REVISTA DE LA ASOCIACIÓN ESPAÑOLA DE ESTUDIOS ANGLO-NORTEAMERICANOS
Vol. 33, núm. 2 Diciembre 2011
33.2 (December 2011) 33.2 (Diciembre 2011)
EDITORS Editores
General Editor: Angela Downing Universidad Complutense de Madrid Assistant Editor: Ludmila Urbanová Managing Editor: Carmen Méndez University of Brno Universidad Complutense de Madrid Book Reviews Editor: Clara Calvo Editor’s Assistant: Juan Rafael Zamorano Universidad de Murcia Universidad Complutense de Madrid Universität Bremen Copy Editor: Jorge Arús Hita Universidad Complutense de Madrid
EDITORIAL BOARD Consejo de Redacción
BOARD OF ADVISORS Consejo Asesor
Andrew Blake Heinz Ickstadt University of Winchester Freie Universität Berlin Martin Bygate J. Hillis Miller Lancaster University University of California at Irvine Teresa Fanego Susheila M. Nasta Universidad de Santiago de Compostela Open University Fernando Galván Francisco J. Ruiz de Mendoza Universidad de Alcalá de Henares Universidad de La Rioja
BOARD OF REFEREES Consejo Científico y Evaluador
Joan C. Beal Laurel J. Brinton Thomas Claviez University of Sheffield University of British Columbia University of Bern Jesús Benito Sánchez Manuel Broncano Tom Cohen Universidad de Valladolid Texas A & M International University University of Albany Marcella Bertuccelli Papi Jorge Luis Bueno Alonso Juan Camilo Conde-Silvestre Università di Pisa University of Vigo Universidad de Murcia Nilufer E. Bharucha Graham D. Caie Chantal Cornut-Gentille D’arcy University of Mumbai University of Glasgow Universidad de Zaragoza Anita Biressi Gordon Campbell Francisco J. Cortés Rodríguez Roehampton University University of Leicester Universidad de La Laguna Maggie Ann Bowers Isabel Carrera Isabel de la Cruz Cabanillas University of Portsmouth Universidad de Oviedo Universidad de Alcalá de Henares Kris Van den Branden Shirley Chew Pilar Cuder Katholieke Universiteit Leuven University of Leeds Universidad de Huelva Mario Brdar Robert Clark Daniela Daniele Josip Juraj Strossmayer University University of East Anglia Università di Udine Rocío Davis Stephan Kohl Javier Pérez Guerra City University of Hong Kong Julius-Maximilians-Universität Universidad de Vigo Denise deCaires Narain Würzburg James Procter University of Sussex Zoltán Kövecses University of Newcastle upon Tyne Celestino Deleyto Eötvös Loránd University Victor J. Ramraj Universidad de Zaragoza Manfred Krug University of Calgary Balz Engler Otto-Friedrich-Universität Bamberg Caroline Rooney University of Basel Merja Kytö University of Kent José Francisco Fernández Uppsala University Francisco J. Ruiz de Mendoza University of Almería Alberto Lázaro Universidad de La Rioja Charles Forceville Universidad de Alcalá de Henares Dianne F. Sadoff University of Amsterdam Ursula Lenker Rutgers University Javier Franco Aixelá Catholic University of Eichstätt Esther Sánchez-Pardo Universidad de Alicante María José López Couso Universidad Complutense de Madrid Jean-Michel Ganteau Universidad de Santiago de Jürgen Schlaeger Université Paul-Valéry, Compostela Humboldt-Universität Berlin Montpellier III Dámaso López García Elena Seoane María del Pilar García Mayo Universidad Complutense de Madrid Universidad de Santiago de Universidad del País Vasco María Losada Friend Compostela Cristina Garrigós Universidad de Huelva María Josep Solé Sabater Universidad de León Ricardo Mairal Usón Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona Dirk Geeraerts UNED Alasdair Spark University of Leuven Ana María Manzanas Calvo University of Winchester Lincoln Geraghty Universidad de Salamanca Neelam Srivastava University of Portsmouth Javier Martín Arista University of Newcastle upon Tyne Vincent Gillespie Universidad de La Rioja M. S. Suárez Lafuente University of Oxford John McLeod Universidad de Oviedo Cristina Giorcelli University of Leeds Juan Antonio Suárez Università di Roma Tre Lavinia Merlini Universidad de Murcia Manuel José Gómez Lara Università di Pisa Henry Sussman Universidad de Sevilla Silvia Molina Plaza University of Buffalo / Yale University José Luis González Escribano Universidad Politécnica de Madrid Justine Tally Universidad de Oviedo Rafael Monroy Universidad de La Laguna Francisco Gonzálvez García Universidad de Murcia Paloma Tejada Caller Universidad de Almería Carmen Muñoz Universidad Complutense de Madrid Agnieszka Graff Universitat de Barcelona Geoff Thompson Warsaw University Jo Anne Neff Van Aertselaer University of Liverpool Leighton Grist Universidad Complutense de Madrid I. M. Tieken-Boon van Ostade University of Winchester Heather Nunn University of Leiden Adolphe Haberer Roehampton University Harish Trivedi Université Lumière-Lyon 2 Begoña Núñez Perucha University of Delhi Felicity Hand Cranham Universidad Complutense de Madrid Javier Valenzuela Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona James Ogude University of Murcia Pilar Hidalgo University of the Witwatersrand Carmen Valero Garcés Universidad de Málaga Ana Ojea Universidad de Alcalá de Henares Juan Carlos Hidalgo Universidad de Oviedo Boris Vejdovsky Universidad de Sevilla Joanne Paisana University of Lausanne Ton Hoenselaars Universidade do Minho Ruth Wodak Utrecht University Klaus-Uwe Panther Lancaster University Jacqueline Hurtley Universität Hamburg Pilar Zozaya Universitat de Barcelona Pedro Javier Pardo University of Barcelona David Johnson Universidad de Salamanca The Open University Ruth Parkin-Gounelas Aristotle University of Thessaloniki
Abstracting and Indexing
Atlantis is indexed in the following Thomson Reuters services: Arts and Humanities Citation Index® Current Contents®/Arts & Humanities Social Sciences Citation Index® Journal Citation Reports/ Social Sciences Edition Current Contents®/Social and Behavioral Sciences (Thomson-Reuters)
Atlantis is also indexed or abstracted in the following databases and directories: Academic Search Complete Annual Bibliography of English Language and Literature (ABELL) Bibliography of European Journals for English Studies (BEJES), published by the European Society for the Study of English (ESSE) CSA Linguistics and Language Behavior Abstracts (LLBA) DICE, Difusión y Calidad Editorial de las Revistas Españolas de Humanidades y Ciencias Sociales y Jurídicas ERIH, European Reference Index for the Humanities Expanded Academic Index Fuente Academica, Humanities Humanities International Complete (HIC) Infotrac Onefile International Bibliography of Book Reviews of Scholarly Literature in the Humanities and the Social Sciences (IBR) International Bibliography of Periodical Literature in the Humanities and the Social Sciences (IBZ) ISOC (CINDOC-CSIC) JSTOR LATINDEX Linguistics Abstracts Literature Resource Center MLA Directory of Periodicals MLA International Bibliography, published by the Modern Language Association of America Periodical Index Online (PIO) Periodicals Contents Index (PCI) RESH, Revistas Españolas de Ciencias Sociales y Humanas SCOPUS Sociological Abstracts The Year’s Work in English Studies
Revista de la Asociación Española de Estudios Anglo-Norteamericanos
33.2 (December 2011) 33.2 (Diciembre 2011)
Table of Contents • Índice
Articles • Artículos
Martha the Mimos: Femininity, Mimesis and Theatricality in Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf Mona Hoorvash and Farideh Pourgiv Shiraz University ...... 11
Burning Down the Little House on the Prairie: Asian Pioneers in Contemporary North America Belén Martín-Lucas Universidade de Vigo ...... 27
Failed Exorcism: Kurtz’s Spectral Status and Its Ideological Function in Conrad’s ‘Heart of Darkness’ Jorge Sacido Romero University of Santiago de Compostela ...... 43
Framed Images as Counterpoints in James Joyce’s ‘The Dead’ Tomás Monterrey Universidad de La Laguna ...... 61
A Mirror of our own Anxiety: Civilization, Violence and Ethics in Martin Crimp’s Cruel and Tender Mireia Aragay University of Barcelona ...... 75
The Company of Shakespeare in Exile: Towards a Reading of Internment Camp Cultures Ton Hoenselaars Utrecht University ...... 89
Glasgow, University Library, MS Hunter 509: A Description Laura Esteban-Segura Universidad de Murcia ...... 105
Gender Policy, the London Lock Asylum Committee (1836-1842) and the Asylum Regulations for 1840 María Isabel Romero Ruiz Universidad de Málaga ...... 123
Noun-noun Euphemisms in the Language of the Global Financial Crisis Carmen Portero Muñoz Universidad de Córdoba ...... 137
Reviews • Reseñas
Lucía Loureiro Porto 2009: The Semantic Predecessors of Need in the History of English. reviewed by Alejandro Alcaraz Sintes ...... 161
María del Mar Azcona 2010: The Multi-Protagonist Film. reviewed by Celestino Deleyto ...... 169
Geetha Ganapathy-Doré 2011: The Postcolonial Indian Novel in English. reviewed by Christopher Rollason ...... 175
Alexander C.Y. Huang and Charles S. Ross, eds. 2009: Shakespeare in Hollywood, Asia, and Cyberspace. reviewed by Rosa María García-Periago ...... 181
Wallhead, Celia 2007: A.S. Byatt: Essays on the Short Fiction. reviewed by Carmen Lara Rallo ...... 187
Mary O’Donnell, and Manuela Palacios, eds. 2010: To the Wind Our Sails. Irish Writers Translate Galician Poetry. reviewed by Katharina Walter ...... 193
Alexa Alfer and Amy J. Edwards de Campos 2010: A. S. Byatt: Critical Storytelling. reviewed by Celia Wallhead Salway ...... 199
Acknowledgements ...... 205
Editorial policy and Instructions to contributors ...... 207
ARTICLES
ARTÍCULOS
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 11–25 ISSN 0210-6124
MARTHA THE MIMOS: FEMININITY, MIMESIS AND THEATRICALITY IN EDWARD ALBEE’S WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF
Mona Hoorvash Farideh Pourgiv Shiraz University, Iran Shiraz University, Iran [email protected] [email protected]
This article aims at a reevaluation of critical readings of Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? especially with regard to its main female character, Martha, and hopes to disavow the traditionally reductive analysis of this character which has resulted in serious charges of misogyny against its playwright. This study draws on Luce Irigaray’s concept of mimesis as a means of challenging the dominant phallocentric discourse to propose a new reading of the play which would demonstrate Albee’s awareness of the flawed phallic economy which objectifies, commodifies and marginalizes women. Martha is depicted in the play as a self- conscious actor, deliberately indulging in the task of subversive mimicry of the feminine gender role to shock the audience and force them into questioning the socially approved definition of femininity. By allowing Martha to playfully theatricalize various aspects of her life, Albee demonstrates the possibility of representing women and feminine pleasure in a new way, a way that, according to Irigaray, could ultimately revolutionize the patriarchal social order. Keywords: Theatricality; femininity; mimesis; Luce Irigaray; Edward Albee; drama
MARTHA LA MIMO: FEMININIDAD, MIMESIS Y TEATRALIDAD EN WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, DE EDWARD ALBEE
En este artículo se propone una reevaluación de las interpretaciones críticas de Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, de Edward Albee, sobre todo por lo que respecta a su protagonista femenino, Martha. Con ello, se pretende poner en tela de juicio el análisis reductivo que tradicionalmente se aplica a este personaje y que ha dado lugar a graves acusaciones de misoginia contra Albee. Este estudio utiliza el concepto de mimesis de Luce Irigaray como herramienta para cuestionar el discurso falocéntrico dominante y proponer una nueva lectura de la obra que demuestra la percepción por parte de Albee de lo problemática que resulta esa economía fálica que, además de marginar a las mujeres, las convierte en meros bienes de consumo. Martha aparece en la obra como alguien que sabe muy bien lo que se hace y se entrega a la tarea subversiva de parodiar el papel de las mujeres con el fin de escandalizar a los espectadores y hacerlos poner en duda la concepción socialmente aceptada de la feminidad. Al permitir que Martha parodie varios aspectos de su propia vida, Albee demuestra la posibilidad de representar de una manera distinta tanto a las mujeres como al placer femenino, una manera que, según Irigaray, podría acabar revolucionando el orden social patriarcal.
Palabras clave: Teatralidad; feminidad; mimesis; Luce Irigaray; Edward Albee; drama 12 Mona Hoorvash and Farideh Pourgiv
1. Introduction
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf is one of the most popular and, at the same time, most controversial of Edward Albee’s plays. A major bulk of Albee scholarship is devoted to this 1962 play which has continued to draw uneasy responses from many critics. The play undermines and nullifies many of the American ideals of the time and presents characters which are unusually disrespectful of traditional values. Naturally, when the play was first staged, the audience and critics were bound to take sides, either with the ideals that glorified their country or with the disrespectful mockery of these ideals in Albee’s play. In the early 1960s, one of the most important of these ideals was that of the American family. The postwar years of the 1950s were characterized by heavy pro-family propaganda, the baby boom and an obsession with the picture of the happy, domestic woman. “The American way of life” which was “characterized by affluence, located in suburbia, and epitomized by white middle-class nuclear families” (May 2008: 8) became the “cultural ideal” of the time (2008: 11). Its propagation over-emphasized “distinct gender roles for family members” (2008: 19). After the widespread participation of women in paid labor during the war years, the ideal femininity of the 50s required that women return to their homes and joyously take on the role of the housewife and the mother of several children. Under the apparent conformity of the fifties, there was a tension, a 'delicate balance' which was broken by Betty Friedan's momentous work, The Feminine Mystique, in which the author objects to “the limits of the family-centered role for women” (Ryan 1992: 42). Written and staged only one year before the publication of Friedan’s book, Virginia Woolf shows an obvious engagement with the question of women and their role in the family. The picture presented in the play, however, is nowhere near the ideal picture of the so-called American way of life. Its portrayal of marriage and motherhood was so devastating to some of its contemporary critics that they went so far as to label the play as perverse and morbid, its characters as decadent and its author as immoral (for an example, see Schechner 1975). Though most of the attacks on the morality of the play were challenged, clarified and rejected almost simultaneously, the tradition of reading Martha—the controversial female character of this play—remains heavily influenced by those early reactions. This ambivalent, at times cautious attitude results from the critics’ bewilderment when confronted with such an unusual female character that has been repeatedly, albeit unsatisfactorily, regarded as either a shrew and a maniac, or a broken, victimized woman; a tradition that has kept its ambivalence even on to the twenty-first century. The intention of the authors in the present study is to disavow these charges and suggest that the play shows Albee’s sympathy with the situation of women. Drawing on the theories of Jacques Lacan and Luce Irigaray, we hope to demonstrate that through Martha, Albee criticizes the patriarchal society and its celebration of phallic values. But interestingly, in doing so, he is also careful to avoid showing the woman as a pathetic victim of her time. Contrary to the claim of most of Albee scholarship, Martha is neither a monster nor a ruin, but rather a clever, vivacious woman who, in collaboration with her husband, George, challenges the widely accepted patriarchal values by theatricalizing them. Rather than embodying the socially approved feminine and masculine gender roles that they seem to be performing, Martha and George mimic those roles to render them as questionable in the eyes of their audience. This aspect of Martha’s character and this bond between her and George has not previously received much critical attention.
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2. Monstrous Martha/ marginal Martha: the critical tradition
In 1962, the same year as the premier of Virginia Woolf, Brustein describes Martha as “bitterly shrewish” (1999: 7) and claims that the connection between her and George is based on “deadly hatred” (1999: 8). In the following year, Gassner regards her as a compulsive tormentor and expresses sympathy for “the driven woman and her long- suffering husband” (1975: 6). Hirsch refers to Albee’s characters in general as “domineering women and impotent men” (1978: 8), as “devouring mothers, castrating wives, remote husbands, dead sons” (1978: 18). Even at the beginning of the twenty-first century, Paolucci returns to “the domineering figure of woman” and “the submissive male” (2000: 46). Martha is again the destructive woman looking for “victims” everywhere (2000: 52), and “George’s worldly failure takes on a heroic color” (2000: 50). Even critics who have approached the play with feminist concerns have rarely managed to gain a more substantial ‘victory’ than labeling Albee as a misogynist. For instance, Duplessis accuses the playwright of aiming at “the re-establishment of those [patriarchal] norms” (1980: 6) by eventually transforming Martha into a “subordinate, dependent woman”, as “George is returned to his position of mastery and dominance” (1980: 6). In later articles on Virginia Woolf, which are much more balanced, Martha’s role still remains marginal to the critics. In one of the rare psychoanalytical studies of this play, relying heavily on Freud’s ideas, Davis emphasizes “male bonding” (1994: 221), giving the foreground to George, Nick, and inevitably, Martha’s Daddy. This line is later taken up by Eby (2007), who regards the play as an example of competitive masculinity, with Martha acting a marginal, catalytic role. Furthermore, Davis assigns to George the role of the “analyst” (1994: 214). This attitude can be found in the works of other critics as well. Roudané, for example, calls George (and not Martha) “the anger artist” (2005: 47) and Winkel regards him as the savior (2008: 150), “the mastermind of the action” (2008: 147), the social critic and “Albee’s mouthpiece” (2008: 142). Winkel is one of the few critics who regard Albee as critical of patriarchy and sympathetic with the situation of women. But in her study, too, Martha is depicted as a victim of the social pressures of her time, forced to cling desperately to the son-illusion and pushed toward losing her balance (2008: 244). Two of the most recent critiques of Virginia Woolf have focused on aspects of the play that pave the way for the present argument. Rakesh Solomon, in his account of Albee’s direction of his own plays, states that during the rehearsals the playwright tried to emphasize those details of Martha’s character which were less highlighted in previous productions of the play, demanding that she “should simultaneously also appear genuinely funny, intellectually agile, passionate, and most importantly, capable of both compassion and love” (2010: 125). In another 2010 study, Falvey focuses on the black humor of the play as a point of strength, both of the play and of its humorist husband and wife. She views the jokes and the pranks as a bond between George and Martha, a source of connection and mutual engagement (2010: 244). Expanding these views, this article proposes that it is not Martha that Albee criticizes in Virginia Woolf, but rather it is the roles that she and George represent in their games that is being ridiculed and attacked. The main conflict of the play is neither George versus Martha nor George versus Nick, as some have suggested, but actually George plus Martha, in a shared attempt to demonstrate the inadequacy of the gender roles they are supposed to embody. This idea can be vividly explained using the concepts of masquerade, mimesis, and theatricality. Before that, however, it is necessary to specify in what ways their socially approved gender roles are problematic.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 11–25 ISSN 0210-6124 14 Mona Hoorvash and Farideh Pourgiv
3. “She is discontent”: Awareness of the phallic lack
As critics have pointed out, Martha and George’s relationship appears to be suffering from “overwhelming defeat and frustration” (Trilling 1975: 80). Martha never hesitates to express her profound dissatisfaction with her situation. She senses that something is lacking, not merely in her marriage or her life, but also in the lives of everyone else. George seems to be equally aware of this sense of lack and emptiness. The couple’s powerful expression of their discontent can be explained and justified with what Lacan refers to as “phallic lack” (Lacan 2006: 56). To understand this concept of lack we have to pay attention to the subject’s psychological development, especially the phase Lacan refers to as the mirror stage, when the child begins to distinguish the image reflected in the mirror as its own. The infant’s “identification” (Lacan 2001a: 1) with this image enables it to replaces its previous notion of a “fragmented body-image” (2001a: 3) with the “illusion of autonomy” and wholeness which is derived from the apparently whole body-image reflected in the mirror (2001a: 5). This notion of identity “structures the subject’s entire mental development” (2001a: 3). The subject goes on to seek autonomy from what Lacan calls the “specular image” (2001a: 2), which is not necessarily a mirror-reflection, but any reflected or projected image that helps the creation of the subject’s ego and builds up the illusion of autonomy. The subject often uses the other to receive a reassuring reflection of itself-- a process that begins with the infant’s seeking its reflection in the mother’s face-- and for the male subject this other is commonly woman. Regarded as a mirror, woman is reduced to a thing, an object, whose function is to help maintain the male subject’s sense of completeness and wholeness. This attitude, which is a dominant attitude in a patriarchal society, denies woman her identity and, consequently, her desire. Lacan associates the mirror stage with the Imaginary order, which can be regarded as “a realm of image and imagination, deception and lure” with its “illusions . . . of wholeness, synthesis, autonomy, duality and . . . similarity” (Evans 1996: 84). Before discovering the image, the infant enjoys a sense of complete unity with the mother, believing itself to be the answer to all her desires and needs. The discovery of the self- image as a separate identity is both exciting and shocking. Yet it is the child’s discovery of its not being the sole object of the mother’s desire that ends the peaceful Imaginary stage and starts its initiation into the Symbolic—the stage of language with its phallocentric values. This marks the child’s introduction to the Name of The Father and the authority of the phallus (Lacan 2006: 230)—which, to the child, is the imaginary object of the mother’s desire that the child believes the father possesses. The phallus is simultaneously the recognition of desire and its un-attainability, since the child does not possess the phallus. It is therefore “a signifier of lack” (Homer 2005: 95). To regain the sense of autonomy after entering the Symbolic order and accepting the law of the father, which forbids the former imaginary oneness with the mother, the subject has two options, which “turn around a ‘to be’ and a ‘to have’ . . . the phallus” and in turn decide its sexuality (Lacan 2001b: 221). The masculine subject pretends that he possesses the phallus, while the feminine subject presents “the masquerade of being the phallus” (Homer 2005: 95). Femininity and masculinity are actually made-up roles, “subject positions”, rather than biological facts (2005: 98). They are only made possible by the pretension regarding the phallus, by “a ‘to seem’ . . . to mask its lack” (Lacan 2001b: 221). This sense of loss and lack that is central to our grasp of the phallus, also inevitably affects our jouissance, a not-so-satisfactory translation of which can be joy or pleasure.
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Phallic jouissance, which Lacan associates with the masculine structure, is the kind of “jouissance that fails us, that disappoints us”, the kind which is “susceptible to failure and . . . fundamentally misses our partner” (Fink 2002: 37). Since the Symbolic denies women any access to their own definition of desire, they constantly experience the masculine structure of the phallic jouissance, covering up the lack by trying to be better mirrors, to present better specular images to men. Albee’s Virginia Woolf is the product of a time when strictly defined gender roles were emphasized. In such a social environment, subjects are under more pressure to fit the subject positions prescribed to them by the Symbolic order of the world of the father/fathers. At the same time the dominant discourse of the time disclaims the inherent and unassailable sense of dissatisfaction that follows the acceptance of these roles. Such discourse naturally does not dissipate the lack, but makes it more complex, causing the subject to experience greater anxiety about it. Commonly, the subject tries to suppress the feelings of dissatisfaction for the fear of appearing abnormal and becoming marginalized by society, unaware that this is a feeling shared by all subjects. It is no wonder, then, that Martha and George’s expression of their strong feelings of lack and loss seems shocking to the public and the critics alike. They lay bare what is inside us all but most people try to deny or push far back out of sight. They seem to have no reserve in giving voice to their deeply rooted sense of dissatisfaction, for they actually intend to shock the audience. As the play begins, Martha refers to a Bette Davis movie which is distinguishable as Beyond the Forest (Albee 2007: 155). The movie, as well as Martha’s retelling of it, reeks of dissatisfaction. The emphasis with which Martha declares She is discontent shows that she sees much affinity between her own role as a domesticated housewife and that of Rosa Moline, the character played by Bette Davis. In the movie, Rosa is in love with a man other than her husband, a fact that White refers to as proof of Martha’s adulterous intentions (White 1985: 52). But this man can be the symbol of a more complicated idea than adultery; he may be regarded as Lacan’s objet petit a. With (petit) a standing for the French word autre (meaning ‘other’ with small o), objet petit a, which Lacan relates to the Imaginary (Lacan 1998: 83), is the “object-cause” of desire, “any object which sets desire in motion” and like “a precious object hidden inside a relatively worthless box” refers to what “we seek in the other” that in reality can never be gained (Evans 1996: 128). As the presumed object of her desire, Rosa’s lover in Chicago is an imaginary source of satisfaction. Even the physical circumstances of this relationship prevent its fulfillment. He is far from Rosa; she is sick—a fact emphasized by Martha three times in her short narrative—and what is more, Martha does not even remember his name. He is not only inaccessible, but also nameless and ambiguous. Martha’s narrative is concerned only with the impossibility of perfect jouissance. For her, this is the significance of the movie, and she refers only to details of the plot that help establish this theme. In fact, her allusion to this insignificant movie early in the play is not merely to show that she is discontent, but rather to prove that everybody is. Everyone is dissatisfied because an incomplete experience of jouissance is all the satisfaction the subject can get once it enters the Symbolic. In other parts of the play, too, Martha and George’s dialogues are full of clear references to this sense of emptiness. For instance, Martha’s calling George “a blank, a cipher” (Albee 2007: 164), her exclamation, “IT’S NOT WHAT I WANTED!” (2007: 258) and both George and Martha’s “SNAP” (2007: 261, 286; capitals in original) spell out their awareness of lack. Nevertheless, this knowledge of the phallic lack does not help Martha to easily accept her feminine subject position, a subject position that demands her turning into a mirror to
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 11–25 ISSN 0210-6124 16 Mona Hoorvash and Farideh Pourgiv reflect the images of the men around her as large as possible. Her consciousness of lack prevents her from turning into a satisfactory mirror. She looks at men and sees “flops” (Albee 2007: 276). Even with all her exaggerated praise of her daddy, Martha does not fail to ridicule him as well as the others. She refers to her daddy’s decisions twice in the play, first when she recalls the boxing match (2007: 190-91) and then when she talks about her first marriage (2007: 206). In both cases, her tone is evidently humorous. In the boxing match scene, she clearly makes fun of the irrationality of her daddy’s decision. This attitude would have been a very surprising inconsistency if we were to take her high praises of her daddy seriously. But these praises are interpretable in a much more satisfactory manner if we regard them as part of the show that Martha and George are trying to set forth to entertain and enlighten their guests and their audience. In this view, Martha and George can be regarded as actors, playing an exaggerated and distorted version of their respective gender roles with the intention of highlighting the sense of lack that runs through them.
4. Mocking the masquerade: Martha’s mission
As explained above, gender roles, or the masculine and feminine subject positions, are both based on a mutual pretense, that is, of having or being the phallus. The term Lacan uses for the feminine pretense, however, is masquerade, which is loaded with much stronger theatrical connotations (Lacan 2006: 616). Before Lacan, Joan Riviere had used the term to describe ‘womanliness’ in her study of the “intellectual woman” (Riviere 1929: 303). Riviere indicates that women who aspire to professional and intellectual positions traditionally regarded as masculine are (unconsciously) concerned that they may have to face their male colleagues’ anxious and defensive reactions. “To avert anxiety and retribution feared by men”, the woman indulges in a masquerade, wearing womanliness “as a mask, both to hide the possession of masculinity and to avert the reprisal expected if she was found to possess it” (Riviere 1929: 306). To Lacan, it is not only the intellectual woman who wears the mask. To be able to pose as the phallus, which is “the signifier of the desire of the Other”, woman has to “reject an essential part of femininity, namely, all her attributes in the masquerade” (Lacan 2001b: 221). What remains of femininity is the pretension of being what she believes the Other desires. To be the phallus, woman turns into “that which she is not” (2001b: 221). The core of femininity, whatever it may be, is rejected and lost; the woman is forever behind the mask. An examination of Virginia Woolf reveals that Martha, who claims she is the one with the pants and the whip in their house, is also involved in the masquerade of femininity, in both senses as used by Lacan and Riviere. The very song, ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’ is an obvious signal of the situation Riviere describes. Davis explains that at certain moments in the play when tension accumulates, the characters suddenly start singing ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’ because the use of “intellectualized wit banishes anxiety” (1994: 213). But the song itself symptomizes a kind of anxiety, the anxiety about intellectual women. It is a college joke, replacing the words big bad wolf in the original version with the name of a threatening intellectual woman, Virginia Woolf, a writer, a critic, and above all a feminist. Martha’s exaggerated enjoyment of this song is part of her masquerade, joining in with the college men’s ridicule of Virginia Woolf, laughing at the woman who is a threat, to give them the reassurance that she is not like that, that she is not a threat.
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The song is only part of Martha’s Masquerade. In Act I, by slipping into a more voluptuous dress, Martha starts the parade of her femininity before Nick’s eyes, and George quickly recognizes the move (Albee 2007: 184). Later, when she recounts the story of their courtship, Martha emphasizes the fact that she had planned to marry an “heir apparent”, that she had willingly decided that she wanted to be the exchange value between her father and her future husband (2007: 207). Paradoxical as the claim is—since objects do not decide and plan their own role—it does suggest that she wishes to demonstrate an internalization of the phallic value system and her place in that system as mere commodity. Complementary to this line of argument is the fact that she seems rather too eager to celebrate the socially defined gender roles of her time. She asserts that she expected to marry a man who would be professionally successful. In ridiculing George’s salary, she gives voice to the materialistic values of her time which recognizes the place of the man in the family as that of the provider and the bread-winner. As Winkel (2008) explains, a more obvious example of her attempts to embody the feminine ideals of the 1950s is in her pretence of motherhood. Unable to have an actual child, Martha seems so determined to become a mother—as she is expected to—that she manages to persuade George to play along in the imaginary game of the fantasy child. These facts, however, are in contrast with the above-mentioned knowledge of the phallic lack she so clearly demonstrates. It is also in opposition with what critics call her emasculating and unfeminine quality. These seemingly contradictory aspects of her character have led some readers, spectators and critics to regard Martha as unnatural, imbalanced or downright crazy. As long as these contradictions remain unexplained, the charges stand. However, the play implicitly offers a simple and exciting explanation for Martha’s behavior, an explanation that has been lightly touched upon by several critics, but has never been used to clarify these problematic aspects of the play. Several critics have referred to George and Martha’s fun and games as theatrical play acting (see examples in Falvey 2010: 243; Winkel 2008: 132; Davis 1994: 220; Hirsch 1978: 6; Brustein 1999: 7). George and Martha’s playfulness and showmanship have not escaped them, yet those same critics have never regarded these characteristics as the couple’s intentional theatricalization of their marriage to problematize feminine and masculine gender roles, which is the key to the analysis of Martha’s character. Since, in the phallic economy of the Symbolic, woman is reduced to the masquerade of femininity, she becomes the show itself and not the actor who performs the show; not the subject who masquerades but the mere noun: masquerade. This, obviously, keeps reinforcing that economy which continues to marginalize women. Irigaray proposes that to challenge this situation women have “only one path, . . . that of mimicry” (1985b: 76; italics in the original). As Diamond explains, it is the “Platonic mimesis” to which Irigaray refers (1997: iv). For Plato, as demonstrated most clearly in his cave allegory, mimesis is the work of shadows, reflections and mirror plays. It is deceitful and illusive. Froma Zeitlin asserts that in Plato’s views “woman is the mimetic creature par excellence” since she, too, works with illusion and deceit (qtd in Diamond 1997: vi). Plato tries to move away from the mimetic shadows to the origin—the idea—and regards the mimos—meaning both the one who mimics and the mime itself—as potentially subversive. The mimos, be it the poet or the woman, is “a panderer of reflections, a destroyer of forms” and a threat to the established values s/he mimics (Diamond 1997: v).
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This notion is adopted and expanded by Irigaray, who likens Plato’s cave to a womb- theatre. In her ‘Plato’s Hystera’ she examines the cave allegory and proposes that the hystera, the womb-like cave, is actually a stage, “a speculum”, already theatrical (1985a: 255). The reflections and shadows to which the prisoners in the cave are subjected are already devised by the “magician-imagemakers” who are all men: the father, the philosopher or God (1985a: 264). It is the passivity, “the silence of the other”—the hystera, the mother—that allows the words of men to be heard (1985a: 235, 257). Plato’s mimesis is based on phallic values, and positions the woman as a reflective, concave surface, which is “pure mimicry, with no definition” of her own (1985a: 307), reflecting sameness, the same exact image that the magician requires. The continuity of phallocentrism is dependent on “its power to reduce all others to the economy of the same” (Irigaray 1985:74; italics in the original). But if woman chooses to emphasize difference, if she begins to reflect images that are “exaggerated or blurred” (Irigaray 1985a: 345; italics in the original), she can shake the phallic power that is based on, and is the base of, the reflection of sameness. If she decides to theatricalize her own masquerade, she may be able to turn the phallic stratagem of transforming the woman into a mirror against itself. She would be able to turn “mimesis imposed” into “mimicry unleashed” (Diamond 1997: xi). That is why, Irigaray asserts, “One must assume the feminine role deliberately” (1985b: 76). Toril Moi, in her study of A Doll’s House, suggests that by exposing the theatrical nature of Helmer and Nora’s marriage, Ibsen “wishes to make us think about the way we theatricalize ourselves and others in everyday life” (2006: 234). The same can be said about Virginia Woolf, where Martha and George’s marriage is obviously and overtly theatrical. But, unlike Helmer and Nora, Martha and George are aware of the role-playing which is at the heart of their marriage. In fact, they are consciously and actively involved in their own theatricalization through their fun and games, their word plays, their unrestrained humor and even their battles. Their troubled marriage is in fact the mimicry of a troubled marriage with the aim of snapping their audience—primarily Nick and Honey (since they are the chosen audience, the ones to whom the older couple’s play-acting is addressed), but also the actual spectators of the play—out of their complacency. Their aim, Albee’s aim manifested through them, is similar to the aim of Brecht’s alienation effect. Brecht insists that theater should seek “to expose illusions” (Diamond 1997: viii), to shock the audience and motivate them to reassess their lives and their society. This is achieved in part by distancing the actor from the role, by making it obvious that this is not reality, but a constructed theater which has to be analyzed and examined. In Elin Diamond’s words, alienation effect is achieved when you manage “to pry actor/signifier from character/signified, to defuse realism’s narrativity” (1997: viii). This is precisely what George and Martha aim at, to attract the attention of their audience to their gender roles, the subject positions forced on them, and thus to expose the phallic lack and challenge the Symbolic. Though Nick and Honey, as well as spectators and critics, have difficulty separating George and Martha from the roles they play, the couple begin hinting at their theatrical mission early on in the play. When George and Nick are left alone for the first time in Act I, Nick suggests that the older couple “seem to be having some sort of” a marital problem. George’s answer is a clarification of the nature of their relationship: “Martha and I are having . . . nothing. . . . Martha and I are . . . exercising. . . . That’s all. . . . We’re merely walking what’s left of our wits” (2007: 175). The implications of this statement are vivid, that he and Martha are intentionally indulging in the war of the sexes that they forced upon their guests.
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As Anne Paolucci has suggested, it is perhaps true to say that Martha has chosen Nick as her, their, victim (2000: 52), but he is not to be a sexual victim. The sexual game, ‘Hump the Hostess’, is merely a part of the entire show. The victim is actually chosen in a manner more akin to the way in which Jerry chooses his victim in Albee’s earlier play, The Zoo Story (2007). Peter is at once Jerry’s victim, his audience, and his unwitting co-actor in a show planned by Jerry. Peter barely knows what it is all about until almost near the end of the play, and it is only then that he finds out that it has all been done to wake him up. Nick and Honey seem to play the same role in George and Martha’s theater. Davis correctly calls “Get the Guests . . . the game of games” (1994: 212). The more detached Nick and Honey pretend to be, the harder George and Martha try to get them involved. Get the Guests begins the moment Nick admits that, in spite of his previous statements, he finds himself amused by the older couple’s “flagellation” of each other (Albee 2007: 215). Act II, tellingly named ‘Walpurgisnacht’, is more about Nick and Honey than about George and Martha. It begins when George tricks Nick into revealing the deepest secrets of his marriage. George orchestrates their dialogue so skillfully that we may suspect it is not his first time. He could have started his game from the beginning of the play, had he wanted to. But it is only after Nick momentarily lets down his mask of detachment that George begins the real game, as if the newcomer’s consent is a necessary part of the ritual. Nick’s confession of his interest in the events of the evening allows George to take him to the next level. Nick and Honey, who have previously been merely the audience, are now players in the game. Albee believes that “it’s nice to keep people off balance” to create “dramatic intensity” (qtd in Solomon 2010: 134). Martha and George seem to believe in the same principle. They achieve the desired effect by a sudden reversal of their statements and, indeed, of their roles. Without much logical preparation, Martha shifts in her narratives from the wild young woman who has married the gardener at her college to the obedient daughter whose sole job is to take care of her father, from the dispassionate princess of romance who is to be married to her father’s heir to the flauntingly vulgar and loud humorist, from the weak, dependent and psychologically shattered woman to the master of the house with a whip in her hand, from the drunken adulteress who uses her body to help men sleep their way up the academic ladder to a mock version of the virginal woman who has never been pleased by any man other than her husband, from the spiteful humiliating daughter of the president of the college to the passionately loving wife who finds her husband cleverer than other men. This is not to say that Martha has a split personality. If her personality were split into so many fragments, it would have been impossible to find any coherence in her actions. But in all these roles, Martha is clearly Martha, with that playful twinkle one can always imagine in her eyes. By mimicking the various extremes of the possibilities offered by the phallocentric society to the feminine subject position, Martha violates those gender roles, thus endangering the restricting framework which reduces women to one of these predefined roles. By turning her expected masquerade of femininity into a shape-shifting carnival of masks and games, by turning the night into the witches’ Walpurgisnacht, she bewilders her audience and forces them to reconsider the roles she so noncommittally embodies. The same statement can be made about George, whose narratives range from a modernized version of Oedipus Rex to futuristic science fiction. He plays the humiliated husband and the cruel host, the wounded animal and the healing hand, the violent man and the loving husband, the swamp and the god of the evening. He is the bartender and at Martha’s command provides the poison to drug their audience into joining their
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 11–25 ISSN 0210-6124 20 Mona Hoorvash and Farideh Pourgiv masquerade of the masquerade, their exaggeratedly theatrical parody of the ideal white middle-class American marriage, to push them to doubt and question their own marriages. George and Martha never lose sight of their important mission. Even their private conversations are part of the play they are performing, or perhaps rehearsing. While for Nick and Honey “privacy . . . is the acting out of the social roles assigned by the Big Other . . . to prove to the socious that they have the kind of normal, healthy relationship it holds up as the ‘ideal’ all must mirror” (Davis 1994: 216), for George and Martha the private and the public are one. In the presence of their guests, Martha tells George, “We’re alone!” (Albee 2007: 235), and even when they actually seem to be alone, they are somehow aware of the fact that they are not. They are never alone and Albee appears to have allowed his characters a relative awareness of this fact: As characters of a play, they are always onstage, before an audience. Therefore, even in parts of the play where the two of them are alone on stage, George and Martha seem to carry on a theatrical version of their life. Only on rare occasions do they put aside their shape-shifting masks and talk to each other as actors do at a pause in the rehearsal when they are suddenly not the roles they play. An example can be found in Act II. As George pleads with Martha not to say anything about the book he has supposedly written, she asks disappointedly, “What’s the matter with you George? You given up?” (Albee 2007: 238). There is a sudden change in George’s tone when he replies; it is suddenly no longer “pleading” but “calm . . . [and] serious” (2007: 238, stage direction), saying, “No . . . no. It’s just I’ve got to figure out some new way to fight you, Martha. Guerrilla tactics, maybe . . . internal subversion . . . I don’t know. Something” (2007: 238). The tone of this question and answer clearly separates it from the general atmosphere of the rest of its surrounding conversation. It shows an inside knowledge, something Nick and Honey are not aware of and the audience at the theater vaguely suspect. The speakers of these lines are not the alcohol-soaked tormented couple who will tear at each other only a few pages later. They are rather actors in the middle of the play, pausing to evaluate each other’s position to decide their next move, since they do not have a fixed script and need to improvise. Their mimetic mission is obviously pre-planned; they both know what they are involved in. But the details of their show are decided on the spot for maximum effectiveness. George has to stop and think what moves to make next, just as Martha repeatedly changes her plans in response to George’s reactions. There is no guarantee that any of the stories told by George and Martha are real, or that any of their dialogues express their actual heartfelt sentiments. From the beginning of Act III, Nick and the audience begin to find out that what is going on between George and Martha is deeply and consciously theatricalized. This knowledge casts a shadow of doubt over the validity of their former claims and comments as well. In the third Act, ‘The Exorcism’, George and Martha throw away the seemingly realistic façade of their show, and indulge in confusion with all their might. Early in that Act, Martha reduces the ambitious Nick to a houseboy. Though she expresses disappointment, her tone is more triumphant, since she has been able to prove to Nick that he, too, is a “flop” (Albee 2007: 275), like everybody else. Nick has received an education about the emptiness of the phallic jouissance. But the lesson does not end here. Nick is forced to witness another aspect of George and Martha’s relationship, a mock romantic encounter, so out of place after Martha’s presumed infidelity. At this point, the older couple does not bother to justify their words and actions to Nick, who is already initiated in the game and will be able to find out the meaning of the show on his own if he is attentive enough.
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Martha insists that George is wrong in believing that the moon is up though there is actually no need for such an argument since they could easily settle the question by merely looking out. George speaks about the cruise in the Mediterranean with his parents (Albee 2007: 284), the same parents that, it was previously disclosed, he had killed while still a teenager. Nick is quick to point this out. George’s reply is the key to the whole play: “Truth or illusion, who knows the difference” (2007: 284). The illusion belongs to the Imaginary. The truth is what the Symbolic claims to offer. But the symbolic as a phallocentric structure is itself based on ‘lack’, which it constantly tries to cover up and deny. One is tempted to ask, how valid is the truth that is based on an unacknowledged emptiness? And how far away from truth is the illusion which, though imaginary, has no pretence of being the truth? George and Martha know that the truth is based on pretence, and have no fear of exposing this awareness. They take on the mission of “jamming the theatrical machinery [of discourse] itself, of suspending its pretentions to the production of a truth and a meaning that are excessively univocal” (Irigaray 1985b: 78). Once the emptiness of the truth is revealed, it is not easy to tell it from fantasy, and that would make the audience stop to think and reevaluate their own ideas of what is true, or real. That is the whole purpose of the show the older couple keeps performing. In the final Act, Martha and George are bent on emphasizing the theatricality of their relationship, to make the audience think about their own inadvertently theatrical gender roles. When Nick expresses his belief that George is shattered by what he refers to as Martha’s “aimless . . . butchery”, Martha accuses him, “you think a man got his back broken ‘cause he makes like a clown and walks bent, hunh? Is that really all you know?” (Albee 2007: 278). Her contemptuous question, “you always deal in appearances?” (2007: 277), makes it clear that she does not validate what she parades before Nick’s eyes as all there is. She knows that this is the masquerade she is reinforcing, but this knowledge also makes her realize, or suspect, that this is not all, that there is something else, something beyond this theater of femininity, family and marriage that appears to be all the Symbolic has to offer. What joins George and Martha is an enjoyment of confusion and fiction, an attempt to experience ‘the beyond’ of the phallic structure, the occasional moments of a different kind of jouissance. The kind that is probably similar to Lacan’s ambiguous term the Other jouissance, the feminine jouissance (Fink 2002: 35). By feminine, Lacan does not mean necessarily pertaining to women. It is called feminine because it is outside the phallic order. Unlike the phallic jouissance, it is the jouissance that “never fails” (Lacan 2006: 59). Lacan does not explain clearly what he means by the feminine jouissance; he only gives the example of the ecstatic passion of the saints (Homer 2005: 104). He regards it as unexplainable because it is beyond the Symbolic. It cannot be captured by the phallocentric language, and is therefore indefinable. This is one of the most important differences between Lacan and Irigaray. While Lacan suggests that woman and the feminine are outside language and therefore unrepresentable, Irigaray asserts that the feminine “has to be” articulated if we are ever to change the marginality imposed on women by the Symbolic (Homer 2005: 117; emphasis added). She encourages the attempt to manifest the feminine experience, and the feminine jouissance, through language. If woman begins “to play with mimesis”, she may be able to “recover the place of her exploitation by discourse, without allowing herself to be simply reduced to it” (Irigaray 1985b: 76). She would get involved in the “unsettling” of the dominant order, to eventually “rediscover the place of her ‘self-affection’” (1985b: 77). Martha and George’s enjoyment of their games is more akin to the feminine kind of jouissance. By assuming the role of the mimos and by sarcastic mimicry of the roles they are
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 11–25 ISSN 0210-6124 22 Mona Hoorvash and Farideh Pourgiv actually demanded to play in everyday life, they set themselves apart from the rest of their society. They distinguish themselves as Others, different from the rest of the society which they hope to enlighten as well. Although their intentional otherness causes pain and pressure in their lives (since they have to fight against that which they embody), it is also a source of pleasure. In their private conversations, both George and Martha confess to having experienced moments of a different kind of jouissance, fleeting moments which are nevertheless strong enough to remind them of the existence of the beyond. For instance, near the end of Act II, in the middle of their outburst over the phallic lack that dominates their lives, both George and Martha refer to moments in their relationship “when maybe we could have cut through all this crap”, “when we could . . . come together” (Albee 2007: 261). Their games, their twice theatricalized masquerade, challenge the phallic standards of logic, coherence and closure, and replace it with what Irigaray regards as “the feminine imaginary”, which is characterized by “multiplicity, fluidity, and flux” (Homer 2005: 117). Indeed, poststructuralists such as Lacan and Irigaray associate the concept of play with the feminine (Hall 1993: 78). That is why Martha must be regarded as the main player in Virginia Woolf. She is the one who changes the rules, who keeps the game fluid. This can partly explain her long speech in Act III, when she tells Nick the ‘sad’ story of George and Martha (Albee 2007: 277). Apart from the play-acting which is an indispensable part of everything Martha says, this speech is significant in another way as well. Here Martha decidedly tells Nick that what he has seen and what he will see is a game. She also implicitly reveals the reason for part of the sadness that lies in her marriage. It is true that George “keeps learning the games we play as quickly as I [Martha] can change the rules” (2007: 277), that he keeps adjusting himself to the fluidity and multiplicity of their married life, but he is not as flexible and as capable of shape-shifting as she is. Martha laments that George has “come to rest” in his love for her (2007: 277). She finds it ‘hurting, and insulting’ that he has accepted her as she is, regarding it as some sort of giving up. To Martha, the feminine mission is one of becoming, not being. She cannot be loved as she is because she is not one thing. She is the woman Irigaray describes in her This Sex Which Is Not One (1985b). She is the mimos whose job is to mix “order and . . . disorder, reason and madness” (Diamond 1997: v). George’s decision at the end of the play to kill off their fictional son is not so much a new phase in the game as a signal to show that the game is over. His excuse is Martha’s having “mentioned him [the son] to someone else” (Albee 2007: 307). The child fantasy belongs to the realm of the feminine imaginary, where plurality and lack of closure are actually values. By speaking of the child, Martha has presented it to and through ‘language’, in the same manner as Irigaray demands. But George seems unable to tolerate the tension this creates. Although, from the beginning of the play, he participates actively and voluntarily in their games of phallic destruction and subversive mimicry, he seems unwilling to risk everything. He is the one who gives up first under the pressure that is about to break them both. He destroys their son, the most important feminine fiction their marriage has nurtured, to stop the game before it destroys them both. By killing the son, he reminds Martha that he is, or perhaps they are, still subjects of the Symbolic and cannot immediately reject all of its principles without destroying themselves. By destroying the fiction, George brings closure to the previously fluid narrative. He briefly assumes the role of the patriarch, the god with whom resides the power of life and death. As Winkel explains, George sacrifices the son as “a scapegoat” in a “ritualistic performance” that, in Julia Kristeva’s opinion, “allows for a return to . . . societal norms” (Winkel 2008: 148).
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It is true that, in doing so, George facilitates the assimilation to the Symbolic, but the important question here seems to be the attitude in which this assimilation takes place. Though many critics read this destruction of the illusion-son as a kind of happy ending (see Hirsch 1978: 32; Roudané 2005: 40), such an attitude undermines the whole purpose of the play. It is not imaginable that Albee, who has been criticizing many of the values of his society the whole time, would end his play by a celebration of patriarchy. The ending of the play does not represent what is desired. It has the urgency of a warning and the touching dignity of a tragedy. It does not show what should be, but what is. It decidedly demonstrates the crushing effect of the phallocentric order on the feminine imaginary. Remembering what the Virginia Woolf song has signified throughout the play, we can say that the fear of Virginia Woolf is in a way the fear of the death of fantasy, the fear of the oppressive power of the Symbolic and of the limited gender roles it offers to feminine and masculine subjects. By admitting that she is afraid of Virginia Woolf, Martha implies that she is afraid of being reduced to the mask, that she is afraid of the masquerade if she is not to perform it with her own rules.
5. Conclusion
Albee’s play, on the whole, is an examination of the capacity of the patriarchal social order to be played with. Martha and George are conscious of the fact that they are actors of the roles that are assigned to them, aware of the possibilities that their theatrical existence offers them. Martha, specifically, consciously theatricalizes her own body, her words, her role (or roles), and her relationship with the other (absent or present) characters. She indulges deeply in the deliberate mimicry of feminine roles which are, according to Irigaray, themselves nothing but mimicry, and by doing so she fights against being reduced to mere mimesis. Martha’s life seems to be a political undertaking, with the self-assigned mission of fighting the phallic authority in the ‘one path’ proposed by Irigaray: theater. This subversive mimicry becomes a way of uncovering the processes by which language and culture annihilate difference—and femininity with it—to reinforce sameness as the only possible mindset, to reduce the feminine to the Other of the masculine. By doing so, it manages to open a space—in and through the dramatic medium—in which difference can be imagined and experienced. Although Virginia Woolf is not concerned with giving a definition of the feminine difference (since any definition would be relatively reductive and static), it delineates possible potentials. Though the play’s ending relinquishes the possibility of immediate success in changing the Symbolic, it is not completely hopeless. All George’s and Martha’s efforts have not been for nothing. Their performance, their theatrical mimicry, fulfills its primary purpose of affecting their audience. George and Martha release forces that continue their mission independently, both inside and outside the play. Nick and Honey, as well as the spectators in the theater, have no choice but to go over their own lives, ideas and beliefs, a reassessment which would hopefully change a few basic assumptions about women, men and marriage, and result in their admitting the validity of women’s struggle to carve within language a space of their own, a space for the representation of feminine desire.
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Works Cited
Albee, Edward 2007: The Collected Plays of Edward Albee 1958-1965. Woodstock and New York: Overlook Duckworth. Brustein, Robert 1999 (1962): ‘Albee and the Medusa Head’. Hunter, Jeffrey W. ed. Contemporary Literary Criticism. Vol. 113. Detroit: Gale. 7-8. Davis, Walter A. 1994: ‘The Academic Festival Overture: Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’. Get the Guests: Psychoanalysis, Modern American drama and the Audience. Madison: U of Wisconsin P. 209-62. Diamond, Elin 1997: Unmasking Mimesis: Essays on Feminism and Theatre. London and New York: Routledge. Duplessis , Rachel Blau 1980 (1977): ‘In the Bosom of the Family: Contradiction and Resolution in Edward Albee’. Dedria Bryfonski, ed. Contemporary Literary Criticism. Vol. 13. Detroit: Gale. 6-8. Eby, Clare Virginia 2007: ‘Fun and Games with George and Nick: Competitive Masculinity in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’. Modern Drama 50.4: 601-19. Evans, Dylan 1996: An Introductory Dictionary of Lacanian Psychoanalysis. London and New York: Routledge. Falvey, Kate 2010: ‘Dark Humor in Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’. Harold Bloom, ed. Dark Humor. New York: Bloom’s Literary Criticism. 241-49. Fink, Bruce 2002: ‘Knowledge and Jouissance’. Suzanne Barnard and Bruce Fink, eds. Reading Seminar XX: Lacan’s Major Work on Love, Knowledge and Feminine Sexuality. Albany: State U of New York P. 21-45. Gassner 1975 (1963): ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’. Sharon Gunton, ed. Contemporary Literary Criticism. Vol. 3. Detroit: Gale. 6. Hall, Ann C. 1993: ‘A Kind of Alaska’: Women in the Plays of O'Neill, Pinter, and Shepard. Carbondale: Southern Illinois U P. Hirsch, Foster 1978: Who’s Afraid of Edward Albee? Berkley: Creative Arts. Homer, Sean 2005: Jacques Lacan. London and New York: Routledge. Irigaray, Luce 1985a [1974]: Speculum of the Other Woman. Trans. Gillian C. Gill. Ithaca: Cornell UP. ––––– 1985b: This Sex Which Is Not One. Trans. Catherine Porter. Ithaca: Cornell UP. Lacan, Jacques 1998. On Feminine Sexuality: the Limits of Love and Knowledge (Seminar XX: Encore 1972- 1973). Ed. Jacques-Alain Miller. Trans. Bruce Fink. New York and London: Norton. ––––– 2001a. ‘The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Function of the /as Revealed in Psychoanalytic Experiences’. Trans. Alan Sheridan. Ecrits: A Selection. London and New York: Routledge. ––––– 2001b. ‘The Signification of the Phallus’. Trans. Alan Sheridan. Ecrits: A Selection. London and New York: Routledge. ––––– 2006. Ecrits. Trans. Bruce Fink. New York and London: Norton. May, Elaine Tyler 2008: Homeward Bound. New York: Basic Books. Moi, Toril 2006: ‘First and Foremost a Human Being: Idealism, Theatre and Gender in A Doll’s House’. Henrik Ibsen and the Birth of Modernism. Oxford: Oxford UP. 225-47. Paolucci, Anne 2000: From Tension to Tonic: The Plays of Edward Albee. New edition. Washington: Bagehot. Riviere, Joan 1929: ‘Womanliness as Masquerade’. International Journal of Psychoanalysis 10: 303-13. Roudané, Matthew 2005: ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?: Toward the Marrow’. Stephen Bottoms, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Edward Albee. New York: Camebridge UP. 39-58. Ryan, Barbara 1992: Feminism and the Women's Movement. New York and London: Routledge. Schechner, Richard 1975 (1963): ‘Who’s Afraid of Edward Albee?’. C. W. E. Bigsby, ed. Edward Albee: A Collection of Critical Essays. New Jersey: Prentice-Hall. 62-65. Solomon, Rakesh H. 2010: Albee in Performance. Bloomington: Indiana UP. Trilling, Diana 1975 (1964): ‘The Riddle of Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’. C. W. E. Bigsby, ed. Edward Albee: A Collection of Critical Essays. New Jersey: Prentice-Hall. 80-88. White, Robert J 1985: ‘Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’. Explicator 43.2: 52-53.
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Winkel, Suzanne Mcdonald 2008: Childless Women in the Plays of William Inge, Tenessee Williams, and Edward Albee. Unpublished Ph.D. thesis. U of North Dakota, USA. ProQuest.
Received 27 April 2011 Revised version accepted 26 August 2011
Mona Hoorvash is a PhD candidate of English Literature at Shiraz University, Iran. She has recently participated in Luce Irigaray’s Seminar for PhD students in Bristol, UK.
Farideh Pourgiv is Associate Professor of English Literature at the Faculty of Literature and Humanities, Shiraz University, Iran, where she teaches novel, drama and poetry to BA, MA and PhD students. Her most recent publication is ‘Captivity, Confrontation, and Self-empowerment in Forugh Farrokhzad’s Poetry’ in Women's History Review (2010), co-authored with Ghasemi.
Address: Department of Foreign Languages and Linguistics. Faculty of Literature and Humanities. Eram Campus of Shiraz University. 71946-85115 Shiraz, Iran. Tel. and Fax: +98 711 6288721.
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BURNING DOWN THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE: ASIAN PIONEERS IN CONTEMPORARY NORTH AMERICA
Belén Martín-Lucas Universidade de Vigo [email protected]
The Kappa Child (2001) by Japanese Canadian author Hiromi Goto and Stealing Buddah’s Dinner (2007) by Vietnamese American Bich Minh Nguyen portray narratives of Asian girls growing up in North America in the pre-multiculturalism decades of the 70s and 80s, when ethnic was not a fashionable term and assimilation into mainstream white culture was any girl’s most wanted desire. In both literary texts, the girl narrators are fascinated by American author Laura Ingalls Wilder’s narrative of continuous displacement and re-settlement, Little House on the Prairie (1935), and they both become equally disillusioned by the racial and ethnic gaps that make it impossible for them to become true Laura Ingalls in their respective environments. This article attempts to assess the influence of this classic pioneer narrative of (internal) migration on the perception of racialization of these two Asian migrants to North America, on their own critical evaluation of the racism in Ingalls Wilder’s texts and on the consequent process of construction of racialized subjectivities by Goto’s and Nguyen’s narrators.
Keywords: Diaspora; racialization; gender; childhood; Asian American literature; Laura Ingalls
INCENDIO EN LA CASA DE LA PRADERA: PIONERAS ASIÁTICAS EN LA NORTEAMÉRICA CONTEMPORÁNEA
The Kappa Child (2001), de la autora canadiense de origen japonés Hiromi Goto y Stealing Buddah’s Dinner (2007), de la autora de origen vietnamita Bich Minh Nguyen, ofrecen narrativas de infancia de niñas asiáticas que crecen en Norteamérica en las décadas pre- multiculturales de los años 70 y 80, cuando la palabra étnico no estaba aún de moda y la asimilación a la cultura blanca dominante era el mayor deseo de cualquier niña. En ambos textos literarios, las narradoras están fascinadas por la historia de continuo desplazamiento y reemplazamiento de La casa de la pradera, de la autora estadounidense Laura Ingalls Wilder (1935), y ambas se sumen en la misma desilusión debido a la distancia racial y étnica que hace imposible que ellas se conviertan en auténticas Lauras en sus respectivos contextos. Este artículo intenta evaluar la influencia de esta narrativa clásica de migración pionera (interna) en la percepción de su racialización por parte de dos inmigrantes asiáticas en Norteamérica, su propia valoración crítica del racismo en los textos de Ingalls Wilder y el consecuente proceso de construcción de las subjetividades racializadas de las narradoras de Goto y Nguyen.
Palabras clave: Diáspora; racialización; género; infancia; literatura asiática norteamericana; Laura Ingalls 28 Belén Martín-Lucas
1. Introduction
The Kappa Child (2001), by Japanese Canadian author Hiromi Goto, has been widely read as a remarkable piece of speculative fiction, fantasy or science fiction, and it obtained the James Triptree Jr. Award, “an annual literary prize for science fiction or fantasy that expands or explores our understanding of gender” (James Triptree Jr. Award website). Vietnamese American Bich Minh Nguyen’s Stealing Buddah’s Dinner (2007), on the other hand, is subtitled A Memoir, and was distinguished with the PEN/Jerard Fund Award that “honors a work in progress of general nonfiction” (‘Jerard Fund Award’, online). Leaving aside the ‘fact or fiction’, ‘fantasy or reality’ divisions that would traditionally catalogue these books onto separate generic shelves, I will be considering here both texts as the truthful fictionalized narratives of childhood of two Asian girls growing up in North America who share, among other things, an interest in food and a passion for Laura Ingalls, the popular protagonist of the famous Little House series. For both of them Laura is, at a given moment in their lives, a pioneer heroine and inspiring role model who gradually becomes a source of unease and anxiety. In this article I will attempt to assess the influence of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s classic narrative of migration and settlement on these two Asian girls in North America, examining their perception of the racialization of the characters in Little House on the Prairie (1935), their critical evaluation of the gender and racial flaws in that text, and the subsequent process of construction of their own racialized subjectivities.1
2. Bitter/sweet childhoods: food and migration
Hiromi Goto’s unnamed narrator is an ‘unproven pregnant’ lesbian woman whose weird experience with an alien Kappa, probably the biological parent of an egg supposedly growing in her body, leads her to reminiscence on difficult passages of her childhood and adolescence. Sandra Almeida has described this novel as “a first-person narrative laden with ironic and humorous overtones [that recounts] the family’s dislocation, remembering the poor and destitute childhood in the hostile prairies of Alberta after their immigration from Osaka, in Japan, to Canada” (2009: 50). Reflecting on her sarcastic character, the narrator herself explains that A child isn’t born bitter. I point no fingers as to who tainted the clean, pure pool of my childhood. Let’s just say that when I realized that I didn’t want to grow up, the damage was already done. Knowing that being grown up was no swell place to be means that you are grown up enough to notice. And you can’t go back from there. You have to forge another route, draw your own map. (Goto 2001: 13) The narrative in this novel can be read as a map of her efforts to forge that route for her adult life, a mapping that draws upon the narrator’s memories of childhood because, as she realizes, “[m]y childhood spills into my adult life despite all my attempts at otherwise and the saturation of the past with the present is an ongoing story” (2001: 215); it is a story
1 The research for this article has been funded by the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation through the Research Project ‘Globalized Cultural Markets: the Production, Circulation and Reception of Difference’ (Reference FFI2010-17282).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 27–41 ISSN 0210-6124 Burning Down the Little House on the Prairie 29 she revisits in order to explain her current state of confusion at her abnormal pregnancy from this kappa “of questionable gender and racial origin” (2001: 121). Bich Minh Nguyen’s memoir Stealing Buddah’s Dinner recalls her family’s settlement in Michigan “with five dollars and a knapsack of clothes” (Nguyen 2007: 1), after having fled Vietnam in 1975 when “everyone in Saigon knew the war was lost” (2007: 4), and it spans the years until 1997, when she returns “as a tourist in the country where I was supposed to have grown up, . . . a foreigner among people who were supposed to be mine” (2007: 245). Her first sights of America are those of a refugee camp at Fort Chaffee (Arkansas), “from behind the barbed-wire, chain-link fence” (2007: 8) where the patient exiles await for sponsors to join ‘the real America’, which for them is just an ambiguous abstraction built upon a mixture of clashing rumors: “The optimists said easy money, fast cars, girls with blue eyes; others said cold, filled with crazy people” (2007: 8; italics in the original). At this time, becoming American seems as easy as just crossing that barbed wire: “We are a people without a country, someone in the camp said. Until we walk out of that gate, my father replied. And then we are American” (2007: 10; italics in the original). For little Bich, from the very beginning, America is best identified with ‘exotic’ junk food: the chocolate bars that American soldiers guarding the camp give to her grandmother. From this moment onwards, she will learn about America through the new kinds of candy her father brings home every day (2007: 14). The happy days of naive ignorance she associates to these culinary discoveries: “We couldn’t get enough Luden’s wild-cherry-flavoured cough drops, or Pringles stacked in their shiny red canister, a mille-feuille of promises” (2007: 14). In a home where Christmas is a word that means nothing but glitter and gifts (2007: 14), Mr. Pringles is an equivalent of “Santa Claus or Mr. Heidenga [their American sponsor]—a big white man, gentle of manner, whose face signaled a bounty of provisions” (2007: 14). Food is a constant in Nguyen’s memoir, a major structural and thematic motif giving title to the book, Stealing Buddha’s Dinner, and to each of its sixteen chapters: ‘Pringles’, ‘Forbidden Fruit’, ‘Dairy Cone’, ‘Fast Food Asian’, etc. The food motif in literary texts has been widely recognized as a most relevant marker of cultural difference (Cho 2010; Gabaccia 2000; Narayan 1997; Xu 2007) and it is a strong point in common of the two narratives I am considering here that will strongly affect their protagonists’ appraisal of Wilder’s text, an issue to be more carefully addressed in later sections of this essay. Heather Latimer summarizes the resort to this trope in relation to racial difference in her critical approach to Hiromi Goto’s fiction: many feminists and post-colonialists connect food to theories on difference and ‘otherness’ and often use food metaphors to talk about race. This theoretical link between food and race is also often explored thematically in the literary works of racialized authors and those who write from subject positions at a tangent to dominant communities. Self-identified ‘ethnic’ or ‘hybrid’ authors, these writers explore links between memory, race and eating by writing about the experience of being identified by and ‘othered’ through food. For instance, in both of Hiromi Goto’s novels, The Kappa Child and Chorus of Mushrooms, eating is a gendered and racialized act that constantly informs how the characters see themselves emotionally and psychologically. Food, race and identity are slippery categories in Goto’s work, and she purposely mixes them up to highlight their constructed nature; eating is part of how the characters explore their backgrounds, tell their histories, and come to terms with racism. (2006: online) Enoch Padolsky has linked food to space in his study of The Kappa Child, remarking how the protagonist “meets the Kappa at a restaurant, and her eventual lover at a Korean market. The urban food locales thus become key moments in the exploration of female
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Japanese-Canadian identity that lies at the heart of the novel” (2005: 26). This is also the case in Nguyen’s narrative, where food clearly identifies distinct spaces, as in the chapter ‘School Lunch’, dedicated to her time at Ken-O-Shea Elementary School, ‘Holiday Tamales’, about the reunions with her stepmother Rosa’s Mexican-American family in Fruitport (Michigan), or ‘Cha Gio’, recalling her trip to Vietnam. However, it is the traditional association of women with cooking and domestic chores in the kitchen that gives them a prominent role in the ‘food equals culture’ synecdoche of migrant fiction, where mothers and grandmothers are responsible for ‘feeding’ their ‘home’ culture to new generations (see Inness 2001; Mannur 2009; Narayan 1997). It is indeed mothers and, in the case of Nguyen, also her grandmother, who do all the ‘ethnic’ cooking in their homes.2 The domestic space of home and family clearly mark their difference with respect to their surroundings, as neither of these families corresponds, for different reasons, with the ideal WASP model represented by the Ingalls family unit. Nguyen’s is, at the moment of their migration to America, an extended family formed by father, uncles, grandmother and two girls. After settling in Grand Rapids, Dad marries Rosa, a second generation Mexican- American with an eight year old girl of her own, Crissy. They will have a son, Vinh, followed by a number of foster children, refugees coming from Vietnam or Cambodia who do not last long with the Nguyens. They are too numerous and ethnically different to be considered a ‘normal’ American family, a fact the girls resents: “I wondered how I was going to explain this [new foster brother] to my friends at school. As it was, no one else lived with their grandmother and uncles; no one else had a step-sister and a half-brother” (Nguyen 2007: 204). Her family structure becomes even more complicated when Bich’s mother, disappeared for most of the book, suddenly reenters her life in 1993. Bich then finds out that her mother had also migrated to America ten years after their own move, in 1985, and that she has one half-brother and one half-sister who are older than her.3 Their Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners constitute a showcase of their multicultural identities, as described in this scene reminiscent of Gurinder Chadha’s film What’s Cooking?: Besides tamales and tortillas, each holiday included a giant turkey that was sometimes cooked for half a day in a pit, a vat of mashed potatoes with gravy boats nearby, Stove Top stuffing, Pillsbury crescent rolls, canned corn soaked in butter, canned string beans mixed with cream of mushroom soup and baked with Durkee fired onions, frijoles, arroz con pollo, pumpkin empanadas and mashed sweet potatoes covered with mini-marshmallows toasted under the heat of the broiler. One of the tíos was married to a white woman who
2 Bich Nguyen also expresses her admiration for the “cooking skills” of Laura Ingalls’ mother, “a domestic goddess” (2007: 157), a point I will return to later on. 3 Interestingly, at the end of her book Nguyen associates her Americanness with the moment when they left her mother behind in Vietnam which, in my opinion, could be read as a physical and symbolic departure from the ‘mother-land’: “I think of escape—a last minute decision, night in a falling city, a departure without a single message left behind. What it must have been for my father, taking Anh and me into his arms, pursuing a boat, a way out, knowing all the while that our mother would not know where we were. . . . That I cannot imagine that moment, the panic and fear, the push to leave his country and aim for an unknown land, is perhaps his gift. It is my Americanness. What my father must have thought, what must have replayed in his mind for years—I cannot ever really grasp. In just a few minutes, in half a night, our lives changed. Our identities changed. We were Vietnamese, we were refugees, we were Americans. My father could not possibly regret it. I do not regret it. I am grateful for his unimaginable choice” (2007: 251).
