de publications scientifiques ou de cours universitaires. Il s’agit de « notes visuelles » sur la route américaine et son paysage, sur les manières populaires de construire et d'habiter, « qui nous permettent de postuler l’existence d’une autre photographie documentaire et paysagère américaine, faite non pas d’œuvres d’art, mais de travaux de recherche qui ont jusque-là été très peu exposés et publiés »3.

3 Ces photographies nous montrent le versant vernaculaire de l'Amérique urbaine ou rurale, toujours instable et débordant, souvent observé depuis des habitacles d’automobiles. Cette expérience est réactivée par le voyage des deux commissaires d’expositions (voyage réel, mais aussi virtuel dans les archives de ces chercheurs)4 et proposée sous forme de « road trip » aux visiteurs de l’exposition, grâce à une scénographie ingénieuse et des visites guidées et gratuites pour tous les publics. Ce compte-rendu retrace le parcours de l’exposition à travers ses trois parties principales qui concernent respectivement : les archives et les travaux des chercheurs en question, les voyages sur la route américaine, les convergences entre pratiques photographiques artistiques, commerciales et documentaires.

Les archives de six chercheurs

4 La visite s’ouvre sur l’agrandissement d’une diapositive de John Brinckerhoff Jackson (1909-1996), accompagné d’une liste de « choix thématiques établis par l’auteur », inventaire de ce que le visiteur va découvrir et typologie partielle du paysage « vernaculaire »5. Ce diplômé de Harvard devenu cow-boy puis éditeur du magazine Landscape puis enseignant, est un important géographe « culturel » et historien du paysage, inventeur des « landscape studies ». Ses archives, composées de

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plusieurs milliers de diapositives prises lors de nombreux voyages à travers les États- Unis, nous permettent aujourd’hui de le considérer aussi comme un photographe amateur (et comme un collectionneur)6.

Fig. 2 Vue de l’exposition « Notes sur l’asphalte » au Pavillon Populaire de Montpellier, photographie de l’auteure

5 Pour chaque chercheur exposé, de brefs repères biographiques introduisent un ensemble de documents qui illustrent la manière dont leurs archives étaient conservées. Une citation extraite d’une de leurs publications accompagne ces informations et des vitrines présentent une sélection de leurs ouvrages. Donald Appleyard et Allan Jacobs étaient théoriciens de l’urbanisme et urbanistes, Chester Liebs historien et conservateur du patrimoine, Richard Longstreth historien de l’architecture et professeur, David Lowenthal professeur de géographie, seul auteur à utiliser le noir et blanc et à privilégier un archivage chronologique. Les commissaires sont souvent partis des livres pour remonter aux archives où les photographies sont classées comme des notes de terrain factuelles et regroupées par catégorie (silos, stations-service, mobile homes, grand-rues, rassemblements festifs ou religieux…). Afin de rendre compte de leur organisation, des grilles thématiques reprennent plusieurs de leurs sujets de prédilection. La diapositive, support privilégié de cinq de ces chercheurs, autorisait en effet une organisation thématique souvent similaire, permettant, en plus des échanges entre chercheurs à des fins pédagogiques, le développement d’une « pensée typologique » et d’une pratique de l’image fixe projetée qui a été aujourd’hui un peu oubliée au profit des pratiques d’exposition et d’édition. Plusieurs diapositives ont été entièrement reproduites, avec leurs montures annotées, dans le but de restituer leur richesse graphique : ces agrandissements soulignent à la fois l’importance du support, sa maniabilité pour l’enseignement, la documentation et les classifications évolutives.

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Fig. 3 Vue de l’exposition « Notes sur l’asphalte » au Pavillon Populaire de Montpellier, photographie de l’auteure

Un voyage au sein d’une Amérique mobile et précaire

6 Comme le montre une carte des « diapositives localisées et routes possibles de John Brinckerhoff Jackson, 1976 », cet auteur a voyagé de 1956 à 1989, année après année, en moto ou en voiture. Alternant des parcours de quelques jours et des périples plus longs, il a interrogé le devenir du paysage américain utilisant la photographie comme principal mode de notation sur le terrain7. Dans la vaste nef centrale du Pavillon Populaire, l’exposition déroule un long « ruban » de photographies, évoquant ainsi un « road trip » imaginaire à travers les États-Unis, qui commence par des paysages urbains, puis montre peu à peu comment le paysage vernaculaire américain est organisé par la route. Dans une succession souple, les images s’attardent parfois sur des enseignes ou panneaux publicitaires, sur le mobilier urbain ou des fresques murales. On passe ainsi du commerce en bord de route aux espaces ruraux, croisant ici et là camionneurs, vide-greniers, rassemblements religieux, boîtes aux lettres, bicoques diverses, pick-up ou mobile homes… dans des territoires incertains qui peuvent se transformer dans le temps.

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Fig. 4 Vue de l’exposition « Notes sur l’asphalte » au Pavillon Populaire de Montpellier, photographie de l’auteure

7 Organisées en deux lignes discontinues qui parfois se superposent, les photographies se suivent, sans commentaires ou contraintes chronologiques, enchaînant des séquences thématiques qui entremêlent les images des six chercheurs. Si David Lowenthal a voyagé et photographié du Vermont à la Pennsylvanie et de la frontière mexicaine à la Colombie britannique, au Canada, Richard Longstreth est parti à la découverte de l’architecture le long d’une multitude de bords de routes, ainsi que Chester Liebs, qui utilisa ses photographies — et d’autres images d’archives — pour son œuvre Main Street to Miracle Mile: American Roadside Architecture (1985), décrivant l’évolution du paysage routier et commercial américain8. Allan Jacobs et Donald Appleyard ont surtout investi des métropoles, dont celles de San Francisco, Pittsburgh et San Diego, photographiant les circulations et les axes urbains qui sont aussi le sujet de l’ouvrage emblématique The View from the Road (1963), visant à découvrir une « esthétique de l’autoroute » pour en suggérer un meilleur design9.

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Fig. 5 Chester Liebs, Main Street to Miracle Mile : American Roadside Architecture, 1985

Fig. 6-7 Donald Appleyard, Kevin Lynch, et John R. Myer, The View from the road, 1964

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8 Les archives de « Notes sur l’asphalte » permettent ainsi de façonner un voyage synthétique, au cours duquel les routes américaines sont jalonnées de panneaux faits à la main, d’activités commerciales spontanées et passagères, de constructions répétitives mais diversement utilisées, d’habitats peu ancrés, de zones reléguées, ou encore de lieux de dépôt et de points de rejets. Évitant le montage classique, les tirages sont maintenus par un système d’encoches plutôt que de passe-partout. Ils apparaissent ainsi comme des documents manipulables : non pas organisés à travers des séquences préétablies (résultat de la création artistique), ils relèvent de l’archive documentaire, d’où ils ont été prélevés pour être ensuite réactivés sur les murs de l’espace d’exposition. Documents culturels, qui renvoient à une période de l’histoire américaine et ses espaces, ces images peuvent aussi être perçues comme des « documents d’expériences » : « ces documents n’existent que parce que leurs auteurs sont allés à la rencontre de la route, et la photographie nous permet de partager leurs expériences »10.

