Acta litteraria comparativa - Réseau européen d`études littéraires

Transcription

LIETUVOS LYGINAMOSIOS LITERATŪROS ASOCIACIJA
Acta litteraria
comparativa
EUROPOS KRAŠTOVAIZDŽIO TRANSFORMACIJOS:
SAVO IR SVETIMO SUSITIKIMAI
TRANSFORMATIONS OF THE EUROPEAN LANDSCAPE:
ENCOUNTERS BETWEEN THE SELF AND THE OTHER
MOKSLO DARBAI
5
2010–2011
Vilnius
ISSN 1822-5608
Sudarytojos / Formers
Prof. dr. Nijolė Vaičiulėnaitė-Kašelionienė Vilniaus pedagoginis universitetas
(Lietuva)
Prof. dr. Aušra Jurgutienė Lietuvių literatūros ir tautosakos institutas (Lietuva)
Dalia Kaladinskienė
Vilniaus pedagoginis universitetas (Lietuva)
Atsakingoji redaktorė / Executive Secretary
Dalia Kaladinskienė
Vilniaus pedagoginis universitetas (Lietuva)
Recenzentai / Reviewers
Prof. habil. dr. Kęstutis Nastopka Vilniaus universitetas (Lietuva)
Prof. dr. Viktorija Skrupskelytė Kauno Vytauto Didžiojo universitetas
(Lietuva)
Mokslinis komitetas / Scientific Committee
Prof. dr. Alain Montandon (Klermon-Ferano universitetas, Prancūzija)
Prof. dr. Jüri Talvet (Tartu universitetas, Estija)
Dr. Lucia Boldrini (Londono Goldsmito universitetas, Anglija)
Prof. dr. Aušra Jurgutienė (Lietuvių literatūros ir tautosakos institutas, Lietuva)
Doc. dr. Žydronė Kolevinskienė (Vilniaus pedagoginis universitetas, Lietuva)
Doc. dr. Genovaitė Dručkutė (Vilniaus universitetas, Lietuva)
Prof. dr. Nijolė Vaičiulėnaitė-Kašelionienė (Vilniaus pedagoginis universitetas,
Lietuva)
Adresas / Address
Lietuvos lyginamosios literatūros asociacija / Lithuanian Association
of Comparative Literature
T. Ševčenkos 31, LT–03111 Vilnius
Lietuva / Lithuania
Tel. (+370 5) 2333635, fak. (+370 5) 2335299, el. p. [email protected]
Leidinį remia
LIETUVOS RESPUBLIKOS KULTŪROS RĖMIMO FONDAS
VALSTYBINIS MOKSLO IR STUDIJŲ FONDAS
LIETUVIŲ LITERATŪROS IR TAUTOSAKOS INSTITUTAS
VILNIAUS PEDAGOGINIS UNIVERSTITETAS
© Lietuvos lyginamosios literatūros asociacija, 2010–2011
© Vilniaus pedagoginis universitetas, 2010–2011
Turinys / Content
ĮVADAS / Foreword
Aušra Jurgutienė
Kultūros žemėlapio pokyčiai – nauji klausimai komparatyvistikai.............9
I. THE CHANGING CULTURAL MAP OF EUROPE / EUROPOS KULTŪRINIO
ŽEMĖLAPIO POKYČIAI
Alain MONTANDON
Progrès techniques et métamorphoses des espaces européens au
XIXe siècle.................................................................................................19
Techninis progresas ir Europos erdvių metamorfozės XIX amžiuje
Genovaitė DRUČKUTĖ
Un projet de l’Europe dans l’oeuvre d’Oscar Milosz................................32
Europos projektas Oscaro Miloszo kūryboje
Manfred SCHMELING
De l’humanisme au post-humanisme: Le discours sur l’Europe chez
Thomas Mann, André Gide et Hans-Magnus Enzensberger......................41
Nuo humanizmo iki post-humanizmo: Europos samprata Thomo Manno,
André Gide’o ir Hanso Magnuso Enzensbergerio diskursuose
Jüri TALVET
Western Humanism and the “Other”..........................................................54
Vakarų humanizmas ir „Kitas“
Vytautas MARTINKUS
Aksiologinis aspektas XXI amžiaus Europos literatūroje: Tesėjo
(iš Lietuvos?) beieškant ............................................................................65
Axiological Aspect in the European Literature of the 21st Century:
In Pursuit of Theseus (from Lithuania?)
Roumiana L. STANTCHEVA
La notion de “Littérature européenne” et ses problèmes identitaires
inhérents. Quelques échos des zones peu explorées .................................74
„Europos literatūros“ sąvoka ir su ja susijusios tapatybės problemos.
Keletas duomenų iš mažai tyrinėtų teritorijų
Dearbhla McGRATH
Changing Attitudes Towards Gender in Europe – a Comparative
Analysis of Fairy Tales Written by Women...............................................90
Keičiant požiūrį į lytį Europoje (moterų parašytų pasakų lyginamoji
analizė)
Aleš VAUPOTIČ
The Cultural Archive and the New Media Literature..............................102
Kultūrinis archyvas ir naujųjų medijų literatūra
II. RHETORIC OF IDENTITY / TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Farouk Y. Seif
The Dynamics of Cultural Identity: Persevering the Paradox
of Self and Others....................................................................................112
Kultūrinės tapatybės dinamika: Savęs ir Kitų paradoksas kaip galimybė
Raïa ZAÏMOVA
Rattraper l’Europe dans la recherche de soi-même?................................125
Pavyti Europą ieškant savęs?
Anneli MIHKELEV
Myths in National Epics, Myths in Society: Some Chronotopes
in European Epics....................................................................................136
Mitai tautiniuose epuose ir visuomenėje: keletas europinės epikos
chronotopų
Benedikts KALNAČS
National History, Folklore and the Bible as Sources of the Baltic
Modernist Drama.....................................................................................144
Tautinė istorija, folkloras ir Biblija kaip moderniosios Baltijos
šalių dramos šaltiniai
Viktorija DAUJOTYTĖ
Lietuvių poetinio gamtovaizdžio tradicija: Strazdas, Baranauskas,
Geda (archetipai ir universalijos).............................................................151
The Tradition of Lithuanian Poetical Landscape: Strazdas, Baranauskas,
Geda (Archetypes and Universalities)
Nijolė VAIČIULĖNAITĖ-KAŠELIONIENĖ
La perspective des recherches imagologiques. Image de Paris dans la
littérature lituanienne...............................................................................169
Imagologijos tyrimų perspektyva. Paryžiaus įvaizdis lietuvių literatūroje
Christina PARNELL
“The world repeats itself in its boredom”. Third Spaces
in Lithuanian Literature...........................................................................180
„Pasaulis nuobodžiai pasikartoja“. Trečiosios erdvės lietuvių
literatūroje
Brigitte LE JUEZ
De Banville à Banville: le développement littéraire
de la représentation picturale du mythe de Cythère ................................192
Nuo Banville‘io prie Banville‘io: mito apie Kiterą tapybinės
reprezentacijos literatūros raidoje
Laura Fernanda BULGER
Out of the Remains of an Old World – The British at War in Novels
by Woolf, Ishiguro and McEwan.............................................................209
Iš senojo pasaulio likučių – britai kare Woolf, Ishiguro ir McEwano
romanuose
Nicoleta CĂLINA
A Journey in Search of the Human Self: Alessandro Baricco –
“Novecento”.............................................................................................223
Kelionė ieškant savo žmogiškosios savasties: Alessandro Baricco
„Novečente“
Beata WALIGORSKA-OLEJNICZAK
The Category of Montage as the Tool to Understand the Grammar
of the City in Postmodern Cinema. Representation of the Changing
World in “Pulp Fiction”...........................................................................229
Montažo kategorija kaip įrankis suprasti miesto gramatiką
postmoderniame kine. Kintančio pasaulio reprezentacija
„Bulvariniame skaitale“
Sandra VLASTA
The Creation of “Global Ethnoscapes” in the Literature of Migration....239
„Globalių etnovaizdžių“ kūrimas migrantų literatūroje
Ekkehard Wolfgang BORNTRÄGER
Vers un radieux avenir English speaking? Quelques réflexions sur
l’impact et les enjeux linguistiques de la mondialisation en Irlande
et en Inde..................................................................................................250
Į šviesią ateitį su anglų kalba? Keletas pamąstymų apie kalbines
globalizacijos pasekmes Airijoje ir Indijoje
David ADAMS
Modern Paranoia and Kafka’s “Der Bau” (“The Burrow”).....................265
Modernioji paranoja ir Kafkos “Der Bau” („Urvas“)
III. CENTRE / PERIPHERY AS A CHALLENGE / CENTRO / PERIFERIJOS
IŠŠŪKIAI
Marko JUVAN
World Literature(s) and Peripheries.........................................................272
Pasaulio literatūra(-os) ir pakraščiai
Sonja STOJMENSKA-ELZESER
The Urban Landscape in Macedonian Literature in the Context
of the Centre / Periphery Discussion.......................................................286
Miesto peizažas Makedonijos literatūroje centro / periferijos
diskusijos kontekste
Zanda GŪTMANE
The Borderline Situation and the Border Crossings in the Baltic Prose
at the Turn of the 90’s..............................................................................294
Pasienis ir sienos kirtimas Baltijos šalių prozoje įžengiant į paskutinį
XX a. dešimtmetį
Nana GAPRINDASHVILI, Nino TSERETELI
Georgian-Lithuanian Literary Relationships (Historical and
Philological Overview)............................................................................301
Gruzijos-Lietuvos literatūriniai ryšiai (istorinė ir filologinė apžvalga)
Oksana WERETIUK
Between the Center and the Periphery: the Past and the Present
of the Literature of the Polish-Ukrainian Borderland..............................310
Tarp centro ir periferijos: Lenkijos-Ukrainos pasienio literatūros
praeitis ir dabartis
Nina BOCHKAREVA
Vasilij Kamenskij and Aubrey Beardsley: Vulgar Russia versus
Refined Britain.........................................................................................322
Vasilijus Kamenskis ir Aubrey’is Beardsley’is: vulgarioji Rusija
prieš rafinuotą Britaniją
Roland LYSELL
“Tysk host” (“German autumn”) – The Swedish Author Stig
Dagerman’s Journalism on Germany immediately after World War II...337
“Tysk host” („Vokiškas ruduo“) – švedų rašytojo Stigo Dagermano
reportažai apie Vokietiją po Antrojo pasaulinio karo
Aušra JURGUTIENĖ
Looking for Regional Literary History ...................................................349
Regioninės literatūros istorijos paieškos
Livija MAČAITYTĖ
XXI amžiaus pastoralė: „naujieji išvietintieji“ šiandienos prozoje.........362
The XXIst Century Pastoral: “New Displaced Persons”
in Contemporary Prose
IV. TRAVEL LITERATURE / KELIONIŲ LITERATŪRA
Maria Teresa NASCIMENTO
L‘Itinéraire de la Terre Sainte de Fr. Pantaleão de Aveiro – un voyage
de spiritualité............................................................................................372
Brolio Pantaleão de Aveiro piligrimystės į Šventąją Žemę užrašai
kaip dvasinės kelionės vadovas
Francesco GIUSTI
Encountering the Other in the Middle Ages: from Ibn Fadlan’s
Account to Michael Crichton’s Fiction....................................................381
Susitikimas su Kitu Viduramžiais: nuo Ibn Fadlano kelionių
aprašymų iki Michaelio Crichton‘o mokslinės fantastikos
Kai MIKKONEN
The Immediacy of Reading Novels. Travel Fact and Fiction in André
Gide’s Central Africa...............................................................................394
Skaitymo betarpiškumas: Centrinė Afrika André Gide’o kūryboje –
faktai ir grožinė literatūra
Maija BURIMA
Travel Narratives in Latvian Literature of the Early XXIst Century........410
Kelionės pasakojimai XXI amžiaus pradžios latvių literatūroje
Sigutė RADZEVČIENĖ
Travels of Lithuanians from Scandinavia: Searching for The Other.......418
Lietuvių kelionės iš Skandinavijos: Kito beieškant
Anneli KÕVAMEES
Border State Traveller in Europe.............................................................426
Pasienio valstybės keliautojas Europoje
Vietoj išvadų / By Way of Conclusion
Nijolė Vaičiulėnaitė-Kašelionienė
The Achievements of this Congress will be Measured by Time…..........438
Contribution de Karl ZIEGER
Round Table Discussion / Table Ronde finale.........................................441
ĮVADAS
Foreword
Kultūros žemėlapio pokyčiai – nauji
klausimai komparatyvistikai
Akivaizdu, kad išsiplėtus Europos Sąjungai, kinta ir bendroji Europos
kultūros, ir atskirų nacionalinių literatūrų tapatybių samprata, literatūroje
intensyviau aptariami kintantys geografiniai centro ir periferijos santykiai,
o gausioje kelionių literatūroje iš naujo apmąstomos „nepažįstamųjų“ iš
Rytų Europos pakraščio sugrįžimo į bendruosius Europos namus problemos. Šie konkretūs susivienijusios Europos pokyčiai skatina plėtoti lyginamuosius literatūros tyrinėjimus: tampa įdomu ir būtina nagrinėti vienos
šalies kultūros įvaizdį kitos (ar kitų) kultūros kontekste, tirti tų įvaizdžių
kaitą laike bei erdvėje. Tokiems tyrimams svarbios įvairios kultūrų dialogų formos, suaktyvintos išaugusios migracijos ir globalizacijos. Suintensyvėję Savo ir Svetimo kultūroje susitikimai gilina ir keičia individo, literatūros, kultūros tapatybės sampratą, neatsiejamą nuo kalbinės tapatybės
problemos.
Tokioms temoms ir problemoms skirtas naujas Acta comparativa leidinio numeris. Jame iškeltus klausimus svarsto Lietuvos lyginamosios
asociacijos nariai, pasikvietę kolegas iš Europos lyginamųjų literatūros
studijų tinklo asociacijos (REELC-ENCLS), žinomi komparatyvistikos
profesoriai ir jauni mokslininkai, siekiama suaktyvinti skirtingų kartų ir
kultūrų dialogą.
Pirmoji leidinio dalis Europos kultūrinio žemėlapio pokyčiai skirta bendrosioms Europos kultūros kaitos problemoms. Norint suprasti, ką
reiškia Kitas šiandienos kultūroje, dera kreiptis į istoriją. Prancūzų komparatyvistas profesorius Alainas Montandonas primena XIX amžiaus techninio progreso atneštas naujoves. Anot jo, XIX a. naują erdvės percepcijos
posūkį nulėmė ne tik miestuose įvestas elektrinis apšvietimas, pavertęs
natūralų nakties peizažą dekoracija, bet ir tuo metu prasidėjusios kelionės
geležinkeliu, nes greitis keitė peizažą, paversdamas jį labiau vienodu bei
banaliu, kai lekiama pro šalį nieko neįsidėmint. XIX a. viduryje Théophile Gautier teigė, jog tada, kai Europoje bus sukurtas geležinkelių tinklas ir
galėsime nuvykti visur, kur norėsime, nebebus į ką žiūrėti, nes nusitrins ir
dings visos kultūrų skirtybės, keistumas, originalumas, skatinantys žmogų
keliauti. Jis apgailestavo, kad Europa jau ima rengtis ir gyventi vienodai,
ĮVADAS
o tai reiškia, kad greitai visi ims jaustis tarsi gyvenantys vienoje šalyje.
Europeizacijos terminas atsirado jau 1806 metais de Ligne raštuose, o poetas romantikas Gautier numatė kultūros MacDonaldizaciją, kuri reiškia,
kad technikos progresas pakeis žmogaus ir erdvės santykius, panaikins
papročių ir kultūros tradicijų įvairovę. Montandono nuomone, šiandien,
praslinkus dviems amžiams, ši techninio progreso sukelta kultūrų niveliacijos grėsmė, nurodyta XIX a. prancūzų ir kitų Europos rašytojų kūryboje,
tampa dar aktualesnė.