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always brought instant pistachio pudding mixed with plenty of Cool Whip and canned pineapple tidbits. The dessert side of the table held a collection of homemade and store- bought pumpkin pies. (Nguyen 2007: 174-75) The narrator’s family in Goto’s The Kappa Child also gathers around the table, though at Easter. This family reunion takes place at the beginning of the novel and serves to present the tensions and history of violence between the patriarch Dad and the five women in the family: his wife and four daughters. Heather Latimer agrees this is a crucial scene since “how the family behaves and what they eat at Easter directly plays into their identity as a family and as ‘Canadians’” (2006: online). Although the turkey is on the table and the narrator admits “we would have killed for a turkey when we were kids” (Goto 2001: 25), now that they are all adults there is no enjoyment whatsoever in this feast, and eating the food seems only a desperate cover to hide their fear of Dad, who hits his wife’s face when one of the daughters announces she will be leaving her job, because, in his words, “[w]e are not a family of quitters!” (2001: 26). The sounds of cutlery and dishes orchestrate the mounting tension until the four daughters confront their father’s next violent gesture with defiant silence: We all stand, around the table, silent. And we are not small. Dad can see that we are grown. We aren’t little children and he can’t strike us anymore. His eyes scorch our faces, muscles in his jaw clenched into teeth, blood shooting into his forehead, our silent protest to his face. Rage frustrated, he turns the table itself. Grabs two fistfuls of tablecloth and pulls. Turkey carcass, stewed cabbage rolls, buns, sashimi, sekihan, potato salad, peas and carrots. The hours of work Okasan has spent, wasted on the floor. (2001: 27) This family has been repeatedly described as “dysfunctional” (Latimer 2006: online; Notkin and Goto 2001: 17)4 and “disorderly” (Pearson 2003: online). It certainly does not correspond to the usual edulcorated images of North American WASP ideal families, as the narrator acknowledges in the first pages: “We’re not the sort of people that walk together, at dawn or otherwise, exclaiming at nature and the shades of lavender-pink on the horizon” (Goto 2001: 13). Her violent father and her mother’s submission function as harsh models of gender propriety that their four daughters will internalize and resist in different ways, as will be commented in more detail later on. Responding to a question about possible differences between Japanese and Western views on family, Goto remarks on the higher risks for migrant women and children in abusive relationships, since “the family unit becomes particularly important to immigrants who find themselves isolated in a mainstream culture not of their own. And when this ‘safe haven’ becomes dangerous terrain the sense of isolation increases exponentially” (Notkin and Goto 2002: 18).5 Like Bich, Goto’s narrator also expresses her wish that she could have a ‘normal’ family: “I just want to have a normal life! I just want to have a normal family! But I’m always tossed into this tornado, this Wizard of Oz meets Godzilla at the Little House on the Prairie” (2001: 244).
4 This is a term appearing in most of the promotional summaries for the book in e-bookstores, including Amazon. 5 Although Bich Nguyen’s father is not depicted as abusive or exerting physical violence on the family, he is described as “someone I mostly tried to avoid. He was moody, with an unpredictable temper, and nobody wanted to be in range when he got angry” (Nguyen 2007: 229). Besides, he is often criticized for his gambling and drinking, which will lead to the couple’s divorce.
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3. Laura Ingalls, heroine and villain
Following the motif that links her memories, Bich Nguyen’s first mention of Laura Ingalls’ story refers to food, which emerges as the initial magnet attracting little Bich to the figure of Laura: “All of my fictional friends liked to eat, but perhaps no one did more than Laura Ingalls Wilder” (2007: 153). Food descriptions fill six whole pages of Nguyen’s section on the Little House on the Prairie book series and give title to the chapter dedicated to all her literary heroines, ‘Salt Pork’.6 Every action of the Ingallses is understood by Bich in relation to food: For the Ingalls family out on the plains and prairies, every harvest means a year of leanness or a year of fullness. The long days of sowing and haying and threshing could be distilled into a single sourdough biscuit fresh from Ma’s oven. . . . The days mean fighting against blackbirds that ravaged the corn and oats. Once, Ma gathers the blackbirds to make a pie. “The meat was so tender that it slipped from the bones”, writes Wilder. (2007: 153) Her identification with Laura’s appetite is so strong that she fantasizes of her becoming Laura Ingalls: “After I read the Little House on the Prairie books I began to pretend that bacon was salt pork and that I was Laura herself. She was short and small like me, and she savored every last touch of the salt on her tongue” (2007: 158). Envious of her (conventionally) good-looking neighbor Jennifer Vander Wal, who first gave her the book Little House in the Big Woods as a birthday present, Bich also feels vindicated via Laura when she slaps her sister Mary in the book: Mary was showing off her blond hair, letting Laura know that it was the prettiest of all and that no one cared for brown hair like Laura’s. It was a dull, dirt brown, Laura admitted, and knowing it ‘swelled her throat tight’. So she slapped Mary, and that’s when I thought, I could like this girl. The older Laura grew, the smartier, sassier, and more likeable she became. She, too, has a blond-haired nemesis, Nellie Oleson, who sniffs at her and calls her ‘country folk’. And Laura never stints on food. (2007: 154) This identification is based, beyond their shared physical ‘unbecomingness’ and common appreciation of food (due to its scarcity), on the fact that, as Bich herself acknowledges, “[i]n many ways, their pioneer life reminded me of immigrant life. As they search for new homesteads, they, too, experience isolation and the scramble for shelter, food, work, and a place to call home” (2007: 159). Thus, it is the narrative of displacement and resettling in the Wilder books that captures Bich’s emotional sympathy, because she envisions Laura’s uprooting as parallel to that of the Vietnamese refugees: In the opening scene of Little House on the Prairie the Ingallses say good-bye to their family in Wisconsin, and the finality is chilling. They don’t know if they will ever see each other again. Without mail or telephones, the rest of the family is left wondering for months what happened—if they survived, if they were okay, where they had ended up. (2007: 159) Like most exiles, refugees and migrants, “every time the Ingallses move they have to break new sod and start a new farm from scratch” (Nguyen 2007: 158), an experience shared also by Goto’s narrator, whose family literally starts a new farm from scratch
6 For Nguyen salt pork in the Little House books “represents both failure and prosperity: a failure to produce a hardy, self-sustaining farm that included fresh pork; a prosperity that allowed the purchase of meat from the store” (2007: 158).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 27–41 ISSN 0210-6124 Burning Down the Little House on the Prairie 33 pursuing her father’s most unsuitable dream of growing a rice plantation in the midst of the dry prairies of Alberta: Dad dreamt a futile dream but one he never gave up. Is that respectable? Maybe it was the ultimate challenge, the last immigrant frontier: to do the impossible in a hostile land. Maybe he was an asshole and couldn’t admit he was wrong. Either way, the results are the same for the rest of us now. We drag around the baggage of our lives together. (Goto 2001: 192) Despite the poverty of their childhood days, these girls are raised to feel gratitude to the host country. North America is the promised land of plenty and freedom that has saved them from war, executions, torture, reeducation camps (Nguyen 2007: 4), or extreme poverty: My Okasan suggests that I should complain a little less. That we ought to be grateful that our family came to Canada. We should see what life is like in Japan before we complain about things here. If we still lived in Nihon, Okasan murmurs, I would be happily married with two kids and my two younger sisters wouldn’t even be conceived, let alone born, Japan such a crowded and expensive country. As if this should make me feel better! (Goto 2001: 13) Although Laura’s story coincides with both girls’ displacement, there are obvious and irreconcilable differences in their racialized experiences of resettlement. Bich Nguyen perceptively indicates how whiteness automatically grants the privilege of belonging to European migrants: As the Ingallses travel in their wagon, looking for their last stop, they meet settlers from Norway, Sweden, Germany. “They’re good neighbours”, Pa says. “But I guess our kind of folks is pretty scarce”. Yet these European immigrant families would one day cease to be foreign and become ‘our kind of folks’. Like the Ingallses, they would blend in, become American, eventually refer to their ancestry as something fond and distant. “Trust a Scotchwoman to manage”, Pa says admiringly of Ma. The children of European immigrants would be able to answer the question “Where are you from?” with “Out East”, or “Wisconsin”, or “Minnesota”, and no one would say, “No, I mean where are you really from?” (Nguyen 2007: 159) The persistent refusal of the dominant WASP ideology to accept Bich and her family as “our kind of folk” is internalized by this girl who “came of age in the 1980s, before diversity and multicultural awareness trickled into western Michigan. Before ethnic was cool” (Nguyen 2007: 10). Her childhood is painfully marked by an abundance of signs of exclusion that proclaim Grand Rapids to be “An All-American City”: “As a kid, I couldn’t figure out what ‘All-American’ was supposed to mean. Was it promise, a threat, a warning?” (2007: 10). With time, she comes to think this was certainly more of a warning than a promise, as her identity crisis sharpens in her teen years, when she realizes her identity can never be expressed in the singular: “It was too much for me to synthesize white American culture, Mexican-American culture, and my own Vietnamese culture all at the same time. I couldn’t explain, either to Rosa or myself, that in wanting to belong everywhere I ended up belonging nowhere at all” (2007: 176). Laura Ingalls and her family, on the contrary, were the epitome of American. They memorized the Declaration of Independence, knew an inexhaustible number of hymns and American folk songs, and took pride in being ‘free and independent’. They had big, ‘Westward Ho!’ ideas about migration, property, and
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ownership. They built homes everywhere they landed. . . . They had such confidence in the building, such righteous belief in the idea of home, in the right to land, in the life of farming. (2007: 159) Thus the ideologies of Laura and Bich start to part ways, when Bich is able to see through the adventurous side of Laura to identify the ideological premises on which her migratory movement is based: “As I grew older, I had an increasingly uneasy time reading the books. The Ingallses were a pious group; they loved church, knew the Bible inside and out, and sometimes reminded me uncomfortably of the Vander Wals and all the other hard-core Christians I had encountered in Grand Rapids” (2007: 160). Nguyen’s comment points her finger at the extremely conservative political agenda of Laura Ingalls’ books, which Anita Fellman has dared to see as all pervasive “covert instruction” (2008: 5) in the Republican values that gave power to Ronald Reagan and his successors in the presidency. Fellman is not alone in pointing out the strong influence of this children’s series not only on American culture and internal politics, but even also on their foreign policy; Noriko Suzuki has demonstrated its political mission as part of the General Head Quarters’ program for establishing a democratic Japan based on American principles, in her revealing study of the introduction of Wilder’s books in Japan (in translation): Under GHQ’s educational reform policy, a large number of American books were selected by GHQ for translation and publication in postwar Japan. Interestingly, Wilder’s The Long Winter [sixth in the series] was chosen with the recommendation from the Supreme Commander, General Douglas MacArthur, himself. (2006: 67) It is relevant for the assessment of their ideological weight that the books to be translated under this program were not chosen “for entertainment value or literary superiority but solely on the basis of what they might contribute to fulfillment of the obligations and needs of the Japanese people under the Postdam Declaration” (GHQ report qtd in Suzuki 2006: 67). The promotional newspaper reviews of the translation thus promoted it in Japan as a “book which effectively illuminates the great spirit of American citizens. The traditional great American spirit illuminated in this book teaches us that what we need the most to overcome hardships and reach bliss is not a splendid act of heroism, but a little honesty, diligence, creation, and courage in our daily life” (qtd in Suzuki 2006: 68). MacArthur, who envisioned Japan as Western civilization’s last frontier, felt that the Little House on the Prairie books vividly captured the American values of frontier individualism. According to Suzuki, Japanese postwar readers especially identified with Laura’s narrative of hunger and hardship in The Long Winter, sharing common experiences of malnutrition to the point of starvation, disease and lack of basic resources (2006: 71).7 Nguyen offers a poignant reflection on the appeal of Wilder’s classic stories for thousands of girls and women despite their indoctrination into gender and racial submission, where identification with the heroine can only take place in the reader’s imaginative world:
7 Suzuki reminds us that “[o]ver one thousand civilians starved to death within three months after the war’s end. Children were extremely malnourished, and mothers saw their babies die in their arms from starvation and malnourishment. . . . A quarter of a million people died from dysentery. In such unbearably hard conditions, The Long Winter seemed to the Japanese a story of themselves” (2006: 71).
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In a way, it makes sense that I would become enamored with a literature so symbolic of manifest destiny and white entitlement. I didn’t have any nonwhite literature, anyway, to know what else I could become. My favorite books, the ones I gravitated to, were as white or as Anglo as a person could get. Though my relationship with the Ingalls family and other white characters grew complicated, I had a strong reserve of denial, an ability to push away the unpleasant parts. For I had created, if somewhat unknowingly, a group portrait of protagonists—girls I wished I could be. (2007: 160) Her acute awareness of the impossibility of attaining such desire is manifest, as she well knows that “[g]irls like Jennifer Vander Wal and Holly Jansen could legitimately pretend to be Anne of Green Gables or Jo March, but a Vietnamese girl like me could never even have lived near them” (2007: 163). The dream of becoming Laura Ingalls requires the absolute excision or obliteration of her Asian identity, as she admits: “I made myself over into the whitest girl possible. No doubt this contributed to the quick erosion of my Vietnamese. I thought if I could know inside and out how my heroines lived and what they ate and what they loved . . . I could be them, too” (2007: 163). She devotes herself intensively as a girl to this impossible mission of complete assimilation: When I think of Grand Rapids I think of how much time I spent trying to make real the dream of the blond-haired girl with a Betty Crocker mother and a kitchen to match. . . . Spurning my own reflection for what it could never give me, I thought I could make myself over from the inside out. (2007: 247) Since she cannot physically become a white girl, she turns to religion for a happier solution to her troubles, taking her grandmother’s Buddhist belief in reincarnation as the key to her transformation into the melodramatic heroine in the books she loves: I took this view of reincarnation on literal terms. I began to guess at the lives I had had. I became convinced that I had once been a sad and lonely blond girl who lived in a cold mansion isolated on a moor in England. I saw myself sitting close to the fireplace in my bedroom, looking out the window at a bleak, gray landscape. No visitors. I had died young there. (2007: 183). Hiromi Goto has expressed her political aim of exposing “the colonial mentality that we might have swallowed unnoticed when we read the Little House books as children” (Notkin and Goto 2002: 18). As in Nguyen’s recognition that “I didn’t have any nonwhite literature, anyway, to know what else I could become” quoted above, Goto is especially worried by the appalling lack of literature for children with non-white protagonists, which has moved her to write two fantasy books for young readers—The Water of Possibility (2001) and Half World (2009)—featuring Japanese-Canadian characters. This has been in fact a major problem regarding the Little House on the Prairie books, as a heated debate erupted in the mid-nineteen-nineties on the suitability of maintaining this book in school libraries, on accusations that “the book is ‘offensive to Native Americans’ or ‘promotes racial epithets’ or ‘contains attitudes offensive to Native Americans’” (Kilgore 2005: online). One such explicit criticism comes from Osage writer Dennis McAuliffe, who was shocked to realize “a book so unsuitable” is still in “such demand by impressionable children” (2009: online): [Native Americans] appear in her book only as beggars and thieves, and she adds injury to insult by comparing the Osages—who turned Thomas Jefferson’s head with their dignity and grace—to reptiles, to garbage or scum (depending on the definition of the word she actually uses). Mrs. Wilder assigns them descriptive adjectives that connote barbarism, brutality, and bloodthirstiness, and makes much ado about their odor. But she makes light of
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their obvious plight: In one passage, she describes almost mockingly the skeletal figures of two Osages who are fed cornbread by Ma, the eating noises they make and the pitiful sight of them stooping to eat specks of food they spot on the floor. (2009: online) Although Native Americans have been more vocal and active in the campaigns to ban Little House in the Prairie, it is my core argument here that the racist stereotyping offered by the Ingalls narratives also deeply affect other racialized communities’ perception of themselves. McAuliffe resents the lack of protest from non-Native readers by asserting that “[i]f Pa Ingalls had built his little house on the periphery of an antebellum southern mansion and Mrs. Wilder had described its Black slaves in the same terms she depicted the Osage Indians, her book long ago would have been barred from children’s eyes, or at least sanitized like some editions of Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” (2009: online). Meanwhile, the girl narrators in these two Asian North American narratives of growth clearly perceive that exclusion from the ‘pioneer myth’ based on race would also extend to them because they are not white, thus clearly exposing racism for what it is, the privileging of white people over everyone else.8 Bich Nguyen as a child realizes that “[m]y dislike for Ma was cemented in her dislike of Indians, whom she called ‘howling savages’. I knew that if I had lived in De Smet she would never have let Laura consort with me” (2007: 157). Furthermore, she is well aware that racism in the book does not concern First Nations peoples exclusively but also African Americans, and could easily be the case of her own race: Then there was the issue of racism. Not just Ma Ingall’s hatred of Indians, which persisted no matter what Pa said. In Little House in the Big Woods the family sings a song about ‘a little darky’. In Little Town on the Prairie Pa and a group of men folk put on a blackface and perform a vaudeville show for the town. “Look at those darkies’s feet”, they sing, prancing around stage. “Those darkies can’t be beat” I knew that people like me would also have been considered outcasts, heathens, and strangers; we didn’t even count. (2007: 160) Wilder’s portrayal of Native Americans is especially problematic for The Kappa Child’s narrator, because her only friend and neighbor Gerald happens to be a mixed-race indigenous boy: “Gerald Nakamura Coming Singer was incomprehensible. In Laura Ingalls’ book-world, Indians meant teepees on the prairies and that was that. Indians didn’t equal someone who was both Blood and Japanese Canadian. Indians certainly never meant someone who lived next door on a chicken farm·” (Goto 2001: 188). The huge gap between the contemporary realities of indigenous peoples and their depiction in the Wilder books is not one exclusive to her fictionalized memoirs but indeed still dominant in representations of Native peoples in mainstream culture, as Gerald’s mother points out in the novel: “Whatchya staring at, kiddo? You never seen a First Nations person before?” “First Nations?” “Yeah, kiddo. Don’t cut me any of the ‘Indian’ crap, how they keep on teaching that shit in school, I’ll never understand”. (2001: 188-89) The debate on the suitability of the book and on the convenience of its banning from schools tells volumes about race ideologies in North America. While Native communities and other racialized groups have bitterly complained because this book is taught and recommended in schools, white critics have readily come out in defense of the
8 This is not to discredit McAuliffe’s argument that there are in fact huge differences in the influence of diverse racialized communities in North American cultural policies.
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‘complexity’ of race representation in the books, focusing on the often contrasting attitudes of Ma and Pa towards Indians (Heldrich 2000: 100). For instance, Kilgore sustains that “[r]ead with a decent minimum of care, Little House emerges as no reassertion of the pioneer myth, but an earnest, perceptive, and sometimes painful critique of it, all the more remarkable in that it is targeted for children of elementary school age” (2005: online). He defends Laura’s attention to “the moral ambiguities of the family’s westward adventure” (2005: online).9 John E. Miller (2008) takes his praise even further, when he writes that Placing Wilder’s published writings and private thoughts in their proper context, it should be apparent that she—rather than being guilty of gross insensitivity or blatant prejudice toward Indians—was considerably advanced in her attitudes toward Indians in particular and toward other ethnic groups in general. Considering the circumstances in which she grew up and the conditions in which she lived most of her life, her stance was a substantial accomplishment. The better question to ask is not why she was so bad in this regard but why she was relatively so good. (qtd in Lefebvre 2009: 274-75) A significant scene in Little House on the Prairie that has raised heated debate is that where Laura Ingalls asks her father for a “papoose”, a “resonant moment” (Heldrich 2000: 106)10 that Hiromi Goto critiques in a chapter titled ‘Laura Ingalls Wanted to See a Papoose Something Awful’ (2001: 188). Rachel Seidman has interpreted this scene in the following terms: Some will argue that this moment represents a romantic white appropriation of the Indian child. This may be so, but there is also a clear yearning for a crossing of boundaries, a desire to somehow connect with this other child, which compels the reader to recognize a message far more complicated than one of hatred. Wilder is constrained, yes, by her own inability to truly know the Indian child, but she fights against those constraints. (2003: online) While an adult reader might perhaps be compelled to recognize that complex message, the book is read primarily by children, and we can legitimately wonder how a child would receive this scene. Goto offers not one, but two different children’s reactions in her book. The first appears towards the beginning of the novel, symbolically at the moment the family reaches the barren land that will become their new home in Alberta, when one of the sisters offers a less admiring view of Laura’s pioneer life: “‘I don’t get it’, Slither said. ‘Why does that Laura girl want to see a papoose so bad? I bet there were a lot of flies in that wagon. It’s kinda sad that the dog got swept away in the river. Do you think salt pork is like bacon?’” (2001: 43). Later on, in the chapter with the telling title, the narrator unveils her own uneasiness with Laura’s desire:
9 Ann Romines makes a similar defense based on Laura’s interrogation of her family’s settling in “Indian country” (1997: 47), while Heldrich’s advice that “Laura’s remarks in the concluding scenes must be read with regard to her age and her lack of a mature self-consciousness and understanding, which prevent the transcendent growth Wolf claims for her” (2000: 105) is hard to accept when the analysis by Fellman 2008 and Miller 2008 of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s and her daughter Rose Wilder Lane’s authorial decisions is considered: Laura’s naivety may well play an interested political role in sustaining the racial prerogatives in the frontier thesis. 10 For a summary of the conflicting critical responses to this episode see Hedrick 2000: 106.
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‘Laura Ingalls Wanted to See a Papoose Something Awful’ And I didn’t know why. Why did she want to have someone else’s baby? Did she think the baby would be happier with the Ingalls than riding off with the rest of the family? Did she think the baby was more like a doll than a human child? Didn’t she know that the mom wouldn’t think giving the baby to Laura was such a good idea? I was puzzled. (2001: 188) Her ‘naive’ response clearly views Laura’s desire to have a papoose as whimsical and reifying, coming from someone who does not see Native peoples as human beings. For Goto, every non-indigenous person living in North America, migrants explicitly included in her statement, must be aware of their location on occupied lands: “We all have the responsibility to examine our sense of entitlement of living on First Nations land. How are we complicit in the ongoing oppression of the people of the First Nations? What are we doing about it?” (Notkin and Goto 2002: 18).
4. In and out of the Little House’s gender trap
In their ideological defense of Frederick Jackson Turner’s frontier theory, the indoctrination into courage, heroic survival and resilience in the face of hardship that the Wilder narratives promote is clearly masculinist and prevents the expression of emotional distress or ‘weakness’. This view of pioneer heroism helps reinforce the patriarchal hegemony and male dominance that Ann Romines (1997) has studied in detail in the whole Little House series. Both Nguyen and Goto allude to the gender divisions represented in the book Little House on the Prairie. For Nguyen, “[w]hile Mary is Ma’s daughter, Laura is Pa’s” (2007: 157), and little Bich is clearly on Laura and Pa’s side. She admires that “[l]ike her father Laura has an itchy wandering foot, a desire to keep pushing on to see what lands lie beyond the horizon” (2007: 156-57), while Ma and Mary represent the proper femininity that Ma intends to transmit to her daughters: “sensible, strict Ma, a former schoolteacher, had long ago made her husband promise to settle down so her girls could get an education and become teachers, too. Ma and Mary frequently got on my nerves. They were so ladylike all the time, so disciplined about chore time” (2007: 157). Goto’s narrator, on her part, who often suffers the violent outbursts of her abusive father, admires the apparently egalitarian and peaceful relationship of the Ingalls marriage; however, a question from her sister makes her reconsider this: “Did Laura’s pa hit ma?” PG muttered. “He never hit her! Ever! He played the violin!” I exclaimed. Though something gnawed inside. I hadn’t noticed before, but now that I read it out loud, Ma seemed so much weaker that I’d imagined. “Oh, Charles”, she said. “Whatever you think, Charles”. (2001: 43; italics in the original) She thus comes to confound her own submissive and apologetic mother and Caroline, Laura’s Ma, replying to her question “What are you doing girls” with “Just reading, Ma . . . I mean, Okasan!” (2001: 43). Another crucial and highly charged scene in The Kappa Child may help illustrate my argumentation on the masculinist values ingrained in young readers by the pioneer myth in Laura Ingalls’ story. When little Gerald comforts his friend the narrator with a kiss, she reacts violently to her own emotional confusion—she admits to be “shocked,
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 27–41 ISSN 0210-6124 Burning Down the Little House on the Prairie 39 embarrassed, elated, I don’t know what” (2001: 200)—by insulting him with references to his ‘effeminate weakness’: “Hey, sissy boy”, I sneered. “I don’t let sissy boys touch me. Ever . . .” “Yeah”, I yelled. “Go on! Pansy! Go on home to your slut mother!” I screamed until I was hoarse and gasping. A heavy hand on my shoulder, I almost fell out of myself, squeaked in sudden fear. “Good for you”, my father nodded approvingly. “Shouldn’t be friends with weaklings”. Dad was proud of me. (2001: 200-01) Her cruelty towards her only friend will make him leave the chicken farm and his mother; her disgust at her own violence will leave an indelible psychological scar. Interestingly, she seems to blame Laura Ingalls for instilling in her such a limiting ideology in terms of race and gender, because the moment she sees Gerald leave for good she decides to get rid of Laura by burning the book: “Who is going to be there for you if I’m gone?” Laura whispered. “Shut up!” I shouted. Ripping faster and faster. Baby Carrie whimpered. My heart pounding in my head. . . . I poked the mess so the embers wouldn’t go out, until every page was blackened and the print unreadable. (2001: 217) From this act of destruction she gets some comfort, and “[a]fter Gerald moved away and I killed Laura Ingalls, my life settled into childhood stasis” (2001: 222). However, this will prove to be a false truce, as Laura returns in a gothic poltergeist scene: On the television, Melissa Gilbert, playing Laura Ingalls, runs across a stretch of prairie, whooping, leaping, jubilant. The music is sunny and playful. ‘Da da dada. Da da daaaaaa. Da da dada! Daaa da da—’ The hairs on my arms tingle, shiver, stand in a rush of goosebumps. The camera angle is wide and Melissa runs closer and closer. Until her face fills the screen. The music is gone. Only the sound of wind in the grass. And as I watch, her face hardens, the skin slowly browns, tightens, pressing against bones, her eyes glitter bright in her starving face, lips cracked with malnutrition. Her braids are messy, the hair dull and brittle. The child grins and her teeth are yellow and crooked. (2001: 252) The persistence of this haunting Laura proves that, contrary to the narrator’s wishes “that childhood could be a book . . . that could be put away on a shelf. Even boxed and locked into storage should the need arise” (2001: 215) or burnt, as she does with Laura’s childhood narrative, there is no such possibility, “[c]hildhood is not a book and it doesn’t end” (2001: 215).
5. Conclusions
In the dialogue that follows Laura’s poltergeist apparition to the narrator on the TV screen, Laura complains that the editors have changed the real story in her book, the tragic story of hardship, hunger and dislocation that her ghost figure represents: “Oh, I know what they said. ‘The book is for children! Children need happy stories!’ Damn them all to hell!” (2001: 252). She then asks the narrator to do something to retrieve and make public her real experience and “transforms back into Melissa Gilbert as music swells in the
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 27–41 ISSN 0210-6124 40 Belén Martín-Lucas background” (2001: 253). Anita Fellman (2008) sustains that it was Laura Ingalls Wilder herself, with the help of her daughter Rose Wilder Lane, who purposely deviated from her life experience and historical facts in order to emphasize the autonomy of her family and thus criticize “the New Deal policies they believed were signs of a massive crisis in American values during the Great Depression” (Lefebvre 2009: 273). Goto’s novel indeed produces a counter-narrative to that offered in the Wilder series, “suggesting to the reader that in the end it is the Wilder novels (and the TV series based on them) which are really a fantasy of pioneer life in contrast to the harsh reality experienced by the narrator’s family” (Pearson 2003: online).11 We can go even further to suggest that, in fact, it is Laura’s distress and hunger that raises the sympathies of these two girl readers, who identify with her misery in the same way the postwar Japanese readers did. Refugee Bich understands well that “[a] pioneer in a covered wagon had to keep a careful eye on the provisions, gauge how much to eat and how much to save for the rutted path ahead” (Nguyen 2007: 158). Goto’s description of Laura (in her first apparition to the narrator at the moment of burning her book) is much closer to the reality of the displaced and destitute than the many images we have of her: I flung a look behind me. Laura’s face. No rosy cheeks. No milky skin. No snapping brown eyes. She was gaunt. The fingers that clutched my shoulders were cracked, nails chipped, wrinkled with malnutrition. And behind her. Mary’s listless, colorless eyes. Baby Carrie’s legs bowed, scrawny with rickets. (Goto 2001: 217) The appeal of the more subversive sides of Laura Ingalls’ personality, such as her nomadic spirit, her interrogation of her family’s occupation of ‘Indian territory’, her thirst for adventure and the real hunger due to her continuous displacement explain these two Asian North American girls’ devotion to their literary heroine. The privileges of belonging and national identity held by even the poorest whites among the destitute migrants, however, distance these girls across racial borders. Despite two decades of multiculturalist policies in both North American states and, in more recent years, the rise of a transnationalist discourse, feminist and antiracist criticisms of this cherished classic have provoked virulent reactions which indicate that its WASP ideology of conservative individualism and racialization is not outdated. Nguyen and Goto contribute significantly, with their imaginative and artistic responses to Wilder’s texts, to keeping the debate alive, as they provide alternative readings and, what is more important, counter-narratives to the racial and gender constructions of the founding myth of pioneer heroic survival.
Works Cited
Almeida, Sandra R.G. 2009: ‘Strangers in the Night: Hiromi Goto's Abject Bodies and Hopeful Monsters’. Contemporary Women’s Writing 3.1: 47-63. Cho, Lily 2010: Eating Chinese: Culture on the Menu in Small Town Canada. Toronto: U of Toronto P.
11 McAuliffe makes a similar point regarding the lack of historical accuracy in the TV series’ portrayal of pioneer life: “Osage writer John Joseph Mathews could have been staring at a family portrait of the Ingallses when he described the covered wagons filling up Osage land as being full of ‘dirty-faced children peering out from the curtains, and weary, hard-faced women lolling in the seat beside evil-eyed, bearded men’. The actor Michael Landon was horribly miscast as Pa in the television series ‘Little House on the Prairie’. Landon was too sweet-faced, clean-shaven—and focused” (2009: online).
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Fellman, Anita Clair 2008: Little House, Long Shadow: Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Impact on American Culture. Columbia: U of Missouri P. Gabaccia Donna R. 2000: We are what we Eat: Ethnic Food and the Making of Americans. Cambridge: Harvard UP. Heldrich, Philip 2000: ‘Going to Indian Territory’: Attitudes toward Native Americans in Little House on the Prairie’. Great Plains Quarterly 20.2: 99-109. Inness, Sherrie A., ed. 2001: Kitchen Culture in America: Popular Representations of Food, Gender, and Race. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P. James Triptree Jr. Award website
Received 18 February 2011 Revised version accepted 27 June 2011
Belén Martín-Lucas is Associate Professor at the University of Vigo where she teaches contemporary literatures from postcolonial and feminist critical perspectives. Her research examines politics of dissidence in feminist postcolonial texts, with a special interest in literary strategies of resistance such as tropes and genre.
Address: Facultade de Filoloxía e Tradución. Universidade de Vigo. Campus Lagoas-Marcosende. 36310 Vigo, Spain. Tel.: +34 986 81233. Fax: +34 986 812380.
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FAILED EXORCISM: KURTZ’S SPECTRAL STATUS AND ITS IDEOLOGICAL FUNCTION IN CONRAD’S ‘HEART OF DARKNESS’
Jorge Sacido Romero University of Santiago de Compostela [email protected]
It is quite remarkable how Marlow’s recurrent characterisation of Kurtz as a spectre in Conrad’s ‘Heart of Darkness’ has passed almost unnoticed in the large body of criticism on the novella. This essay interprets Marlow’s persistent expression of loyalty to Kurtz’s ghost as the last in a series of ideological strategies that endow the imperialist culture in which he is embedded with a minimum degree of consistency that counterbalances the debilitating exposure of its evils. The ensuing pages develop this central thesis concerning Kurtz’s ghostly status by drawing on Slavoj Žižek’s Lacanian approach to the ideological function of the spectre, which allows the author to diverge from other readings of ‘Heart of Darkness’ relevant to this topic. An exploration of the logic of spectrality helps to explain why the novella falls short in its indictment of imperialist ideology, a failure which, in the last instance, amounts to an endorsement.
Keywords: ‘Heart of Darkness’; Kurtz; spectre; ideology; Žižek; voice
EXORCISMO FALLIDO: EL ESTATUS ESPECTRAL DE KURTZ Y SU FUNCIÓN IDEOLÓGICA EN ‘HEART OF DARKNESS’ DE CONRAD
Sorprende el hecho de que la recurrente caracterización de Kurtz como espectro en ‘Heart of Darkness’ de Conrad haya pasado prácticamente desapercibida en la ingente cantidad de trabajos críticos sobre esta novela corta. En este ensayo se interpreta la persistente expresión de lealtad de Marlow hacia el fantasma de Kurtz como la última de una serie de estrategias ideológicas que dotan a la cultura imperialista en la que está inscrito de un mínimo de consistencia que contrapesa el desenmascaramiento debilitador de sus males. En las páginas que siguen se desarrolla esta tesis central sobre el estatus fantasmal de Kurtz tomando como base la interpretación lacaniana que Slavoj Žižek hace sobre la función ideológica del espectro, lo que permite al autor distanciarse de otras lecturas de la obra de Conrad relevantes para el tema tratado. Un análisis de la lógica de la espectralidad ayuda a explicar por qué la novela no acaba de condenar del todo la ideología imperialista, una inhibición que equivale, en última instancia, a una adhesión. Palabras clave: ‘Heart of Darkness’; Kurtz; espectro; ideología; Žižek; voz 44 Jorge Sacido Romero
1. Introduction
Critics of Conrad’s ‘Heart of Darkness’ have shown little concern towards Marlow’s persistent characterisation of Kurtz as a spectre.1 He describes Kurtz as a “disinterred body”, a “ghost”, a “shade”, an “initiated wraith from the back of Nowhere”, “an animated image of death”, a “shadow”, an “atrocious phantom”, an “apparition”, “a vapour exhaled by the earth” and an “eloquent phantom” (Conrad 1946: 115, 117, 134, 142, 160). Even those critics who frame the novella within the genre of the gothic either overlook this conspicuously gothic element or just go no further than dropping some passing remark on the topic.2 John Hillis Miller’s ‘Joseph Conrad: Should We Read Heart of Darkness?’, chapter five of his book Others (2001), is a most remarkable exception. Miller’s argument concerning the novella revolves around the unexplained obligation that Marlow feels towards Kurtz, a sort of fateful imperative he cannot but obey.3 Indeed, immediately after what I consider the privileged blind spot in his narrative, Marlow justifies his decision to go after Kurtz, who had left the steamboat to return to his nightly worshippers in the wilderness, in the following terms: “I did not betray Mr Kurtz —it was ordered I should never betray him— it was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice. I was anxious to deal with this shadow by myself alone” (Conrad 1946: 141. Emphases added). In being loyal to Kurtz, Marlow is, according to Miller, fulfilling the ethical injunction of telling “the truth about the dead” whom one survives (2001: 107). Yet, Miller adds, what is peculiar about Marlow’s bond is that it is an act of faith towards one who is already a ghost from the very beginning: Kurtz is presented when Marlow finally encounters him as already the survivor of his own death. Kurtz is already the ghost of himself. In that sense he cannot die. This is testified to in the way he survives in Marlow’s narration and in the way the dusk still whispers his last words when Marlow returns to Europe and visits Kurtz’s ‘Intended’. It is hardly the case that Marlow has laid the ghost of Kurtz’s gifts with a lie, since the ghost still walks, even in the room where Marlow tells his lie to the Intended. The ghost, far from being laid, is resurrected, invoked, conjured up, each time Heart of Darkness is read (2001: 107). According to this, ‘Heart of Darkness’ is a text that activates a chain of compulsory (and, we may add, compulsive) interpretations focused on Kurtz’s ghost which starts with Marlow’s narrative, passes then on to the unnamed frame-narrator, and afterwards transcends the intratextual limits to affect any reader of the Conrad novella. We, readers, like Marlow and the receptive listener of his inconclusive oral tale, must remain faithful to Kurtz’s ghost and
1 This paper was completed under the auspices of the research project Modernism and Postmodernism in the English Short Story (funded by the Consellería de Innovación e Industria, Xunta de Galicia, Cod. INCITE 08PXIB204011PR). I want to thank Dr. Laura Lojo Rodríguez for her caring support. I also acknowledge my debt to the anonymous reviewers of the manuscript. 2 See, for instance, Lipka (2008) and Glover (2001). Mark Wollaeger (1990) frames Conrad’s oeuvre within the tradition of philosophical scepticism and relates its gothic and melodramatic elements to a covert search for the sacred. Although he explores the presence of the trope of the ghost in Conrad’s earlier short pieces, Wollaeger’s only statement concerning Marlow’s relation to “the diabolical specter of Kurtz” is that it elicits a “[r]esentment at feeling dependent [which] may cover a deeper fear”, a fear of vacancy due to the absence of God (1990: 75). 3 Bernard J. Paris points out that Marlow’s acknowledged loyalty to Kurtz is the key enigma of the novella and expressed his surprise at how little critical attention this aspect had received (2005: 42-43). Paris explains this bond in terms of Marlow’s identification with Kurtz and his wish to preserve his good name.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 43–60 ISSN 0210-6124 Failed Exorcism: Kurtz’s Spectral Status and Its Ideological Function 45 join the endless circuit of performative interpretations which are so many failed attempts to exorcise this spectre. Kurtz functions as the privileged instance of radical otherness that, paradoxically at once, cannot and should not be finalised, demanding justice from us, and keeping “[t]he structure of Heart of Darkness … a self-perpetuating system of an endlessly deferred promise” (Miller 2001: 126). I share Miller’s opinion that Kurtz’s spectre is not exorcised despite Marlow’s affirmation that he had “laid the ghost of his gifts with a lie” (Conrad 1946: 115).4 Unlike Miller, however, I interpret Marlow’s failed exorcism and his concomitant loyalty to Kurtz’s ghost not as an ethical obligation to avoid totalising temptations and keep the field of otherness open, but as Marlow’s last-ditch attempt to preserve the coherence of the British and imperialist culture in which he is embedded and from which he derives his identity. Thus, for me, Kurtz-as-ghost functions in Marlow’s narrative discourse as the last and lasting one in a long series of ideological strategies. Although it, the ghost, does evoke an opening that activates the production of potentially countless interpretations, it also serves to cover the void of what Jacques Lacan called the real, which Marlow encounters at what I take to be “the culminating point of my [Marlow’s] experience” (Conrad 1946: 51). In the end, to remain loyal to Kurtz’s spectre is Marlow’s way of avoiding the traumatic real of his own desire and the horror of cutting off his symbolic moorings in an act of freedom. Because he is both incapable and unwilling to exorcise Kurtz’s spectre, Marlow cannot but reproduce imperialist ideology.
2. Two versions of the spectre: Žižek with Lacan and against Derrida
Miller’s conception of the ghost and its implications for the living owes a great deal to Jacques Derrida, whose work he cites frequently. Derrida (1994) conceived of the spectre as that which disjoins the stability of the present by its apparition, as the point of “non- contemporaneity with itself of the living present” (1994: xix.; Italics in original). In the political field, all dominant forms of power try to exorcise the spectre in order to restore the menaced presence. Thus, the emancipatory potential of the spectre lies in the fact that it stands as an opening towards, a possibility for, and a promise of freedom and justice if and only if we respond, listen and speak to it (Derrida 1994: xix, 11, 12, 33, 38, 58, 65).5 Hence Derrida’s ethico-political message in this work is that the spectre must not be made present through exorcism, conjuration or ontologisation, as the latter would entail the dissolution of the spectre’s spectrality, the effacement of “the heterogeneity of the other” (Derrida 1994: 29), and the deactivation of its liberating potential. Faith, duty, responsibility to the spectre is the right, just, liberating attitude one must retain; what he calls hauntology as opposed to ontology.6 “Totalitarian perversions” like savage capitalism, Fascism, and Stalinism are for Derrida “the effect of an ontological treatment of the spectrality of the ghost” (1994: 93). In sum, the ontologisation of the spectre is a way to cope with the fear caused by the spectre’s call to freedom (Derrida 1994: 104-05).
4 Peter E. Firchow in his book-length study of ‘Heart of Darkness’ affirms that Marlow does not lay Kurtz’s ghost in the end and that readers of the novella are also haunted by this phantom (2000: 80). 5 Derrida’s notion of the spectre-as-other is based on Emmanuel Lévinas’s Totalité et infini (1961), a work in which justice, or the possibility thereof, is literally equated to our relation to the other’s otherness: “‘The relation to others–that is to say, justice’” (Lévinas qtd. in Derrida 1994: 23). 6 “Ontology opposes it only in a movement of exorcism. Ontology is a conjuration” (Derrida 1994: 161).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 43–60 ISSN 0210-6124 46 Jorge Sacido Romero
Slavoj Žižek opposes Derrida’s view of the spectre qua herald of freedom/justice-to- come and the latter’s defence of spectral Otherness as our ultimate ethico-political horizon. From a Lacanian perspective, Žižek argues that the uncanny, fear-inspiring, terrifying, horrifying spectral apparition is already, in itself, a withdrawal, a retreat, an escape from freedom. Thus, Žižek writes in ‘The Spectre of Ideology’ (1994a): ‘freedom’ designates the moment when the ‘principle of sufficient reason’ is suspended, the moment of the act that breaks the ‘great chain of being’, of the symbolic reality in which we are embedded; consequently, it is not sufficient to say that we fear the spectre—the spectre itself already emerges out of a fear, out of our escape from something even more horrifying: freedom. … Therein resides the gap that separates Lacan from Derrida: our primary duty is not towards the spectre, whatever form it assumes. The act of freedom qua real not only transgresses the limits of what we experience as ‘reality’, it cancels our primordial indebtedness to the spectral Other (1994a: 27-28). Freedom —that is, the breakaway from our subjection to the symbolic order that structures the real into ‘reality’—should be the truly emancipatory outcome of our encounter with the real. However, because this encounter suspends “the symbolic reality in which we are embedded”, we withdraw in horror, and the spectral apparition is primarily an effect of this horror and not its cause. Žižek agrees with Derrida in that the “elusive pseudo-materiality” of the spectre “subverts the classic ontological oppositions of reality and illusion, and so on” (Žižek 1994a: 20-21). Yet, whereas for Derrida (and for Miller) the ghost prevents the closure of the ethico-political order by preserving the place for otherness so that our obligation towards the ghost empowers us to resist full subjection, in Žižek’s Lacanian view it is precisely the spectre and our loyalty to it that eventually allows for the closure of the ideological field. The spectre fills the gap in the symbolic order and endows the symbolically constructed ‘reality’ in which we, subjects, are embedded with the needed minimum degree of coherence: it is here [in the spectre] that we should look for the last resort of ideology, for the pre- ideological kernel, the formal matrix, on which are grafted the various ideological formations: in the fact that there is no reality without the spectre, that the circle of reality can be closed only by means of an uncanny spectral supplement. … ([W]hat we experience as) reality is not the ‘thing itself’, it is always-already symbolized, constituted, structured by symbolic mechanisms— and the problem resides in the fact that symbolization ultimately always fails, that it never succeeds in fully ‘covering’ the real, that it always involves some unsettled, unredeemed symbolic debt. This real (the part of reality that remains non-symbolized) returns in the guise of spectral apparitions. … [S]pectral apparitions emerge in this very gap that forever separates reality from the real, and on account of which reality has the character of a (symbolic) fiction: the spectre gives body to that which escapes (the symbolically structured) reality. The pre-ideological ‘kernel’ of ideology thus consists of the spectral apparition that fills up the hole of the real. (Žižek 1994a: 21; Italics in the original). The spectre therefore signals a breach in the ideological edifice, yet works at once as the pseudo-material stuff to keep it (even if precariously) erected. This duality determines the logic of Marlow’s relationship to Kurtz’s spectre which is at the base of the ambiguous and contradictory position he holds towards imperialist ideology that critics, particularly from Terry Eagleton onwards, have not failed to point out.7 Tending to the ghost, remaining loyal
7 “The message of Heart of Darkness”, Eagleton writes, “is that Western civilisation is at base as barbarous as African society –a viewpoint which disturbs imperialist assumptions to the precise degree that it reinforces them” (1976: 135). The interpretation of the novella as both an attack on
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 43–60 ISSN 0210-6124 Failed Exorcism: Kurtz’s Spectral Status and Its Ideological Function 47 to it, is, in the last instance, an ideological gesture that Marlow adopts to avoid carrying out the “act of freedom qua real” (Žižek 1994a: 27), even if, and precisely because, such a gesture is unsettling and nightmarish.
3. Subject, object and the nature of symbolised reality
The linkage between the free act and the real was formulated by Lacan in his seminar The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis. An “act, a true act”, Lacan stated, “always has an element of structure, by the fact of concerning a real that is not self-evidently caught up in it” (1981: 50). The act qua real has effects on symbolically structured reality and on the subject’s immersion in it. It is thus that Žižek, following Lacan, argues that “an act proper is the only one which structures the symbolic co-ordinates of the agent’s situation: it is an intervention in the course of which the agent’s identity itself is radically changed” (2001: 85; see also Žižek 2000: 125). The symbolic order, via interpellation, elicits in the subject the identification with certain social models, the assumption of certain subject-positions and the internalisation of certain regulations. However, it is not only the subject that is split, barred, traversed by a void ($), but also the field of the big Other, the symbolic order (Ø) (Žižek 1989: 122). The function of ideology is, precisely, that of providing substitute fantasy-objects to compensate for the desiring subject’s constitutive loss of the primordial object, to reinforce his/her subjection through the supplement of enjoyment attached to these objects, and to veil the gaps, inconsistencies and antagonisms of the socio-symbolic field.8 As I have discussed elsewhere, we come across two fantasy-objects articulated in Marlow’s narrative discourse the function of which is to avoid the real of antagonism through, on the one hand, the presumption of some transcendental essence that defines the identity of normative subjects beyond symbolic prescriptions and that endows the symbolic field with solidity and coherence, namely, Marlow’s invocation of some indeterminate ‘true stuff’, which I called introjected object [Conrad 1946: 97]), and, on the other, the projection of conflicts and inconsistencies inside the symbolic field (natives and jungle as the projected object onto which antagonism is displaced and condensed) (Sacido Romero 2009).9 To these two ideological rationalisations10 we must add several other strategies that allow Marlow to fence
and a reproduction of imperialist ideology was already advanced by Conrad himself in his letter of February 8, 1899, to Robert Cunninghame Graham (Conrad 1983: 157-58). For further opinions see Benita Parry (1983: 2), Patrick Brantlinger (1988: 265), Vincent Pecora (1989: 145), Gary Aldeman (1987: 50), Edward W. Said (1993: 23-25, 30), Beth Sharon Ash misdirection (1999: 80) and Terry Collits (2005: 108). 8 In The Plague of Fantasies Žižek writes that “the ‘sublime object of ideology’ is the spectral object which has no positive ontological consistency, but merely fills in the gap of a certain constitutive impossibility” (1997: 76). He gives the following definition of ideology: “a symbolic field which contains such a filler holding the place of some structural impossibility” (1997: 76). See also Žižek (1997: 1, 75-77, 2005: 276-77). 9 For a definition of introjection and projection and their reformulations in the work of different authors see Laplanche and Pontalis (1985: 229-31, 349-56). Though mainly not in psychoanalytical terms, the dynamics of projection has been the main target of postcolonial approaches to the novella that underline its imperialist bias. See, for instance, Chinua Achebe (1988: 251-52), Francis B. Singh (1988: 272), Fayad (1990: 300), Zhuwarara (1994: 26), A. James M. Johnson (1997: 112). 10 I use the word in the sense the psychoanalysis gives to the term rationalisation: “a procedure whereby the subject attempts to present an explanation that is either logically consistent or ethically
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 43–60 ISSN 0210-6124 48 Jorge Sacido Romero off the twinges of bad conscience for having joined what he feels is a “conspiracy” (Conrad 1946: 56) and to preserve a basic quota of stable identity through an otherwise exceedingly disruptive experience in the context of high imperialism. He justifies his participation in the colonial concern by referring to his unemployment (Conrad 1946: 52-53), to his seduction by overpowering forces such as the fascinating river on the map and the fateful knitters of black wool (Conrad 1946: 56-57), and to his enlightened and cynical (un)belief in the goodness of the Company and of the civilising mission which, as Johanna M. Smith has argued, is counterbalanced in the novella by the two white women, Marlow’s aunt and Kurtz’s Intended, whose naïve credulity “will keep the masculine world [of crude reality] from deteriorating” (1989: 193). In carrying out the function of believing, both women fill in the dots in Marlow’s statement about the superiority of British imperialism: “What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and unselfish belief in the idea—something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to. . . .” (Conrad 1946: 51. Ellipsis in the original). To Smith’s argument it should be added, however, that if such a vicarious dynamics is possible, it is because, as Žižek states, “the most intimate beliefs, even the most intimate emotions such as compassion, crying, sorrow, laughter, can be transferred, delegated to others without losing their sincerity” (1989: 34).11 Marlow laughs at women’s naïve belief in the philanthropic mission trumpeted forth daily in the newspapers (to which Kurtz contributed), yet his words betray him: white colonial agents in general and Marlow in particular, using Marlow’s own words, “set the women to work” to do the job of believing in the redeeming virtues of imperialism, so that they may go about exploiting the natives and robbing the land of its wealth, “not a pretty thing when you look into it too much” (Conrad 1946: 53, 50-51).12 Despite his presumed unbelief, Marlow goes on doing his job as best he can. In other words, the belief from which he distances himself in theory is inscribed into the very practice of his appointed duty. In what follows I will develop the idea of the ideological status of Kurtz’s spectre by first locating the exact point of Marlow’s encounter with the real and reviewing Lacanian approaches to the novella; second, examining the particular aural nature of spectrality (voice as objet a) and its link to the obscene superego underside of the Law, and finally concluding that Marlow’s failure to exorcise Kurtz’s spectre is the last resort to reproduce imperialist ideology in the novella despite his own exposure of its evils.
4. Marlow’s encounter with the real and his flight to Kurtz as spectre: forced choice vs. ethical act
Marlow’s tale of his experience in “the centre of a continent” (Conrad 1946: 60) contains a particular moment of incomparably intense and absolutely contingent horror which in Lacanian theory is precisely known as “the encounter with the real” (Lacan 1981: 53; Italics in original). Lacan pronounced this phrase in session 5 of his seminar titled ‘Tuché and Automaton’, in the midst of a discussion on Freud’s fundamental concept of repetition- acceptable for attitudes, ideas, feelings, etc., whose motives are not perceived” (Laplanche and Pontalis 1985: 375). 11 Žižek refers to the example given by Lacan in The Ethics of Psychoanalysis: the Greek Chorus. The Chorus feels pity and horror for us, so that we, at once, experience these feelings and are freed from the duty of having to do it. 12 Johanna M. Smith is right in underscoring the ideological function of the aunt and the Intended in the novella, yet falls short in explaining how and why it works.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 43–60 ISSN 0210-6124 Failed Exorcism: Kurtz’s Spectral Status and Its Ideological Function 49 compulsion. In brief, tuché is the Aristotelian term used by Lacan to designate the encounter with the real which is the cause of the repetition-compulsion in the symbolic order (automaton). “The real”, Lacan states, “is beyond the automaton, the return, the coming-back, the insistence of the signs, by which we see ourselves governed by the pleasure principle” (1981: 53-54). The symbolic order, ruled by the pleasure principle, strives for stability, for homeostasis, but is always frustrated in this pursuit by something it cannot assimilate, a scrap left over in the symbolising process that structures reality, “the kernel of the real” (1981: 53) that lies beyond the pacifying, meaning-giving register of the symbolic. One of the exemplary manifestations of the real is trauma. Trauma is what set Freud on the track towards the formulation of the repetition-compulsion and the death-drive in view of the fact that some of his patients fell prey to a sort of automatism that made them re-experience painful incidents, a fact that challenged his previous view that the pleasure-principle was the sovereign ruler of our mental life and that dreams were just wish fulfilments (Freud 2001: 32). Lacan states: “The function of the tuché, of the real as encounter—the encounter in so far as it may be missed, in so far as it is essentially the missed encounter—first presented itself in the history of psychoanalysis in a form that was … that of the trauma” (1981: 55). This traumatic event resists being apprehended by symbolic categories (it is ‘missed’) because it is related to the subject’s own unconscious desire which for Lacan finds in the dream its privileged scenario: “It is only in the dream that this truly unique encounter can occur” (1981: 59). With Kurtz finally on board the steamboat, Marlow wakes up “shortly after midnight” and walks on deck to fall asleep again “leaning over the rail” because of the “strange narcotic effect upon [his] half-awake senses” of the “steady droning sound of many men chanting each to himself some weird incantation” (Conrad 1946: 140-41). He wakes up a second time because of “an abrupt burst of yells, an overwhelming outbreak of a pent-up and mysterious frenzy” which “was cut short all at once, and the low droning went on with an effect of audible and soothing silence” (Conrad 1946: 141). Marlow relates how, after finding out that Kurtz was not in his cabin, he went through a moment of incomparably intense, indescribable horror. The extraordinary nature of this experience is enhanced in the text by sorting out the passage through full stops: I think I would have raised an outcry if I had believed my eyes. But I didn’t believe them at first—the thing seemed so impossible. The fact is I was completely unnerved by sheer blank fright, pure abstract terror, unconnected with any distinct shape of physical danger. What made this emotion so overpowering was—how shall I define it?—the moral shock I received, as if something altogether monstrous, intolerable to thought and odious to the soul, had been thrust upon me unexpectedly. This lasted of course the merest fraction of a second, and then the usual sense of commonplace, deadly danger, the possibility of a sudden onslaught and massacre, or something of the kind, which I saw impending, was positively welcome and composing. It pacified me, in fact, so much, that I did not raise an alarm (Conrad 1946: 141). Relieved by the recovery of his sense of reality, of a reality of deadly dangers and potential massacres, Marlow jumps ashore to rescue Kurtz from the call of his night adorers. This act of loyalty to Kurtz is inflected in paradoxical terms: as both an incontestable injunction (“it was ordered”, “it was written”) and an act of the will (“the nightmare of my choice”) (Conrad 1946: 141. Emphasis added). What becomes apparent at this point is that Marlow’s faithful attachment to Kurtz’s ‘shadow’ is a fantasy erected in the outmost confines of symbolically constructed reality to prevent its complete collapse due to the traumatic eruption of the real, of that which—because, as Lacan states, “it is essentially the missed encounter”— Marlow cannot provide any identifiable, communicable, trait, and just says that
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 43–60 ISSN 0210-6124 50 Jorge Sacido Romero it was “impossible”, exempt from normal temporalisation (“lasted the merest fraction of a second”), overwhelmingly terrifying (“sheer blank fright, pure abstract terror”) and absolutely contingent (“thrust upon me unexpectedly”). As such, Kurtz’s loyalty-inspiring spectre in Marlow’s experience (“a dream”, he calls it) and in his narrative (“relation of a dream”) serves as a veil to hide the encountered real (“the incredible”), which is “impossible”, which cannot be symbolised, rendered in words,13 yet triggers the production of signifiers (his narrative) in a foredoomed attempt to grasp it (Conrad 1946: 82). Some recent approaches to ‘Heart of Darkness’ where use is made of the Lacanian notion of the real—particularly relevant and insightful are the contributions of French Conradians—have failed to take into account Kurtz’s spectral status and its ideological function in Marlow’s narrative discourse. The most explicit is Josiane Paccaud-Huguet’s passing remark on Kurtz’s being “the ‘phantasmagorical’ figure on the screen of fiction, for that impossible subject position: to rejoin, and rejoice in the inhuman, forbidden area of the Freudian Thing” (2004: 172). In her reading of the early Marlow narratives and ‘Karain’, Paccaud-Huguet states that Kurtz and Jim (in Lord Jim) affect Marlow because they had performed an act of transgression towards the real, considering Kurtz as “clearly a good candidate for embodying jouissance of the thing in itself at its purest” (2006: 76). Because he accepts this transgression, Paccaud-Huguet argues, Kurtz becomes heroic in Marlow’s eyes and so deserves his loyalty.14 Reynold Humphries is the only critic who refers to the passage about “a sheer blank fright” quoted in full above as one which marks “the presence of the real” (1998: 11). For him, Kurtz’s “The horror! The horror” is also “the encounter with the real” and considers the jungle the place of the maternal body and the site of incestuous desires (Humphries 1998: 12). Establishing a comparison between Conrad’s ‘Heart of Darkness’ and some horror films, Humphries describes Kurtz as a “living-dead” which elicits Marlow’s guilt due to repressed incestuous desires, yet interprets Kurtz’s status as “mort- vivant” as a condensation of the relationship between cannibalism and death (1998: 15). Moreover, he connects Marlow’s recurrent use of spectral terminology specifically to “the whites adrift … in the African continent” (Humphries 1998: 18). Tony C. Brown has recourse to Žižek’s notion of psychosis to conceptualise the darkness located in Africa as what “‘fills out and blocks the perspective’ of civilization and its constitutive codes” (Žižek 1991: 52. Qtd. in Brown 2000: 16). The colonial frontier which the Congo best represented in the discourse of the times was the site of a formless void which threatened the consistency of European culture and had to be foreclosed. Brown quotes from Conrad’s personal account of his Congo experience in ‘Geography and Some Explorers’ (1924) and in Edward Garnnet’s ‘Introduction to Letters from Joseph Conrad, 1895-1924’ (1928) to support his view that the adventurous youthful illusions which worked as a frame organising his experience of reality (in the Lacanian sense of the term) were destroyed by something which blocked the perspective. Conrad’s traumatic encounter is interpreted by Brown in terms of Lacan’s “encounter with the real” (2000: 20). Yet, Brown’s reading of ‘Heart of Darkness’ relies too much on youthful illusions as the “fantasy-frames” constitutive of reality in their confrontation with the real (2000: 20). True, Conrad and Marlow had to foreclose the threat of dissolution to restore culture’s consistency and reinstitute the authority of cultural codes,
13 Lacan calls it “unassimilable” and also “the impossible” (1981: 55, 167. Emphasis in original). 14 Christine Texier (2002) substantiates the distinction between the real and reality in the Conrad novella by opposing fragmentariness, suggestiveness, negation, formlessness as characteristic features of the real to binding, framing, shaping, veiling elements, images and language which are constitutive of reality as a counterweight to the real.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 43–60 ISSN 0210-6124 Failed Exorcism: Kurtz’s Spectral Status and Its Ideological Function 51 but whereas the remains of his childish tendency to follow the steps of explorers and discover some uncharted lands may have been the stuff that Conrad’s fantasy-scenario was made of, in Marlow’s case this seems not to be so. 15 As he tells his audience, the blank space he “had a hankering after … was not a blank space anymore. … It had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery—a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over” (Conrad 1946: 52). Apart from codes, from ‘reality’ structured by the symbolic order, it is true that the supplement of fantasy is needed. Yet, Marlow’s sustaining fantasy is not of the type of juvenile illusion he celebrated before the same audience of friends in ‘Youth: A Narrative’ (1898): fantasy in Marlow’s account in ‘Heart of Darkness’ is of another nature, and it manifests itself in the different ideological strategies of which Kurtz’s spectre is the last and seemingly everlasting one: “I have remained loyal to Kurtz to the last, and even beyond” (Conrad 1946: 151). Taking into account his direct reference to Lacan’s thesis about ‘the encounter with the real’ in Four Fundamental Concepts, it is rather surprising that Brown does not select the passage where this encounter is more directly rendered but chooses instead to place the spotlight on what happens right afterwards in the jungle as the “heightened, climatic point in the novel [where] there is revealed the absolute and terrifying failure of signification and its attendant authority in the midst of the dark wilderness” (2000: 23). At this point Marlow had already fled from this most frightening and traumatic experience into the reality preserved by the nightmare of his choice, forever haunted by Kurtz’s spectre, which works, as Lacan says, as “the screen that conceals something quite primary, something determinant in the function of repetition” (1981: 60). In the act of recounting that exceptional past experience,16 Marlow is visited again by the ghost whose exorcism he had not performed so as to prevent his disengagement (“separation” in Lacanian terms [1981: 213]) from the symbolic order and retain his position as a normative subject throughout (“He was the only man of us who still ‘followed the sea’” [Conrad 1946: 48. Emphasis added]). Thus, in the account of his visit to the Intended, Marlow states: “For her he had died only yesterday. And, by Jove! the impression was so powerful that for me, too, he seemed to have died only yesterday—nay, this very minute.… I saw him clearly enough then. I shall see this eloquent phantom as long as I live” (Conrad 1946: 157, 160. Emphases added).17 The ethereal and growingly aural efflorescence (Kurtz’s spectre) emerging from Marlow’s encounter with the real returns in the reactualisation of his experience in the narrative: “it was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice. I was anxious to deal with this shadow by myself alone,—and to this day I don’t know why I was so jealous of sharing with any one the peculiar blackness of that experience” (Conrad 1946: 141-42).
15 Actually, evidence from letters of the period in which Conrad got his command of a steamboat belonging to the Société Anonyme Belge pour le Commerce du Haut-Congo shows that his frame of mind at that time was far from the childish or youthful fantasising that Tony Brown says organised Conrad’s Congo experience and that was thrown into complete disarray after his traumatic encounter with the real. (See Conrad’s letter from Tenerife to Marguerite Poradowska of 15 May 1890 in Conrad [1983: 51]). 16 Exceptional both professionally (“I suppose you fellows remember I did once turn fresh-water sailor for a bit” [Conrad 1946: 51.) and psychologically (“relation of a dream…of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams” [Conrad 1946: 8]; Italics added in both). 17 Marlow’s use of the adverb yesterday (“he had died only yesterday”), instead of the day before or the previous day, is ungrammatical and indicates how the spectre undermines chronological order in his account, causing a temporal confusion of past and present that collapse into one another and are projected into a future in which the haunting persists (“this very minute”, “as long as I live”).