Des pratiques photographiques partagées

9 John Brinckerhoff Jackson a contribué, dès ses premières publications, à développer un champ de connaissances qui sera plus tard appelé « hodologie » : la science des routes et de leurs pourtours, de leur fabrication et de leur expérience. Un texte comme « Other-directed Houses »11 — qui en 1957 annonçait un ensemble d’études croissant sur les axes commerciaux, leur architecture, leur systèmes d’enseignes et de panneaux — ouvrit la voie à Learning from Las Vegas12 (1972) des architectes Robert Venturi, Denise Scott Brown et Steven Izenour, à certains ouvrages de Chester Liebs et de Richard Longstreth, soit autant de publications scientifiques ou artistiques13. Aux États-Unis, la route est un terrain d’investigation et d’expériences majeures : dès les années 1930, des reportages photographiques interrogeaient la prolifération des publicités de bords de

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route, alors que de 1943 à 1955, la compagnie pétrolière Standard Oil commanditait des images de route et d’expériences routières. La voiture, le parking, la station essence, le motel, deviennent ainsi des objets de recherche récurrents, véritables icônes américaines.

10 Dans la dernière partie de l’exposition, les commissaires rapprochent les notes photographiques des chercheurs non seulement d’œuvres de photographes, mais également de travaux d’artistes intégrant la photographie notamment sous forme de publications. Même si leurs buts diffèrent, ces photographies sont unies par certaines convergences dans la pratique et l’esthétique, encore peu étudiées. Walker Evans, John Brinckerhoff Jackson, David Lowenthal et William Christenberry ont eu un intérêt commun pour l’architecture vernaculaire américaine — de la bicoque en bois des métayers jusqu’au mobile homes du prolétariat contemporain — qui est aussi souvent le sujet des calendriers de Thomas Strong, graphiste à New Haven et ancien élève de Walker Evans. Chester Liebs, Richard Longstreth, John Brinckerhoff Jackson et David Lowenthal ont lié photographie et périple, comme l’ont fait Walker Evans allant vers le Vieux Sud, nombre de photographes de la F.S.A. et de la Standard Oil, puis Robert Frank, Ed Rucha, Stephen Shore et beaucoup d’autres.

11 Visual Blight in America (1973), cahier de recherches de l’Association of American Geographers auquel David Lowenthal a contribué — notamment avec des photographies montrées dans l’exposition — peut être rapproché de certains ouvrages artistiques : Homes for America14 de Dan Graham, proche du mouvement conceptuel, et A Tour of the Monuments of Passaic15 de Robert Smithson, un des représentants majeurs du land art. Malgré les différents contextes de production et publication et des divergences dans les approches — notamment dans le style d’écriture des textes — les résultats présentent tous trois des paysages ordinaires, fournissant à la fois des interrogations esthétiques et des relevés de terrain. Le Landscape Manual (1969), de Jeff Wall, et The View from The Road (1964), co-signé par Donald Appleyard, articulent les deux observations mobiles, retours d’expérience et hypothèses écrites, en s’interrogeant sur la perception de l’environnement extérieur à partir de l’habitacle automobile et sur le rôle de la photographie à rendre compte de l’expérience du déplacement.

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Fig. 8 Dan Graham, Homes for America, 1966-1967

Fig. 9 Robert Smithson, A Tour of the Monuments of Passaic, 1967

12 A la fin des années 1960, certains artistes nord-américains ont en quelque sorte emprunté un chemin parallèle à celui de nos chercheurs, faisant coexister des textes et des images qui, sous la forme de publications, exprimaient une connaissance empirique du paysage américain. S’ils ont arpenté des chemins parallèles à travers les espaces ordinaires, la direction de leurs pratiques a pourtant peut-être été inverse : des images aux textes pour les artistes, de l’écrit au photographié pour les chercheurs. Les travaux photographiques de Donald Appleyard, John Brinckerhoff Jackson, Allan Jacobs, Chester Liebs, Richard Longstreth et David Lowenthal appartiennent principalement au milieu universitaire — en tant que supports pour l’enseignement ou la divulgation scientifique — et sont censés porter l’attention sur les paysages ordinaires pour

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questionner leurs transformations. N’ayant pas été valorisées comme des œuvres à part entière, ces images ont en grande partie échappé à la notion d’auteur ainsi qu’à une histoire de la photographie « professionnelle » composée uniquement de photographies pensées et conçues pour être montrées dans des salles d’exposition ou des publications artistiques16. « Notes sur l’asphalte » permet de donner une nouvelle vie aux archives de ces chercheurs, représentant en même temps une ré-interrogation de l’histoire de la photographie de paysage américaine qui envisage son élargissement à des pratiques plurielles (artistiques et institutionnelles, mais aussi par exemple commerciales ou amateurs) et laisse entrevoir tout un ensemble de recherches et de projets encore à explorer.

13 Les commissaires ont uni leurs compétences et expériences dans les champs géographiques et photographiques : Jordi Ballesta est chercheur et Camille Fallet est photographe, les deux interviennent en tant qu’enseignants et partagent un intérêt pour le territoire, sa perception visuelle et sa représentation documentaire. Au-delà d’une notion purement esthétique liée uniquement à l’histoire de l’art, les paysages sont de plus en plus perçus en tant que miroirs des sociétés et de leurs histoires, dans la perspective de la géographie humaine française (qui a par ailleurs profondément influencé les recherches de John Brinckerhoff Jackson, avant qu’il développe une réflexion sur les espaces vernaculaires plus proprement américains). Les pratiques artistiques s’approprient des savoirs géographiques, et en parallèle l’image est considérée comme un instrument de connaissance et de préfiguration des territoires. Dans ce contexte, la photographie est souvent envisagée comme le moyen le plus efficace pour capturer un paysage de bord de route qui est — particulièrement en Amérique — mobile et précaire.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

AA.VV. Everyday America. Cultural Landscape Studies after J.B. Jackson. University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 2003.

AA.VV. John Brinckerhoff Jackson, Les carnets du paysage, 2016, n°30.

APPLEYARD, Donald, KEVIN Lynch et John R. MYER. The View from the Road. MIT Press, Cambridge, 1964.

BALLESTA, Jordi. « John Brinckerhooff Jackson, au sein des paysages ordinaires. Recherches de terrain et pratiques photographiques amateurs ». L’espace géographique, 2016, n°3, p. 211-224.

BALLESTA, Jordi et Camille Fallet, Notes sur l’asphalte. Une Amérique mobile et précaire, 1950-1990 (Notes on Asphalt. A Mobile and Precarious America, 1950-1990). Hazan, Paris, 2017.

BESSE, Jean-Marc. « Fonder l’étude des paysages : John Brinckerhooff Jackson face à la géographie humaine française ». L’espace géographique, 2016, n°3, p. 195-210.

BRUNET, François. La photographie. Histoire et contre-histoire. Presses Universitaires de France, Paris, 2017.

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JACKSON, John Brinckerhoff, Jordi Ballesta et François Brunet. Habiter l’Ouest. Photographies de Peter Brown. Wildproject, Marseille, 2016.

JACKSON, John Brinckerhoff. Landscape in Sight. Looking at America. Yale University Press, New Heaven, 1997.

JACKSON, John Brinckerhoff. Discovering the Vernacular Landscape. Yale University Press, New Heaven, 1984.