Genovaitės Dručkutės (Vilniaus universitetas) straipsnyje analizuojama lietuvių kilmės prancūzų simbolisto Oscaro Miloszo politinė ir kultūrinė Europos vizija, kuria jis siekė nurodyti Lietuvos vietą ir vaidmenį
Europoje po Pirmojo pasaulinio karo. Jo Europos projekte Lietuvai, dar
nesugadintai civilizacijos bei techninio progreso ir išsaugojusiai Vakaruose jau prarastas amžinąsias dvasines vertybes, buvo skirtas ypatingai
svarbus vaidmuo. Straipsnyje daroma išvada, kad Miloszo publicistikoje ir eseistikoje išplėtotas naujosios pokarinės Europos projektas liko tik
įspūdinga vizija, kuri nebuvo suprasta ir neturėjo jokių realių pasekmių.
Profesorius iš Vokietijos Manfredas Schmelingas, pristatydamas Europos sampratą trijų rašytojų Thomas’o Manno, André Gide’o ir HansoMagnus Enzensbergerio knygose, nurodo, kad visi jie priešinosi Europos
literatūrų suvienodėjimo tendencijoms. Nors visi trys kultūros progresą
suvokė kaip dialektinį vyksmą, kurį skatina individualumo, tautiškumo
ir tarptautiškumo jungtis, Mannas ir Gide’as reiškė idealistinę humanistinę Europos viziją ir gynė vieningos Europos idėją, o Enzenbergeris siūlo didesnį dėmesį atkreipti į globalizacijos keliamus pavojus, jausdamas
nostalgiją prarastajai senajai Europai, pasižymėjusiai tradicijų ir kultūrų
įvairove.
Jüri Talvetas (Tartu universitetas) taip pat svarsto Europos humanizmo problemą, aptardamas jo istorinę raidą, tikslindamas jo koncepciją.
Visiems yra gerai žinoma, kad humanizmas prasidėjo XIV a. Italijoje,
iškėlus žmogaus proto, mokslo ir pažangos idėjas, o Apšvietos amžiuje ir XIX a. amžiaus idealistinėse vokiečių filosofijose buvo susietas su
„transcendentaliniu Aš“, kaip pagrindiniu pažinimo šaltiniu. Bet turėtume atkreipti dėmesį, kad Europos humanistinėje kultūroje, be protingojo
subjekto galios ir tapatumo problemos, buvo formuojama ir jam priešingo – silpnojo ir svetimo Kito – suvokimo problema (Erasmuso, Thomas
More’o, Rabelais’o, Montaigne’o, Cervantes’o, Shakespeare’o, Quevedo,
Lope de Vegos, Tirso de Molinos, Calderóno, Herderio, Schlegelio, Nova-
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Foreword
lio, Goethe’s knygose). Humanistinėje kūryboje įsitvirtinusio pokalbio su
Kitu reikšmė yra naujai permąstyta Jurijaus Lotmano semiosferos teorijoje.
Vytautas Martinkus (Vilniaus pedagoginis universitetas) svarsto klasikinės aksiologijos šiuolaikinėje Europos literatūroje transformacijos problemas. Autorius kelia klausimus, kaip suderinti nuomonių toleranciją,
pliuralizmą ir reliatyvizmą su nenykstančiu poreikiu vertinti literatūrinę
kūrybą neprarandant vertybinės orientacijos. Jis tai vaizdingai palygina
su poreikiu išeiti iš postmodernizmo sukurto aksiologinio labirinto. Remdamasis prancūzų, rusų ir lietuvių romanų pavyzdžiais, išsilaisvinimą iš
labirinto Martinkus sieja su žmogaus gebėjimu susikurti individualią vertybių sistemą ir ją išreikšti per praktinę ir kūrybinę veiklą.
Sofijos universiteto profesorė Roumiana L. Stantcheva kelia aktualų
klausimą apie periferinių Europos literatūrų galimybes aktyviau dalyvauti
bendrame kultūros procese. Ji teigia, kad nors šiuo metu išleista daug gerų
lyginamosios literatūros veikalų, juose pateiktoje faktografijoje esančios
didžiulės spragos paverčia niekais gerus autorių norus. Ypač nedaug informacijos pateikiama apie Centrinės ir Pietryčių Europos, Skandinavijos
ir Baltijos kraštų literatūras. Pavyzdžiui, paskutinis Lietuvą Béatrice Didié veikale pristatantis faktas – Juozo Baltušio romanas Sakmė apie Juzą
(1979). Apskritai bulgarų, rumunų, lietuvių ir dar daugelio kitų kraštų
literatūros – tai baltos dėmės Europos literatūros žemėlapyje, nearti dirvonai lyginamosios literatūros laukuose. Todėl Stantcheva siūlo naujus
tyrimų kelius ir savo mintis iliustruoja konkrečia kūrinių analize: lygina
folklorą imituojančius bulgaro Konstantino Pavlovo, rumuno Marino Sorescu, prancūzo Jacques Prévert‘o ir lietuvio Marcelijaus Martinaičio eilėraščius, išryškindama juose žaidimą su tekstu, slepiantį socialinį protestą.
Tokia analizė leidžia autorei padaryti išvadą apie totalitarinių visuomenių
poezijoje išplitusį travesti žanrą.
Dearbhla McGrath (Dublino universitetas) domisi daugelį amžių moterų kuriamu ir puoselėjamu pasakų žanru, kaip parankia ardomąja priemone, leidžiančia iškelti uždraustus visuomeninius klausimus, iš kurių vieni
svarbiausių yra lyties ir seksualumo. Pasak autorės, Europos rašytojos šį
literatūros žanrą puikiai išnaudojo, kad parodytų, kokie lyčių santykiai susiklostę mūsų visuomenėje ir kaip jie keitėsi, ypač kai tradicinės pasakos
imtos moderniai perpasakoti. Straipsnyje tiriami anglės Angelos Carter,
prancūzės Marie Darrieussecq ir airės Emmos Donoghue modernūs pasakų perpasakojimai. Atliekant šių rašytojų kūrybos socialinę ir lyginamąją
11
ĮVADAS
analizę, siekiama prisibrauti prie pasakų giliojo turinio sluoksnio ir išsiaiškinti, kaip Europoje keitėsi požiūris į lyčių santykius.
Pirmasis skyrius yra baigiamas Alešo Vaupotičio (Liublijanos dizaino
akademija) straipsniu, kuris skirtas naujiems kultūros archyvams ir naujųjų medijų technologijoms bei literatūrai aptarti.
Didžiausią leidinio skyrių Tapatybės retorika sudaro straipsniai skirti tautinės ir kultūrinės tapatybės problemai. Farouko Y Seifo ir Raios
Zaimovos straipsniuose analizuojama tautinio tapatumo dinamika, neatskiriama nuo intensyvaus tarpkultūrinio bendravimo. Faroukas
��
Y. Seif’as
(Sietlo Antioch Universitetas, JAV) tautinio tapatumo kaitos problemą
siūlo susieti ne su įprasta Savo ir Svetimo priešprieša, o labiau įsigilinti
į paradoksalų savęs pažinimą per kitą ir su kitu. Toks tautinio tapatumo suvokimas, kai sava ir svetima jau netraktuojamos kaip absoliučios
skirtybės, padeda išvengti ydų ir problemų, kurias sukelia etnocentrizmas ir tautinio išskirtinumo ideologija. Paradoksinio tautinio tapatumo
pripažinimas padeda suvokti, kad žmogui yra lemta gyventi nuolatiniuose
skirtingų kultūrų prieštaravimuose, kurie skatina jo kūrybiškumo galią.
Svarbiausia straipsnio išvada yra ta, kad tautinio savitumo išsaugojimas
yra neįsivaizduojamas be jo nuolatinio konstravimo ir atnaujinimo.
Panašias mintis tęsia Raïa Zaïmova (Balkanų studijų institutas, Bulgarija)
pastebėdama, jog XIX amžiuje tautinė tapatybė Bulgarijoje ir Rumunijoje
formavosi Vakarų Europos pavyzdžiu. Tautinę savivoką Pietryčių Balkanuose žadino tai, kad žymusis prancūzų poetas Pierre‘as de Ronsard‘as
yra kilęs iš jų krašto; o ginčas dėl jo tautinės tapatybės privertė iš naujo
permąstyti vengrų, čekų, rumunų ir bulgarų tautinio tapatumo problemas.
Autorės teigimu, Kito kaip Svetimo įvaizdis pagrįstas veidrodiniu principu, todėl paribio literatūrų tautiškumo savivoka turi grįžtamąjį poveikį ir
Vakarų „didžiosioms“ kultūroms.
Anneli Mihkelev (Estijos mokslų akademija) ir Benedikts Kalnačs’o
(Latvijos universitetas) straipsniuose ieškoma genetinių kultūros tapatumo šaknų ir šaltinių. Mikhelev, remdamasi Bachtinu, tiria mitinio chronotopo, kaip tautinio tapatumo išraiškos, savybes, lygindama tris epus
(anglosaksų Beovulfas (Boewulf), estų Kalevo sūnus (Kalevipoeg) ir latvių
Lačplėsis (Lāčplēsis). Kalnačs’as lyginimo analizei pasirinkęs dvi XX a.
pr. dramas (latvių rašytojo Rainio Juozapas ir jo broliai ir estų rašytojo
A. H. Tammsaarės Judita) aiškinasi, kaip juose panaudoti Biblijos, folkloro ir tautos išsivadavimo iš carinės Rusijos okupacijos istoriniai motyvai padeda sukurti personažų individualybes, kurioms būdingas vidinis
12
Foreword
konfliktiškumas, atsirandantis aktualizuojant tradicines vertybes ir elgesio
normas.
Kiti trys skyriaus straipsniai yra skirti lietuvių literatūrai ir jos tautinio
tapatumo problemoms. Viktorija Daujotytė (Vilniaus universitetas) straipsnyje apmąsto lietuvių poetinio gamtovaizdžio tradiciją, siūlydama
pažvelgti į ją iš modernaus poeto Sigito Gedos (1943 – 2008) taško. Taip
žvelgiant, atraminiais tautinio gamtovaizdžio tradicijos vardais tampa
XIX a. poetai Antanas Strazdas ir Antanas Baranauskas. Teigiama, kad
Strazdo gamtovaizdžio dominantė yra laukas, o Baranausko – miškas.
Tačiau paties Sigito Gedos gamtos poezijoje išskirtinę vietą užima vanduo, save poetas net buvo pavadinęs vandenžmogiu. Lietuvių poetinio
gamtovaizdžio tradicijoje veikia skirtingi archetipų ir universalijų deriniai,
priklausomi nuo rašytojo pasaulėjautos ir jo poetinės kalbos principų.
Nijolė Kašelionienė (Vilniaus pedagoginis universitetas) tautino tapatumo problemą susieja ne tik su dviejų, lietuvių ir prancūzų, kultūrų
istorinių ryšių problema, bet ir su imagologijos bei postkolonializmo
tyrimų metodologinėmis nuostatomis. Autorė aptaria Paryžiaus įvaizdį
lietuvių literatūroje, atskleisdama jo ypatumus ir skirtumus įvairiuose pasirinktuose kūriniuose.
Christina Parnell (Erfurto universitetas, Vokietija) straipsnyje pratęsia
tautinio tapatumo temą lietuvių literatūroje, savo tyrimo objektu pasirinkdama rašytojo Mariaus Ivaškevičiaus romaną Žali (2002), kurio pasirodymas sukėlė didžiausius politikų, literatūros kritikų ir šiaip skaitytojų
ginčus. Rašytojas pasirinko politiškai labai aktualią temą – pokario (19441953) lietuvių partizanų („žaliųjų“) pasipriešinimą rusų okupacinei kariuomenei („raudoniesiems“). Bet savo romane jis atsisako iki tol buvusio istorijos dualistinio savi/priešai interpretavimo, sukurdamas „trečiąją erdvę“
(Homi K. Bhabha terminas), kurioje vieni su kitais kariaujantys lietuviai,
ir rusai suvokiami kaip totalitarizmo aukos.
Laura Fernanda Bulger (De Trás-os-Montes e Alto Douro universitetas, Portugalija) straipsnyje analizuojama anglų identiteto problema, pasitelkus tris romanus Virginijos Woolf Tarp veiksmų (Between the Acts
(1941)), Iano McEwan’o Atpirkimas (Atonement (2001)) ir Kazuo Ishiguro Dienos likučiai (The Remains of the Day (1988)). Autorė parodo,
kaip šiuose romanuose vaizduojamas Antrasis pasaulinis karas sugriauna
mitą, kad didžiosios anglų imperijos tautinė tapatybė sustiprėja istoriškai
kritiškais valstybei momentais, o kolektyvinė pariotiškumo galia prabunda ir save išreiškia pajutusi išorinio priešo pavojų. Straipsnyje problema
13
ĮVADAS
svarstoma ir plačiau, keliant klausimą, ar „angliškumo“, kaip globalizacijos reiškinio palydovo, plitimas, nėra tik dar viena išpuoselėto anglų gero
tono kaukių, slepianti nesustabdomus tautinio tapatumo dezintegracijos
procesus.
Brigitte Le Juez (Dublino universitetas) aptaria Kiteros mito,
pasakojančio apie graikų meilės deivės Afroditės gimimą Kiteros saloje,
interpretacijas literatūroje ir mene, ypatingai išskirdama parnasiečio poeto
Théodoro de Banvillio kūrybą, kurioje Kitera buvo pavaizduota kaip
Vakarų sumaterialėjusios vsuomenės prarastasis rojus.
Nicoleta Călina (Rumunijos universitetas) nagrinėja Alessandro Baricco romaną Novečentas (Novecento), jo teatrinius pastatymus, pristatydama protagonistą kaip nuolat keliaujantį tarp Europos ir Amerikos muziką,
mįslingą, tautybės neturintį, bet nuolat savęs ieškantį individą. Beata Waligorska-Olejniczak (Adomo Mickevičiaus universitetas, Poznanė) analizuoja QuentinoTarantino filme Bulvarinis skaitalas panaudotą montažinę
techniką, kuri leidžia parodyti, kaip įvairių miestų ervės kartoja viena
kitą, kurdamos popkultūrinių vertybių mišinį ir suteikdamos jų gyventojui
iliuzinę kultūros tapatybę.
Sandra Vlasta (Vienos universitetas) migrantų literatūros ir žiniasklaidos skaitymui pritaiko antropologo Arjuno Appadurai „globalios etnoerdvės“ sąvoką. „Globali“ erdvė nuo įprastos etnocentrinės skiriasi tuo,
kad nėra tvirčiau susieta su rašytojo kilmės vieta, o susidaro iš įvairiausių
vietų, panašiai kaip laikraščio informaciniai tekstai, ir turi tendenciją kartu su migracija plėstis. Ji taikoma tiems autoriams, kurie liaujasi rašę gimtąja kalba ir yra pirmos, antros arba trečios kartos emigrantai. „Globali
etnoerdvė“, kaip naujo identiteto išraiška, yra tiriama Julijos Rabinowich
romane Suskilęs protas (Spaltkopf (2008)), Seher Çakır apsakymų rinkinyje Citrinų tortas penkiasdešimt šeštai moteriai (Zitronenkuchen für die
sechsundfünfzigste frau (2009)), Monicos Ali romane Plytų gatvė (Brick
Lane (2003)).
Komparatyvistika mums gali ir turi padėti įsisąmoninti tai, kad Europos tautinė ir kalbinė įvairovė yra didžiausia jos vertybė. Globalizacijos
akivaizdoje turėtume būti dar labiau suinteresuoti kiekvienos tapatybės
ir kiekvienos kalbos išsaugojimu. Būtent tokias mintis kelia Fribūro universiteto profesorius Ekkehardas Wolfgangas Bornträgeris. Konkrečiai
aptardamas anglų kalbos ekspansijos šiuolaikiniame pasaulyje problemą.