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Beyond the chain of signifiers (Marlow’s tale) there persists the spectral screen of the unsymbolisable, impossible real, tantalisingly precluding symbolic closure in a fully comprehensible narrative: “no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, … it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream—alone. . . .” (Conrad 1946: 82. 2nd ellipsis in the original). However, Kurtz’s spectre functions at the same time as a fantasmatic supplement to screen the void of the real, so that, I maintain, what hinges Marlow and his narrative to the symbolic—in spite of his ironic detachment from regulating ideas and beliefs of the markedly imperialist ideology in which he is embedded—is his attachment to the ghost of Mr Kurtz. It is the thin, yet overpowering, layer of Kurtz’s spectre that serves to obfuscate the real of his desire, that keeps Marlow from carrying out a free act that deserves the qualification of ethical according to Lacan’s view in The Ethics of Psychoanalysis, where he states: “the only thing of which one can be guilty is of having given ground relative to one’s desire” (1992: 319). The betrayal of one’s desire (of not having ‘acted in conformity with the desire that is in you’, impervious to the prescriptions instilled in us by ideology) binds us more strongly to the Law, and that concomitantly provokes in us unappeasable guilty feelings which are dispensed by an agency Lacan calls “superego” (1992: 314). For Lacan, the superego is not that which regulates our adaptation to social prescriptions through inflicting guilt on us for violating them, but, rather, the perverse agency that orders us to derive enjoyment from our submission to the Law and the guilt-ridden renunciation of our desire.18 This superego agency is however related to the figure of the obscene father of the primal horde in Freud’s Totem and Taboo, the “violent, jealous father who keeps all the females for himself and drives away the growing sons” (1998: 121). In the Freudian myth, the sons killed the father and erected social restrictions as barriers to the full access to jouissance that the primordial father had enjoyed and which is now strictly forbidden for the community of sons (a renunciation dubbed castration in psychoanalytical theory). The murder of the father-jouissier is succeeded by a figure or mode of paternal authority deprived of enjoyment: namely, the Name-of-the-Father, the set prohibitions and regulations that make up the symbolic order that structures reality and constitutes subjects by binding them to the Law. Our constitution as subjects of the symbolic order entails what Lacan made clear was a forced choice: “Your money or your life! If I choose the money [jouissance], I lose both [I die as a subject with a place within the symbolic order even before I am born]. If I choose life [an identity invested by the symbolic order], I have life without money, namely, a life deprived of something [pre-symbolic jouissance]” (1981: 212). As Žižek puts it: “the emergence of the subject from the encounter of a presymbolic life substance of ‘enjoyment’ and the symbolic order, … the inclusion of the subject in the symbolic community, has the structure of a forced choice: the subject supposed to choose freely his community … does not exist prior to this choice, he is constituted by means of it” (1992: 74-75).19 But this constitutive inclusion brought about by a forced choice has an obscene underside in the agency of the superego, the leftover of the primordial, un- castrated father whose demand of enjoyment mortifies us and reinforces our subjection through his voice: “Although, unlike this dead father, we have submitted to ‘castration’, his
18 In Encore, we come across Lacan’s most explicit reformulation of the Freudian superego: “Nothing forces anyone to enjoy (jouir) except the superego. The superego is the imperative of jouissance—Enjoy!” (1998: 3). See also Žižek (1994b: 68). 19 The choice is between symbolic identity and psychosis, between bad and worse (Žižek 1992: 75-76).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 43–60 ISSN 0210-6124 Failed Exorcism: Kurtz’s Spectral Status and Its Ideological Function 53 voice persists as an object-remainder in the symbolic fabric, exhorting us to derive enjoyment from the law” (Kay 2003: 171. Emphasis added). Marlow’s loyalty to Kurtz’s spectre is actually the unethical submission to this obscene superego, not the ethical injunction to keep the field of otherness open for Justice avenir. Žižek, himself, states apropos ‘Heart of Darkness’ that Conrad is to be credited for being the first in portraying this obscene perverse father in literature: “[the] figure of the ‘other father’—the obscene, uncanny, shadowy double of the Name of the Father—emerged for the first time in all its force in the novels of Joseph Conrad” (1992: 158).20 In Žižek’s view, Marlow’s predicament is marked by his incapability of getting rid of the primordial father.21 This subjection is, indeed, literally rendered in terms of a ‘forced choice’ (a ‘choice’ that was ‘ordered’), a mark of the subject’s inclusion in the symbolic order. In choosing the nightmare that Kurtz represents (his lack of restraint, his brutality and his greed) over the nightmare embodied by the Manager and his gang (corruption, inefficiency, manipulation), he is not choosing a better, fairer, more virtuous version of European or British imperialism, he is pretending to do so, knowing very well that the colonial enterprise is illegitimate, criminal and unjust. What Marlow is truly forced to choose is Kurtz qua obverse side of the Name of the Father, whose representative figure in the text is the apathetic director of the Company he interviewed to sign his ‘contract’: A door opened, a white-haired secretarial head … appeared, and a skinny forefinger beckoned me into the sanctuary. Its light was dim, and a heavy writing-desk squatted in the middle. From behind that structure came out an impression of pale plumpness in a frock-coat. The great man himself. He was five feet six, I should judge, and had his grip on the handle-end of ever so many millions. He shook hands, I fancy, murmured vaguely, was satisfied with my French. Bon voyage (Conrad 1946: 56; Italics in the original). That Kurtz is the obscene double of the Name of the Father (that is, of symbolic authority emptied of jouissance) is rendered in the narrative by an echo, a reappearance in Marlow’s mind of one of the feminine figures flanking the door of the Company’s sancta sanctorum. Going after Kurtz to prevent his joining his night adorers, Marlow tells his audience, “I had some imbecile thoughts. The knitting old woman with the cat obtruded herself upon my memory as a most improper person to be sitting at the other end of such an affair” (Conrad 1946: 142). The same figure opens the door onto both the Name-of-the-Father and its obscene underside.22
20 Some of the features Žižek attributes to Kurtz fit his most famous filmic counterpart (Captain Willard in Apocalypse Now) better than the original character in the Conrad novella. 21 Private conversation with Slavoj Žižek on July 9, 2010. 22 This irruption is already anticipated in Marlow’s prospective comment on his exit from the great man’s office: “Often far away there I thought of these two, guarding the door of Darkness, knitting black wool as for a warm pall, one introducing, introducing continuously to the unknown, the other scrutinizing the cheery and foolish faces with unconcerned old eyes” (Conrad 1946: 57). Marlow’s description of the street and the office building is Kafkaesque avant la lettre (Conrad 1946: 55). ‘Heart of Darkness’ also anticipates Kafka’s universe by establishing a link between the Law and jouissance, yet, whereas in Kafka the Law (the bureaucratic legal machinery) and jouissance are united in the same figures or inhabit the same spaces (“obscene judges who, during night interrogations, glance through pornographic books”, or the couple copulating in the very courtroom where poor Joseph K. is being interrogated by the judges in The Trial [Žižek 1992b: 146]), in Conrad’s ‘Heart of Darkness’ they are embodied by two different figures who, though connected in Marlow’s mind, inhabit two different spaces: on the one hand, the director and the Company’s headquarters, and, on the other, Kurtz and the jungle.
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Tony Jackson (1994) states that Marlow left the Central Station in the hope that Kurtz would be the one man capable enough to bring “the Law of the Father to the uncivilized”, to a land that that he increasingly portrays as a pre-symbolic realm that threatens to engulf and drown the white man in a sea of unbearable jouissance (1994: 106).23 As he tells his audience at the end of Part I, he was so disgusted by the corruption and inefficiency of the men in charge of the two stations (exception made of the chief accountant) that he was eager, “curious to see whether this man [Kurtz], who had come out equipped with moral ideas of some sort, would climb up to the top and how he would set about his work when there” (Conrad 1946: 88). In sum, Marlow hoped Kurtz would stand as the Name of the Father, as the figure of symbolic authority that structures the real into reality by the imposition of the letter of the Law emptied of enjoyment —hence his insistence that “I made the strange discovery that I had never imagined him as doing, you know, but as discoursing”, and his fear that he would never had the opportunity to hear the “gifted creature” “speak” (Conrad 1946: 113. Emphasis added). Kurtz’s talents and his performance did to a certain extent elevate him to that position of the Name of the Father, so that Marlow’s loyalty to him could be interpreted as his determination to preserve Kurtz’s status as a “remarkable man” (Conrad 1946: 138): as a competent coloniser with a stock of knowledge to improve commercial interests in the region (versus the Manager’s lack of efficiency as just “a common trader” with “peddling notions” [Conrad 1946: 73, 137]) yet whose plans were thwarted by the corruption and unfair play installed in the Company; as an apt contributor to the propaganda machinery (he gives a journalist friend of Kurtz’s the latter’s Report on the Suppression of Savage Customs for publication with the post-script conveniently torn off); as a relative caring enough to send “some family letters” Marlow gives his cousin (Conrad 1946: 154); and as a fiancé for whose love story Marlow provides a sublime melodramatic ending by telling the Intended that Kurtz’s last word was “’your name’” (Conrad 1946: 161).24 Indeed, Marlow insists that he felt compelled to keep Kurtz’s reputation: “I was to have care of his memory. I’ve done enough for it to give me the indisputable right to lay it, if I choose, for the everlasting rest in the dust-bin of progress. … But then, you see, I can’t choose. He won’t be forgotten. Whatever he was, he was not common” (Conrad 1946: 118-19).25 In this way, it could be argued that ‘Heart of Darkness’ repeats the same pattern found in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, where the young Danish prince is called on by the ghost of his murdered father to settle his accounts after his premature death. Kurtz’s spectre, like the ghost of old King Hamlet, inhabits what Žižek calls, after Lacan, a “place ‘between two deaths’”, between his physical, biological death and his symbolic death, the payment of his debt to the Other (1989: 135). However, Marlow’s careful defence of Kurtz’s reputation does not end in the pacifying exorcism of the spectre. Furthermore, he even entertains an attitude of ironic distance towards what he feels is Kurtz’s illegitimate claim, a detachment that is of kind with his reaction to his aunt’s foolish belief in the goodness of the civilising
23 Notice how sometimes the natives are portrayed as secretions or excrescences of the jungle qua Thing: “streams of human beings—of naked human beings— … were poured into the clearing by the dark-faced and pensive forest”; or “the forest that had ejected these beings so suddenly had drawn them in again as the breath is drawn in a long aspiration” (Conrad 1946: 133, 134). 24 For a discussion of the melodramatic outcome in the typically masculine way of negotiating the split between the non-phallic (ethical goals and public aspirations and activities) and the phallic (sexual enjoyment) see Žižek (1994b: 152). 25 Or, later on, Marlow promises the hectic Russian harlequin: “’Mr. Kurtz’s reputation is safe with me’. I did not know how truly I spoke” (Conrad 1946: 139).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 43–60 ISSN 0210-6124 Failed Exorcism: Kurtz’s Spectral Status and Its Ideological Function 55 mission and to the Intended’s faith in Kurtz’s devotion to both social ideals and to his love for her. Thus, Marlow’s mimicking echo of the Intended’s expressions of sincere feeling towards Kurtz (“‘I [the Intended] knew him best’. ‘You knew him best’, I [Marlow] repeated”; “‘His words, at least, have not died’. ‘His words will remain’, I said. ‘And his example’, she whispered to herself.… ‘True’, I said; ‘his example, too. Yes, his example, I forgot that’”; “‘The last word he pronounced was--your name’ … ‘I knew it—I was sure!’ . . . She knew. She was sure” [Conrad 1946: 158, 160, 161-62]) are in tune with Marlow’s account of Kurtz’s demand of justice with which Conrad chose to frame the final episode of his visit to the Intended: first Marlow says, “he [Kurtz] said one day, ‘This lot of ivory now is really mine. The Company did not pay for it. … I want no more than justice’… He wanted no more than justice—no more than justice” (Conrad 1946: 156. 2nd ellipsis in the original) and right at the end of his narrative, after telling the lie to the Intended, he states interrogatively: “Would [the heavens] have fallen, I wonder, if I had rendered Kurtz that justice which was his due? Hadn’t he wanted only justice?” (Conrad 1946: 162). And what is more, Marlow even goes as far as disavowing his own forced choice of nightmares by criticising in the Russian harlequin an attachment to Kurtz that equally applies to him: “I almost envied him of this modest and clear flame … I did not envy him his devotion to Kurtz, though. It came to him, and he accepted it with a sort of eager fatalism” (Conrad 1946: 126-27. Emphasis added). Ironic detachment and contradictory disavowal undermine the interpretation of Marlow’s loyalty to Kurtz’s ghost as an attempt to preserve his legacy. Furthermore, Miller’s Derridean view that Kurtz’s persisting spectrality is an instance of hauntology that keeps open the field of otherness which triggers off the proliferation of different interpretations and retains the promise of justice-to-come falls wide off the mark taking into consideration, among other things, Marlow’s derisive statements precisely on Kurtz’s claim for justice. The ghost in Marlow’s narrative discourse has, in view of what has been said, the ideological function of filling in the gap that traverses the symbolic order, an abyssal void that Marlow experienced as an encounter with the real where an unconscious desire was announced.26 So, it is not so much, as Reynold Humphries says, that Kurtz as a living-dead elicits Marlow’s guilt because of his repressed incestuous desires, but, rather, it is his loyal attachment to the spectre of
26 Stephen Ross (2004) offers a reading of what he calls a “virtually unexplored” area in the novella: namely, the interconnection between the ideological and the psychological (2004: 65). Desire is the element that links both dimensions: materialist desire for accumulation is the driving force of both individual colonial agents and of the Company as a corporate whole. Kurtz’s final cry is an articulation of “his vision of the truth of desire, its absolute insatiability and basis in an irremediable subjective lack (what Lacan calls déhiscence) upon which the commercial culture of modernity capitalizes” (Ross 2004: 86). Though I find Ross’s interpretation correct, his version of desire is completely different from the ethical conception which sustains my reading, which I draw from other moments in Lacan’s oeuvre and which I relate to Marlow, not to Kurtz. Furthermore, Kurtz may have broken, as Ross explains, the Company’s law and rediscovered “the instincts of unfettered desire in all their violence and uncompromising demand for unmitigated, uninterrupted, and undiluted jouissance” (2004: 82), yet his apparently regressive gesture does not bring about his abrogation of the Other as he still strives for the recognition of the symbolic order: for instance, he kept on writing for the newspapers and wanted kings to meet him at railways stations. Kurtz does not carry out an ethical act of breaking with the Law, but, rather, tries to circumvent the Company’s control because the latter is de facto inefficient, corrupt and unfair to his commercial talents. And this is also the reason why I cannot but disagree with Žižek’s view that Kurtz stands for “evilness qua ethical attitude” (1992: 158).
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Kurtz that makes Marlow feel guilty for having compromised his unconscious desire and stopped short in carrying out the truly ethical act of separation from the symbolic order he finds wanting, lacking. Kurtz, as Žižek points out, stands for the obscene father of the primal horde, the obverse shadowy figure of the Name of the Father that Marlow is incapable and unwilling to exorcise. Marlow carries out his appointed function within the symbolic order and, at the same time, remains attached to the obscene underside of the Law through his adherence to “Mr. Kurtz”, to “the shade of Mr. Kurtz” (Conrad 1946: 117).
5. Kurtz’s spectre goes aural: seeing, hearing and sticking to the Law
As advanced above, the type of spectre Marlow deals with so as to remain inscribed within the symbolic order is an increasingly aural one. It is Kurtz as an overpowering ghostly voice that prevails over his more visual aspect, a voice that becomes more and more a sound disengaged from its human source, a purely terrifying, yet appealing, echo that carries no meaning.27 Marlow had hoped that Kurtz’s discourse would be that of the Law of the Father capable of investing order on the surrounding devastation and inefficiency, yet he ends up being bound to the undying echo of the primal father’s expiring whisper. “The man presented himself as a voice. Not of course that I did not connect him with some sort of action. … That was not the point. The point was in his being a gifted creature, and that of all his gifts the one that stood out preëminently … was his ability to talk, his words” (Conrad 1946: 113). Marlow chooses a voice among disembodied voices, a voice which condenses “the ghost of his [Kurtz’s] gifts” and still ‘lingers’ while he is telling the story: “And I heard—him—it—this voice—other voices—all of them were so little more than voices—and the memory of that time lingers around me, impalpable, like a dying vibration of one immense jabber, silly, atrocious, sordid, savage, or simply mean, without any kind of sense” (Conrad 1946: 114-15; Emphases added). Kurtz’s aural spectre is spoken of in objective terms: his voice becomes a haunting object, an ‘it’. Mladen Dolar (1996) criticises the abandonment of voice, of sound, in Saussurean linguistics (that reduces it to phonemes within a structure) and in Derridean deconstruction (that attacks its consideration as self-transparent presence). For Dolar, voice is, rather, “the object in the Lacanian sense … [,] a leftover heterogeneous in relation to the structural logic that includes it” and “an interior obstacle to self-presence” (1996: 9-10, 16). Žižek (1996) speaks of the voice in similar terms: “voice is that which, in the signifier, resists meaning, it stands for the opaque inertia that cannot be recuperated by meaning” (1996: 103). And he adds, “voice is neither dead nor alive: its primordial phenomenological status is rather that of the living dead, of a spectral apparition that somehow survives its own death, that is the eclipse of meaning” (Žižek 1996: 103). The sound that epitomises Kurtz qua “eloquent phantom”–a ghost Marlow declares he “shall see … as long as I live”– is his final cry: “’The horror! The horror!’” (Conrad 1946: 160, 149). It is this whisper, inaudible for the Intended, that reverberates in Marlow’s mind at the culminating point of his interview with this woman: “‘Don’t you hear them [Kurtz’s last words]?’ The dusk repeating them in a
27 Ivan Kreilkamp (1997) relates the disembodied voice to the invention of the phonograph at the turn of the nineteenth century: “If the ‘horror’ ascribed to Kurtz has something to do with his status as an individual who becomes nothing more or less than his voice, then his representation suggests the experience—new to Conrad and his readers in the late 1890s—of hearing someone’s voice reproduced by a phonograph” (Kreilkamp 1997: 231).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 43–60 ISSN 0210-6124 Failed Exorcism: Kurtz’s Spectral Status and Its Ideological Function 57 persistent whisper all around us … ‘The horror! The horror!’” (Conrad 1946: 161). Marlow’s mystifying mixture of seeing and hearing can be clarified by taking into account Žižek’s view that voice “points toward a gap in the field of the visible, toward the dimension of what eludes our gaze. In other words, their relationship is mediated by an impossibility: ultimately, we hear things because we cannot see everything” (1996: 93. Emphasis in the original).28 In Marlow’s account of Kurtz’s final cry we find a similar logic at work: a meaningless voice standing for what cannot be seen, a voice to which meaning and moral value is attached retrospectively by the voluntaristic listener: He had summed up—he had judged. ‘The horror!’ He was a remarkable man. After all, this was the expression of some sort of belief; it had candour, it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face of a glimpsed truth—the strange commingling of desire and hate. … True, he had made that last stride, he had stepped over the edge, while I had been permitted to draw back my hesitating foot. And perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of the invisible. Perhaps! I like to think my summing-up would not have been a word of careless contempt. Better his cry—much better. It was an affirmation, a moral victory paid for by innumerable defeats, by abominable terrors, by abominable satisfactions. But it was a victory! That is why I have remained loyal to Kurtz to the last, and even beyond, when a long time after I heard once more, not his own voice, but the echo of his magnificent eloquence thrown to me from a soul as translucently pure as a cliff of crystal (Conrad 1946: 151-52. Emphases added). It is the spectral echo, the object voice, through which Marlow hears either what cannot be seen (invisible), or what can be seen through (cliff of crystal). It is through the resonating whisper that Marlow ‘sees’ Kurtz’s phantom as long as he lives. If Marlow chooses Kurtz’s nightmarish voice over the other voices and remains loyal to it to the end and beyond, it is because Kurtz’s voice is that of the obscene authoritarian father of the primordial horde. Kurtz’s credentials as such a figure are repeatedly displayed in often-quoted passages such as: “Mr. Kurtz lacked restraint in the gratification of his various lusts” (Conrad 1946: 131); “I had to deal with a being to whom I could not appeal in the name of anything high or low” (Conrad 1946: 144; see also Conrad 1946: 116, 117- 18). The voice that haunts Marlow is, as any other voice qua spectral object, linked to the superego in Lacanian psychoanalysis. Mladen Dolar summarises what I have pointed out above in reference to the obscenely mortifying nature of the superego and relates it precisely to the voice object. The superego, he says, is “not just an internalization of the Law, but something endowed with a surplus that puts the subject into a position of ineradicable guilt: the more one obeys, the more one is guilty. … [T]he surplus of the superego over the Law is precisely the surplus of the voice; the superego has a voice, the Law is stuck with the letter” (Dolar 1996: 14). This voice that is beyond meaning, sense or logos, is, therefore, attached to the Law, it works (to use Žižek’s own words from a long quotation above) as “an uncanny spectral supplement” by means of which “the circle of reality can be closed” (1994: 21).29 For Dolar,
28 For an enlightening reading of the scopic drive in ‘Heart of Darkness’ that draws substantially on Lacan’s conception of the gaze see Devlin (2006). Devlin aptly shows how the wilderness-as-gaze, which Marlow tries uselessly to block and undermine, is a symptom of his and the European colonisers’ precarious sense of mastery over the colonised lands and peoples. 29 Herein resides the difference between the ideological reading I propose and Vincent Pecora’s dense and suggestive phenomenological and existentialist interpretation of the Conrad novella in ‘Heart of Darkness and the Phenomenology of Voice’. Drawing on Schopenhauer, Nietzsche and
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 43–60 ISSN 0210-6124 58 Jorge Sacido Romero the object voice par excellence is that of the father of the horde, whose dying cry permeates the field of Law, echoing in the open crack constitutive of the symbolic order, yet serving in the last instance to cover it and to invest upon it a precarious sense of closure. The voice of the primordial father is the necessary and, at once, unavoidable counterpart of the Name of the Father. In reference to Lacan’s discussion of the shofar (a primitive horn used in religious rituals) in his seminar on anxiety, Dolar argues that “one has to recognise, in the sound of the shofar, the voice of the Father, the cry of the dying primal Father of the primitive horde, the leftover, which comes both to haunt the foundation of his Law and to seal it” (1996: 26. Emphasis added). It is this object voice, Dolar goes on, that “bears witness to the rest of that presupposed and terrible Father’s jouissance, which couldn’t be absorbed by the Law, that reverse side of the Father that Lacan calls le-père-la-joussance, his ultimate deadly cry that accompanies the instituted Law” (1996: 27; Italics in the original).30 It is precisely through his loyal attachment to Kurtz’s spectral superegoic voice that Marlow avoids confronting the lack in the symbolic order he came to experience and refrains from carrying out a final ethical act of freedom. In spite of being witness to the evils of the mission civilisatrise, Marlow is incapable of truly transcending imperialist ideology, of—in Edward W. Said’s terms in reference to the Conrad novella— “tak[ing] the next step” and “imagin[ing] a fully realized alternative to imperialism” (1993: 30, 25). In the last instance, this incapability follows the logic of a failure to exorcise Kurtz’s spectre, of “‘doing the impossible’, traversing the fantasy toward the Real”, of carrying out a true act (Žižek 2000: 127).
Works Cited
Achebe, Chinua 1988 (1977): ‘An Image of Africa: Racism in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness’. Robert Kimbrough, ed. Heart of Darkness: An Authoritative Text, Background and Sources, Criticism. 3rd ed. New York: Norton. 251-62. Aldeman, Gary 1987: Heart of Darkness: Search for the Unconscious. Boston: Twayne. Ash, Beth Sharon 1999: Writing in Between: Modernity and Psychosocial Dilemma in the Novels of Joseph Conrad. New York: St. Martin’s P. Brantlinger, Patrick 1988: Rule of Darkness: British Literature and Imperialism, 1830-1914. Ithaca: Cornell UP. Brown, Tony C. 2000: ‘Cultural Psychosis on the Frontier: The Work of the Darkness in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness’. Studies in the Novel 32.1: 14-28. Collits, Terry 2005: Postcolonial Conrad: Paradoxes of Empire. London: Routledge. Conrad, Joseph. 1946: ‘Heart of Darkness’. Youth, Heart of Darkness, The End of the Tether: Three Stories. London: Dent. 45-162.
Derrida, Pecora argues that “Kurtz’s voice, though severely reduced, in the end does reaffirm for Marlow a living presence and moral strength” (1985: 1003). Towards the end of his essay, Pecora qualifies the previous statement, yet concludes that Kurtz’s voice remains for Marlow an illusion of self-presence (1985: 1008). As I have maintained throughout, it is not only that Marlow’s experience of Kurtz’s voice could not be reduced to an illusion of self-presence (not to say moral wisdom as Pecora affirms in the first quotation from his essay), but precisely that its unappeasable and senseless spectrality supplements the lack in the set of what Pecora calls “cultural expectations”, or “moral, political, and psychological” norms and standards, of, in sum, the ideology of Western imperialism in which Marlow and his audience are inscribed (1985: 1003, 997). 30 “For what endows the Law with authority is also what irretrievably bars it, and the attempts to banish the other voice, the voice beyond logos, are ultimately based in the impossibility of coming to terms with the Law’s inherent alterity, placed at the point of its inherent lack which voice comes to cover” (Dolar 1996: 28. Emphasis added).
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―――― 1983: The Collected Letters of Joseph Conrad. Vol 1, 1861-1897. Eds. Frederick R. Karl and Laurence Davies. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. Derrida, Jacques 1994: Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning, and the New International. Trans. Peggy Kamuf. London: Routledge. Devlin, Kimberly J. 2006: ‘The Scopic Drive and Visual Projection in Heart of Darkness’. Modern Fiction Studies 52.1: 19-41. Dolar, Mladen 1996: ‘The Object Voice’. Renata Salecl and Slavoj Žižek, eds. Gaze and Voice as Love Objects. Durham, NC: Duke UP. 7-31. Eagleton, Terry 1976: Criticism and Ideology: A Study in Marxist Literary Theory. London: Verso. Fayad, Mona. 1990: ‘The Problem of the Subject in Africanist Discourse: Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness” and Camus’ “The Renegade”’. Comparative Literature Studies 27.4: 298-312. Firchow, Peter E. 2000: Envisioning Africa: Racism and Imperialism in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Lexington: UP of Kentucky. Freud, Sigmund 1998 (1913): Totem and Taboo. Trans. A. A. Brill. New York: Dover. ―――― 2001 (1920): ‘Beyond the Pleasure Principle’. The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. Vol. 18. Trans. James Strachey. London: Vintage. 7-64. Glover, David 2001: ‘The “Spectrality Effect” in Early Modernism’. Andrew Smith and Jeff Wallace, eds. Gothic Modernisms. London: Palgrave, 29-43. Humphries, Reynold 1998: ‘Conrad avec Freud et Lacan: Les enjeux de la représentation dans Heart of Darkness’. Josiane Paccaud-Huguet, ed. Joseph Conrad 1: La fiction de l’autre. Paris-Caen: Lettres modernes Minard. 7-19. Jackson, Tony 1994: The Subject of Modernism: Narrative Alterations in the Fiction of Eliot, Conrad, Woolf, and Joyce. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P. Johnson, A. James M. 1997: ‘Victorian Anthropology, Racism, and “Heart of Darkness”’. Ariel 28.4: 111-31. Kay, Sarah 2003: Žižek: A Critical Introduction. Cambridge: Polity. Kreilkamp, Ivan 1997: ‘A Voice without a Body: The Phonographic Logic in Heart of Darkness’. Victorian Studies 40.2: 211-44. Lacan, Jacques 1981: The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis. The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. Vol. 12. Ed. Jacques-Alain Miller and trans. Alan Sheridan. New York: Norton. ―――― 1992: The Ethics of Psychoanalysis. The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. Vol. 7. Ed. Jacques-Alain Miller and trans. Denis Porter. New York: Norton. ―――― 1998: Encore: On Feminine Sexuality, the Limits of Love and Knowledge. The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. Vol. 20. Ed. Jacques-Alain Miller and trans. Bruce Fink. New York: Norton. Laplanche, J. and J.-B. Pontalis 1985: The Language of Psycho-Analysis. Trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith. London: The Hogarth P and The Institute of Psycho-Analysis. Lipka, Jennifer 2008: ‘”The Horror!, The Horror!”: Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness as a Gothic Novel’. Conradiana 40.1: 25-37. Miller, John Hillis 2001: Others. Princeton: Princeton UP. Paccaud-Huguet, Josiane 2004: ‘The Remains of Kurtz’s Day: Joseph Conrad and Historical Correctness’. Conradiana 36.3: 167-84. ―――― 2006: “‘One of Those Trifles that Awaken Ideas”: The Conradian Moment’. The Conradian 31.1: 72-85. Paris, Bernard J. 2005: Charlie Marlow: A New Approach to ‘Heart of Darkness’ and Lord Jim. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Parry, Benita 1983: Conrad and Imperialism: Ideological Boundaries and Visionary Frontiers. London: Macmillan. Pecora, Vincent 1985: ‘Heart of Darkness and the Phenomenology of Voice’. ELH 52.4: 993-1015. ―――― 1989: Self and Form in Modern Literature. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP. Ross, Stephen 2004: ‘Desire in Heart of Darkness’. Conradiana 36.1-2: 65-91. Sacido Romero, Jorge 2009: ‘Introjected and Projected Objects in Ideological Discourse: The Case of Marlow in Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness”’. Marian Amengual, María Juan and Joana Salazar, eds. New Perspectives on English Studies. Palma: Edicions UIB. 353-58.
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Said, Edward W. 1993: Culture and Imperialism. New York: Vintage. Singh, Frances B. 1988 (1978): ‘The Colonialistic Bias of Heart of Darkness’. Robert Kimbrough, ed. Heart of Darkness: An Authoritative Text, Background and Sources, Criticism. 3rd ed. New York: Norton. 268-80. Smith, Johanna M. 1989: ‘“Too Beautiful Altogether”: Patriarchal Ideology in Heart of Darkness’. Ross C. Murfin, ed. Heart of Darkness: A Case Study in Contemporary Criticism. Boston: St. Martin’s P. 123-36. Texier, Christine 2002: ‘Réel et réalité dans Heart of Darkness’. Josiane Paccaud-Huguet, ed. Joseph Conrad 2: Heart of Darkness une leçon de ténebrès. Paris-Caen: Lettres modernes Minard. 137-58. Wollaeger, Mark A. 1990: Joseph Conrad and the Fictions of Skepticism. Stanford: Stanford UP. Zhuwarara, R. 1994: ‘Heart of Darkness Revisited: The African Response’. Kunapipi 16.3: 21-37. Žižek, Slavoj. 1989: The Sublime Object of Ideology. London: Verso. ―――― 1991: ‘Grimaces of the Real, or When the Phallus Appears’. October 58: 44-68. ―――― 1992a: Enjoy Your Symptom! Jacques Lacan in Hollywood and Out. London: Routledge. ―――― 1992b: Looking Awry: An Introduction to Jacques Lacan through Popular Culture. Cambridge: The MIT P. ―――― 1994a: ‘The Spectre of Ideology’. Slavoj Žižek, ed. Mapping Ideology. London: Verso. 1-33. ―――― 1994b. The Metastases of Enjoyment. Six Essays on Women and Causality. London: Verso. ―――― 1996: ‘“I Hear You with My Eyes;” or, The Invisible Master’. Renata Salecl and Slavoj Žižek, eds. Gaze and Voice as Love Objects. Durham: Duke UP. 90-126. ―――― 1997: The Plague of Fantasies. London: Verso. ―――― 2000: ‘Class Struggle or Postmodernism? Yes, Please!’. Judith Butler, Ernesto Laclau and Slavoj Žižek, eds. Contingency, Hegemony, Universality: Contemporary Dialogues on the Left. London: Verso. 90- 135. ―――― 2001: On Belief. London: Routledge. ―――― 2005 (1990): ‘Beyond Discourse Analysis’. Rex Butler and Scott Stephens, eds. Interrogating the Real. London: Continuum. 271-84.
Received 21 May 2011 Revised version accepted 17 August 2011
Jorge Sacido Romero (PhD U.of Santiago de Compostela) is Senior Lecturer of English at this university. He has published on Conrad, Woolf, Žižek and British popular culture, and has co-edited National Identities and European Literatures (2008).
Address: Departamento de Filoloxía Inglesa e Alemá. Facultade de Filoloxía. Universidade de Santiago de Compostela. Avda. Castelao s/n, Santiago de Compostela. 15782 A Coruña, Spain. Tel. +34 981 563100 (ext. 11880). Fax: +34 981 574646.
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FRAMED IMAGES AS COUNTERPOINTS IN JAMES JOYCE’S ‘THE DEAD’
Tomás Monterrey Universidad de La Laguna [email protected]
This article aims to analyse the images presented within frames in James Joyce’s ‘The Dead’ as if they were descriptions of works of art, or ekphrases. It will be shown that the four main framed images reproduce a certain design established by the initial set, underlying once again the perfect structure as well as the complex intertwining between all the narrative elements of the text. Examining ekphrases involves a symbolic reading of the textual images, often leading to unexpected associations, which, at the same time, reinforce—like counterpoints—central aspects of the story. This analysis has also made it possible to focus on elements usually overlooked by Joycean criticism, such as the waistcoat that Gabriel’s mother made for him. Since all the framed images may be considered as exploring and exhibiting Gabriel’s inner conflicts, Lacan’s psychoanalytic theory has provided an invaluable tool for understanding both the main character’s epiphanic experience and the intense dynamics of those around him, including the spectral presences of his mother and Michael Furey. The two ekphrastic descriptions of unframed images—the supper table and the snow—will also be considered.
Keywords: Ekphrasis; framed images; ‘The Dead’; Joyce; Lacan; Modernism
IMÁGENES ENMARCADAS COMO CONTRAPUNTOS EN ‘LOS MUERTOS’, DE JAMES JOYCE
Este artículo analiza aquellas imágenes en el cuento ‘Los muertos’, de Joyce, presentadas dentro de marcos, como si se describiesen obras de arte, o écfrasis. Las cuatro imágenes principales enmarcadas reproducen el patrón establecido en la primera de ellas, resaltando una vez más la perfecta estructura y la compleja interrelación de todos los elementos narrativos del texto. Estudiar las écfrasis implica una lectura simbólica que realza—como contrapuntos—momentos de gran intensidad de la historia y que con frecuencia conduce a asociaciones sorprendentes. Este enfoque posibilitará estudiar elementos que la crítica Joyceana suele pasar por alto, como el chaleco que la madre de Gabriel le confeccionó. Dado que todas las imágenes enmarcadas exploran y revelan los conflictos internos de Gabriel, la teoría psicoanalítica de Lacan resultará una herramienta excelente para comprender tanto la experiencia epifánica del protagonista como el intenso dinamismo de los que le rodean, incluyendo las presencias espectrales de su madre y de Michael Furey. También se hará referencia a dos écfrasis de imágenes que se resisten a ser enmarcadas: la mesa de la cena y la nieve.
Palabras clave: Écfrasis; imágenes enmarcadas; Los muertos; Joyce; Lacan; modernismo 62 Tomás Monterrey
1. Introduction
In a core episode of James Joyce’s ‘The Dead’, Gabriel Conroy observes that it is his wife Gretta who is listening on the staircase to Mr Bartell D’Arcy singing ‘The Lass of Aughrim’. In amazement at his feeling of estrangement, he tries to come to terms with the awesome sight by rendering the scene into a painting in order to read it symbolically. This is one of several instances in ‘The Dead’ where an image is shown to the reader as if it were within a frame. On defining frame, Ulrich Weisstein quotes the following meaning from the Webster Collegiate Dictionary: “a kind of open case or structure made for admitting, enclosing or supporting things like windows, doors or pictures” (Weisstein 2007: 191), but for his analysis of visual arts he reformulates its scope to: “a total or partial enclosure serving as a borderline separating fact from fiction” (2007: 191). Both definitions are relevant for the present essay. The former indicates those instances in ‘The Dead’ where images are shown as framed, while the latter denotes the literary use of those images within frames which might be interpreted as pieces of visual art, thus separating the factual, realistic world of Gabriel from his mental, psychological progression to the closing epiphany. In fact, all framed images in ‘The Dead’ refer to Gabriel’s psychological operations, which will be commented on following Lacan’s psychoanalytic theory. Framed images function like ekphrastic representations within the narrative. An ekphrasis may be defined as a literary description of a visual work of art,1 enacting therefore diverse intertextual relationships between verbal and visual arts. Although ekphrases were initially explored in poetry, they abound in realistic fiction as well. In this case, when a visual work of art is described in the course of a narration, readers do understand the literal meaning shown by the image, but they may decide to read it symbolically by establishing analogies in order to extract another significance of much deeper insight. As objects of art, paintings generate an aesthetic response in viewers which is felt but cannot be easily verbalized—the “literally unrepresentable”, in Krieger’s words (1998: 4). It is taken for granted that every painting exhibits referents both figural and ideological, and that the bond between them and the image is indissoluble and unrepeatable. Owing to this, the mere inscription of a framed image within a realist story, the very materiality of the painting, allows the objective integration of the symbol within the mimetic discourse and the activation of the reader’s search for analogical meaning. By means of this peculiar way of signification, novelists may digress from the spatio-temporal dimension of characters in order to offer readers a passing glimpse into the complexity of a given subject—ranging from an authorial suggestion about the plot or characters to a transcendental truth—without breaking the illusion of reality. Like symbols, ekphrases are subject to a multiplicity of interpretations, since each new reader may produce a new interpretation by establishing new analogies. Romantic philosophers and writers were fascinated by the properties of symbols—by their capacity to reach the universal from the particular, by their participation with the idea symbolized, or by their elusive, unattainable meaning. This Romantic exploration of the transcendental quality of symbols to convey significance at different levels of abstraction reached an apotheosis in the literature of Joyce (Schneidau 1969: 81).2
1 An in-depth discussion on the definition of ekphrasis is offered in Robillard (1998). See also Heffernan (1993). 2 Joyce brought to prose fiction the quality of poetry that Ezra Pound later preached in his imagist revolution.
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Critics have frequently warned of the complexity that lurks beyond the apparent simplicity of Dubliners. Particularly in ‘The Dead’, Joyce’s crowning masterpiece in the short story genre, both chronologically and aesthetically, he contrived an intricate tapestry of significance whereby any thread of interpretation glimmers, disappears or blends at different points with any other of its myriad threads, only to converge in the epiphanic experience of Gabriel. ‘The Dead’, too, may be compared to the complex geometry of a finely cut gem, whose facets mirror and reflect each other’s brilliant and suggestive luminosity. The web of meanings—symbolic, intertextual and literal—intertwined in ‘The Dead’ justifies the use of counterpoints in the title above. In music, counterpoint is the technique of adding two or more melodies to a given melody in order to effect a harmonious combination, while each melody maintains its own independent tune. The notion of counterpoint has inspired the analysis of framed images in ‘The Dead’ which are variously described at key events throughout the story. Like counterpoints in music, framed images both reinforce and broaden the significance of the event in the storyline where they are inset, and interconnect with other meaningful nodes in the narrative structure. Besides, the ‘thread’ of framed images forms a consistent sequence throughout the short story. Its progression can be perceived on and off until the final epiphanic scene, developing from more visual to more subtle modes of both insetting these ekphrases in the narration and generating their frames. As a modernist text—or rather as a transitional text between realism and modernism—‘The Dead’ contains unframed images which also function within the narrative like true ekphrases. These will likewise be considered. Refinement of style and penetrating sincerity are the chief pillars upon which Joyce’s first presentation of Dublin from exile is sustained. The narration of ‘The Dead’ unfolds in classical simplicity. Its pace progresses, as observed by Beck, like “an adagio with no gesture either hurried or superfluous” (1969: 304). Joyce’s economic use of language exhibits a contrived exercise of intertextuality, not only by explicit references to many literary and musical pieces or by a natural welding of symbols and figures of speech in realist prose fiction, but also by subtle echoes to other texts, notably to the Gospels (Cf. Quinn 1999/2000). The short story was written in Trieste in 1907, and was later added to the first version of Dubliners, already drafted in Dublin, but concluded in Trieste in 1905. Joyce’s view of Ireland from his European exile differed in form, depth and intention from the preceding stories in the collection. By this time, his conception of Dublin as a centre of paralysis had been counterbalanced by his acknowledgement of certain Irish virtues—hospitality in particular—of which he could not see much on the continent. Like Gabriel, who mentioned in his after-supper speech the qualities “of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humour” (Joyce 1969: 203), Joyce too might have recalled vivid fond memories of Dublin. In fact, research has shown that he relied extensively on authentic and autobiographical material for this story, ranging from his correspondence with his wife Nora to the actual snowy weather conditions. Through scenes of conviviality, he created a microcosm of Irish society. The characters’ commentaries and dialogues build up a polyphony that grounds and illuminates Gabriel’s epiphanic experience, as his self is confronted with love and death—probably the two essential matters in literature as well as in life. It is paradoxical that a story entitled ‘The Dead’, covering a period of a few hours during a snowy evening near the feast of Epiphany, so noticeably abounds with sensuous images. Joyce adorned his tale with visual images from the opening word, Lily, the assistant girl’s name. Furthermore, other images are also prominent, such as the warm atmosphere at the Misses Morkans’, the magnificent supper, the music, dancing, singing or
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 61–74 ISSN 0210-6124 64 Tomás Monterrey the lively dialogue, coming to die out in the final scene, when in the darkness of the night only “the snow falling faintly through the universe” (1969: 224) remains.
2. Outlining the conflict: The first instance of framed images
At the beginning of the central section of ‘The Dead’, when Gabriel’s cousin Mary Jane skilfully executes a piano piece which he utterly rejects, he focuses his attention on two pictures hanging on the wall above the piano. One shows the balcony scene of Romeo and Juliet while the other represents Edward and Richard, the two princes murdered in the Tower of London. A photograph of Gabriel’s late mother, Ellen, with his brother Constantine can also be seen before the pier-glass. Gabriel wears glasses and the narrator indicates that his eyes are suffering from irritation as a consequence of the glittering waxed floor, as if alerting us about these visual signs, whose symbolic meaning Gabriel is doubly unable to grasp. The two pictures made in red, blue and brown wools by Aunt Julia Morkan in her schooldays introduce the ideas of tragic fate, untimely deaths and impossible love. Margot Norris has discussed at length how the balcony scene prefigures a similar one when Gabriel observes his wife listening to ‘The Lass of Aughrim’ (Norris 1989: 492-93). It also adumbrates the last scene, when Gretta tells her husband of Michael Furey, a young man in Galway she used to go out with, and how the night before she departed for the convent he stood in the garden in the rain, saying that he did not want to live. But when the pictures are shown, the reader may only anticipate some tragic event in the dénouement, reminiscent of Shakespeare, maybe in relation to Lily, whose name opens the story and whose experience in love seems to have already been quite negative. However, the reader’s expectation will soon be shifted towards Gabriel when, on noticing the photograph of his mother, he recalls how she opposed his marriage to Gretta. The photo, which gives Ellen a spectral presence at the party, is concisely described: “She [Ellen] held an open book on her knees and was pointing out something in it to Constantine who, dressed in a man-o’-war suit, lay at her feet” (Joyce 1969: 186). The image recalls the iconography of Saint Anne teaching the infant Virgin Mary to read, with the difference that Mary is standing. Constantine’s lying at his mother’s feet denotes a certain pet-like attitude of reverence and submission to her.3 Ellen is depicted as a dominant and matronly woman, in binary opposition to artistically talented Aunt Julia, who considered her sister the brain carrier of the family. Whereas Gabriel’s father is mentioned only in passing as “T. J. Conroy of the Port and Docks” (1969: 179), as if to indicate the social position of the family by mentioning his job (maybe in the administration), it was his mother who undertook her sons’ education and professional qualification with determination, and it was also she who chose their names. This latter piece of information becomes crucial for two main reasons. First, it underlines Ellen’s influence on Gabriel, as she assumed a role reserved for the father in a patriarchal society. In terms of Lacan’s theory of the three orders, she (like mothers in general) is identified as an active agent of the Symbolic, of the Other—with a capital O— representing language, culture and the Law. For Lacan, a child enters the Symbolic order,
3 It also emphasizes Ellen’s ascendancy in the family. Lorenzo Chiesa says that, for Lacan, “the mother considers the ‘totality’ of the child as her imaginary phallus”, and quotes Lacan immediately afterwards: “the child as a whole is involved” (2007: 69).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 61–74 ISSN 0210-6124 Framed Images as Counterpoints in James Joyce’s ‘The Dead’ 65 which is a thoroughly alienating realm, when he or she identifies symbolically with the father and, thus, internalizes the Law as the final step in resolving the Oedipus complex (Chiesa 2007: 65). Gabriel’s absence in the photo denotes a deficiency in his process of fully entering the Symbolic—either a reluctance to be counselled and to obey, or a lack in personal skills for social or sexual interaction. Secondly, by adding that Ellen chose her sons’ names, Joyce alerts readers to the meaning of his characters’ names and invites us to reconsider those already mentioned in the story so far. The combination of Ellen and Constantine, which are those names textually closer to this statement, immediately evoke Constantine, the Roman Emperor under whose reign the Christian faith was officially tolerated, and his mother, Saint Helena, who is reputed to have found the relics of the Holy Cross, on which Jesus Christ was crucified. In stark contrast to the Roman lineage, Gabriel bears the Biblical name of the Archangel known as the Messenger of God. It was Saint Gabriel who announced to Mary that her womb would be blessed with her divine maternity, and it will be he, too, who will announce the second coming of Christ in eschatological times. Therefore, it is suggested that Constantine possesses the pragmatic and the military qualities of Roman society, while Gabriel is, rather, imbued with the spiritual and the theocratic qualities of Judeo-Christian cultures. Instead of a capacity for facing the battles of life successfully,4 he felt inclined to the creative or artistic aspects of life, like Aunt Julia. This difference is emphasized by the man-o’-war outfit that Constantine wears in contrast to Gabriel’s waistcoat, which his mother made for him as a birthday present. He recalls the waistcoat when he realizes Mary Jane’s talent for music and wonders why his mother was not blessed with such skills. Although the waistcoat is an image that comes to Gabriel’s consciousness, it is described as if it were an ekphrasis in the central part of the paragraph, between Aunt Julia’s pictures and the photograph, thus giving the impression of another framed image: “one year his mother had worked for him as a birthday present a waistcoat of purple tabinet, with little foxes’ heads upon it, lined with brown satin and having round mulberry buttons” (Joyce 1969: 186). Despite its interpretative potentiality, the waistcoat has generally been overlooked by the critics. However, it turns out to be a highly symbolic object that requires a careful analysis to better understand the psychological constitution of Joyce’s character, as well as the elements at play in the closing epiphanic experience. The waistcoat may be figuratively interpreted as a protective shield. Its purple colour strikes one as uncommon for a boy’s garment, beautiful as it might have been. It is only when the association of Constantine with the Roman Emperor is established that its symbolism emerges in its full and ambiguous dimension. Because purple was attached to imperial dignity, Gabriel’s waistcoat becomes a motherly compensation for those qualities with which he was not naturally endowed. Constitutionally he belongs to Biblical culture, in which purple evokes the Ecce Homo—Jesus Christ shown to the people of Israel after having been scourged and crowned with thorns by the Roman soldiers. In traditional Christian iconography, purple is attributed to the ‘Nazarene’—Jesus Christ carrying his cross on his way to Calvary. Thus, Gabriel becomes what he announces5 and, therefore, must endure his personal passion. Nevertheless, it can be misleading to dissociate the character from the Angel of the Annunciation and to establish a parallelism exclusively with the passion of Christ. In the Catholic Church, purple is the liturgical colour of both
4 As is suggested in his manifold confrontations with women throughout the story and in Gretta’s praise of his generosity with others. 5 In some Christian countries it is blasphemous to name a child after Jesus.
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Advent and Lent (except in the third Sunday of Advent and the fourth of Lent, when it is pink). Like Lent, Advent signifies a spiritual preparation for Christmas time, which—from the Nativity to the Epiphany—starts the core phase of God’s plan of salvation which culminates in the Passion, Death and Resurrection of Christ at Easter time, when the liturgical colour, as well as at Christmas, is white, like snow. Just as the time of Advent prefigures the Easter passion, little Gabriel’s purple waistcoat adumbrates his sacrificial tribulation in adulthood, when he will bitterly admit his personal failure as a husband, and, consequently, as a man. This is reinforced by the waistcoat’s decoration of little foxes’ heads. This type of mimicry, aiming like a trompe l’oeil to deceive the eye, is one of the examples used by Lacan to explain his idea of the gaze. In ‘The Eye and the Gaze’, he analyses the Freudian concept of nucleus—this is something that belongs to the pre-conscious and exists in relation to the unconscious, and governs for example the subject’s syntax and speech. In this sense, the little foxes’ heads perform the function of Lacan’s notion of gaze by making ‘the eye slip’ as it looks at Gabriel’s problematic nucleus. As Lacan explains in his definition of the gaze, “something slips, passes, is transmitted, from state to stage, and is always to some degree eluded in it—that is what we call the gaze” (1994: 73). In his conclusion, Lacan affirms that the gaze contains the object a, which is where the subject falls and this fall remains unperceived: “In so far as the gaze, qua object a, may come to symbolize this central lack expressed in the phenomenon of castration, and in so far as it is an object a reduced, of its nature, to a punctiform, evanescent function, it leaves the subject in ignorance as to what there is beyond the appearance” (1994: 77). Given the ambiguity that the purple colour generates, the little foxes’ heads on the waistcoat become an external symbol to deceive the viewer’s ‘eye’ regarding the deficiency of Gabriel’s ego. The reason Joyce chose the fox may be explained either as an iconic variation for children of the she-wolf that suckled Romulus and Remus, or as the opposite animal in the pair to the one represented, which, in the context of Advent and Christmas, cannot be other than the lamb. Therefore, wildness, endurance or valour, and subtlety or cunning, qualities usually associated with masculinity, are lacking in Gabriel’s ego; instead, he is defined by the qualities of domesticity (with his children), shyness (with women, in particular with his wife) and generosity (towards whom he considers socially lower, such as Lily, Freddy Malins or his Aunts). Another significant element of Gabriel’s waistcoat is the lining in brown satin. Joyce’s choice of brown is not arbitrary. In the same paragraph we are told that Aunt Julia worked the pictures “in red, blue and brown wools” (Joyce 1969: 186). Brown is not a primary colour, as yellow is; and, on the whole, it is hard to imagine how the three colours can produce the effects of light and shadow to make the pictures worth being hung above the piano. Either there are two tones—dark and light—for each one of the three colours, or they are rather light, to create pictorial effects. In any case, as a substitute for yellow as a primary colour in the pictures, this brown hue would not differ much from orange, but ‘orange’, which symbolizes the Irish Protestant community, is not registered in ‘The Dead’ as a colour, but as a fruit. It can be argued that brown is metonymically used to represent Protestantism, not so much as an integral component of Irish identity, but as a direct reference to the English, foreign culture. The only non-Catholic guest at the party, who belongs to “the other persuasion” (Joyce 1969: 194), is precisely called Mr. Browne, whose “very low Dublin accent” (Joyce 1969: 183) speaks for the small degree of authorial esteem towards what he represents (though it is counterbalanced by the fact that he wears a green coat, the Irish colour for the Catholic community). The pictures of the balcony scene and the Tower, related to Shakespeare—and, more widely, to English literature,
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 61–74 ISSN 0210-6124 Framed Images as Counterpoints in James Joyce’s ‘The Dead’ 67 history and imagination—are artificially worked with brown wool. Gabriel’s waistcoat lined in brown satin, then, denotes his English-oriented education, which he cultivated to the point of writing a weekly literary column for the anglophile newspaper The Daily Express. At the party, Gabriel was worried about quoting or not quoting Robert Browning in his speech, whose poetry he had recently reviewed. Given the association of brown with England, and although Joyce himself admired and wrote about Browning, he becomes representative of any English writer, as well as Gabriel’s cultural isolation in the Dublin milieu, or in other words his contempt for Irish cultural values. While Gabriel looks at the photo of his mother, we are told: “A shadow passed over his face as he remembered her sullen opposition to his marriage” (Joyce 1969: 187). This passage has been interpreted as the resurrection of Ellen’s ghost because “the conflict had never been resolved” (O Hehir 1957: 6); but, when it is read literally,6 it becomes apparent that Joyce created a brilliant ambiguity that provides one of the most extraordinary examples of anamorphosis, as analysed by Lacan in connection with Holbein’s painting The Ambassadors. Lacan was fascinated by the skull depicted in a distorted perspective that crosses the picture, and that the viewer can make sense of only as he looks at it on leaving the room sideways. The distorted skull is simply a graphic model of the shadow which, caused by no material object, passes over Gabriel’s face. Lacan identifies the skull with “the subject as annihilated—annihilated in the form that is, strictly speaking, the imaged embodiment of the … castration” (1994: 88-89), a phenomenon related to the subject’s acceptance of the Symbolic order and Law. By one of the most ambiguous and elusive of words, shadow, Joyce represents the unrepresentable: the subject’s conflict, which Lacan situates in the order of the Real, where the object a and the gaze belong (Lacan 1994: 83). The effects of the gaze on the subject are again explained in ‘What Is a Picture?’: “the gaze is the instrument through which light is embodied and through which … I am photo-graphed” (Lacan 1994: 106; italics in the original), Lacan corrects the impression that his statement has nothing to do with representation, but with “something that establishes a fracture, a bi-partition, a splitting of the being to which the being accommodates itself” (1994: 106). Gabriel’s resentment against his mother for her opposition to his marriage and for speaking of Gretta as “being country cute” (Joyce 1969: 187) evinces an unresolved conflict in his unconscious. This conflict emerges when he looks at her photograph. Gabriel’s face becomes the screen, the mask where his inner conflict negotiates with the gaze of his mother, who, in assuming the patriarchal role, represents the order of the Symbolic, as commented above. ‘The Dead’ is about the resolution of this conflict. Yet one more aspect must be considered with regard to Ellen’s name, this time in relation to Helen of Troy, since Gabriel has decided to illustrate his speech with an allusion to the Judgement of Paris and his award of the Golden Apple. The award candidates are his two aunts and cousin, referred to as the “Three Graces of the Dublin musical world” (Joyce 1969: 204), though they are especially praised for their hospitality. Significantly, Ellen is no longer living to complete the trio of the Morkan sisters. She is said to have had no talent for music, but her vacancy is occupied by her only niece Mary Jane, who was playing—almost as in trance—a virtuoso piece at the piano, while Gabriel looked at the pictures and the photograph. Introduced by the narrator as “the main prop of the household” (Joyce 1969: 176) and later described by Gabriel as “talented, cheerful,
6 The word literally is problematic in ‘The Dead’. The opening sentence of the short story, “Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, was literally run off her feet” (Joyce 1969: 175), suggests from the very beginning a conflation between literal and figurative meaning.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 61–74 ISSN 0210-6124 68 Tomás Monterrey hard-working and the best of nieces” (1969: 205), Mary Jane—whose name echoes the third word of Christ on the Cross—seems to embody every quality Ellen wanted for her son, instead of defiant, impetuous and impassioned Gretta. The set of two pictures, the waistcoat and the photograph constitutes a unity that reveals Gabriel’s psychological topography. This first instance of framed images signposts the core matter of the story and—very significantly for the purpose of this article— establishes the literary pattern of the other three framed images to be particularly highlighted. But before dealing with the second, it is worth commenting on two minor framed images, because there will be two similar ones in the latter part of the story. Just after the incident with Miss Ivors and Gretta’s suggestion that he was the right husband for Mrs Malins, Gabriel walks to the window and, in his mental agony, wishes to be outside in the cold and the snow: “The snow would be lying on the branches of the trees and forming a bright cap on the top of the Wellington Monument. How much more pleasant it would be there than at the supper-table!” (Joyce 1969: 192). The window frames a sight that comforts Gabriel. It offers, as Daniel Schwarz has pointed out, a view to “a kind of psychic utopia” (1994: 112). Indeed, it functions as a mirror that reflects Gabriel’s specular image. Lacan’s mirror-stage theory explains the subject’s process of self- individuation as ego, when he identifies himself with an ideal image: the ideal ego.7 Gabriel’s image of his ideal ego emanates from what the phallic monument to Wellington represents.8 At the window he revises again the chief points of his speech, all of them concerned with foreign, non-Irish issues. His complete identification with the specular sight is narcissistically enhanced at the moment of uttering his speech. Gabriel envisions the gaze of the imaginary other—the ideal ego of the mirror—upon himself, as he imagines that people outside might be listening to the waltz being played and looking up to the lighted windows envious of those at the party (where he is about to speak), and even that “the Wellington Monument wore a gleaming cap of snow that flashed westward over the white field of the Fifteen Acres” (Joyce 1969: 202). Gabriel’s imagination reverses the focus of interest. Lacan relates this aggressive tension with narcissism, as “the subject both erotizes and vies with his own image, since it constitutes the ideal perfection which the subject does not have” (Chiesa 2007: 20). Gabriel’s narcissistic ego vies with his mirror image, as shown by the window frame, and fancies substituting his ideal ego represented by the Wellington Monument in particular. This second image of a window frame serves as a counterpoint to round off Gabriel’s psychological portrait when he stands up to deliver his speech. He enters the order of the Symbolic, in full command to impart his culture to those present at the party, but ignorant that this very portrait of his is soon bound to be shattered into pieces. A chief point in Gabriel’s speech, as well as in ‘The Dead’, is hospitality—“the tradition of genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality” (1969: 203). In the central segment of the text, Joyce indulges in detailing the richness and variety—in both food and colour—of the dinner table that, as Schwarz has observed, “is described as if it were a still life” (1994: 115). Vincent Pecora has accurately remarked that the supper table “would
7 Lacan develops his theory of the mirror stage to explain the process by which the child, born in absolute helplessness, identifies himself with the image in the mirror to overcome his disadaptation. Though this image is alienating and fragmentary, the individual finds his model in this Imago of the ideal-ego. In the ‘The Dead’, the party at the Misses Morkans’ is also alienating for Gabriel, who is relieved by the contemplation of Dublin and the Wellington Monument, all covered by snow. 8 Despite being a Dubliner, Wellington kept Ireland under an absolutely conservative English rule.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 61–74 ISSN 0210-6124 Framed Images as Counterpoints in James Joyce’s ‘The Dead’ 69 have raised mixed emotions from anyone who could have remembered the famine” (1989: 227); but of all the food referred to, the characters have only slices of goose, ham and beef with some potatoes—not many (we are told that Lily reserved some for Gabriel to eat after carving the goose)—and pudding for dessert with jelly or jam. The disparity between what is shown and what is eaten turns the description of the supper table into an ekphrasis, as if it were a painting that resists framing.9 By this technique, Joyce creates a fresh icon of Irish hospitality, free of the extensive code of symbolic connotations developed by the great seventeenth- and eighteenth-century European masters.
3. From estrangement to irony: The central framed images
Almost at the beginning of the third quarter of the text, when the party is already over and the guests are leaving, Gabriel catches sight of his wife on the staircase listening to Mr Bartell D’Arcy singing ‘The Lass of Aughrim’. Since the body of his wife stands in the darkness, he does not recognize her immediately. In a vain attempt to capture the “synesthetic whole” (San Juan 1972: 227) of the vision, Gabriel tries to turn it into a picture in order to read it symbolically, and thinks he would call the picture Distant Music if he were a painter. This is the second of the principal framed images in ‘The Dead’. Its centrality has been stressed by Epifanio San Juan, who affirms that this is “the ‘epiphanic’ moment …, the latter self- disillusionment being an elaborate continuation” (1972: 227). Although this instant involves both Gretta and Gabriel, the authorial point of view focuses only on the male character. In this sense, Margot Norris has attempted an intertextual reading of this ‘woman as object of art’ in relation to Browning and Ibsen in order to explore “the brutalization that the idealization of female beauty can produce and conceal” (1989: 485); whereas Garry Leonard has applied a Lacanian perspective to explain that: “Gretta is Gabriel’s symptom; something which, … if he could only hear it, would complete him. The symptom emits something of infinite value, yet is indecipherable—like distant music” (1991: 465). The structural elements of the first and second framed images present a strong parallelism, but with significant variations. In the same way that Joyce drew the reader’s attention to names, now he asks us to discern symbols. Whereas Gabriel looked at the wall because he disliked the piano piece that his cousin was playing, now Gretta is captivated by Mr D’Arcy’s interpreting an Irish song, ‘The Lass of Aughrim’, in his hoarse voice, as she is reminded of the late Michael Furey, who used to sing it when they were together in Galway, and, like the wool pictures anticipating frustrated love and untimely death, the lyrics allude to a solitary love in the rain. As soon as Gabriel’s psychological narrative portrait is concluded, just before he delivers his speech, he assumes the role of the patriarch. He now represents what Lacan calls the order of the Symbolic, like language, the Law and culture. But as a patriarch, Gabriel’s ideal-ego is confronted with Gretta as an ego-ideal. In Chiesa’s words: “if the ideal ego is the projection of the ego’s ideal image onto the external world …, the ego- ideal is the subject’s introjection of another external image that has a new (de)formative effect on his psyche” (2007: 22; emphasis in the original). Lacan places the ego-ideal in the
9 The practice of modernist fiction will abandon the technique of describing significant objects within frames in order to be interpreted symbolically. Modernist novelists, instead, will place these objects as part of the narrative world. This is the case with the Marabar Caves in Forster’s A Passage to India, or with the Lighthouse in Virginia Woolf’s novel.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 61–74 ISSN 0210-6124 70 Tomás Monterrey field of the Other, either as narcissistic identification, or as object a (Lacan 1994: 256-57). Gabriel feels his role as patriarch threatened by his wife’s embodiment of a new signifier, since he cannot recognize her by her face, but by her dress, because her head remains in the dark area of the staircase. As Garry Leonard has suggested, Gretta is for Gabriel the object a. He does not gain feedback from the object of his gaze. His wife has escaped from the frame he has built up in his daily married life, from the Symbolic order, and, as symptom, as object a, Gretta has entered the order of the Real (for Gabriel, she is now an enigma, she is indecipherable, she has moved outside language). In this sense, Epifanio San Juan has correctly argued that the epiphanic moment occurs here. Gabriel, by asking a rhetorical question about the symbol of what he is seeing, tries to occupy the voyeuristic place of the reader’s gaze to see himself seeing Gretta. With her head invisible in the dark, she seems to plunge into the world of the dead; meanwhile, the repressed memory of Michael Furey emerges from her unconscious, like the sudden shadow that passed over Gabriel’s face while looking at the photograph of his mother. Gretta’s psychological rupture, conflict or satisfaction becomes visible in her skirt as its colours are also distorted by a shadow: “the terracotta and salmonpink panels of her skirt which the shadow made appear black and white” (Joyce 1969: 209). The fading away into black and white reflects a correlative estrangement between Gabriel and Gretta. Joyce may have suggested the reason for this division in the light and dark colours of her skirt. Pink, in the Catholic liturgy, is worn on the third Sunday of Advent as the resulting mixture of the penitential purple with the forthcoming festive white of Christmas. Salmon refers to nature and wilderness; but, read retrospectively, salmonpink hints at Gretta’s happiness in Galway. Terracota cannot be identified with a specific colour, but with a range of ochre hues resulting from fired clay. The significant element is not the colour but the Italian root of the word, which means ‘baked earth’, as if recalling Michael’s passionate love for her. When the song is over, Gretta remains silent, as if absent-minded, and the narrator stresses the passion glowing in her by describing her hair under the gaslight (Michael was employed in the gasworks): “the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair” (Joyce 1969: 212), as well as the shining in her eyes and the “colour on her cheeks” (Joyce 1969: 212), signs whose cause is totally misinterpreted by Gabriel. The section in ‘The Dead’ when Gabriel and Gretta leave the Morkans’ for their hotel has attracted little critical attention. This short episode significantly shows Gabriel outside roofed spaces covered by snow, both real and symbolic. Now Gabriel’s spatial position is above the snow. This dynamics of snow throughout ‘The Dead’ both reinforces and problematizes its symbolic function, especially considering the esoteric appropriation of the higher angelic beings, by means of which Michael is usually associated with the element of fire, represented by his sword of fire, whereas Gabriel is associated with water, for he announced to Mary her maternity (Cf. Walzl 1966: 24). As long as Gabriel walks on the snow (albeit in his galoshes), his mood changes correspondingly. He is no longer oppressed by the alienating role that he had to fulfil socially for both the hostesses and the guests at the party. Instead, in absolute command of his realm, he feels revivified and sexually invigorated. His lust at contemplating Gretta’s erect figure is increased by the emotion of tenderness at recalling early memories of their life together. It is in this context that the third principal framed image occurs: He was standing with her in the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man making bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant in the cold air, was quite close to his; and suddenly she called out to the man at the furnace:
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 61–74 ISSN 0210-6124 Framed Images as Counterpoints in James Joyce’s ‘The Dead’ 71
- Is the fire hot, sir? But the man could not hear her with the noise of the furnace. It was just as well. He might have answered rudely. (1969: 213) In this third image there is a progression towards abstraction. While the first images were enclosed by real frames, and the second was a real sight turned into a painting, this time the image framed is the result of Gabriel’s mental elaboration. As in the second case, it requires the cooperation of the reader, because the effect of framing is not explicitly described by the narrator. It emerges only if the reader adopts the viewpoint of the bottle maker and attempts what our bottle maker doesn’t do: to visualize the smiling couple behind the grated window. The other elements in the pattern of these images are present in this one, too. The music has become the monotone noise of the furnace and the narrator makes readers guess the man’s reply to Gretta’s question, thus alerting them to omissions and never-revealed statements. Seen from the viewpoint from which the bottle maker is working, Gabriel and Gretta resemble two prisoners on the cold side, illustrative of their marriage. Whereas he obviously felt at ease, it is Gretta who suddenly asks an inappropriate question―“Is the fire hot, sir?”—perhaps in a veiled evocation of her marital dissatisfaction, and of her husband’s emotional or sexual coldness. At the same time, since furnace and fire are needed to make terracotta, what they see from the grated window suggests the increasing energy unleashed when ‘The Lass of Aughrim’ is sung. Ironically, Gabriel is unaware of the deep sense denoted by the image that his own memory and sexual arousal have generated. Gretta’s passionate character is contrasted with Gabriel’s milder one, as he compares his memories of their life together with—a rather dim—“tender fire of stars” (Joyce 1969: 213). This double-sided framed image insinuates Gretta’s unsatisfactory experience with both lover and husband, and also envisages what Garry Leonard has identified—following Lacan—as the aphanasis of Gabriel: “When Gretta says of Michael Furey ‘I think he died for me’, Gabriel feels his subjectivity fading out altogether” (1991: 467). The second half also contains two minor framed images which reproduce the same pattern consisting of first showing the image itself and, later on, its transformation by Gabriel’s imagination. Just at the beginning of Gretta’s confession, which readily confirms that she felt disquieted, Gabriel catches a passing full-length glimpse of himself in the cheval-glass and is puzzled by his own reflection. If, in the first half, the window framed a view of Dublin under snow that soothed Gabriel’s soul, now his own reflection generates the opposite feeling. As shown above, the initial framed images symbolically delineated his weaknesses and conflicts, but these latter images aim at portraying his epiphanic crisis of self-awareness: everything converges to exhibit the traumatic eclipse of his ego. Therefore, when Gretta gains control of her speech, his ideal ego vanishes only to behold his pure physiognomy, devoid of the idealising glamour he has built up, thus cutting off the narcissistic bond between Gabriel as subject and his ego, which was emphasized by his imaginary external view of the window before delivering his speech after the supper. As Gretta proceeds with her account, Gabriel feels deeply humiliated when he learns that Michael was simply a boy in the gasworks. It is at this moment that he is able to articulate a reading of his own reflection that so much puzzled him: “A shameful consciousness of his own person assailed him. He saw himself as a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennyboy for his aunts, a nervous well-meaning sentimentalist, orating to vulgarians and idealizing his own clownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow he had caught a glimpse of in the
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 61–74 ISSN 0210-6124 72 Tomás Monterrey mirror” (Joyce 1969: 219-20). Walzl’s words synthesize what many critics have observed: “he now identifies himself with the social group that he has secretly despised” (1966: 25) and in particular with Lily. In his comment on this passage, Riquelme stresses the idea of emptiness in connection with this new image of Gabriel (1991: 497), and indeed Gabriel’s emptiness (and humiliation) echoes the kenosis of Christ—a term to refer to His full life as a man (including birth and death) while being a divine person.