JACKSON, John Brinckerhoff. A Sense of Place, a Sense of Time. Yale University Press, New Heaven, 1994.

JACKSON, John Brinckerhoff. The Necessity for Ruins, and Other Topics. University of Massachusetts Press, Amherst, 1980.

LIEBS, Chester H. Main Street to Miracle Mile. American Roadside Architecture. Little, Brown and Company, Boston, 1985.

MEINIG, D. V., ed. The Interpretation of Ordinary Landscapes. Geographical Essays. Oxford University Press, New York, 1979.

En ligne

Géraldine CHOUARD, Jean KEMPF et François BRUNET, « La photographie « documentaire » américaine : nouvelles approches », Transatlantica [En ligne], 2 | 2014, mis en ligne le 06 mars 2015, consulté le 10 septembre 2017. URL : http://transatlantica.revues.org/7245.

« Pavillon Populaire ». Montpellier.fr, https://www.montpellier.fr/506-les-expos-du-pavillon- populaire.htm.

« Notes sur l’asphalte au Pavillon populaire à Montpellier ». En revenant de l’expo ! Chroniques et billets d’humeur, 11 février 2017, https://www.enrevenantdelexpo.com/2017/02/11/notes-sur- asphalte-pavillon-populaire-montpellier/.

« Autour de John Brinckerhoff Jackson (1909-1996) ». Cité de l’architecture et du patrimoine, 5 octobre 2016, https://webtv.citedelarchitecture.fr/video/ic-1-brinckerhoff-jackson-05-10-16.

« J.B. Jackson and The Love of Everyday Places — PREVIEW ». https://www.youtube.com/watch? v=8oyKOi1UCdw.

« Figure in a Landscape: A Conversation with J.B. Jackson — PREVIEW ». https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=bc_wkuxIWwE.

NOTES

1. Jordi Ballesta est chercheur, membre du Centre Interdisciplinaire d’Études et de Recherches sur l’Expression Contemporaine (CIEREC). Il est également associé à l’UMR Géographies-cités et photographe. 2. Camille Fallet est photographe. Diplômé du Royal College of Arts de Londres et des Beaux-arts de Nantes, il expose fréquemment à Londres, Paris, Marseille… Il développe en parallèle une pratique artistique, des travaux de commande, intervient en tant que commissaire d’exposition et comme enseignant.

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3. Jordi Ballesta in « Vers une autre photographie documentaire. Quelques échanges autour de ‘Notes sur l’asphalte’ », in Notes sur l’asphalte. Une Amérique mobile et précaire, 1950-1990 (Notes on Asphalt. p. 10). 4. Ballesta et Fallet ont parlé brièvement de ce voyage — en même temps un travail de recherche — lors de la présentation du catalogue de l’exposition à la librairie Volume à Paris le 3 mai 2017, en compagnie de Sylvain Maestraggi (auteur, photographe et éditeur indépendant). 5. Pour Jackson le paysage vernaculaire s’oppose au paysage politique ou imposé par l’« establishment », c’est-à-dire qu’il ne procède pas de normes et règlements approuvés par la communauté, mais de pratiques adaptées aux circonstances, issues d’arrangements de voisinage : le vernaculaire part du domestique, puis tend à déborder provisoirement dans les espaces communs, voire publics. 6. Ses archives, conservées au Center for Southwest Research à la University of New Mexico à Albuquerque, comprennent aussi — au-delà de ses propres prises de vues et de ses dessins — des collections de cartes postales, photographies institutionnelles ou commerciales, reproductions artistiques ou architecturales. 7. Dans les archives de Jackson ne se trouve qu’un seul carnet de terrain, rédigé durant un voyage réalisé en 1957, dont un extrait est reproduit et traduit dans le cadre de l’exposition : il s’agit d’une énumération des éléments du paysage traversé, à travers une approche descriptive et fragmentaire, presque « photographique ». 8. Des « main streets » — couloirs d’activité commerciale dans les cœurs des villes déjà développés au tournant du XIXe siècle — aux « strips », extensions de ces rues principales en longues avenues commerçantes prospérant grâce au trafic. 9. À travers l’utilisation de séquences visuelles (photographies, photogrammes et dessins) qui expriment l’expérience du conducteur. 10. Camille Fallet in « Vers une autre photographie documentaire. Quelques échanges autour de ‘Notes sur l’asphalte’ », in Notes sur l’asphalte. Une Amérique mobile et précaire, 1950-1990 (Notes on Asphalt. p. 17. 11. Jackson, John Brinckerhoff, « Other-directed Houses », Landscape, 1956-1957, Vol.6, n°2, 29-35. 12. Étude urbanistique qui marque un tournant dans le débat architectural sur la ville contemporaine, cet ouvrage utilise la photographie à la fois comme moyen d’argumentation et de représentation de son objet de recherche — le “strip” — considéré comme produit authentique de la culture populaire américaine à travers une approche neutre (qui suspend tout jugement de valeur) opposée à l’attitude critique d’une œuvre comme God’s Own Junkyard. The Planned Deterioration of America’s Landscape (1964) de Peter Blake. 13. Sur l’héritage de Jackson dans les champs des études paysagères voir en particulier le volume Everyday America. Cultural Landscape Studies after J.B. Jackson, publié suite à la conférence « J.B. Jackson and American Landscape » (1998, University of New Mexico). 14. Originellement publiée en double page dans Arts Magazine (numéro de décembre-janvier 1966-1967), cette série de photographies documente l’architecture sérielle des lotissements de banlieues américaines. Le texte détaille les propriétés physiques et matérielles de ces habitats et l’environnement urbain qu’ils créent. Par le choix de cadres, l’artiste insiste sur le caractère sériel (répétition, production de masse, etc.) de ces maisons, rapprochant cette esthétique industrielle des problématiques de l’art minimal alors naissant. 15. Publié dans la livraison de décembre 1967 de la revue Artforum, ce récit est le témoignage de la visite de l’auteur dans sa ville natale, Passaic (New Jersey), décrivant une série de paysages, d’infrastructures et de bâtiments dont la succession structure la narration et la séquence photographique. La recherche d’une « syntaxe » des sites et des curiosités topographiques de la banlieue de New York s’unie à un intérêt pour le flux du temps et le cours de l’histoire, exprimé par l’utilisation du terme « monuments ».

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16. François Brunet dans son livre La photographie. Histoire et contre-histoire (2017) parle de deux conceptions de l’historicité des images photographiques qui se développent à partir des années 1930 : une « internaliste » (professionnelle, techniciste et artistique) et l’autre « externaliste », concernant plus spécifiquement les archives et leurs usages.

INDEX

Thèmes : Trans’Arts

AUTEUR

CHIARA SALARI Université Paris Diderot

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Reconnaissances

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An interview with Siri Hustvedt

Claire Maniez

1 Siri Hustvedt is an American novelist and essay writer whose work has been translated into many languages. Her first novel, The Blindfold, was published in 1992, and her latest to date, The Blazing World, in 2014. She has published collections of essays on art (Mysteries of the Rectangle and the recent A Woman Looking at Men Looking at Women: Essays on Art, Sex, and the Mind) and broader subjects, as her collection’s title Living, Thinking, Looking (2012) suggests. Apart from writing fiction, Siri Hustvedt is involved in philosophical and transdisciplinary research, as well as in teaching a seminar for psychiatrists.