Pasitelkęs Airijos bei Indijos kultūros pavyzdžius, Bornträgeris pastebi,
kad priešingai bendroms prognozėms pastaraisiais metais jose labai iš-
14
Foreword
augo vietinių kalbų prestižas. Autorius abejoja, ar minimos šalys daug
laimėjo iš vadinamosios anglofonijos – juk šis importas nustelbė vietinius
autorius ir išugdė savotišką nepilnavertiškumo kompleksą, kurio emancipuota visuomenė dabar stengiasi nusikratyti. Lietuvą ir kitas Baltijos
valstybes profesorius mini kaip lenkiančias Airiją nacionalinių knygų leidyba ir suteikiančias galimybę saviems, kad ir vidutinio lygio rašytojams,
sėkmingai dalyvauti rinkos procesuose. Bornträgeris perspėja, kad jo nelaikytume anglų kalbos priešu, jis tik stengiasi aiškintis naujas lingvistines tendencijas, kurioms įtakos turi modernėjantis socialinis-ekonominis
gyvenimas.
Trečiasis leidinio skyrius Centro ir periferijos iššūkiai yra skirtas naujam Vakarų ir Rytų ar Pakraščių Europos santykių permąstymui. Jį pradeda Marko Juvano (Slovėnijos mokslų ir menų akademija) konceptualiai
svarstomi pokyčiai, kuriuos išgyvena lyginamieji literatūros tyrimai, kai
iš Goethes apibrėžtos pasaulio literatūros sampratos, kurioje kosmopolitiškumas buvo derinamas su tautiškumu , pereiname į globalaus pasaulio
erdvę, kur dominuoja intertekstualumas ir tarptautinė skaitytojų auditorija,
o lyginamosiose studijose silpnėja tautinis aspektas. Juvanas klausia, kaip
šiuo metu yra „globalizuojama“ XIX a. iškelta kultūrų tautinio savitumo
idėja ir kaip visa tai veikia bei keičia šiuolaikinę komparatyvistiką? Oksanos Weretiuk, Sonjos Stojmenska-Elzeser ir Zandos Gūtmanės
straipsniuose kalbama apie paribių literatūras ir jose išnykstančią centro/
periferijos opoziciją. Weretiuk (Žešuvo universitetas, Lenkija) analizuoja Galicijos literatūrą kaip dviejų Ukrainos ir Lenkijos literatūrų paribį.
Galicijos istorinis regionas skirtingais laikotarpiais visas ar iš dalies priklausė Kijevo Rusiai, Lietuvos Didžiajai Kunigaikštystei, Lenkijai, Austrijai-Vengrijai, Ukrainos TSR, o dabar yra padalintas tarp Ukrainos ir
Lenkijos. Lyginamoji šio regiono lenkų ir ukrainiečių literatūrų analizė
parodo, kaip skirtingai atskiros grupės yra suvokia bendruosius regiono politinius ir kultūrinius reiškinius, kaip tai yra susiję su skirtingomis
kalbomis, religijomis, tautinėmis tradicijomis ir kultūriniu kanonou. Šio
regiono skirtingas literatūras galima traktuoti kaip to paties regiono skirtingus pakraščius, puoselėjančius savas vertybes ir savus kultūrinius centrus (Lvovas ir Krokuva). Tačiau nepaisant didelių kultūrinių priešpriešų,
esama ir kultūrinių mainų bei bendravimo momentų, kurie taip pat nusako
šio paribio kultūros savitumą. Elzeser (Makedonijos literatūros institutas)
tyrimo objektu pasirinko šiuolaikinio Makedonijos rašytojo Kica B. Kolbe
romaną Sniegas Kasablankoje, kuriame kalbama apie Skopję, pateikiamas
15
ĮVADAS
naujas demitologizuotas požiūris į šio miesto praeitį ir šiuolaikines jo erdves. Svarstoma, ar Makedonijos rašytojų vaizduojamas Skopjės miestas
laikytinas vienu Europos kultūros centru, ar jo periferiniu variantu. Gūtmanė (Liepojos universitetas, Latvija) tiria ne geografinį, o istorinį kultūrų paribį, kada Baltijos šalys ėmė vaduotis iš sovietinio politinio režimo
ir tapo naujomis posovietinėmis demokratinėmis visuomenėmis. Kaip šis
istorinis virsmas buvo suvoktas ir išsakytas tuo metu rašytuose lietuvių
rašytojo Ričardo Gavelio romane Vilniaus pokeris (1989), latvių rašytojo
Aivaro Tarvido Sienos pažeidėjas (Robežpārkāpējs (1990)) ir estų rašytojo Tõnu Õnnepalu (slapyvardis Emil Tode) Pasienio valstybė (Piiririik
(1993))? Tai klausimas, į kurį straipsnyje yra ieškoma atsakymo. Nors
visų trijų romanų protagonistai yra panašūs į Bildungsromanų maištaujantį prieš savo aplinką herojų, tačiau tyrėja renkasi postkolonijinį interpretavimo aspektą, nes jis geriausiai leidžia parodyti, kaip buvo kolonizuotas
žmonių protas ir sugriauta okupuotų šalių kultūra. Visų trijų romanų protagonistai siekia išeiti iš fizinių ir psichinių kolonizuoto žmogaus ribų, bet
jiems tai nepavyksta. Todėl jie apibūdinami kaip paribio situacijos figūros.
Romanų analizė parodo, kad lengviau yra paskelbti tautos politinę nepriklausomybę nei išlaisvinti pavergtą žmogaus mąstymą.
Tbilisio universiteto dėstytojos Nana Gaprindashvili ir Nino Tsereteli
pateikia istorinę gruzinų ir lietuvių literatūrinių ryšių analizę, pabrėždamos, kad, nepaisant cenzūros suvaržymų, jie buvo intensyviausi sovietmečio periodu.
Ninos Bochkarevos (Valstybinis Permės universitetas, Rusija) straipsnyje Vasilijus Kamenskis ir Aubrey’is Beardsley’is: vulgarioji Rusija versus rafinuota Britanija, atliekama dviejų menininkų kūrybos lyginamoji
analizė, ieškant jų panašumų ir skirtumų. Kamenskio ir Beardsley‘io kūrybą vienija vadinamoji žodžių muzikos vizualioji grafika, atsirandanti iš
jų knygų iliustracijų, grafikos ir literatūros sukurto vientisumo. Taip pat
juos sieja panaši gyvenimo teatralizavimo idėja ir naujos kūrybos aktyvus propagavimas. O jų didžiausi skirtumai išaiškėja suvokiant menininką Beardsley‘io romano Kalvos papėdėje (Under the Hill) protagonisto
minezingeriu Tannhäuserio išrankaus skonio kūryba atstovauja Wagnerio
ir Nietzshes dionisinei tradicijai, o Kamenskio romano Stenka Razinas
protagonistas kovingasis dainininkas Stenka Razinas yra išaugęs iš rusų
folklorinės tradicijos ir iš futurizmo estetikos.
Rolandas Lysellis (Stokholmo universitetas), remdamasis švedų rašytojo Stigo Dagermano straipsnių rinkiniu Vokiškas ruduo (Tysk höst,
16
Foreword
(1947)), aptaria penktojo dešimtmečio švedų kartos, kuri vadinama moderniosios literatūros viršūne (Fyrtitalisterna), santykį su karą pralaimėjusia Vokietija. Savo knygoje Dagermanas sukritikavo visas dabartinės
Vokietijos politines partijas, išskyrus kelias nedideles karo metu veikusias
antifašistines grupeles, ir dar kartą patvirtino nuomonę, kad anarchistinis
sindikalizmas skeptiškai vertino valstybiškumą. Jis išreiškė penktajam dešimtmečiui būdingą metafizinį skepticizmą, kai nepajėgiantis suvokti savo
tikrovės žmogus, paniekintos aukos kerštą ir nuolatinius kentėjimus Dagermano priklausomybę savajai kartai paliudija rašymo stiliaus ypatumai – paradoksalumai, meistriškos metaforos bei intertekstualinės nuorodos.
Aušros Jurgutienės (Vilniaus pedagoginis universitetas) straipsnyje
keliama mintis, kad pastaruoju laiku augant globalizacijai, plečiantis Europos sąjungai ir stiprėjant nacionalinių literatūrų metanaratyvų kritikai,
vis aktualesne tampa regioninė literatūros istorijų modeliavimo bei tyrimo tendencija. Įvairiai profiliuojamos regioninės atminties žadinimas gali
būti motyvuotas tik šiandieninės literatūros interpretatorių savimonės ypatumais. Šalia tradicinio tautinės kultūros tapatumo, daugeliui vis labiau
tampa patrauklesnė jį savaip papildanti, performuojanti ir komplikuojanti
regioninės kultūros tyrimo perspektyva, kuri autorės iliustruojama naujausiais pavyzdžiais.
Paskutinysis, ketvirtasis leidinio skyrius yra skirtas kelionių literatūros interpretacijoms. Pirmieji jo straipsniai primena seniausius kelionių
aprašymus ir aiškina jų santykį su šiuolaikine literatūra. Maria Teresa
Nascimento (Da Madeira universitetas, Portugalija) atidžiai analizuoja
pranciškono Pantaleão de Aveiro piligriminės kelionės į Šventąją žemę
užrašus. O Francesco Giusti (SUM - La Sapienza Romos universitetas)
tiria, kaip Michaelio Crichtono romane Negyvėlių ėdikai (Eaters of the
Dead (1997)) buvo perrašyta poema Beovulfas (Beowulf), ją papildant
Ibn Fadlan’o kelionės po Bulgariją užrašais ir naujai perinterpretuojant
tradicinius personažus bei motyvus. Kai Mikkonen (Helsinkio universitetas) analizuoja André Gide’o kelionių knygas Voyage au Congo ir Le
retour du Tchad kvestionuodamas tyrėjų nuomonę, kad tai buvo rašytojo
„bėgimas“ nuo romano žanro. Straipsnyje lyginant kelionių literatūros ir
romanų žanrus prieinama prie nuomonės, kad Gide’o kelionių knygose
labai daug yra grožinės literatūros ir romano požymių ir kad unikali fakto
ir fikcijos jungtis būtent ir sudaro jų savitumą.
Paskutiniai trys šio skyriaus straipsniai aptaria Baltijos šalių keliautojo
tipažą ir jo kelionių patirtį. Sigutė Radzevičienė (Vilniaus pedagoginis
17
ĮVADAS
universitetas) tiria, kaip lietuvių rašytojus, išvykusius gyventi į Skandinaviją, paveikė šio krašto kultūra ir kaip keitėsi jų tautinė tapatybė. Anneli
Kõvamees (Talino universitetas) pristato XX a. estų kelionių į Italiją tyrimą. Teoriniu pagrindu pasirinkdama imagologiją, ji aiškinasi, kaip kelionių literatūroje buvo sukurtas italų tautos įvaizdis ir kas nulėmė skirtingus
jo variantus. Lygindama ikitarybinę ir tarybinę estų kelionių literatūrą,
autorė parodo, kaip ji buvo paveikta skirtingos ideologijos: pirmieji estų
keliautojai Italiją vertino kaip Vakarų katalikiškos kultūros centrą, sukaupusį svarbiausius kultūrinio paveldo lobius, o tarybinis keliautojas, nusiteikęs kritiškai buržuazinės kultūros atžvilgiu ir ją matantis iš Maskvos
suponuoto galios centro, Italijos kultūrą vertino kaip periferinę ir menkavertę kapitalizmo išraišką. Maija Burima, apibrėždama kelionių literatūros
žanrą, akcentuoja tai, kad joje, be įvairiausių aplankytų geografinių vietų
ir įvairiausių sutiktų žmonių aprašymų, kuriamas mentalinis žemėlapis .
Šiuo aspektu ji ir pristato naujausias latvių kelionių knygas.
Leidinio straipsniai, tęsiantys komparatyvistinio tyrimo tradiciją, įvairiais teminiais pjūviais interpretuoja labai įvairią Europos literatūrą nuo
Pantaleão de Aveiro piligriminių kelionių iki naujausių migrantų Julijos
Rabinowich ar Seher Çakır knygų, kuriose atrandama naujos „globalios
etnoerdvės“ požymių. Leidinyje išryškintas ir aptartas Europos literatūros
polifoniškumas yra vienas iš svarbiausių jo privalumų. Be to, daugelyje
probleminių straipsnių kritiškai svarstoma ir klausiama, kaip globalizacijos sąlygomis keičiasi literatūroje tautinio ir kultūrinio tapatumo samprata
ir kaip tai veikia lyginamosios literatūros studijų objektą, kurį Goethe
apibrėžė kaip Weltliteratur (derinančią tautiškumo įvairovę su tarptautiškumo vienybe). Straipsniuose užgriebta labai svarbių problemų, rodančių
tyrėjų pastangas ne tik įvairiomis metodologinėmis priemonėmis atidžiai
įsižiūrėti į šiuolaikinę literatūrinės kultūros kaitą, bet ir bandyti brėžti jos
lyginamųjų tyrimų ateities projekcijas.
Aušra Jurgutienė
18
I. THE CHANGING CULTURAL MAP OF EUROPE
EUROPOS KULTŪRINIO ŽEMĖLAPIO POKYČIAI
Progrès techniques et
métamorphoses des espaces
européens au XIXe siècle
Techninis progresas ir Europos
erdvių metamorfozės XIX amžiuje
Alain MONTANDON
CELIS, MSH Clermont-Ferrand, France
[email protected]
Résumé
L’article s’attache à deux aspects particuliers concernant les métamorphoses
de l’espace en Europe au cours du XIXe siècle: celui de l’espace urbain nocturne
sous l’empire des nouvelles techniques d’éclairage, ensuite la conscience de la
globalisation des espaces culturels qui est en train de naître à l’exemple de Théophile Gautier qui en attrribue la cause au développement des moyens de communication.
Mots-clefs: l’espace, Europe, XIXe siècle, métamorphoses, ville, technologies,
globalisation.
Je voudrais m’attacher à deux aspects particuliers concernant les métamorphoses de l’espace en Europe au cours du XIXe siècle. Tout d’abord
à ce qu’on pourrait appeler l’espace nocturne, car nous assistons à une
transformation radicale de l’espace urbain des grandes villes sous l’empire des nouvelles techniques d’éclairage, ensuite en prenant un écrivain
qui me semble particulièrement perspicace en la matière, montrer comment une conscience de la globalisation des espaces culturels est en train
de naître. Sans doute l’Europe connaît-elle depuis longtemps des régions
et des continents autres. Voltaire vantait le commerce développé entre les
nations (ce que Rousseau critiquait avec vigueur, considérant qu’il n’était
pas besoin d’aller chercher aux antipodes des denrées exotiques inutiles
auxquelles on devait préférer les produits locaux, une critique que notre
19
ministre de l’écologie reprend sous une autre forme en critiquant la mode
des cerises en hiver et autres fruits ou légumes mangés hors saison car venus de lointains pays). Mais la conscience de ce commerce se fondait pour
Voltaire sur la différence des pays et des cultures, sur une diversité fondamentale que l’exotisme comme tel cultivera encore au XIXe siècle et
dans la première moitié du XXe. Cependant Théophile Gautier, qui nous
servira d’exemple, avait dès le milieu du XIXe siècle une nette conscience
des transformations amenées par les progrès techniques au point que l’on
peut parler chez lui d’une lucide pensée concernant ce qu’on peut appeler
anachroniquement, mais justement, la globalisation qui est pour lui synonyme du nivellement des cultures, de l’uniformisation des mœurs et de la
pensée. La notion de progrès est d’ailleurs critiquée par Gautier à de fort
nombreuses reprises:
Tout ce qui était véritablement utile à l’homme a été inventé dès le commencement du monde. Ceux qui sont venus après se sont renversé l’imagination
pour trouver quelque chose de nouveau : on a fait autrement, mais on n’a pas
mieux fait. Changer n’est pas progresser, il s’en faut de beaucoup ; il n’est pas
encore prouvé que les bateaux à vapeur l’emportent sur les vaisseaux à voile,
et les chemins de fer, avec leur machine locomotive, sur les routes ordinaires
et les voitures traînées par des chevaux; et je crois qu’au bout du compte, on
finira par en revenir aux anciennes méthodes, qui sont toujours les meilleures.1
Cette vision conservatrice, nous allons le voir, est la conséquence de
la menace que fait peser paradoxalement sur la culture le développement
des communications. Il n’est nul besoin de rappeler le développement des
réseaux qui tissent des toiles d’araignées non seulement en Europe, mais
également avec le reste du monde. La télégraphie électrique se développa
énormément dans toute l’Europe dès le milieu du siècle qui vit également
la pose de cables sous-marins entre la France et l’Angleterre en 1851 et
entre l’Europe et l’Amérique en 1866.