4. Attempting to frame the Real: The concluding image
In the final scene, Gretta occupies the order of the Symbolic. She becomes the page of the book that Gabriel’s mother was reading to Constantine and provides Aunt Julia’s wool pictures with an alternative interpretation. Furthermore, she brings forth a new signifier— Michael Furey. The emergence of Michael as an ideal lover annihilates Gabriel as generous husband (or embodiment of the phallus). In the climax of his self-awareness, Gabriel painfully realizes that “he had never felt like that himself towards any woman but he knew that such a feeling must be love” (1969: 223). His passion—unlike Christ’s, which showed love towards humanity—is precisely to acknowledge the full extent of love. In the epilogue, he equally undergoes a sort of descent into hell as he lies half asleep beside Gretta in bed, and also a sort of resurrection as he is awakened by a new snowfall. It is in this context that the fourth principal framed image appears and is preceded by a complex sequence of other images. Almost at the end of her account, Gretta recalls that the night before she left Galway, she heard “gravel thrown up against the window” (Joyce 1969: 221), but she could not see what it was because the window was very wet. She came downstairs and went to the back of the house only to see “the poor fellow at the end of the garden, shivering” (1969: 221) in the rain. Interestingly enough, framed images in ‘The Dead’ reinforce only the steps in the development of Gabriel’s character—not Gretta’s. By leaving unframed Gretta’s sight of Michael shivering in the rain, Joyce prevents an interpretation of Michael as an ekphrasis. Instead, he is shown as the object of Gretta’s desire, her lover. Jackson Rice has argued that the penultimate paragraph of ‘The Dead’ shows a subliminal vision of Gabriel while falling asleep (1991: 401). In this liminal state of awareness, and haunted by his spectral rival, Gabriel “imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree” (Joyce 1969: 223). The image is, however, ambivalent. On the one hand, water (rain)—associated with Gabriel—both accelerated Michael’s death and swept away his memory from Gretta’s consciousness. But, on the other hand, there is a hope that warmth (fire, heat)—associated with Michael—will soften and melt Gabriel’s inner conflict, which is mirrored by the snow and the landscape of paralysis. Gabriel’s process of coming to terms with the new signifier (Michael) produces a corresponding process of self maturation. We are never told that this process is satisfactorily concluded. However, the fact that Gabriel generates in his imagination a vision provoked by Gretta’s account suggests an inner transformation, since he is learning to accept the other, the rival, the new signifier in his consciousness.10 Like the gravel on Gretta’s window, Gabriel is awakened by “a few light taps upon the pane” (Joyce 1969: 223). The noise of the furnace has subdued to the softest of sounds. In
10 In Lacan’s theory, the castration of the subject implies the successful overcoming of the Oedipus complex, which is a necessary process for entrance into the Symbolic and acceptance of the Law.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 61–74 ISSN 0210-6124 Framed Images as Counterpoints in James Joyce’s ‘The Dead’ 73 his metaphoric resurrection, Gabriel looks at the window and sees that it has started to snow again. The window frames the image of the snowfall, which—as Jackson Rice has shown—is projected over the wall of the hotel room (1991: 401). The framed snowfall conveys the crisis of his ego, a crisis which adumbrates a new Gabriel, overshadowed by the young man under a dripping tree, devoid of any trace of paralysing snow. In this fourth principal framed image, attention is drawn to the snow in chaotic motion. The resolution of his crisis, thus, is left open to speculation. This seems to be the narrator’s riddle for the fourth image, as well as for the short-story as a whole. The snowstorm fills the airy space associated with the living, as opposed to the ground space associated with the past and the dead. Throughout ‘The Dead’, snow becomes a dynamic phenomenon. It sticks on galoshes, it covers the surface of Dublin, it paves the streets on which the characters walk, and, in the closing paragraph, it both externalizes Gabriel’s prospective rebirth after his crisis and covers the whole surface of Ireland in such a transcendental, cosmic manner as to map a paralysed space to be left behind, associated with his dead past and his former ideal ego. Like the description of the supper table in the middle part of the story, snow in ‘The Dead’ is also an unframed image—or, rather, the overall unframed image—meant to be interpreted as if it were an ekphrasis. Throughout the story, snow evokes Gabriel’s profoundest conflicts, his psychological dimension of the (Lacanian) Real, those regions of the mind that escape language and, therefore, can never be verbalized. Snow functions as an external manifestation of Gabriel’s inner psychological processes and demands the appropriate interpretation in the precise context where and as it occurs. Snow shows the itinerary of the individual, from his initial discovery of his specular image in the view of Dublin towards a self-questioning that leads to a concluding crisis and the prospect of its overcoming. This is suggested by the reminder of the eschatological and symbolized by the boundless white of the cosmic snowfall, the liturgical colour of both Christ’s Nativity and Resurrection. This study has shown the different strategies put into practice by Joyce to present objects and characters within frames, so that they are turned into images to be read as ekphrases and interpreted as pictorial art. Although the mode of framing varies from one image to another, they constitute a coherent sequence in the complex structure of ‘The Dead’. This sequence advances from more figurative to more abstract images, always combined with an acoustic background and an indication to the reader about a specific aspect of the story itself. Like counterpoints in music, the framed images both enhance and supplement instants of great emotional intensity in the story. They render in symbolic visual language Gabriel’s psychological landscape and the problems of his married life, therefore ironically hinting at coded clues that will substantiate the understanding of the epiphany. As seen, Lacan’s psychoanalytic theory sheds light upon the dynamics and factors convening in Gabriel’s epiphanic experience. In particular, it was extremely useful in identifying Gabriel’s conflict when the spectral presence of Ellen was dominating the realm of the Symbolic, and to explain the breakdown of his ideal ego when Gretta occupied the Symbolic by bringing forth Michael Furey as a new signifier. Finally, attention has also been drawn to those images in ‘The Dead’, such as snow, which could be read as ekphrases, though unframed, anticipating thus a technique characteristic of modernist fiction.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 61–74 ISSN 0210-6124 74 Tomás Monterrey
Works Cited
Beck, Warren 1969: Joyce’s ‘Dubliners’: Substance, Vision and Art. Durham: Duke UP. Chiesa, Lorenzo 2007: Subjectivity and Otherness: A Philosophical Reading of Lacan. Cambridge: MIT P. Heffernan, James 1993: Museum of Words. The Poetics of Ekphrasis from Homer to Ashbery. Chicago: U of Chicago P. Joyce, James 1969 (1914): Dubliners. New York: Viking P. Krieger, Murray 1998: ‘The Problem of Ekphrasis: Image and Works, Space and Time, and the Literary Work’. Valerie Robillard and Els Jongeneel, eds. Pictures into Words: Theoretical and Descriptive Approaches to Ekphrasis. Amsterdam: VU UP. 3-20. Lacan, Jacques 1994: The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis. Trans. Alan Sheridan. London: Penguin. Leonard, Garry 1991: ‘Joyce and Lacan: “The Woman” as a Symptom of “Masculinity” In “The Dead”’. James Joyce Quarterly 28: 451-71. Norris, Margot 1989: ‘Stifled Back Answers: The Gender Politics of Art in Joyce’s “The Dead”’. Modern Fiction Studies 35: 479-503. O Hehir, Brendan P. 1957: ‘Structural Symbol in Joyce’s “The Dead”’. Twentieth Century Literature 3: 3-13. Pecora, Vincent 1989: Self and Form in Modern Narrative. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP. Quinn, Gerard 1999/2000: ‘Joyce and Tenebrae: The Ironic Passion and Death of Gabriel Conroy’. James Joyce Quarterly 37: 153-66. Rice, Thomas Jackson 1991: ‘The Geometry of Meaning in Dubliners: A Euclidian Approach’. Style 25: 393-404. Riquelme, John Paul 1991: ‘Joyce’s “The Dead”: The Dissolution of the Self and the Police’. Style 25: 488-505. Robillard, Valerie and Els Jongeneel, eds. 1998: Pictures into Words: Theoretical and Descriptive Approaches to Ekphrasis. Amsterdam: VU UP. San Juan, Epifanio Jr 1972: James Joyce and the Craft of Fiction: An Interpretation of ‘Dubliners’. Rutherford: Fairleigh Dickinson UP. Schneidau, Herbert N. 1969: Ezra Pound. The Image and the Real. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State UP. Schwarz, Daniel R. 1994: ‘Gabriel Conroy’s Psyche: Character as Concept in Joyce’s “The Dead”’. Daniel R. Schwarz, ed. James Joyce. The Dead. Boston: Bedford. 102-24. Walzl, Florence L. 1966: ‘Gabriel and Michael: The Conclusion of “The Dead”’. James Joyce Quarterly 4: 17-31. Weisstein, Ulrich 2007: ‘To Frame or not to Frame, that is the Question: An Intermedial Study of Achim von Arnim’s “Die Majoratsherren”, its Frontispice and Robert Campin’s Mérode Altarpiece’. Jens Arvidson, ed. Changing Borders. Contemporary Positions in Intermediality. Lund: Intermedia SP. 189-203.
Received 20 June 2011 Revised version accepted 8 September 2011
Tomás Monterrey is Senior Lecturer of English Literature at the University of La Laguna (Tenerife). Much of his recent research has focused on the relationship between literature and the arts, and more specifically ekphrasis in realistic fiction.
Address: Universidad de La Laguna. Departamento de Filología Inglesa y Alemana. Facultad de Filología. Campus de Guajara. 38071 La Laguna, Spain. Tel.: +34 922 317646. Fax: +34 922 317611.
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A MIRROR OF OUR OWN ANXIETY: CIVILIZATION, VIOLENCE AND ETHICS IN MARTIN CRIMP’S CRUEL AND TENDER
Mireia Aragay University of Barcelona [email protected]
In the context of the ethical turn that has gained ground in contemporary thought since the 1990s, this article reads Martin Crimp’s Cruel and Tender (2004), a rewriting of Sophocles’s The Trachiniae (430 BCE), in the light of the historical and ethical rupture represented by the Holocaust and the long shadow it casts over contemporary Western civilization. Drawing mainly on the work of sociologist and philosopher Zygmunt Bauman, which is, in turn, deeply informed by aspects of Emmanuel Lévinas’s thought, it is argued that Crimp’s play, particularly his reworking of Sophocles’ female characters Deianeira and Iole into Amelia and Laela respectively, unmasks the violence inherent to post-Holocaust, globalized Western civilization. At the same time, like Bauman and Lévinas, the play posits the need to re-activate the pre-societal ethical core in individuals that will enable them to become the recipients of each other’s testimony and thus build bonds of mutual responsibility. Ultimately, it is claimed, through an ‘aesthetics of response-ability’, Cruel and Tender interpellates spectators themselves as ethical subjects, as ‘double witnesses’ both to the manifestations of violence and testimony in the play, and to themselves as they engage in the process of meaning-making.
Keywords: Martin Crimp; Zygmunt Bauman; ethical turn; post-Holocaust; testimony; globalization
UN ESPEJO DE NUESTRA PROPIA ANGUSTIA: CIVILIZACIÓN, VIOLENCIA Y ÉTICA EN CRUEL AND TENDER, DE MARTIN CRIMP
En el marco del giro ético que ha tenido lugar en el pensamiento contemporáneo a partir de la década de 1990, el presente artículo se aproxima a Cruel and Tender (2004), donde Martin Crimp re-escribe Las traquinias (430 AC) de Sófocles, a la luz de la ruptura histórica y ética del Holocausto y de la sombra que arroja sobre la civilización occidental contemporánea. Tomando como referencia principal el trabajo del sociólogo y filósofo Zygmunt Bauman, el cual a su vez incorpora aspectos clave del pensamiento de Emmanuel Lévinas, se propone que la obra de Crimp, en especial su re-elaboración de los personajes femeninos de Sófocles, Deianeira y Iole, como Amelia y Laela respectivamente, desenmascara la violencia inherente a la civilización occidental actual, globalizada y marcada por el Holocausto. A su vez, la obra postula la necesidad de re-activar el núcleo ético pre-social de los individuos, que debe permitirles convertirse en receptores del testimonio de los otros y erigir así vínculos de responsabilidad mutua. Se argumenta, en último término, que a través de una ‘estética de la respons- habilidad’, Cruel and Tender interpela a los propios espectadores como sujetos éticos, como ‘testigos dobles’ de las manifestaciones de violencia y testimonio en la obra, así como de sí mismos en cuanto a constructores de significados.
Palabras clave: Martin Crimp; Zygmunt Bauman; giro ético; post-Holocausto; testimonio; globalización 76 Mireia Aragay
1. Rewriting Sophocles through a fractured ethics
Martin Crimp’s Cruel and Tender (2004) is a play of many fractures. Most obviously, perhaps, as a rewriting of Sophocles’s The Trachiniae (430 BCE) it fractures the classical narrative of Heracles, his wife Deianeira, their son Hyllus and Heracles’s prisoner of war Iole, by updating it to the early twenty-first-century context of the global ‘war on terror’ and by introducing a series of changes to both the characters and the narrative itself that have been often noted, not least by Crimp himself. Aleks Sierz usefully summarises the thrust of Crimp’s play:
Instead of Deianeira and Heracles . . . Crimp has Amelia and the General [who is] fighting the War on Terror . . . Set in their temporary home close to an international airport, the play starts with Amelia talking to her chorus: a housekeeper, a physiotherapist and a beautician . . . The General . . . is now under investigation for war crimes. He sends home the only two survivors of a siege of an African city, which he has reduced to dust. One of them, Laela [Sophocles’s Iole], is the daughter of an African leader. As Amelia soon discovers, she is the General’s mistress – and he has destroyed a whole town to possess her. The tragedy unfolds when [Amelia] sends [the General] a . . . potion concealed in a pillow. (Sierz 2005 no page number)
The potion is a chemical that wrecks the General’s body from within. Amelia commits suicide, offstage, and the General is taken away by Jonathan, a government minister, to be judged for war crimes, also offstage. John Ginman highlights two further key ruptures of Sophocles’s narrative in Cruel and Tender. Firstly, in Crimp’s play Amelia consciously sends the General the pillow into which she carefully inserts a glass tube containing the poisonous chemical, while Sophocles’s Deianeira remains “the unwitting executor of the Gods’ intentions” (Ginman 2004: 113). Secondly, both Crimp’s text and Luc Bondy’s premiere production for the Young Vic “focus[ed] tellingly on the role of the younger characters”, not only James, the Hyllus figure, whom Ginman discusses at some length (2004: 116), but crucially, I suggest, Laela, transformed from Sophocles’ non-speaking Iole into an increasingly articulate young woman whose relationship with Amelia is revealingly transmuted by Crimp too.1 In ‘Sophocles and the War against Terror’, published three days after Bondy’s production opened, Crimp himself shed light on what to him are two particularly significant emphases in Cruel and Tender vis-à-vis Sophocles’s play. There is, to start with, the gender division “universally required”, argues Crimp, “to prosecute war. The man is specially trained and specially dressed to legitimate killing . . . while the woman stays rooted in and helps to define the civilian world”. Further,
. . . Sophocles had the brilliant idea of writing a play in which this gender split is explicit: not only do male and female live in separate worlds, but husband and wife . . . don’t even meet . . . he devotes the major part of the play . . . to a woman who struggles to deal with the man’s absence, violence and infidelity. (Crimp 2004b: 35)
1 Bondy’s production opened at the Young Vic on 5 May 2004 and transferred to the Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord (Paris) on 22 September 2004. It was Bondy who encouraged Crimp to take Sophocles’ play “in a new direction for his [Bondy’s] first English-language production” (Crimp 2004a: note in the playtext, no page number).
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To this extent, Cruel and Tender follows The Trachiniae; however, Crimp’s play foregrounds the way in which “Amelia resists control, rejects the label ‘victim’” (Crimp 2004b: 35). And secondly, writes Crimp, in Cruel and Tender Sophoclean ‘exile’ becomes “the classic non- place of the developed world . . . a perpetually illuminated international airport . . . close to the X-ray machines which allow us to examine the entrails of our luggage for favourable or unfavourable omens” (Crimp 2004b x3: 35). These departures from Sophocles’s play have been mostly addressed in the light of what Michael Billington described as the “rash of Greek drama” (2004b: 28) on the English stage around the time Cruel and Tender opened. It was mostly Euripides that was re-discovered – two productions of Iphigenia at Aulis (Crucible Theatre, Sheffield, February 2003, dir. Anna Mackmin; National Theatre, June-September 2004, dir. Katie Mitchell); one of Ion (Mercury Theatre, Colchester, June 2004, dir. David Hunt); another two of Hecuba (Donmar Warehouse, November 2004, dir. Jonathan Kent; Albery Theatre, RSC London season, March-May 2005, dir. Lawrence Boswell) – and the resonances of these Greek revivals with the contemporary context of the war in Iraq, terrorism and the ‘war on terror’ were highlighted by numerous commentators (Billington 2004a, 2004b; Clapp 2004; de Jongh 2004; Ginman 2004; Gross 2004; Jones 2004; Kingston 2004; Sierz 2006b: 63; Spencer 2004; Taylor 2004; Woddis 2004). While it would be futile to dispute the connection, I do propose to suggest that its significance in the case of Crimp’s Cruel and Tender may be deepened by re-examining the play in the light of another kind of fracture – the historical and ethical rupture represented by the Holocaust and the long shadow it casts over contemporary Western civilization.
2. The ethical challenge of ‘liquid modernity’
As Nicolas Ridout points out in Theatre & Ethics – an important contribution to the move towards ethics that has recently taken place in theatre and drama studies, in consonance with the wider ethical turn that has gained ground in contemporary thought since the 1990s – the Nazi genocide has led “to a number of fundamental reassessments of European civilisation and culture” (2009: 49-50). Sociologist and philosopher Zygmunt Bauman, drawing on previous work by Theodor Adorno, Max Horkheimer and, above all, Emmanuel Lévinas, has been highly articulate in this respect. His contribution, I suggest, seems especially pertinent in the context of the attempt to read Cruel and Tender as a play informed by a post-Holocaust sensibility. Needless to say, the relationship I draw between Bauman’s work and Crimp’s play is not one of cause and effect, or of that much-maligned term, influence, but rather one of conjunction. Although belonging to different generations, as early twenty-first-century Western citizens Bauman (b. 1925) and Crimp (b. 1956) form part of the same post-Holocaust, late capitalist milieu and respond to it in ways that resonate strongly with one another. In other words, they provide part of the context for each other’s work.2
2 For a recent full-length study that investigates the relationship between ethics and contemporary theatre via the work of Lévinas and Bauman, see Helena Grehan’s Performamce, Ethics and Spectatorship in a Global Age (2009). Where Grehan focuses on performance art – works by Socìetas Raffaello Sanzio, Théâtre du Soleil and TheatreWorks, among others – this article seeks to explore a similar connection in the case of a specific instance of contemporary text-based theatre. As regards the Holocaust, in Voyages au bout du possible: Les théâtres du traumatisme de Samuel Beckett à Sarah Kane (2006), Élisabeth Angel-Perez approaches work by Howard Barker, Peter Barnes, Samuel
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In Modernity and the Holocaust (1989), Bauman set out to dismantle one of the foundations of modern European thought, the Enlightenment-derived narrative according to which the values and practices of modernity – rationality, efficiency, industrial potential, technological know-how, bureaucratic regulation – impose “moral constraints on [the] otherwise rampant selfishness and inborn savagery of the animal in man”, therefore making progress and civilization possible (1989: 5). From this Hobbesian perspective, the Holocaust signalled a failure of the modern civilizing effort, a moment when “the eternal beast” broke free and civilized rules of behaviour were suspended (1989: 95). For Bauman, instead, the notion that (Western) civilization is based on the absence of violence and savage cruelty is a myth, a convenient, self-legitimating narrative; on the contrary, the horrors of the Holocaust “uncovered [the violent, cruel] face of the same modern society whose other, more familiar face we so admire . . . each of the two faces can no more exist without the other than can the two sides of a coin” (1989: 7). The Holocaust was, in short, a product of modernity, glaringly exposing its contradictions. Bauman stops short of proclaiming that the Holocaust was “a ‘paradigm’ of modern civilization, its ‘natural’, ‘normal’ product, a view which would perversely belittle its importance and significance” (1989: 6; emphasis original). Rather, such extreme violence and cruelty are possibilities inherent to modernity, since it is the rational, efficient, technological, highly bureaucratic world of modern civilization that made the Holocaust thinkable, even ‘reasonable’. In other words, Bauman is particularly concerned with the ethical and moral conditions of possibility of Holocaust-like phenomena, which he sees as intrinsic to modernity itself. Like Lévinas, he argues that human beings have a natural, pre- societal inclination to feel responsible for other human beings, particularly those who suffer or are in need – a responsibility for the “naked face” of the Other that is the precondition for a truly ethical life according to Lévinas (1989: 83). The Holocaust revealed how, provided with the sophisticated technical and conceptual tools of modern civilization, human beings can bring about a scale of brutality and destruction that would be inconceivable if their actions were guided by their natural drives. Bureaucratic, economic and technological efficiency produce moral indifference and ethical blindness; the increase in the physical and/or psychic distance between violent acts and their consequences suspends moral and ethical propensities; the demand to obey commands from superiors blurs moral dilemmas and any sense of personal responsibility; and making the humanity of the victims invisible by evicting them from one’s ‘universe of obligation’ uproots the self’s natural ethical condition (Bauman 1989: 21-27, 1993: 125). Since the early 1990s, Bauman’s critique of modernity has been overlaid by a passionate yet critical engagement with the issues and debates raised by postmodernity and globalization – in his terms, by the passage from ‘solid’ to ‘liquid’ modernity. Unlike other theorists of postmodernity, such as Jean-François Lyotard, who welcome and celebrate this transformation, Bauman views postmodernity as a fractured condition. For Bauman, the crumbling of ‘solid’ modern structures – including distinctly demarcated nation-states, stable identities based on ‘belonging’, hierarchical groupings and strong centres – in the wake of the Reagan-Thatcher neoliberal era and the fall of the Berlin Wall “augurs an unprecedented degree of emancipation from constraints” (2008: 25) that is simultaneously exciting and frightening, pregnant with both chances and threats. In particular, a healthy scepticism about
Beckett, Edward Bond, Caryl Churchill and Sarah Kane that is not explicitly about the Nazi genocide as “un théâtre de l’après-Auschwitz” (2006: 16). The book includes a short chapter on Crimp’s Attempts on her Life (1997), where Angel-Perez refers briefly to Cruel and Tender.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 75–87 ISSN 0210-6124 A Mirror of our own Anxiety 79 the grand narratives of modernity goes hand in hand with a deep anxiety about the frailty and provisionality of human bonds and a fixation on the body as the only tangible grounding for individual identity. In this respect, drawing on Michel Foucault, Bauman argues that in the ‘liquid-modern’ era of global capitalism, the regime of surveillance extends to all areas of existence, including, crucially, personal identity – individuals, relentlessly interpellated as consumers, constantly discipline their bodies in order to inscribe the demands of the market on them, the palpable bearers of their identity.3 It is the ethical challenge posed by globalization that particularly concerns Bauman, specifically the fact that globalization has so far taken an unbalanced form that has increasingly polarized the distribution of benefits between a privileged minority and the deprived and oppressed majority of the world’s population, located particularly, albeit not exclusively, in the so-called Third World. While globalization is both inescapable and irreversible, and it has brought to the fore, “objectively”, our planetwide dependency and responsibility for one another, there are actually few signs that the privileged few “are willing to take up in earnest the subjective responsibility for that objective responsibility of ours” (Bauman 2008: 26; emphases original).4 This is precisely where Bauman has focused his attention. Drawing increasingly on Lévinas’s work, his central concern is with the ethical implications of postmodernity and globalization; more precisely, with drawing up a viable ethics for the post-Holocaust, ‘liquid’, irrevocably fractured habitat. The lifting of pressure brought about by the crisis of modernity means, for Bauman, that human beings can become more attuned to the inner promptings of their moral nature, to their pre-societal inclination to feel responsibility for the Other, systematically curbed by modernity. However, in the context of postmodernity, what Lévinas terms ‘being-for’ the Other – a recognition of the Other in all their nakedness and vulnerability – is not an uncomplicated position to occupy, since “we rediscover [the inclination to care for others] at the same moment that all guidance about how to behave morally is taken away from us” (Smith 1999: 163-64).
3. Cruel and Tender: unmasking the violence of civilization
It is an error, Bauman warns, to believe that civilization and violence are mutually exclusive. Western civilization has thrived on the master narrative of its triumph over the supposedly innate human predisposition to cruelty and violence, but this is no more than a self- legitimating illusion. In fact, the violence inherent to civilization has been transformed and redeployed, “taken out of sight, rather than forced out of existence” (Bauman 1989: 97), in two crucial ways. In the first place, the dominant discourse on the sanctity of the human body has become a fundamental symbolic expression of the narrative of the suppression of violence – “the care which is taken not to invade that most private of spaces, to avoid bodily contact, to abide by the culturally prescribed bodily distance” (Bauman 1989: 96). And yet, as noted above, Western civilization, in its post-Holocaust, late capitalist incarnation, has developed highly efficient mechanisms of interpellation that discipline bodies into exercising
3 Of course Bauman’s is not a solitary voice in this respect. Jean Baudrillard, for one, points out that in a contemporary consumer society bodies are first and foremost understood as objects of “narcissistic investment” (2005: 277). 4 Again, Bauman’s view chimes in with that of other analysts, such as geographer and anthropologist David Harvey, whose compelling investigations of ‘space’ underpin his influential notion of the ‘uneven geographies’ of postmodernity and globalization (Harvey 1989, 2006).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 75–87 ISSN 0210-6124 80 Mireia Aragay strict self-regulation, even in the form of self-directed violence. In our technological, media- saturated civilization, such mechanisms have become increasingly invisible, “ever more immanent to the social field” (Hardt and Negri 2000: 23). Crimp’s Cruel and Tender makes this process visible on stage through transmuting the Greek chorus into the triplet formed by Housekeeper, Physiotherapist and Beautician, who tend Amelia’s body – painting her toenails, prompting her to use her exercise machine, massaging her shoulders – with a view to inscribing it with the ‘desirable’ market values. A second means for the redeployment of violence, one that also figures prominently in Crimp’s play, has consisted in moving it elsewhere:
. . . [enclosing it] in segregated and isolated territories, [evicting it] to the ‘twilight areas’, off- limits for a large majority, [exporting it] to distant places which on the whole are irrelevant for the life-business of civilized humans (one can always cancel holiday bookings). (Bauman 1989: 97)
As mentioned, the General is involved in precisely one such displacement of violence, in this case on African – ‘Third World’ – territory. In this connection, the city he has besieged and destroyed is no other than Gisenyi, in Rwanda, where the provisional government was held during the Rwandan genocide, which, in its purposefulness and sheer scale – an estimated 800,000 Rwandans, mostly Tutsis, were killed between April and June of 1994 – was likened to the Holocaust. Significantly, in ‘Sophocles and the War against Terror’, Crimp describes at some length how the process of writing Cruel and Tender began “by collecting photographs”, visible evidence of such displacements of violence – a picture of a Liberian ‘government commander’, another of an American soldier carrying an Iraqi child, a third of a woman running along a Sarajevo pavement while a UN soldier takes aim at some out-of-frame target (Crimp 2004b: 35). The third picture, Crimp points out, articulates the conventional gendering of war and violence; in this sense, it leads directly on to his reworking of Sophocles’ Deianeira into Amelia and of Iole into Laela, who become nothing less than the sites where the three terms in my title – civilization, violence and ethics – compellingly converge. Amelia, contracted out by her father to marry the General, then a mere soldier, when she was fifteen, and actually married and mother of a child at eighteen, has experienced from an early age the symbolic violence late capitalism exercises on bodies, particularly those of women, as it drills them into submission. At fifteen, “when the first man [the soldier who would subsequently become the General] came to my father / wanting me”, she was already self-regulating efficiently – she listened outside the door “in the very short skirt / and the very high-heeled agonising shoes / I had begged and begged to be allowed to wear” (Crimp 2004a: 1). At the same time, it is precisely through her body that she attempts to enact resistance – “I ran up to my room. Locked the door. Stopped eating” (Crimp 2004a: 1), a self-directed form of violence that lays bare the first of the two displacements of violence Bauman identifies as characteristic of ‘liquid’ modernity. As already noted, the disciplining of Amelia’s body is enacted on stage by the Housekeeper, the Physiotherapist and the Beautician. At the same time, the General, “sent out / on one operation after another / with the aim – the apparent aim – of eradicating terror”, “only sees [his] child at distant intervals / like a farmer inspecting a crop / in a remote field” (Crimp 2004a: 2) – a juxtaposition that reveals how the exporting of violence to distant territories depends on the exercise of another kind of (submerged) violence at home, whereby women are subjectified into passive, recipient roles: a field yielding a crop.
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“[S]he’s like a bird in a box”, claims the Beautician early on in the play – “You mean like a parrot?”, asks the Physiotherapist (Crimp 2004a: 6-7), endlessly repeating, that is, the kind of abject submission disciplined into women through a plethora of cultural products, epitomised in Cruel and Tender by Billie Holiday’s ‘My Man’, which Amelia dances to in Part One, Scene Two (Crimp 2004a: 10-11). Ultimately, Amelia discovers she has been disciplined into non-existence. She first finds a document where the General gives power of attorney over his estate to his male descendant, their son James, in case of death or mental incapacity – as Amelia points out, “this whole ridiculous document seems to be written / as if I no longer exist” (Crimp 2004a: 8). Secondly, and decisively, she finds out that the African girl the General has sent home, Laela, is actually his mistress, the main reason he razed the city of Gisenyi and the only reason he eventually phones home at the end of Part One – “He’s on a plane. He’s asking to speak to Laela”, Jonathan, the government minister, tells Amelia (Crimp 2004a: 24). Part Two opens with Amelia inserting the tube with the chemical into the pillow, which she asks Jonathan to take to the General. Although she claims the tube contains a love potion designed to make a soldier feel “an absolute need for the love and the reassurance / of the person he was closest to” (Crimp 2004a: 30), its associations with violence and death are too obvious to ignore. Robert, Amelia’s friend from university who provided her with the chemical, “was given a budget [...] to develop weapons” (Crimp 2004a: 28-29) and was eventually found by a stream with his throat cut (Crimp 2004a: 30).5 In Part Two, Scene Two, Amelia reports that the young African boy the General has sent home with Laela has been “poking his fingers into [her] perfume drawer”, where she kept the tube with the chemical, and has “momentarily stopped breathing” (Crimp 2004a: 34- 35). In addition, the play opens with Amelia’s unambiguously stated refusal to be made into a victim – “Because I’m not a victim – oh no – / that’s not a part I’m willing to play” (Crimp 2004a: 1) – which is reinforced in Part One, Scene Three, where she rejects Jonathan’s patronising lies about Laela and the young African boy in terms that are worth quoting at some length:
If you call me distressed Jonathan one more time or use my name Jonathan one more time tonight I won’t scream no what I will in fact do is stuff your mouth with barbed wire. Because forgive me but I’m starting to find the way you speak an atrocity which makes cutting a man’s heart out seem almost humane. [...] don’t and I repeat don’t think you can what? ‘spare my feelings?’ because I am not a child
5 Ellipses within quotations from Cruel and Tender are exceptionally signalled by three dots in square brackets, so as to distinguish them from pauses in the text, which Crimp signals by means of three dots.
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and I do not expect to be treated like a child in my own house – is that clear? (Crimp 2004a: 21-22; emphasis added)
Amelia, that is, brings to the surface the violence underlying the discourse – “the way you speak” – which subjectifies women into submissive, child-like roles and the correspondingly violent reaction this may elicit from women themselves – “I will [...] stuff your mouth with barbed wire”, in the extract above. In these and other ways, it is strongly intimated that Amelia’s ‘present’ to the General of the pillow containing the tube is a conscious decision;6 an attempt, that is, to make the ‘suppressed’ violence of late capitalist, ‘liquid’ society visible, thus undermining the self-legitimating fiction of its ‘non-violence’ and ‘rationality’. Rather than depict a (Hobbesian) world “where civilized people behave with pre-civilized brutality” (Ginman 2004: 118) and a character, Amelia, who “inhabits an intermediate, uncertain space between possibilities of social control and aggressive outburst” (Ginman 2004: 115), I suggest Cruel and Tender seeks to unmask, primarily through Amelia, the latent sources of violence inherent to contemporary Western civilization. When her son James tells Amelia about the effect the chemical has had on the General – “And there’s this thing on his back, Mum – no – not on his back but under it – this thing under his skin – like an animal under his skin – it’s crawling – it’s crawling under his skin – like an animal, Mum, trying to slide out from underneath – which is the chemical, the animal under the skin – the pain [...] the gift of pain” (Crimp 2004a: 40) – it is made clear that Amelia’s poisoning of the General has inscribed on his body a pain that is comparable to the pain she has long experienced as a woman disciplined into submission, into docile acceptance, for instance, of her husband’s constant infidelities, which she likens to “having my face sprayed with acid” (Crimp 2004a: 22).7 The scene ends with Amelia’s revelatory fantasy about driving to the airport with Laela, which culminates in her first act of self-inflicted bodily violence:
The two wives will drive to the airport in their husband’s car to collect their husband from the airport – what d’you think? [...] Laela goes out. I know what we can do, Laela: [...] How about we lie down on the rubber track and ask to be X-rayed because obviously there’s obviously something inside of us Laela some sharp object some spike [...] So they’ll ask us to strip. And when we’ve stripped
6 In contrast, Sierz (2005) claims Amelia believes she is sending the General a love potion. 7 It is true that the play’s first violent climax, the poisoning of the General, takes place offstage (Ginman 2004: 115) – a form of displacement, one might argue, concurrent with the constant attempt to divert violence away from contemporary Western civilization. However, crucially, the inscription of violence on the General’s body – the material consequences of the poisoning – are tangibly displayed on stage, firstly through James’s description and subsequently, in Part Three of the play, through the General’s own corporeal presence, to which I return below.
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[...] one of those women with a rubber-glove [...] will push her hand deeper and deeper into us until the tip of her finger rests just so on the spike. Laela reappears, holding glasses. And she’ll say ‘I suspect you of terror. You have a concealed weapon. I can feel it next to your heart.’ ‘Oh really?’ I’ll say ‘D’you mean love?’ And she’ll say ‘Not love no I’m talking about this spike. Have you concealed this spike deliberately? Or could it have been placed there without your knowledge?’ And I’ll lie to her I’ll say ‘Deliberately of course.’ Because otherwise I could be mistaken for a victim and that’s not a part Laela that I’m prepared to play. Amelia clenches her fist around one of the shattered wine-glasses on the table and squeezes as hard as she can. When she finally opens it, some of the glass drops out, some remains sticking to her hand. (Crimp 2004a: 45-46)
The ‘spike’, placed next to Amelia’s heart without her knowledge, points to the violence – the cruelty – intrinsic to post-Holocaust, late capitalist Western civilization, the violence it inscribes within people’s bodies, at the very core of their being, without their even noticing, through highly effective, barely conscious mechanisms of self-regulation – a violence that is submerged, “a concealed weapon” in the quotation above, but no less terrifying for that. Ironically, contemporary civilization’s own instruments of surveillance, represented here by the scanning machine, can detect this implanted violence and turn it into an accusation against the subject, making her feel personally responsible for it.8 And so Amelia eventually directs the violence against her own body – firstly, by clenching her fist around the shattered wine-glass; subsequently, in the gap between Part Two and Part Three, by committing suicide. But rather than constituting Amelia as a victim, both are represented acts of rebellion that signal her refusal to continue cooperating with a system, an entire civilization, that is founded on a violence it self-righteously denies and displaces. In addition, as the ‘spike’ speech reveals, Amelia’s body also contains the potential for love or tenderness. Love is a ‘concealed weapon’ in a different sense – it represents, I suggest, for Crimp as for Lévinas and Bauman, the self’s natural inclination to care for
8 Ian Burkitt (1999: 53), like Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri (2000: 23-24) and, as already noted, Bauman, points out that in contemporary Western civilization control of individual bodies is mostly exercised from a distance, ‘non-violently’, yet very efficiently leading to self-regulation. Technology – surveillance cameras, scanning machines – epitomises this kind of displacement of violence.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 75–87 ISSN 0210-6124 84 Mireia Aragay other human bodies; an ethical core buried under the self-disciplining, violence-inducing strictures instilled by civilization, which suppress the mechanisms of empathy. It is this other ‘concealed weapon’ Amelia paradoxically rediscovers through her ‘spike’ speech, crucially by addressing it to Laela, who becomes, from the moment she comes back with the wine glasses, its recipient. Amelia’s speech, in other words, is an act of testimony – the paradigmatically post-Holocaust “mode of our relation to ... the traumas of contemporary history”, as Shoshana Felman and Dori Laub state in their seminal Testimony: Crises of Witnessing in Literature, Psychoanalysis and History (1992: 5) – that implicates the two women in a thoroughly ethical mode of being and relating, a bond of mutual responsibility.9 From the moment Laela returns with the glasses, she offers
. . . embodied presence to commune with . . . the other’s [Amelia’s] pain/knowledge. Bodies, in this perspective, can be thought of as ethical in at least two ways: first of all, insofar as their very being is the source of particular values and value-judgments; and second, insofar as they are able and ready to be implicated in relationships of testimony, or to become . . . communicative bodies. (Fraser and Greco 2005: 31)
This moment signals a turning point for Laela. Absolutely silent, like Sophocles’s Iole, when she is first brought to Amelia’s home, it is only at Amelia’s insistence that she shows her tongue, thus proving her potential to become an articulate subject – “Thank god for that”, says Amelia (Crimp 2004a: 15-16). Part Two, Scene Two, however, begins with Laela’s body, “exactly like Amelia in the earlier scene”, being disciplined by the Beautician and Physiotherapist while her mind is simultaneously drilled by her reading aloud some advice in a women’s magazine on how to best please a man sexually (Crimp 2004a: 25). When, parrot-like, she repeats the dominant gendered attribution of violence to men – “Boys need to fight. Boys must fight. Boys must kill – must learn to kill. Boys need to fight – they need to learn – they need to kill. Boys need to kill. Boys need to fight. Boys must fight. Boys must kill – must learn to kill. Boys need to – ” (Crimp 2004a: 27-28) – Amelia interrupts her by hitting her, an act of physical aggression that, again, makes manifest the symbolic violence being exercised on Laela. The scene, however, ends very differently. When Laela becomes the recipient of Amelia’s testimony, of her pain/knowledge, when she ‘is there’ for Amelia (Ridout 2009: 64), she takes the first step towards rediscovering her own ethical core. And indeed, the play ends with Laela trying out her new-found voice as she reads out loud, not from a woman’s magazine any more, but from Hesiod’s Works and Days – “I wish I was not of this people, I wish I was dead or still un...un... [...] Or still...unborn [...] Men will turn the cities of other men to dust without reason. Shame and truth will put on white dresses and hiding their...beauty from the people will abandon the earth” (Crimp 2004a: 70). As she rejects this, our inhospitable civilization – which has led to Amelia’s suicide – and refuses to help clear out its mess, the evidence of its cruel violence lying all around them – “That is your job”, she tells the Housekeeper (Crimp 2004a: 70) – the play closes on a minimal affirmation, the barest suggestion that the bridge
9 It is mostly women in Crimp’s plays who are able to regain contact with their ethical core, often through acts of testimony. Corinne and Rebecca in The Country (2000) are cases in point. As Mary Luckhurst points out in her discussion of Attempts on her Life, possibly Crimp’s most experimental, self- reflexive play to date, the playwright’s work displays a consistent interest in representing the victimization, sexual and emotional exploitation, marginalization and silencing of women in patriarchy, while at the same time interrogating the limits of such representations (2003: 53, 57).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 75–87 ISSN 0210-6124 A Mirror of our own Anxiety 85 towards a different world may lie with the younger generation: the tableau made up of Laela herself, James and the young boy he holds in his arms.10
4. Spectatorship, witnessing, ethics
Crimp’s Cruel and Tender impels the spectator to become an active witness, rather than a voyeur or passive recipient – a ‘double witness’ (Felman and Laub 1992: 58) in fact, both to a series of manifestations of violence in the play and the passing on of testimony from Amelia to Laela, and to him/herself as s/he engages in the process of meaning-making. Spectators, that is, are interpellated by the play as ethical subjects. The theatre at large, Ridout points out (2009: 59-61), provides a forum where the Lévinasian ‘face-to-face’ encounter with embodied Others – both the actors on stage and fellow spectators – holds the potential for a re-activation of spectators’ ethical capacity to respond by deploying what Hans-Thies Lehmann calls an “aesthetic of responsibility (or response-ability)” (Lehmann 2006: 185; emphasis original). At a time when artists are “bereaved of binding schemas and foolproof methods” (Bauman 1997: 111), when there are no “trustworthy received forms left in the arts, so every time you have to find a way of starting from scratch” (Crimp in Sierz 2006a: 357), it is such an aesthetic that Cruel and Tender sets out to discover. The spectator, ‘faced with’ Amelia’s acts of violence – hitting Laela, poisoning the General, clenching her fist around the shattered wine-glass, committing suicide – and her passing on of her testimony to Laela, is confronted with a series of images of the human body causing and/or undergoing pain which s/he is challenged to respond to, to ‘interpret’. To add one further example to those already discussed, in Part Three, ‘faced with’ the visible consequences of Amelia’s poisoning of the General – his shattered body, attached to a urine-bag and regularly convulsing in pain – the spectator is urged to re- examine the master narrative of the sanctity of the human body, “the trained revulsion we feel whenever we see or hear that sacred space being trespassed on” (Bauman 1989: 96), so as to ask him/herself about the causes that may have led Amelia to undermine such a disciplinary injunction and render the General’s body so utterly vulnerable. Performance can highlight such moments of heightened spectator interpellation – thus, Bondy’s premiere production of Cruel and Tender foregrounded Amelia’s first act of self-inflicted violence by having the actress Kerry Fox slash her wrist with a piece of glass and then smear every piece of furniture with blood. Finally, the act of critical writing about a work is in itself an ethical response to it (Ridout 2009: 63). My own response to Cruel and Tender, inevitably limited, consists in reading it as a play that is primarily concerned with re-activating the spectators’ ethical capacity to react to, possibly to resist, the massive pressure of a civilization that generates and then displaces violence, denying any responsibility for it. Crimp has argued, regarding photographic representations of contemporary terror and violence, that they are windows
10 Cruel and Tender was modified during rehearsals for Bondy’s Young Vic production, which means that there are two versions of the play. The ending of the Young Vic unpublished version departs from the published version this article quotes from in that Laela is not hesitant and does not need the Physiotherapist’s help to be able to read the word “unborn”. In addition, the Housekeeper’s injunction to Laela to help clean up the mess is suppressed. Instead, the play ends on Laela reading from Hesiod, with James sharing her lines about fathers and sons, and the stage being drowned by music – an even sharper focus indeed on the younger generation. I thank my colleague Clara Escoda for this information.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 75–87 ISSN 0210-6124 86 Mireia Aragay on to events and that “The darker it gets outside, the blacker a window becomes, and the more it turns into a mirror” (2004b: 35). From this perspective, and circling back to the beginning of this essay, Cruel and Tender is not so much a play about terrorism per se, as a play about ourselves, our own civilization and its violent underside, a reflection of our own anxiety. 11
Works Cited
Angel-Perez, Élisabeth 2006: Voyages au bout du possible: Les théâtres du traumatisme de Samuel Beckett à Sarah Kane. Paris: Klincksieck. Baudrillard, Jean 2005 (1998): ’The Finest Consumer Object: The Body’. Mariam Fraser and Monica Greco, eds. The Body: A Reader. London and New York: Routledge. 277-83. Bauman, Zygmunt 1989: Modernity and the Holocaust. Cambridge: Polity P. ––––– 1993: Postmodern Ethics. Cambridge: Polity P. ––––– 1997: Postmodernity and its Discontents. Cambridge: Polity P. ––––– 2008: Does Ethics Have a Chance in a World of Consumers? Cambridge and London: Harvard UP. Billington 2004a: ‘Cruel and Tender’. Guardian 14 May: 31. ––––– 2004b: ‘Terror of Modern Times Sets the Stage for Greek Tragedy’. Guardian 19 June: 28. Burkitt, Ian 1999: Bodies of Thought: Embodiment, Identity and Modernity. London and New Delhi: Sage. Clapp, Susannah 2004: ‘News Flash from Troy’. Guardian 27 June: 33. Crimp, Martin 2004a: Cruel and Tender. London: Faber. ––––– 2004b: ‘Sophocles and the War against Terror’. Guardian 8 May: 35. de Jongh, Nicholas 2004: ‘Cruel and Tender’. Evening Standard 14 May. In Theatre Record 24.10: 632. Felman, Shoshana and Dori Laub 1992: Testimony: Crises of Witnessing in Literature, Psychoanalysis and History. London and New York: Routledge. Fraser, Mariam and Monica Greco, eds. 2005: The Body: A Reader. London and New York: Routledge. Ginman, John 2004: ‘Cruel and Tender: Metaphysics and Performance in a Time of Terror’. Western European Stages 16.3: 113-18. Grehan, Helena 2009: Performance, Ethics and Spectatorship in a Global Age. Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Gross, John 2004: ‘Cruel and Tender’. Sunday Telegraph 16 May. In Theatre Record 24.10: 635. Hardt, Michael and Antonio Negri 2000: Empire. Cambridge and London: Harvard UP. Harvey, David 1989: The Condition of Postmodernity. Oxford: Blackwell. ––––– 2006: Spaces of Global Capitalism: Towards a Theory of Uneven Geographical Development. London and New York: Verso. Jones, Oliver 2004: ‘Cruel and Tender’. What’s On 19 May. In Theatre Record 24.10: 634. Kingston, Jeremy 2004: ‘Cruel and Tender’. Times 15 May. In Theatre Record 24.10: 634. Lehmann, Hans-Thies 2006 (1999): Postdramatic Theatre. Trans. Karen Jürs-Munby. London and New York: Routledge. Lévinas, Emmanuel 1989 (1984): ‘Ethics as First Philosophy’. Seán Hand, ed. The Levinas Reader. Oxford: Blackwell. 75-87. Luckhurst, Mary 2003: ‘Political Point-Scoring: Martin Crimp’s Attempts on her Life’. Contemporary Theatre Review 13.1: 47-60. Ridout, Nicholas 2009: Theatre and Ethics. Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Sierz, Aleks 2005: ‘Programme Note for Cruel and Tender’. Ljubljiana: National Theatre of Slovenia.
11 Research towards this article was carried out with the financial support of the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation (FFI2009-07598/FILO). A preliminary, considerably shorter version was presented at the conference ‘Fractured Narratives: Pinter, Postmodernism and the Postcolonial World’, Goldsmiths College, University of London, 5-7 November 2009.
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––––– 2006a: ‘The Question is the Ultimate Discomfort: Martin Crimp in Conversation with Aleks Sierz’. New Theatre Quarterly 22.4: 352-60. ––––– 2006b: The Theatre of Martin Crimp. London: Methuen. Smith, Dennis 1999: Zygmunt Bauman: Prophet of Postmodernity. Cambridge: Polity P. Spencer, Charles 2004: ‘Cruel and Tender’. Daily Telegraph 15 May. In Theatre Record 24.10: 633. Taylor, Paul 2004: ‘Cruel and Tender’. Independent 24 May. In Theatre Record 24.10: 635. Woddis, Carole 2004: ‘Cruel and Tender’. Herald 18 May. In Theatre Record 24.10: 635.
Received 27 February 2011 Revised version accepted 27 June 2011
Mireia Aragay is Senior Lecturer in English Literature at the University of Barcelona and Life Fellow of Clare Hall, University of Cambridge. Her research interests focus on Harold Pinter and contemporary British theatre, film adaptations of literary classics and critical theory. She has published widely in these areas, including, as editor, Books in Motion: Adaptation, Intertextuality, Authorship (Rodopi, 2005), and as co- editor, British Theatre of the 1990s: Interviews with Directors, Playwrights, Critics and Academics (Palgrave Macmillan, 2007). She is Principal Investigator of "The representation of politics and the politics of representation in post-1990 British drama and theatre", a three-year research project funded by the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation (FFI2009-07598/FILO; http://www.ub.edu/cbtbarcelona).
Address: Departament de Filologia Anglesa i Alemanya. Universitat de Barcelona. Gran Via 585. 08007 Barcelona, Spain. Tel.: +34 93 4035686. Fax: +34 93 3171249.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 75–87 ISSN 0210-6124
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124
THE COMPANY OF SHAKESPEARE IN EXILE: TOWARDS A READING OF INTERNMENT CAMP CULTURES
Ton Hoenselaars Utrecht University [email protected]
This paper studies three instances of Shakespearean appropriation by individuals and groups interned behind barbed wire during World War I and World War II. It studies these Shakespearean cultures as hybrid instances of the ‘literature of exile’. By studying these reading, quotation and performance cultures, it becomes possible, to a certain extent anyway, to intuit some of the realities of twentieth- century exile. Although the literature of exile itself may never be able to convey the true horrors of internment, the performance of literary culture in exile – and of the ubiquitous Shakespeare in particular – may help us distinguish the contours and perhaps even more the dynamics of exile.
Keywords Shakespeare; appropriation; literature of exile; internment; World War I; World War II
LA COMPAÑÍA DE SHAKESPEARE EN EL EXILIO: HACIA UNA LECTURA DE LAS CULTURAS DE LOS CAMPOS DE CONCENTRACIÓN
En este artículo se estudian tres casos de apropiación shakesperiana a cargo de individuos y grupos recluidos tras alambradas durante la primera y segunda guerras mundiales. Se estudian estas culturas shakesperianas como casos híbridos de la ‘literatura del exilio’. Examinando estas culturas de lectura, cita y representación, se puede, hasta cierto punto, llegar a intuir algunas de las realidades del exilio en el siglo veinte. Aunque la literatura del exilio no puede por sí misma llegar a transmitir todos los horrores de la reclusión, la representación de la cultura literaria en el exilio – y del ubicuo Shakespeare en concreto – nos puede ayudar a discernir el contexto y quizás aún más la dinámica del exilio.
Palabras clave: Shakespeare; apropiación; literatura del exilio; reclusión; 1ª guerra mundial; 2ª guerra mundial 90 Ton Hoenselaars
1. Exile and silence
The internment and suffering of individuals in civilian and military camps is a marked feature of the political landscape of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, from the concentration camps of the Boer War, the POW and civilian internment camps of the two world wars, the communist Gulags and the Japanese labour camps, to the death camps of the Nazi regime, and beyond, to Guantánamo Bay.1 Given the ubiquity of internment camps across time and space, much political and sociological research has been invested into these multiple modes of existence. Considerably less attention has been devoted to the so-called cultural life of these imposed communities – the innumerable attempts to pass and bear the time, by reading or writing, by performing music or drama, blending intern- ment with entertainment. This paper focuses on Shakespeare and the literature of exile. More particularly, it deals with the way in which exiles, behind barbed wire, have turned to Shakespeare and have appropriated his life and work. By studying a number of different manifestations during World War I and World War II, this paper tries to propose a means of breaking through the silence of those who led lives behind barbed wire, either because they never returned to the free world, or because those who did return, for a myriad of reasons including shame or a wish simply to relegate the experience to oblivion, never recorded their personal memories. This paper, on behalf of those who went through what may be termed one of the seminal experiences of the twentieth century but never spoke, tries to interpret their Shakespearean investment, insofar as this may be reconstructed through archival research, as a meaningful process of signification. Shakespeare was a common presence behind barbed wire, and studying how internees ‘meant by Shakespeare’ (to acknowledge the groundbreaking work of Terence Hawkes), we are not only in a position to restore their voices, but also to lay the foundation for original, new research into the political afterlives of Shakespeare, and of the broader function of literature in the cultures that appropriate him, in the course of time (Hawkes 1992: 1-10). Shakespeareans have not been entirely unaware of phenomena such as exile and internment, but the first sustained treatment of the subject in a number of his plays is Jane Kingsley-Smith’s impressive and systematic Shakespeare’s Drama of Exile (2003). It is rich and learned and has vital things to say about the representation of exile in Shakespeare’s plays as well as the classical traditions of exile literature that Shakespeare drew on, including Cicero, Ovid and Plutarch. Kingsley-Smith’s discussion of a relatively small group of plays with geographical displacement, banishment and exile as their main theme – notably Romeo and Juliet, Richard II, Henry IV, As You Like It, King Lear, Coriolanus and The Tempest – is indispensable for anyone seeking to work in this relatively unexplored field of Shakespeare studies. Kingsley-Smith argues that in recent years critics seem to have been fascinated more by metaphorical notions of exile, “the spectacle of a marginal Shakespeare giving utterance to the suppressed voices of his society”, than by the actual representation of exile in the plays themselves. While we appear to have been fascinated by ‘marginality’ as it relates to Shakespeare in biographical terms, in terms of, say, Shakespeare as a Catholic, as a play- wright working in an inferior profession, a Stratfordian in London, and so on – “we [have]
1 This article is part of Research Project EDU2008-00453 funded by the Plan Nacional de I+D+I and MICINN.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124 The Company of Shakespeare in Exile 91 remain[ed] largely uninterested in the representation of marginality, that is exile, performed with surprising regularity on the Shakespearean stage” (Kingsley-Smith 2003: 2-3). Kingsley-Smith’s alternative approach significantly enhances our appreciation of the literature in question, but, in the end, one wonders if it is fully rewarding too. The author, for example, seems to by-pass somewhat randomly, in her conclusion, Edward Said’s seminal consideration whether “views of exile in literature [do not actually] obscure what is truly horrendous: that exile is irremediably secular and unbearably historical” (Kingsley- Smith 2003: 174). Kingsley-Smith argues that Shakespeare is aware of this rift in his own plays. Touchstone himself jibes at the literary exile model of Ovid, and Shakespeare himself is not in the habit of sentimentalizing exile either. In the final analysis, Kingsley- Smith sides with Theodore Adorno who was convinced that, “For a man who no longer has a homeland, writing becomes the place to live”, either as a writer himself – through “linguistic self-reinvention”, as Kingsley-Smith puts it – or as a reader – “through identification with some literary paradigm” (Kingsley-Smith 2003: 177). Kingsley-Smith’s argument is sound, certainly, but with her acceptance of literature as a refuge – “a place to live” (Kingsley-Smith 2003: 177) – she does close the door on the issue of the historical realities that Said raises and their inherent untranslatability into literature. One valuable step beyond Kingsley-Smith’s monograph, it seems to me, would be to return to the ‘actual’ instances of exile and study the role of the literary text, the Shakespearean text, within those contexts. This paper seeks to illustrate how the engagement with literature under conditions of exile or internment reveals rather than obscures the historical realities, because they are an intrinsic part of them. Reading and quoting Shakespeare in exile creates a new ‘literature of exile’ which may indeed be taken and read as what Said calls the “irremediably secular and unbearably historical” (quoted in Kingsley-Smith 2003: 174).
2. Countess Karolina Lanckorońska
A case in point is the engagement with Shakespeare that we find in the diaries of the countess Karolina Lanckorońska. Karolina Lanckorońska was born in Austria in 1898, the daughter of Austro-Hungarian nobility. She studied at the University of Vienna, and became a Renaissance art historian at the University of Lwów in western Ukraine (although she also developed a special interest in English literature, which explains her 1936 edition of extensive selections from Sir Philip Sidney’s Astrophil and Stella). When the Soviets occupied the city of Lwów – also known as Lviv, Lemberg and Leopolis – Countess Lanckorońska moved to Krakow, where she became active in the Polish resistance. In 1942, she was arrested by the Germans, interrogated, tortured, tried and sentenced to death. But thanks to her family connections, Lanckorońska was not executed and, instead, was sent to the Ravensbrück concentration camp for women. She survived Ravensbrück and left a record of her experiences in her memoirs which appeared in Britain as Those Who Trespass against Us: One Woman’s War against the Nazis (Lanckorońska 2005) and in the US as Michelangelo in Ravensbrück (Lanckorońska 2006). The first English translation of these memoirs was published posthumously, in 2004, 2 years after the countess’s death in Rome, at the age of 104. These fascinating exile memoirs structured around contemporary diaries, and relating to a period in Lanckorońska’s life spent both in prison and behind the barbed wire fence of Ravensbrück, capture the spirit of a humanist scholar who is challenged by
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124 92 Ton Hoenselaars circumstances but who refuses to give in, a scholar determined to find support in the very culture that the Nazis were threatening to destroy. In her Lwów diary she records: “at my request, I was sent Shakespeare. That for me has been the most significant event of recent times. My life in prison has been totally transformed. I have read Shakespeare before and read a lot ... I have read and am reading. I note down extracts and re-read, but it is as though I had never before heard of Shakespeare” (Lanckorońska 2005: 168). In this way, Lanckorońska started a culture not only of reading and re-inventing Shakespeare, but also of quoting Shakespeare, to reflect on the situation she was in, thus, as she herself puts it, satisfying “the ever-growing need to escape into the realm of intellectual riches, of inner Emigration” (2005: 269). Even despite the acknowledgement that literature was a mode of ‘escape’ to a world that was ‘other’, the frequent Shakespearean reading and quotation, the performative engagement with European culture by itself signals and enables us to ‘read’ the ‘truly horrendous’ agony of a soul in exile. Via Lanckorońska’s daily dialogue with Shakespeare we may chart the emotional state of the internee. The first entry of her Lwów prison diary – dated 18 September 1942 – reads:
I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world: And for because the world is populous And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it: yet I’ll hammer ’t out. My brain I’ll prove the female to my soul, My soul the father: and these two beget A generation of still-breeding thought, And these same thoughts, people this little world. (2005: 161-62)
This energetic beginning is soon followed by despondency, which explains why, two days later, on 20 September, Lanckorońska begins with the self-corrective words from Edgar in King Lear (5.2): “What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure / Their going hence, even as their coming hither: / Ripeness is all?” The vision expressed here prepares us for the reference to Julius Caesar later in the entry, idealizing classical, Stoic principles: “Of all the wonders that I yet have heard / It seems to me most strange that men should fear / Seeing that death, a necessary end / Will come when it will come” (Lanckorońska 2005: 168).2 This is only one instance of the prison diaries of Countess Lanckorońska illustrating how Shakespeare as the literature in exile, read and quoted by the individual, could signal doubt or represent a source of moral and ethical strength gradually discovered under duress. In this way we read the countess speaking the unspeakable. Moreover, she would seem to be speaking on behalf of many others who have, for a variety of reasons, remained silent. This becomes clear from the account following the Germans’ transfer of Lanckorońska to Ravensbrück, the transport, as she put it, “from the land of [her] fathers” (2005: 181), into exile. At Ravensbrück, Shakespeare made a
2 And amidst the musings over a monograph on Michelangelo – whose death in the year that Shakespeare was born, she says, was highly symbolic – comes Julius Caesar again. Feeling physically weak, she realizes that “Truly: Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass / Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron / Can be retentive to the strength of spirit” (2005: 169).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124 The Company of Shakespeare in Exile 93 miraculous appearance behind barbed wire: “a great delight came our way. One of the Polish women brought with her from Auschwitz a treasure that, because she was travelling on with the transport, she had to leave with us. That was a one-volume edition of Shakespeare’s complete works in English. The book was stamped with the number of an officers’ prisoner-of-war camp, from which it had by some miracle been smuggled to the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp” (2005: 269). One marvels at the fact that the same physical copy of the complete works of Shakespeare should have visited three different World War II camps, just as one should wonder about the many readers it must have had. Certainly, at Ravensbrück it was not only Lanckorońska who read it. As she herself notes, it was “secreted in [her] straw mattress, from which [she] used to lend him out to the occasional reader” (2005: 269). Moreover, there were times when she would not read Shakespeare, although this did not interfere with the poet’s status, since at such moments he would be remembered. As Lanckorońska writes: “There were days when reading was out of the question. I had neither time nor the energy, but for us the mere awareness that King Lear or Richard II was with us was proof that the world still existed” (2005: 269). Both the widespread reading of Shakespeare as well as the non-reading and remembering of his literary work here emphatically present his vital cultural presence as one of the realities of exile.
3. Amateur refugees on the Isle of Man
Beyond this broadly performative cultural presence of Shakespeare in exile, we recognize the phenomenon of Shakespearean performances on actual theatre stages behind barbed wire. In most cases it concerns amateur theatre, and this may also explain why these Shakespearean productions have suffered severe critical neglect. Looking at a single World War II production in greater detail, it becomes possible not only to reconstruct a tale of courage and resilience among exiles, but also a narrative that shames both the then- contemporary theatre establishment (and in particular the Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford- upon-Avon, during the early 1940s) as well as the present world of academe that has only recently started to avert its gaze fixed on the professional theatre and started to look with greater sympathy on the Shakespearean amateurs.3 In the spring of 1940, fearing an imminent Nazi invasion, the British government interned 28,000 men and women of ‘enemy’ nationality living in Britain. Most of them were Jewish refugees who, having fled Nazi persecution in the course of the 1930s, were appalled to find themselves imprisoned as potential Nazi spies. Fearing a German invasion of Britain assisted by a fifth column of German exile informers already in the country, Winston Churchill issued his infamous ‘intern’ or ‘collar the lot’ decree.4 He proceeded to screen all refugees after interning them in Britain (mainland and the Isle of Man), Canada and Australia. Waiting to be cleared of suspicion, the refugees sought to continue their lives in a regular fashion, developed a school system and produced plays. Maxine Seller has written about the theatrical entertainments mounted by the predominantly Jewish internees on the Isle of Man and about the type of plays actually put
3 Michael Dobson would appear to mark a change of perception with his Shakespeare and Amateur Performance: A Cultural History (2011). 4 See Stent (1980), Dove (2005).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124 94 Ton Hoenselaars on. She notes: “many plays performed in the camps had strong political overtones. Not surprisingly, given the life histories of the actors and audiences, these plays dealt with issues of freedom, the fall of dictatorships, and the horrors of war” (Seller 2001: 135-36). Works by liberal German authors such as Goethe and Schiller appeared on camp playbills, as did Shakespeare, John Drinkwater and George Bernard Shaw. Given the traditional coupling of internment and censorship in captivity, there would always be questions from the authorities when German playwrights like Goethe or Schiller were put on, but there seems to have been no suspicion when the native Shakespeare was chosen. Even the choice of Julius Caesar appears to have been unproblematic simply because of its English origin: “Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar was more familiar to British authorities and therefore aroused no controversy when it was presented in Sefton [on the Isle of Man] in November 1940” (Seller 2001: 135-36). This November 1940 production of Julius Caesar was directed by the successful Swiss- born playwright and dramatist Hans José Rehfisch (1891-1960). With Erwin Piscator, Rehfisch had run the Central-Theater in Berlin (1922-23), and they had worked together as directors at the politically vocal Theater am Nollendorfplatz in Berlin (1927-28). Rehfisch’s status before World War II is perhaps best illustrated by the fact that from 1931 until 1933 he was President of the Verband deutscher Bühnenschriftsteller und Bühnenkomponisten (Society of Playwrights and Stage Composers). In 1936, Rehfisch went into exile in Britain. He settled in London, where he earned a living as a metal worker. On the Isle of Man, Rehfisch directed Julius Caesar in modern dress, with senators in business suits. With his experience of the German theatre scene and his apparent interest in British theatrical life of the 1930s, Rehfisch was well aware that modern dress Shakespeare, even a modern dress Julius Caesar, was not original in itself: “It is by no means an entirely new venture”, he said modestly, “to produce Shakespeare’s greatest play in modern dress; it has been done before in Oxford and Cambridge, in New York and in London” (anon., ‘Press-Review’ Sefton Review 1940: 6).5 Rehfisch was even mildly critical of using the modern setting as “a vehicle for decreasing the remoteness of the atmosphere” and to bring the play nearer to the audience: “the producer who will content himself with replacing the traditional [R]oman costumes with storm-troopers uniforms and with putting telephone sets on to the stage is not likely to achieve this” (Rehfisch, 5). Central to Rehfisch’s vision were Shakespeare’s characters: “The main task in performing [Julius Caesar] or any other of Shakespeare’s plays still is, as it always has been, the reproduction of its characters in as distinct and vivid a fashion as the author has visualized them” (Rehfisch, 5). But Rehfisch, of course, did choose to modernise, because it made a vital political point. But under the circumstances, doing so also solved a number of practical problems that Rehfisch encountered. One major problem Rehfisch faced was that inexperienced actors were confronted with the demands made on them by the Shakespearean verse. How “to prevent the amateurs from acting unnaturally or in a rigid fashion while they were speaking Shakespearean verses”? (Rehfisch, 5) To counter the problem, Rehfisch thought of “keeping the actors busy with commonplace occupations whenever the play would permit it” (Rehfisch, 5). Rehfisch looked upon such ‘commonplace occupations’ not as gags, but as a legitimate means of bringing 2000-year-old history up to date. It is remarkable how the decision to aid the amateur players via a consistent modernising
5 I am grateful to Alan Franklin of the Manx National Heritage Library for helping me retrieve a copy of this refugee journal.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124 The Company of Shakespeare in Exile 95 practice, produced potent stage images with contemporary political relevance. As Rehfisch said, defending his choices: “Even a dictator will have breakfast in the morning; there is no law forbidding conspirators to have a drink or a cigarette during their dangerous meetings; and when a death sentence on a political enemy has become a matter of daily routine the leaders may well play golf while discussing their plans” (Rehfisch, 6). Basing ourselves on the archives on the Isle of Man, the Sefton production had a distinctly anti-dictatorial stance. Rehfisch’s Caesar – the part he played himself – was both a “dictator” and “[a] great man who has become solitary, suspicious and superstitious” (Rehfisch, 5). But Rehfisch was also critical of Brutus, interpreting his error as the inability to recognize the need, in conjunction with the regicide, for social reform. To Rehfisch, Brutus was “the ‘noble’ philosopher who assumes that the mere assassination of a dictator will go towards making a nation happier and who forgets that at the same time those very conditions will have to be transformed which lifted the dictator into power – a most fatal mistake” (Rehfisch, 5). The modern-dress production of Julius Caesar on the Isle of Man – with its obvious critique of totalitarianism – did not take place in a vacuum, and may profitably be related to a substantial body of productions in the British Isles that Rehfisch himself knew, or knew of. Julius Caesar had been played continuously in Britain during the 1930s.6 Although, speaking of Britain in the 1930s, Tony Howard has argued that “[t]ime and again, Shake- speare seemed not to belong in any real world” (Howard 2000: 151), a number of productions of Julius Caesar were staged during the period that were politically-tinted. There was the Orson Welles inspired modern-dress production at the Festival Theatre, Cambridge (May 1938), and the first BBC television version of the play “set in a fascist state”, with the major characters wearing Italian-style military uniforms (July 1938) (Howard 2000: 155). And prepared before but premiering just after World War II broke out, there was Henry Cass’s anti-Fascist version of the play, with Brutus symbolizing “common humanity revolted by ‘the superman’”, Caesar wearing “a General Franco cap” and Mark Antony as “the true Nazi” (Howard 2000: 156) in SS uniform (Ripley 1980: 244). Arthur Humphreys was later to argue that the production’s “‘relevance’ failed to compensate for its lack of nobility” but it did communicate to the world that, as The Times of 30 November 1939 also implied – and as Hans Rehfisch knew when he himself cited modern dress productions of Julius Caesar in Cambridge and London – that the English theatre recognized that “Shakespeare knew what there is to be known about the problem of the dictator” (Humphreys 1984: 67). Recognizing the British history of Julius Caesar in the 1930s, and Rehfisch’s contribution to it, it is remarkable that, by comparison, the two productions at the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon – staged in 1936 and 1941 – seem to have been so unrepresentative. The 1936 production – directed by John Wyse, starring Peter Glenville (Caesar), Donald Wolfit (Cassius), James Dale (Brutus), Donald Eccles and Trevor Howard (Octavius Caesar, Cinna) – was notable for restoring the original text of Shakespeare, but proved highly traditional in its use of costume and design, as well as in its
6 1 production in 1933 (The Guildhall, Winchester); 3 productions in 1934 (The Alhambra, London; Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, Stratford; Gate Theatre, Dublin); 1 production in 1935 (Old Vic, London); 2 productions in 1936 (Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, Stratford; Prince’s Theatre, Bristol); 1 production in 1937 (Open Air Theatre, Regent’s Park, London); 2 productions in 1938 (Festival Theatre, Cambridge; BBC Television); 1 production in November 1939 (Embassy Theatre, London); 1 production in April 1941 (Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, Stratford).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124 96 Ton Hoenselaars approach to the play’s exploration of tyrannicide. More remarkable, though, was the wartime production of Julius Caesar at the Stratford Festival of April 1941, six months after Sefton. Curiously, the production of the play at the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre did not register the political strain of the Nazi years, and in no way hinted at the ongoing war with Germany. In fact, the production and its atmosphere enabled most audiences to forget that there was a war on in the first place. W. A. Darlington, who covered the Festival, wiring his review across the ocean to The New York Times, noted that “Nothing in England is quite as it was before the war, but no- where can you capture the prewar illusion as easily as at the Memorial Theatre at Stratford- upon-Avon” (Darlington 1941). Whereas the blackout in London had led to the decision to have performances begin at 17:30, the theatre curtain at Stratford continued to be lifted at the traditional time of 19:30, and there was undeniably “something nostalgic and prewar about a performance which began at a normal evening hour” (Darlington 1941). There was a clock in rural Warwickshire, but it did not tell the time of the real world at war. But not only the time of the performances in Stratford had remained unchanged. Also the interpretation of the plays helped to create the prewar illusion: “As for the performance, itself, it was exactly of the quality, tone and atmosphere which we have become used to, if never entirely resigned to, at Stratford across the years” (Darlington 1941). Reviewer John Bourne, however, whose reviews are held in the newspaper archive at The Shakespeare Centre Library, Stratford-upon-Avon, wrote about the production in the full awareness that there was a war on, having, as the Stratford-upon-Avon Herald put it on 18 April 1941, “returned to the town [of Stratford] after war-time misfortunes near London” (Bourne 1941). Writing of the spring season’s Julius Caesar, Bourne wrote of this anaemic production with irony bordering on sarcasm:
It is difficult to believe in those off-stage battles. Tin helmets are too few and the clashes are too remote. Perhaps it was the civilian population who were in the front line and who suffered most. Once upon a time – to which we should not hark back too much – men died vigorously on the Memorial Theatre stage. Now it is all very polite – even when they fall – and not a sword is bloody. Thus we go home to use our imagination on the midnight news (Bourne 1941).