2 On October 20th, 2015, Siri Hustvedt was in Grenoble to receive an honorary Doctorate from Stendhal University (now part of Université Grenoble Alpes). The following interview was recorded in my office on the following day, and was then edited via email over a few months, until the recent changes in American politics prompted Siri to add a personal note at the end. Claire Maniez: Could you tell us the kind of work you do at the hospital, and how long you’ve done it? Siri Hustvedt: I was a volunteer writing teacher at the Payne Whitney Psychiatric Clinic at New York Columbia Presbyterian Cornell Weill Hospital. For about four years I went every Tuesday in the afternoon. I had an hour class with adolescents and then an hour class with adults. It was an extraordinary experience, and I am truly grateful that it was part of my life. At the same time, I’m glad I’m not still doing it. It was incredibly enervating. After just two hours, I was exhausted. But I learned a lot about mental illness that I couldn’t learn from books alone—even detailed case studies. I stopped volunteering in 2010. This year I received an appointment as a lecturer in psychiatry at Cornell Weill Medical College. I teach a seminar in narrative psychiatry to psychiatric residents once a month. The doctors write, but they also read texts in the history of psychiatry.

CM: What is the purpose of the course? SH: The purpose of the course is to reintroduce writing into psychiatric practice. In the course description, I included a quote from a psychiatric memoir by Linda Hart:

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“Writing this journal has kept me on the edge of sanity. Without it, I believe I would have tipped over into the chasm of madness, from where I could not be reached." This is a dramatic statement that bears close examination, one to which the seminar will return as a guiding theme. [...] The seminar will address the therapeutic possibilities of writing from the perspective of both patients and physicians. Participants will be required to write texts for each meeting as well as read excerpts from memoirs of mental illness and theoretical papers. Close reading will be imperative. Among the questions to be addressed are: How does a theory of dialogue inform every written text? What are the assumptions inherent in first person as opposed to third person descriptions of mental illness? Can written narratives help establish a form of external cohesion for a person who feels he or she is falling into a state of disintegration? If narrative writing is impossible, can poetic or even ‘word salad’ forms serve as vehicles of therapy and insight for both patients and doctors? Reading assignments will include a couple of Artaud’s letters to his doctors with their lucid descriptions of his slide into schizophrenia, alongside Louis Sass and Josef Parnas’s paper ‘Schizophrenia, Consciousness, and the Self," Daniel Paul Schreber’s Memoirs of My Mental Illness, as well as Freud’s reading of the Schreber case, a portion of John Thomas Perceval’s account of his illness with Gregory Bateson’s forward, Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper through the lens of S. Weir Mitchell’s concept of neurosthenia, and a chapter from Catherine Golden’s The Captive Imagination: A Casebook on The Yellow Wallpaper. So this gives you an idea. Perhaps more so in the US than in Europe, psychiatry has moved in the direction of diagnosis by symptom list. A physician checks off answers to questions such as: Is the patient capable of insight? Yes or no. Of course such questions don’t always lend themselves to a yes or a no. Delusions don’t preclude all forms of insight, for example... The young doctors who attend my seminar are people who are already interested in writing, in the history of medicine, and in the philosophical questions that necessarily accompany the act of making a diagnosis. No resident is required to take my course. If not exactly in crisis, I do think that psychiatry is facing a moment of upheaval. The optimistic belief that neuroscience research would finally solve the etiologies of mental illness has not come to pass. Criticism of the DSM (The Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Illness) is rampant. Reductive solutions in psychiatry have begun to seem impoverished. Therefore, an approach that values multiple perspectives and models may be an improvement. I am trying to advance a pluralistic theoretical position that takes neurobiology into account but also values the dynamic properties of personal narrative. Every illness has a story and that story belongs to a person who has the illness. Moreover, the way a sick person understands her or his illness affects the course of the affliction itself. I want to bring narrative forward as a tool in medicine and give it a theoretical dignity that goes beyond the often condescending attitudes that surround ideas of art as therapy.

CM: In the note, you mention poetry as an alternative for narrative writing. You started writing poetry yourself and then turned to the novel and essay writing. Why and how did this happen? SH: I wrote short stories when I was fourteen, but turned to poetry when I was fifteen and wrote poems all through high school. I distinctly remember starting a novel in college. I wrote two pages, and I thought they were wonderful, but I had no idea where to go after that beginning: I remember there was a kite and a funeral [laughter]. I did not have the ability to go on. Some young people do. Even if they

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write mediocre novels, they are able to master the form. I wrote a few one page short stories, but then retreated back to poetry. I did a lot of imitation, writing in classical poetic verse. I wrote sonnets, heroic couplets, villanelles. There was nothing particularly original or interesting about them, but they were very good exercises for me. I continued to write poems through college and wrote more poems as a graduate student. I became more and more serious, and I knew other poets at Columbia. There was a group of us, and we would share and criticize one another’s poems. Some of my fellow writers were brilliant. I became interested in The New York School: John Ashbery, Kenneth Koch, Frank O’Hara, and Barbara Guest. When I was twenty-three I finally wrote a poem I liked, sent it off to The Paris Review, and they published it. I published a couple more poems and then got stuck, really stuck. I just thought everything I wrote was horrible. And then, David Shapiro, a poet and professor of mine, said, “Siri, when I get writer’s block, I do automatic writing.” That did the trick. I sat down and wrote thirty pages in a single evening. It was so liberating, and then I spent the next three months editing it. I was in school so it wasn’t as if I edited eight hours a day, but I just kept working on it. Part of it remained as it was, but I also pared away, cut, and moved some of the elements. I wrote another prose poem, but I never wrote in lines again. I had crossed a bridge. When I finished my dissertation, I wanted to write a novel or a long story. All I knew was that it had a particular feeling. It was driven by an unheimlich feeling. And when I finished the thirty pages of the story, I knew I wasn’t through with Iris. So that was how The Blindfold began.

CM: One critic called The Blindfold four stories, but I don’t quite agree, they are a novel, not four stories. SH: I agree, but it’s fair to say that I didn't know what it was when I began to write it.

CM: Which part of the novel was it? SH: Mr. Morning, the book’s first part. And then I went back to work on Iris, and I ended up with a novel in four movements.

CM: Have you ever considered really going into the short story form? From then on, you’ve written only novels and essays. SH: I think the short story is a great form and when I read a good one, I am always impressed by how the writer is able to make much of a small space. Perhaps I will write stories at some point, but what happens to me with novels is that an idea generates musical repetitions and variations that end up needing more room to flourish. I know that what I am working on now needs to be played out in a particular way. I’ve been reading about time because the book is about time, losing time, which is a good theme for me because I feel a new urgency in my life to do as much as I can.