Je voudrais évoquer tout d’abord ce que les progrès considérables dans
les techniques d’éclairage apportent à la perception de l’espace, suivant en
cela la perspective d’une sociologie qui s’attache aux circonstances matérielles de la création littéraire, ce que Claude Pichois avait bien entrevu
dans son ancien ouvrage Vitesse et vision du monde2.
De même que la vitesse des voyages n’avait guère variée depuis trois
mille ans3, la luminosité des sources d’éclairage n’avait guère fait de progrès depuis l’antiquité jusqu’au milieu du XVIIIe siècle où la perception
20
de l’espace urbain nocturne change en raison même du développement
des villes et des activités de la société (l’historien américain Craig Koslofsky4 a bien montré que plus une société était raffinée, et plus les activités quotidiennes se déplaçaient vers le soir et empiétaient sur la nuit).
«Ainsi objet de luxe et signe d’aisance jusqu’au milieu du siècle, la lumière se diffuse peu à peu, devenant lentement un signe de «progrès» et une
nécessité publique» écrit Walker Corinne à propos de l’histoire de la vie
nocturne à Genève au XVIIIe siècle5. A ces nouveaux besoins, et surtout
aux nouveaux besoins générés par la révolution industrielle répondent des
innovations technologiques majeures. Avec la nouvelle lampe de François
Ami Argand en 1783, la luminosité est fortement augmentée. Vient ensuite rapidement l’éclairage au gaz dont les premières installations ont été
faites dans la grande industrie de Birmingham, dans la firme Watt & Boulton sous l’influence de William Murdoch qui fit une première installation
en 1802 dans une forge à Soho et en 1805 à Manchester dans un atelier
de tissage de coton. Les villes s’illuminent et les cultures européennes
s’enfoncent avec délectation dans la nuit, non sans quelque résistance
chez certains qui se sentent éblouis. Ludwig Börne pense en 1824 que
«la lumière du gaz est trop pure pour l’œil humain et nos petits-enfants
deviendront aveugles»6.
Vers 1800 les possibilités d’éclairage passent en puissance de un à dix
environ, ce qui a d’importantes répercussions sur la vie nocturne des villes qui autrefois se refermaient sur elles-mêmes. Craig Koslofsky a bien
montré que le siècle des Lumières commence avec l’éclairage des rues
qui contribue à changer l’attitude envers la nuit et engager le passage de
la société absolutiste vers une sphère publique et une restructuration de la
vie quotidienne en étudiant le cas de la ville de Leipzig7.
Le développement de l’éclairage et les modifications des habitudes et
de la photosensibilité, pour être progressifs, n’en sont pas moins réels. La
contrepartie semble être un intérêt nouveau pour la nuit et les scènes nocturnes. D’une manière générale on peut dire que la nuit devient à la mode
et que l’on en recherche autant l’atmosphère que les images. La mode de
la promenade au clair de lune à partir de ces années a été maintes fois signalée et Goethe n’a pas manqué de l’évoquer ironiquement lorsqu’il écrit
que «presque chaque ville eut son clair de lune particulier»8.
Paris, capitale européenne, devient à juste titre une ville lumière justifiant l’émerveillement pour la cité transfigurée par l’éblouissement de la
lumière artificielle. Les nuits parisiennes se caractérisent par une socialité
21
intense au point que Heine pense que les fantômes nocturnes parisiens
ne souffrent nullement de solitude, mais se pressent dans des réunions,
des salons, des soirées9. Alors qu’autrefois la ville devenait de nuit une
sorte de non-lieu, un désert plein de dangers, la grande ville désormais ne
commence vraiment à vivre pour certains que lorsque l’éclairage artificiel
entre en jeu. «Paris ne vit guère le jour, et la vraie vie ne commence pour
lui qu’au lever de l’étoile du berger, je veux dire à l’heure où l’on allume
le gaz» écrit Auguste Vitu10. Une telle appréciation, assez communément
partagée, implique une prise de conscience implicite de la grande ville
comme artefact, construction et milieu opposé à la nature. Ce que Walter
Benjamin exprimait en disant que la Stadtschaft avait remplacé la Landschaft, autrement dit que le paysage naturel avait été remplacé par le décor
de la ville. Ce changement de perception du paysage modifie celle du cadre nocturne et inverse les valeurs traditionnelles.
Que me parlez-vous d’arbres, de verdure, de collines ombragées et de ruisseau limpide ! Le vrai paysage, c’est un salon reflétant dans les mille glaces
de ses panneaux mille belles femmes en costumes d’hiver splendidement coiffées par l’illustre Mariton et déshabillées par Palmyre.
Le vrai soleil, c’est le lustre de l’Opéra ; le vrai ruisseau, c’est le ruisseau de
la rue St-Honoré, le ruisseau de Mme de Staël.11
Cette inversion du cours naturel des choses («les étoiles s’éteignent,
le gaz les remplace»12) a été rendue possible par le passage des anciennes
lanternes et des réverbères dont la puissance d’éclairage reste faible à
celles bien supérieures du gaz. Le développement des éclairages au gaz
transforme l’espace nocturne et crée une nouvelle nuit au point que Lemer
peut s’écrier: «Depuis que le gaz a pénétré dans les ruelles les plus étroites de la grande ville, il n’y a véritablement plus de nuit à Paris, puisqu’il
n’y a plus d’obscurité»13.
Emerveillement et éblouissements aux nombreuses ambiguïtés, étant
donné que la fascination exercée sur le promeneur nocturne ne va pas sans
quelque regret pour la perte définitive de la nature, que l’enchantement
n’est pas sans perversion ni corruption, que la foule ne peut effacer la
solitude et les illuminations les ombres et la nuit intérieures14. L’agitation
de la vie parisienne est redoublée par l’image d’un Paris entrevu comme
une aventure sans fin et une fête pour les yeux, un catalogue inépuisable de choses vues, le kaléidoscope changeant de tableaux où dominent
l’hétérogénéité et la solution de continuité. Et avec cette esthétisation des
22
choses par la lumière artificielle une nouvelle poétique est en train de
naître qui prendra nom de modernité. A la figure du veilleur de nuit du romantisme allemand, qui traverse les rues désertes en déclinant les heures,
spectateur nocturne et solitaire, figure d’un poète désespéré, succède celle
d’un flâneur qui se fait noctambule et voyeur de la vie citadine plongée
dans de singulières ténèbres qui, sous les nouveaux lampadaires, prend
un nouveau visage. Les poètes sont attirés certes par les aventures de la
nuit qui bouleversent le sentiment de la profondeur, remettent en cause les
lois de la perception, donnent naissance à d’inouïs vertiges. Mais le vide,
le noir et le nu, la rencontre insolite, la fulgurance de l’apparition dans
les ténèbres qui caractérisent l’atelier de nos rêves et de nos fantasmes
qu’est le manteau de la nuit, fascinent en raison de leur évanescence et
de la conscience que quelque chose est irrémédiablement en train de disparaître. Lorsque les noctambules parisiens parcourent la cité de nuit, ils
le font avec le sentiment que c’est toute une ville qui va disparaître sous
la lumière. S. Delattre se demande non sans raison si «les Noctambules
des années 1840 ne cherchent pas à fixer pas à pas le souvenir d’un Paris
ombreux qu’on sent en voie de disparition?»15 Parcours nostalgique, mais
aussi lumière dans la nuit qui laisse apparaître ce qui était caché: la révélation de l’inconscient. Michelet dira encore ses craintes envers l’impérialisme de la lumière, qui ne laisserait plus de zones d’ombre pour penser
et rêver, en attendant que les utopies négatives ne mettent l’accent sur la
surveillance générale induite par une omniprésente clarté à laquelle rien
n’échappe. La destruction de la nuit (Jules Janin, écrira en 1839 que «Le
gaz a remplacé le soleil») apparaît pour certains comme une mutilation
existentielle profonde. L’espace nocturne européen s’est cependant ouvert
à de nouvelles perceptions et activités, caractéristiques du nouveau théâtre
de la modernité dont la «ville-lumière» est le symbole. Ville-lumière synonyme de luxe et de consumérisme:
[T]out est magasins brillants, pompeux étalages, cafés dorés, illumination
permanente ; de la rue Louis-le-Grand à la rue Richelieu, le flot de lumière
qui jaillit des boutiques vous permettrait de lire votre journal en vous promenant.16
Les magasins de la rue Vivienne étalent leurs richesses aux yeux émerveillés.
Éclairés par de nombreux bec de gaz, les coffrets d’acajou et les montres en
or répandent à travers les vitrines les gerbes de lumière éblouissante.17
23
On sait l’exploitation littéraire, de Baudelaire à Zola, de Dickens à
Stevenson, de Mörike à Trakl qui a été faite du nouvel espace nocturne.
--Avec l’invention du chemin de fer, là encore, la perception de l’espace européen se modifie considérablement. Théophile Gautier découvre le
train lors d’un voyage en Belgique et «cette sotte invention» est pour lui
l’objet d’une haine féroce, paradigmatique du bouleversement des moyens
de communication:
Le chemin de fer est maintenant à la mode; c’est une manie, un engouement,
une fureur! Mal parler du chemin de fer, c’est vouloir s’exposer de gaieté de
cœur aux invectives agréables de messieurs de l’utilité et du progrès; c’est
vouloir se faire appeler rétrograde, fossile, partisan de l’Ancien Régime et
de la barbarie, et passer pour un homme dévoué aux tyrans et à l’obscurantisme.18
La description qu’il en fait est l’occasion d’un tableau grotesque, qui
n’est pas sans quelque relent hoffmannesque dans le style, afin d’en démontrer la monstruosité:
En tête un remorqueur, espèce de forge roulante, d’où s’échappent des pluies
d’étincelles, et qui ressemble, avec son tuyau dressé, à un éléphant qui marcherait la trompe en l’air. – Le reniflement perpétuel de cette machine, qui, en
fonctionnant, crache une noire vapeur, avec un bruit pareil à celui que ferait,
en soufflant l’eau salée par ses évents, un monstre marin enrhumé du cerveau,
est assurément la chose du monde la plus insupportable et la plus pénible;
l’odeur fétide du charbon de terre doit aussi être mise en ligne de compte
parmi les avantages de cette manière de voyager.19
En outre le confort de cette nouvelle machine est loin de le satisfaire
puisqu’au lieu de l’oscillation verticale des anciennes voitures, on doit
maintenant subir un tangage horizontal, d’avant en arrière, celui d’un
mouvement «pareil à celui d’un tiroir à coulisse qu’on ouvrirait et qu’on
refermerait plusieurs fois de suite avec précipitation» dans une bruit de
ferraille peu réjouissant à l’oreille. Aussi Gautier fait-il l’éloge des nobles coursiers d’antan, des anciennes voitures attelées avec des chevaux
hennissant, avec des grandes crinières, des croupes satinées, des pompons rouges et des grelot, conduits par un postillon seulement à moitié
ivre, qui fait claquer allègrement son fouet. En outre l’intérêt des trans-
24
ports traditionnels est qu’ils peuvent aller à droite et à gauche, traverser
et couper au lieu de suivre imperturbablement la ligne droite, s’arrêter
également pour boire ou se restaurer quand on le souhaite, alors que «les
corbillards glissant silencieusement sur ces rainures au bruit asthmatique
du chaudron ignorent toute poésie et n’ont pas conservé dans un coin de
leur âme ce sentiment du beau, provenant de l’emploi des lignes rondes
et des zigzags», «vérité très connue des enfants qui vont à l’école». On
ne s’étonnera donc pas que Gautier ait recueilli un certain nombre de ses
pérégrinations (dont le récit dont nous parlons) sous le titre de Caprices et
Zigzags en 1852.
Rien de plus néfaste à la flânerie que la vitesse qui décourage la vue
et transforme le paysage. Aussi lorsque le cheval de vapeur a mangé son
avoine de charbon, «renâclé d’impatience et soufflé par ses naseaux enflammés, avec un râle strident d’épaisses bouffées de fumée blanche, entremêlées d’aigrettes d’étincelles», il s’anime pris d’une incroyable furie
de vitesse. «Les peupliers du chemin fuyaient à droite et à gauche comme
une armée en déroute, le paysage devenait confus et s’estompait dans
une grise vapeur […]; de loin en loin une grêle silhouette de clocher se
montrait dans les roulis des nuages et disparaissait sur-le-champ comme
un mât de vaisseau sur une mer agitée». De fait le paysage disparaît avec
la vitesse, ce n’est plus un tableau figuratif, mais un tableau abstrait où
tout est indistinct, où plus rien n’est visible et où le goût si affirmé de
Gautier pour la précision des lignes et la plasticité des formes est profondément déçu. «Les champs étoilés des fleurs du colza commencèrent à
s’enfuir avec une étrange vélocité, et à se hacher de raies jaunes où l’on
ne distinguait plus la forme d’aucune fleur; le chemin brun, piqué de petits
cailloux blancs crayeux, avait l’apparence d’une immense queue de pintade que l’on aurait tirée violemment sous nous ; les lignes perpendiculaires
devenaient horizontales […]».20 Aussi pourra-t-il dire dans le voyage en
Russie, qu’il n’y a, avec le train, pas de manière de voyager plus abstraite.
«L’on franchit des provinces, des royaumes sans en avoir la conscience».
Les frontières sont supprimées et de manière conséquente «les chemins de
fer amèneront la suppression des passeports. – Allez donc demander leurs
papiers à deux mille voyageurs qui traversent une ville à vol d’oiseau»21
Benjamin Gastineau écrivait au milieu du siècle: «La distance n’est
plus qu’un être de raison, l’espace qu’une entité métaphysique dépourvue
de toute réalité»22. Ainsi l’impression est-elle que non seulement on assiste
à une métamorphose du paysage (Eichendorff en Allemagne par exemple
25
a bien le sentiment d’une perte irrémédiable du contact que l’homme avait
avec la nature), mais que les cadres mêmes de la perception changent – ce
que Heine notait à son tour:
Quelles transformations doivent maintenant s’effectuer dans nos manières
de voir et de penser ! Même les idées élémentaires du temps et de l’espace
sont devenues chancelantes. Par les chemins de fer, l’espace est anéanti, et
il ne nous reste plus que le temps […] Que sera-ce, quand les lignes vers la
Belgique et l’Allemagne seront exécutées et reliées aux chemins de fer de ces
contrées! Je crois voir les montagnes et les forets de tous les pays marcher sur
Paris. je sens déjà l’odeur des tilleuls allemands; devant ma porte se brisent
les vagues de la mer du Nord.23
La révolution industrielle transforme le paysage, l’aplatit, l’uniformise, le dégrade. Arsène Houssaye, l’ami de Gautier, écrivait dans L’Artiste
de mars 1842:
Poètes, peintres, voyageurs enthousiastes, hâtez-vous de réjouir vos yeux,
bientôt il ne sera plus temps. La vapeur et l’industrie vous suivent, vous touchent, vous dévorent, vous dépassent : l’industrie qui dessèche les marais,
qui laboure les prairies, qui défriche les bocages et les collines; la vapeur qui
culbute les moulins à vent, qui renverse les moulins à eau, qui coupe les montagnes, les rivières et les entiers des rêveurs, qui plante à tout bout de champ
des cheminées gigantesques dont la fumée nous gâte le peu de beau ciel que
nous laisse l’orage.