The Memorial production of Julius Caesar that premiered on 15 April 1941 – directed by Andrew Leigh, and starring the Old Bensonite Gerald Kay Souper as Julius Caesar, George Hayes as Brutus, Baliol Holloway as Cassius and Godfrey Kenton as Antony – has been described by John Ripley as “unremarkable” (1980: 340n6). Of course, seen in con- text, the production was not ‘unremarkable’ at all. How remarkable that the professional Shakespeare Memorial Theatre in Stratford should have retired into a provincial and a- political shell. How remarkable that such an unworldly production should have been possible within six months after Rehfisch’s amateur group of broken-English-speaking émigrés from the European continent had drawn on England’s national playwright to reflect on the tyrannical threat from Germany and the possibility of improving society. How remarkable that Shakespeare editions continue to list the Stratford productions, and never make mention of Rehfisch and his exiled amateurs on the Isle of Man. How long shall we be quoting authors like John Ripley, who believed that Julius Caesar’s “uncongenial theme and uncommon demand for male actors kept it off the boards during the war” (Ripley 1980: 244). Even if, as Ripley puts it, the stage history of Julius Caesar in the twentieth century is the “tale of an heroic play adrift in an anti-heroic age”, we should try
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124 The Company of Shakespeare in Exile 97 no longer to ignore the performance of Rehfisch’s heroic refugees stranded on the Isle of Man (1980: 214). How reliable will our official stage histories be if they continue to be concerned with professional rather than amateur theatricals?
4. As You Like It in Ruhleben
Amateur productions in exile are not always ignored or forgotten. The final section of this paper will be devoted to a stage production that was remembered longer than the Julius Caesar presented on the Isle of Man. This production of what is also one of Shakespeare’s exile plays par excellence – As You Like It – was put on by exiled Britons in the civilian internment camp of Ruhleben (Berlin), in 1915. Viewed in its immediate camp contexts, it seeks to illustrate how beyond our recognition of reading and quoting Shakespeare (as in the case of countess Karolina Lanckorońska), and beyond our recognition of performances of Shakespeare in exile, we may also learn to see the emergence of a new literature of exile. In these cases, the Shakespearean contexts facilitate our interpretation of this literature. In November 1914, between 4,000 and 5,000 British men were interned by the German authorities, and most of them remained behind barbed wire until the end of the war in 1918. One means of coping with the situation for the British internees was to maintain the hope that they might at any moment be exchanged against some if not all of the 29,000 Germans who had been interned by the British government across Britain but also in the village of Knockaloe on the Isle of Man. Another means of coping with the frustration and the boredom at Ruhleben was to develop a range of social activities. Within a short period of time, Ruhleben developed to become the microcosm of a model society, with its own political hierarchy and a rich cultural life – including a school (known as Ruhleben University), an orchestra, several newspapers and journals, a lending and a reference library, multiple sports clubs (to play football but also golf), a postal system with its own stamps and a theatre (Ketchum and Stibbe 1965 passim). At this theatre – in the spring of 1915, so within six months after the original internment of the Britons – the first stage productions were mounted. In addition to variety shows and contemporary drama, there was Shakespeare, and the very first of a series of Shakespeare productions put on over the years was As You Like It. Relatively much has been written about this production, particularly by internees who recorded their response to and memories of the event, but this does not necessarily make it any easier to arrive at a reliable account of the way in which the exiles at Ruhleben fashioned their Shakespeare. The play was ‘produced’ or directed by Cecil Duncan Jones, and his set designer was Leigh Vaughan Henry. Cecil Duncan Jones was a poet and a published novelist, as well as a professional actor who, around the turn of the nineteenth century, had played in Frank Benson’s company on tour and acted with Ellen Terry at the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre.7 Leigh Vaughan Henry, too, was a theatre man, although he worked at rather the
7 Cecil Duncan Jones (unhyphenated) was the great-uncle of the prominent Shakespearean and Sidney scholar, Katherine Duncan-Jones. I am extremely grateful to Katherine Duncan-Jones for her information and advice, and her generous assistance with the writing of my monograph about Cecil Duncan Jones and the cultural life in Ruhleben Camp (in progress), and for permission to quote from the family archive and Cecil Duncan Jones’s papers, including the unpublished poem ‘In the Distance’ below.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124 98 Ton Hoenselaars opposite end of the European theatre spectrum. Until his arrest by the German authorities in 1914, Leigh Vaughan Henry had been the musical director to the greatest theatre innovator of the time, the illegitimate son of Ellen Terry, Edward Gordon Craig, at the Florence-based theatre laboratory. The backgrounds of these two men signal the fact that it is difficult ever to speak of purely amateur drama, also behind barbed wire. However, the ad hoc conditions under which the production was mounted, and the dozens of non- professional theatre enthusiasts at Ruhleben are sufficient to read this 1915 As You Like It as an amateur undertaking. The meeting of these two men on the muddy grounds of the racecourse-turned- internment-camp west of Berlin led to a remarkable production of As You Like It, whose reverberations were to be felt both within the camp and beyond, both during the war and in the years to come, and unusually, perhaps, even came to be listed in the Yale Shakespeare edition of 1919.8 This paper does not discuss the production itself in detail, except its reputation in connection with internment camp censorship and wartime propaganda. Interestingly, for example, Vaughan Henry himself reported on the event in the New York theatre monthly The Drama of 1916. Curiously, Leigh Vaughan Henry depicted the play as a light-hearted comedy, and never as a reflection on exile:
M. Duncan-Jones’ production was distinguished by a thoroughness of preparation, a subtlety of insight, and an individuality of conception. ... No detail, no matter how elusive or small, escaped him; every mood and character of the play was interpreted with a penetration which revealed the utmost of its significance. Yet nothing obtruded to destroy the complete unity of the work as a whole, nor was anything emphasized in such a manner as to obscure its spontaneity. Throughout, an atmosphere of whole-hearted merriment and gaiety evinced the strong human feeling and sympathy of the producer, a feeling with which he succeeded in imbuing the whole of his cast. (Henry 1916: 400)
Of course, as Jane Kingsley-Smith has argued, As You Like It may be a happy comedy, but this is not to say that it idealises exile throughout. The Duke has his famous opening volley:
Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old customs made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court! (2.1.1-4)
Despite these opening words, there is no shared tendency in the play actually to exchange the court for the country. The play does not – as Kingsley-Smith also helps us recognize – present a version of pastoral that convincingly foils the corrupt court or city: the Forest of Arden is not superior to the “envious court” (Kingsley-Smith 2003: 111). Rather, we wit- ness the assumption that there will be a return to the original world outside the forest: “the exile desires civilization and yearns to know himself civilized once more” (Kingsley-Smith 2003: 110). In As You Like It, the characters’ “expectations of a pastoral idyll are deliberately flouted for an enforced encounter with what is initially perceived as the non- civilized, even savage” (110).
8 Reference to the Ruhleben production was included in As You Like It (Crawford 1919: 138).
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It is not likely that either Duncan Jones misread the play as its producer, or Vaughan Henry as its reviewer in 1916. It is more likely that Vaughan Henry’s glowing praise of the ‘atmosphere of wholehearted merriment’ had its origins in other causes. A closer look at the circumstances, for example, alerts one to the discrepancy between the allegation that “nothing obtruded to destroy the complete unity of the work as a whole” (Henry 1916:400) and the fact that the opening act of the play, with its political intrigue as well as its representation of characters who become refugees before they end up in exile, was entirely cut. Furthermore, the Ruhleben authorities exerted severe control both on the contents and the size of the internees’ correspondence, which was limited to 2 letters and 4 postcards each month, and the appearance of Vaughan Henry’s rave review of the forest scenes in an American theatre journal indicates that it had enjoyed special treatment from the German censor. The strongly favourable tone as well as the partly inaccurate nature of the review suggest that it was the product of a German propaganda campaign. One reason why the German authorities would have allowed Shakespeare’s As You Like It to be performed at Ruhleben and to have it broadcast so widely was to counter the daily stories in the world press about the atrocious living conditions at Ruhleben (which were not altogether false). German propaganda sought to communicate to the world that these civilian internees behind barbed wire were being treated fairly, were not subjected to forced labour (they were civilians) and were allowed their pastime in a rural environment. In short, the Germans made all the world their stage to suggest that Ruhleben (which literally meant ‘the quiet life’) stood for an Arcadian ideal rather than a situation that could be interpreted as a disgrace to humanity at large. A very similar strategy also explains the surprising wartime publication by Ruhleben internee Cyrus Brooks, who wrote of Ruhleben in the way Shakespeare’s Duke speaks of the Forest of Arden. Despite the bleakness of camp life, Brooks wrote, men “beg[a]n to grow conscious of beauty”. “At first” – he wrote
it was a reaction against the squalor of the ground, making them turn their eyes literally towards the sky. And there they found magnificence in plenty. The vast cloud mountains which shade the eye of sunset, the infernal red murk of a winter’s dawn, the hurtling clouds flying like visible thunder from the west wind’s fist, came to the prisoner like an unviewed, unawaited spectacle. To the same man, when he hurried to his office, these dramas of the sky had meant little beyond the need for an umbrella, or the sign of a fine to-morrow. Now they appeared loaded with mystic significance, expressing something in the heart of the watcher, as intimate as speech and as purifying as the Gospel of Christ – ‘Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance’! (quoted in Swale 1916-1917: RUH 52)9
In addition to conveying to the world the rural delights to be enjoyed in this internment camp, the production and the review of As You Like It enabled the authorities to show the world that Germany represented “a country of eminent cultural attainments” and that “Great Britain’s enemy honoured Great Britain’s poet despite the war” (Foulkes 2002: 187). This was also the German motivation for Max Reinhardt’s European Shakespeare tours to neutral countries in 1916. Of course, no attempt to convey to the world that As You Like It at Ruhleben conveyed ‘an atmosphere of whole-hearted merriment and gaiety’ was going to convince
9 Cyrus Harry Brooks (A British Prisoner of War in Germany), ‘Inside the Wire’. Copy of a published article, without reference to the title of the original journal, as preserved in William Swale (1916-1917).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124 100 Ton Hoenselaars the internees, and this explains the response by some of them, who either debunked the Arcadian image, or, conversely, sought means of expression more subtle than Jaques’ in the play to argue in favour of the life retired. At this stage, the original ‘identification’ of the exiled self with ‘Shakespeare’ inspires linguistic re-invention. One instance of creatively debunking Arcadia is internee Louis Filmore’s rewriting of the ‘Seven Ages of Men’ speech, included in an early issue of the camp journal. In the case of Filmore, the physical hardships of life at Ruhleben and the frustrating speculation about the exchange of prisoners inspired an adaptation that recalls the cynicism of Jaques, but is more good-humoured:
THE SEVEN AGES OF A KRIEGSGEFANGENER All the world’s a cage, And all the men within it weary players; They have no exists, only entrances, Where each spends many months ere he departs. ... And last of all before we drop the curtain Upon the scene where life is so uncertain Comes he who patient, waits upon the Stage, Nor uninstructed seeks to read the page; Well knowing that the day will come when he Will once again be numbered with the Free. Resigned to all each passing day he views Sans Cash, Sans Clothes, Sans Liberty, Sans Views! (Filmore 1915: 7)
Given the fact that censorship also applied to the publication of the camp journal, this parody of Shakespeare’s ‘Seven Ages of Man’ never really achieves the ambition of Shakespeare’s Jaques to have “as large a charter as the wind, / To blow on whom [he] please[s]” (2.7.48-49). Self-censorship here draws on a fair dose of humour, and its publication in the camp journal really becomes a measure of the dissent that also internees were apparently allowed. The part of Jaques in As You Like It was to be rewritten in another way too, by the producer of As You Like It, Cecil Duncan Jones. Prominent in his writings is an identification with Jaques, but not as a cynic. Like Shakespeare’s character, Duncan Jones was searching for “true liberty in exile from society”, seeking to justify a continued stay at Ruhleben on religious and philosophical grounds (Duncan-Jones 1914-37: xxxii). Cecil Duncan Jones, a disciple of the pedagogue Rudolph Steiner, was convinced of the liberating powers of the mind over substance, as expressed by Steiner in his Philosophy of Freedom: “One should feel that one is being lifted out of one’s usual thinking [Vorstellen] into a thinking independent of the senses [ein sinnlichkeitsfreies Denken], in which one is fully immersed, so that one feels free of the conditions of physical existence” (Steiner 1983: 107; italics added). As a disciple of Steiner, we find the poet Cecil Duncan Jones define very much the same virtue of ‘inner Emigration’, of inward migration, or migration into the self, as that explicitly pursued by Countess Karolina Lanckorońska with the complete works of Shakespeare at Ravensbrück (2005: 269). Clearly, Cecil Duncan Jones looked upon Ruhleben as Shakespeare’s Celia did upon the Forest of Arden, certainly when she argued that the road to Arden would lead “To liberty, and not to banishment” (1.3.136). To begin with, Cecil Duncan Jones considered the hardships of Ruhleben – from which he did not seek to escape – as the fuel for an Anglican mode of suffering conducive
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124 The Company of Shakespeare in Exile 101 to an identification with and a deeper awareness of the mysteries of Christ. Witness his words in his sermon of Easter Wednesday 1915. It is at Ruhleben, Cecil Duncan Jones argued with a brief side-reference to Shakespeare’s Henry V – “that we men, gathered from the four corners of the globe, have shared – we few – a rare privilege”:
[T]his may with every possible degree of confidence be urged: that we have here and now, particularly those amongst us who take the inward life with all the earnestness in their power, an opportunity that normal life could never present. The great deterrents to spiritual development, alcohol and the promiscuous indulgence of the sexual and other appetites, is removed altogether from the sphere of possibilities. So much then, to the good, for this period of a great retreat from usual mundane influences. What remains for us to perform is the undergoing of this great, hard, long experience, literally for all it is worth. (quoted from ‘Easter Sermon’ in family archive)
The poor, Spartan conditions at Ruhleben, Cecil Duncan Jones felt, were far removed from the materialist and physical temptations of the world outside, were ideal for a (re)discovery of the early twentieth-century individual’s lost self. This explains why, in an internment camp that was daily buzzing with escape narratives, Shakespearean director Cecil Duncan Jones propagated to stay put, taking a bold decision since it was not shared by many internees. His poem In the Distance captures the sentiment. Here, the speaker in the dreary camp unexpectedly gains a special view of the attractive world outside when the guard opens the gate. The space that opens up before him, however, only invites a reflection on the inside of the camp. The poem argues, with Steiner, that the individual is the prisoner of his longings and desires. It argues that once outside the camp, one is not free either, because the Faustian individual always wants to know what is beyond the horizon. True ‘liberty’ can only exist in the mind of the individual who has learnt to recognize that intellectual virtue of exile:
IN THE DISTANCE Behind the netted wire I stood And, just beyond, the gate of wood. A wooden soldier set it wide And there was all the world outside. I saw beneath the railway arch The swaying of a silver birch, A coppice and a tract of grass And someone led a horse across That trod with such a mincing air, Dancingly and debonair.
Downtrodden by our monotone, Stale with surfeit of the known, I gazed upon that unknown green, I fed upon that foreign scene, I painted swift within my mind Every flush of cloud and wind. I planted it behind my eyes To burgeon forth its spaciousness In horrid hours when this cell Becomes a quiet nook in hell.
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Then may unfold that vision green: The thought of something that was seen Reminding the imprisoned heart That prison too is but a part; And saying too that if I stood Upon that grass before that wood That there would spread a distance still, Beckoning slow to wish and will. For though we gaze on sea or shore There still is more and, and always more. (Duncan Jones, unpublished)
Like Shakespeare’s Jaques, the speaker prefers to retire into a ‘free’ or ‘liberated’ self, rather than return to the freedom beyond the barbed wire. Shakespeare and As You Like It become the inspiration for a new poem, and Cecil Duncan Jones emerges as a neglected Word War I poet and a poet of exile. Thus, amidst the actualities of exile in Ruhleben, a condition over-determined by both propaganda and censorship, we witness how Shakespeare’s traditional drama of exile, As You Like It, slowly morphs into the ‘new’ poetry of exile, with L. E. Filmore’s sardonic skit on ‘The Seven Ages of Man’ but also with the mystical, philosophical and religious verse of Cecil Duncan Jones.
5. Conclusion
Witnessing these instances of literary identification with Shakespeare and of linguistic self- re-invention, one begins to understand why, for example, the lists of Shakespearean quotations printed in the Ruhleben Camp Journal were presented under the heading of Shakespeare K.G. – meaning ‘Shakespeare, Kriegsgefängner’, ‘Shakespeare POW’, Shakespeare, one of us. In most instances – particularly where the identification with Shakespeare is clearest – we may continue to wonder where Shakespeare ceases and the true voice of the exile begins. This practice of literature in exile may still, as Edward Said put it, “obscure what is truly horrendous” (Said, 2000: 174) but our acknowledgement of these sites only spells gain. A wall of silence still stands between us and these key experiences of the twentieth century. We may raze this wall once we fully recognize the sometime limitations of our discipline and value the merits of the ‘Shakespearean’ (and hence nearly ubiquitous) cultures of exile, some of which I have sought to identify in this paper. If approached with caution and the discretion due in this sensitive area of nearly blank biographies, we may be in a position to make the dislocated selves speak – in quotations from Shakespeare, in productions of Shakespeare’s plays, in negotiations initiated by censorship or propaganda, or, ultimately, in new verse. Said’s doubt about the literature of exile in literal terms cannot, perhaps, be entirely resolved, but the performance of literature, reading, quoting, playing and rewriting, as a phenomenon, represents a cultural reality that involves literature as a survival mechanism, which may at least sketch the contours of the exile’s unspeakable plight.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124 The Company of Shakespeare in Exile 103
Works Cited
Bourne, John 1941: ‘John Bourne Reviews the Festival’. The Stratford-upon-Avon Herald 18 April. Crawford, Jack Randall, ed. 1919: As You Like It (by William Shakespeare). The Yale Shakespeare. New Haven: Yale UP. Dobson, Michael 2011: Shakespeare and Amateur Performance: A Cultural History. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. Dove, Richard 2005:‘Totally Un-English’? Britain’s Internment of ‘Enemy Aliens’ in Two World Wars. Ed. Richard Dove. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi. Filmore, Louis E. 1915: ‘The Seven Ages of a Kriegsgefangener’. Ruhleben Camp Journal 1 (1915, 7) Foulkes, Richard 2002: Performing Shakespeare in the Age of Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. Hawkes, Terence 1992: Meaning by Shakespeare. London and New York: Routledge. Henry, Leigh 1916: ‘Kriegsgefangenensendung’ (‘mail from prisoners of war’). Letter to the editor. The Drama 6: 399-405. Howard, Tony 2000: ‘Blood on the Bright Young Things: Shakespeare in the 1930s’. Clive Barker and Maggie B. Gale, eds. British Theatre between the Wars, 1918-1939. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. 135-61. Humphreys, Arthur, ed. 1984: Julius Caesar (by William Shakespeare). Oxford: Oxford UP. Kingsley-Smith, Jane 2003: Shakespeare’s Drama of Exile. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan. Lanckorońska, Karolina 2005: Those Who Trespass Against Us: One Woman’s War Against the Nazis. Trans. Noel Clark. Preface by Norman Davies. London: Pimlico. ––––– 2006: Michelangelo in Ravensbrück: One Woman’s War Against the Nazis. Trans. Noel Clark. Preface by Eva Hoffman. Cambridge: Da Capo Books. Sefton Review 2 (25 November 1940). 5-6. Ripley, John 1980: ‘Julius Caesar’ on Stage in England and America, 1599-1973. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. Said, Edward W. 2000. Reflections on Exile and other Literary and Cultural Essays. London: Granta Books. Seller, Maxine Schwartz 2001: We Built Up Our Lives: Education and Community among Jewish Refugees Interned by Britain in World War II. Westport: Greenwood P. Steiner, Rudolf 1983: The Boundaries of Natural Science: Eight Lectures by Rudolf Steiner. Intro. Saul Bellow. Great Barrington: Anthroposophic P. Stent, Ronald 1980: A Bespattered Page? The Internment of His Majesty’s ‘Most Loyal Enemy Aliens’. London: Andre Deutsch. Swale, William 1916-1917: ‘Stable Jottings’. Liddle Collection. William Swale Collection. University of Leeds, Brotherton Library. RUH 52.
Received 3 September 2011 Accepted 30 October 2011
Ton Hoenselaars is Professor of Early Modern English Literature and Culture at Utrecht University. He is the founding chairman of the Shakespeare Society of the Low Countries, and the President of the European Shakespeare Research Association (ESRA). His books include Shakespeare and the Language of Translation (Arden Shakespeare, 2004), and Shakespeare’s History Plays (Cambridge UP, 2004). He is currently writing a cultural history of the Ruhleben internment camp in Berlin (1914-1918).
Address: Department of English. Utrecht University. Trans 10, 3512 JK Utrecht, The Netherlands. Tel.: +31 (0)30 2537845.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 89–103 ISSN 0210-6124
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 105–122 ISSN 0210-6124
GLASGOW, UNIVERSITY LIBRARY, MS HUNTER 509: A DESCRIPTION
Laura Esteban-Segura Universidad de Murcia [email protected]
The aim of this article is to provide a description of G.U.L. MS Hunter 509, a fifteenth-century codex which holds the medical compendium entitled System of Physic. This text offers a comprehensive account of mediaeval medicine, including discussion on the four humours, elements, complexions, etc., and a version of the Middle English Gilbertus Anglicus. The description tackles all the main codicological and palaeographical aspects that can be obtained from fresh examination of the manuscript (script, decoration, etc.), as well as those that require further investigation, such as provenance or dialectal origin of the text.
Keywords: codicology; palaeography; medical manuscript; Middle English; Gilbertus Anglicus; MS Hunter 509
GLASGOW, BIBLIOTECA UNIVERSITARIA, MS HUNTER 509: UNA DESCRIPCIÓN
En el presente artículo, se lleva a cabo la descripción del manuscrito Hunter 509, depositado en la Biblioteca de la Universidad de Glasgow. El códice data del siglo quince y contiene un compendio de medicina titulado System of Physic, que se caracteriza por ofrecer una visión completa y exhaustiva de la práctica médica medieval. Así, incluye información sobre los cuatro humores, elementos, complexiones, etc., además de una versión del Middle English Gilbertus Anglicus. La descripción llevada a cabo abarca los aspectos codicológicos y paleográficos más significativos que se pueden apreciar tras la observación y el examen directo del manuscrito, tales como el tipo de letra o la decoración, así como aquellos que no son perceptibles a la vista y que requieren, por tanto, un análisis más detallado, como la historia del manuscrito o el origen dialectal del texto.
Palabras clave: codicología; paleografía; manuscrito médico; inglés medio; Gilbertus Anglicus; MS Hunter 509 106 Laura Esteban-Segura
1. Introduction
The study of mediaeval medical literature written in the vernacular has received a good deal of attention for the insights that it can provide into the development of language, literacy or reading practices, among many other aspects (see Taavitsainen and Pahta 2004);1 relevant and different types of information, such as function or ownership of the books, can also be retrieved by analysing external or purely material features of manuscripts, which at the same time may also have textual significance. It is the purpose of this article to focus on the physical characteristics of a mediaeval book and to describe it from a codicological/palaeographical standpoint, complementing these data with an analysis of other elements, such as sources or dialectal ascription, so as to supply a fuller and more complete picture. The manuscript selected is G.U.L. MS Hunter 509 (hereafter H509), which contains a medical compendium consisting of several treatises. H509 forms part of the Hunterian Collection, housed in the Special Collections Department at Glasgow University Library. The ex libris or bookplate is on the inside front cover where, below a picture which represents the reading room of a library, the following can be read: “Drawn in England by J. Scott”, and below this in capital letters: “Bibliotheca Hunteriana | Glasguensis”.2 In a new line, the press-mark Q.8.16 has been crossed out with blue pencil; next to it and written with the same colour, the present one, V.8.12, is found.3
2. Contents
The manuscript under consideration holds the text System of Physic (ff. 1r-167v),4 beginning on the first line of the first folio recto with the words: “[Space left for initial I] Tis to vndyr stonde · þat · a · man · is mad of iiij…”, and ending in line 24 of folio 167 verso with: “oþer with þe whiþ· þe white/ of an ey ... laus creatoris amen”. This text is composed of several treatises. The first part of System of Physic comprises a treatise on the four humours and their properties, elements, qualities, complexions, ages of man, seasons of the year, types of wind and division of hours between day and night (ff. 1r-3v). This is followed by an
1 Scholars have benefited from a number of research tools currently available, such as the electronic catalogue of early English scientific and medical writings known as eVK2, which represents an expanded and revised version of Voigts and Kurtz’s reference work (2000), or the bibliographical index of mediaeval Latin scientific writings eTK, a digital resource based on Thorndike and Kibre’s catalogue (1963). Both of them can be consulted at
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 105–122 ISSN 0210-6124 Glasgow, University Library, MS Hunter 509: A Description 107 exposition of uroscopy and a further explanation of humours and complexions (ff. 3v- 14r). The medical knowledge presented in those folios is grounded in the Greek tradition where diet, climate, place, physical condition, mode of life and age were all relevant (Calman 2007: 32). Some of the previous points are illustrated in the following passage:5
Fleume is wont to wexe plentiful in fleumatik folk and in old folk duellyng in colde cuntrees, namely in wyntres tyme in vsyng coold and moist dietyngis of þe kynde of sicnesse. (f. 5r)
The contents of folios 14r-167v are based on the Middle English Gilbertus Anglicus, an adaptation in Middle English from the original Latin work Compendium medicinae, written by Gilbertus Anglicus ca. 1240. As its title suggests, this compendium of medical practice provides an extensive description of disorders of the human body ordered following the usual method of the time, which is a de capite ad pedem structure (from head to foot). The nature and symptoms of each disease, the humours that cause the disorder and its cures, including advice on nutrition, pills, powders, ointments, plasters and therapies, such as baths and inhalations, are carefully explained. The first ailment tackled is the headache (ff. 14r-16v), followed by other mental and neurological disorders of the head and brain (ff. 16v-28v): ‘scotomye’ (dizziness and dimness of sight, ff. 17r-17vbis), frenzy (ff. 17vbis- 19r), mania (ff. 19r-20r), lethargy (ff. 20v-22v), epilepsy (ff. 22v-25v) and apoplexy (ff. 25v- 28v). The exposition continues with sicknesses and afflictions of the eyes (ff. 28v-44v), including the eyelids (ff. 43v-44v), the ears (ff. 44v-52v), the nose (ff. 52v-57r), the mouth (ff. 57r-59v), the teeth (ff. 59v-62v) and the throat (ff. 62v-69v). The discussion proceeds with the chest and lungs (69v-88v), the heart (ff. 88v-95r), the stomach (ff. 95r-115r), the intestines (ff. 115r-29v), the anus (ff. 129v-31r), the liver (ff. 131r-39r), the spleen (ff. 139v-46v), the kidneys (ff. 146v-51v) and the bladder (ff. 152r-58r). Lastly, disorders affecting the peritoneum (ff. 158r-61r), the penis (ff. 161r-64v) and, once again, the anus (ff. 164v-67v) close the treatise. There are more than fifteen extant manuscripts containing the Middle English Gilbertus (some of them fragmentary) (Keiser 1998: 3834), but more witnesses may be discovered with the passing of time (Getz 1991: lxv). The source of the first part of H509 (ff. 1r-14r), however, is unknown. Some other versions of the Gilbertus share it, but not all of them, and works other than the Gilbertus may also contain this text.6 Teresa Tavormina7 has suggested the hypothesis that the original manuscript might have contained a note at the beginning for possible copyists, urging them to include there the information on humours, uroscopy, etc. that they considered suitable as a way of introduction. This could explain why some versions have this material whereas others do not. Another idea of Professor Tavormina’s concerns the authorship of this part and the possibility of its author being the same one that translated the Gilbertus from Latin. She notes that the arrangement of the explanations of urine follows the same framework as that of the Gilbertus’ treatise (from the head downwards). This is interesting as the descriptions of urine were normally done on the basis of its colour as observed in the flask. The tone and language employed in this introductory part suggest a didactic or teaching use of the text. The language is clear and comparisons are frequent so that the
5 The fragments cited from H509 throughout this article have been taken from Esteban-Segura (2008a). 6 In the manuscript, there is no differentiation in terms of internal structure or articulation between the different parts described. 7 Personal communication, 2007.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 105–122 ISSN 0210-6124 108 Laura Esteban-Segura information is easily understood. An instance of this from H509 occurs in the discussion of the characteristics of the choleric body:
Colre is hoot and driȝe, ryt as we se ofte-tyme a moist þynge dryyt þat is j-leyd to þe feyr þorw þe hotnesse and drynesse of þe feyr. And þat see be an exaumpyl: Tac þe rynd of a grene tre and ley jt to þe fyer. And þe lenger þat þe rynd liþ to þe fyere, þe more it dryeþ. And þe more it drieþ, þe more it wryncli[þ] and schrynckeþ. (f. 1v)
At the end of the manuscript, there are several medical recipes for migraine in a different hand (ff. 168v-69r), an added note (f. 171r), and mixed recipes and annotations in various hands (f. 171v). Before the first folio, there is a loose sheet of note-paper in which Dr William Hunter (see next section) has written: “This M. S. (A System of Physic,) | seems to be written in the oldest | english that is now intelligible, | many of the Saxon characters | being used in it | It begins thus |
3. Date and provenance
The text was copied during the second half of the fifteenth century, ca. 1460. Young and Aitken date the manuscript in the fourteenth century (1908: 416), whereas Doyle notes that it was composed in an early-mid fifteenth-century hand (1954, in Young and Aitken 1908).10 Internal evidence, such as the type of script employed (see section 13), language, and history features, points to a later date than that indicated by Young and Aitken, and Doyle. Although the contents of a large part of the text have been identified as the Middle English Gilbertus Anglicus, the author of the Middle English version remains unknown. Concerning the identity of the copyist and owners, the names appearing on certain folios of the manuscript have proved invaluable in tracing the history and provenance of the book.11 On folio 169r, there is an annotation by a man named Robert Beverley, claiming to have written the book: “J Robart beuerley haþe wretten alle þis bocke” (figure 1). Although Doyle may be right in considering this claim “patently untrue” (in Young and
8 The copy to which Dr Hunter refers is G.U.L. MS Hunter 307, also in the Hunterian Collection. This manuscript holds the text System of Physic in folios 1r-166v; it is more complete because it also contains an anonymous Middle English treatise on buboes (ff. 145v-46v), a gynaecological and obstetrical text (ff. 149v-65v), a Middle English version of Guy de Chauliac’s ‘On bloodletting’ (ff. 165v-66v) and a pharmacopoeia (ff. 167r-72v) (Reference is made to the original foliation of the manuscript). 9 Young and Aitken (1908: 416) and Cross (2004: 34) also use this denomination in their catalogues. 10 Addendum to page 416. 11 Some of the information on the provenance of H509 has appeared in Esteban-Segura (2008b, 2010).
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Aitken 1908)12 since the annotation is in a later hand, the presence of that name at the end of the manuscript is significant and could indicate, if not its copyist, an owner of the book; another note containing the same name—and which also suggests scribal activity—can be found on folio 171v: “Amen quod Robart beuerley” (figure 2).
Fig. 1: Mark of authorship (1)
Fig. 2: Mark of authorship (2)
The name in question could make reference to at least three people. The first possibility is that of a surgeon who worked in London and was dead by 1525. He was one of eleven members of his craft exempted from serving on juries, inquests and watches in the City of London in 1517 (Talbot and Hammond 1965: 292). In his register of the University of Cambridge, Emden (1963: 60) lists another Robert Beverley (also recorded in Venn and Venn 1922: 147), a pensioner at Gonville Hall in 1497 who paid the communa towards proceeding to a Master of Arts or to another high degree in 1497-98. Emden establishes the likelihood of him being the same person as Robt. B., a Canon and Prebendary of St Mary’s in Warwick who died in 1504. There is still another Robert Beverley from Cambridge, a friar who was a Bachelor of Divinity or Theology in 1506-07, and perhaps a Doctor of Divinity or Theology in 1511-12 (Venn and Venn 1922: 147). Another note, the mark of ownership “liber magistri Johannis Sperhawk”, on folio 171v (figure 3) throws some light on the history of the book and hints at a more reliable copyist. John Sperhawke’s life is discussed in Minns (1949); however, the information contained therein is misleading as he is confused with John Sperhauke, a Bachelor of both Canon and Civil Law, and details of the life of both men are intermingled throughout the article and ascribed to the Sperhawke under discussion.
Fig. 3: Mark of ownership (1)
12 Addendum to page 416. The identification of Robert Beverley as the scribe of H509 has also been branded as spurious by Gillespie (2001: 591).
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The Sperhawke that wrote the note above was probably born around 1404 and studied in Pembroke Hall (later Pembroke College), Cambridge. He was admitted to Pembroke ca. 1426. The date during which he stayed on as a Fellow is unknown, but he was still there in 1433. He graduated as Master of Arts and by 1453 was Doctor of Divinity or Theology. He was ordained priest in September 1425. Sperhawke was Rector of Biddenham, Bedfordshire, a position which he vacated in May 1453. He then became Vicar of Hitchin, Hertfordshire, from May 1453 until his death. He was also Canon of Wells and Prebendary of Ashill, from December 1453 until his death, and Rector of Abington Pigotts in South West Cambridgeshire, which he resigned in 1473. He died in 1474 and was buried at Hitchin. His will is dated 25 March 1472 and was proven on 4 February 1474.13 A shortened, and not very reliable, translation of the will is printed in the Somerset Record Society XVI (Weaver 1901: 222-25). In it, he bequeathed to Pembroke Hall money for distribution among the Fellows; to the College Treasury his texts of Aristotle’s Ethics and Politics, and several books to the College Library and to the University Library.14 He may have owned more books since not all the books of a testator were likely to be enumerated in the will; moreover, they could be faultily described and thus not identified, since listing all the works held in a particular volume exceeded the function of wills (Harris 1989: 163- 64). Of the five known books that Sperhawke owned, four are in the College Library in Cambridge while the other, H509, is in Glasgow University Library, as mentioned in the Introduction. In his will, he bequeathed to Master Thomas Westhaugh of Syon “the book of medicine that he [Westhaugh] wrote with his own hand” (Weaver 1901: 222-25). These are enlightening words in order to establish who copied H509. Thomas Westhaugh, also a Fellow of Pembroke College, was admitted in 1436 and was still there in 1445-46 (he held the position of Treasurer from 1443 to 1445). By 1437, he had obtained the degree of Master of Arts; that of Bachelor of Divinity or Theology by 1448, and was later Doctor of Divinity or Theology. He received ordination by the Bishop of Norwich in 1437 and was designated Rector of All-Hallows-the-Great in London (1448-59). He joined the Bridgettine Order and by 1472 was Confessor General of Syon Monastery, a house of Bridgettine nuns founded by Henry V in 1415 near the royal palace at Richmond, ten miles west of London, and reputed to be the last great monastery set up in England. He left the place in 1497.15 There is yet another indication in Sperhawke’s hand on folio 171v “
13 Information about the life of John Sperhawke has been obtained from Minns (1949), Emden (1963: 545), and Venn and Venn (1927: 126). 14 These books are listed in Emden (1963: 545). 15 The biography of Thomas Westhaugh is discussed in Emden (1963: 630), Venn and Venn (1927: 371), as well as in the entry found in Gillespie’s edition of the library catalogue of Syon (2001: 590-91). 16 Thomas Betson was deacon and custos librarie at Syon, whose registrum “is one of the largest library catalogues surviving from pre-Reformation England” (Gillespie 2001: xxix).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 105–122 ISSN 0210-6124 Glasgow, University Library, MS Hunter 509: A Description 111 the name of Thomas Westhaugh, although still perceptible, has been erased as the donor of the volume. This erasure “probably reflects uncertainty or scruple as to who was the actual donor to the house, and suggests that the chain of benefaction and transmission by which books reached the library was not always transparent” (Gillespie 2001: 590-91). There are a dozen books left to Pembroke College by Westhaugh, including a Virgil and the Latin Gilbertus Anglicus, marked as Cambridge, Pembroke College, MS 228, although most of his books he left to Syon (see Emden 1963: 630-31). In the library registrum, H509 is given a full entry as SS1.117 (originally press-marked B.40) (Gillespie 2001: 42). Unfortunately, the subsequent life of the manuscript there is not properly recorded.
Fig. 4: Mark of ownership (2)
Later at some point, H509 came into the hands of the Robert Beverley discussed above. Several hypotheses are possible. First, the dissolution of the Monastery in 1539 could have implied the dispersion of its library, and hence new and successive owners. A second possibility is that Robert Beverley could have used the book and made his annotations on it at Syon Library. On folio 171v, there is also a recipe followed by the name D. W. Watman17 and another by I. (or J.) Stamford. There is a man called John Stamford, who graduated as Bachelor of Arts from Cambridge University in 1585-86 (Venn and Venn 1927: 144). The last owner of H509 was William Hunter (1718-83), a Scottish doctor, educator and medical writer. He was an eminent surgeon and considered the leading obstetrician of his day (Ricci 1930: 53). He left by his will his private collection and the contents of his museum (which he had accumulated over many years in Great Windmill Street, London) to the University of Glasgow “for the improvement of students and the use of the public” (Brock 1990: iii). Dr Hunter had approximately 32 medical manuscripts, of which some 24 were British in origin and provenance. He bought most of the mediaeval manuscripts at auctions or from booksellers. H509 was acquired from an auction catalogue at the Joseph Letherland sale (Letherland was also a physician-collector) in London, on 14 March 1765; the acquisition was in lots (H509 was lot 1133) and it included other medical manuscripts, such as lot 510 (MS 362) (Ker 1983: 5-13).
4. Binding
The binding is from the eighteenth century and consists of leather covers of a crimson colour which have faded to brown. It is of Russian calf (John Ashman 1988, in Young and
17 I have been unable to trace any material relating to this name.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 105–122 ISSN 0210-6124 112 Laura Esteban-Segura
Aitken 1908).18 The front and back covers present gilt-tooled edges and sides, and gilt embellishments in each corner. The volume measures 183 mm x 131 mm. On the spine (45 mm) “A SYSTEM | OF | MEDEC[I]NE” and, a little further down, “M.S.” can be read.
5. Material
H509 is a codex in parchment of quite good quality. It can be considered a well-preserved manuscript as the volume does not present damage caused by dampness, fire or rodents. However, folio 1r is badly stained and some stains are found throughout the book. On several folios, such as folios 1, 13, 14, 26, 93, there are holes but they can be attributed to the processing of the material, since the scribe avoids them when writing (and therefore they have not appeared later, but were already present). There is evidence of cropping on the sides (f. 130) and at the bottom of folios (f. 164). It is difficult to distinguish hair from flesh sides as the material is scraped very finely; however, the pages seem to be arranged in a way that hair faces hair and flesh faces flesh (Jones 2000: 209). For writing, the quill is employed as well as black ink, although the passing of time has discoloured it; as a result, it displays a brownish tint in its current state. Folios 60v-62r and 148v-49r show decorations and paragraph marks in red ink.
6. Dimensions and structure
The size of folios is 175 mm x 130 mm and that corresponding to the area of written space is around 120-25 mm x 90-95 mm (approximately 135 mm x 90-95 mm if heading titles at the top of folios are included). There are small variations in leaf size of up to 1 mm vertically and 4 mm horizontally. As for the format, letter size is even, although sometimes ascenders and descenders are larger than usual. This takes place when a new section starts and emphasis is wished to be conveyed. The text, written in a single column, shows good handwriting. The number of lines per folio is not uniform, varying from 22 up to 32 lines. Since there is no table of contents, the main device for finding information are the headings titles with the name of the illness or the organ affected by it. They are placed above the text and are found from folio 14r onwards. Marginalia can also serve this purpose, directing the reader to specific matters (see section 18). The original plan was to mark internal textual divisions by means of two-line opening initials at the start of new sections, but this has not been carried out (see section 16).
7. Foliation
The manuscript consists of 176 folios (352 pages), numbered at the top, on the right-hand side of each recto. Arabic numerals are employed for the numeration of folios; elsewhere, Roman numerals are used. This could imply that foliation was done at a later stage. According to Petti (1977: 28), Roman numerals were predominant in England until the
18 Addendum to page 416.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 105–122 ISSN 0210-6124 Glasgow, University Library, MS Hunter 509: A Description 113 sixteenth century. In H509, the last in a group of ones is written j as, for instance, ij (two), iij (three) or iiij (four). Young and Aitken (1908: 416) date the foliation in the fifteenth century. Foliation is erroneous as it starts twice, renumbering folio 3 as 1, and going on thereafter to the end, with the following errors: folio 17 has been numbered twice, a folio has been omitted between folios 127 and 128, and folio 162 has been doubled.
8. Secundo folio
The first words on the second folio (folio recto) of manuscripts were the method used in mediaeval libraries to catalogue them. These words are and of coldnesse in H509.
9. Prickings
Prickings entail the piercing of a series of holes on leaves to assist the ruling of lines. Signs of pricking are evident on some folios (ff. 32-33). The fact that prick marks appear in the outer margins indicates that the sheets were probably laid flat, then pricked and, finally, folded.
10. Ruling
Folios of manuscripts were usually ruled in order to aid the scribe to keep a regular line of writing, but this is not the case in H509, in which folios are not ruled. However, they have a frame margined with brown crayon in order to delimit the space for writing. Sometimes the scribe writes words on top of this, as is the case on folio 6. There are marks of pins on folios 43-53 and 90-100. These marks are probably there as a result of preparing the sheets for binding.
11. Quiring
The manuscript breaks down into quires of 8 folios each. The collation is as follows: i4 (paper); ii2 (marbled paper) | I-XXII8 | iii4 (paper); iv2 (marbled paper).19 The last four folios are originally blank.
12. Signatures and catchwords
Signatures are a type of notation used to help in the binding process, given that they maintain the order of quires. There are two types: quire and leaf signatures. The former usually consist of a sequence of numbers at the bottom of the last verso or first recto of the quire, running i, ij, iij, iiij, etc. The latter appear on each leaf in the first half of the quire and usually takes the form ai, aij, aiij, bi, bij, iij, etc. (McCarren and Moffat 1998: 317). Apparently, the method used in H509 is that of leaf signatures (f. 144r); this is difficult to tell because they are mostly cropped (f. 165r).
19 Taken from Young and Aitken’s catalogue (1908: 416).
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Catchwords constitute another system of notation for keeping the quires of a manuscript in order and for providing a cue for the binder. This method, which involves writing the first word of the next quire at the bottom of the last page of the previous one, is conventionally employed in H509. Thus, the catchword appears at the bottom of the eighth or last folio verso of the quire, on the right-hand side. Most catchwords in H509 are accurate, but some of them are not totally precise, such as anysy in at the end of folio 163v (f. 164r starts with anyse in).
13. Hands and script
H509 is written in a uniform hand throughout,20 which is characterised by being neat, small and compact. The writing is steady even though folios are not ruled, a fact which evinces that it is a practised hand. The script is mixed, showing features from both the Anglicana and Secretary scripts; this blend constituted a new kind of book hand, mainly for academic books, which remained in use until the introduction of the printed text (Parkes 1979: xxiv). Figure 5 supplies an illustration of the script in H509 (taken from f. 87r), with Anglicana and Secretary graphs co-occurring not only in the same paragraph, but also within the same word (as in greyns [line 1] or water [line 4], for example). The instances of Anglicana are surrounded by an oval form, whereas those belonging to the Secretary script are within a square or rectangle. Typical Anglicana letter-forms are tight g, shaped like the numeral 8 (gidere, line 1); long forked r (rose, line 3); w with two initial strokes completed by bows (water, line 4); and two-compartment a (a, line 4), which is normally used when occurring on its own or in initial position. As for Secretary letter- foms, some instances of them are tight s, resembling the numeral 6 (greyns, line 1); single- compartment a (lat, line 2) with a pointed head, which is the most frequently employed form for a in H509; the short form of r (pleuresie, line 5); and simple e (etik, line 5).21
Fig. 5: Example of script with Anglicana and Secretary graphs
20 With the exception of some folios at the end of the manuscript (ff. 168v, 169r, 171r, 171v), which contain a miscellany of notes and recipes. 21 An in-depth analysis of the hands and script in H509 can be found in Esteban-Segura (2008b).
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For letters þ and y a single symbol, y-like in appearance, is used. This renders the letter þ identical with y and, therefore, quite indistinguishable. The confusion of these two symbols as a single letter has to do with geographical location of the scribe, rather than with date (Benskin 1982: 14).
14. Punctuation
The most common marks of punctuation in H509 are the punctus (which occurs in raised position), the virgule and the punctus elevatus, although the inventory of symbols also includes the colon, the paragraph mark and the caret. The text is heavily punctuated and marks can be combined, as usually happens with the punctus and the virgule (the latter can also be double).22
15. Abbreviations
The abbreviations found in H509, whose main function is to save time and writing space, are standard and very frequent throughout the text. The methods employed to abbreviate are suspension, contraction, superior letters and special signs.
15.1. Suspension
Suspension, which is the oldest form of abbreviation, involves the omission of the final letter or letters of a word. Since they do not supply any signal of inflexion, suspensions may have different interpretations and thus lead to ambiguity (Johnson and Jenkinson 1915: xxii). Suspension can be indicated by a punctus at the end of the word (figure 6) or by the use of a general sign of abbreviation over or through the last letter (figures 7-11). This sign can be a curved line or broken oblique stroke above the line (figure 7) or a horizontal line through the last letter in the consonantal groups ch (figure 8) and ll (figure 9), or in consonants such as b (figure 10), generally used to indicate the omission of e. An expansion mark,23 that is, a curved line (which may appear dotted) over a final vowel usually stands for an omitted m or n (figure 11).
Fig. 6: ‘dissolutif’ Fig. 7: ‘eere’ Fig. 8: ‘ache’
22 For detailed information about the punctuation system in H509, see Esteban-Segura (2009). 23 Other names for this mark of abbreviation are bar, tittle (titula) or tilde (Petti 1977: 22).
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Fig. 9: ‘alle’ Fig. 10: ‘reube’ Fig. 11: ‘maken’
15.2. Contraction
Contraction implies the omission of one or more of the middle letters of a word. The sign used in H509 for this method of abbreviation is the expansion mark for nasal consonants m (figure 12) and n (figure 13), which are often contracted.
Fig. 12: ‘namly’ Fig. 13: ‘calaminte’
15.3. Superior letters
Superior or superscript letters entail the insertion of one or more letters above the line to denote the omission of one or more letters on the line. The most common ones are þt for þat (figure 14) and wt for with (figure 15). Sometimes only one letter is placed above the line as though it had been left out accidentally (figure 16).
Fig. 14: ‘þat’ Fig. 15: ‘with’ Fig. 16: ‘þe’
15.4. Special signs
Special signs or brevigraphs normally represent two letters or one syllable and might look like one of the omitted letters or be seemingly arbitrary. Some of them are always consistent in their meaning, whereas others change it depending on the letter to which they are combined or their position within the word (Petti 1977: 23). The letters er may be indicated by a broken stroke above the line (figure 17), by an upward curve from the end of a letter (figure 18) or by a horizontal stroke over the descender of p (figure 19).
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Fig. 17: ‘feuere’ Fig. 18: ‘water’ Fig. 19: ‘superfluite’
A round curl on the line can stand for con (figure 20) and for us (figure 21). A flourish after the letter, turning downwards, generally represents es (figure 22). This sign can also occur as a suspension for e.
Fig. 20: ‘conforteþ’ Fig. 21: ‘womanus’ Fig. 22: ‘rotes’
More brevigraphs and the letters they stand for are provided next: ar (figure 23); ro (figure 24); rum (figure 25); ur (figure 26).
Fig. 23: ‘party’ Fig. 24: ‘profitabil’
Fig. 25: ‘asarum’ Fig. 26: ‘humour’
Sometimes the same symbol can be employed for different combination of letters, as is the case with ma (figure 27), ra (figure 28) and ua (figure 29), or ri (figure 30) and ui (figure 31). The symbol presented in the last two figures is also used for most of the letters in xristi (figure 32). Johnson and Jenkinson (1915: xxiii) point out that some contractions, especially those of ecclesiastical origin, stand for non-contemporary spellings, mostly of Greek origin. The reasons for their adoption were probably religious—to evade writing sacred words in full—rather than for abbreviation purposes. In this particular case, the abbreviation in figure 32 represents the word Χριστι, but it could be regarded as a special sign rather than as a contraction, since the latter, as discussed above, is used to mark medial letters. Finally, a special sign is frequently used for and (figure 33).
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Fig. 27: ‘fleumatik’ Fig. 28: ‘contrarie’ Fig. 29: ‘quarteyn’
Fig. 30: ‘strictorie’ Fig. 31: ‘quiture’ Fig. 32: ‘xristi’ Fig. 33: ‘and’
16. Decoration
Decoration is scarce in H509, as it is confined to a few rubricated initials on folios 61r, 62r, 148v and 149r (an example of one is supplied in figure 34) and the use of red ink for paragraph marks, for underlining heading titles and for providing a touch of colour in some letters on folios 60v-62r and 148v-49r. Rubricated initials, or simply large capitals, were probably intended to mark the beginning of sections or changing of subject throughout the whole manuscript, since a two-line-deep space for them has been left empty (figure 35).24 Lack of time or of money may account for their unfinished state.
Fig. 34: Rubricated initial Fig. 35: Incomplete initial
Some letters contain gestures or flourishes (figures 36 and 37), especially at the beginning of folios:
Fig. 36: Decorated b Fig. 37: Decorated v
Illustrations of a face may be inserted within the text (underlining usually appears alongside them) to indicate that the word or words following should appear in the previous line, but
24 With the exception of those folios with rubricated initials (ff. 61r, 62r, 148v and 149r).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 105–122 ISSN 0210-6124 Glasgow, University Library, MS Hunter 509: A Description 119 owing to lack of space they have been written in the next one (figure 38). The heading at the top of the folio can also be accompanied by an illustration of a face (figure 39).
Fig. 38: Illustration of face in the text Fig. 39: Illustration of face in heading title
17. Scribal errors and corrections
The types of scribal error encountered in H509 involve omission, addition, transposition, alteration, wrong division of words and inaccuracy in abbreviations. The scribe made the emendations as he was copying the text, employing several methods of correction, namely, deletion, alteration and insertion.25
18. Marginalia
Marginal notes, which are frequent in H509, can act as textual markers, making reference to what is being dealt with in the text, or else they may be annotations added throughout time by the different users of the manuscript. The former usually appear in the right margin of rectos and in the left margin in the case of versos. They can be used to indicate that there is a change in the subject matter with respect to what is being discussed such as, for example, the explanation or introduction of a new sickness, in which case the main term is glossed (figure 40).
Fig. 40: Textual marker (‘Apoplexia’)
Textual annotations, added at later periods (figure 41), may function as visual devices for the reader. Thus, calls of attention are regularly found to highlight important passages or key contents represented by manicules, i.e. illustrations of a hand with cuffs whose forefinger points to the relevant information (figure 42). These marginal hands are a clear indication that the manuscript served a practical purpose, proving that it was undoubtedly consulted.
25 For a fuller account of scribal errors and corrections found in H509, see Esteban-Segura (Forthcoming).
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Fig. 41: Annotation by user (‘// tokens | of death’)
Fig. 42: Manicule
Scribal corrections can also appear in the margins, which may be used as well to write a word or words that have been left out in the process of copying the text. The abbreviation for the Latin expression nota bene is commonly found in the margins (figure 43). This corroborates the previous statement about the practical function of the book.
Fig. 43: ‘nota bene’
19. Authorities
In H509, there are explicit references to Macer (f. 2r; f. 2v), who is quoted in Latin (in fact the only Latin employed in the text). The author under this name was in all probability Odo de Meung-sur-Loire, who wrote the popular herbal commonly known as Macer floridus de viribus herbarum around 1100 (Egerton 1983: 446). There is also overt allusion to sources in the preparation of remedies, for instance, “diarodon of galienes makyng oþer of julians makyng” (f. 133v): galienes makes reference to Galen (second century AD), a physician and one of the most influential medical authors from antiquity, and julians probably refers to Emperor Julian of Constantinople (fourth century AD).26
26 Julian’s interest in medical knowledge is demonstrated in the suggestion made to Oribasios of Pergamum that he produce abstracts of Galen’s works (Egerton 1983: 428).
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Books of philosophy are also mentioned, as on folio 10r: “j haue rad in diuerse bokys of philosophie”. This alludes to natural philosophy, the mediaeval term employed for both theoretical and experimental science, and most likely relates to works by Aristotle, Avicenna, Hippocrates or Pythagoras, along with other classical philosophers, as they form part of the sources handled by the author of the Compendium medicinae. Although not acknowledged, the author of the original version made use of the writings of Johannes de Sancto Paulo, Roger de Baron, Trota, Roger Frugard and Averroes (Glick, Livesey and Wallis 2005: 196) and relied on many more authorities, such as Pythagoras, Hippocrates, Plato or Avicenna, to name but a few (see Handerson 2005: 25).
20. Dialect
The findings of a previous dialectal and linguistic study of H509 (Esteban-Segura 2010) have made it possible to circumscribe its language in the East Midlands, specifically in the East Anglian variety, and to presuppose that the text was composed by just one scribe. There is a set of features, such as the spelling
Works Cited
Benskin, Michael 1982: ‘The Letters <þ> and
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 105–122 ISSN 0210-6124 122 Laura Esteban-Segura
Glick, Thomas F., Steven Livesey and Faith Wallis, eds. 2005: Medieval Science, Technology, and Medicine: An Encyclopedia. New York/London: Routledge. Handerson, Henry Ebenezer 2005 (1918): Gilbertus Anglicus. Medicine of the Thirteenth Century. Cleveland: Cleveland Medical Library Association. The Project Gutenberg eBook
Received: 30 July 2011 Revised version accepted: 25 September 2011
Laura Esteban-Segura (PhD, Málaga) is Lecturer at the Department of English Philology of the University of Murcia. Her main research interests lie in the history of the English language, textual editing, palaeography/codicology, manuscript studies and translation. The more specialist aspects of her research focus on the study of unedited medical manuscripts in Middle English. She has published in specialised journals such as Linguistica e Filologia, English Studies and Neuphilologische Mitteilungen, among others.
Address: Departamento de Filología Inglesa. Facultad de Letras. Universidad de Murcia. Campus de La Merced. 30071 Murcia, Spain. Tel.: +34 868 887870. Fax: +34 868 883185.
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GENDER POLICY, THE LONDON LOCK ASYLUM COMMITTEE (1836-1842) AND THE ASYLUM REGULATIONS FOR 1840
María Isabel Romero Ruiz Universidad de Málaga [email protected]
The London Lock Hospital was a charitable institution founded in the eighteenth century for the cure of venereal disease both in men and women. However, the London Lock Asylum was added with the aim of reforming prostitutes and fallen women who had been previously released from the Hospital. They were religiously and morally instructed and trained for a working-class job. The Lock Asylum Committee minutes for 1836-1842 included certain entries for patients for 1824; the Asylum Regulations for 1840 are part of a manuscript containing the Laws of the London Lock Hospital and Asylum. These regulations are particularly relevant to an understanding of the way an institution like this works, the official mechanisms established for admittance and refusal, as well as for release and provision for the future of these women. Therefore, this paper seeks to examine the role of institutional policy at the beginning of the Victorian era in the cure and reform of women who were considered sexually deviant.
Keywords: gender identity; gender policy; lock asylum; minutes; regulations; deviant women
POLÍTICA DE GÉNERO, EL COMITÉ DEL ASILO PARA ENFERMEDADES VENÉREAS DE LONDRES (1836-1842) Y LAS NORMAS DEL ASILO PARA 1840
El Hospital de Enfermedades Venéreas de Londres era una institución filantrópica fundada en el siglo XVIII para la cura de enfermedades de transmisión sexual tanto para mujeres como para hombres. Sin embargo, el Asilo de Londres fue añadido con el objeto de reformar mujeres caídas y prostitutas dadas de alta en el Hospital. Eran instruidas moralmente y religiosamente y se les enseñaba una profesión propia de la clase trabajadora. Las Actas del Comité del Asilo 1836- 1842 incluían algunas entradas para pacientes de 1824; las Normas del asilo para 1840 son parte de un manuscrito que contiene las Leyes del Hospital de Enfermedades Venéreas y del Asilo. Estas normas son especialmente relevantes para entender el modo en que una institución como ésta trabaja, estableciendo los mecanismos oficiales para la admisión o el rechazo de solicitudes, así como para el alta y la provisión futura de estas mujeres. Por lo tanto, este artículo trata de examinar el papel de la política institucional al comienzo de la era victoriana en la cura y reforma de mujeres que se consideraban sexualmente desviadas.
Palabras clave: identidad de género; política de género; asilo de enfermedades venéreas; actas; normas; mujeres desviadas 124 María Isabel Romero Ruiz
1. Introduction
The London Lock Hospital was one of the specialized hospitals created in the eighteenth century and run by public subscription for the treatment of venereal disease in men and women.1 Subsequently, the London Lock Asylum was established to continue with the moral cure of promiscuous women who had just been released from the Hospital and had a good disposition for reformation. These women had to go through a probationary stage before being admitted into the Asylum. After that period, they stayed for a couple of years to be religiously instructed and morally restored. They were also taught to be industrious and were trained in a working-class job. Therefore, their gender identities were moulded according to the dominant discourses of patriarchy and the middle-class. Class distinctions were very important at the time and the boundaries between them were clearly demarcated; fallen women and prostitutes were members of the working-class and were the beneficiaries of the medical treatment and the moral cure at the London Lock Hospital and Asylum;2 they received the help of the members of the middle-class who devoted their time and energy to philanthropy and rescue work and reform. Although David Innes Williams, in his 1995 book The London Lock: A Charitable Hospital, 1746-1952, writes a careful history of the Hospital from its foundation in 1746 to its closure in 1952, analysing different periods in relation to aspects such as the treatment of venereal disease, medical theory and practice, the patients, the staff, the governors, finance, the Chapel and chaplains, the buildings and the situation of the Hospital and Asylum at the different stages of their existence, there are other aspects which need further consideration. Those aspects concerning the female patients and penitents and the social and moral implications of the treatment of Victorian prostitutes and fallen women were especially important. Williams’s work is based, as is mine, on the archives of the London Lock Hospital and Asylum that have survived and are kept at the Royal College of Surgeons of England Library in London. Other scholars have also focused their attention on different reform institutions and hospitals. One of them is Judith Walkowitz (1980), who writes about the Royal Albert and the Royal Portsmouth, two hospitals which had lock wards for women in Southampton and Portsmouth respectively; Frances Finnegan (1979) talks about rescue and reform at the York Penitentiary. This Penitentiary had many similarities with the London Lock Asylum, regarding the running of the institution, its fund-raising propaganda and its aims in reforming and teaching prostitutes and fallen women; Linda Mahood (1990) deals with the Glasgow Lock Hospital and Asylum in several chapters as an example of a Scottish institution for the reform and cure of Victorian prostitutes. Finally, Frances Finnegan (2001) deals with the history of Magdalene institutions in Ireland; she establishes a comparison between the English and the Irish systems, highlighting the importance of the Catholic element in the latter, which made rescue work of deviant women a completely different matter. In the case of Ireland, the asylum and penitentiary system was under the control of nuns and the Catholic Church, and, in particular, the Good Shepherd Sisters “committed to the reform of fallen women, were
1 The author wishes to acknowledge the funding provided by the Spanish Ministry of Science and Research for the writing of this paper (Research Project FEM2010-18142) 2 There were obviously prostitutes for upper-class men but they used to go to private doctors when they suffered from venereal disease.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 123–136 ISSN 0210-6124 Gender Policy, the London Lock Asylum Committee 125 to dominate the Female Penitentiary Movement in Ireland” (Finnegan 2001: 10). They began to open Magdalene Asylums in the first decade of the nineteenth century and continued with their mission throughout the twentieth, when some of the asylums began to be closed after 1950. However, I have chosen to focus this article on the London Lock because, despite being one of the first institutions of its kind in Britain and one of the most important, it has systematically been ignored in the scholarly work that has been done on institutions of this type in recent decades. The Lock Asylum Committee minutes for 1836-1842 include entries for patients for 1824, apparently written by the matron in charge; the rest of the manuscript contains the Asylum Committee minutes of the board that met regularly once a week, dealing mainly with financial matters, although there are some interesting remarks that can give important information about how the Asylum worked. The Asylum Regulations for 1840 (revised in 1848), are part of a manuscript containing the Laws of the London Lock Hospital and Asylum, printed at Chapman Printer, Star Street, Paddington. These thirteen regulations are particularly relevant to understand the way in which an institution like this works, establishing the official mechanisms for admittance and refusal, as well as for release and provision for the future of these women who were called Female Penitents. Also established are the different rules to be applied to the inmates and the aims and activities connected with the Lock Asylum. All these sources – including Annual Reports and Accounts that will be mentioned later in the text – were mostly generated by the institutions themselves. Furthermore, they constituted one precondition for a continued flow of donations. However, even such regulations are far better than nothing, as we can hardly expect many – or, perhaps, any – perspectives to survive from those who had been inmates. Hence, following a poststructuralist approach based on medical and religious discourses, this paper seeks to examine the role of institutional policy at the beginning of the Victorian era in the cure and reform of women who were considered sexually deviant. The idea behind the latter was to mould working-class prostitutes and fallen women according to middle-class values of respectability and purity, thus shaping a gender identity associated with middle-class values. This policy was ‘unofficial’ in the sense that there was no state intervention, as the London Lock was a charitable body dependant on public support. In this respect, it had no powers of enforcement, although other mechanisms such as persuasion, brainwashing or detention were employed. In the light of Post-structuralism, Foucault’s ideas of power and discourse to exert the control and surveillance of deviant elements in society will be used to analyse the life and work of these fallen women inside the London Lock Asylum. According to Foucault, societies are not static structures, and power relations pervade them. The body obtains its significance within discourse, which can be defined as a way of describing, defining, classifying and thinking about people, things, and even knowledge and abstract systems of thought. Power-knowledge relations are part of spatial relations that assign a specific place to different bodies, depending on their gender, class and race, using binary codes. In his first volume of The History of Sexuality, Foucault asserts that power is exercised in what he calls its “capillary forms” (1990: 92-98), that is, through multiple and complex ways, and not by individuals or single groups; rather, he talks of various and shifting positions of power and resistance within a network of relations. In Discipline and Punish (1975), he argues that power is primarily exercised on the body and that the model has moved from physical punishment and violence to disciplining bodily actions through knowledge in the different discourses of an age, and through institutions
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 123–136 ISSN 0210-6124 126 María Isabel Romero Ruiz like prisons, hospitals, asylums, etc. Therefore, disciplinary power has become the most efficient and economical way of producing docile and useful bodies; this was the idea behind the London Lock Asylum.
2. The history of the Lock Asylum
The London Lock Hospital was founded in 1746 by William Bromfield, following the trend of specialized hospitals in the 18th century.3 The perception of the need to establish a hospital for venereal disease can be found in many of the Annual Reports and Accounts that the Hospital produced as a way of raising money and moving middle-class minds to contribute to the running of the Institution, as the Account for 1837 shows, where the following is stated:
The malady, to the cure of which the Lock Hospital is appropriated, peculiarly requires medical assistance; and if neglected, or improperly treated, it must terminate fatally by the most dreadful progress of lingering sufferings; while at the same time, it is more generable cured than most other diseases. We may, indeed, consider the dire distemper itself, as a declaration how greatly and holy God abhors licentiousness; yet hath he mercifully provided medicines which seldom fail, when judiciously used, to eradicate it completely. We ought, therefore, doubtless to imitate his compassion to the persons of the guilty, as well as his hatred of their crimes (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/3/8).