CM: Really? SH: Yeah... [laughter] The wonderful French actor, Trintignant, did an event with my husband years ago. Paul was in his late fifties at the time. Trintignant was seventy. He said to Paul: “When I was your age, I felt older than I do now.”1 Paul never forgot it. It’s possible that if I keep going and live, I will gain a different perspective by seventy. One can hope. [laughter]

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CM: You mentioned the question of ﬁrst- and third-person narration in your note for the seminar. In six novels, you’ve only used third-person narration once, for The Enchantment of Lily Dahl. Why? SH: The narration of Lily Dahl is what I call close or false third person narration, in the sense that it is almost first-person narration, close to Lily. I remember clearly that I wanted a third person narration because I have a very young, naive protagonist and by adopting the third person I was able to use a vocabulary that she couldn’t use, and therefore move between positions of relative closeness and distance from her. Later, I came to believe (Henry James may be responsible or he may just have confirmed what I had begun to feel) that the first person is phenomenologically more accurate. There is always a first person. There is never a third person perspective hanging over us in our phenomenal reality except as an imaginative extension of the first person. When I wrote What I Loved, I was enamored of Leo’s position as a narrator who is also an observer, an earthbound witness to what happens. Although he is deeply involved in the goings-on, he maintains a kind of distance and is able to see how narration can change, depending on perspective. His drawer game, a game of rearranging his sacred objects, turns on the drama of telling. In The Blazing World, I tore the whole business apart by employing nineteen different narrative voices, including an editor. Harry, the story’s central character, is in continual dialogue with herself, and often writes to herself in the second person. I thought of the novel as an explosion of single perspective narration, one intended to destabilize all sanguine narratives about “how it was.” I am working on a new novel, and the book’s narrator sometimes writes about her earlier self in the third person as an other. At the moment I am deeply engaged in the philosophical questions embedded in first- second-third person leaps.

CM: So you will return to the third person. I understand that in your essays you claim the ﬁrst person as a philosophical position, but in the novel it’s very different, because the third person does open different perspectives. SH: It opens multiple perspectives. I am a great lover of eighteenth century English novels with their personable narrators who speak directly to the reader. I played with that intimacy in The Summer Without Men. Not so long ago, I reread Tristram Shandy. I hadn’t read it for years, and I had a great time. I’d say it’s narration as coitus interruptus. [laughter] It’s frustrating, funny, and smart. Locke and Hume are all over it, of course, and the philosophy was far more obvious to me on the second reading.

CM: You wrote that Norwegian still haunts your written English, and not knowing Norwegian, I find it difficult to find examples of that in your writing. SH: I think it’s probably less true now. But I think there is a music in Norwegian that has affected my prose. Norwegian is a word poor language compared to English and French. There are fewer words, but this poverty has also meant that Norwegian poets can play with the multiple meanings of a single word in ways that would look funny in English. The deep answer to this question lies in what I call the “metrics of being”—rhythmic patterns established early in life between a caretaker and an infant—usually the mother, but it could be somebody else—and that dialogical music is in us and of us and is then refined and developed through multiple others over a lifetime. So the first words you hear, words that are emotionally powerful but have no symbolic

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meaning, are part of a person’s original music. My first language was Norwegian, quickly followed by English, but I suspect the rhythms of the Norwegian are primal.

CM: So you cannot give speciﬁc examples of that influence. SH: No, but when I read novels in Norwegian, I recognize the music. I don’t know how I would analyze that recognition, but it’s there—a rhythm, a beat. I am glad I write in English nevertheless. It has an immense vocabulary and fantastic flexibility. French is more grammatically restricted than English, and therefore I think English affords greater opportunity for free play, but then you have Céline and Apollinaire; let’s not forget all that can be done in French.

CM: The visual arts are very present in your work, where many characters are painters or photographers. I found that photographers are often sinister characters. I’m thinking in particular of The Blindfold and The Sorrows of an American. Could you comment on that? SH: I think you are right, but I don’t really know why. It may have to do with the problem of documentation, of photography as a mode of keeping an accurate record, when, as we know, it is only rarely that. A photograph isn’t always staged, but it is always framed, and these framings of the world can be deeply misleading, even sinister. Photography is ubiquitous in advertising and used to seduce, deceive, or lure us. War photography involves genuine ethical questions about what it means to take pictures of dying soldiers or traumatized survivors. The famous Vietnam photo of the young girl—the running napalm victim—came to symbolize the brutality of the US in that country. Sometimes such a photo can aid resistance to an evil war, but that too may be ambiguous in ethical terms if one asks what it meant for her, the subject who was turned into a symbol. I think I am both attracted and appalled by the idea of capturing an event or person on film without any other form of human interaction. This framing dilemma can apply to art as well. Art has its roots in life, of course, and in telling a story, one can be brutal or gentle, exploit or carefully develop the characters and the story. Much of the effort for me is feeling what’s right and listening to characters as one would to another person. It makes me think of Giles in What I Loved, the bad artist who destroys one of Bill’s paintings in a work of his own for the shock value. It came to me as a violent act that wasn’t about flesh and blood violence but psychic cruelty. I may worry more about photographs than artworks because photos often have real, not fictional, subjects.

CM: Because you have so many artists in your novels, there are a lot of descriptions of visual art, most of the time nonexistent. Do you create them before you describe them, or describe them as you create them? SH: I think it’s a bit of both. Mostly an image comes into my head. This is similar to how some artists work—from mental images. The picture is there and then it can be tweaked as I work, although I am writing the image and transforming it into words on a page. Once I have the artist in place, whoever that person is, I find I can generate works for him or her. Bill and Harry are my two large artists, and they have a connection to each other and to the novel as a form. I am drawn to narrative works as a series of boxes or rooms, as a journey through time going somewhere.

CM: You draw yourself, don’t you? The drawings included in The Summer Without Men are yours. SH: I do draw myself. One of my fantasies is that a time may come when I devote myself to drawing for several months. The drawings in The Summer Without Men are

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cartoons, simple drawings, but not illustrations. The four images depict the arc of the story as well as the encounter between narrator and her persona in the narration, but no reviewer understood this or commented on the images. It was as if they didn’t exist. I was once in an exhibition in Paris at the Musée d'Orsay. Writers and artists were asked to comment on drawings by famous artists. Although I am a writer, I decided to draw a response. I picked a small ink and watercolor rendering of a pot by Cézanne. There was something anatomical about the pot, and I turned it into a fat little woman bather (a comment on Cezanne’s immense canvas where his bathers look more like objects than people). I remember after I had finished it, I thought to myself, “this isn’t very good,” but when I showed both pot and woman to my husband and daughter, they burst out laughing, and I felt reassured. The curator liked it so much he wanted to buy it. I happily gave it to him.

CM: You say that novel reading can be life changing. I wondered if you meant the same thing as William Gass when he repeatedly quotes Rilke’s sonnet ending with the line “You must change your life,” as the injunction addressed by the work of art to the reader or viewer. I often ﬁnd there are echoes between Gass’s remarks on reading and literature and yours, but I also see differences, so could you expand on that? SH: Perhaps in Gass it’s more emphatic and more didactic.