C’est un peu comme si le voyage lui-même devenait inutile, le monde
étant comme apporté au sujet situé au point de convergence halluciné du
réseau tout entier, par chemin de fer, ou par bateau à vapeur24. Ce dont
témoigne les Expositions Universelles qui sont pour Gautier un symptôme
de la disparition des distances: «les Anglais ont mis l’Inde toute entière
dans des caisses et l’ont apportée à l’Exposition»25.
Sans doute Gautier reviendra-t-il sur sa critique des chemins de fer, finissant par en apprécier le confort. Mais une raison plus profonde lui fera
cependant toujours regretter le développement des communications plus
rapides, car Gautier y voit une uniformisation croissante du monde. Déjà
la critique de l’européanisation de Constantinople ou des pays de l’Orient
est un leitmotiv constant.
C’est un spectacle douloureux pour le poète, l’artiste et le philosophe, de
voir les formes et les couleurs disparaître du monde, les lignes se troubler,
26
les teintes se confondre et l’uniformité la plus désespérante envahir l’univers
sous je ne sais quel prétexte de progrès. Quand tout sera pareil, les voyages
deviendront complètement inutiles, et c’est précisément alors, heureuse coïncidence, que les chemins de fer seront en pleine activité. A quoi bon aller voir
bien loin, à raison de dix lieues à l’heure, des rues de la Paix éclairées au gaz
et garnies de bourgeois confortables?26
Le chemin de fer apporte l’uniformisation, la banalisation et la monotonie, faisant disparaître l’un des principaux intérêts des voyages qui est
la rencontre des différences et le charme du pittoresque, de l’originalité,
de la singularité. «Il deviendra impossible de distinguer un Russe d’un
Espagnol, un Anglais d’un Chinois, un Français d’un Américain. L’on ne
pourra même plus se reconnaître entre soi, car tout le monde sera pareil.
Alors un immense ennui s’emparera de l’univers et le suicide décimera la
population du globe, car le principal mobile de la vie sera éteint: la curiosité»27. Dans le premier chapitre de Constantinople il constate avec regret
que la civilisation fait disparaître toute différence de peuple à peuple et
que, à l’époque où le réseau de fer terminé et que l’on pourra aller partout,
il n’y aura plus rien à voir nulle part.
L’aspect de l’architecture moderne, celle du nouveau quartier d’Alger
(en comparaison avec la casbah) ou encore celle des maisons madrilènes,
rebute celui qui se définit comme une espèce de barbare à qui plaisent les
vieilleries pittoresques. «Beaucoup de maisons neuves se sont élevées,
plus confortables sans doute que les anciennes, mais à coup sûr, moins caractéristiques. Elles présentent un aspect uniforme et plat, idéal de l’architecture moderne. […]Un grand hôtel, dans le genre de l’hôtel du Louvre,
s’est substitué au portail de style jésuite, orné de volutes contournées et
d’un cadran à rayons d’or figurant un soleil. D’élégants magasins se sont
ouverts avec devantures de glaces et étalages à la parisienne»28. Gautier
porte un intérêt tout particulier à l’habillement qu’il décrit toujours longuement et avec de nombreux détails. Quand il cherche la couleur locale
en Espagne, lorgnant les costumes éclatants, il ne voit que redingotes,
pantalons, chapeaux gibus, robes longues et manches à gigot. Aussi, lui
qui aime se fondre dans le pays adoptant le costume local (voir sa fierté
de se promener dans les rues de Constantinople «coiffé d’un fez, vêtu
d’une redingote boutonnées, le visage bruni par le hâle de la mer, la barbe
longue de six mois» qui lui donne l’air d’un Turc»), et qui fait sensation
quand il déambule avec dans Paris29, il se fait faire un habit «magnifi-
27
que» à la mode espagnole. Le tailleur traditionnel de Grenade lui confie:
«Hélas! monsieur, il n’y a plus que les Anglais qui achètent des habits
espagnols». C’est que maintenant toute l’Europe s’habille de la même
manière. Il éprouve à Constantinople une vraie douleur lorsqu’il voit trois
petites filles turques, de huit à dix ans, belles comme des houris, porter
sur une robe de rouennerie un caftan de drap anglais. Le voyageur a le
sentiment que non seulement voyager c’est mettre les pieds dans d’autres
pieds, que tout a déjà été vu et que tout a été dit et écrit (le voyage en
Orient était devenu ainsi d’une grande banalité), mais qu’en outre il ne
voit plus que le même, car les mirages s’évanouissent. Déjà Flaubert écrivait de Constantinople à sa mère le 14 novembre 1850: «Il est temps de
voir l’Orient, car il s’en va, il se civilise». Cinq années plus tard, Joseph
Méry, ami de Gautier, écrivait à son tour: «Quand tout le monde sera vêtu
de la même façon, tout le monde se croira dans le même pays.» 30
Les jeunes gens sont mis comme les gravures de Jules David, à l’avant-dernier goût; on ne les distinguerait d’élégants Parisiens qu’à une fraîcheur un
peu trop crue de nouveauté ; ils ne suivent pas la mode, ils la devancent.
Chaque pièce de leur ajustement est signée d’un fournisseur célèbre de la rue
Richelieu ou de la rue de la Paix; leurs chemises sont de chez Lami- Housset;
leurs cannes de chez Verdier; leurs chapeaux de chez Bandoni; leurs gants de
chez Jouvin […].31
Gautier voit dans tout cela des dissonances qui affligent l’artiste, non
seulement parce qu’elles rappellent le mauvais goût bourgeois, mais aussi
parce qu’elles font affront tout autant à la Beauté et l’Harmonie qu’à des
racines culturelles qui se dépravent et s’aliènent. Or ce que Gautier recherche dans son vagabondage, dans sa nostalgie de l’étranger, ce sont
d’autres images et tout d’abord les détails qui font la différence. Il accorde
à cette tâche de rassembler ces détails et ces mille et une différences presque imperceptibles qui vous avertissent à chaque instant qu’on a changé
de pays une importance décisive dans la caractérisation d’un peuple.
En lisant les récits des voyageurs, il nous est arrivé de souhaiter des détails
plus précis, plus familiers, plus tracés sur le vif, des remarques plus circonstanciées sur ces mille petites différences qui avertissent qu’on a changé de
pays. […] Cela n’est-il pas aussi intéressant, de savoir comment se coiffe une
grisette vénitienne et quels plis fait son châle sur les épaules, que d’entendre
raconter pour la centième fois la décapitation du doge Marino Faliero sur l’es-
28
calier des Géants, qui ne fut bâti, par parenthèse, qu’un siècle ou deux après
sa mort?32
Mais avec le développement des chemins de fer, du télégraphe, de la
presse, toute l’Europe s’uniformise, s’habille de même manière se substituant aux vêtements de terroir, dont l’originalité était un régal pour les
yeux de l’artiste. C’est là une caractéristique du phénomène d’européanisation, un terme qui apparaît pour la première fois en 1806 dans les
Œuvres choisies du prince de Ligne et qui s’imposera au milieu du siècle.
Pour Gautier, c’est un mouvement qui va de l’hétérogène à l’homogène,
de la différence à l’uniformité, du particulier à l’identique. Le poète romantique a eu l’intuition avant la lettre d’une MacDonaldisation du monde et de la culture, si je peux me permettre l’anachronisme.
La réticence de Gautier envers le développement sans précédent des
techniques qui viennent transformer les relations de l’homme à l’espace
est principalement le fait du poète qui voit dans ces métamorphoses une
atteinte à un idéal de Beauté, à la couleur locale, à la lenteur des déplacements nécessaires à l’épanouissement de la rêverie, à la diversité des
moeurs et des coutumes, riches de leurs traditions et de leurs beautés particulières. On voit que cette crainte subsiste, deux siècles après, devant
l’image d’une Europe centralisatrice qui fait planer la menace d’une uniformisation destructrice des identités régionales. Mais ceci est une autre
histoire!
Références
Théophile Gautier, Caprices et Zigzags, Paris, Victor Lecou, 1852, 61–62.
Claude Pichois, Vitesse et vision du monde, Neuchatel, 1973.
3
��
Claude Pichois remarque qu’Alexandre, Jules César, Charlemagne, Louis XIV
voyageaient à peu près à la même vitesse.
4
Craig Koslofsky, “Princes Of Darkness: The Night At Court, 1650-1750”, in
Journal of Modern History, 2007, 79(2), 235–273.
5
Corinne Walker, «Esquisse pour une histoire de la vie nocturne. Genève au
XVIIIe siècle», in Revue du Vieux-Genève, 19, 1989, 77. Voir également «Du
plaisir à la nécessité. L’apparition de la lumière dans les rues de Genève à la fin
du XVIIIe siècle», in Vivre et imaginer la ville (XVIIIe-XIXe siècles), sous la
direction de F. Walter, Genève, 1988, 97–124.
6
��
“Das Gaslicht ist zu rein für das menschliche Auge, und unsere Enkel werden
blind werden”. L’éclairage
��
au gaz fut introduit dès 1813 à Londres, en 1819 à
Paris et Vienne, en 1826 à Berlin, en 1846 en Suède.
7
Craig Koslofsky, “The Establishment of Street Lighting in Eighteenth-Century Leipzig” in Zeitsprünge, 4, 2000, 378–387.
1
2
29
Ce clair de lune allemand, comme le dira plus tard avec ironie Théophile Gautier – car celui-ci semble être devenu une spécialité nationale – se trouve dans
la prose et les vers de nombreux auteurs. La promenade au clair de lune a ses
lois sentimentales: elle doit unir des couples, amis ou fiancés et sa solennelle
mélancolie contribue au sentiment mêlé de tristesse et de consolation à la fois.
9
��
Voir Heinrich Heine, Die Romantische Schule (III,2), in Heine, Sämtliche
Schriften, Hanser Verlag, München, 1971, 463–465.
10
Auguste Vitu, Les Bals d’hiver. Paris masqué, Paris, 1848.
11
Ibid.
12
Ibid.
13
Julien Lemer, Paris au gaz, 1861, 72–73.
14
��
Voir Alain Montandon, «Des rayons et des ombres de l’éclairage au gaz», in
Links. Rivista di letteratura e cultura tedesca. Pisa, Roma, VII, 2007 (2008),
37–47.
15
Simone Delattre, Les douze heures noires. La nuit à paris au XIXe siècle, Albin Michel, 2003, 97.
16
Julien Lemer, Paris au gaz, 1861, 15.
17
Lautréamont, Chants de Maldoror, Le Livre de poche Classique, 2001, 313
18
Caprices et Zigzags, 58.
19
Ibid, 59.
20
Ibid, 66.
21
22
Benjamin Gastineau, Histoire des chemins de fer, 1863.
23
Heinrich, Lutèce, Michel Lévy frères, 1855, 327 (5 mai 1843).
24
Voir à ce sujet Jean-Christophe Valtat, La littérature hallucinée, qui cite Nerval:
«le réseau de fer jeté sur ces contrées, et qui relie étroitement quatre ou cinq
provinces, différentes de mœurs, de langage et même de climat, réalise la mise
en scène de ce vieil opéra que Quinault, où l’on visite tout à tour dans un seul
acte les peuples des quatre parties du monde: les uns grelottant sous les pôles,
d’autres haletant sous les tropiques, d’autres à demi submergés sous l’océan,
d’autres cherchant leur vie dans les entrailles de la terre, tous maudissant les
éléments ennemis de l’homme et chantant en cœur leur misère sur des airs
plaintifs de Lulli.»
25
26
«Avec la manie de la civilisation qui abrutit les hommes, les voyages deviendront bientôt inutiles. Tout est à l’instar de paris et la rue de Rivoli prolonge
jusqu’au bout du monde ses fastidieuses arcades, à la grande admiration des
imbéciles.» (Lettre à Zoé Gautier, 5 septembre 1861).
27
Maxime Du Camp, Théophile Gautier, Paris, Hachette, 1895, p. 111.
28
Quand on voyage, 276–277.
29
��
S’il se plaît à jouer l’indigène adoptant leur habit, il n’hésite pas à revêtir ce
qui apparaît à Paris comme un déguisement et une manière de sortir de soi pour
être un autre. Dans la Presse du 18 mars 1837, il relate combien les dames le
trouvent beau dans le costume égyptien qu’il exhibe (alors que l’on aurait pas
remarqué de le faire s’il était habillé comme tout le monde). D’Algérie il rap8
30
porte un burnous arabe dont il aime se draper pour circuler dans les boulevards
parisiens et de Russie un bonnet fourré qui lui descendaient jusque sur les yeux,
des bottes fourrées, une longue pelisse fourrée…
30
Joseph Méry, Constantinople et la mer noire, Paris, 1855, 479.
31
Ibid, 90.
32
Italia, 325.
31
Un projet de l’Europe dans l’oeuvre
d’Oscar Milosz
Europos projektas Oscaro Miloszo
kūryboje
Genovaitė DRUČKUTĖ
Université de Vilnius
Rue Universiteto 3, LT-01513 Vilnius
[email protected]
Santrauka
Straipsnyje analizuojama Oscaro Miloszo politinė publicistika ir eseistika bei rašiniai apie lietuvių liaudies meną. Prancūziškai rašęs lietuvių kilmės rašytojas šioje
savo kūrybos dalyje siekia nustatyti ir apibrėžti Lietuvos vietą ir vaidmenį, atsižvelgdamas į pokyčius Europoje po Pirmojo pasaulinio karo. Nagrinėjamuose rašiniuose
siūlomas būsimos Europos projektas, kuriame Lietuvai, išsaugojusiai Vakaruose jau
prarastas amžinąsias vertybes, tenka idėjinės generatorės vaidmuo. Praktinė naujosios Europos projekto pusė siejama su Baltijos valstybių sąjunga, prie kurios turėtų
prisijungti Vakarų Europos šalys. Straipsnyje daroma išvada, kad Milašiaus išplėtotas naujosios pokarinės Europos projektas lieka įspūdinga pranašiška vizija, kuri
buvo nesuprasta ir neturėjo jokių realių pasekmių. Rašytojo pasiūlyta Europos politinio žemėlapio transformacija neperžengė pačių tekstų nubrėžtų ribų.
Esminiai žodžiai: politinio žemėlapio pokyčiai, politinis projektas, metafizinis
projektas.
Résumé
Dans l’article on se concentre sur les essais politiques et les écrits sur l’art
lituanien d’Oscar Milosz. L’écrivain français d’origine lituanienne avait essayé
de trouver la place de Lituanie et de définir son rôle en tenant compte de changements qui avaient lieu en Europe après la Première guerre mondiale. Dans les
essais et les écrits analysés, il propose un projet d’Europe nouvelle où la Lituanie
qui avait su garder les valeurs éternelles déjà perdues en Europe Occidentale devrait jouer un rôle de génératrice idéologique. Le côté pratique du projet de Milosz est lié avec l’alliance des pays Baltiques que rejoindrait l’Europe Occidentale. L’analyse effectuée nous permet de constater que le projet d’une Europe de
l’après-guerre, élaboré par Milosz, est une impressionnante vision prophétique qui
reste sans conséquences réelles. La transformation de la carte politique de l’Europe ne dépasse pas l’espace textuel tracé par l’écrivain.
Mots-clés: transformations de la carte politique, projet politique, projet métaphysique.