These lines are a clear declaration of intentions at a time when venereal disease was most despised and associated with promiscuity and lack of morals. Common elements in the medical and religious discourses of the Victorian period are found in these words. On the one hand, venereal disease, as an illness with appropriate medicines for its treatment, must be cured; on the other hand, ‘the lingering sufferings’ associated with venereal disease are the just punishment of God and the consequences of licentiousness. Not only were the aims of the Hospital to cure the ‘undeserving poor’, while simultaneously controlling the morality of the working-classes, but also to prevent the spread of a malady which was affecting various sectors of Victorian society, As far as the religious discourse of the time was concerned, “both the Established Church and the dissenters claimed a missionary aim to make the whole population clean, healthy, moral and religious” (Nead 1988: 156). The Church supported the idea of the ‘downward path’ of deviant elements in general and prostitutes and fallen women in particular, and claimed its power to reform and control these individuals. In addition, through its priests and their sermons, the Church contributed to the raising of funds, as was the case with the London Lock Chapel. These sermons attracted a middle-class audience who helped with donations.4 We must not forget that Evangelicalism believed,
3 William Bromfield was one of a small group of men, the Surgeons to the Great Hospitals of London, who in the eighteenth century established a tradition of general surgery which was to dominate British surgical practice until well into the twentieth. Surgeon to HRH the Prince of Wales and to St. George’s Hospital, he saw the need of a hospital to attend people with venereal disease, who could not be treated at general hospitals. 4 Martin Madan (1726-1790) was appointed Chaplain to the Lock twelve years after its foundation; he was the founder of the Chapel and provided the Hospital and Asylum with the Evangelical element, obtaining substantial income from his sermons and hymns. His successors continued with his task, and the Chapel was finished in 1753 with funds coming from a separate list
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 123–136 ISSN 0210-6124 Gender Policy, the London Lock Asylum Committee 127 according to the Bible, that women were subordinated to men socially, but, at the same time, serious Christians “firmly believed in the right of all women to salvation” (Davidoff and Hall 1992: 114) as, following the Scripture, “…there is neither male nor female for ye are all one in Christ Jesus” (Gal. 3, 28). The London Lock Asylum for the Reception of Female Penitents was established in 1792, and the Chaplain Thomas Scott was the man behind the charitable project.5 It was founded by a different appeal and list of subscribers from that of the London Lock Hospital, although “it included many of the Hospital Governors, all the medical staff and some seven ladies” (Innes Williams 1995: 57). Its first location was Osnaburgh Row, at the bottom of Grosvenor Place. Later, the Asylum moved to Knightsbridge, where it housed between 20 and 30 women. Finally, new buildings for the Hospital and Asylum were opened in 1842 in Westbourne Green and the number of Asylum inmates amounted to 80. A Ladies’ Committee was later created in 1847 to supervise the organization and management of this home for fallen women. Only women who had been cured of venereal disease and showed a clear inclination for instruction and reform were admitted to the Lock Asylum. Following the Victorian trend of definition and classification, the blame for sexual promiscuity and immorality was ascribed only to women and not to men, because according to the Account of the Lock Hospital and Asylum of 1834,
…while the male patients, when cured, return to their former occupations, without any peculiar obstacle to their reformation, most of the women are of that class whose misery and baneful influence have been noticed; many of them have no method of subsistence but by prostitution, and can procure no lodging but in a house of infamy. These have scarcely any alternative, but of starving on the one hand, or returning to their former practices on the other. (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/3/8)
Prostitution became one of the Victorians’ major concerns. Many doctors, reformers and social investigators such as William Acton, William Logan, Henry Mayhew, William Tate, Arthur J.S. Maddison, Bracebridge Hemmyng, etc., became involved in the rescue of fallen women, together with such women philanthropists as Harriet Martineau, Josephine Butler, Florence Nightingale or Ellice Hopkins. Prostitutes were known as the Great Social Evil, but there was no clear definition of prostitute, and the boundaries between prostitute and fallen woman were also blurred. The prostitute was defined in Victorian discourses as a woman who had been seduced and abandoned with no family or friends to turn to; she then resorted to prostitution in order to make a living. There were two prevalent images of the prostitute in the medical and religious discourses: as a figure of contagion and disease that represented a threat to society and had to be controlled and contained, or as an outcast and social victim who was destined to a life of misery and a premature death and had to be rescued (Nead 1988: 106). However, apart from seduction, other causes were attributed to the prostitution of women of the low orders, like vanity and self-indulgence and poverty (Acton 1857: 21).
of subscribers, giving the institution an outstanding reputation for its religious and moral atmosphere (Innes Williams 1995: 35-38). 5 When Rev. Thomas Scott became Chaplain, he realized that it was difficult for girls leaving the Hospital to avoid former friends, and that an Asylum should be created. The decision to found the Asylum was made at a meeting on 18 April 1789.
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Prostitution was considered a form of deviancy, as these women invaded the public sphere and transgressed the bourgeois code of morality. According to this code, purity and chastity were interchangeable traits in women, but not in men, who had a natural sexual impulse which they could not control and was innate in them; woman’s moral superiority was precluded by her lack of sexual appetite, and it was fallen women who had to be restored to these values (Mitchell 1981: x-xii). Following the middle-class theory of the double standard, the public sphere was assigned to men; it was the world of work, business, politics and the law. Women belonged to the private sphere, that is, the home, and their main role was that of wives and mothers. This division between men and women was seen as natural and was based on the assumption that women were dependent, inferior and subordinate to men (Purvis 1991: 2-5). Through the definition of norms of sexual and moral behaviour, the middle-class created its own hegemony and discourse of power; the clear delimitation of gender roles linked to domestic ideology was essential for the process of class definition, as in the nineteenth century gender was a crucial category for the regulation of sexuality, which was restricted to the licit frame of marriage in the case of bourgeois women (Nead 1988: 5-6). It is within this context that the work of the London Lock Asylum was carried out and fallen women were trained to be returned to the private sphere as domestic servants, since the rescue work was done by members of the middle-class, following their notions of morality and respectability. The London Lock Asylum was based on the model of the Magdalene Hospital, which was the first refuge to be opened in England in 1758 for the reception of female penitents (Finnegan 2001: 8-9). Throughout the nineteenth century a system of homes and asylums proliferated for the reform of fallen women. This system was based on a family structure, in contrast with the penitential one which promoted incarceration and punishment, having the evangelical sense of redemption and salvation behind its spirit. Homes for fallen women were often called Magdalene homes, following the Biblical reference to Mary Magdalene as the sinner prostitute who was forgiven and redeemed by Jesus Christ in the New Testament. According to Paula Bartley, the name home for these institutions had implications of domesticity, woman’s proper sphere, and of places of comfort and restitution, where inmates could be religiously and morally instructed in feminine virtues (2000: 30).
3. The Lock Asylum Committee (1836-1842) and the Asylum Regulations of 1840
According to the Asylum Regulations included in the Laws of the London Lock Hospital and Asylum of 1840, “The object of the Institution is to afford a refuge to such of the Female Penitents of the Lock Hospital, as appear sincerely desirous of quitting their evil courses” (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/5/2). In the 1830s and 1840s, this meant about one quarter of the girls who had been discharged from the wards (Innes Williams 1995: 70). Nothing is said in the sources about the remaining three quarters, but we know that middle-class philanthropists classified their objects of reform according to their malleability, where we can see again the Victorian inclination towards classification and binary oppositions. Later in the Regulations we can read:
No females shall be admitted into this Asylum, but those of the Patients of the Lock Hospital, whom the Chaplain, after careful examination, shall report to be proper objects of the Charity-- and such will be considered only admissible immediately upon their discharge from the Hospital. (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/5/2)
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There were two clearly established conditions to be admitted into the Asylum: these women had to be free from venereal disease after having been discharged from the Lock Hospital, and they had to have a proper inclination towards reform which was evaluated by the Chaplain of the Institution; the word immediately left no room for moral or physical contamination. No pregnant woman was accepted either; if she applied, she was sent to the workhouse and was only later accepted if she left her baby in the poorhouse after confinement. Most girls admitted were under the age of 24, because they were more easily reformed and were not hardened prostitutes, although on a few occasions the inmates were so young that they could hardly be called women. They could be admitted only once, and the idea of the Asylum as a refuge for fallen women is present throughout these regulations, and goes beyond their being released. Many of them were homeless, with no family or friends. Among the papers that form the manuscript of the Lock Asylum Committee (1836-1842), some entries for patients for 1824 can be found, written by the Matron in all probability, which constitute one of the very few instances where real information about the Penitents can be read, although their voices are never directly heard in the sources. There are entries for nine women, with ages ranging from 10 to 24 – the younger, the easier to mould, according to middle-class ideas –, but they all have many aspects in common connected with their behaviour and daily work. In these entries, only needle-work is mentioned, but laundry work was one of their most important activities by the mid-nineteenth century apart from housework. One of the Asylum Regulations establishes for Penitents that “The design of their being thus received is that they be maintained, religiously instructed, and trained to industrious occupations until they can be restored to their friends, or sent out to respectable service” (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/5/2). The aim behind this training was to produce a “highly-skilled and well disciplined industrial workforce”, together with domestic servants for middle-class households (Mahood 1990: 86). Also, with their housework inside the Asylum and the needle-work and laundry work they did, they were able to contribute to their maintenance and not be a burden on the Institution. As a result, discipline was imposed to produce useful and docile bodies and to exercise power in a Foucauldian sense. On a spiritual level, laundry work served a moral function, and through it “women could do penance, for their past sins and purge themselves of their moral contagion” (Walkowitz 1991: 221). In other words, it was a cleansing ritual with the aim to reform and instruct these young women. Regarding instruction and education, the inmates were taught through the Bible their position in the social hierarchy and to accept it and respect their superiors, with an emphasis on “female inferiority, abnegation and duty” (Mahood 1990: 83). Many of the Penitents were illiterate, and in the entries for 1824 expressions such as “ignorant of every kind of useful knowledge”, “weak understanding”, “slow improvement” or “exceedingly ignorant” were applied to the inmates (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/1/4). For this reason, they received lessons in reading and writing, and later in the century, in geography, arithmetic, music and other subjects, which meant a break from routine. However, from the description the Matron makes of them, they could not have been very clever and must have lacked all basic principles and knowledge. This information can shed some light on the way the lower orders were seen as ignorant and immoral by the middle-classes; they even saw them as indolent and responsible for their own situation. The economic position in which many working-class families found themselves, where all the members had to work in order to survive was not considered a determining factor by many social
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 123–136 ISSN 0210-6124 130 María Isabel Romero Ruiz reformers. Furthermore, the fact that many children of the poor did not have access to education was ignored. Another important aspect of Victorian middle-class discourses on sexual deviancy is the connection that was established between lack of morals and imbecility and, as a consequence, many young girls who were mentally retarded were secluded in these institutions, and these might be the cases in some of the examples in the entries. In any case, the identity of these girls was subjugated by a process of “ritual humiliation” that destroyed their femininity. The domestication of these fallen women was also seen in their uniforms, which represented their belonging to a community of “reforming penitents” who had abandoned their past existence and had suppressed their sexuality (Bartley 2000: 37-39). In the London Lock Asylum regulations no uniform is mentioned; however, we know that they wore it in the York Refuge and the Glasgow Magdalene Asylum, as well as in the Irish Magdalene institutions.6 The Matron was a crucial figure in the London Lock Asylum and the most important reference for inmates. A Sub-Matron helped her in her tasks and they both had to live on the premises. Matrons had to be single and mature, and with strong religious convictions; they had to be educated and have a hard constitution for such a time-consuming and demanding job. They were poorly paid, so it was difficult to find a person suitable for the post. The Matron and her Assistant superintended the work done by the girls and were in charge of the running of the Asylum, the instruction of Penitents and the family worship, and had to report to the Asylum Committee (Finnegan 1979: 170, 182). In the minutes of the Lock Asylum Committee several Matrons and Sub-Matrons were appointed between 1836 and 1842, such as Mrs Dell, who was appointed Matron at the Committee meeting of 26 April 1838, and Mrs. Smith was appointed Sub-Matron. On 27 December 1838 a new Matron, Mrs. Denny, and a new Sub-Matron, Mrs. Headway, were appointed, the latter being substituted by a Mrs. Douglass on 28 of February 1839 (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/1/4). The work of the Matron was in the hands of the Sisters of Mercy in the case of the Irish asylums. The Board of the Lock Asylum met regularly once a month. The members of the Board were the Governors of the Asylum, and there was a Chair. Admissions, dismissals and the evolution of the inmates were discussed as well as financial matters (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/1/4). One of the rules of the Lock Asylum establishes that “all the resolutions and proceedings of the Committee shall be entered in a Book provided for that purpose”, with the names of all the members present and signed by the President or Secretary. The rules also establish that an Annual Meeting of the Friends of the Institution must be held, with information about the funds and, to fill the vacancies in the
6 Irish Magdalene institutions started to work with rules similar to the English ones: silence and prayer were imposed on inmates, who had to wear a uniform and short hair and their daily routine consisted in sewing and laundry work; however, they adopted new names and did not suffer the classification that English institutions exerted on girls (Finnegan 2001: 22-23). In contrast with English asylums, after a period when only prostitutes were admitted, as the nineteenth century progressed, many other types of women were retained on their premises, like single mothers, promiscuous women or even those who were mentally deranged. Inside Irish asylums, nuns represented the authority and the model to follow, whereas in English institutions it was the Matron who had that role. In many instances women penitents who had had an outstanding behaviour became Consecrated Penitents, and decided to remain in the asylum for life; their main function was to help the Sisters with the other inmates, becoming intermediaries and surveillants. Finally, and in opposition to English institutions, Ireland’s Magdalene asylums admitted the same women several times (Finnegan 2001: 130-31, 145).
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Committee, starting with a prayer – the Evangelical spirit being always present (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/5/2). All asylum inmates had to go through a probationary period that lasted for about two months. During this time, the conduct of the applicant was carefully watched and she was isolated. She had to behave with propriety and if she showed insolence or discontent, her full admission was suspended (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/1/4). When the probationary period was over, the Penitent had to remain in the Asylum for about two years. This was the length of time that middle-class reformers considered adequate for the restoration and indoctrination of these girls to make them decent working-class members of society. In this sense, it is interesting to consider the declaration that inmates were required to sign to enter the York Refuge:
I am wishful to abandon my sinful life And by God’s grace lead a better. I am willing to remain two years in the Home. I will do my best to conform To the rules and discipline of the Home. (Finnegan 1979: 207)
The York Refuge worked in a very similar way to the London Lock Asylum and other institutions of the same kind throughout the country. In both institutions, discipline was certainly very important and the girls’ behaviour was closely monitored by the Matron. Discipline started with a daily routine, which was the same in all the asylums and refuges: they had to get up very early, start work and then do family worship before breakfast; they resumed work till dinner and again after it, and when supper was finished, there was family worship again. There was always a time of the day devoted to lessons and Bible reading, and the working day lasted no less than ten hours (Finnegan 1979: 79-80). An example of the meals that Patients used to have in the Lock Hospital can be found in the diets included in the Rules for 1814:
A Table of Diet for the Patients Low Diet Breakfast Water-gruel, Sage or Balm Tea Dinner Broth 1 Pint Supper Milk Pottage 1 Pint Milk Diet Breakfast Water-gruel or Balm Tea Dinner Pudding Supper Milk Pottage 1 Pint Full Diet Breakfast Milk Pottage, Water-gruel, Sage or Balm Tea Dinner Sunday Pudding Monday 1 Pound of Meat each Wednesday “ “ “ “ “ Friday “ “ “ “ “ Tuesday 1 Pint of Broth each Thursday “ “ “ “ “ Saturday “ “ “ “ “ Supper Milk Pottage, Butter or Cheese A Loaf of Bread 14 Ounces, and a Quart of Small Beer (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/5/3)
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There was a division between ‘Low Diet’, ‘Milk Diet’ and ‘Full Diet’. Fish and chicken were absent from the table; however, there was an indication that these could be included in any patient’s diet if it was required “at the expense of the Charity”, but none of them were varied or abundant at all (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/5/3). No direct references can be found in the sources to the Penitents’ meals, but it can be inferred that they were similar. For instance, in the Glasgow Asylum we know that breakfast consisted of porridge; and in the Edinburgh Magdalene Asylum meals were elaborated following the suggestions of the Ladies Committee, who recommended cheap dishes and made suggestions like “substituting rice and barley porridge for bread”, following the advice of a recipe book published by the Society for Bettering the Condition of the Poor (Mahood 1990: 79). Acts of insubordination were not infrequent among these women. If a woman wanted to abandon the Institution, she had to give a month’s notice, during which time the Matron and other authorities tried to convince her to remain (Mahood 1990: 80). She was left in isolation to think about her decision, so persuasion was employed. Although seclusion was voluntary, the idea was for the women to remain in the Asylums, sometimes for life, as happened in most Irish institutions (Finnegan 2001: 3-4). The riotous behaviour of the working-classes was another matter of concern for those governing these places of confinement. In the Penitents’ entries for the Lock Asylum for 1824, we can read about Mary Sparks as a young woman of 18 who “is inattentive to instruction, disobedient and insolent, for which behaviour she has been put under punishment but has not yet submitted”, or about Sarah Gibbon, a girl of ten who “when first received into the House possessed a perverse temper with many improper habits, some of which it is to be hoped and in a great measure eradicated”. Also Sarah Gibbs, aged 20, “possesses a sullen temper and is rather inclined to idleness than industry”, according to the Matron. She is also described as “very impertinent”, “refractory and disobedient”, and even “insolent” (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/1/4). Words like ignorant, insolent, idle, riotous or bad- tempered were frequently used by the middle-class to describe the lower orders of society; it can be also presumed that ignorance and rebelliousness are mentioned in these entries because they were an internal document of the institution and did not have any propagandist aim, so these appreciations must be more realistic than those found in the Accounts and Reports. The popular press and sensational newspapers similarly talked of working-class men being violent and intemperate, of women and children using bad language, and of a lack of habits of personal hygiene and cleanliness in the homes (D’Cruze 1998: 179-84). Therefore, their behaviour and habits had to be checked. For instance, in An Abstract of the Rules and Orders for the Government of the Lock Hospital for 1814, in the ‘Rules concerning the Patients’, we can read in Rule VII “That there be no swearing, playing at cards, or gaming of any kind, quarrelling or any incidences committed during the time they are under cure”, while Rule VIII establishes “That no Patient do not presume to send for victual or drink of any sort into the Hospital, during the time they are under cure, but to adhere strictly to the House diet” (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/5/3). In the same way, in The Rules for the Conduct of the Women of the York Refuge, in Rule III it is stated that “Lying, swearing, dishonesty, repeated disobedience, and gross misbehaviour, shall be punished by the Committee with expulsion, unless circumstances should induce them to mitigate the punishment” (Finnegan 1979: 172). From these rules, we can certainly infer that the behaviour of the men and women of the working-classes could be defined in many respects as inappropriate on many occasions
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 123–136 ISSN 0210-6124 Gender Policy, the London Lock Asylum Committee 133 and that bad habits such as intemperance, dishonesty or bad language were associated with them. However, it is difficult to discern to what extent these bourgeois ideas about ‘the poor’ were not biased. It has been contended by some scholars that working-class people had their own values and behaved according to their own morality. Not all of them were so depraved, and, in fact, members of the rescue movement described their objects of charity and reform as the ‘deserving poor’, but most middle-class people had a different image of working-class life, which identified it with bad habits and lack of principles. Because of this, silence was imposed in many of these institutions at work, and misbehaviour was punished with public reprimands, physical chastisement, isolation or even expulsion (Mahood 1990: 89). The control of the Asylum over its inmates was so strict that, apart from incarceration, disruption from family and friends was also practised. Thus, girls were discouraged from keeping in touch with former acquaintances, and to see relatives they had to count on the Matron’s permission for the appointment (Mahood 1990: 82). Their correspondence was even supervised by the Matron both “from and to the house”, according to the rules (Finnegan 1979: 172). The control and protection of Penitents went even beyond their release as “No inmate shall be dismissed from the Asylum after good conduct, without being provided with a respectable situation and a home”, according to the Rules of the London Lock Asylum (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/5/2). They could even return if, after three months, they could not adapt to their new situations. Most of them were sent to service, but some were sent to the colonies, where they could start a new life, to workshops or factories, or even married, as we can read in many of the Annual Reports of the different institutions. Their good conduct after leaving the Asylum was significantly rewarded with one guinea after twelve months in service, two guineas for remaining two years in the same situation, or even three guineas if they stayed and behaved properly for three years as domestic servants in the same household (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/3/8).7 Sadly enough, there were a few of these women who did not enjoy their reward as they had a weak constitution and had to be returned to their families or died on the premises. This set of rules and regulations were just part of the bigger machinery of state and middle-class intervention to exert disciplinary power and make ‘docile bodies’ out of deviant members of society, through constant surveillance. However, rebellion can be read between the lines in many of the Annual Reports and Accounts, where sentences like “requested to leave the Asylum”, “received again by the Lock and other Hospitals”, “eloped”, “desired to leave the house”, “dismissed for bad behaviour” or “sent to the parishes and discharged for bad conduct” can be read when the results of the Institution are put forward (The Archives, RCSEng, ref. MS0022/3/8). All these statements are witness to the lack of success of these places of incarceration and are euphemisms to hide the reality of reform work, as many Penitents did not want to remain on the premises despite the attempts to convince them, or simply left; others were unmanageable, had deplorable behaviour that Matrons could not control. A considerable number returned to their old ways, contracting venereal disease again.
7 MS0022 stands for the "London Lock Hospital and Rescue Home (1746-1948)" Fonds MS0022/3 stands for Sub-Fonds 1 to 8 entitled "Finance 1765-1948)" MS0022/3/8 means Sub- Fond 8 entitled "Printed Annual Reports of the Lock Hospital and Asylum in loose format for 1824, 1832-1839 and 1841. Additionally, there are some loose pages which possibly form the Accounts of 1840"
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4. Conclusion
To conclude, and in clear contrast with the results that the Annual Accounts and Reports intended to show, the success of these Institutions was conspicuously limited. These places had been established almost as an informal branch of the criminal justice system; they had the socially sanctioned authority to detain women for sexual misconduct. The idea behind their workings was to protect these women from themselves and to protect the rest of society from them. Simultaneously, these young women’s identities were demolished and reshaped according to moral and social values different from those of their own class. An inmate was considered to be morally reformed when she had converted to middle-class standards of feminine propriety and felt ashamed and regretted her past sinful life. According to reformers and philanthropists, two years was a period of time long enough to transform these social outcasts into decent working-class members of society, avoiding the influence of family and friends that could be an obstacle in their reformation, and to learn new habits. Also, their removal from society was a guarantee to avoid the corruption of other women and men by these sexual deviants. Nonetheless, these women were returned to society and were given work situations which were considered by them even worse than working in prostitution; the working conditions were poor and tedious, they had low wages and suffered exploitation. For these reasons, many of the women cured and released from Asylums returned to their old ways, became pregnant and resorted to prostitution again. The intention behind these reformers was good, but middle-class philanthropists did not understand the moral values and the ways of living of the working-class, and particularly of their women, who had their own gender identities and moral codes. The job of these rescue workers was hard, and their task was thankless and unrewarding, but ‘chastity’ had different connotations for working- class women. Premarital sex and pregnancy as well as prostitution were seen as something normal by their communities, where courtship and marriage customs were different; occasional prostitution due to economic reasons was quite common among women with previous sexual experience. Therefore, many of the ‘failures’ of these institutions did not see themselves as ‘immoral’ or ‘sinners’ and did not identify with the Magdalene discourse of medicine and law, although their superiors categorised them as fallen women and interpreted their behaviour as acts of resistance to moral reform. At the same time, these middle-class men who did philanthropy work supported the theory of the double-standard by making only women responsible for the moral corruption of society, punishing and secluding them – apparently voluntarily – for sexual promiscuity while ignoring men’s guilt and sanctioning their immorality and hypocrisy in sexual matters. In addition, middle-class women, as subscribers of the values of domesticity and respectability, gave their support to these institutions as members of the Committees, by employing former Penitents as domestic servants or sending their laundry to be washed in these Asylums. This is what can be read in the sources used to support my arguments throughout this paper concerning the role of the London Lock Asylum in the reproduction of the social and moral treatment of prostitutes and fallen women in the early Victorian period. This institution and its inmates had not been discussed till now by scholars in the field. Although we do not have direct testimonies on the part of the Penitents, it is clear that these sources are valid to support the Foucauldian arguments that establish the existence of discourses of power within Victorian middle-class institutions like asylums, which reproduced the binary oppositions of deserving/undeserving, public/private,
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 123–136 ISSN 0210-6124 Gender Policy, the London Lock Asylum Committee 135 decent/fallen that were prevalent in medicine and religion. As a consequence, they complied with the Victorian preoccupation about morality and deviancy by the classification, surveillance and intervention through a gender policy applied to fallen women. This ‘unofficial’ policy was based on the domestication of their bodies which had to express the notions of propriety and morality that were attributed to the female sex. Men and women of the middle-class tried through different forms of ‘capillary powers’ like asylums, prisons, workhouses, hospitals, schools, etc., to exert their hegemony as a class and to regulate the sexual and social behaviour of the poor, keeping them within their status but outside the knowledge that produced that social power, and sanctioning notions of femininity and sexuality inside the norm. But, in spite of all this, these sources simultaneously and subtly express the existence of alternative discourses of power that belong to the working-class and also contributed to the production of knowledge that made these women rebel against this method of transformation and control. This process was outside the values of their own class, and their testimonies would have made their accounts of what happened inside these places of detention a completely different version of the asylum experience.
Works Cited
Account of the Lock Hospital and Asylum, 1834. The Library, Royal College of Surgeons of England, London, MS0022/3/8. Account of the Lock Hospital and Asylum, 1835. The Library, Royal College of Surgeons of England, London, MS0022/3/8. Account of the Lock Hospital and Asylum, 1837. The Library, Royal College of Surgeons of England, London, MS0022/3/8. Acton, William 1857: Prostitution Considered in its Moral, Social and Sanitary Aspects in London and other Large Cities with Proposals for the Mitigation and Prevention of its Attendant Evils. London: John Churchill, New Burlington Street. An Abstract of the Rules and Orders for the Government of the Lock Hospital, near Hyde-Park Corner, Instituted July 4, 1746, for the Relief of Venereal Patients only, 1814. The Library, Royal College of Surgeons of England, London, MS0022/5/3. Bartley, Paula 2000: Prostitution: Prevention and Reform in England, 1860-1914. London and New York: Routledge. Davidoff, Leonore and Catherine Hall 1992: Family Fortunes: Men and Women of the English Middle-class 1780-1850. London: Routledge. D’Cruze, Shani 1998: Crimes of Outrage: Sex, Violence and Victorian Working Women. London: UCL P. Finnegan, Frances 1979: Poverty and Prostitution: A Study of Victorian Prostitutes in York. London: Cambridge UP. ––––– 2001: Do Penance or Perish: A Study of Magdalene Asylums in Ireland. Piltown: Congrave P. Foucault, Michel 1979 (1975): Discipline and Punish: The Birth of a Prison. Trans. Alan Sheridan. London: Penguin Books. ––––– 1990 (1976): The History of Sexuality: Volume I, An Introduction. Trans. Robert Hurley. London: Penguin Books. Innes Williams, David 1995: The London Lock: A Charitable Hospital, 1746-1952. London and New York: Royal Society of Medicine P. Ltd. Laws of the London Lock and Asylum, Revised (1840) 1848. The Library, Royal College of Surgeons of England, London, MS0022/5/2. Lock Asylum Committee (1836-1842). The Library, Royal College of Surgeons of England, London, MS0022/1/4. Mahood, Linda 1990: The Magdalenes: Prostitution in the Nineteenth Century. London and New York: Routledge.
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Mitchell, Sally 1981: The Fallen Angel: Chastity, Class, and Women’s Reading 1835-1880. Bowling Green Popular UP. Nead, Linda 1988: Myths of Sexuality: Representations of Women in Victorian Britain. London: Blackwell. Purvis, June 1991: A History of Women’s Education in England. Milton Keynes: Open UP. Walkowitz, Judith 1991: Prostitution and Victorian Society: Women, Class and the State. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
Received 25 April 2011 Revised version accepted 12 October 2011
Maria Isabel Romero Ruiz (MA U. of Southampton, PhD U. of Granada) is currently a Lecturer in Social History and Cultural Studies at the University of Málaga (Spain). She has specialised in the social and cultural history of deviant women and children in Victorian England, although her research interests have since expanded to contemporary gender and sexual identity issues. She was a research visitor at the Royal College of Surgeons of England Library in London in the summer of 2008. Her publications include the co- edited volume Identity, Migration and Women’s Bodies as Sites of Knowledge and Transgression (2009) and Cultural Migrations and Gendered Subjects: Colonial and Postcolonial Representations of the Female Body (2011). She is also the author of an entry for the Encyclopaedia of Global Human Migration entitled ‘Trafficking, Sex-work and Migration’ (forthcoming) and is currently editing a volume entitled Women’s Identities and Bodies in Colonial and Post-colonial History and Literature to be published in 2012.
Address: Departamento de Filología Inglesa, Francesa y Alemana. Facultad de Filosofía y Letras. Universidad de Málaga. Campus Teatinos. 29071 Málaga, Spain. Tel.: +34 952 131830. Fax: +34 952 131843.
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NOUN-NOUN EUPHEMISMS IN THE LANGUAGE OF THE GLOBAL FINANCIAL CRISIS
Carmen Portero Muñoz Universidad de Córdoba [email protected]
The aim of this article is to study the creation and use of noun-noun sequences with euphemistic purposes. A euphemism is traditionally regarded as the replacement of an unpleasant or offensive signifier by another that functions as a ‘veil’ thrown over the signified. To the extent that noun-noun sequences often require contextual hints or the activation of certain conceptual metaphors and/ or metonymies, they can be used as euphemistic resources to refer to specific unpleasant concepts. The study of the creation and use of noun-noun sequences will be focused on the specific context of the global financial crisis and related unpopular political facts.
Keywords: euphemism; noun-noun sequences; noun-noun compounds; metonymy; metaphor; context
LOS EUFEMISMOS BASADOS EN SECUENCIAS DE NOMBRE-NOMBRE EN LA CRISIS FINANCIERA MUNDIAL
El objeto de este artículo es estudiar la creación y el uso de secuencias nominales con un propósito eufemístico. Tradicionalmente un eufemismo se considera como el reemplazo de un significante desagradable u ofensivo por otro que funciona como un ‘velo’ echado sobre el significado. En la medida en que las secuencias nominales requieren muy a menudo pistas contextuales o la activación de ciertas metáforas o/y metonimias conceptuales, estas secuencias pueden ser usadas como recursos eufemísticos para referirse a conceptos desagradables específicos. El estudio de la creación y el uso de las secuencias nominales se centrará en el contexto específico de la crisis financiera mundial y los impopulares hechos políticos relacionados con ella.
Palabras clave: Eufemismo; secuencias nominales; compuestos nominales; metonimia; metáfora; contexto
138 Carmen Portero Muñoz
1. Introduction
Noun-noun sequences have been the object of a considerable amount of research (Downing 1977; Warren 1978; Ryder 1994). The fact that cognitive processes like metaphor or metonymy are the driving force behind nominal compounds in English has also been widely investigated (Warren 1992a; Geeraerts 2002; Benczes 2005a, 2005b, 2006a, 2006b, 2009). However, less research has been conducted on the use of this specific linguistic construction for euphemistic purposes (Gradečak-Erdeljić 2005; Gradečak-Erdeljić and Milić 2011).1 This paper seeks to provide evidence of the conjoined relevance of noun-noun sequences and cognitive mechanisms such as metonymy and metaphor in the construction of alternative expressions that are intended to present unpleasant facts under a nicer disguise. More specifically, the focus will be the language of the financial crisis emerging in the final years of the 2000s’ first decade. The paper is divided into three sections. In Section 1 the concept of euphemism will be outlined. In Section 2 noun-noun sequences will be presented as linguistic constructions that can be conveniently used with euphemistic purposes. Additionally, it will be shown that metaphor and metonymy are relevant cognitive mechanisms suitable for this same aim. The relevance of compounding and metonymic and/or metaphoric processes acting simultaneously in the creation of euphemisms will be highlighted. Section 3 will present the analysis of the corpus. It will be borne out that noun-noun sequences based on metonymy and metaphor are an outstanding means to achieve the displacement effect aimed at with euphemisms by pushing to the background unpleasant aspects of the global financial crisis or by structuring specific domains in terms of other domains.
2. What is a euphemism?
Euphemism is “a lexical substitution strategy for representationally displacing topics that evoke negative affect”, its aim being to reduce “the communicative discomfort associated with a distasteful topic” (McGlone, Beck and Pfiester 2006: 261-63). The purpose of euphemisms is twofold (Gladney and Rittenburg 2005: 30). On the one hand, they imply using a less offensive expression in place of another that may offend or suggest something unpleasant to the receiver. On the other hand, a euphemism can be used to save the speaker’s face in doublespeak, that is, it can be used to deliberately disguise, distort or reverse the meaning of words, which is typical of governmental, military or corporate institutions. McGlone, Beck and Pfiester claim that in order to succeed in this task a euphemism must “not call undue attention to itself”, that is, it must act as a kind of “camouflage” (2006: 263). Warren (1992b: 132-33) points out four main ways in which euphemisms may be constructed: (i) the word-formation devices of the language; (ii) the import of foreign words; (iii) modification of the form of the offensive word according to certain rules; and
1 The research reported in this paper has been conducted within the framework of the project FFI 2008-04585/FILO, funded by the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation. I am grateful to two anonymous reviewers for their insightful comments and criticisms on an earlier version of this paper. I am also indebted to Antonio Barcelona for helping me in many ways. Needless to say, any flaws are my own responsibility.
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(iv) creation of a novel sense for some established word or word combination. However, as pointed out by Warren, “what is a euphemism ‘is in the eye/ear of the beholder’ and cannot strictly speaking be objectively verified, although normally of course there is consensus among language users as to what words are euphemistic” (1992b: 135). In the subsequent pages the focus will be the creation of euphemisms by means of a word formation device, namely noun-noun compounds or sequences.2
3. The role of noun-noun sequences in creating euphemisms
3.1. The camouflage effect of noun-noun sequences
The English language is extremely generous in the use of noun-noun compounds or sequences. The high productivity of this process as well as the diversity of semantic relations that can exist between the two components within a compound and between the latter and the compound as a whole make them a “highly intriguing set of linguistic phenomena” (Benczes 2006a: 1). A great deal of attention in the study of compounding has been devoted to trying to determine the possible semantic relations underlying the components of noun-noun compounds, which show different degrees of interpretability. The relation between the deverbal element and its complement is usually clear in the case of synthetic compounds (e.g. car driver) and noun-noun compounds with relational heads are also likely to be interpreted easily (e.g. animal doctor). However, for other noun-noun compounds an interpretation may not be easily activated. Many attempts at classification have therefore failed as some compounds imply a ‘missing link’, so that it may not be so clear how to classify them and, in many cases, it is only context that dictates how to interpret them (Adams 2001: 85). When dealing with the meaning of noun compounds, Adams declares that “a compound guarantees only the fact of a connection in some context of the referents of its components” (2001: 88). In a similar vein, Downing (1977: 830) points out that, though most compounds can be understood on the basis of one or more of a few relationships, such interpretations ignore most of the specific knowledge that makes it possible to interpret them. For example, some culture-specific knowledge is required to interpret zebra crossing as ‘a crossing that resembles a zebra’ rather than ‘crossing for zebras’. This semantic obscurity that characterizes noun-noun sequences makes them likely candidates for euphemism creation. As a consequence of the need to resort to contextual information, the addressee requires time to get to the right interpretation so that the speaker saves face by creating some distance. The shock that reference to an unpleasant concept might cause is also diminished in this way.
2 No particular stand will be taken here as to whether a given sequence is a compound or a phrase (see Bauer 1998).
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3.2. The role of metaphor and metonymy in the creation and interpretation of euphemistic noun-noun sequences
3.2.1. Metaphor and metonymy and the displacement effect
Different scholars have advanced the role of metaphor and metonymy in the creation of euphemisms. McGlone, Beck and Pfiester have pointed out that the displacement associated with euphemistic units “is accomplished by avoiding direct, literal reference to an event (e.g. he defecated, she died) in favour of terms describing its consequences (he relieved himself, she’s no longer with us), related events (he moved his bowels, she took her last breath), metaphors (he heeded Nature’s call, she jumped the last hurdle), and other semantic associates of lower valence” (2006: 276). McGlone, Beck and Pfiester (2006) make reference to two relevant processes to achieve displacement. They explicitly mention metaphor and also implicitly refer to metonymic processes. Traditionally, metonymy was regarded as a figure of speech. According to Koch (1999: 140), the earliest definition of metonymy (Lat. denominatio) as a rhetorical trope is to be found in the Rethorica ad Herennium, where it is defined as “a trope that takes its expression from near and close things and by which we can comprehend a thing that is not denominated by its proper word” (translation and emphasis by Koch 1999: 141). However, cognitive linguists have pointed out that metonymy is not simply a matter of linguistic substitution but an elaborate mental operation and they have provided their own definition of metonymy as a “cognitive process in which one conceptual entity, the vehicle [or source], provides mental access to another conceptual entity, the target, within the same domain, or I(dealized) C(ognitive) M(odel)” (Kövecses and Radden 1998: 39). On the other hand, a metaphor has been defined as a set of correspondences between two conceptual domains where one of the domains (the source) helps us to structure, understand and reason about the other (the target) (Lakoff 1993: 206-07). In the standard cognitive-linguistic conception of metaphor and metonymy (Lakoff and Johnson 1980; Lakoff 1987; Lakoff and Turner 1989; Croft 1993/2002; Kövecses and Radden 1998) metonymy is distinguished from metaphor in terms of the contiguity- similarity distinction, among other criteria: metonymy is a matter of contiguity between source and target items, whereas metaphor is a matter of similarity between them. The notion of contiguity of concepts in metonymy is itself metaphorical since spatial contiguity is used to refer to conceptual contiguity, that is, the existence of any salient and easily accessed association between the source and the target item. Additionally, the conceptual contiguity of metonymic relations must be a privileged pragmatic connection between source and target, that is, the source activates the target as a result of the experiential link (‘pragmatic function link’) between the roles each of them performs in the same functional domain (e.g. CAUSE-EFFECT, AGENT-ACTION, AUTHOR-WORK, and the like) (Barcelona 2011: 14). These pragmatic links correspond to Kövecses and Radden’s “metonymy-producing relationships” (Kövecses and Radden 1998: 48-61). Kövecses and Radden (1998) and Radden and Kövecses (1999) suggest that the type of conceptual relationships which may give rise to metonymy may be subsumed under two general, high level conceptual configurations. On the one hand, the conceptual configuration Whole ICM and its parts may lead to metonymies in which we access a part of an ICM via its whole or a whole ICM via one of its parts. On the other hand, the
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 137–157 ISSN 0210-6124 Noun-noun Euphemisms in the Language of the Late 2000s’ Global Financial Crisis 141 conceptual configuration Parts of an ICM may lead to metonymies in which we access a part via another part of the same ICM. These types of relationship can be used to achieve displacement and some of them are preferred routes for euphemism creation. For example, when using the expression Where can I wash my hands? or I’m going to the bathroom, specific parts of the whole event, a subsequent part (washing one’s hands) and an initial part (reaching the place), respectively, stand for the whole event of urinating. Since a complex event may involve several distinct sub-events, a specific sub-event may stand for the whole scenario and, conversely, a whole event may metonymically stand for an “active-zone” sub-event (Langacker 1999: 62-67). On the other hand, in some cases some conceptual elements that function as parts within whole events stand for other conceptual elements. Kövecses and Radden (1998: 69-72) claim that there are a number of cognitive and communicative principles that seem to contribute to determining the default selection of a metonymic vehicle (i.e. source). For example, human experience determines the cognitive principles ‘human’ over ‘non-human’ or ‘concrete’ over ‘abstract’; perceptual selectivity determines the cognitive principles ‘immediate’ over ‘non-immediate’, ‘more’ over ‘less’ or ‘specific’ over ‘generic’. Culture-specific preference principles like central over peripheral may also lead to the selection of a metonymic vehicle. Additionally, at least two communicative principles seem to contribute to the selection of specific metonymic relations. For example, the principle of clarity states that communicative clarity is preferred over non-clarity since we have to facilitate access to the target entity by communicating our intention in a clear way. Finally, the principle of relevance gives priority to what is situationally more relevant. In their view, these principles may be overridden for social, communicative or aesthetic reasons. More specifically, they cite the creation of euphemisms as one of the social and communicative reasons that may trigger the violation of some of these principles: in the use of metonymy-based euphemisms the cognitive principles of clarity (CLEAR OVER LESS CLEAR) and relevance (CENTRAL OVER PERIPHERAL) are violated. For example, the euphemistic word redundancy focuses on a precondition of the ‘dismissal ICM’. The intended target is, therefore, not clearly accessible, so the metonymy also violates the communicative principle of clarity. In doing so, the intended camouflage effect of euphemisms is achieved. Metaphor and metonymy are also traditionally distinguished in terms of the number of domains involved. Thus, Lakoff and Turner (1989: 103-104) see metonymy as a conventionalized conceptual mapping where only one domain is involved, whereas in metaphor a source domain is partially mapped onto a target domain, with a set of correspondences between the source and the target. As an additional difference, Croft (1993) uses the notion of domain highlighting of metonymic relations to distinguish them from the domain mapping taking place in metaphors. The term mapping can be understood as the projection of the structure of one domain onto another, so that the projected structure imposes (some of) its internal elements and properties onto their counterparts in the other domain. Thus, in the metaphor LIFE IS A JOURNEY, the beginning of the journey maps onto that of life, the obstacles in the journey onto life’s difficulties, etc. On the other hand, domain highlighting consists in the mental activation of a certain (sub) domain, the target, by another (sub)domain, the source, within the same domain matrix. For example, in Proust is tough to read, the subject NP highlights the secondary sub-domain of Proust’s literary work within the domain matrix for Proust.
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In Barcelona’s view, this ‘intra-domain’ activation of one (sub)domain by another is an essential ingredient of metonymy, which is therefore characterized by an asymmetrical mapping, since “the metonymic source projects its conceptual structure onto that of the target, not by means of a systematic matching of counterparts [as in metaphor], but by conceptually foregrounding the source and by backgrounding the target” (Barcelona 2002: 226; emphasis original ) or “by imposing a conceptual (and linguistic) perspective from which the target is activated” (Barcelona 2011: 13; emphasis original). The intra-domain contiguity between concepts in a metonymic relation makes this process a perfect candidate for euphemism creation since it makes it possible for the user to push to the background specific unpleasant aspects of a particular domain (the target), while foregrounding other aspects (the source). This displacement implies low processing effort from the part of the addressee, who will be able to access the target easily, though not immediately, since no distance must be bridged between two different domains. As Brdar-Szabó and Brdar point out, “metonymy is an efficient way of saying two things for the price of one, i.e. two concepts are activated while only one is explicitly mentioned” (2011: 236). For example, if someone uses the expression go to the bathroom for urinate the hearer will have no difficulty in accessing the target, as reaching a destination is the initial sub-event for the subsequent target-event (urinating), that is, the source and the target are pragmatically associated. However, for a non-native speaker of English it might be more difficult to interpret I need to spend a penny (‘to use a public lavatory’) since spending a penny is no longer associated, i.e. contiguous with the target (it refers to the former use of coin operated locks on public toilets). If water the garden is used as a euphemistic version of urinate, the target event is hidden by comparing it to an event belonging to a different experiential domain on the basis of similarity (that is, a metaphorical relation), which might hinder comprehension. However, some scholars acknowledge that the notions of contiguity and similarity are slippery and that there are not clear dividing lines between both (Barnden 2010). Furthermore, the distinction between metonymy and metaphor is blurred for a number of reasons, such as the lack of clear-cut boundaries of cognitive domains, the double interpretation of some expressions as metaphoric and metonymic, the metonymic basis of many metaphors and, conversely, the metaphoric basis of many metonymies, and the possible patterns of interaction between both processes (in this connection see, for example, Geeraerts 2002; Goossens 2002/1990; Ruiz de Mendoza and Díez Velasco 2002; Benczes 2006b; Barcelona 2011). As a consequence of the lack of a clear-cut distinction between metaphor and metonymy, some authors have suggested the possibility of prototype-based definitions of these processes (Peirsman and Geeraerts 2006; Barnden 2010; Barcelona 2011). Be that as it may, both metonymic and metaphoric processes will be shown to be useful tools for euphemistic creation, either in isolation or in conjunction.
3.2.2. The use of metaphor and metonymy in the creation of noun-noun sequences
There is an additional aspect of metaphoric and metonymic processes concerning their use with euphemistic purposes. Interestingly, metaphor and metonymy serve as the basis of many of the noun-noun sequences mentioned in Section 2.1. Benczes (2005a, 2005b, 2006b) has studied the different kinds of metaphor and metonymy-based compounds using the cognitive linguistics framework. The constructional schema for forming noun-noun compounds in English contains a component structure and a composite structure. These
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 137–157 ISSN 0210-6124 Noun-noun Euphemisms in the Language of the Late 2000s’ Global Financial Crisis 143 structures are linked by correspondences which specify how the components are integrated to form the composite structure. In a typical construction one component is schematic with respect to the composite structure as a whole and the composite structure is more specific with regards to the thing that it profiles. For example, jar lid is more specific than lid. In this case, lid functions as the profile determinant, as this is the constituent that construes the same scene as the composite structure, and jar is the modifier element. In Benczes’ view “there is an inventory of metaphor and metonymy-based compounds, depending on where metaphor or metonymy acts upon the construction: the modifier, the profile determinant (that is, the head), the relation between the two constituents of the compound, or the compound as a whole” (Benczes 2005a: 181). For example, compounds like Macarena page illustrate a metaphor-based semantic relationship between the constituents of the compound, as a web page is like the Macarena dance, and a metonymy-based modifier, since Macarena stands for any fashion that has a short life expectancy but enjoys large popularity. In a different group of compounds, like hammerhead, it is the profile determinant that is based on metonymy, while the semantic relationship between the constituents of the compound is metaphor-based. These examples reveal that the interpretation of noun-noun compounds may need the activation of certain conceptual metaphors and/ or metonymies, and provide evidence for the existence of a variety of patterns of interaction between metaphoric and metonymic processes, as mentioned in Section 2.2.1. Benczes (2006b) concludes that it is not always easy to work out the way in which these processes interact with each other and that the most relevant factor for the understanding of a compound’s meaning is not the sequence of the extensions, i.e. whether the metaphors come from the metonymies, or vice versa, but the fact that we can rely on a number of ‘interpretation routes’. Many noun-noun sequences can be regarded as euphemistic resources since part of the intended meaning is covert, very often requiring contextual hints. As both metaphoric and metonymic processes as well as noun-noun sequences can be used with the same purpose, it is not surprising that they are very likely candidates for euphemism creation when they operate conjointly. As an example of the role of metaphor in the creation of a euphemistic noun-noun sequence, Benczes (2009) cites muffin top, which was coined to denote ‘the roll of spare flesh which cascades over the top of low-slung jeans’. In Benczes’ view, the physical resemblance between a muffin (specifically, the pastry that is above the rim of the paper cup) and the waistline of a person wearing tight jeans motivates an image metaphor (PEOPLE ARE FOOD). Additionally, this sequence can also be based on the conceptual metonymy CAUSE FOR EFFECT since the cause of the spare flesh is probably the excessive amount of muffin eaten. Gradečak-Erdeljić (2005: 296-97) provides other noun-noun sequences as examples of the role of metonymy in the creation of euphemisms. Thus, in Gradečak-Erdeljić’s view, in air support a part of a scenario –support from the air– stands for the actual act of the destruction of the target on the ground. In this way, a non-violent part of the event is mentioned instead, achieving euphemism. Similarly, body count illustrates a PART FOR PART metonymy and a PART FOR WHOLE metonymy which operates at a second level and where the focused body counting stands for the whole target domain of the number of people killed (Gradečak-Erdeljić 2005; Gradečak-Erdeljić and Goran Milić 2011). For Gradečak- Erdeljić, “one of the most ubiquitous metonymies in the context of euphemisms is PART OF THE SCENARIO-FOR-THE WHOLE SCENARIO, . . . where it serves as a vehicle to accessing the target concept via some narrowed or semantically bleached content” (2005: 298).
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4. The use of noun-noun sequences with euphemistic purposes in the global financial crisis
In Section 2.1 noun-noun sequences were presented as contextual devices in the sense that resorting to context is very often required for their correct interpretation. On the other hand, context is also a conditioning factor for the use or creation of noun-noun sequences and, more specifically, of euphemistic ones. This fact has been noted by different scholars. For example, Benzces has pointed out that “the political environment often induces the coinage of euphemisms” (2009: 4). Benczes gives freedom fries as an example of the way in which the social context may affect the construal of a situation. According to Benczes (2006a: 6, 2009: 4-5), this sequence was coined by two Republican Representatives in 2003 as an alternative to French fries on the menus of the restaurants and snack bars run by the House of Representatives. This action was intended as a “symbolic effort to express displeasure with France’s ‘continued refusal to stand with their US allies’” as regards invading Iraq (Robert W. Ney, quoted by Benczes 2006a from Wikipedia). Gradečak-Erdeljić (2005: 287) has also made reference to the use of euphemisms in politics and sees the metonymy PART FOR WHOLE as a useful tool to achieve this aim since “this specific metonymy (re)directs the attention of the receiver of the communicated message towards the more marginal aspects of the scenario which represents certain [sic] political situation”. The global financial crisis is a good example of how context, more specifically, the political context, can trigger the creation of euphemisms. For example, it has spawned noun-noun sequences which government and private organizations find convenient to use as a way to protect themselves from embarrassment or legal action.
4.1. Methodology
In order to study the use of noun-noun sequences in the creation of euphemisms, a search was conducted of noun-noun sequences that were deemed as euphemistic in a canonical source of such expressions (Holder 2003). In addition to this, and with a view to collecting new formations, the specific section on business of the Internet edition of The New York Times (http://www.nytimes.com) (henceforth NYT) as well as the web page http://www.wordspy.com and a number of other pages on the web were used. A list of all the examples with the source where they were found is included in the Appendix. The different examples were then classified according to the specific topic that they were used to refer to euphemistically. Subsequently, a classification was made in terms of the conceptual relationships used to achieve displacement, with special focus on metonymic relations by means of which different unpleasant topics are backgrounded. The reason the examples in the different topic groups are primarily classified on the basis of the metonymic relationship instantiated is that most of the examples attested turned out to be cases of metonymy. No claim is made, however, on the prevalence of metonymic processes over metaphoric ones, for which further –statistically based– evidence would be required. The analysis carried out follows the standard conception of metaphor and metonymy (see Section 2.2.1). The different metonymic groups are complemented with cases based on metaphoric mapping. Finally, use is made of the proposals by Benczes
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(2006b) for some issues arising from the analysis, such as the interaction of metonymic and metaphoric processes, though these are only touched on in passing.
4.2. Corpus analysis
4.2.1. Unemployment and dismissal
4.2.1.1. Unemployment
One of the main effects of the crisis, unemployment, is the source of numerous euphemistic sequences created to avoid using this word.
EFFECT FOR CAUSE Many of the examples from the business section of NYT, though not clearly euphemistic in some cases, can be regarded as alternative ‘softer’ expressions to avoid mentioning an ‘ugly’ word (unemployment): employment situation, employment crisis, employment problems, employment gap, employment needs, or labor-market weakness. In employment situation there is not even a hint of the intended meaning since, were it not for the co-text or people’s shared knowledge of the global financial crisis, no specific positive or negative situation is mentioned. The second noun in most of the remaining sequences (crisis, problems, gap, needs), though having a certain negative semantic load, might be regarded as a more neutral substitute of the negative prefix un-, which avoids the explicit mention of an unpleasant fact: the lack of employment. Thus, employment crisis refers to the ‘unemployment crisis’ without mentioning it, employment problems should be interpreted as ‘unemployment problems’, employment gap refers to ‘a gap caused by lack of employment’, and in employment needs unemployment is not named, though the first noun (henceforth N1) refers to something of which there is a lack. The covert semantic relation in all these sequences is therefore not locative, as they are not to be interpreted as ‘crisis, problems or needs at work’ but as ‘crisis or problems resulting from the lack of employment’ (‘N2 is caused by lack of N1’). Therefore, these cases can be regarded as based on the metonymy EFFECT FOR CAUSE as unemployment is the cause of the employment crisis, problems and the like; that is, the whole conceptual construct ‘employment crisis, problem, etc.’ stands for ‘being unemployed’.3 Labor-market weakness is also based on the metonymy EFFECT FOR CAUSE, though the underlying relation is ‘N2 is a property of N1’, that is, ‘labor market is weak’ as a result of the lack of employment. The camouflage effect is enhanced in cases like job flexibility, which avoids mentioning a negative feature, specifically the lack of job security or stable employment by making reference to an apparently positive feature instead (‘the job is flexible’ for ‘the job is non- stable’). At the same time this positive property might be regarded as a consequence of the former feature: an unavoidable positive consequence of job non-stability is job flexibility.
3 See Panther and Thornburg (2000) for a study of the EFFECT FOR CAUSE metonymy.
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4.2.1.2. Dismissal
The previous sequences are all used to refer to an unpleasant situation: the lack of employment. Euphemistic alternatives are also found to refer to the act of dismissal rather than its resulting state. As Holder (2003: 211) points out, “Mindful of public criticism or possible court proceedings, employers are selective in their language when announcing the dismissal either of a large number of staff or of a single senior employee . . . No euphemism is needed when the firm is recruiting”.
ACTION FOR RESULT A set of noun-noun sequences used to refer to the dismissal act have a metonymic base. For example, payroll adjustment refers to the “summary dismissal of staff”, “not merely correcting an error in a previous computation” (Holder 2003: 293). Likewise, headcount management, headcount realignment and personnel realignment mean ‘dismissing staff’. Consequently, these sequences are all based on the metonymy ACTION FOR RESULT, since the number of employees will be reduced as a result of the processes of adjustment, management or realignment, which avoids mentioning an unpleasant fact. Also based on this metonymy are resource action, which remains vague as to whether people will be fired or paper usage will be reduced, resource reallocation, contract extension decline, personnel surplus reduction, workforce rationalization, staff release and workforce imbalance correction. 4
RESULT FOR ACTION Conversely, some euphemistic noun-noun sequences used for dismissal are based on the metonymy RESULT FOR ACTION. For example, career change (“dismissal from employment”, Holder 2003: 113) or career change opportunity both refer to an unlikely effect of the dismissal act, instead of referring to the action of being laid off. There are numerous examples similar to the previous ones, in which displacement is achieved by using contiguous concepts to refer to other concepts within the same conceptual domain. Thus, the metonymy RESULT FOR ACTION is also the base of the noun-noun sequence headcount reduction. Headcount reduction is used to refer to a dismissal of employees, “not reducing the number of times you count them” (Holder 2003: 211). An immediate consequence of people being dismissed is headcount reduction. Likewise, the sequences career alternative enhancement, career transition, early retirement opportunity, duties relief refer to the act of dismissal by mentioning positive results of the action.
4 It should be noted that some of these nouns, such as adjustment, realignment, reduction, release or correction are taken to mean ‘the process of adjusting, realigning, reducing, releasing or correcting’ here. However, these nouns can also designate the corresponding resulting states of these processes, in which case the metonymy at work would be the converse one, i.e. RESULT FOR ACTION (cf. headcount reduction in the subsequent group).
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4.2.2 Taxes and budget
4.2.2.1. Taxes
Taxes have such a bad reputation nowadays that new variations arise to refer to this unpleasant civic duty. It is therefore not surprising that there is a large array of terms for taxation. Some alternative reformulations of the word tax(es) are national insurance contributions, wealth redistribution device, service charge, user fee or licensing fee. A further euphemism for taxes is mentioned by Pinker (2007) when talking about the use of metaphor in politics. The author discusses George Lakoff's recommendations to the Left on how to come up with metaphors to support their ideology. Thus, Lakoff recommends that taxes be reframed as “‘membership fees’ that are necessary to maintain the services and infrastructure of the society to which we belong” (2007: 246). These euphemistic variants instantiate different types of conceptual mapping. Thus, the sequences national insurance contributions and service charge avoid the ‘forbidden’ word by referring to different subtypes of taxes, so that they might be seen as examples of the metonymy MEMBER OF CATEGORY FOR WHOLE CATEGORY or the SPECIES FOR GENUS metonymy. On the other hand, in wealth redistribution device what is at work is the EFFECT FOR CAUSE relationship, since tax exactions can have the effect of helping to redistribute wealth or, at least, this is the perspective from which the speaker wishes to talk about them. Likewise, licensing fee, referring to a fee paid to the government for the privilege of being licensed to do something (such as selling liquor or practicing medicine) and user fee, which people pay for the use of many public services and facilities, both foreground the (positive) effect of paying the tax. In contrast with the former examples, the case of membership fees, calls for a metaphorical interpretation whereby we see the public community as a private society where members need to contribute to its goals by paying their fees (which correspond to each citizen’s taxes). If taxation is a word to avoid, tax increase is even less desirable. Governments try to sugarcoat tax increases by never referring to these changes as ‘increases’. Alternatively, the result of tax increase or more general actions leading to tax increase are mentioned:
RESULT FOR ACTION Revenue enhancement is based on the metonymy RESULT FOR ACTION as this sequence denotes ‘increases in revenues as a result of tax increase’. Similar sequences are (fairer) revenue raise, benefit reduction and tax simplification (‘simpler but higher taxes’).
ACTION FOR RESULT On the other hand, rate adjustment and tax reform make reference to tax increase by using the nouns adjustment and reform, which denote more general actions resulting in tax increase. A further tax-related issue provoking euphemistic creations is tax evasion. Tax evasion is defined as ‘the illegal non-payment or underpayment of tax’ (oxforddictionaries.com). The use of this sequence to declare what one does with taxes must therefore be avoided at all costs. A legal and hence euphemistic alternative is tax avoidance, which is defined as ‘the
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 137–157 ISSN 0210-6124 148 Carmen Portero Muñoz arrangement of one's financial affairs to minimize tax liability within the law’ (oxforddictionary.com). Likewise, a tax loophole is ‘a provision in the laws governing taxation that allows people to reduce their taxes’ (dictionary.reference.com). A similar sequence motivated by avoiding explicit mention of the politically incorrect sequence is tax gap: “The most alluring idea right now is to narrow the tax gap, a euphemism for cracking down on tax cheats” (NYT, 11th Feb, 2007). Tax evasion also triggers euphemistic creations based on metonymy, like income protection (Holder 2003: 225), which is used to refer to ‘arranging your affairs to avoid tax’, that is, as a euphemistic alternative for tax evasion. This sequence is based on the metonymy RESULT FOR ACTION, as your income is protected as a result of your action. A different type of fraud camouflaged by the use of a euphemistic sequence is money laundering, which refers to the transfer of illegally obtained money to conceal its origins and is based on the metaphor MONEY IS CLOTHING.
4.2.2.2. Budget cuts
A large number of the examples in the corpus are concerned with different measures taken by governments involving cuts in the budget. These examples clearly illustrate that temporary political circumstances may be the cause of the profuse creation of sequences which try to soften certain unpleasant facts. At the time this paper was started (the summer of 2010), different governments undertook a number of unpopular measures aimed at alleviating the crisis. One of the star measures worldwide was budget cuttings, a word that politicians and newspapers avoid mentioning.
ACTION FOR RESULT One set of noun-noun sequences have a N2 with more general reference than the intended meaning, which could be regarded as a violation of the cognitive principle SPECIFIC OVER GENERIC. For example, budget plan, budget measure, budget bill, budget oversight, budget restructuring are all used instead of the more unpleasant budget cut. All these noun-noun sequences use a concept of a more general level of abstraction (plan, measure, bill or oversight, restructuring) as an alternative to the specific unpleasant measure, plan, bill or oversight: tax increases, spending cuts, job cuts and the like. In some of these noun-noun sequences, N2 is based on the metonymy ACTION FOR RESULT. For example, budget oversight or pension overhaul both avoid mentioning the unpleasant consequence of the action denoted by N2, which is made clear in the subsequent co-text in the latter case: “a pension bill that would increase the retirement age and slash benefits in Greece” (NYT 8th Jul, 2010).
RESULT FOR ACTION In a different group of examples, reference to the result is not avoided as it is made explicit by N2. Thus, budget bonanza makes reference to the positive expected result instead of referring to the actions to be done to the budget: cuttings. Therefore, N2 can be regarded as based on the metonymy RESULT FOR ACTION. A further example that avoids mentioning ‘cuttings’ is the use of budget savings for ‘budget cuts’, a sequence not very convincingly analysed as metaphorical in the source where it was found. Budget savings is, rather, based on metonymy, as savings is probably a
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 137–157 ISSN 0210-6124 Noun-noun Euphemisms in the Language of the Late 2000s’ Global Financial Crisis 149 positive and expected result of budget cutting, savings being defined as ‘money saved, especially through a bank or official scheme’ (www.wordreference.com), in this case, through budget cuts. In a different group of examples, although N1 has a certain negative semantic load, the combination avoids mentioning the specific unpleasant aspects of the referent overriding the cognitive principle SPECIFIC OVER GENERIC. For example, austerity budget, austerity measures, austerity package and emergency budget refer to a severe package, budget or measures of spending cuts, tax increases and salary or pension freeze. It is not uncommon to see generic combinations like these in headlines, the specific meaning of which is ‘unveiled’ in the subsequent co-text. In using the above sequences, the speaker tries to postpone the harsh effect that the message may have on the listener, achieving euphemism: hearing that the government is taking some austerity measures will probably not have such a negative impact as hearing that your salary is going to be frozen or cut.
RESULT FOR ACTION Stimulus budget or stimulus package are even more euphemistic, since they not only hide unpleasant facts by not being too specific but also refer to the desirable result of N2, so that N1 could be regarded as based on the metonymy RESULT FOR ACTION. Also related to the government’s monetary revenues is public sector borrowing requirements, which refers to “government overspending” (Holder 2003: 311). In this case, borrowing from the public sector is required as a consequence of the government’s overspending, so that the result stands for the negative action. Consequently, this sequence is also based on the metonymy RESULT FOR ACTION. Finally, wage freeze, used to refer to the fixing of wages at a particular level, (that is, a long-term wage reduction) is based on metaphor. In this case the conceptual structure of physical substances is mapped onto that of the abstract concept ‘wages’, to focus on the state of fixity, immovability or inalterability. The process of freezing therefore stands for a specific aspect of the process, its result (to become fixed or unalterable), so that the sequence wage freeze can also be seen as based on the metonymy ACTION FOR RESULT.5
4.2.3. Insolvency
Insolvency is a word that “must be avoided at all costs” (Holder 2003:115) and that therefore triggers several euphemistic noun-noun sequences.
EFFECT FOR CAUSE As in the previous sets, there are sequences that refer to a negative issue at a more general level of abstraction. For example, cash flow problem and liquidity crisis both refer to insolvency. The negative though not quite specific words problem and crisis stand for the more explicit word lack, so that the cognitive principle SPECIFIC OVER GENERIC is violated. These sequences could also be regarded as based on the metonymy EFFECT FOR CAUSE, as N2 is caused by the lack of liquidity. Therefore, the semantic relationship holding between
5 Ruiz de Mendoza and Pérez Hernández deal with similar examples to wage freeze as cases of “grammatical metonymy” (2001: 331-34), which refers to metonymic processes with grammatical consequences. Specifically, in wage freeze a verb is recategorized as a noun.
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both nouns is not ‘N2 is N1’ (‘the problem is cash flow’) but ‘N2 is due to the lack of N1’ (‘the problem is due to the lack of cash flow’). Sequences like credit crunch are also used to refer to the financial crisis without mentioning it. Credit crunch might be seen as based on the metonymy EFFECT FOR CAUSE, as it refers to the inevitable and immediate effect of the financial/ liquidity crisis. The sequence lipstick effect is also based on the metonymy EFFECT FOR CAUSE. It is used to refer to ‘the tendency for consumers to purchase small, comforting items such as lipstick rather than large luxury items’ during a recession (www.wordspy.com), so that it refers to another effect of a liquidity/ financial crisis. The first noun in this sequence is also based on a metonymy: lipstick stands for the type of goods that consumers are able to purchase as a consequence of recession, and is therefore an example of the metonymy PART FOR WHOLE (MEMBER OF CATEGORY FOR WHOLE CATEGORY).