CM: Rather more threatening. SH: I don’t think my experience of reading that has changed me has been one of threat. Rather it’s usually been about seduction and insight, although it's true that when I first read Crime and Punishment, I felt the world had cracked up—the sympathy and horror I felt for Raskolnikov was overwhelming. I was once asked by a Norwegian journal to write an intellectual autobiography which eventually became “Extracts from a Story of the Wounded Self.”2 But when I had a first draft, I realized I had written a boring recitation of great books in the Western tradition that many people have read. It meant nothing. I tore it up and began again, and the resulting essay became both more personal and more emotional. The books that change us always have deeply felt resonance. Perhaps books outside the canon, that act as bombs are more interesting to consider. Djuna Barnes’s Nightwood had a life-altering effect on me, a book decidedly outside the canon. Barnes wrote some lovely essays, but I am not a fan of her other novel, Ryder. I read Nightwood while I was a graduate student at Columbia. The book struck so deeply into the ambiguities of gender and desire, it turned me inside out. I have now read it four times, and the language is extraordinary, especially the language of Dr. O’Connor, the novel’s great cross-dressing, suffering, blowhard. Barnes is the only writer to whom I ever sent a letter. I was on the subway rereading parts of Nightwood when an older woman sitting next to me began to ask about the book. I said how much I liked it and she said, “Would you like to write to her?” I said, “Yes, I think I would.” Her husband was a professor at Princeton, knew Barnes, and had the address. Two days later, a postcard arrived in the mail. I composed a brief, passionate and probably complicated letter of appreciation and sent it. A year and a half later, I received a reply: “Dear Miss Hustvedt, Your letter has given me great difficulty.” I lost the letter, which grieves me still, but in a couple sentences she made

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me understand that the difficulty wasn’t altogether miserable for her. She died a month later.

CM: As I understand it, what William Gass means is that art can confront us with the meanness of our own lives, and this is what we can feel threatened by, in a way. SH: Art can threaten our fundamental assumptions. Great books challenge what we take for granted. Merleau-Ponty’s Phenomenology of Perception was such a book for me. Kafka’s stories, Paul Celan’s and Emily Dickinson’s poems all shook me to the core. I had to rethink, re-feel. When I wrote The Blazing World, I wanted to throw the reader back on him or herself, as Kierkegaard said, to create a text as a moving target. I wanted to unsettle, challenge, tease, and play with the reader’s comfortable paradigms. I think I succeeded but few seemed to understand what the book is up to. I read a lot of reviews because the criticism didn’t touch me. I treated the reviews as extensions of the novel itself, part of Harry’s experiment in perception—what she calls “proliferations.” I felt more like godmother to Harry’s masking project than the author. I may never be as untouched by bad reviews as I was with that book. But when reviewers were irritated, when they sided with one character or another, when they missed the irony or complained about the references to scholarship in various disciplines, I felt every single response had already been anticipated by, often even described in the book itself. I noticed with amusement how annoyed some reviewers were. They were threatened because there is no single truth here. There is ambiguity in all its richness. I had sympathy for some of them. If you allow yourself only a single perspective, whatever that perspective is, you won’t be able to read the book.

CM: What has your research in neuroscience taught you about the creative process, if it has? SH: I am fascinated by the biology of creativity. However, definitions of creativity in neuroscience are—primitive. For example, creativity is defined as “multiple solutions to a target problem.” Or: “the production of something novel and useful within a particular cultural context.” Emily Dickinson’s poems were certainly novel. Were they useful? What does that mean? Such definitions don’t hold up to much scrutiny. So I think the exploration must take place between the human biological organism and culture. This is a difficult territory to parse and analyze. I’ve gotten interested in genetics, and the more I read in genetics, the more complicated it becomes, so, for example, DNA is inert without its cellular environment. It is not a rigid linear code or blueprint for development. Those metaphors are misleading. Genes may be suppressed or expressed in relation to an animal’s experience. To separate any creature from its Umwelt is not possible. And isn’t creativity predicated on curiosity? Why are some people so much more curious than others? Even inside a university, where the professors have to be curious about their own fields, one finds that some people are far more willing to walk down new roads than others. Why is that? [laughter] You know what I mean, curiosity is unlikely to be genetically predetermined, although all mammals have a drive to explore their worlds.

CM: It’s certainly something that’s very much culture bound… SH: Yes, but exploration requires security. Secure children are those who feel free to investigate what’s around them. Insecure children hang on to the legs of their parents. We, all of us, go through periods of security and insecurity. A leap into the unknown is then followed by retreat back to Mother and Father.

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At its most fundamental level, creativity is the same. It does not matter if one is doing physics or writing poetry. My favorite quote from Einstein addresses this question. Jacques Hadamard, the mathematician, asked Einstein how he worked, and he answered that his essential creative work had nothing to do with signs, either mathematical or linguistic. That part came later. His deep work, he maintained, was visual, muscular, and emotional. Einstein was interested in Gestalt theory and it is evident in his response. Most of our work process eventually becomes automatic. Typing ceases to be conscious once learned. But other far more complex modes of thought also become unconscious once mastered. Creative surges arrive when unconscious material a person has thoroughly digested takes on new forms. It might appear as the theory of general relativity or as Wuthering Heights. It depends on the individual’s particular underground. Emily Brontë’s novel is a literary wonder, by the way. Recently, I taught Wuthering Heights to graduate students—just one class. The book’s narrative structure is so complex it awes me. It has the startling economy and overdetermined character of a dream. It is not a psychological work in the ordinary sense of the word. In the book, human beings and the rest of the natural world have leaked into one another so the boundaries are obscured or even nonexistent. A great book written by a 28 year-old. She died a couple of years later at thirty. How did she do it? I’ve read some criticism of the book, but there’s no consensus among scholars whatsoever. Some books keep generating criticism but there’s a certain agreement. Here, as far as I can tell, it’s one different view after another. People have analyzed the structure, but I think it’s far more diabolical and ingenious than any analysis I’ve read.

CM: We’ve spoken about narrative, which to me is very much linked to plot. Is plot important for you when you start a novel? SH: You have to have somewhere to go. That was the problem with my kite/funeral failure. [laughter]. I had a nice beginning but nowhere to go. So story is an unfolding that will take the reader somewhere else. I have often had an idea of where a story will go and in fact it leads me elsewhere because the characters take charge and suddenly you’re on a road that you hadn’t planned to be on; but that’s what story is for me, a place to go. I always have a plot of sorts in mind, and usually some notion of an ending. I do believe books should be compelling that the reader should want to know what will happen. If you don’t have a seductive motion, you might as well give it up. I don’t regard my imaginary reader as infinitely tolerant. She or he needs a journey. And so for Harry [in The Blazing World] I chose a fairy tale, three masks in the form of three men, but I also borrowed from classical tragedy: I wanted to come as close to tragedy as is possible in contemporary fiction. My books begin with images, feelings, something inchoate that then grows into a story.

CM: Speaking about The Blazing World, in what ways is Harriet a tragic heroine? SH: She has a flaw as they taught us in school [laughter]… I spent an entire semester when I was in gymnasium in Norway reading Macbeth. My English teacher was a stolid woman in her sixties who knew Macbeth inside out. I’m sure she still haunts me. Macbeth and Harry share a flaw: ambition. Harry has an unquenchable desire to be seen and known. But I wanted to root her need in her family, her father, in particular.

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Harry’s desire to be recognized comes from a primal need for paternal love that wasn’t met to her satisfaction. But coinciding with her psychic wound is the real and chronic neglect of women in the art world. Harry is possessed by a fantasy she’s desperate to feed and by a genuine complaint, but she’s unable to see the difference between them—a familiar psychological dilemma. I wanted the emotions of tragedy for Harry. I wanted their purity. I wanted to return to Sophocles’s Antigone, to big important emotions. But I also wanted a story rooted in the ordinary world to inspire those same feelings. In The Blazing World it’s rage. Ancient theatre did rage pretty damned well [laughter]. Harry says, “I am Medea.” It was fun to write, but scary, too.