32
La Lituanie et ses destinées au cours des siècles est une des préoccupations majeures d’Oscar Milosz (1877–1939). Dans cette étude, nous
nous attachons à un aspect de l’œuvre de Milosz, notamment à une série
d’articles et d’études politiques, publicitaires et philosophiques où il traite
la question de Lituanie. La plus grande partie de ces textes constituent le
treizième volume des œuvres de Milosz, publiées chez André Silvaire.1
Dans ces écrits, l’écrivain essaie de définir la place et le rôle de Lituanie
dans l’Europe en train de mutation. Il propose aussi certaines modifications de la carte du vieux continent. Nous soutenons l’idée que Milosz
élabore un projet d’Europe nouvelle où la Lituanie devrait avoir sa part.
Dans notre étude, nous analysons ses visions en suivant ses réflexions politiques et métaphysiques et en tenant compte du développement politique
de l’Europe de l’époque2.
La majorité des textes qui constituent l’objet de notre analyse ont été
publiés dans les années 1918-1921 donc, dans les années décisives pour
la Lituanie et aussi au moment où Milosz déployait une intense activité
diplomatique. Ces écrits apparaissent d’ailleurs comme des arguments
supplémentaires destinés à soutenir ses efforts politiques. Il est à rappeler
qu’à la fin de la Première guerre mondiale Milosz est entré tout d’abord
comme rédacteur diplomatique à la Conférence de la Paix, puis il a exercé
la fonction de Délégué de Lituanie auprès du Gouvernement français. En
1920, après la reconnaissance de fait de la Lituanie par la France, il a été
nommé officiellement Chargé d’affaires et pendant cinq ans il représentait
les intérêts de la Lituanie en France. En 1921, il participait activement à la
résolution de la question de Vilnius à Bruxelles3.
Le 29 mars 1919, Milosz donnait une conférence à la Salle de la Société de Géographie de Paris, sa première conférence sur la Lituanie, en
s’adressant ainsi à son auditoire:
J’ai longtemps recherché l’origine de l’émotion profonde qui m’agite au souvenir de ce pays si lointain et si longtemps ignoré de l’Occident, la Lithuanie.
Mon aveu, certes, a de quoi surprendre; cependant, je n’hésite pas un instant
à vous ouvrir toute ma pensée. Quoique pénétré de tendresse pour la terre
mélancolique et généreuse qui m’a donné la vie et le pouvoir de la chanter, je
n’aurais sans doute jamais consenti à vous parler de cet amour si le lien qui
m’unit à cette terre n’était que celui du sang et des souvenirs personnels. […]
Si donc je quitte ma haute solitude pour vous entretenir de la Lithuanie, c’est
que la contrée merveilleuse qui m’a donné toute son âme n’est pas seulement
ma patrie à moi, mais aussi votre patrie à vous.
33
Oui, femmes et hommes d’Occident, je vous parle de votre antique patrie.
Oui, filles et fils de la race indo-européenne, je vous parle de votre berceau.4
Nous n’avons pas de témoignages écrits pour apprécier la réaction
du public envers ces paroles de Milosz, surtout telles que: «votre patrie à
vous», «votre antique patrie», «votre berceau». Nous pouvons supposer
que l’étonnement devait être grand. Pour cette simple raison qu’au début
du XXme siècle, la Lituanie était un pays presque inconnu d’Occidentaux,
de Français dans ce cas, et encore moins leur patrie. A la fin de la Première guerre mondiale, une des conséquences était un changement de la carte
politique de l’Europe. Un nombre de pays comme entités indépendantes
dont la Lituanie surgissaient devant les Occidentaux stupéfaits.
Milosz se présente tout d’abord comme un inventeur de la Lituanie, un
nouveau pays de l’Europe. Il découvre la Lituanie, lui aussi, tout comme
les autres Occidentaux quelle que paradoxale paraisse cette constatation.
D’après une définition largement utilisée, Milosz est un «poète français
d’origine lithuanienne», alors pouvait-il ne pas connaître la Lituanie? Bien
sûr que non. Mais le pays qu’il connaissait était celui du passé: luttes avec
les chevaliers Teutoniques, fidélité aux croyances des ancêtres, fondation
du Grand-Duché, union avec la Pologne. Les récits du passé – où les victoires glorieuses et les défaites se succèdent et dont la logique rappelle
plutôt celle des contes – formaient pour Milosz l’image de Lituanie. Le
passé historique du pays des ancêtres, pour Milosz comme pour les gens
de son milieu, s’était transformé depuis longtemps en mythe. Une des
particularités de cette vision mythique était un certain rapport à la réalité
passée où la fierté d’appartenir à un peuple si grand se mêlait à l’amertume du passé.
En 1918, la proclamation de l’indépendance du pays paraissait un miracle. Le plus étonnant étant que cette nouvelle Lituanie ait été conçue
et réalisée par ceux qui étaient «d’origine et de nation lituanienne», et la
différence de Milosz, comme celle de la majorité écrasante de la classe
sociale dont l’écrivain faisait partie est qu’ils se disaient «d’origine lituanienne et de nation polonaise».
Nous savons comment Milosz est entré au service de la cause lituanienne. C’était pendant les années de la Première guerre; Milosz avait un
poste au Bureau de la presse auprès du Ministère des Affaires étrangères.
Il relate son choix dans une lettre:
34
C’est là, à la maison de la presse que j’ai appris l’existence d’un mouvement
nationaliste et séparatiste lithuanien. J’appartiens, comme Vous le savez, à
une très ancienne famille lithuanienne, polonisée comme le sont toutes les
familles nobles de notre pays. Devant la politique agressive que la Pologne,
[…], ose, à la face du monde civilisé, faire à l’égard de notre pacifique démocratie paysanne, je sentis se réveiller en moi toutes les rébellions de ma
jeunesse. Je n’hésitai pas un instant, […], à prendre publiquement la défense
des intérêts de ma patrie immédiate menacée dans son évolution par ceux-là
même qui, logiquement, auraient dû se faire le premier jour les défenseurs de
ses légitimes aspirations. […] Un beau jour, je vis apparaître dans mon bureau
un Lithuanien qui venait m’inviter à travailler plus directement pour le pays.5
Ce récit montre bien que Milosz était persuadé d’avoir fait un bon
choix, et dans tous les articles politiques qu’il publiera par la suite il exhortait ardemment ses compatriotes «lituano-polonais» à suivre son exemple. Aussi voit-on que la structure de l’extrait cité rappelle celle d’un conte
populaire ou d’un roman chevaleresque. Il y a un Lituanien qui, animé par
une flamme patriotique, invite le héros, c’est-à-dire Milosz, à exécuter un
haut fait. Celui-ci accepte et s’en va à l’aventure. Cependant la position
choisie par Milosz était un cas à part, une exception choquante aux yeux
des gens de son entourage. Czeslaw Milosz, un neveu lointain de l’écrivain, attribue ce choix à la nostalgie d’un «lieu», dans un sens à la fois
métaphysique et géographique. Nous pouvons ajouter que la recherche
d’un «lieu de Manifestation» domine la vie et l’œuvre de Milosz. C’est un
profond désir d’enracinement qui a incité l’écrivain à «œuvrer en faveur
de la Lithuanie sur la scène internationale».6
En ce qui concerne la structure d’Europe nouvelle imaginée par Milosz, il est à constater que des changements importants s’opèrent pendant
les deux premières décennies du XXme siècle. De nouveaux pays qui
n’existaient pas avant la guerre apparaissent sur la scène politique, la Lituanie parmi eux. C’est un fait indépendant de l’écrivain mais nous avons
vu qu’il s’était fait toute de suite un devoir passionné de travailler pour
ce pays, de le faire partout connaître et de donner une âme à ce nouveau
corps politique. Parce que pour Milosz, le futur de Lituanie et en même
temps celui de toute l’Europe est non seulement un effort politique mais
aussi un projet spirituel où la Lituanie a son mot à dire. L’écrivain se donne pour but d’imaginer et de créer l’identité du pays qui vient de naître.
Originaire de la Lituanie historique et non ethnographique, ne parlant pas
le lituanien mais lisant en cette langue, il s’adresse aux sources écrites,
en lituanien et aussi en d’autres langues – en allemand, en polonais, en
35
russe – pour y puiser abondamment des connaissances. En se basant sur
des recueils de folklore, sur des études de l’art et de traditions populaires, il a publié dans la presse de son temps une autre série d’articles, sans
compter les traductions7. Les contes, les chansons, les objets d’art ont
pour Milosz une valeur esthétique et psychologique, et les deux aspects se
révèlent d’égale importance. Tout l’art du peuple, les traditions et les coutumes témoignent de l’aspiration des générations successives vers le beau.
Ce sont en même temps des documents psychologiques qui permettent de
comprendre l’âme lituanienne.
Dans ses écrits sur l’art lituanien et dans ses articles politiques Milosz développe l’idée sur le conservatisme et le traditionnalisme des
Lituaniens. D’après l’écrivain, ce peuple modeste et travailleur, enclin
à la méditation avait su garder, à travers des siècles, de grandes qualités
morales et spirituelles, grâce, en partie, aux conditions historiques particulières. Face à la noblesse polonisée, face à l’occupation tsariste qui
interdisait la presse en caractères latins, le peuple des campagnes avait
vécu sur sa terre comme sur une île isolée, préservant sa langue et la
mémoire de son passé séculaire. Mentalités, traditions, coutumes avaient
tracé un lien harmonieux entre le passé païen et le présent chrétien. Ce
côté exceptionnel du peuple lituanien est sa raison et son droit d’être,
de proclamer son indépendance, de créer son État et de fonder un avenir meilleur. La Lituanie possède aussi les fondements spirituels d’une
future Europe. C’est pourquoi le nouveau pays de l’Europe, si jeune
et si vieux, est une patrie de toute l’Europe, une patrie non physique
mais spirituelle. Dans la conférence mentionnée au début de cet article,
Milosz a dit: «Comme Rome, comme l’Hellade et la France surtout, la
Lituanie est plus qu’une patrie: c’est une idée, un des foyers ardents de
l’évolution humaine.»8
Dans l’histoire du continent européen, Milosz voit trois grandes phases: antique (Rome, l’Hellade), postérieure (représentée par la France) et
nouvelle phase qui commence au début du XXme siècle et où le rôle de
Lituanie sera déterminant:
Une ère nouvelle commence pour nous tous! Le vieux monde est ébranlé
dans ses assises ; un temps est venu qui est comme un coup de grâce pour les
valeurs vieillies, pour les doctrines épuisées, pour les régimes stériles. […],
et déjà, affirmateur de l’éternelle résurrection, un pays se lève des ruines, tout
prêt pour l’œuvre de reconstruction, le plus vieux des pays d’Europe, l’ancêtre aryen.9
36
C’est l’expression de tout un programme messianique qui se dresse
devant la Lituanie. Dans l’article intitulé Au seuil d’un monde nouveau
l’écrivain brosse une esquisse du messianisme lituanien, vision qu’il reprend dans les écrits suivants, surtout dans le plus grand essai Deux messianismes politiques.
Pour Milosz, le point de départ de réflexion est une présentation et une
critique du messianisme polonais qu’il connaît bien, dans l’esprit duquel
il avait grandi et qui était partagé par les anciennes familles lituaniennes
polonisées. Milosz considère ce messianisme usé, vieilli et même dangeureux et il le confronte au «vrai», au «bon» messianisme lituanien. La
Lituanie avait conservé ses origines aryennes; ses qualités de résistance
au mal, de persévérance sont les prémices d’une renaissance possible pour
l’Europe. En 1920 Milosz écrivait:
Quand l’ordre social et économique sera rétabli dans notre république hiérarchique récemment ressuscitée, nous inviterons les artistes, les poètes, les penseurs – tous les héros meurtris de notre sotte et laide époque, tous les parias
intellectuels de l’Occident ploutocratique et matérialiste, à venir goûter un
long repos d’esprit et de corps sur les collines où nos ancêtres entretenaient
le feu pur, et qui portent, aujourd’hui encore, des noms du monde spirituel:
Rambynas, Aleksota. Là, dans la solitude immense de Nemunas, ils rafraîchiront leur cœur et leur esprit au souffle des temps druidiques effaçant de leur
mémoire le hideux souvenir des modernes concepts de l’amour.10
Dans la vision de Milosz, la Lituanie avec ses valeurs éternelles aidera
les pays européens à retrouver ce qu’ils avaient perdu depuis longtemps.
De pareilles réflexions de l’écrivain se révèlent purement théoriques,
sans dire utopiques. Cependant dans l’article L’Alliance des pays baltiques il propose un projet pratique pour jeter les bases de la société future.
La Lituanie, après avoir retrouvé et affirmé sa place incontestable sur la
carte de l’Europe, fera une alliance baltique avec la Lettonie et l’Estonie.
Une fois amorcé, le processus d’alliances ne s’arrêtera plus. Voilà ce que
propose Milosz:
Une solide confédération appuyée par l’Entente et formée par la Letto-Lituanie alliée à l’Estonie et reliée par cette dernière à la Finlande; probabilité
de rapprochement entre ce groupe et l’Union scandinave; […] contrôle de la
Baltique; telles sont les garanties de sécurité qu’une solution lituano-finoise
du problème oriental apporte à l’Europe et au monde.11
37
Il s’agit, pour Milosz, de regrouper autrement les forces politiques traditionnelles et de rapporter plus à l’est le centre de l’Europe. Mais il faut
remarquer que la réalité géopolitique tranchait avec les réflexions et les
projets de Milosz. Ces projets n’ont été ni compris ni approuvés. L’idée
d’alliance des États baltiques s’est évanouie, à peine évoquée.
Il faut dire aussi qu’étant diplomate, Milosz possédait une connaissance précise de la situation de son pays et du contexte européen. Les lecteurs de ses articles pouvaient lui faire confiance et se montrer sensibles
à ses arguments. Quant à l’écrivain, il ne se fait pas beaucoup d’illusions
pour la réception et un accueil favorable de ses idées et de ses visions. Il
le dit explicitement dans une lettre à son ami le comte Maurice Prozor:
En me rattachant à ma race, à ma nation si ancienne, Vous avez éclairé d’une
manière frappante ma personnalité même et comblé une lacune que moimême je ne parvenais à remplir que difficilement. Ce besoin d’une patrie réelle, qui est un stimulant si puissant pour mon activité, Vous seul Vous l’avez
compris en moi et, en m’assignant une place précise sur la terre, avez donné
une base physique à mon art et à mon action.12
L’extrait cité nous révèle le point de vue de Milosz: seulement ceux
qui ont vécu la même expérience sont capables de comprendre sa situation paradoxale13.
L’entourage immédiat de Milosz qui était peu nombreux acceptait
avec une réticence l’image d’une Lituanie idéalisée et le projet d’une restructuration politique et spirituelle de la carte de l’Europe. Ses amis et
ses connaissances faisaient la part du réel et de la fiction. C’est-à-dire,
on acceptait la personnalité de Milosz dont la partie intégrante étaient ses
visions et ses projets plutôt fantastiques. L’écrivain venait lui-même de ce
pays inconnu, la Lituanie; lui, représentant de ce peuple mystérieux, était
presque un personnage de contes. En voilà un des témoignages:
Il nous est venu de l’extrême nord et de l’indécise frontière des songes, capable à la fois des plus sombres rapports historiques ou politiques et des confessions les plus échevelées d’un autre monde, le frère terrestre des auréoles
boréales: écrivain, diplomate [...], essence de ce pays pensif et fabuleux „où
toutes les choses ont la couleur éteinte du souvenir“, un Don Quichotte de
l’absolu réconciliant le rêve et la connaissance, un pont entre la nostalgie et
l’éternel, tel il nous apparaît.14
38
Le projet d’Europe nouvelle de Milosz est une inspiration prophétique qui impressionne et fait réfléchir. Grâce à ses écrits, ce pays de
rêve qu’était pour lui la Lituanie a reçu une âme, et l’activité diplomatique de l’écrivain a fait constituer un corps à ce pays, notamment
un nom et une place sur la carte de l’Europe. Fruit de la nostalgie, des
rêves et de l’activité concrète du diplomate, la Lituanie ainsi créée se
révèle, d’une part comme un lieu de beauté et de valeurs éternelles. Elle
établit un pont entre un passé idéal, un présent mouvementé et un avenir
radieux pour elle et pour l’Europe. De l’autre part, ce projet n’existait en
fait que sur du papier et dans l’espace dont Milosz lui-même avait tracé
les contours.