ACTION FOR RESULT In some sequences, the reverse case is found, that is, some events stand for a negative aspect of the event. Thus, in currency adjustment, which Holder defines as “a devaluation” (2003: 143), the actual negative result of the adjustment process is not mentioned, so that this sequence is based on the metonymy ACTION FOR RESULT. The willingness to avoid explicit reference to insolvency has launched the creation of some noun-noun sequences which are based on both metonymic and metaphoric processes. For example, the sequences bank stress test (“a test of how resilient European banks are to economic shocks”, NYT 19th Jul 2010) and bank stress became very fashionable for a certain period of time, when banks were subjected to inspection. These sequences are based on both metaphor and metonymy. On the one hand, banks are compared with human beings with health problems so that this sequence is based on the metaphor BANKS ARE HUMAN BEINGS. On the other hand, stress stands for the degree of insolvency or the resilience to certain economic or market shocks, so that N2 is based on the metonymy EFFECT FOR CAUSE (THE ILLNESS FOR ITS CAUSE), that is, the degree of bank stress is measured in terms of its lack of solvency, so that the less solvent, the more stressed the bank will be. Bank stress therefore stands for bank insolvency, so that this sequence is a conscious roundabout to avoid mentioning the word insolvency. The metaphor BANKS ARE HUMAN BEINGS triggers further sequences, like bank rescue and zombie banks. Bank rescue is used to refer to troubled asset relief measures to stabilize the financial system and make sure that banks have enough cash. Bank rescue is the consequence of a bank’s lack of liquidity, so that the sequence is based on the EFFECT FOR CAUSE metonymy. A further example to avoid the forbidden word is zombie bank, defined as ‘a bank that cannot lend money because its liabilities are greater than its assets, but remains in business thanks to government support’ (www.wordspy.com), that is, an insolvent bank. This sequence is based on a metaphor mapping the conceptual structure of a zombie, ‘a corpse supposedly revived by witchcraft, especially in certain African and Caribbean religions’ (www.wordreference.com), onto that of a bank. Finally, the conscious avoidance of the words unemployment and insolvency is also the cause of ninja loan, ‘a loan or mortgage given to a person who has no income, no job, and no assets’ (www.wordspy.com), also found as NINJA loan, which results from the phrase ‘No Income, No Job or Assets’. In this case, no metaphor is at work in N1 but a metonymic process by which the salient part of a form (NINJA) stands for the whole
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4.3. Summary and discussion
The analysis of the noun-noun sequences used in the global financial crisis reveals a kind of face-saving mechanism by which certain potentially harmful aspects of a scenario are camouflaged by bringing to the foreground some more general aspects (e.g. budget plan) or more marginal (e.g. revenue enhancement) or desirable ones (e.g. career change opportunity). As already advanced by Gradečak-Erdeljić (2005: 1) as regards the language of politics, in all the different scenarios related to the global financial crisis, there is a marked use of the metonymy PART OF THE EVENT FOR THE WHOLE EVENT, as this metonymy pushes forward specific parts of the whole event, in this way avoiding mentioning unpleasant facts. More specifically, many of the sequences analysed are based on the metonymies RESULT FOR ACTION and EFFECT FOR CAUSE, as shown in table 1:
‘unemployment’ employment crisis, employment problems, employment gap, labor-market weakness ‘dismisal’ career change, headcount reduction, career transition career change opportunity, career alternative enhancement, early retirement opportunity, duties relief ‘tax increase’ revenue enhancement, (fairer) revenue raise, benefit reduction and tax simplification. ‘tax evasion’ income protection ‘budget cuts’ budget bonanza, budget savings, stimulus budget, stimulus package ‘insolvency’ cash flow problem, liquidity crisis, credit crunch, lipstick effect
Table 1. Noun-Noun sequences based on the metonymies RESULT FOR ACTION and EFFECT FOR CAUSE
Conversely, a large set of the sequences are based on the metonymy ACTION FOR RESULT, so that euphemism is achieved by quite the reverse process, focusing on a more general action rather than its unpleasant result, which is backgrounded. This is shown in the examples in table 2:
‘dismissal’ Payroll adjustment, headcount management, headcount realignment, personnel realignment, resource action, resource reallocation, contract extension decline, personnel surplus reduction, workforce rationalization, staff release, workforce imbalance correction. ‘tax increase’ rate adjustment, tax reform ‘budget cuts’ Budget plan, budget measure, budget bill, budget oversight, budget restructuring
Table 2. Noun-Noun sequences based on the metonymy ACTION FOR RESULT
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One might be tempted to suggest the existence of different degrees of being euphemistic. For example, sequences based on the metonymy RESULT FOR ACTION might be seen as more euphemistic than others in which the specific negative aspects of a scenario are not mentioned. Thus, career change opportunity, career alternative enhancement, early retirement opportunity, duties relief, budget bonanza, which focus on a positive result of the hidden unpleasant acts of dismissal or budget cuts, can be regarded as more euphemistic than other sequences such as budget plan, budget measure, budget bill, budget oversight, budget restructuring, which avoid mentioning the specific unpleasant aspects by using a more generic N2 than the intended referent. The cognitive principles CENTRAL OVER PERIPHERAL and the communicative principles of relevance and clarity are therefore overridden, with the effect of distracting the addressee from the intended target, which is the communicative and social purpose of euphemisms. Finally, some noun-noun sequences such as money laundering, wage freeze, bank stress, zombie banks and bank rescue are based on metaphor (or metaphor in conjunction with metonymy). Noun-noun sequences and, more particularly, noun-noun sequences based on metonymy and metaphor are therefore an outstanding means to achieve the displacement effect aimed at with euphemisms. Yet, what counts as euphemistic is relative or, in Warren’s words, “is in the eye/ear of the beholder” (1992b: 135). While the euphemistic nature of some sequences is acknowledged by their users, the intended softening effect might be unnoticed by others. Furthermore, the euphemistic effect of a sequence may be lost. For example, the sequence bank rescue is used over and over in the press and on television and was probably coined as a positive alternative to avoid reference to the cause of the rescue, i.e. insolvency. A rescue is supposed to be an expected and positive event. However, it is remarkable that this sequence is not welcomed by any country or bank. In connection with this, Pinker talks about something he calls the euphemism treadmill to refer to the fact that “people invent new words for emotionally charged referents, but soon the euphemism becomes tainted by association, and a new word must be found, which soon acquires its own connotations, and so on” (2002: 212). By way of illustration, he mentions water closet, from which we got to toilet, to bathroom, to restroom and to lavatory. Pinker observes that “The euphemism treadmill shows that concepts, not words, are primary in people's minds. Give a concept a new name, and the name becomes colored by the concept; the concept does not become freshened by the name, at least not for long” (2002: 213). Pinker’s observation could be used to explain why the sequence bank rescue is not welcome to any bank or country’s ears: rescue must have become ‘colored’ by the concept of insolvency.
5. Concluding remarks
In the previous pages, noun-noun sequences have been claimed to be effective resources to create euphemisms due to their intriguing nature, motivated by the wide range of possible covert semantic relations. Furthermore, the success of noun-noun sequences in creating euphemisms is enhanced by the metaphorical or metonymic nature of many noun-noun sequences, since metaphor and metonymy are cognitive processes typically used for euphemistic purposes.
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More specifically, regarding the use of euphemistic noun-noun sequences to refer to unpleasant facts within the worldwide financial crisis, evidence has been provided for a marked preference to focus on peripheral parts or properties of the scenarios under analysis, so that a large number of these sequences are based on the metonymies RESULT FOR ACTION or EFFECT FOR CAUSE. Conversely, a numerous set of noun-noun sequences achieve euphemism by avoiding mentioning an unpleasant specific result of an action, so that they are based on the metonymy ACTION FOR RESULT. Finally, some sequences are based on metaphor or the interaction of both metonymic and metaphoric processes.
Works Cited
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Goossens, Louis 2002/1990: ‘Metaphtonymy: The Interaction of Metaphor and Metonymy in Expressions for Linguistic Action’. René Dirven and Ralf Pörings, eds. Metaphor and Metonymy in Comparison and Contrast (Cognitive Linguistics Research 20). Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter. 349-77. (Reproduced with slight changes from the paper with the same title in Cognitive Linguistics 1.3: 323-40). Gradečak-Erdeljić, Tanja 2005: ‘Euphemisms in the Language of Politics or How Metonymy Opens One Door but Closes the Other’. Piotr Cap, ed. Pragmatics Today. Frankfurt and Main: Peter Lang. 287-99. Gradečak-Erdeljić, Tania and Goran Milić 2011: ‘Metonymy at the Crossroads: a Case of Euphemisms and Dysphemisms’. Reka Benczes, Antonio Barcelona and Francisco José Ruiz de Mendoza Ibánez, eds. Defining Metonymy in Cognitive Linguistics: towards a Consensus View. Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins. 147-66. Holder, R. W. 2003: How Not to Say What You Mean: A Dictionary of Euphemisms. Oxford: Oxford UP. Koch, Peter 1999: ‘Frame and Contiguity: On the Cognitive Bases of Metonymy and Certain Types of Word Formation’. Klaus-Uwe Panther and Günter Radden, eds. Metonymy in Language and Thought. Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins. 139-67. Kövecses, Zoltán and Günter Radden 1998: ‘Metonymy: Developing a Cognitive Linguistic View’. Cognitive Linguistics 9.1: 37-77. Lakoff, George 1987: Women, Fire and Dangerous Things. What Categories Reveal about the Mind. Chicago: U of Chicago P. ––––– 1993: ‘The Contemporary Theory of Metaphor’. Andrew Ortony, ed. Metaphor and Thought. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. 202-51. Lakoff, George and Mark Johnson 1980: Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: U of Chicago P. Lakoff, George and Mark Turner 1989: More than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor. Chicago: U of Chicago P. Langacker, Ronald W. 1999: Grammar and Conceptualization. Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter. McGlone, Matthew S., Gary Beck and Abigail Pfiester 2006: ‘Contamination and Camouflage in Euphemisms’. Communication Monographs 73: 261-82. Panther, Klaus-Uwe and Linda L. Thornburg 2000: ‘The EFFECT FOR CAUSE Metonymy in English Grammar’. Antonio Barcelona, ed. Metaphor and metonymy at the Crossroads. Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter. 215-32. Peirsman, Yves and Dirk Geeraerts 2006: ‘Metonymy as a Prototypical Category. Cognitive Linguistics 17.3: 269-316. Pinker, Steven 2002: The Blank Slate: the Modern Denial of Human Nature. New York: Penguin. ––––– 2007: The Stuff of Thought: Language as a Window into Human Nature. New York: Penguin. Radden, Günter and Zoltán Kövecses 1999: ‘Towards a Theory of Metonymy’. Klaus-Uwe Panther and Günter Radden, eds. Metonymy in Language and Thought. (Vol. 4 of Human Cognitive Processing). Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins. 17-60. Ruiz de Mendoza Ibáñez, Francisco José and Lorena Pérez Hernández 2001: ‘Metonymy and the Grammar: Motivation, Constraints and Interaction’. Language and Communication 21: 321-57. Ruiz de Mendoza Ibáñez , Francisco J. and Olga I. Díez Velasco 2002: ‘Patterns of Conceptual Interaction’. René Dirven and Ralf Pörings, eds. Metaphor and Metonymy in Comparison and Contrast (Cognitive Linguistics Research 20). Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter. 489-532. Ryder, Mary Ellen 1994: Ordered Chaos: the interpretation of English Noun-Noun Compounds. Berkeley and Los Angeles: U of California P. Warren, Beatrice 1978: Semantic Patterns of Noun-Noun Compounds. (Gothenburg Studies in English 41). Gothenburg: Gothenburg UP. ––––– 1992a: Sense Developments. A contrastive study of the development of slang senses and novel standard senses in English (Stockholm Studies in English 80). Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiksell International. ––––– 1992b: ‘What Euphemisms Tell Us about the Interpretation of Words’. Studia Linguistica 46.2: 128-72.
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Appendix austerity budget (NYT, 28th May 2010) austerity measures (NYT, 4th October 2010) austerity package (NYT, 8th June 2010) bank stress test (NYT, 19th July 2010) bank stress (NYT, 19th July 2010) bank rescue (NYT, 23rd March 2009) benefit reduction (http://www.skepdic.com/refuge/ctlessons/ch2.pdf) budget bill (NYT, 14th April 2011) budget bonanza (NYT, 24th June 2010) budget plan (http://topics.nytimes.com/top/reference/timestopics/subjects/f/federal_budget_us/in dex.html) budget measure(s) (NYT, 14th April 2011) budget oversight (NYT, 9th July 2010) budget restructuring (http://www.realclearpolitics.com/2010/09/16/budget_restructuring_must_be_top_prio rity_for_colorado_241849.html) career alternative enhancement (http://grammar.about.com/b/2009/04/22/fifty-reasons-why-youll-never-be-told-youre- fired.htm) career change (Holder 2003: 113) career change opportunity (http://www.wordspy.com/) career transition (http://grammar.about.com/b/2009/04/22/fifty-reasons-why-youll-never-be-told-youre- fired.htm) cash flow problem (Holder 2003: 115) contract extension decline (http://grammar.about.com/b/2009/04/22/fifty-reasons-why-youll-never-be-told-youre- fired.htm) credit crunch http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/jul/30/economicgrowth.creditcrunch currency adjustment (Holder 2003: 143) duties relief (http://grammar.about.com/b/2009/04/22/fifty-reasons-why-youll-never-be-told-youre- fired.htm) early retirement opportunity (http://grammar.about.com/b/2009/04/22/fifty-reasons-why-youll-never-be-told-youre- fired.htm) emergency budget (NYT, 22nd June 2010) employment crisis (NYT, 9th August 2010) employment gap (NYT, 7th August 2009) employment needs (NYT, 19th July 2010) employment problems (NYT, 9th Nov 2009) employment situation (NYT, 9th August 2010) headcount management (Holder 2003: 211) headcount realignment (http://grammar.about.com/b/2009/04/22/fifty-reasons-why-youll-never-be-told- youre-fired.htm headcount reduction (Holder 2003: 211) housing bubble (NYT, 14th July 2008) income protection (Holder 2003: 225)
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Received 31 May 2011 Revised version accepted 18 September 2011
Carmen Portero Muñoz is Senior Lecturer in English Grammar in the Department of English and German at the University of Córdoba. Her research interests focus on lexical and morphosyntactic issues following functional approaches. She also works on the empirical study of conceptual metonymy in grammar, discourse and sign language
Address: Departamento de Filologías Inglesa y Alemana. Facultad de Filosofía y Letras. Universidad de Córdoba. Plaza del Cardenal Salazar s/n. 14071 Córdoba, Spain. Tel.: +34 957 218812. Fax: +34 957 218427.
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REVIEWS
RESEÑAS
Lucía Loureiro Porto 2009: The Semantic Predecessors of Need in the History of English. Publications of the Philological Society, 43. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. xiv + 273 pp. ISBN 978-1-4051-9085-5
Alejandro Alcaraz Sintes Universidad de Jaén [email protected]
English modal verbs have been the object of extensive research because of their well- known special morphosyntactic and semantic features. However, while studies on necessity verbs in English have concentrated on synchronic descriptions of Present-Day English (PDE) need, Lucía Loureiro Porto’s monograph is a study of the semantic and syntactic evolution (from 750 to 1710) not only of need, but also of the verbs that have also meant ‘need’ at some stage in their history. These verbs are the Old English preterite- present verbs þurfan and beþurfan, the weak verb behofian (PDE behove), and the Middle English (ME) French loan misteren. The study is grounded upon five solid theoretical, descriptive and methodological pillars. First, the author follows Sweetser’s (1990) classification of modality and Talmy’s (1988, 2000) cognitive notion of force dynamics. Second, she resorts to current ideas on grammaticalization, which she sees as a “comprehensive mechanism” (38) to describe grammatical changes. Third, she adopts Allen’s (1995) taxonomy of ‘experiencer verb constructions’ (which includes the traditionally termed impersonal constructions). Fourth, a wealth of references is provided throughout, relative not only to the previous pillars, but to practically every issue that is raised in the book. Finally, her analysis of all the examples found in a purpose-built corpus of some four million words, covering the OE, ME and early Modern English (eModE) periods, has allowed her to weave a finely-grained interpretive account of the story of necessity verbs and to make some interesting findings about meanings and patterns unrecognized or unrecorded in literature.1 Apart from the chapters themselves, the book contains a Table of Contents, the author’s acknowledgements, a Foreword by Prof. M. Krug, Lists of tables, figures and abbreviations (i–xvii), four appendices (219–49) with all the word forms scrutinized, the References section (250–63) and, finally, a highly-laboured Index of authors, works and linguistic and grammatical terms (264–73). In the Introduction (1–14), the author presents the scope and aims of the research, the perspectives from which it has been conducted, a comprehensive and well- documented review of traditional and modern studies of PDE need and need to and a description of her corpus. Chapter two ‘Theoretical Foundations’ (15–54) describes the three-fold approach used to explain and interpret the semantic and syntactic evolution of the verbs of necessity. The first one, naturally enough, concerns the semantic category of modality, since necessity, together with possibility, is one of the basic modal meanings (Lyons 1977; Palmer 1979;
1 The author’s corpus is the sum of the Helsinki Corpus and a random selection of texts from the DOEC, the Corpus of Middle English Prose and Verse, the CEECS and the Lampeter Corpus. Each major period is further split into shorter sub-periods: O1 (before 950), O2 (950–1150), M1 (1150–1250), M2 (1250– 1350), M3 (1350–1420), M4 (1420–1500), E1 (1500–1570), E2 (1570–1640) and E3 (1640–1710).
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1986, 2003; van der Auwera and Plungian 1998). Out of the many classifications of modality found in the literature, Loureiro Porto adopts the two-fold system, stemming from these notions of necessity and possibility, propounded by Coates (1983) and Sweetser (1990): root or deontic modality (obligation and permission, belonging in the socio- physical world) vs. epistemic modality (deduction and possibility, belonging in the mental world), to which she applies Talmy’s (1988, 2000) cognitive notion of force dynamics. This combination proves fruitful insofar as it permits Loureiro Porto to study the various shades of meaning of necessity verbs with great subtlety, in terms of barriers (circumstances conditioning the realization of the event) and forces, namely an antagonist, the force that imposes a course of action (obligation, prohibition) on an agonist (the experiencer of the force) or exempts him/her from it. She explains how some of the meanings expressed by root modals involve gradience: degree of subjectivity, origin of the force (agonist- originated or internal vs. antagonist-originated or external, and general) and degree of the force (strong vs. weak, depending on the severity of the consequences for the agonist in case of unfulfillment). The second approach taken by the author is to study how the necessity verbs have been subject to grammaticalization, a series of linguistic changes that may be viewed as a unitary process and which has received ample attention in the past two decades, within and outside Spain (Hopper and Thompson 1984; Heine 1990, 1993; Hopper 1991; Lehmann 1995; Traugott and Dasher 2002; Hopper and Traugott 2003, among others).2 This process affects different levels of language (semantics, morphology, syntax, phonology and pragmatics) and leads to the eventual conversion of a lexical form to a grammatical one or to the development of further grammatical meanings in a grammatical form, to put it briefly. The author summarizes the main views on the notion of grammaticalization and surveys its different mechanisms. She illustrates some of these mechanisms with PDE modals, since they are the end-results of a series of grammaticalizing changes undergone by a group of OE verbs, widely studied in the literature (Lightfoot 1979; Plank 1984; Heine 1993; Warner 1993), such as desemanticization, metaphorical extensions, subjectification (the encoding of the speaker’s subjective stance with respect to what is being said), decategorialization (loss of morphosyntactic properties), paradigmaticization (tightening and reduction of the paradigm that a form belongs to) and coalescence (reduction of phonological independence and erosion), among others. The third approach is the inclusion of impersonal constructions in the account of necessity verbs, given their frequent occurrence in this type of construction (McCawley 1976; Fischer 1992; Warner 1993; Pocheptsov 1997). The author reviews the terminological debates and numerous historical studies on this construction (Van der Gaaf 1904; Wahlén 1925; Elmer 1981; Fischer and van der Leek 1983; von Seefranz-Montag 1984; Denison 1993; Allen 1995, 1997) and adopts Allen’s (1995) model of ‘experiencer verb constructions’, which is based on the inflection and realization of the two participants involved, namely, experiencers (oblique or nominative NP) and themes (genitive or nominative NPs and sentential), and on the presence or absence of a formal subject hit/it. Chapter 3, Tharf and Betharf (55–108), is a description of the semantic and syntactic features of these verbs and of the potentially grammaticalizing processes that they went through before dying out in the ME period (M4 and M1, respectively). As regards their semantics, by applying Talmy’s (1998, 2000) notions of barriers and forces and taking into
2 The author herself, though working at the University of the Balearic Islands, belongs to the University of Santiago de Compostela-based research unit ‘Variation, Linguistic Change and Grammaticalization’, created in 1990 by Prof. T. Fanego.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 161–168 ISSN 0210-6124 Reviews 163 account the polarity of the clauses, the author finds that tharf and betharf stand in complementary distribution. Throughout their lives, tharf normally expressed external (religious, hierarchical or legal forces) lack of necessity or obligation, in non-affirmative contexts (practically the only meanings after 1250), as in Ne þurfan we us ondrædan ‘We need not be afraid’ (81), while betharf tended to express internal (agonist-generated) necessity or obligation, in affirmative contexts (in both OE and M1), as in ymbe ... ælce neode þe man beðearf ‘about each necessity that one needs’ (89). The author establishes that tharf, but not betharf, was clearly on the path towards becoming a modal auxiliary, since it complied with some of the criteria for grammaticalization seen above, and could express a variety of modal necessity meanings, including impossibility.3 This tendency is also found in syntax. As Loureiro Porto points out, not only is tharf inclined to sentential themes, particularly bare infinitives (including passive ones), unlike betharf, for which NPs are the preferred theme, but also to nominative experiencers, two clear signs of auxiliarization.4 Even when found in impersonal constructions with an oblique experiencer, as in Ne þearf nanne man tweogian ‘No man need doubt’ (97), grammaticalization may be posited, since tharf has undergone decategorialization by losing its capacity to select the subject. As for betharf, although it too tends to be used with a nominative experiencer, its preference for nominal themes (in OE and ME) is evidence of its non-auxiliary nature. For the author, this proves that Visser’s (1963–1973) claim that the choice of nouns or infinitives was inconsequential in OE is not tenable, since it is this choice that leads or not towards grammaticalization and that permits tharf, but not betharf, to be considered as a premodal.5 In chapter 4, ‘Behove and Mister’ (109–40), the author analyses the semantics, syntax and grammaticalization processes of the verbs behove (109–36) and mister (136–40), which, given its ephemeral presence in English, I will not summarize here. Behove changed its basic meaning of necessity to that of appropriateness (‘need’ > ‘be obligatory/highly advisable’ > ‘be fitting’) in the course of time and thus evolved from a personal to an impersonal verb. Again, the adoption of a dual root vs. epistemic modality system and the cognitive dynamics perspective allows her to explain the semantic evolution of behove. In OE the verb tended to express weak internal necessity and was mainly found in affirmative contexts (overlapping with betharf), as in Ic ... myltse behofige þæs heofonlican dryhtnes ‘I need the mercy of the heavenly Lord’ (117–18), but after 1250 it began to convey external and general forces (a meaning also expressed by need in M3), gradually moving away from the basic meaning of ‘need’, as in hit ne behoueþ naʒt to reherci ‘it is not necessary to repeat it’ (119).6 From here it is but a short step to conveying appropriateness, found in affirmative
3 The few examples of impossibility, that is, of lack of barriers, seem to prove that possibility derives from necessity, not the other way round, as Traugott and Dasher (2002) claim. 4 It should be noted that Loureiro Porto has detected an unrecorded construction where tharf is used with an inflected infinitive, which contradicts Visser’s (1963–1973) and Warner’s (1993) claim that only bare infinitives were used with this verb. 5 The author has, nevertheless, detected a few examples of betharf with sentential themes, as in hym beþorften þæt hi his mare wiston ‘it was necessary for them to know more about him’ (103), a hitherto unrecorded construction. However, since these sentential themes are that-clauses (an indication of non- auxiliarihood), her finding further adds to the view of betharf and tharf as standing in complementary distribution. This example also comes to enrich the controversy over whether dative-inflected subjects exist. The author adds one more reason to Elmer’s (1981) and Allen’s (1995) arguments in favour of the subjecthood of experiencers, namely, number agreement of the verb with the experiencer. 6 Behove is the most frequently attested necessity verb in sub-period M2 in Loureiro Porto’s corpus. The reasons for this are explained on page 119.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 161–168 ISSN 0210-6124 164 Alejandro Alcaraz Sintes contexts, as in Chastysment behoueþ þarto ‘punishment is appropriate thereto’ (122). General forces develop and will become the most common meanings in eModE, a tendency that runs parallel to the specialization of behove as a verb meaning appropriateness rather than necessity. Finally, in M3 behove actually came very near to expressing the epistemic meaning of deduction (‘must’), a result of subjectification and of metaphorical extension of root external obligation, as in he that makyth us meke and mylde, it behovyth neds to ben that he be ever on in love ‘he who makes us meek and mild, it must necessarily be the case that he is ever in love’ (125).7 As far as syntax is concerned and in accordance to this semantic evolution, OE behofian (‘need’) favoured nominative experiencers (like tharf and betharf) and nominal themes, while its ME reflex, behoven (‘is appropriate’), preferred non-nominative experiencers and sentential themes, with or without a formal subject it, as in It byhoveth the to ben obeisaunt ‘It behoves you to be obedient’ (112).8 For Loureiro Porto, it is in this type of ME experiencer verb constructions that potentially grammaticalizing mechanisms may materialize, such as the use of bare infinitives. Indeed, she finds that bare infinitives are clearly favoured in M2, which, in her opinion, could be a sign of auxiliarization. Although this usage decreases, in M3 behoven starts accepting passive infinitival themes, another feature of auxiliarization, as we saw above. The fact remains, however, that in M3 and M4, the verb stepped out of this grammaticalization trail: it lost frequency, reduced its meaning to appropriateness, required a formal it subject and accepted only to-infinitives and, by eModE, could co-occur with other auxiliaries (cf. Rissanen 1999). Chapter 5, ‘Need’ (141–208), is longer and more complex than the preceding ones, since actually two verbs are involved (need 1 ‘compel’ and need 2 ‘need’) and because a greater number of variables are considered. 9 The author first conducts a thorough semantic analysis of the two verbs in terms of modality meaning, cognitive forces and polarity, and describes the syntactic evolution of each verb, taking into account the various types of constructions involved, the presence and inflection of the experiencer, and voice. It is a lengthy account supported by copious examples, to which any short summary here would not do justice. However, her most important findings, to my mind, clearly deserve to be singled out. As regards meaning and semantic evolution, Loureiro Porto first proves that the loss of need 1 or, rather, the coalescence of need 1 and need 2 in M3, was facilitated by the use of need 1 in passive constructions, as in he is nedede to deye for the firste synne ‘he is compelled to die for the first sin (153), because in the passive the agonist takes the same syntagmatic subject position that is found in active counterparts with need 2, as in us nedyth to do our neybor ‘so we must do our neighbours [love them]’ (153), which, in her opinion, suggests the following evolution: ‘to compel’ > ‘to be compelled’ > ‘to need’. Second, she confirms that the epistemic meaning of possibility emerged out of prohibition and she
7 Loureiro Porto has also detected a few 16th-century examples with epistemic modality, thereby establishing the existence of the construction in eModE, unrecorded in the literature. In her view, this supports van der Auwera and Plungian’s (1998) model for the semantic development of modals and Nordlinger and Traugott’s (1997) notion of wide scope, where the obligation or necessity affects not so much the experiencer, as the whole proposition, a process that precedes the rise of epistemic meanings. 8 The few attested forms of non-nominative experiencers in OE are “interlinear glosses of the 12th century copies of OE manuscripts, [and] hence are not original OE examples but rather the marks of ME scribes”, according to Loureiro Porto’s (110) summary of Allen’s (1997: 5) findings. 9 They are two different (though related) verbs, whose time-spans are O1&2–M3 for need 1 and O4– E3 for need 2. The author’s joint treatment of the two verbs in terms of force dynamics allows her to explain when and in what respect their original meanings overlapped and how need 2 syntactically and semantically replaced need 1 in the course of the ME 3 sub-period.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 161–168 ISSN 0210-6124 Reviews 165 locates it in M4, as in a better knyght than he neded no man behold ‘no man could behold a better man than him’ (148).10 Third, she also confirms that the expression of general forces, being a metaphorical development from the referential meaning ‘press, push’, is clear evidence of grammaticalization (desemanticization). Fourth, she states that out of these general forces emerged the expression of epistemic modal meanings (deduction), with examples attested for E1 and E3, thus antedating by two centuries Nykiel’s (2002) claim.11 Finally, she shows how the E3 period is crucial for the semantic development of need, since it is at this period that we find it with all meanings it has in PDE. As regards syntax and morphology, the only surviving construction in eModE, out of the very many recorded for ME, is that with a nominative experiencer and a sentential theme, and it is here that the author has looked for morphosyntactic signs of grammaticalization or auxiliarihood. She finds that a confluence of factors allowed the verb to enter the group of eModE auxiliary verbs and gave rise to PDE modal need. More particularly, she studies how and to what extent need 2 complies with five potentially applicable criteria (cf. Warner 1993; Barber 1997; Rissanen 1999). First, she notes that, unlike the prevailing tendency in ME and E1, by E3 the bare infinitive is five times as frequent as the to-infinitive. This is clear characterization of need as an auxiliary. Second, the growing ability of need to be used with passive infinitival clauses and to have an inanimate referent (20% of times in E3) testifies to decategorialization and desemanticization (cf. Heine, Claudi and Hünnemeyer 1991; Krug 2000). These two criteria converge in M3, when only bare passive infinitives are used. Third, indisputable cases of elision of the infinitive are an E3 development and substantiate the auxiliary status of need.12 Fourth, the author finds that the overall percentage of instances without auxiliaries in eModE is about 80% and that the tendency from E1 to E3 is one of progressive reduction. The figures and the tendency are even more striking if only personal constructions with a bare infinitive are reckoned: 86%. Finally, though only about 40% of her examples exhibit lack of the third person singular present inflection, the figure for E3 when the constructions contain a sentential theme rises to 75%. As the author puts it, “there is an overlap of auxiliary features which seem to attract each other if the theme is sentential, if the experiencer is present and if the verb” has a nominative experiencer (207). The conclusions given by the author in chapter 6 are presented next, together with my own general evaluation. Loureiro Porto’s monograph convincingly shows how applying a force dynamics framework to modality effectively contributes to plotting the semantic development and gradual grammaticalization (auxiliarization) over time of a specific group of verbs, those expressing ‘necessity’, which have not been studied in the literature on diachronic grammaticalization as frequently as other verbs (can, may, must, will...). One particular strength of the study is the incorporation of other relevant variables, particularly impersonal constructions, which shed light on the varying degrees of grammaticalization of the verbs at different periods. In addition, the author’s findings are borne out by the empirical evidence of a huge number of examples for each historical period (and
10 In fact, according to the author, only those verbs that reached a considerable degree of grammaticalization (need 2 and tharf) ever expressed this meaning. 11 The only other verb that developed epistemic meaning before need is behove, though only in affirmative contexts. 12 All previous instances of elision were triggered by other factors and cannot be considered; cf. Warner (1993).
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 161–168 ISSN 0210-6124 166 Alejandro Alcaraz Sintes subperiod). To my mind, the monograph’s most relevant contributions to the field are the following. First, it confirms that need has gone through the familiar steps in the semantic development of modal verbs (Sweetser 1990): physical tangible force > external (through metaphorical extension: social obligation or lack thereof) > internal (through further metaphorical extension: internal necessity and obligation) > generalization (as a result of desemanticization). 13 Second, force dynamics has enabled the author to prove that, although tharf and need are not completely alike semantically, tharf is clearly a semantic predecessor of need with many common features. Both developed morphosyntactic auxiliary features and, more importantly perhaps, the range of meanings expressed by both verbs is large: obligation, necessity (less frequently than betharf and behove, however), lack of obligation and necessity (their most frequent meanings), prohibition and impossibility, which for the author is “a line of development ... restricted to auxiliary verbs or verbs which are likely to undergo auxiliarization” (211). Third, force dynamics can also help explain how a minor necessity verb such as betharf competed with a major verb such as tharf in the expression of necessity, both eventually becoming syntactic and semantic counterparts. Fourth, force dynamics allows treating the semantic development of the two ancestors of need (need 1 and need 2) as a single development and explains their coalescence in M3. Finally, the empirical corpus-based approach has permitted the author to confirm that grammaticalization and frequency of usage run parallel (Heine, Claudi and Hünnemeyer 1991; Bybee, Perkins and Pagliuca 1994; Hopper and Traugott 2003) and that the eModE period is crucial to the location of changes in the history of English necessity verbs.
Works Cited
Allen, Cynthia 1995: Case Marking and Reanalysis. Grammatical Relations from Old to Early Modern English. Oxford: Clarendon P. ––––– 1997. ‘The Development of an “Impersonal” verb in Middle English: The Case of Behoove’. Jacek Fisiak ed. Studies in Middle English Linguistics. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. 1–21. Barber, Charles 1997 (1976): Early Modern English. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP. Bybee, Joan, Revere Dale Perkins and William Pagliuca 1994: The Evolution of Grammar. Chicago and London: The U of Chicago P. CEECS: Nevalainen, Terttu and Helena Raumolin-Brunberg, comp. 1999: Corpus of Early English Correspondence Sampler. Helsinki: Department of English, U of Helsinki. Coates, Jennifer 1993: The Semantics of Modal Auxiliaries. London and Canberra: Croom Helm. Corpus of Middle English Prose and Verse: F. McSparran and P. Schaffner, eds. 2006: Corpus of Middle English Prose and Verse. The Middle English Compendium. U of Michigan
13 In this respect, her findings are different from van der Auwera’s and Plungian’s (1998) hypothesis that external meanings developed out of internal ones. However, this was the path along which the author suggests behove developed historically, but it is a path that did not lead to grammaticalization of the verb.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 161–168 ISSN 0210-6124 Reviews 167
Elmer, Willy 1981. Diachronic Grammar. The History of Old and Middle English Subjectless Constructions. Tübingen: Max Niemeyer. Fischer, Olga 1992: ‘Syntax’. Norman Blake ed. The Cambridge History of the English Language. Volume II: 1066–1476. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. 207–408. ––––– and Frederike van der Leek 1983: ‘The Demise of the Old English Impersonal Construction’. Journal of Linguistics 19: 337–68. Heine, Bernd 1990: ‘Grammaticalization Chains’. Studies in Language 16.2: 335–68. ––––– 1993: Auxiliaries. Cognitive Forces and Grammaticalization. Oxford: Oxford UP. ––––– Ulrique Claudi and Friederike Hünnemeyer 1991: Grammaticalization: A Conceptual Framework. Chicago: U of Chicago P. Hopper, Paul J. 1991: ‘On some Principles of Grammaticalization’. Elizabeth Closs Traugott and Bernd Heine, eds. Approaches to Grammaticalization. 2 vols. Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins. ––––– and Elizabeth Closs Traugott 2003: Grammaticalization. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. ––––– and Sandra A. Thomson 1984: ‘The Discourse Basis for Lexical Categories in Universal Grammar’. Language 60: 703–52. Krug, Manfred G. 2000: Emerging English Modals: A Corpus-Based Study of Grammaticalization. Topics in English Linguistics, 32. Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter. Lampeter Corpus: Josef Schiemd, comp. 1999: Lampeter Corpus of Early Modern English Tracts. Chemnitz: U of Technology. Lehmann, Christian 1995 (1982): Thoughts on Grammaticalization. Munich: Lincom Europa. Lightfoot, David 1979: Principles of Diachronic Syntax. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. Lyons, John 1977: Semantics. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. McCawley, Noriko A. 1976: ‘From OE/ME “Impersonal” to “Personal” Constructions: What is a “Subjectless” S?’. Sandfor B. Steever et al. eds. Papers from the Parasession on Diachronic Syntax, Chicago Linguistic Society. Chicago: Chicago Linguistic Society. 192–204. Nordlinger, Rachel and Elizabeth Closs Traugott 1997. ‘Scope and the Development of Epistemic Modality: Evidence from ought to’. English Language and Linguistics 1: 195–317. Nykiel, Jerzy 2002: Crossing the Border between the Modal and the Lexical: The Developmental Paths of Two English Verbs: dare and need. Unpublished M.A. Thesis. University of Silesia, Poland. Palmer, Frank Robert 1979: Modality and the English Modals. London: Longman. ––––– 1986: Mood and Modality. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. ––––– 2003: ‘Modality in English: Theoretical, Descriptive and Typological Issues’. Roberta Fachinetti et al., eds. Modality in Contemporary English. Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter. 1–17. Plank, Frans 1984: ‘The Modals Story Retold’. Studies in Language 8: 305–66. Pocheptsov, George G. 1997: ‘Quasi-impersonal Verbs in Old and Middle English’. Jacek Fisiak, ed. Studies in Middle English Linguistics. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. 469–88. Rissanen, Matti 1999: ‘Syntax’. Roger Lass ed. The Cambridge History of the English Language Volume III 1476–1776. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. 187–331. Sweetser, Eve 1990: From Etymology to Pragmatics: Metaphorical and Cultural Aspects of Semantic Structure. Cambridge Studies in Linguistics, 54. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. Talmy, Leonard 1988: ‘Force Dynamics in Language and Cognition’. Cognitive Science 1: 49–100. ––––– 2000: Toward a Cognitive Semantics. Volume I: Concept Structuring Systems. Cambridge: The MIT P. Traugott, Elizabeth Closs and Richard B. Dasher 2002: Regularity in Semantic Change. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. van der Auwera, Johan and Vladimir A. Plungian 1998: ‘Modality’s Semantic Map’. Linguistic Typology 2: 79–124. van der Gaaf, Willem 1904: The Transition from the Impersonal to the Personal Construction in Middle English. Anglistische Forschungen 14. Heidelberg: Carl Winter. Visser, Fredericus T. 1963–1973: An Historical Syntax of the English Language. 4 vols. Leiden: Brill.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 161–168 ISSN 0210-6124 168 Alejandro Alcaraz Sintes von Seefranz-Montag, Ariane 1984: ‘“Subjectless” Constructions and Syntactic Change’. Jacek Fisiak, ed. Historical Syntax. Trends in Linguistics / Studies and Monographs 23. Paris and The Hague: Mouton de Gruyter. 521–53. Wahlén, Nils 1925: The Old English Impersonalia. Part I. Götteborg: Elanders Boktryckeri Actiebolag. Warner, Anthony R. 1993: English Auxiliaries. Structure and History. Cambridge Studies in Linguistics 66. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
Received 1 September 2011 Revised version accepted 10 October 2011
Alejandro Alcaraz Sintes, PhD, is Lecturer in the Department of English Studies, Universidad of Jaén, where he has taught a variety of linguistics courses, including History of the English Language. His main field of research is English Historical Linguistics. He has several publications on semantic and syntactic complementation of Old English adjectives.
Address: Departamento de Filología Inglesa. Edificio D2, Despacho 214. Universidad de Jaén. Campus Las Lagunillas s/n. 23071 Jaén, Spain. Tel.: +34 953 211856. Fax: +34 953 211824.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 161–168 ISSN 0210-6124 María del Mar Azcona 2010: The Multi-Protagonist Film. Malden, Oxford, Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. 176 pp. ISBN 978-1-4443-3393-0
Celestino Deleyto Universidad de Zaragoza [email protected]
Genre theory and analysis has been one of the most fruitful areas of enquiry within Film Studies practically from the birth of the discipline around the 1960s. While other critical frameworks, approaches and perspectives have come and gone, genre, with more than four decades of theoretical speculation, continues to occupy a central position in academic and critical writing, both because of the intrinsic allure of the concept and its pervasive presence in descriptions and accounts of films. Yet, although both traditional and recent theories of the phenomenon in the cinema abound, from the work of Steve Neale (1980), Thomas Schatz (1981) and the seminal approaches included in Barry K. Grant’s popular anthology now about to appear in its fourth edition (2003, 3rd edition), to Neale’s more recent work (2000) and the more radical theory of Rick Altman (1999), monographs on individual genres have been remarkably conservative in their understanding of how genres work. Attempts by Richard Maltby (2003), Neale (2000) and others to fix and close the list of classical film genres have gone largely unheeded and critics and scholars have continued to add members to the list, while categories like melodrama, film noir, fantasy and the thriller have moved in and out of the genre system, underlining its vibrancy and fluidity. Yet, apart from discussions and speculations about the appropriateness of the category addressed in each case or the genericity of this or that genre, few accounts of individual genres have attempted to contextualize them within the generic system as a whole and, what is perhaps more discouraging, they have largely ignored the theoretical debates about the phenomenon of film genre and its history. The Multi-Protagonist Film is a welcome exception to this tendency. The book is part of the New Approaches to Film Genre series from Wiley-Blackwell and it lives up to the promise implicit in the series title: not only does it posit the birth of a new genre but it contextualizes its specific object of study within a solid understanding of current genre theory. The list of titles published in the series so far, with well-established genres such as the western or the horror film rubbing shoulders with less obvious instances such as the religious film or the history film and more controversial ones like the fantasy film or film noir, gives a fairly accurate idea of the complexity and volatility of the field. Given this state of affairs, Azcona’s self-conscious approach to the working of film genres and to the practice of genre criticism is one of the book’s main strengths. Since the multi-protagonist genre is a recent occurrence, chapters one and two on the history and theory of the concept constitute a central part of the book. In them, we not only form an accurate idea of what a multi-protagonist film is but also become aware of its position within the generic system as a whole. For Azcona, the consolidation of a genre such as the one she discusses appears to be a dual process involving both the gradual solidification of certain characteristics in the filmic texts and the presence of the term multi-protagonist in critical and journalistic discussions of the films. One of the most original and also most convincing parts of Chapter Two, which offers a fully-fledged theory of the multi-protagonist movie, is precisely the account of how this category gradually emerged
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 169–173 ISSN 0210-6124 170 Celestino Deleyto in reviews and critical discussions of a relatively small group of films and of the different terms which were used to describe them. The chapter finishes with a description of the thematic, narrative and stylistic conventions of the new genre. Given that this is the first book-length discussion of the multi-protagonist film this section will become particularly useful for scholars and students of the genre but, from a theoretical viewpoint, the finality and fixity of such an endeavour is tempered by the provisionality that emerges from the earlier framing of the genre within the realm of discourse. In other words, from this packed chapter we derive the powerful notion that genres are as much particular ways of talking about films as sets of conventions to be found in various combinations in the movies themselves. Before this, in Chapter One, a brief history of the genre is attempted, following the general outline of the collection. In this historical chapter Azcona develops the notion, already advanced in the introduction, that multi-protagonist narratives have always existed as an alternative to the single-hero template, not only in the cinema but also much before. Continuing a trend that can be traced back to the contrast between Homer’s two epic poems, the cinema used this narrative structure from its very beginning and the author calls our attention to relatively isolated moments in the brief history of the cinema when multi-protagonist stories proliferated, such as the early 1930s in Hollywood or the cycle of disaster movies of the 1970s. However, it was only in the 1980s, because of certain cultural phenomena, that films with several protagonists and interlaced stories began to proliferate. Gradually, through a snowball effect, the familiar narrative structure began to gather additional characteristics, to develop in a specific number of ways and to specialize in a limited number of issues; simultaneous developments such as what David Bordwell (2006: 72-82, 121-38) has called intensified continuity and adventurous plotting combined in certain films with the proliferation of protagonists and stories, the intensification of a new type of filmic space, the constant presence of such concepts as serendipity, coincidence and chance, and the partial substitution of parallel plotting and connections between story lines for traditional teleology and character development arcs; spectators became used to a new and more active participation in linking characters and events, and to novel distortions in chronological time, and soon a new familiarity and set of expectations grew which marked the consolidation of the genre. In spite of obvious differences between them, the distinctive fictional worlds of films such as Playing by Heart (1998), Magnolia (1999),Traffic (2000), Lantana (2001), Crash (2004), Babel (2006) and others briefly discussed in the opening chapters revealed that a new generic form had materialized. Their distance from ancestors such as Intolerance (1916), Dinner at Eight (1933), Only Angels Have Wings (1939), La règle du jeu (1939) and The Poseidon Adventure (1972) became increasingly obvious. However, Chapter Three, the first of five chapters devoted to the analysis of individual films, offers an analysis of precisely one of these precedents, Grand Hotel (1932). Although the trend that producer Irving Thalberg wanted to set with this movie did not take hold, its interest in conveying the role of contingency in people’s lives through an intricate structure that paradoxically de-centred the glamorous stars which constituted its main marketing asset, anticipated in many ways the generic development that would take place fifty years later. This chapter inaugurates Azcona’s analytical method, which proposes a combination of theoretical framing, historical contextualization and close textual analysis, with particular attention to narrative and visual devices and the ways in which they produce meaning and encourage interpretation. As a consequence of this critical practice, individual films are both considered as unique texts which have their own special relationships with the viewers and as instances of the workings of the genre system and
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 169–173 ISSN 0210-6124 Reviews 171 exemplars of specific generic tendencies. While the emergence of the genre became apparent in the course of the 1980s and 1990s, Robert Altman is often seen, and for good reason, as the father of contemporary multi-protagonist films. The author points out that fourteen of the thirty-four films that he directed featured multiple protagonists and several plot lines. While these were all immediately recognizable as ‘Altman films’, because of their characteristic visual and aural style, the filming methods employed in them and their approach to character construction, they also provided the most obvious template for what was to come. From M*A*S*H (1970) and Nashville (1975) to his last movie, A Prairie Home Companion (2006), Altman experimented incessantly with the form, but it was Short Cuts (1993) that would turn out to be most influential. The adjective altmanesque that, as Azcona points out in Chapter Two, was repeatedly used by reviewers to describe films in the 1990s while the form was asserting itself in critical discourse, almost always referred to the narrative structure, particular mood and visual style of this movie. For this reason, the book devotes Chapter Four to an analysis of this film as representative of its director’s oeuvre. Short Cuts is an important landmark in the short history of the genre not only because of its pervasive influence both on other films and on critical constructions of the category as an object of enquiry but also because it features many of the characteristic that would later become commonplace in the genre. At the same time it remained wholly an Altman film, including the particular link between film style and contemporary cultural phenomena that later became a trademark of the genre: as the author points out, the film combines a powerful feeling of isolation in our complex relationships with the characters with a structural awareness of the network nature of our existence in a world dominated by globalizing impulses. Short Cuts is also special in that it displays many of the characteristics of the budding genre in relative isolation from other genres, something which, as the next three chapters suggest, is unusual in the multi-protagonist film. As Deborah Thomas argues for the case of the romance in a slightly different context (2000), multi-protagonist conventions tend to mix with a variety of genres, a mixture which in many cases has affected the other genres. In these chapters Azcona analyzes combinations with three popular genres: the teen comedy, the romantic comedy and the thriller. Mainstream movies like American Pie (1999) and Syriana (2005) and a less-known, independent production like Singles (1992) are selected for individual study. In the course of these discussions, the contours of the new genre are delineated. Whereas the effects of economic, social and technological developments in our society have brought us closer to one another and have made the world a smaller place, intimate relationships have gone into a state of permanent crisis, alienation and loneliness becoming the corollary of changes in interpersonal relationships. The book argues that the multi-protagonist film is particularly apt to represent these two dimensions of our experience and has in turn influenced the ways in which other genres such as the romantic comedy, the thriller or the melodrama have inflected their traditional meanings. In the course of these chapters, we see the multi-protagonist template at work while we develop a sharper notion of how genres function, one which is very distant from traditional accounts of genres as closed categories and groups of films in which hybrid phenomena are the exception rather than the rule. Impurity is the name of the game in the generic world outlined by Azcona, and the multi-protagonist film is a particularly adept player at this game. Other films that indicate various avenues for future development in the immediate future are briefly discussed in the final chapter and in the conclusion, such as Lantana, The Dead Girl (2006), Babel, and Fast Food Nation (2006). Alejandro González Iñárritu, one of the foremost practitioners of the genre in the twenty-first century said in interviews, while he was making his fourth feature film,
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 169–173 ISSN 0210-6124 172 Celestino Deleyto
Biutiful (2010), that he had already gone as far as he could with the form and he needed a radical change. Biutiful afforded him that change: a single-hero story whose protagonist Uxbal (Javier Bardem) is present in practically every shot of the film. This might be taken as a premonition of the brief life span of the genre as a whole and of its imminent death, once its expressive possibilities have been exploited. Yet, curiously, Biutiful is a film in which many more stories and protagonists pop in and out and are consistently repressed by a narrative which insists on sticking with its main character. At times it feels as if Iñárritu has to make a visible effort to return to his main story, but the fascination of the film might well be in the ways in which alternative stories continue to proliferate, even if, in this case, only on the margins of the film. Similarly, multi-protagonist movies show no signs of receding from the limelight for the moment. Yet, lacking the long history of other genres, it is difficult to predict the directions that this genre will take in the future, or even whether it will be just a flash in the pan and fall out of fashion in the next few years, a fate that has been visited on many genres before. Be that as it may, this volume is a timely record of the impact it has already had in the history of the genre system and of its ability to represent issues and ways of thinking that chime in with the preoccupations of many contemporary men and women. This is the first book-length study of the genre in English and, therefore, at present it dominates the field unchallenged. It is to be hoped that the continuing visibility of the genre as well as, in scholarly circles, the appearance of this volume will provide the impulse for further enquiry. Magrit Tröhler’s Offene Welten ohne Helden. Plurale Figuren- Konstellationem im Film (2007), a work which is acknowledged and discussed by Azcona, is its closest relative, although for Tröhler the narrative structure that she describes and classifies does not have the makings of a genre. Even David Bordwell (2006), who refers to the same films as network narratives, and discusses them in the context of other novelties in contemporary cinema, stays shy of considering them a genre although he repeatedly describes them in generic terms. Similarly, Kristin Thompson devotes to this form a section of her analysis of contemporary narrative trends in Hollywood (1999) but stops short of considering the multi-protagonist film a generic category. Unlike these authors, however, Azcona places her object of study simultaneously on a formal and cultural level. This book contends that genres exist on the interface not only between the film industry and society but also between narrative/stylistic and cultural/ideological considerations, and the two levels are inseparable. Whereas many theorists and film critics would agree with this position in theory, there are few which manage to strike a balance between the two, and in the case of The Multi-Protagonist Film this is not only the result of a critical practice but almost a matter of principle. This is in part because the new genre is so obviously the product of relatively recent historical and cultural developments and simultaneously it is visually and narratively so remarkable, but the end result is a consistent and well-balanced study which has something to offer for everyone: for cultural critics and genre theorists, for narratologists and defenders of mise-en-scène analysis. This is film genre analysis at its best, and while some might object to the author’s choice of movies for individual analysis, with its clear bias towards popular cinema and the mainstream or, at least, the ‘middlebrow’ to the detriment of ‘art films’, this is done by overcoming frequent critical prejudices that the book does not even bother to address. Probably the main objection that one can find to this book is its excessive price tag, since for the moment it is available only in hardback. It is to be hoped that the publisher will redress this problem and bring out the paperback edition that will give Azcona’s study the visibility and accessibility it deserves.
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Works Cited
Altman, Rick 1999: Film/Genre. London: BFI. Bordwell, David 2006: TheWay Hollywood Tells It: Story and Style in Modern Movies. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: U of California P. Grant, Barry Keith 2003: Film Genre Reader 3. Austin: U of Texas P. Maltby, Richard 2003 (1995): Hollywood Cinema. 2nd ed. Malden and Oxford: Blackwell. Neale, Stephen 1980: Genre. London: BFI. Neale, Steve 2000: Genre and Hollywood. New York and London: Routledge. Schatz, Thomas 1981: Hollywood Genres: Formulas, Filmmaking and the Studio System. New York: Random House. Thomas, Deborah 2000. Beyond Genre: Melodrama, Comedy and Romance in Hollywood. Moffat: Cameron & Hollis. Thompson, Kristin 1999: Storytelling in the New Hollywood. Cambridge and London: Harvard UP. Tröhler, Margrit 2007: Offene Welten ohne Helden. Plurale Figuren-Konstellationem im Film. Marburg: Schüren Pressverlag.
Received 29 March 2011 Accepted 21 June 2011
Celestino Deleyto is Professor of English and Film at the University of Zaragoza. He is the author of The Secret Life of Romantic Comedy (Manchester University P., 2009). His present research deals with transnational cinema, border theory and cinematic representations of global cities.
Address: Departamento de Filología Inglesa y Alemana. Facultad de Filosofía y Letras. Campus Plaza San Francisco. 50009 Zaragoza, Spain. Tel.: +34 976 761532. Fax: +34 976 761519.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 169–173 ISSN 0210-6124
Geetha Ganapathy-Doré 2011: The Postcolonial Indian Novel in English. Newcastle-upon-Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. xvi + 193 pp. ISBN 978-1- 4438-2723-2
Christopher Rollason Independent scholar, Luxembourg [email protected]
This book, by the Paris-based India scholar Dr Geetha Ganapathy-Doré, appears on the literary academic market to fill a significant gap. If there is no lack of treatises of established value, in various languages, on postcolonial theory and literature in general (Ashcroft, Griffiths and Tiffin 1998; Albertazzi 2000), or of monographs on individual Indian English writers, studies offering a broad conspectus of IWE (Indian Writing in English) for our times remain a rarity – albeit in France one may point to the useful survey by Michel Renouard, La littérature indienne de langue anglaise (1997). Certainly, Dr Ganapathy-Doré, who has been Associate Professor of English at the University of Paris XIII since 1997 and has over the years authored a raft of articles and book chapters on a very wide range of IWE works and writers (e.g. Ganapathy-Doré 2009, 2010), is eminently qualified for this important task. The volume appears as essentially what might be called a second-order manual, presupposing a certain prior knowledge of the field and offering a series of analytic observations and proposals for further study of the IWE universe as a whole. While the book contains, as is inevitable, a number of general reflections on the broader field of postcoloniality as such, it remains the case that the wider picture has already been amply studied: meanwhile, a volume like this stands or falls on the quality and usefulness of its insights into its more specific chosen domain. This review will, therefore, concentrate on what the author has to offer concretely for the study of IWE – that being this book’s main interest, along with the closely related issue of the use of English in India. The volume opens with a foreword by the US-based scholar Sangeeta Ray and a brief introduction by the author. The first chapter, ‘Postcolonialism: A Theoretical Overview’, is followed by five chapters on multiple aspects of IWE (the approach throughout being thematic rather than author-based), a seventh on ‘Making English an Indian Language’ and a concluding chapter. There is a select bibliography (numerous other writings are referenced in the copious footnotes), an appendix listing specialised journals and web links, and an index (of concepts, not writers or works). Thus, the book does not include any kind of IWE chronology or author-by-author list, an aspect that reinforces the sense of it being very much a second-order manual, in no way aimed at beginners in the field. It has, alas, to be added that the proof-reading leaves a great deal to be desired: its pages are marred by a plethora of typos, inaccurately cited titles, factual slips and onomastic misspellings like “Jane Austin [sic]” (at one point even the author’s own name is misspelt!). This can, unfortunately, detract from the pleasure of reading. The book’s title merits closer attention, for what it purports both to include and exclude: every one of its keywords calls out for comment, insofar as each should serve in
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 175–179 ISSN 0210-6124 176 Christopher Rollason principle to delimit the object of study. Postcolonial implies that only works written since Independence should be considered, thus excluding the pre-1947 writings of such eminent forerunners as Raja Rao, R.K. Narayan and Mulk Raj Anand; Indian would rule out works from anywhere in the subcontinent except India, and implies a need for guidelines as to how far diasporic writers are ‘Indian’ (should the Trinidad-born, UK-resident V.S. Naipaul qualify?); novel supposes exclusive concentration on that genre at the expense of short stories, poetry and drama, not to mention (auto)biography, travel-writing, journalism, essays and any other non-fiction; while in English should restrict the field to works written directly in that language, while leaving a question mark over writers who also publish in one or more Indian languages, as well as over the status to be accorded to Indian-language fiction translated into English. Of these keywords, the most problematic is probably novel, since in Indian literary studies there is not always a consensus as to whether genre- problematic texts such as Amitav Ghosh’s In An Antique Land or Vikram Seth’s Two Lives are novels or works of non-fiction: it is also a moot point whether a discussion of the novel should include works that are by novelists but are not novels, the prolifically protean Salman Rushdie being an example. In fact, the author has not provided a formal definition of the object of study, even if that would have offered a useful starting-point. The nature of the object is thus allowed to emerge empirically from the book’s pages. In fact, every one of the keywords is on occasion interpreted freely. Raja Rao’s anti-British novel Kanthapura, published in 1938, is brought in as a pre-postcolonial text (96). Diasporic writers are implicitly taken as being legitimately ‘Indian’, even to the point of including the Sri Lankan-Canadian Michael Ondaatje; Bangladeshi and Pakistani writers are allowed an occasional look-in, as are Tamil or Bengali writers expressing themselves in their native language: thus, Rabindranath Tagore’s canonic novel The Home and the World, originally published in Bengali in 1916, appears as a point of reference (92). Short stories, such as those of the Indian-American Jhumpa Lahiri, are also allowed in. In particular, the term novel is stretched far enough to permit a whole chapter on ‘self-writing’ (i.e. biography and autobiography), Seth’s Two Lives included – a methodological choice that may, certainly, have its justifications but still calls out for an explanation that is lacking. It being assumed that the scope of the book’s title is to be embraced broadly and non- exclusively, what we have in Geetha Ganapathy-Doré’s study is a thematically organised, wide-ranging and multidimensional exploration of IWE, its past, its present and its perspectives for the future. Her range of reference is impressive, indeed exhilarating, with massive swathes of Indian and diasporic literature falling under her critic’s gaze. Certain key writers recur insistently, with Rushdie leading the pack and Arundhati Roy and Vikram Chandra close behind. Rushdie seems clearly to be the author’s favourite, and she is careful, in particular, to scrutinise that writer’s all-too-famous novel The Satanic Verses not only from the (politically and ideologically unavoidable, but non-literary) vantage point of the ‘Rushdie affair’, the fundamentalist campaign against the book and Khomeini’s fatwa (24-26), but also and vitally, not as a tract but as what it is, a complex work of literature: “the classical example of the mutation that the postcolonial subject undergoes in the space of the Other” (73). Meanwhile, before going on to examine some of the themes the author teases out from the multicoloured fabric of IWE, it may be useful to consider how she positions herself on a crucial aspect, namely the use of English by Indian writers as a linguistic, socio-political and literary phenomenon. English is one of the 23 languages legitimated in the Indian Constitution, and has co- official status with Hindi as one of the two de facto national languages. Though used by a
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 175–179 ISSN 0210-6124 Reviews 177 relatively small percentage of the population, it is, crucially, the only language whose users have a degree of even distribution across the country, and it is more acceptable to Dravidian-speaking southern Indians, particularly Tamils, than is Hindi. Given, furthermore, its use as the medium of university instruction nationwide and its key role in India’s coveted status as world IT power, it should be blindingly obvious that English is not going to go away – neither from Indian society in general nor from Indian literature. At the same time, its past as colonial language and present as lingua franca of the still- potent American imperium mean there will inevitably be polemics over its use by Indian writers. In this respect, Ganapathy-Doré quite correctly devotes a chapter to the issue. In that chapter, she examines the history of English in India, all the way from Thomas Babington Macaulay’s controversial project, as set out in his celebrated Minute on Indian Education of 1835, of creating an English-speaking class of Indian civil servants, “Indian in blood ..., but English in taste” (Macaulay 1835), through the co-option of English at Independence as co-official language, to how today “the postcolonial Indian novel in English has appropriated and transformed the English language which the Honourable T.B. Macaulay could never have conceived” (143). She finds in IWE – rewriting Macaulay against himself – “a language that is English in form, but Indian in tone, in terms, in make and in mindset” (149), quoting racy examples from writers from Rushdie to Aravind Adiga, and stressing how in her Booker-winning novel The God of Small Things Arundhati Roy adapts English to the rhythms of her native Malayalam. As the author sees it, English as used by Indian writers is a language reshaped for autochthonous purposes, replete with loan-words and loan-translations – comprehensible, certainly, to outsiders willing to jump the cultural divide, but the “voice of India, not Her Majesty’s” (150). The author nonetheless neglects to make certain important points on the language issue. Firstly, writers like Seth or Chandra who have received their entire education in English are obviously going to be more comfortable in that language than in any Indian language, and have the same right as all to write in the language whose resources they best master; secondly, English is the only language which allows an Indian writer to reach a fully national audience immediately without having to go through translation; and thirdly, not all IWE writers by any means are expatriates or diasporics who have ‘crossed the black water’, for there is a significant constituency of India-resident writers who produce in English for a largely Indian readership and are scarcely known internationally other than to experts, examples being Khushwant Singh and Shobha Dé. Meanwhile, linguistic experimentation dominates in recent works by Chandra (Sacred Games) and Ghosh (Sea of Poppies, the first part of that writer’s in-progress ‘Ibis trilogy’). Novels like these, incorporating multiple terms from Indian languages into an overall framework of English, are creating a new linguistic hybrid that – though acceptable to, and accepted by, international Anglophone readers – constitutes a language phenomenon that, surely, is not quite ‘English as we know it’. As regards the thematic multiplicity of IWE fiction, the author views its kaleidoscopic nature from a conception of the novel as a fundamentally democratic form. Through this prism, she sees the genre’s hold-all, ragbag nature as, when practised at its best, underwriting a multiplicity of viewpoints that seems particularly suited to Indian culture. Attuning herself to “the big dance of democracy which is performed in the arena of the novel” (32), Ganapathy-Doré sees this metamorphic genre as offering a potential antidote to theocratic bigotry (“its structural heterogeneity is a remedy against the univocal vision of monotheistic religions”), boldly arguing – and thus fruitfully fusing the two Rushdies,
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 175–179 ISSN 0210-6124 178 Christopher Rollason literary and non-literary – that “the Rushdie affair has shown that the novel helps ... squarely tackle religious questions on a desecrated mode” (33). From this perspective of the novel as an innately secular genre, the study identifies a number of key motifs across the IWE canon, in an unfolding series of thematic cameos enlivened by the author’s wholehearted identification with “the vast culture, many sided talents and bubbling enthusiasm of the [Indian] novelists” (142). The themes examined, through evocation of the pertinent novels, are manifold, as befits the endless multiplicity of the subcontinent. Independence and Partition inevitably loom large (Rushdie, Midnight’s Children), as do subsequent developments such as Indira Gandhi’s Emergency, the creation of Bangladesh, the Hindu-Muslim conflict over the Ayodhya mosque (Manju Kapur, A Married Woman), or the decline of Urdu culture (Anita Desai, In Custody). Women’s issues necessarily come under the microscope (Kapur, Difficult Daughters; Anita Nair, Ladies Coupé); on another level, also pointed up are IWE writers’ experimentations with time, be it cyclical, mythical or dream time, or in rewritings of the supposedly timeless classical Indian epics. Of major importance, too, is the sense of place, notably in the central role accorded by writers to postcolonial cities as part of a “worldwide metropolitan archipelago” (75), and above all, to the emblematic megapolis of Bombay/Mumbai (Rushdie, Chandra, Rohinton Mistry); while also stressed is the notion of local homeland as onetime utopia or damaged paradise (as in Rushdie’s Kashmir or Roy’s Kerala). There is, beyond doubt, already an enormously rich heritage constituted by the post- 1947 Indian English novel, including no few recognised modern classics. In today’s conditions, however, a new key question arises for IWE, namely whether the literature being produced at this moment can still, in the twenty-first century, be called postcolonial, or whether that phase of Indian writing has now come to an end, with writers, readers and critics alike confronted with an emerging literature of globalisation. On the issue of globalisation in general, Ganapathy-Doré exhibits a degree of ambivalence. At the start of the first chapter she cites Arundhati Roy’s surely by now worn-out gibe from 2004 that it is nothing but a new-fangled “form of American imperialism” (1) – a contention which, though expressing a viewpoint still to be found in unreconstructed old-Left circles, is surely disproved by such phenomena as the worldwide brand-image of Indian IT, the global reach of Indian or Indian-diasporic companies from the Mittal, Reliance or Tata stable, the growing popularity of Bollywood cinema with non-Indian audiences, or, indeed, the success of IWE itself as a planetary publishing phenomenon. China, of course, is another story again (that country’s rise is not ignored by the author), and the ever-growing weight in the global economy of the so-called emerging economies is creating a multipolar world that cannot be reduced to the old binaries of ‘rich-world’ dominance and ‘third- world’ subordination. In the book’s later sections, the author does, in fact, offer a different take, recalling such incontrovertible facts as “India’s lead in information technology” (93) and, ultimately, identifying a “transnational logic” of globalisation (172), of which an increasingly cosmopolitan Indian culture is by now very much a part. Recent IWE novels such as Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown (taking in Kashmir but also the US and Europe), Anita Desai’s The Zigzag Way (set in Mexico), or, as already mentioned, Ghosh’s ongoing ‘Ibis trilogy’ represent an increasing tendency to fan out from the subcontinent or locate its concerns within wider global processes. One may cite here, as Ganapathy-Doré notes, how Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger, another Booker winner, uses the narrative strategy of having its arriviste protagonist address his story as if to the Chinese prime minister – in what she reads as “the revenge of the subaltern” (122). It is worth adding that the second part of Ghosh’s trilogy, River of Smoke (which came out in mid-2011, postdating this study), has turned
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 175–179 ISSN 0210-6124 Reviews 179 out to be especially pertinent to a new model of globalised literature, in its dense exploration – surely for our times too – of India-China relations as they unfolded at community and individual level in the nineteenth century. At the level of language too, Ghosh continues the line set in its predecessor Sea of Poppies, pushing English in a globalising direction, even more audaciously than Chandra in Sacred Games, melding elements of various Indian languages, Mauritian creole and Chinese pidgin within the syntactic framework of Standard English and producing what is all but a new hybrid language. In her closing chapter, Ganapathy-Doré concludes her study on an upbeat note, praising IWE novelists for their ever more visible presence on the global market, recalling such accolades as Naipaul’s Nobel, Lahiri’s Pulitzer and the Bookers awarded to Rushdie, Roy, Adiga and Kiran Desai, and affirming that “the Postcolonial Indian Novel in English has become an incontrovertible institution of world culture” (162). This formulation, as well as that, also employed by her, of a “world literature” (168), would point to an emerging generic universe in which the postcolonial is increasingly subsumed into the global, now, however, from a position not of subalternhood vis-à-vis Western literature but of the consolidation of alternative sites of power. In such an evolving context, Geetha Ganapathy-Doré’s evident enthusiasm and passion for Indian writing will surely have a contagious effect on her readers that cannot but be beneficial. If her eloquent road-map serves to open up the world of IWE to those less familiar with it while offering new insights and connections to the cognoscenti, it will more than have served its purpose.
Works Cited
Albertazzi, Silvia 2000: Lo sguardo dell’altro: le letterature postcoloniali. Rome: Carocci. Ashcroft, Bill, Gareth Griffiths and Helen Tiffin 1998: Key Concepts in Post-Colonial Studies. London: Routledge. Ganapathy-Doré, Geetha 2009: ‘Shakespeare in Rushdie / Shakespearean Rushdie’. Atlantis XXXI.2: 9-22. ––––– 2010: ‘Supermodernity’s Meganarratives: A Comparative Study of Vikram Chandra’s Sacred Games, Gregory David Roberts’ Shantaram and Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City’. Sheobhushan Shukla, Christopher Rollason and Anu Shukla, eds. Entwining Narratives: Critical Explorations into Vikram Chandra’s Fiction. New Delhi: Sarup. 114-30. Macaulay, Thomas Babington 1835: Minute on Indian Education. University of California at Santa Barbara. Department of English
Received 15 August 2011 Accepted 9 October 2011
Christopher Rollason (BA and MA Cambridge, PhD York) is an independent British scholar living in Luxembourg. He has lectured at the University of Coimbra and collaborated as a guest lecturer with several Indian universities, including Jahawarlal Nehru University (Delhi). He has been Language Editor for the Atlantic Literary Review (Delhi). He has co-edited the anthology Modern Criticism (2002) and a volume on Vikram Chandra (2010) and has many articles published, e.g. on Indian Writing in English, Edgar Allan Poe, Hispanic literatures and cultural and translation theory, in journals including: Atlantis; JSL (Delhi); Hispanic Horizon (Delhi); and Boletín de la Academia Peruana de la Lengua (Lima).