CM: So it would be a mistake to consider this book as a feminist novel. SH: It’s a feminist novel, but it’s not agit prop. I stay far away from that world. But to say that it’s a feminist novel that critiques the way women are perceived in the world is absolutely true. The masks enhance Harry’s work simply because they are credited to men. The first masked work, the naked Venus with art all over her body, is a joke and may be seen as an image of the most shallow possible reading of the novel itself. And then with each subsequent masked work, the reader is asked to go deeper, to entertain more complex readings of the novel he or she holds in his or her hands. I was fully conscious of the book’s many games, and I had a tremendously good time with them. Yes, on one level it’s absolutely a feminist novel.

CM: But not only that. SH: No, not only that, I would never do that. I am too attracted to complication and ambiguity.

CM: Should we consider the novel as a whole as one of the mazes designed by Harriet? SH: Yes, yes. Sometimes ideas are generated unconsciously, but then you become conscious of them. The book is itself a maze, and it features an actual maze artwork. Harry’s maze that she creates for Rune is, as I said, a metaphor for the book itself. If you don’t pay close attention to what you are reading, you won’t make your way to the end of this book without getting lost.

CM: But the last voice in the novel is Sweet Autumn’s. SH: She is the counterpoint to the games and puzzles. There are many puzzles in the book, in terms of perspective—the many conflicting views of the same story—but there are also philosophical quandaries. Richard Brickman is the voice of multiple layered irony. When Harriet is writing as Brickman, she has outdone herself. She creates a parody that retains the veneer of serious scholarship and is dense with real theory, but its complexity pushes the borders of the reader’s comprehension. Even Hess, the editor, doesn’t really understand what’s going on. This play or dance comes out of my reading of Kierkegaard, who wrote himself into ironic knots that scholars have been trying to untangle ever since. My history with S. K. has been one of increasing understanding and at the same time increasing despair. And I think that’s just the relation he wants to have with his reader. He forces you to enter a position of despair, which should move you to Christian feeling and toward the jump. It didn’t work for me [laughter]. But that is where he hopes to push you. Sweet Autumn is my holy fool, my fairy tale being, the one the hero or heroine meets on the road or deep in the woods, the one who has magical powers. In Kierkegaardian terms, she is a person of more immediacy than reflection, but that is her gift. She is genuinely moved by what she experiences with others and she has an uncanny ability

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to read emotions in a room. She knows what’s transpiring among the people around her because she feels their connections as a kind of weather. She’s not articulate and has silly, mystical, New Age explanations for her gut feelings, but I came to understand that she has an essential dignity. It is Sweet Autumn who is open enough to feel what Harry has made. The novel ends with her because she recognizes the emotional, animated force of the art in front of her.

CM: You’ve spoken about your influences when it comes to philosophy or thinkers generally, but you rarely mention literary influences. I don’t like to use that term, but are there writers you feel close to, either in the past or the present? SH: There are many. Henry James is always with me. Charles Dickens too. Jane Austen. Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Hawthorne, Kafka, George Eliot, from the first moment I first read her in Junior High. I was one of the few children who loved The Mill on the Floss. But she also served me as an intellectual model, a woman who translated Spinoza… Middlemarch remains a beloved book, another book I’ve read four times. I read it not so long ago, again. I didn’t remember everything, but as I read, it came back to me again, and I began to remember and anticipate, but the tone of the narration has become more and more subtle as I age, as have the characters. This is a great tribute to a book. As you age you are able to appreciate aspects of the text that you simply didn’t comprehend when you were younger. George Eliot is a towering person, and the fact that she existed in English letters is a wonderful thing; and unlike Emily Brontë, Eliot didn’t die young. She left behind a body of work. I recently quoted her anonymous essay, “Silly Novels by Silly Lady Novelists.”3 Near the end, she writes that we can be reassured that in literature women can be just as good as men. But it’s not clear that women are perceived as equal to men in literature. I think often they are not.

CM: I’m not as pessimistic as you are about that. SH: There are of course women in the canon, but there are many fewer than there should be. A woman’s text is judged as softer than a man’s, even when it’s hard. This is part of Harry’s story and it isn’t a fantasy: it is more difficult for women to be taken seriously. Louise Bourgeois said “A woman has to prove over and over and over again that she can’t be discounted.” There’s something to it.

CM: There’s a question I would like to ask the Morandi expert. I’m currently working on Don DeLillo’s Falling Man, which is on the syllabus for the Agrégation… SH: Don read my essay. I think he sent me a note, or perhaps he just mentioned it at a dinner, but he said “I’m very interested in your Morandi essay, and I’ve read it very carefully,” and he said a Morandi work was going to appear in his book. He borrowed insights from my essay.

CM: Which essay is that? Is that the one in Living, Thinking, Looking? SH: I think it was the first Morandi essay that Don read. He might also have read the other one, there are two. The second one is more about phenomenology, it’s about how Morandi worked. But the first one addresses bottles and the city, still life as architecture.4

CM: But in the second essay, there is a sentence in which you say the bottles become buildings, and it’s what Martin says in the novel. SH: Yes, he took it… And there’s another family story Don borrowed for Falling Man, but then forgot the source. My niece, Juliette, went to school only three blocks north

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of the twin towers. September eleventh was especially traumatic for many of the children in that school. Anyway, about a week after the towers fell, we deliberately had dinner downtown in a restaurant that was open to patronize the devastated area, and Juliette, who was six or seven, was drawing a picture of a man with a beard. Paul said, “Who are you drawing, Juliette?” and she replied, “I’m drawing Bill Lawton”. Don nabbed that from Juliette, which is what writers do, of course, but Don forgot about Juliette. My Morandi thoughts were imported into Don’s novel because he was thinking about the city and its buildings. He made a conscious movement from my essay to Falling Man and then, unconsciously, he remembered Paul telling him about Juliette’s confusion of Bill Lawton and Bin Laden. She got the name wrong; she was just a little girl. There you are, intertextuality at work! [laughter]

CM: Would you say that The Sorrows of an American is your 9/11 ﬁction? SH: The theme of trauma runs through the different generations in that book. 9/11 was a catastrophe for everyone in the city, but it had many different effects, depending on how close or far from the event you were and the configuration of your personality. No writer can set a book in New York City during that time without addressing it. A German scholar included an essay on The Sorrows of an American in a book on 9/11 novels, so it has been identified as one of many books that took on the mass murder in New York. But the story treats other traumas too: my psychiatrist narrator, Erik, has a father who had traumatic experiences as a soldier in the Second World War. Erik works with traumatized patients. I never regarded 9/11 as uniquely horrible. Many Americans did. The first thing I thought to myself when I understood we were under terrorist attack was “Now it’s come to us.” I’m sure my attitude was shaped by my mother’s experiences in Norway during the Nazi occupation and by my father’s as a soldier in the Asian theater. The horrors—it’s almost a cliché—but the horrors of war were part of my inner being, even though they weren’t my own. I didn’t want to isolate 9/11 as a peculiar event, but rather I wanted to treat it as one of a many traumatic events, both private and public, that have severe psychological effects on human beings.