Références
1
2
3
4
O.V. de L. Milosz, Œuvres complètes. Tome XIII. Deux messianismes politiques, Paris: Éditions André Silvaire, 1990.
Nous avons abordé le problème en question dans quelques articles publiés en
lituanien et en français: «Oscar Milosz, ou la Lituanie au cœur de l’Europe»,
in: Coulisses, Nº7, L’Université de Besançon, la Faculté des Lettres, avril 1993;
„La France dans l’oeuvre de Milosz, in Cahiers de l’Association Les Amis de
Milosz, Nº40-41-42, Paris: Éditions André Silvaire, 2003; „Prasmės kūrimo
galimybės (pagal Oskarą Milašių)“, in: Tekstas ir kontekstas: prasmės formavimasis, mokslinių straipsnių rinkinys, Kaunas: VU KHF, 2004; «L’invention de
la Lituanie par Milosz», in Cahiers de l’Association Les Amis de Milosz, Nº45,
Paris: Éditions André Silvaire, 2006; „Lietuvos įvaizdis Oskaro Milašiaus publicistikoje“, in Literatūra, Nº49(4), Vilnius: VU, 2007.
Sur l’activité diplomatique de Milosz nous proposons de lire, en français:
Geneviève-Irène Židonis, O.V. de L. Milosz. Sa vie, son œuvre, son rayonnement, Paris: Olivier Perrin, 1951; S. Backis, «Quelques propos sur les activités
diplomatiques et les idées politiques de Milosz», in: O.V. de L. Milosz (18771939), Paris: Éditions André Silvaire, 1959; Jacques Bouge, Milosz en quête
du divin, Paris: Librairie Nizet, 1963; des documents, des lettres, des souvenirs,
des communications inserrés dans les Cahiers de l’Association Les Amis de Milosz, Paris: Éditions André Silvaire; en lituanien: Vytautas Kubilius, „Lietuva
Oskaro Milašiaus kūryboje“, in Vytautas Kubilius, Lietuvių literatūra ir pasaulinis literatūros procesas, Vilnius: Vaga, 1983; Bronius Genzelis, „O. Milašius lietuvių kultūroje“, in: Bronius Genzelis, Kultūrų sąveika, Vilnius: Mintis,
1989; Laimonas Tapinas, Septynios vienatvės Paryžiuje, Kaunas: Spindulys,
1993.
Oscar Milosz, «Conférence du 29 mars 1919», in: O.V. de L. Milosz, 1990,
27.
39
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
40
O.V. de L. Milosz, Lettres inédites à Christian Gauss, Paris: Éditions André
Silvaire, 1976, 77–78.
Czeslaw Milosz, L’Immoralité de l’art, traduit du polonais par Marie Bouvard,
Paris: Fayard, 1988, 259.
Voir à ce sujet les écrits de Milosz dans La Revue baltique et La Revue parlementaire; pour ses traductions de contes et de chansons lituaniens, consulter:
O.V. de L. Milosz, Œuvres complètes. Tome VI. Contes et fabliaux de la vieille
Lithuanie, Paris: Éditions André Silvaire, 1972; Tome IX. Contes lithuaniens de
ma Mère l’Oye. Daïnos, Paris: Éditions André Silvaire, 1963; Tome XI. Daïnos,
Paris: Éditions André Silvaire, 1970.
Milosz, 1990, 28.
Ibid., 32.
L. de Labunovas [Oscar Milosz], «Les Daïnos», in: La Revue baltique, Paris,
15.2.1920 et 1.3.1920.
Milosz, 1990, 125.
Cit.in: Jacques Buge, Connaissez-vous Milosz, Paris: Éditions André Silvaire,
1965, 113.
Sur le problème d’identité nationale et culturelle de Milosz, à voir aussi: Nijolė
Vaičiulėnaitė-Kašelionienė, «Des identités nationales difficilles, Oscar Milosz, Adam Mickiewicz et Czeslaw Milosz», in: Cahiers de l’Association Les
Amis de Milosz, Nº47, Paris: Éditions André Silvaire, 2008.
Paul Séramy, «Discours du trentième anniversaire de la mort de Milosz», in
Cahiers de l’Association Les Amis de Milosz, Nº4, Paris: Éditions André Silvaire, 1970, 24.
De l’humanisme au posthumanisme: Le discours sur
l’Europe chez Thomas Mann, André
Gide et Hans-Magnus Enzensberger
The European Discourse between
Humanism and Post-humanism:
Thomas Mann, André Gide, and
Hans-Magnus Enzensberger
Nuo humanizmo iki post-humanizmo:
Europos samprata Thomo Manno, André
Gide’o ir Hanso Magnuso Enzensbergerio
diskursuose
Manfred SCHMELING
Saarland University, Germany
FR 4.5 Allgemeine und Vergleichende Literaturwissenschaft
Postfach 151150
66041 Saarbrücken
[email protected]
Summary
Thomas Mann dealt with the topic of Europe on several levels: literary, theoretically and in the course of time. In his novel The Magic Mountain, the – symbolically speaking – “sick Europe” is meeting in a Swiss sanatorium. André Gide,
who is like Thomas Mann a European in spirit, commented on Mann’s essay
“Achtung, Europa!” (1936) with these words: “Mann reste […] un humaniste
dans le sens le plus plein du mot.” Hans-Magnus Enzensberger – poet and critical observer of European developments – counters this humanistic idea of Europe
with a new concept in, among other texts, “Eurozentrismus wider Willen” and Ach
Europa (Europe, Europe: Forays Into a Continent), which can be considered a
mixture of essay and literary travelogue. Enzensberger opposes the political and
economic attempts at harmonization imposed from Brussels and emphasizes the
cultural distinctions of each individual European country. Linked to this commitment to alterity is a postmodern concept, which at the same time questions the
grown humanistic discourse on Europe.
Key words: European conscience, “Weltliteratur” (world literature), national
literatures, Thomas Mann, André Gide, Hans-Magnus Enzensberger.
41
Thomas Mann et André Gide appartiennent à une génération d’écrivains pour qui l’Europe ne fut pas chose acquise. Leur discours sur l’Europe était déterminé par des visions utopiques, mais également des a priori
nationaux et un scepticisme politique. Cette incertitude sur l’avenir européen a en partie des raisons historiques: les conflits armés entre 1870–71
et la deuxième guerre mondiale ont causé de fortes fluctuations au niveau
de la compréhension politique entre les peuples européens et les discours
correspondants sur l’Europe. En outre, les réflexions sur l’Europe ont provoqué de tout temps une discussion spirituelle entre les cultures. Car elles
font justement office d’une sorte de métonymie pour l’héritage humaniste
en général, pour des traditions et des idées élevées, par exemple pour ce
qui est d’acquis tels que les Lumières, la démocratie, le cosmopolitisme,
etc.
Thomas Mann s’est penché sur le thème de l’Europe sur un plan littéraire et théorique ainsi que du point de vue de sa mutation au cours du
temps. Dans son roman La Montagne magique (Der Zauberberg,1924),
c’est toute l’«Europe malade» qui – symboliquement parlant – se retrouve
dans un sanatorium suisse. André Gide, Européen dans l’âme tout comme
Thomas Mann, commente l’édition française de l’essai de Thomas Mann,
Avertissement à l’Europe (Achtung Europa (1936),1 avec ces mots: «Mann
reste […] un humaniste dans le sens le plus plein du mot». L’humanisme,
selon l’écrivain allemand, «n’est en rien scolaire et n’a, directement, rien
à voir avec l’érudition. L’humanisme est plutôt un esprit, une disposition intellectuelle, un état d’âme humaine qui implique justice, liberté,
connaissance et tolérance, aménité et sérénité»2 Thomas Mann exige un
humanisme européen «militant» qui serait capable d’une résurrection
contre le fanatisme3. Il s’agit donc d’une conception humaniste qui est
déterminée en partie par les circonstances historiques en Allemagne et en
Europe: par la barbarie, la guerre, la catastrophe humaine.
Hans-Magnus Enzensberger, poète et observateur critique des évolutions européennes, oppose à cette idée humaniste de l’Europe un nouveau
concept, entre autres avec des textes comme Eurozentrismus wider Willen
(Eurocentrisme à contre-coeur)4 ou Ach Europa! (Europe, Europe!), un
mélange entre essai et récit de voyage5. Enzensberger s’oppose aux ambitions d’harmonisation politique et économique auxquelles tend Bruxelles
et souligne les particularités culturelles de chacun des pays européens.
Nous allons constater que le côté spirituelle de la conception humaniste – bien qu’il existe toujours en principe – sera supplanté par une critique
42
concrète des réalités européennnes. Enzensberger est né en 1929 et occupe aujourd’hui encore une place importante dans la vie intellectuelle de
l’Allemagne.
Mais commençons par le début.
Les racines d’une conscience européenne par des écrivains comme
Thomas Mann ou André Gide viennent en fait de l’éducation humaniste
bourgeoise dont ils ont bénéficié. Parmi leurs influences les plus importantes, on trouve principalement l’Antiquité et les Lumières, mais également le poète allemand Johann Wolfgang Goethe. Pourquoi précisément Goethe? Dans l’optique du potentiel transfrontalier de la littérature,
Goethe a été un précurseur non seulement pour beaucoup d’Européens,
mais également au niveau international. Thomas Mann et André Gide
quant à eux, se sont tous deux fréquemment inspirés du terme de «Weltliteratur» (littérature mondiale) de Goethe dans leurs discours et leurs essais, lorsqu’il s’agissait de la question des relations entre les littératures
nationales. A côté de Goethe, l’influence de Dostojewski et de Nietzsche
a également été révélatrice pour la pensée culturelle de Gide et de Mann.
On retrouve très concrètement les allusions de cet intérêt pour Goethe
dans les oeuvres littéraires des deux auteurs, comme par exemple dans
Lotte in Weimar, de Mann ou dans Les Cahiers d’André Walter, de Gide.
En conséquent, d’un point de vue méthodique, je pense que la question de l’Europe prise dans le sens de ce colloque doit logiquement être
présentée tout d’abord comme une discussion sur l’altérité culturelle en
général, ensuite dans la perspective de l’idée de la littérature mondiale, et,
enfin, dans le contexte des relations franco-allemandes au sein de l’espace
européen.
Il est intéressant de constater que Goethe s’était déjà battu pour un terme d’altérité qui allait bien au-delà des relations au sein de l’Europe, avec
son oeuvre West-östlicher Divan (Le divan occidental-oriental). Plutôt
que de parler d’humanisme de façon abstraite, je préfère présenter rapidement cet exemple de sincérité spirituelle et littéraire.
Non seulement ce cycle de poèmes de Goethe6 nous présente un voyage fictif en Orient, mais en plus le poète fait ici un voyage allégorique, au
pays de la poésie. Le Divan de Goethe est en fait une transformation littéraire, une sorte d’ hypertexte au deuxième degrée par rapport au texte de
Hafis et de sa traduction en allemand par un spécialiste de l’époque (Hammer). La rencontre avec le poète persan Hafis est l’occasion de dépasser
les frontières esthétiques, ce qui finit par déboucher sur un programme hu-
43
maniste conforme à l’esprit du temps. Goethe connaissait l’Orient de manière aussi livresque que la Grèce où il ne s’était jamais rendu. Chez lui,
l’altérité concrète se perd encore dans une sorte de construction idéaliste
et universaliste. Par endroits, les commentaires ajoutés au Divan (Pour
une meilleure compréhension du divan occidental-oriental) prennent vraiment l’allure de la préface didactique d’un guide pour voyageurs: loué soit
«celui qui s’accommode des usages du pays étranger et s’y intéresse, qui
s’efforce de s’approprier sa langue, de partager ses convictions, d’adopter
ses moeurs»7. Le contre-programme de cette attitude serait l’ethnocentrisme de celui qui tantôt efface l’étranger de son horizon, tantôt ne cherche la comparaison avec l’étranger que pour affirmer sa propre identité
(nationale). Le moi lyrique de Goethe s’oriente certainement en fonction
d’un tertium comparationis différent, absolu en quelque sorte. Car au-dessus de toutes les différences culturelles, trône dans le Divan une instance
commune et divine: la participation commune à un ordre universel qui
transcende la distance culturelle et historique.
Gottes ist der Orient!
Gottes ist der Occident!8
(«L’Orient appartient à Dieu!
L’Occident appartient à Dieu!»)
La notion goethéenne d’une «Weltliteratur» (littérature mondiale) en
pleine expansion peut être considérée d’un côté comme appartenant au
même horizon idéaliste, mais elle est de l’autre une réaction à ce que nous
appelons aujourd’hui le procès de la modernisation ; concrètement, elle
est un reflet des nouveaux moyens de communication qui ont rendu possible l’échange entre les cultures.
Goethe a bel et bien reconnu que la mobilité des personnes par le courrier postal, les bateaux à vapeur, les œuvres écrites, etc. représentait une
condition sine qua non de l’échange culturel. Mais il faut ici reconnaître
les limites du cosmopolitisme. S’il condamne l’étroitesse d’esprit, c’est
aussi à partir d’un enracinement national. Il «justifie en même temps […]
l’élément national comme la condition nécessaire à un dialogue culturel productif»9. La célèbre phrase de Goethe «la littérature nationale ne
veut pas dire grand-chose aujourd’hui; c’est la littérature mondiale qui
est dans l’air du temps [...]»10 nous montre que la connaissance moderne
44
(«aujourd’hui») et la conscience de l’internationalité interagissent de façon prévisible.
Il a été beaucoup écrit sur le concept de littérature mondiale, y compris à travers la perspective postcoloniale contemporaine. J’aimerais juste
l’évoquer rapidement comme élément d’une «poétique de la relation».
Si l’on met de côté les remarques éparses de Goethe à ce sujet, il devient
évident qu’il prend explicitement pour base au concept d’une littérature
mondiale le processus de la modernisation accélérée, auquel appartiennent également l’industrialisation et l’amélioration des moyens de communication. Une littérature mondiale qu’il considère comme un projet
permanent, non comme une règle établie. Il faut dire qu’à son époque,
l’eurocentrisme ne prêtait pas encore à polémique (les conditions historiques et politiques étaient évidemment tout autres – il n’y avait pas de
post-colonialisme). Littérature mondiale et littérature européenne faisaient
partie du concept de Goethe de façon presque interchangeable, encore
que le national voulait conserver sa position centrale car comme le disait
Goethe dans un aphorisme: «Tout bien examiné, c’est au moment où une
littérature mondiale se met en place que l’Allemand a le plus à perdre.»11
On observe donc dans ce contexte une dialectique véritablement complexe – à moins qu’il ne s’agisse de contradictions, voire de paradoxes? – en
ce qui concerne l’évaluation du transfrontalisme culturel.