Address: 2-4 rue Boltgen. L-4038 Esch-sur-Alzette, Luxembourg. Tel.: +352 4300 23090. Fax: +352 4300 23905
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Alexander C.Y. Huang and Charles S. Ross, eds. 2009: Shakespeare in Hollywood, Asia, and Cyberspace. West Lafayette: Purdue UP. 306 pp. ISBN 978-1-55753-529-0
Rosa María García-Periago Universidad de Murcia [email protected]
Alexander Huang and Charles Ross’s Shakespeare in Hollywood, Asia, and Cyberspace is a pioneering, erudite and fascinating work which aims to understand the complex relations between Shakespeare, Hollywood, Asia and the digital age. In spite of the fact that the recent interest in Asian Shakespeares/Shakespeare in Asia is giving rise to collections of essays devoted to the analysis of stage and screen productions of Shakespearean works in the Asian continent (Trivedi and Minami 2009; Kennedy and Lan 2010), Huang and Ross’s volume stands as the first collection within this critical trend. For Huang, Shakespeare in Hollywood, Asia, and Cyberspace brings to a spectacular close his wide-ranging research on the subject of Shakespeare in Asia. His article ‘Asian Shakespeares in Europe: From the Unfamiliar to the Defamiliarised’ (2008), his co-foundation with Peter Donaldson of two open-access digital video archives, Global Shakespeares in Performance and Shakespeare Performance in Asia, and his special edition of ‘Asian Shakespeares on Screen: Two Films in Perspective’ (2009), which concentrates on The Banquet – a Chinese film based on Macbeth – and Maqbool – an Indian remake of Macbeth – are only some of his contributions to this field. His co-edited volume with Ross not only attests to the strength of Asian Shakespeare(s), but also shows how the current global trends that dominate the world influence the reception of Shakespeare. The analysis of Shakespeare in cyberspace is timely because it addresses an area of the corpus of Shakespearean scholarship which is still uncharted territory. Huang and Ross’s work is neatly structured into four distinct thematic sections: the three announced in the title (‘Shakespeare in Hollywood’; ‘Shakespeare in Asia’ and ‘Shakespeare and Cyberspace’), together with an additional interesting section (‘Chronology and Selected Bibliography’), which smoothes the way for future research. One of the book’s greatest virtues is the considerable number of cultural products it analyses: film adaptations, stage productions in the Asian continent and even on-line video games such as the Arden game. Inspired by questions such as ‘how do the collaborative processes of signification operate as local stagings of Shakespeare and global locales?’, Huang and Ross begin their collaborative project with the aim of answering them. In the Introduction, the editors are wise to identify the benefit of the impact of the English dramatist in Eastern and Western contemporary culture, instead of bemoaning a possible loss in translation and in the visual medium. The introduction likewise covers the literature review of worldwide appropriation of Shakespeare. The remainder of this first part offers a succinct summary of all the articles which comprise the book. The articles gathered by Alexander Huang and Charles Ross in the first section of the volume (‘Shakespeare in Hollywood’) compare the Shakespearean texts with the film adaptations, with the aim of exploring what the filmmakers have decided to leave out. Thus, they start from Lynda Boose and Richard Burt’s idea (1997) that a comparison of the adaptations with the original texts makes no sense. In ‘Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 181–185 ISSN 0210-6124 182 Rosa María García Periago and the Tradition of Screwball Comedy’, Mei Zhu analyses how Franco Zeffirelli’s Taming of the Shrew adopts the Hollywood genre of screwball comedy. Given that screwball comedies are characterised by the battle of the sexes with the male hero generally losing, Katherina is the leader of the ‘game’ in this appropriation, with Liz Taylor as the female protagonist. In her article titled ‘Method Acting and Pacino’s Looking for Richard’, Su Peirui concentrates on the way Al Pacino performs his Richard III, using method acting, and how he was influenced by his role of Michael Corleone in The Godfather. Given the general thrust of Shakespeare in Hollywood, Asia and Cyberspace, it is not so easy to place the chapter by Charles Ross ‘Underwater Women in Shakespeare Films’ within its overall structure, for the interconnections between Shakespeare in Hollywood and Asia are completely lost, and the ‘Asian perspective’ is not obvious. Yet, out of the four articles included in this section, Ross’s work is the most challenging and the most intellectually stimulating. Ross focuses on the water images in the form of rain, bath or drowning used by Michael Almereyda, Kenneth Branagh, Julie Taymor and Baz Luhrman to portray their Shakespearean female characters as suggesting oppression. He finally connects the images of the underwater Shakespearean characters with Kate Chopin’s The Awakening and Chinese fiction. The final article in this section, titled ‘Cultural Anxiety and the Female Body in Zeffirelli’s Hamlet’, is by Xianfeng Mou. Grounded consistently in feminist theory (especially Judith Butler), Mou shows how the employment of certain cinematic techniques by Franco Zeffirelli contribute to the power of Hamlet, and the clear degradation of women – by making Ophelia invisible and by turning Gertrude into a sexual fetish. Zeffirelli’s attitude towards women consolidates patriarchal society. The core section of the book is ‘Shakespeare in Asia’, which contains thirteen chapters. This second section shows the geographical ubiquity of Shakespeare by analysing screen and stage productions in China, Indonesia, Cambodia, Korea, Taiwan, Japan and Malaya. It is important to ponder here that the issues most discussed in the chapters are gender and/or politics. The central purpose of David Bevington’s ‘Imagining the East and Shakespeare’s Asia’ is to discover what Shakespeare knew of Asia, the ways he looked at foreigners, and how the world beyond Shakespeare became a world of imagination. Moving from abstract material to concrete examples, Yuwen Hsiung compares a play (an adaptation of Macbeth entitled Kingdom of Desire, directed by Wu Hsing-kuo) and a film (Akira Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood). In her complex and nuanced analysis of the play and the film, Yuwen Hsiung asserts Throne of Blood’s influence on Kingdom of Desire. Exploring the role of the witch – since neither in Throne of Blood nor in Kingdom of Desire are multiple witches allowed – she reaches the conclusion that “the heroic status of Macbeth in both works has been decreased considerably but in opposite ways” (78), since he is killed in both productions by his own men. If chapter two within this section sees Throne of Blood as the major force operating on Kingdom of Desire, Lei Jin’s critical work engages entirely with Kurosawa’s famous adaptation of Macbeth, and equally explores Asian alterations in the Shakespearean text. Her incisive criticism of Kurosawa sheds light upon how the filmmaker manipulates silence and shows the interaction between silence, natural sound and noh music to rebuild the power of dialogue in Shakespeare’s Macbeth on screen. The last article dealing with Macbeth is Alexander Huang’s ‘The Visualization of Metaphor in Two Chinese Versions of Macbeth’. The two versions discussed are Wu Hsing-kuo’s Macbeth and the Kunqu opera Macbeth directed by Huang Zulin and Li Jiayao. Huang pays special attention to the fusion of foreign verbal metaphors with local visual signs in both productions.
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Huang’s brilliant essay is a springboard to a cluster of articles on Shakespeare – mostly on productions of the plays – in diverse Asian locations that either implicitly or explicitly comment on the localisation or indigenization of Shakespearean works. In his article ‘Shakespeare in Contemporary Japan’, Daniel Gallimore argues that “Shakespeare in Japan is a resourceful creature, adapting to the culture by using a variety of styles and rhetorical devices” (119). In an entertaining and academically stimulating chapter, Michiko Suematsu also brings into fruition Shakespeare in Japan, focusing on the Tokyo Globe years 1988 to 2002. The main hypothesis of Suematsu’s chapter is the great role the Tokyo Globe played in the reception of Shakespeare in Japan, since his plays were completely naturalized in this period. The Japanese productions of Shakespeare adapted the Bard to indigenous performance traditions, such as kabuki or kyogen; they fused Shakespeare with local tradition and creativity. Meewon Lee takes up the challenge of exploring Hamlet in Korea via six different productions of the Shakespearean play – each one produced in a different decade, ranging from the nineteen fifties until now. Throughout her rich study, Lee becomes aware of the variety of international influences such as Tales from Shakespeare by Charles and Mary Lamb and that of Japan in the appropriation of Hamlet – and, by extension, Shakespeare – in Korea. According to Nurul Farhana Low Bt Abdullah, Malaya’s first encounter with Shakespeare is through British colonialism, not through Japanese influence, as in Korea. She provides a useful, very specific account of the presence of Shakespeare in Colonial Malaya in which she asserts that Bangsawan productions of Shakespeare are clearly influenced by Parsi theatre adaptations, which came to Penang from India. The main similarity is that both productions were not mere Western-influenced artifacts, but hybrid, considerably ‘Malayanised’ cultural products, which departed consistently from the text, and with a clear commercial motto. The localisation or indigenization of Shakespeare taken to the extreme is also Masae Suzuki’s line of enquiry in her chapter ‘Shakespeare, Noh, Kyogen and Okinawa Shibai’ where she states that “the reception and adaptations of Shakespeare plays in Japan work as a touchstone to indigenous theatre” (163). Although there is not much Shakespeare in Cambodia, which was a French colony, Kevin J. Wetmore Jr. focuses on two examples of intercultural Shakespeare there. In his chapter ‘Spectres of Hamlet in Colonial and Postcolonial Indonesia’, Evan Darwin Winet provides a thorough analysis of three productions of Hamlet undertaken by W. S. Rendra and his Bengkel Theater in 1971, 1976 and 1994. For Darwin Winet, these productions are not epitomes of Indonesian Shakespeares. The application of traditional xiqu (Chinese opera) forms to a Shakespearean work is the main concern of Elizabeth Wichmann- Walczak’s study of a production of King Lear by the Shanghai Jingju Company. She explains how, in order to preserve the Chinese opera forms, the plot was simplified, characters were recreated and some of them cut, hinting at the difficulties of localising Shakespeare. The last chapter in this section, by Adele Lee, clearly sheds light upon interculturality. She refers to the new ways of approaching Shakespeare in Hong Kong that do not consist of passively imitating Western-style performances or simply adopting Shakespeare to traditional Chinese theatre practices; they are thus moving in a new realm. The last chapters in the collection openly display the recent tendency to dissect Shakespeare in the digital age. Just as the question ‘where is Shakespeare?’ was frequent in Asian Shakespeares, so is it in Cyberspace, game space and the media. Yet, the editors see the glass half-full, and consider that “cyber Shakespeares may lead us to expect revolutionary new forms of engagement” (9). In ‘Aesthetics of Fragmentation in Taymor’s Titus’, Lucian Ghita asserts how Taymor’s experimentation with a semiotics of
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 181–185 ISSN 0210-6124 184 Rosa María García Periago fragmentation in her version of Titus reflects the dismemberment typical of the media. Simone Caroti’s study ‘Science Fiction, Forbidden Planet, and Shakespeare’s The Tempest’ insists on the curious blend of Shakespeare and 1950s science fiction in Forbidden Planet, in which Prospero’s island is placed in outer space. This chapter emphasizes the different places to which Shakespeare can be transposed. In his brilliant study of a Vietnamese/US- American production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream entitled A Dream in Hanoi and of a Japanese film called Warai no daigaku based on Romeo and Juliet, Richard Burt wonders what happens when Shakespeare is mobilized in different media. He is aware of the problem of postcolonial interpretation, and hints at new possibilities for future research in a world where technology is predominant. Christy Desmet and Sujata Iyengar, in ‘Appropriation and the Design of an Online Shakespeare Journal’, insist on how useful cyberspace is, and explain the whole process of creating an e-journal. In a smooth chapter that flows easily and reads well, Peter Holland traces the history of Shakespeare on the web community. Told from a first person narrative, Holland’s work ‘Performing Shakespeare for the Web Community’ first explores his experience playing the online game Arden: The World of William Shakespeare, which proved to be a complete failure, and later explains the interesting experience of Shakespeare on YouTube – the author visibly transmitting his fascination to the readers. Holland’s chapter provides a fitting closing statement to the last section of the volume – and in a way to the whole collection of scholarly essays – for it touches upon the possibilities of the web for cultural exchange: a wider visualization of Asian Shakespeares or transcultural Shakespeares will be increased thanks to the new technologies. The volume is brought to a close with a chronology of Shakespeare in Hollywood, Asia and Cyberspace by Alexander Huang and a detailed bibliography by Alexander Huang and Lucian Ghita, which will captivate bona-fide Shakespearean fans. The chronology highlights the most important historical events, the year in which Hollywood and worldwide film adaptations of Shakespearean works were released and the year in which famous stage and screen productions were premiered. The chronology is a valuable asset that can be used for reference or turned into a pedagogical tool. Placed at the end of the collection, the chronology and the bibliography aim to provide a sense of unity to the book, since they bundle together the three main strands of the volume. However, given the disparity of interests displayed by the contributors, the huge number of articles and the thematic sections between which on many occasions no interlinks seem to be available, readers often lose track of the main objective of the book. Consequently, at times, the volume’s claim to unity is more of a desire than a reality. The collection of essays equally lacks a discussion of more contemporary screen productions. All the Hollywood productions of Shakespearean works explored – Franco Zeffirelli’s The Taming of the Shrew (1967), Al Pacino’s Looking for Richard (1996) or Franco’s Zeffirelli’s Hamlet (1990) – are not exactly recent additions to the Shakespeare on screen canon and have been analysed over and over again. The over-present Akira Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood (1957) may impoverish the second section a bit, though this is compensated sufficiently by the discussion on the small-time Shakespeare production One Husband Too Many, which, though not excitingly new (1988), at least is a rare case that is worth studying. In spite of the fact that interculturality is constantly suggested, it is always a spectre. A thorough discussion of the nature of the term in the introduction is felt to be absent. Throughout the book there are no surprises, and a clearer methodological grounding is missing. The only attempt at a theoretical background is provided by Masae Suzuki when she compares the ‘euphoric’ version of interculturality with the dysphoric. Yet, it is clear that the focus
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 181–185 ISSN 0210-6124 Reviews 185 of the volume is not an explicit debate on interculturality, but to provide an introduction to intercultural exchange. It is precisely in the presentation of a great number of Asian productions of Shakespeare that the strength of the volume resides. In Alexander Huang and Charles Ross’s Shakespeare in Hollywood, Asia and Cyberspace, readers have a bold and innovative work which constitutes an important contribution to the field of Asian Shakespeares, and a crucial understanding of the currents linking Shakespeare, Hollywood and Asia in Cyberspace. The editors’ awareness of the influence of Asian performance modes in the global appropriation of Shakespeare initiates a new critical paradigm.
Works Cited
Boose, Lynda and Richard Burt, eds. 1997: Shakespeare, the Movie: Popularizing the Plays on Film, TV, and Video. New York and London: Routledge. Huang, Alexander 2008: ‘Asian Shakespeares in Europe: From the Unfamiliar to the Defamiliarised’. Shakespearean International Yearbook 8: 51-70. ––––– ed. 2009: ‘Asian Shakespeares on Screen: Two Films in Perspective’. Special issue, Borrowers and Lenders 4.2.
Received 17 March 2011 Accepted 28 June 2011
Rosa María García-Periago is a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Murcia. She has been a visiting scholar at Queen’s University Belfast, at SOAS and at King’s College. Her main research interests are film adaptations of Shakespeare’s works, Shakespeare in Asia, Bollywood cinema, postcolonial theory and diaspora studies.
Address: Departamento de Filología Inglesa. Facultad de Letras. Universidad de Murcia. Campus de la Merced. 0071 Murcia, Spain. Tel.: +34 868 884864. Fax: +34 868 883 185.
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Wallhead, Celia 2007: A.S. Byatt: Essays on the Short Fiction. Bern: Peter Lang. 234 pp. ISBN 978-3-03911-158-9
Carmen Lara Rallo Universidad de Málaga [email protected]
“[T]he real world sprouted stories wherever she looked at it”, states the narrator of A.S. Byatt’s latest work, The Children’s Book (2009), when referring to one of its central characters, Olive Wellwood. Olive is a woman who, like many other characters in Byatt’s fiction – such as Julia Corbett in The Game, Christabel LaMotte in Possession, Agatha Mond in A Whistling Woman, or Cicely Fox in ‘Raw Material’, to cite just a few – is depicted in terms of her professional or aesthetic engagement with the arts of writing and storytelling. Olive’s ability to transform the ‘real world’ into ‘stories’ ‘wherever she looked at it’ can be seen as a defining trait of Byatt herself, who in the course of her fifty-year long writing career has displayed an absolute mastery of the narrative genre. Indeed, apart from being praised as a lucid an influential literary critic, and together with the acknowledgement of her poetic talent as shown in the pieces embedded in Possession (1990), Byatt has skilfully combined novel- and short-story- writing as part of her creative project. Dealing with such diverse and complex themes as authorship, the verbal and the visual, myth, ageing, geology and memory, among many others, and resorting to intertextuality, biblical and pictorial motifs, or fairy tale conventions, Byatt’s stories and novellas testify to her ability to explore the aesthetic potential of short fiction. The richness and variety of this creative exploration is the focus of analysis of Celia Wallhead’s A.S. Byatt: Essays on the Short Fiction (henceforth Byatt: Essays), a detailed and enlightening study of Byatt’s engagement with the short story genre. Author of a great number of articles, book chapters and conference papers on Byatt’s fiction, Wallhead is an internationally renowned Byatt-scholar who already in 1999 published The Old, the New and the Metaphor. A Critical Study of the Novels of A.S. Byatt, one of the earliest monographs fully devoted to Byatt’s novels, from The Shadow of the Sun (1964) to Babel Tower (1996). In Byatt: Essays, Wallhead offers a careful examination of representative texts from each volume of Byatt’s short narratives, including her five collections of stories (1987-2003) and the novellas in Angels & Insects (1992). The arrangement of the study, beginning with the analysis of ‘Sugar’ – from Sugar & Other Stories (1987) – and closing with the joint exploration of ‘Baglady’ and ‘Raw Material’ – from, respectively, Elementals. Stories of Fire and Ice (1998) and Little Black Book of Stories (2003) – has the same chronological structure as previous monographs on Byatt, such as Kathleen Coyne Kelly’s A.S. Byatt (1996) and Jane Campbell’s A.S. Byatt and the Heliotropic Imagination (2004), although these two studies do not focus exclusively on Byatt’s short fiction. This structure offers the advantage of giving a clear picture of both the recurrence of Byatt’s concerns and her exploration of new lines, to the point of anticipating some of the possible topics in her next short story collection (21). Despite some imbalance in the length of chapters, with short chapters like the second and third ones contrasting sharply with the length of chapters four and five,
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Byatt: Essays displays two main assets. First, although it focuses primarily on Byatt’s short fiction, the study discovers revealing links with other writings by Byatt, both critical – such as her essay ‘Memory and the Making of Fiction’, or Imagining Characters. Six Conversations about Women Writers – and fictional, including her early novels The Shadow of the Sun and The Game (1967), together with different volumes of the Quartet (1978-2002). Secondly, Wallhead’s monograph adopts a different approach for each of the texts examined, applying critical concepts and tools such as intertextuality, schemata, lexical analysis or generic considerations. In this sense, after an introductory section which provides the theoretical background of Byatt’s formation as a short story writer and critic, the volume opens with a chapter that explores the title narrative of Sugar… in the light of its dominant schemata, following the model offered by Guy Cook in Discourse and Literature: The Interplay of Form and Mind (1994). Through the discovery of the main schemata in the story, which fall into the two major categories of ‘family’ and ‘creativity’, Wallhead convincingly argues that the key themes of ‘Sugar’ are the true / false paradigm in narration and the metaphorical evocation of artistic creativity. Therefore, this chapter goes beyond the usual analysis of the story in terms of its first- person narrator and autobiographical elements, or of the allusions to Van Gogh – whose vital and creative experiences figure prominently in Byatt’s novel Still Life and in her essay ‘Van Gogh, Death and Summer’ – and focuses instead on the complex interaction of truth and fact, fiction and lies, as well as on the metaphorical relationship of sweet-making to writing and creativity. Significantly, metaphor and creativity occupy a central position in the second chapter of Wallhead’s study, devoted to the novella ‘Morpho Eugenia’, from Angels & Insects. Set in the Victorian period, ‘Morpho Eugenia’ and its companion piece ‘The Conjugial Angel’ discuss divine Creation and human creativity, but from different points of view. If ‘The Conjugial Angel’ foregrounds intertextuality, ‘Morpho Eugenia’ gives prevalence to formal aspects like binary oppositions and semantic relations, which are explored by means of a lexical analysis of the novella. Already in The Old, the New, and the Metaphor, Wallhead had demonstrated the aptness of a lexically-based study to examine the relevance of metaphor in Byatt’s fiction, and the second chapter of Byatt: Essays further proves this point by revealing two major lexically-based strategies to underline creativity in ‘Morpho Eugenia’. Those strategies are the profusion of lexical items denoting creation and causation, and the use of taxonomies and listing, which, in their seemingly inclusive but actually selective nature, point to how “writing fiction is a question of selection, that is, decisions to include or exclude, some conscious and some unconscious” (54). The nature of those decisions is interrogated in the third chapter of Byatt: Essays, which apart from addressing poetic creation and writer-reader relations in ‘The Conjugial Angel’, scrutinises above all the intertextual embedding of Tennyson’s In Memoriam in the novella. “My books are thick with the presence of other books”, acknowledges Byatt (Wachtel 1993: 77), as she weaves an intricate web of intertextual connections in all her novels and short stories. Commonly associated with the complexity of Possession, intertextuality is indeed one of the defining traits of Byatt’s production as a whole, which enters into a fruitful dialogue not only with literary works of all times, but also with other arts and fields of knowledge, including painting, entomology, genetics and neuroscience.
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The centrality of the intertextual practice in Byatt’s fiction is highlighted in Wallhead’s study, which devotes several chapters to intertextuality in the short stories from different perspectives: chapter three explores the uses and effects of the intertextual presence of Tennyson’s masterpiece in the second narrative of Angels & Insects, comparing the factual and fictional sides of the characters in the story and in the poet’s real life, a strategy already employed by Campbell (2004: 96-103) in her analysis of ‘Precipice-Encurled’, from Sugar…; chapter seven investigates the recurrence of the biblical figure of Jael in several nineteenth and twentieth century literary texts, including Byatt’s ‘Jael’, from Elementals. Likewise, chapters four and six foreground the richness of interdisciplinary connections in Byatt’s fiction, as they analyse, respectively, the relationship between the verbal and the visual in The Matisse Stories (1993) and the imaginative rendering of Velázquez’s painting Cristo en casa de Marta y María in Byatt’s story of the same title (1998). As “a past mistress in the art of intertextuality and polyphony” (61), Byatt has shown throughout her career a skilful mastery of multiple strategies of textual and discursive cross-fertilisation. In this sense, apart from resorting to practices that correspond to the five categories of Gérard Genette’s transtextuality, the writer has examined the potential of other intertextual devices, including both the recurrence of literary titles – with, for instance, chapters in her 1978 novel The Virgin in the Garden being entitled ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ or ‘Women in Love’ – and the transposition of literary figures, or interfigurality. Coined by Wolfgang G. Müller (1991: 101), the concept of interfigurality refers to the development of links with already existing characters, as when Byatt gives the name of Artegall to one of the protagonists in the narration inserted in the quartet, or when a marginal character of ‘Morpho Eugenia’ appears again in ‘The Conjugial Angel’. The inspiring force exerted by interfigurality is amply illustrated in chapter seven of the volume, which traces the presence of the figure of Jael and the biblical episode of her violent murder of Sisera in different novels and short stories, from Charlotte Brontë’s Villette to Byatt’s ‘Jael’, including as well Herman Melville’s ‘The Bell-Tower’, George Eliot’s The Mill on the Floss and Sara Maitland’s Daughter of Jerusalem. Wallhead discusses Byatt’s treatment of Jael in the light of the critical assessment of the story by Mieke Bal – in Murder and Difference and Death and Dissymmetry (1988) – and in comparison with earlier rewritings of the episode. By doing so, she proves how the protagonist of Byatt’s ‘Jael’ resembles her counterpart in Maitland’s novel, as both demand equality with men, while being at the same time closer to Brontë’s and Eliot’s versions in their use of the parallel with the biblical character to reveal psychological complexities. Surprisingly, however, little attention is paid to Byatt’s skilful use of the narrative voice in her story. Above all, Wallhead clearly explains, ‘Jael’ is a narrative about memory and the danger of cultural loss, two crucial issues for Byatt, who in her interview with Boyd Tonkin emphasized her feeling of loneliness when noticing how the younger generations are unable to recognise biblical rhythms (Tonkin 1999: 17-18). Significantly, in this same interview, the author expresses her delight in “that element in the visual which completely defeats language” (Tonkin 1999: 17). This fascination is explored by Wallhead in the fourth and sixth chapters of her monograph, which demonstrate Byatt’s extraordinary ability as “a painterly, writerly writer” (Kelly 1996: vii). Chapter four focuses not just on one individual story but on the whole collection of The Matisse
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Stories, analysing the main themes of its three narratives – art and the consumer society, visual versus verbal creativity, and changing power patterns – in connection with the intertextual dialogue with Matisse’s paintings and aesthetic principles. Apart from discovering how the stories in the volume make a collective statement about art and life, Wallhead demonstrates the variety and wide-ranging quality of Byatt’s intertextual strategies, which are examined in terms of Genette’s seminal model of textual interdependence in Palimpsestes. La littérature au second degré (1982). From intertextuality to architextuality, Genette’s five categories of transtextuality are successfully applied to the interplay between word and image in The Matisse Stories, whose paratextual richness had already attracted Michael Worton’s attention in his contribution to Essays on the Fiction of A.S. Byatt. Imagining the Real (2001: 24). According to Wallhead, intertextuality here fulfils a function similar to metaphor, which can be associated not only with the key role of metaphor and creativity in ‘Morpho Eugenia’, as dealt with in the second chapter of Byatt: Essays, but also with the use of fire as a metaphor for creativity in Elementals. This collection is analysed in chapter six of Wallhead’s study, which pays special attention to the closing story in the volume, ‘Christ in the House of Martha and Mary’, explored as a verbal account of the pictorial creation of Velázquez’s Cristo en casa de Marta y María (c. 1618). The picture, an early masterpiece usually classified as a religious still life, was chosen by Byatt for her contribution to the National Gallery News in November 1993, where the author offered some reflections on the structure and components of the painting that are echoed in her ekphrastic story. The narrative, as Wallhead contends, shows points in common with the themes of The Matisse Stories, as well as with ‘The Conjugial Angel’, since the recuperation of a version of Tennyson in this novella is paralleled by the fictional recreation of young Velázquez in ‘Christ…’. The imagining of the situation behind the compositional process of the picture, Wallhead convincingly argues, allows Byatt to ponder over the themes of painting, wisdom, power, active and passive attitudes and, above all, the nature of artistry, identified by Worton as the main topic of the story, together with “identity, and the need to accept oneself in order to produce truly beautiful works” (Worton 2001: 27). Artistic creativity confers an iconic value on Velázquez’s “pursuit of the truthful rendering of visual appearance” (162), and so the lesson of Byatt’s story is that “great art transforms the prosaicness of the sign into the layered exclusiveness which distinguishes symbol from sign” (168). The investigation of the transformative power of art in this narrative is contextualised in the light of Byatt’s theoretical ideas about the short story genre, as reflected in her critical work of edition of The Oxford Book of English Short Stories (1998), which came out the same year as the collection of ‘Christ…’. In this way, Byatt: Essays approaches the author’s engagement with the short story in the critical vein, too: apart from dealing with Byatt’s narratological assumptions both in the introduction and in the opening section of chapter six, Wallhead devotes two chapters to the writer’s treatment of generic conventions in stories from The Djinn in the Nightingale’s Eye (1994), Elementals, and Little…. On the one hand, chapter five discusses Byatt’s relationship with the fairy tale genre in The Djinn…, which is analysed within the theoretical framework of Jack Zipes’s works on the short story. Like the chapter on The Matisse Stories, this fifth chapter does not focus solely on a single narrative, but studies instead the whole collection, providing an overview of the five tales that make up the volume and paying special attention to the
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 187–192 ISSN 0210-6124 Reviews 191 title story. Wallhead addresses thus important aspects of each tale – such as the connections between ‘The Glass Coffin’ and its framing narrative, Possession, or the allegorical overtones of ‘Dragon’s Breath’, among others – while concentrating particularly on the protagonist of ‘The Djinn in the Nightingale’s Eye’. As Wallhead explains, the fact that this character, Gillian Perholt, is a narratologist enables Byatt to achieve a two-fold goal: to theorise on the art of fiction and to offer a wide range of embedded stories, all of them related to the themes of narrative power and satisfying closure. On the other hand, chapter eight of Wallhead’s monograph examines another subgenre of short fiction, the Gothic tale, in two narratives that share the depiction of helpless, threatened female characters: ‘Baglady’, from Elementals, and ‘Raw Material’, from Little…, a collection left aside in previous studies, including Campbell’s. Tracing the persistence of the Gothic in the twentieth century, as well as the pervasiveness of Gothic elements in Byatt’s production, the analysis of these stories is relegated to the last section of the chapter, which after the deep and multi-faceted study of the other stories in Wallhead’s monograph, leaves the reader somewhat unsatisfied. In any case, the author of Byatt: Essays discovers how the unifying theme of Byatt’s latest collection revolves around the Gothic, understood as terror aroused in the reader, and confusion of good and evil. Moreover, the story from this volume, ‘Raw Material’, epitomises the writer’s lifelong interest in the topics of creativity, writing and art, which are identified in the conclusion of Wallhead’s study as central and recurrent issues in Byatt’s fiction, from ‘Sugar’ to ‘Raw Material’. This conclusion suggests that the key to the success and permanence of Byatt’s stories lies in her ability to fictionalise timeless questions, and eagerly anticipates “if not … another half century, at least … a few more decades of great writing” (224). Indeed, Byatt’s short fiction endorses the author’s own view of storytelling in her essay collection On Histories and Stories (2000), where she describes it as “intrinsic to biological time, which we cannot escape. ... Stories are like genes, they keep part of us alive after the ending of our story” (Byatt 2000: 166). Byatt’s skill in meeting the human need for storytelling, as she transforms the ‘real world’ into ‘stories’ ‘wherever she looks at it’, is foregrounded in Wallhead’s lucid and well-informed monograph. All in all, Byatt: Essays emerges as a valuable critical tool that neither Byatt-specialists nor those interested in contemporary British fiction, or in the Anglo-American short story, should miss.
Works Cited
Bal, Mieke 1988a: Murder and Difference: Genre, Gender and Scholarship on Sisera’s Death. Bloomington: Indiana UP. ––––– 1988b: Death and Dissymmetry: The Politics of Coherence in the Book of Judges. Chicago: Chicago UP. Byatt, A.S. 2001 (2000): On Histories and Stories. Selected Essays. Cambridge.: Harvard UP. ––––– 2009: The Children’s Book. London: Chatto and Windus. Campbell, Jane 2004: A.S. Byatt and the Heliotropic Imagination. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier UP. Cook, Guy 1994: Discourse and Literature. Oxford: Oxford UP. Genette, Gérard 1982: Palimpsestes: la littérature au second degré. Paris: Éditions du Seuil. Kelly, Kathleen Coyne 1996: A. S. Byatt. New York: Twaine Publishers. Müller, Wolfgang G. 1991: ‘Interfigurality. A Study on the Interdependence of Literary Figures’. Heinrich F. Plett, ed. Intertextuality. Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter and Co. 101-21. Tonkin, Boyd 1999: ‘Interview with A.S. Byatt’. Anglistik 10.2: 15-26.
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Wachtel, Eleanor 1993: ‘A.S. Byatt’. Writers & Company in Conversation with Eleanor Wachtel. San Diego and New York: Harcourt Brace and Co. 77-89. Wallhead, Celia 1999: The Old, the New and the Metaphor. A Critical Study of the Novels of A.S. Byatt. London: Minerva P. Worton, Michael 2001: ‘Of Prisms and Prose: Reading Paintings in A.S. Byatt’s Work’. Alexa Alfer and Michael J. Noble, eds. Essays on the Fiction of A.S. Byatt. Imagining the Real. Westport: Greenwood P. 15-29.
Received 4 April 2011 Revised version accepted 12 August 2011
Carmen Lara Rallo is Lecturer in English at the University of Málaga. Her publications on A.S. Byatt’s fiction include La narrativa breve de A.S. Byatt: Enfoque intertextual (2005) and Tetralogía de la memoria. Historia e intertextualidad en A.S. Byatt (2006). Her main areas of interest include contemporary British fiction and comparative literature, and she is currently working on the dialogue between literature and other arts and disciplines such as painting, music and science.
Address: Departamento de Filología Inglesa. Francesa y Alemana. Facultad de Filosofía y Letras. Campus de Teatinos. 29071 Málaga, Spain. Tel.: +34 952 131794. Fax: +34 952 131843.
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 187–192 ISSN 0210-6124 Mary O’Donnell, and Manuela Palacios, eds. 2010: To the Wind Our Sails. Irish Writers Translate Galician Poetry. Cliffs of Moher, Co. Clare: Salmon. 172 pp. ISBN 978-1-907056-37-6
Katharina Walter National University of Ireland, Galway [email protected]
To the Wind Our Sails, an anthology of poems edited by Mary O’Donnell and Manuela Palacios, ventures into the largely unexplored terrain that connects the cultures of Galicia and Ireland today, making an exquisite and diverse selection from contemporary Galician women’s poetry available to readers of English and Irish. Ten of the most distinguished contemporary women poets from Galicia are represented with five poems each – four in English, one in Irish, thus highlighting the language question as a strongly politicized issue that these two writing traditions share. The poets represented in this anthology have chosen the Galician vernacular over Spanish, a decision that might be obscured by the translation of these poets’ works into English as the lingua franca par excellence, were it not for the fact that one out of five texts is rendered into Irish, another regional language. This trilingual anthology thus acknowledges the importance of language choice, while still enabling the vast number of English-speakers worldwide to read recent Galician women’s poetry. O’Donnell’s and Palacios’s anthology complements the vividly emerging field of comparative scholarship on contemporary Galician and Irish women’s poetry. Notably, collections of essays and interviews such as Palabras Extremas (Palacios González and González Fernández 2008) and Writing Bonds (Palacios González and Lojo 2009) have already highlighted many shared concerns in these two bodies of poetry. Both contemporary Irish and Galician women’s poetry have emerged from male-dominated literary traditions and under the influence of Catholicism. In the cultivation of the absolute binaries, for instance, of the Virgin Mary versus Mary Magdalene as instructive models of womanhood, both cultures have instrumentalized female sexuality and corporeality for establishing and protecting social orders that have ultimately subdued women, while also involving them in the consolidation of these orders. In Ireland, the discourses of religion have been closely interwoven with those of the nation, which has led to a complex entanglement of conceptions of gender and sexuality with those of national identity. These intricacies have also coloured more recent political debates on issues like birth control and abortion, showing that the female body is still to some extent publicly owned. Both Ireland and Galicia have cultivated a myth of motherland as part of a, historical or constructed, Celtic cultural substrate. In doing so, both cultures have contended with the image of an, existent or projected, ‘feminine’ nation. Palacios identifies this forging of an identity as distinctive from that of a larger, domineering entity as the product of a “Celtic imaginary”, which “may not be strictly Celtic in its origins but which has been constructed as Celtic through the cultural practices of many generations” (Palacios González and Lojo 2009: 90). In that respect, Galicia has often emphasized its ties with Ireland, and Galician artists have often looked towards Ireland for inspiration, an interest which has not been requited to the same extent. To the Wind Our Sails addresses this imbalance and enables a more reciprocal understanding of the ties between the cultures of Ireland and Galicia. The order in which different poets’ works are arranged in To the Wind Our Sails is determined by the years of their births, starting
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 193–197 ISSN 0210-6124 194 Katharina Walter with Luz Pozo Garza (born in 1922) and ending with Xiana Arias (born in 1983), thus spanning several generations of poets from the 20th and 21st centuries. Luz Pozo Garza’s poems, translated by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, explicitly forge a connection with Ireland, envisaging a common Celtic heritage and shared Christian values as a foundation for this bond. In ‘Os palacios de inverno’ / ‘Winter Palaces’, the speaker explores Dublin with a Bible from Santiago de Compostela, drawing attention to psalms “que regulan a alianza / dunha linaxe celta en dúas ribeiras” / “that regulate the alliance of a Celtic lineage / on two shores” (30-31). Setting out from the Hill of Howth, ‘Bosque de rhododendros’ / ‘Forest of Rhododendrons’ journeys via Bran’s 700 AD voyage towards the Irish Literary Revival (34-35). ‘Páxina atlántica’ / ‘Page of the Atlantic’ evokes “os míticos tesouros delque reino de Tara” / “the mythical treasures of the Kingdom of Tara” (38-39). In this anthology, Pozo Garza’s poems are the foremost examples of a cultural tradition in Galicia since the late 19th century that has explored Celtic legends in search of cultural models that would differentiate Galicia from Spain. In other poets’ works, direct references to Ireland are less frequent. Nevertheless, the reader versed in Irish women’s poetry will find many familiar themes, including a renegotiation of the discourses of nationalism with its, often female, archetypes, and a foregrounding of the body, of urban and rural landscapes and environmentalist concerns. María do Carme Kruckenberg’s poems delve into memories of passionate, fraught relationships. A sense of fatality and loss characterizes the pieces included in this anthology, which have been rendered into English by Anne Le Marquand Hartigan and into Irish by Rita Kelly. In ‘O cristal axústase...’ / ‘The Mirror Reflects...’, the speaker’s gaze is hit by fleeting images in the mirror, glimpses of which are captured in short, ruptured lines. The ephemeral nature of what is depicted in the body of the poem is in contrast with the closing lines, which make reference to the permanence of the “erro insalvábel de caridade” or, in English, the “insurmountable / failure of love” (50-51). In a similar vein, ‘Lembro aqueles tempos do verán...’ / ‘I Remember those Summer Days…’ reminisces about past loves in the face of passing time and the inevitable ageing process (52-53), thus addressing a concern that also features prominently, for instance, in the poetry of Eavan Boland. With translations by Celia de Fréine, the anthology presents an exquisite selection from the works of Xoana Torres, whose erudite, eclectic poems draw on Greek legend, Shakespearean tragedy, as well as Cubist painting, often reviewing famous heroines from mythology and world literature. The fatality of love is a theme that unites these otherwise diverse poems. In ‘Penélope’ / ‘Penelope’, Xoana Torres’s most famous poem, which is included in Irish, the wife of Odysseus imagines her own odyssey (58-59). In ‘The Course of Nature’, Manuela Palacios points out that in the poem “[t]he sea, traditionally only a space where male fishermen, sailors, explorers and pirates dared to venture, and which women could only languidly contemplate from the shore, becomes now a privileged trope for women’s participation in the public sphere” (Palacios González and Lojo 2009: 84). The speaker in ‘Ofelia’ / ‘Ophelia’ addresses Hamlet’s lover, who is in a state of mental disarray in the face of imminent death. Eros and Thanatos are close companions in this poem, which is pervaded by a sense of decay, with many references to the fatality of love itself (60-61). In ‘Ribadavia’ / ‘Sibyl in Ribadavia’, finally, Torres refers to Marc Chagall, whose Cubist aesthetic the poem seeks to emulate (62-63). Marilar Aleixandre’s poetry, translated by Mary O’Malley, captures strong, distinctive images, often characterized by stark violence. In ‘Derrotas domésticas’ / ‘Domestic Defeats’, the speaker addresses her mother, whose complacently smiling face in
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 193–197 ISSN 0210-6124 Reviews 195 photographs is contrasted with the forcefulness with which she carries out her day-to-day household duties, beheads eels and guts sea bream. Aspects of her personality that are not in integrity with her subservient maternal role function are obliterated, rendering her as a woman whose “francés e alemán / eran inútiles contra a graxa nos fogóns”; in the English translation: “French and German / were in vain against the grease on the stove” (72-73). In its comment on the self-effacing role in which mothers may be cast, Aleixandre’s text is sympathetic with many of Paula Meehan’s poems. Likewise, the latent anger that accompanies the mother’s self-denials in ‘Derrotas domésticas’ is also present in Meehan’s ‘The Pattern’, first published in her collection The Man Who Was Marked by Winter (1991: 17-20). The futility of language in the face of oppression in ‘Derrotas domésticas’ makes way for a more optimistic statement on the power of words in ‘O diario (3 rabuda)’ / ‘The Diary (3 Surly)’, which portrays a woman who “usa as palabras para cortar” / “uses words to cut” (74-75). In ‘Varrer as cinzas’ / ‘Sweeping up the Ashes’, a son addresses his absent father, of whom the fire in the kitchen becomes a symbol (76-77) – an interesting analogy, as in many traditions since the Roman Vestal Virgins the hearth is conventionally feminine. ‘Comedores de cabezas’ / ‘The Head Eaters’ opens with a quotation from Ovid and makes reference to the naiads, water nymphs in Greek mythology who inhabit rivers, springs or waterfalls. The strength and dynamism of the children of the naiads, their mobility and dexterity in water is in contrast with ‘our’ need to use sails (80-81). Luz Pichel, who only started publishing in Galician in 2006 and whose poems were rendered into English by Catherine Phil McCarthy, uses images from the natural and the animal world to question the internal dynamics that govern human societies and the self. ‘Queimar a leña’ / ‘Breaking the Firewood’ opens with the rustle of people passing and a rooster’s cry, then comments on the animal’s fear of humans, to conclude with the speaker’s acknowledgement of her own destructive impulse (86-87). In ‘Pénsanlle as pólas á figuera con carga dos figos’ / ‘The Branches of the Fig Tree are Laden with its Crops of Figs’, nature is personalized and gendered. A fig tree, chafed by a male wind, is analogized to a mother-to-be, pregnant with ‘dolls of the mist’ in the morning, then relieved due to the intervention of men of the air. The poem evokes a variety of female archetypes, echoing the maiden / matron / crone from Celtic mythology. The image of female fertility identified in the fig tree is mirrored in the portrayal of a scarecrow with a doll. The scarecrow in turn is also reminiscent of a hag (88-89). Chus Pato writes hybrid texts between poetry and prose, which were translated by Lorna Shaughnessy (English) and Rita Kelly (Irish). Pato’s poems inquire into the relationship between the individual and society, and the impact of language on the negotiation of the same. ‘Porque non é só o idioma o que está amenazado…’ / ‘Because it is not only Language that is Threatened…’ explores the sometimes vague boundaries in the relationship between language and material existence (96-97). ‘A voz era pánico...’, translated by Lorna Shaughnessy as ‘The Voice was Pure Panic...’, is an anxious, breathless text about the creative process, which resonates strongly with the writings of Hélène Cixous on ‘écriture féminine’. The piece overflows, transcending the page, the human body, the billboard along the motorway, as well as nature. In fact, the poetic persona, ‘wo/man’, also transcends the boundaries of gender and of the ego (98-99). Ana Romaní’s poems, translated by Maurice Harmon, offer articulations of the somatic that diverge from the homogeneous, idealized body images that have long predominated in western cultures. Rather than the closed body, to use a phrase coined by Mikhail Bakhtin, from the predominant cultural paradigm in the western world since the Renaissance, Romaní portrays a corporeality that is ‘open’ and in process. ‘Os lagartos
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 193–197 ISSN 0210-6124 196 Katharina Walter víron a pasar...’ / ‘The Lizards Watched her as she Passed...’ envisages the body as a site for the inscription of lived experience, pointing to the “strange shapes pain inscribes / on wasted flesh” (108-09). ‘Por que sei que te vas ás veces...’ / ‘Because I Know you Sometimes Leave...’ and ‘Que os cabalotes me suban polas pernas…’ / ‘Would that the Sperm Whales should Climb my Legs...’ articulate the sexual impulse as a desire to efface the boundaries of the body and of integral subjectivity, thus highlighting another aspect of the body in the process of becoming (110-11, 114-15). In María do Cebreiro’s poems, translated into English by Caitríona O’Reilly and into Irish by Rita Kelly, references to love and wounding are frequent, as is an intertextual dialogue with other voices from world literature. Do Cebreiro’s ‘A terra devastada’ / ‘The Waste Land’ is obviously indebted to T. S. Eliot’s 1922 poem ‘The Waste Land’, with which it shares not only the title but also several characters and other references. Like in Eliot’s post-war text, in do Cebreiro’s poem worlds are also disintegrating, but this disintegration is viewed more positively in terms of its potential to bring renewal. In do Cebreiro’s literary response to ‘The Waste Land’, Eliot’s text and the ‘real’ world collide. The female speaker, the owner of a printing press, merges with T. S. Eliot and with the clairvoyant in his poem, thus being at the same time both male and female, the maker as well as the object of the poem. The description of the making of poetry as a craft, finally, defies the binaries of mind versus body, and culture versus nature (122-23). Translated into English by Máighréad Medbh and Irish by Rita Kelly, María Lado’s ‘Así doe novembro’ / ‘How November Hurts’ is one of the highlights of this anthology. The landscape becomes a site for the inscription and manifestation of the speaker’s aches, wounds, scars and desires. In addition, nature also absorbs political strife and other aspects of collective histories. The merging of the personal and the political is anticipated in the opening lines of the poem: “así doen as moas apretadas contra ti, coma un barco, / unha traxedia para un pobo / ou o recordo dun membro fantasma” (“how my molars hurt, ground against you like a boat, / how a national tragedy hurts / or the haunting memory of a limb” [136-37]). The speaker’s yearnings are mirrored in the “mareas de máis encher / e a illa é a penas unha pedra na que morde o mar”; in English: “ravenous tides / chewing the island to a stone” (138-39). María Lado has been publishing from 1997 onwards, and her work includes four collections of poems and a blog: Casa atlántica. Apart from writing poetry, Lado also has a background in audiovisual art and puppet theatre. The poems of Xiana Arias manifest an honest, unpretentious, confident voice that speaks of what it is to be young. Born in 1983 in Lugo, Arias, whose poems have been translated by Paddy Burke, has published two collections since 2007, as well as working as a journalist. ‘Este é o lugar onde media a morte...’ / ‘Here is the Place of Death’s Growing...’ speaks of death, shadows overcasting the sun, and being drunk (148-49). ‘Non hai pistolas...’ / ‘There are no Guns...’ offers a succinct portrayal of suburban domestic conflict (150-51). ‘Sentada na porta da casa...’ / ‘By the Door of her House, Sitting...’, finally, comments on an imagined or “hysterical” pregnancy (155). As an anthology, To the Wind Our Sails is both excitingly diverse and, in the best possible sense of the word, sketchy. The book does not constitute an act of canonization, nor does it pretend to do so. Rather, To the Wind Our Sails is carried by the dynamism in the encounter of works in progress from two distant, yet connected shores. Approaches to translation in To the Wind Our Sails are varied, ranging from verbatim transcriptions to very free interpretations of the Galician originals. The plurality of voices in the original Galician poems in To the Wind Our Sails is thus enhanced by the fact that different writers have also
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 193–197 ISSN 0210-6124 Reviews 197 produced the English- and Irish-language versions. At a more general level, To the Wind Our Sails is making an invaluable contribution to the understanding of the complex dynamics that characterize the relationship between regional and European cultural identities in the 21st century. The poems in this anthology show that we are neither solely defined by our regional affiliations, nor can we discard those in favour of an exclusively European identity. Rather, living in 21st century Europe requires us to negotiate our own individuality within our various collective affiliations; to understand the particularities of our regional backgrounds, as well as our various ties with other cultures.
Works Cited
Meehan, Paula 1991: The Man Who Was Marked by Winter. Loughcrew: Gallery. Palacios González, Manuela and Helena González Fernández, eds. 2008: Palabras extremas: Escritoras gallegas e irlandesas de hoy. Oleiros: Netbiblo. Palacios González, Manuela and Laura Lojo, eds. 2009: Writing Bonds: Irish and Galician Contemporary Women Poets. Bern: Peter Lang.
Received 22 July 2011 Accepted 30 September 2011
Katharina Walter (Ph.D. National University of Ireland) has published several articles about contemporary women’s poetry and gender discourse. She has been teaching at the School of Humanities (English) and the School for Modern Languages (German) at the above university since 2004. Her teaching interests include contemporary women’s writing, poetry, Shakespearean and contemporary drama, as well as cultural theory. Katharina Walter’s current research focuses on contemporary Irish women’s poetry and Migration Studies.
Address: School of Modern Languages, German Section, School of Humanities, English Section. National University of Ireland, Galway, Ireland.Tel.: +353 91 492226. Fax: +353 91 494572.
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Alexa Alfer and Amy J. Edwards de Campos 2010: A. S. Byatt: Critical Storytelling. Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press. xiv + 194pp. ISBN 978- 0-7190-6652-8
Celia Wallhead Salway Universidad de Granada [email protected]
A. S. Byatt: Critical Storytelling is the tenth in the Manchester University Press series ‘Contemporary British Novelists’ and here, Byatt is in the company of authors who have made an impact on the novel in the late twentieth-century and early twenty-first century, such as Ian McEwan, Graham Swift, Julian Barnes and Jeanette Winterson. As the series editor, Daniel Lea, says in the preface “The title of the series is deliberately provocative, recognising each of the three defining elements as contentious identifications of a cultural framework that must be continuously remade and renamed. The contemporary British novel defies easy categorisation …” (vii). That A. S. Byatt is both contemporary and British (born in Sheffield in 1936) is obviously not open to question, but the state of the novel at the beginning of the twenty-first century and the exact nature and relevance of her contribution to it, dating from the middle of the twentieth century up to her latest novel, The Children’s Book (2009), are issues that provide much to mull over. The authors, Alexa Alfer (Senior Lecturer in the Department of Modern and Applied Linguistics at the University of Westminster) and Amy J. Edwards de Campos (author of a PhD thesis on Byatt at Worcester College, Oxford, and currently working at the University of East London), start with Byatt’s concern with how to write well, a concern encapsulated from the beginning in her earliest novels and expressed in her 1987 story ‘Sugar’ from the collection with the eponymous title:
Taking its cue from ‘Sugar’, the present book, while including a biographical timeline for reference purposes, aims at an intellectual charting of the development of A. S. Byatt’s career as a writer. Retracing major themes and aesthetic concerns from Byatt’s earliest works through to her latest and increasingly experimental fictional offerings, this book not only introduces the reader to a body of work that has gradually come to be regarded as one of the most diverse and imaginative in late twentieth and early twenty-first British writing but also explores the wider cultural and critical contexts with which Byatt’s work grapples, engages and indeed intersects. (2)
In their Introduction, Alfer and Edwards de Campos explain that Byatt has a double life in her writing: again from the very beginning, she has been both a creative writer and a critic. Indeed, as Wallhead shows, the confection of sugar sweets is an apt metaphor for the creative process (2007: 23-41). The authors have subtitled their study ‘Critical Storytelling’, and they formulate what they mean by this rubric when they refer to “Byatt’s life long project of ‘critical storytelling’, a practice of storytelling, that is, which does not separate the literary from the critical imagination, but rather aims at a thoughtful and deliberate commingling of these two ways of seeing and describing the world” (3-4). By critical storytelling, they mean the creation of invented stories in tandem with an inherent criticism of how these stories are or should be told, yet one could nitpick and
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 199–204 ISSN 0210-6124 200 Celia Wallhead Salway point out that while literary imagination is readily comprehensible, one ventures to wonder exactly what is encompassed in the potentially oxymoronic combination critical imagination. The authors find that this “commitment to the mutually informative discourses of fiction and literary criticism” (4) is what places Byatt’s novels and stories on a higher plane, in the category of serious and thought-provoking self-conscious fiction. But equally, this dialogue makes them difficult and can be so demanding of the readers that some find it prohibitive. Such a negative attitude can be found in the opinions of some reviewers (see Edwards de Campos 2005: 3) and this leads the authors to call the relations between press- reviewers and Byatt “love-or-hate affairs” (14, see also Edwards de Campos 2005: 1). Both Alfer and Edwards de Campos are thoroughly familiar with Byatt criticism: Alexa Alfer has written frequently on Byatt, not least as co-editor with Michael J. Noble of Essays on the Fiction of A. S. Byatt: Imagining the Real (2001) and, more importantly in terms of criticism, as compiler with Noble and others of the A. S. Byatt web page; while Amy Edwards de Campos has published on Possession (see Parini 2004: 247-66) and her doctoral thesis (2005) was dedicated to this particular aspect of Byatt. Of the 194 pages of A. S. Byatt: Critical Storytelling, fully thirty-four are dedicated to bibliography, which contrasts very favourably with the seven and a half pages of bibliography (163-71) of a similar book, Louisa Hadley’s The Fiction of A. S. Byatt: A Reader’s Guide to Essential Criticism (2008). No doubt Edwards’s doctoral work (over forty pages of bibliography) and Alfer’s work on the web page have been fundamental in the compilation, and the Bibliography is thus an invaluable tool for all those who wish to study Byatt’s work. While the novels and short story collections are readily available, before these publications not all scholars had easy access to Byatt’s uncollected non-fiction or her journalism, criticism and media broadcasts (161-65). They compile the reviews on her fiction book by book (167-74), which is also helpful, and another necessary tool is the Biographical outline of Byatt’s life up to 2009 at the beginning of the book (xii-xiii). One of the most remarkable aspects of this work is its succinctness and compactness. The authors have absorbed a huge field of criticism and concentrated the most important points into seven dense chapters. The Introduction sets out their intentions and the methods they intend to deploy for the analysis of the narratives in relation to criticism of writing. Chapter 2, ‘Fathers, Sisters and the Anxiety of Influence: The Shadow of the Sun and The Game’, deals with Byatt’s first two novels, the early fiction antecedent to her life’s great work, the Quartet. The four parts of the Quartet appeared over twenty-four years, with the best-selling, Booker-Prize-winning Possession: a Romance in between. Parts three and four of the Quartet are different in many ways from the first two parts, thus it is not surprising that the authors decided not to deal with the Quartet together, but in two parts. Thus Chapter 3 is ‘Writing the Contemporary: The Virgin in the Garden and Still Life’, and chapter 4 is ‘Two Cultures: Babel Tower and A Whistling Woman’. In Chapter 5, ‘Tradition and Transformation: Possession and Fairytales’, they group Possession, which contains fairy tales, with Byatt’s other fairy and folk tales in collections like Angels and Insects, The Djinn in the Nightingale’s Eye, Elementals and Little Black Book of Stories, and this thematic grouping is much more coherent, economical and meaningful than if they had treated her works individually and in strict chronological order as some other critics do, for example, Hadley (2008), who dedicates two chapters to Possession, one on ‘Postmodernism vs. Realism’ and one on ‘The Presence of the Past’, and a final chapter to the fairy tales. Chapter 6, ‘The Dark Side of the Tale: The Children’s Book, The Biographer’s Tale and Angels and Insects’ focuses upon Byatt’s latest novel, The Children’s Book, but again, they group it with earlier work in order to pull together thematic parallels. Chapter 7, their final chapter, ‘Critical
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Storytelling: Peopling the Paper House’ (referencing her 1979 summary of contemporary fiction ‘People in Paper Houses’, later collected in Passions of the Mind: Selected Writings [1991]) deals more fully than in the Introduction with her non-fiction work, particularly her criticism, from the earliest monographs and collections: Degrees of Freedom: The Novels of Iris Murdoch; Wordsworth and Coleridge in Their Time; Passions of the Mind; Imagining Characters: Six Conversations about Women Writers (with Ignês Sodré); to her latest, On Histories and Stories and Portraits in Fiction. In their Introduction (4), the authors stress the importance of Byatt’s statement in Passions of the Mind that reading and writing are for her “points on a circle” (Byatt 1991: 1), activities that feed into each other. They add that voracious reading which compels one to write, and writing that leads on to further reading are obsessions with which she endows her literary-minded characters, that is, almost all her protagonists and some of the secondary characters, like Alexander Wedderburn of the Quartet. Also in Passions of the Mind, Byatt had written of the “problems of the ‘real’ in fiction and the adequacy of words to describe it” (Byatt 1991: 3-4). Byatt’s first critical work was on an author whom she much admired: Degrees of Freedom: The Novels of Iris Murdoch (1965) and it is the thought- provoking nature of Murdoch’s fictions, also their curiosity about techniques, with which Byatt identified. Thus the authors applaud Byatt’s engagement with the dilemma of how to write real life, all the time knowing that even that can be textually constructed (5), and they reject accusations of donnish traditionalism or a resistance to ‘theory’, which have been levelled at her (see Edwards de Campos 2005: 1-2). Over the two chapters on the Quartet, the authors trace the transition from the “rather earnest realism” of the first two novels, to the “bold formal experiments and seemingly chaotic proliferations of story-lines” and the 1960s concern with the breakdown and fragmentation of language of the third, Babel Tower, then the “fictional ponderings of the narratives of science” (6) in the fourth, A Whistling Woman. Gillian Beer (2000) has shown how Darwin had recourse to metaphors and stories to explain abstract scientific concepts such as heredity, proliferation or survival. Byatt uses metaphors not only to enrich her stories, but to give them structure, as Wallhead (1999) has shown. In Possession, the different story-lines are held together by over-arching metaphors (as defined by Lakoff and Johnson 1980) like LOVE IS AN ENTITY (Wallhead 1999: 178). Furthermore, they work through ramifications of smaller-scaled metaphors in the line of Darwin’s usage, such as LOVE IS AN ELECTRO-MAGNETIC FORCE (Lakoff and Johnson 1980: 49, cited in Wallhead 1999: 179) or metaphors that unite content and form, the topic with which the authors are concerned, such as MORE OF FORM IS MORE OF CONTENT (Wallhead 1999: 184). Byatt’s research into nineteenth-century literature and its general political, social and scientific background prepared her for scientific discussion not only in her nineteenth-century neo-Victorian novels and stories but also in her contemporary ones of England in the 1960s and 1970s. The authors show how she brings all the strands of story-telling and science together in her latest novel, The Children’s Book, which is at once neo-Victorian, neo-Edwardian and neo-Georgian, in that it extends as far as the First World War and its aftermath. They do exaggerate, however, in their argument about Darwinian proliferation as a necessary background to selection, and the potentially destructive power of story-telling when they claim that the fictions of the protagonist, Olive Wellwood (based on E. Nesbit), “over the course of the novel’s sprawling narrative, gradually prove an even more destructive force than the First World War itself” (8). However, they are quite right in seeing in her later fiction, particularly The Biographer’s Tale and ‘Morpho Eugenia’, “glimpses of a curiously un-novelistic and anti-individualistic
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 199–204 ISSN 0210-6124 202 Celia Wallhead Salway ethos … powerful images of humans as types, composites or mere representations of a species” (81; see Wallhead 2003). This is part of Byatt’s concern over notions of human identity in an increasingly globalised world and in a universe explained more by scientists than humanists or the religious. The authors devote their last chapter to Byatt as “public intellectual” and champion of new writing, as “an active player in the wider cultural field she inhabits and has also undoubtedly helped to shape” (9). Indeed, Byatt graciously accepted the invitation to be guest of honour at the launch of this book at the University of Westminster on the auspicious date of 20/1/2011. The authors show how Byatt invites her readers to participate in an interactive process: “…Byatt’s commitment to the paradigm of dialogical criticism, or criticism as conversation, which not only encompasses the relationship between readers, be they lay or professional, of the same text, but also that of reader to text” (9). It seems that they have sympathised with this approach so much that they use it themselves on occasion. They create a dialogue within their text between their arguments and the quotations from Byatt that they select for illustration. Two or three examples should suffice to map this re- enactment. In the first chapter, in discussing The Shadow of the Sun, there is a quotation about the protagonist, Henry Severell, ending “‘I find this real and urgent enough’. Henry muttered into his beard. (SS: 31–2)” and their text takes up his comment: “And indeed he does” (16). In discussing The Game, the quotation ends: “‘Why not?’ said Percy. (G: 195– 6)” and the text echoes the question, but as a statement: “Why not indeed” (30). Also on The Game: “Who had stolen whose action? (G: 252)”, answered by “Nobody, as it turns out” (32). This dialogic approach is very reader-friendly as it asks readers to think about the ideas prompted by the quotation, though it guides their reading rather than challenges it. So perhaps the authors should have distanced themselves a little more. They have uncovered a “curious fact” (9) concerning periodicity: “By the turn of the millennium, Byatt seemed to fit much more comfortably on the map of contemporary British writing than she had done as a young novelist in the 1960s and 1970s” (9). They assert that she wrote neither “gritty social realism” nor “anglicised reworkings of the nouveau roman” (9). The authors agree with Kathleen Coyne Kelly (1996) that Byatt has not changed in her interests and aims in writing. Her later works are not best-sellers like Possession; nevertheless, they are great, mature works, and Byatt prefers to pursue her constant interests and aims rather than follow a formula that might bring economic benefit. So, as Alfer and Edwards de Campos explain, it is more a case of “today’s literary climate” adjusting itself to her and thus vindicating her dedication to narrative that might “grapple with important questions of our time” (9-10). The authors define her particular brand of realism, which makes her readers meditate a discursive system of representation rather than simply accept it at face value as a realism that:
far from being epistemologically naive, can indeed be a profoundly self-conscious mode of storytelling, productively worried about its own premises, and centrally concerned not so much, nor so simply, with the faithful representation of reality as with the problems and pitfalls of our desire for such representations, and the always essentially textual strategies we employ in pursuit of them (52).
In the course of their book, they chart the different influences that have been brought to bear on Byatt’s thinking and with which she has grappled, a breeding-ground from which this type of realism sprang up and was tended over the decades. The critical legacy Byatt inherited encompasses the dogmatic dictates of her teacher at Cambridge, F. R. Leavis; T. S. Eliot’s ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’ (1975 [1919]); and the
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 199–204 ISSN 0210-6124 Reviews 203 works of the two women writers to whom Byatt dedicated monographs: Iris Murdoch and George Eliot (see Wallhead 1999: 43-62). George Eliot wrote: “Form, as an element of human experience, must begin with the perception of difference” (1990: 232), a starting-point to which the authors attribute great importance (55). Another referent is The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction (1967) by her colleague at University College London, Frank Kermode, which informs, the authors feel, formal aspects of A Whistling Woman (79) and, one might add, The Biographer’s Tale and The Children’s Book. The pervasive aspects in these are, as the authors show, “our sense of ourselves as stories with beginnings, conflicts and resolutions, and ends” (79) and “the slippery nature of human identity” (130). By choosing to focus their study of Byatt on her “critical storytelling”, the authors evade the pitfall of formulating a partisan approach, of which Byatt, that “non-belonger to schools of thought” (Byatt 1991: 2) has often made a disavowal: “she objects to the indiscriminate application, so common in contemporary academia, of critical metanarratives to a work of fiction, be they post-structuralist, postmodernist or Leavisite. To Byatt, the best methodology is to have no fixed methodology: …” (144). Dame Antonia can have no objection to this book, quite the reverse.
Works Cited
Alfer, Alexa and Michael J. Noble, eds. 2001: Essays on the Fiction of A. S. Byatt: Imagining the Real. Westport: Greenwood. Beer, Gillian 2000 (1983): Darwin’s Plots: Evolutionary Narrative in Darwin, George Eliot and Nineteenth- Century Fiction. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. Byatt. A. S. 1991: Passions of the Mind: Selected Writings. London: Chatto and Windus. Edwards de Campos, Amy 2005: ‘The Critical Reception of A. S. Byatt 1964-2002: A Contextual Reading’. Unpublished Ph.D. thesis. Worcester College, U of Oxford. Eliot, George 1990 (1868): ‘Notes on Form in Art’. A. S. Byatt and Nicholas Warren, eds. Selected Essays, Poems and Other Writings. Harmondsworth: Penguin. 231-36. Eliot, T. S. 1975 (1919): ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’. Frank Kermode, ed. Selected Prose of T. S. Eliot. London: Faber and Faber. 37-44. Hadley, Louisa 2008: The Fiction of A. S. Byatt: A Reader’s Guide to Essential Criticism. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Kelly, Kathleen Coyne 1996: A. S. Byatt. New York: Twayne. Kermode, Frank 1967: The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction. New York: Oxford UP. Lakoff, George and Mark Johnson, eds. 1980: Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: U of Chicago P. Parini, Jay, ed. 2004: British Writers: Classics. New York: Scribner. Wallhead, Celia 1999: The Old, the New and the Metaphor: A Critical Study of the Novels of A. S. Byatt. Atlanta, London and Sydney: Minerva P. ––––– 2003: ‘Metaphors for the Self in A. S. Byatt’s The Biographer’s Tale’. Language and Literature 12: 291-308. ––––– 2007: A. S. Byatt: Essays on the Short Fiction. Berne: Peter Lang.
Received 4 April 2011 Revised version accepted 20 July 2011
Celia Wallhead Salway is Senior Lecturer in the Department of English and German Philology at the University of Granada. She previously taught Spanish at the University of Auckland, New Zealand, and the University of Wales at Aberystwyth. She also worked for the British Council. At present, she teaches courses in English and American literature, specialising in postmodernism and postcolonialism. She has
ATLANTIS. Journal of the Spanish Association of Anglo-American Studies. 33.2 (December 2011): 199–204 ISSN 0210-6124 204 Celia Wallhead Salway written books and articles on over thirty authors, but specialises in A.S.Byatt (2 books and 20 articles), Thomas Pynchon and Salman Rushdie. Her most recent books are Washington Irving and Spain (2010) and, as editor and co-editor respectively, The Writers of the Spanish Civil War: the Testimony of their Auto/Biographies and V is for Varo Too: Hispanic Elements in the Work of Thomas Pynchon. Selected Papers from the Granada Pynchon Conference (both 2011).
Address: Departamento de Filología Inglesa y Alemana. Facultad de Filosofía y Letras. Campus de Cartuja. Universidad de Granada. 18071 Granada, Spain. Tel.: +34 958 507521 or 958 241000 ex 20239. Fax: +34 958 243678.
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Acknowledgements The Editors wish to thank all those members of the Editorial Board of Atlantis who have given their time and expertise to this journal. Likewise, we thank Jesús Tronch (Universidad de Valencia), José Francisco Fernández (University of Almería), Enrique Bernárdez (Univeridad Complutense) and Javier Valenzuela (University of Murcia) for their willingness to assess certain articles or reviews.
The Editors also express their gratitude to the Universidad Complutense de Madrid for support during the six years of our editorship; in particular to Dámaso López García (Dean) and Pilar Martínez González (Head Librarian) of the Faculty of Philology.
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Editorial policy, Instructions to contributors and abridged Guidelines
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Punctuation. In general, make your usage as consistent as possible. Although the finer points of punctuation are often a matter of personal preference, the main purpose is clarity, and here it is wiser to follow established convention. Do not use commas (,) before “and” and “or” in a series of three or more. Never use a comma and a dash together. A comma can never precede a parenthesis; it must always follow it (such as this), if required by the context. A dash (–) is not the same as a hyphen (-). The former is used to introduce an explanation (you must arrive on time—not two hours late), and the latter joins words in a compound such as twenty-four. Do not confuse them. Question marks (?) and exclamation marks (!) should not normally be used in scholarly writing. Periods (.) close notes and bibliographical citations as well as complete sentences in text and notes. The period is placed within the parenthesis when the parenthetical element is independent: “. . . the language is both subliterary and transpersonal (in contrast, allegory, for example, is transpersonal but not subliterary)”. but “. . . the language is both subliterary and transpersonal. (On the other hand, allegory, for example, is transpersonal but not subliterary.)” Square brackets ([]) are used for an unavoidable parenthesis within a parenthesis, to enclose interpolations or comments in a quotation or incomplete data and to enclose phonetic transcription. (Slash marks [/] are used to enclose phonemic transcription.) Note that a period or comma is placed before a superscript indicating a note, for example: “…with whose king he has negotiated the monopoly of the sugar trade with England.14”
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Danby, John F. 1961: Shakespeare’s Doctrine of Nature: A Study of King Lear. London: Faber. Carnero González, José 1982: ‘Calipso y Penélope en Ulysses’. James Joyce: A New Language: Actas/Proceedings del Simposio Internacional en el Centenario de James Joyce. Ed. Francisco García Tortosa, et al. Sevilla: Depto. de Literatura Inglesa de la Univ. de Sevilla: 167-74. Kastovsky, Dieter 1986: ‘The Problem of Productivity in Word-formation’. Linguistics 24: 585- 600.
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