CM: I would like to ask about the character of Miranda in The Sorrows of an American. Could you comment on her? SH: I’m so glad you’re asking, because nobody has talked about her. For me she was a huge character. Sophie’s nanny, Edna Thelwell, who took care of Sophie for eight years, was Jamaican. We became close to her and to her husband, George. After Edna left her job, the friendship continued, and they were a fund of Jamaican stories. I talked to Edna a lot about her childhood—she was raised by her grandmother—had a dog named Brownie, but she also gave me insights into social and family relations in Jamaica. I read a lot about Jamaican history, especially the Maroons. I became captivated by their history of resistance. I have a whole section in my library on the subject, perhaps 25 books. Miranda was very important to me. She is Erik’s love object, the beautiful “other,” but as the novel goes on she becomes more concrete. And I do love her daughter, Eggy, who’s a mixture of my own child, my niece Juliette, and another niece, Ava, a mingling, but Eggy also has qualities that are hers alone. The trauma of slavery lurks in Miranda’s story. I am deeply interested in the legacy of slavery and the effect it had on families across generations. Rape was integral to the institution of slavery. It is present in the very idea of ownership, in the terrible reality of owning the body of another human being. This is an American story that

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has never been dealt with. As I often say, where is the museum of slavery? Why is there no museum of slavery, the way there is a Holocaust museum? These people were bought and sold. Our country was built on slavery, on their bodies and their blood and suffering. I feel very strongly about this. Miranda, named after Shakespeare’s character in The Tempest, is idealized by Erik at first. She is seen through the eyes of a liberal white man, a sensitive and kind man, who is also depressed. He carries a legacy of depression from his father. Depression has double meaning, depression as illness and the Depression of the rural Midwest in the 1930s. All the characters in the novel are carrying the past. When you get to the end you realize that Miranda’s uncle was murdered in Kingston because he was gay. The homophobia in Jamaica is terrible, just terrible. And then you have Eggy, who is the result of Miranda’s affair with a white man, who is not a terrible person, but he is ambiguous and perverse. He toys with Erik’s vulnerabilities. Lane photographs Erik and that picture ironically becomes a vehicle for insight. When he looks at the image, he sees rage, his own unexpressed rage. The end is a kind of Buddhist ending. And you know the mysteries in the book are there but they’re never really uncovered. The secrets are, at some level, intact at the end.

CM: You tackle all these questions about the history of America in a very subtle way. SH: Yes, it’s true, I have a real resistance to message fiction, or didactic fiction, but I have to say, the only person except you who ever asked me in an interview about Miranda was a white man married to a black Jamaican woman. So he was delighted to talk about Miranda and Jamaica, but otherwise white critics, white interviewers acted as if the whole theme of slavery and Miranda and color just didn’t exist. They’re afraid of it, I think, which is strange to me.

CM: Well, as you say, people try to forget about it. SH: And they dismiss it by saying, “Oh well yes, slavery, that’s in the past.” In The Sorrows of an American, the past travels; the sorrows of one generation become the sorrows of the next. The transgenerational nature of trauma has long been observed, but now there are epigenetic studies that suggest that after DNA replication, molecular changes can be induced by stress to the organism, changes that remain fixed in the following three or four generations. There may be physiological changes that affect gene expression in the offspring of traumatized people, although exactly how this works in human beings is not clear.

CM: What is your next book? What are you working on right now? A: It’s a novel about… time. I’m returning to traumatic experience and the flashback. I’ve written about it before.5 I was in a car accident and afterward, I had flashbacks for four nights in a row. Not long ago, many years after the accident, I woke up at night because my husband was snoring, and I crawled into another bed in the house and later in that morning, I discover the house is exploding or there’s an earthquake, a deafening auditory experience. I wake up, collect myself, and after a couple of minutes, I understand that I have had another flashback of the crash. Because it occurred so long after the accident, I could no longer link my experience to the crash. When I had it immediately after, it was obviously a reenactment. Usually, there’s a precipitating event that reactivates the trauma, a death, a move, divorce, retirement. Snoring is not enough. There are cases of soldiers who had repeated flashbacks after

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the war, which then vanished, only to return much later in life, after they retired, or moved, or lost a spouse. I have no idea why I had a reoccurrence. Another essay, which is in my new collection, “Remembering in Art,” addresses the peculiar time of the flashback through Merleau-Ponty’s idea of vertical time, which is in opposition to time as horizontal movement, in most Western countries from left to right, an idea that seems natural but which turns out to be based on our reading habits. Arabic speakers reverse the motion of time. I have been working toward understanding The Visible and the Invisible, a work Merleau-Ponty never finished. At the end there are only working notes. Nevertheless, it’s plain that the vertical time of “wild being,” être sauvage, has nothing to do with the serialized time of reflective self-consciousness that allows us to live the melody of life as forward motion. I am thinking about a novel that includes vertical time. Again I have an arc, I have my opening, I know how it could happen. I have a pretty clear idea about what the next chapter is, and then I have a place to go, but we’ll see what happens.

* **

3 Addendum February 2017 What actually happened after I gave this interview is that the book changed. I wrote and wrote and was deeply dissatisfied and unhappy with what I had written, and so I threw it away and began again. I am now writing a book called Then and am enjoying my work. It seems to be working. Time and memory are still important, but the book is very different from what I had imagined! The world changed too. Trump is in the White House. We could lose the republic. I have been writing political articles. I demonstrated in Washington in the Women’s March. Resistance is now imperative. Time can never be taken for granted.

NOTES

1. This episode is narrated in Paul Auster’s Winter Journal (Faber and Faber, 2012, p. 29). 2. Published in A Plea for Eros (2006). 3. The actual title is “Silly Novels By Lady Novelists.” 4. Siri Hustvedt’s first essay on Morandi, “Giorgio Morandi: Not Just Bottles” was published in 2005 in the collection Mysteries of the Rectangle, so it obviously is the essay read by Don DeLillo, since Falling Man was published in 2007. The second essay, “The Drama of perception: Looking at Morandi” was first delivered as a lecture at the Metropolitan Museum of New York in 2008, and then published in the Yale Review in 2009 before it was collected in Living, Thinking, Looking (2012). In the first essay, Siri Hustvedt quotes several critics who have compared Morandi’s still lifes to architecture and expands on their remarks: “[The art critic David] Sylvester is reported to have said that he thought Morandi’s late paintings were more closely related to the cityscape of

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Bologna than to still life. I carried this astute comment with me to Venice. The division in the painting with the three boxes does seem more closely linked to the horizon than to any tabletop. Even in its coloring, it is like the line between sky and ground The boxes and bottles have an architectural feeling to them, as do the objects in many of the canvases. The painting with three boxes in front of three bottles and a pitcher, for example, looks like towers behind squat buildings. Apparently, Sylvester was not alone in this insight. The critic Carlo Ludovico Ragghianti is quoted in the show’s catalogue as saying that Morandi’s still lifes are ‘wholly architectural, so much so that it should prompt us to think of cathedrals rather than of bottles.’”(Mysteries of the Rectangle: Essays on Painting, Princeton Architectural Press, 2005, p.126). 5. In The Shaking Woman. A History of my Nerves, pp. 43-45.

INDEX

Subjects: Reconnaissances

AUTHOR

CLAIRE MANIEZ Université Grenoble Alpes

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