La pensée universaliste de marque goethéenne a été particulièrement
bien accueillie à la fois par les intellectuels français et allemands du 20e
siècle, notamment entre les deux guerres mondiales. Songeons notamment à Thomas Mann, à son dialogue avec Goethe, avec l’Allemagne et
le terme allemand de «Kultur», avec la France et le terme français de civilisation, avec l’idée immédiatement reprise par Goethe d’une littérature
mondiale, etc. Entre d’un côté Rolland, Gide, les germanistes Lichtenberger et Bertaux, le philosophe et critique André Suarès, etc. et, de l’autre,
les frères Mann ainsi que Stefan Zweig, Hermann Hesse, Ernst Robert
Curtius, etc., est apparu un dialogue franco-allemand parfois mené de
façon très controversée. On peut qualifier celui-ci des mots du titre d’un
recueil d’essais de Romain Rolland en disant qu’il s’agissait d’un dialogue Au-dessus de la mêlée (1915) – recueil qui a pour sujet les confusions
de la première guerre mondiale. Le roman Jean-Christophe de Romain
Rolland sur la vie d’un musicien, terminé en 1912 et considéré comme
un roman d’apprentissage dans la lignée de Wilhelm Meister, se consacre
aux rapports franco-allemands aux niveaux politique et culturel. La vie de
45
Johann Christoph Krafft – nomen est omen –, compositeur de Lieder allemand et émigré en France, est marquée par des phases de manifestations
de révolte, de scepticisme et de déchirement interne. Mais l’ideal est sousentendu: son processus musical de maturité correspond à l’exigence d’un
ensemble harmonieux des nations.
Les relations franco-allemandes étaient également un leitmotiv dans
les exposés d’André Gide sur la littérature européenne. Directeur de la
Nouvelle Revue Française, il cherchait fréquemment le contact avec des
intellectuels allemands, y compris avec Thomas Mann. Dans ce contexte,
son article «Les rapports intellectuels entre la France et l’Allemagne»
(1921)12 est paradigmatique. Il ne fait aucun doute que les rapports entre
Gide et Thomas Mann étaient davantage déterminés par leur approche
cosmopolite comparable (surtout après 1920) que par des affinités personnelles ou littéraires. Au niveau littéraire, ils avaient certes, comme je l’ai
souligné au début, des modèles communs comme Goethe, Nietzsche ou
Dostojewski, mais l’un comme l’autre ont développé un style «national»
non interchangeable. Ce n’est pas sans raison que Gide un jour a qualifié
le roman de Joseph d’ «indigestion germanique». Mais comme Thomas
Mann il se dresse contre des tendances d’harmonisation europénne en ce
qui concerne la littérature: «C’est une profonde erreur de croire que l’on
travaille à la culture européenne avec des oeuvres dénationalisées […] une
confusion tend à s’établir entre culture européenne et dénationalisation.»
(«Réflexions sur l’Allemagne», 1919)13
Dès 1909, Gide avait, dans la Nouvelle Revue Française, défendu l’idée
selon laquelle «aucune œuvre d’art n’a de signification universelle qui n’a
d’abord une signification nationale, n’a de signification nationale qui n’a
d’abord une signification individuelle.»14 Toutefois, les idéaux maîtres s’appliquent toujours. Universalisme, humanisme, telles sont des catégories
idéologiques qui revêtent une importance particulière pour une exigence
éthique dans le milieu politique des années 1920 et 1930. A cette époque,
Goethe incarnait pour les intellectuels français le bon Allemand, un échantillon de la République des Lettres supranationale. «S’il nous apparaît à
nous Français», écrit Gide en 1932, «moins allemand que les autres auteurs
d’Outre-Rhin, c’est ainsi qu’il est plus généralement et universellement humain…»15 En conséquent, ce serait «une grave erreur de penser que les performances d’un grand auteur s’arrêtent aux frontières de son pays. » 16
De même Thomas Mann – tout à fait dans la ligne de la conception
goethéenne d’une littérature mondiale – considère le progrès culturel com-
46
me un processus dialectique, comme une combinaison de composantes individuelles, nationales et internationales. Dans un discours prononcés en
1926 devant le PEN-Club il déclare:
L’Europe cela signifie l’ordre libre des peuples, cela signifie la citoyenneté
internationale, la haine de l’idolâtrie nationale et de l’imperialisme culturel.
Notre époque s’ouvre largement au monde; elle ne privilège pas l’idylle provinciale et qui ne s’adresserait qu’à son propre peuple ne compterait guère (..)
Car aucun peuple ne se sent bien tout seul; chaque peuple a besoin, pour ne
pas stagner, pour ne pas se désécher, d’être complété et fécondé par un autre;
[…].17
Comme je voulais surtout parler de conceptions et de modèles je dois
renoncer à vous montrer les reflets littéraires de cette image de l’Europe.
Les romans des Thomas Mann et d’André Gide baignent en quelque sorte
dans la tradition littéraire europénne. Les Caves du Vaticans, L’Immoraliste et d’autres écrits de Gide seraient impensables sans Goethe, sans
Nietzsche, sans Dostojewski. De même Les Buddenbrooks ou le Doktor
Faustus de Thomas Mann n’existeraient pas sans l’arrière-plan européen.
Leur mémoire interculturelle se manifeste par une intertextualité particulièrement complexe qui démontre précisement l’enracinement des deux
romanciers dans une littérature mondiale eurocentriste.
Et maintenant la dernière étape de mon parcours: L’Europe de Hans
Magnus Enzensberger.
Enzensberger appartient depuis toujours, et c’était surtout le cas dans
les années 1960 et 1970, aux intellectuels critiques d’Allemagne. Son œuvre comprend une grande diversité de genres, essais, poèmes, biographies
de fiction, reportages, traductions littéraires, etc. Il fait partie de cette catégorie d’écrivains qui allient esthétique et engagement critique d’une manière remarquablement productive. D’un côté, il s’exprime, parfois aussi
de façon polémique, sur l’Allemagne politique; de l’autre, il fait figure
d’homme de lettres particulièrement sensible au niveau de la langue et
de la forme. Ce n’est pas pour rien qu’on le considère dans la tradition
de la critique rhétorique de Heinrich Heine, un frontalier entre la France
et l’Allemagne qui a pour sa part beaucoup réfléchi et écrit sur le thème
de l’Europe. Mais bien sûr, les temps ont changé, et non pas seulement
depuis Heine, mais aussi depuis les écritures correspondantes de Thomas
Mann. Dans le temps qui m’est imparti, je ne peux piocher que quelques
rares exemples dans l’atelier littéraire de l’Europe d’Enzensberger.
47
Un texte central emboîte le pas, de manière pour ainsi dire intertextuelle, à la mise en garde Achtung Europa! (voir note 5) que Thomas
Mann avait lancée de son exil en Suisse avant l’éclatement de la deuxième
guerre mondiale. Le petit mot «Achtung» peut renvoyer à de nombreuses
connotations, dont certaines désagréables. Le titre allemand du compte
rendu d’Enzensberger sur des expériences de voyages européens s’intitule
Ach Europa!. Ce «Ach» sonne quelque peu résigné, quelque peu sarcastique aussi. Cette balade à travers les capitales de l’Europe, écrite sous
la forme d’un reportage, date de 1987, mais reste aujourd’hui, plus de 20
ans après, parfaitement d’actualité. Alors qu’André Gide et Thomas Mann
défendaient l’idée d’une unité européenne, pour le moins sur le plan intellectuel, Enzensberger est à la recherche d’une Europe perdue, d’une
«vieille Europe», comme dans un poème du même titre, une Europe de la
diversité, de la mixité, des cultures et des traditions. Les formatages politiques et administratifs de cette diversité le rebutent. Il formule comme
suit ce qu’il pense de la politique de l’Europe de Bruxelles dans l’article
«Brüssel oder Europa – eins von beiden», paru en 1989: «Trente ans après
l’euphorie humaniste d’après-guerre», écrit Enzensberger, «les propagandistes du marché commun se sont démaquillés de toutes leurs prétentions
occitendales. Les intérêts ont remplacé les idéaux.»18
Les descriptions de voyages de Ach Europa! sont également ponctuées
de remarques euro-sceptiques. Lorsqu’il emploie le «Je», Enzensberger
ne raconte et ne décrit pas lui-même, mais fait voyager à travers l’Europe
un journaliste américain, dont il se sert comme d’un observateur critique.
Il choisit ainsi une perspective extérieure et étrangère pour un meilleur
profilage de ce que l’Europe représente aujourd’hui. Au sein de chacune
des «Perceptions de sept pays» (par ex. de la Suède, l’Italie, la Hongrie,
le Portugal, etc.), on trouve des dialogues avec des autochtones, des interviews, de petites scènes et épisodes. L’auteur se nourrit ainsi de l’autre et
de l’étranger (l’Europe) en utilisant une forme dialoguée rompant avec la
perspective, dans le but de faire ainsi ressortir les différences, les «rythmes de vie de chacun», la «diversité», le «micmac», le «chaos», termes
qu’il emploie tels quels. Pour Enzensberger, il s’agit ici d’une confusion
productive, qu’il oppose à l’idée d’ «unité». Un des interlocuteurs du
journaliste l’exprime de cette façon: «Chaque tendance au nivellement,
qu’elle soit politique, religieuse ou sociale, met notre continent en danger
de mort. Ce qui nous menace, c’est l’unité forcée, l’homogénéisation; ce
qui nous sauve, c’est notre diversité.»19 Il croit en l’altérité à l’intérieur de
48
l’Europe: «Ce que vous qualifiez de chaos est notre plus importante ressource. Nous vivons de la différence.»20
Cette discussion se poursuit dans un autre long texte, un essai sur le
thème de La grande migration (Die Grosse Wanderung,1992)21. Ses observations sur la migration vont de la nuit des temps jusqu’à l’époque
post-coloniale. Ce que nous appelons aujourd’hui «mobilité globale» remonte pour lui à la différence anthropologique entre les peuples sédentaires et les nomades: «La sédentarité n’est pas inscrite dans les gênes de notre espèce; […] Notre existence primaire est celle des chasseurs-cueilleurs
et des bergers.»22. L’existence des cueilleurs apparaît donc comme une
métonymie pour désigner l’évolution continue de l’humanité à différents
niveaux historiques: biblique/mythologique, inter-européen et planétaire.
Dans cet essai, nous pouvons étudier un article théorico-critique, qui porte
moins d’intérêt aux préoccupations concrètes des immigrés, qui viennent
par exemple de ce qu’on appelle le tiers monde, qu’aux questions fondamentales telles que la relativisation culturelle, («L’interaction entre les
descriptions de soi et des autres est très confuse»)23, la société multiculturelle, la xénophobie, la globalisation. Si la perspective d’Enzensberger est
aussi celle des habitants de la «bonne vieille Europe», il ne s’exprime en
fait toujours que de manière très générale sur les questions de la migration
et de la compréhension européenne. De plus, il considère que l’eurocentrisme est en fin de compte inévitable, attribuant des traits eurocentristes à
bien des théoriciens défendant une perspective post-coloniale.24
Mais sa critique s’adresse essentiellement aux excroissances de la société post-industrielle, qui instrumentalise les migrants, qui préfère perpétuer la différence entre pauvre et riche. Là où «la fortune a valeur sacrée,
l’attirance, la solidarité pour les étrangers est plutôt faible.»25. Enzensberger projette sur les victimes des mouvements migratoires le mobile de
Turgenev dans «Les hommes superflus»: les responsables de la misère
seraient des instigateurs anonymes: le colonialisme, l’industrialisation,
le progrès technique, la collectivisation, le marché mondial, la croissance
économique etc.26
J’avais souligné qu’Enzensberger associait facilement esthétique et
essai critique. Ses démêlés assez polémiques sur la politique de Bruxelles
et son idéal d’harmonisation européenne se font parallèlement à son activité de critique littéraire, poète et traducteur. Dès 1960, l’auteur publiait le
Musée de la poésie moderne, une anthologie de poèmes européens de la
modernité classique (1919–1940)27. Dans notre contexte, la postface qui
49
présente les poèmes choisis comme échantillons de «littérature mondiale»
est particulièrement intéressante. En 1960, il y avait manifestement toujours un desiderata qui va davantage de soi aujourd’hui: le dépassement
des frontières de la littérature nationale. Ce sont précisément les poètes
modernes de la première moitié du siècle qui auraient «procuré à la littérature mondiale une puissance lumineuse, qui n’était pas imaginable
en d’autres temps [...] Si la science était moins liée à la littérature par les
frontières des langues nationales, on aurait ici un terrain de jeu idéal pour
la recherche.»28 Il est étonnant de constater à quel point Enzensberger est
proche du terme de «naissance d’une littérature mondiale» employé par
Goethe lorsqu’il souligne que le processus de la poésie moderne «mène à
la naissance d’une langue universelle poétique»29.
Près de trente ans plus tard, dans le cadre de la réédition du Musée
de la poésie moderne en 2002, il corrige son concept de littérature mondiale et lui attribue un «eurocentrisme naïf». «C’est pourquoi il n’y a dans
ce livre aucun Chinois, Arabe, Indien, Japonais, [...]. L’idée d’une littérature mondiale a ainsi souffert d’un raccourci que l’on trouve étrange
aujourd’hui, à une époque postcoloniale.»30 Cette autocritique peut sembler contradictoire avec la thèse discutée auparavant. A croire qu’en fin de
compte, un auteur européen ne peut échapper à l’eurocentrisme.
Mais Enzensberger s’est ainsi également émancipé du concept idéaliste-humaniste de Thomas Mann et d’André Gide. Comme il l’avait déjà
fait dans ses essais sur l’Europe, il invoque les dangers de la globalisation, des abstractions du marché mondial et de la technique. Selon lui, la
bureaucratie de Bruxelles a perverti l’idée de l’Europe: «rien de pire que
Big Science, High Tech, l’astronautique, le plutonium, toutes ces mauvaises blagues»31. Pour lui, Bruxelles serait une «gigantesque hydrocéphalie
supranationale» sans légitimation démocratique: dans ce processus de déshumanisation des décisions, les habitants de notre belle péninsule (l’Europe) n’auraient plus rien à dire. Seule la poésie conserverait sa spécificité. «Son repli dans la périphérie médiumnique est une exception presque
programmée»32.(J’ajoute: à l’époque d’une interconnexion totale.)
En arrière-plan de cette pensée, on comprend mieux le compte rendu
hautement ironique que fait le journaliste américain Taylor à la fin de la
dernière étape (Prague) de son voyage en Europe. Dans une pièce radiophonique de 1989, «Böhmen am Meer», texte publié d’abord dans Ach
Europa! (1987), Enzensberger nous livre une version plus élargie de cette
Ironie. Taylor veut rentrer; «J’en ai profondément marre de l’Europe», dit-
50
il33. Il prend le taxi pour l’aéroport, le chauffeur est un «éternel étudiant»
de quarante-cinq ans, originaire d’Autriche. Taylor constate: «Une pile de
livres se trouvait sur le siège avant inoccupé. C’est une manie typiquement européenne. Ils lisent encore des livres.»34. Un dialogue s’instaure
entre les deux personnes:
Taylor: Vous êtes écrivain ou quoi ?
Chauffeur de taxi : Etudiant. En littérature générale et comparée.
Talyor: Comment ? Ça existe toujours ça ?
Chauffeur de taxi: A Prague oui. J’étudie dans le taxi, pendant les temps d’attente. Je suis Autrichien mais cela fait déjà dix ans que je vis à Prague. J’ai
tendance à faire de l’asthme. L’air de la mer me fait du bien.
Taylor: L’air de la mer?
Chauffeur de taxi: Eh bien, vous savez, Bohemia, sur la côte.
Taylor: Je n’y comprends rien.
Chacun sait que Bohemia n’est pas sur la côte. Pour comprendre Enzensberger, je dois vous expliquer ce non-sens apparent. Bohemia est un
lieu d’action fictif dans la pièce «Le conte d’hiver» de Shakespeare. Dans
la littérature allemande, Bohemia est utilisée pour décrire la surface de
projection d’un état utopique idéal (Enzensberger situe le voyage du journaliste en 2006 – donc vingt ans après publication de son texte!). Notre
chauffeur de taxi offre au journaliste américain une feuille, sur laquelle
est écrit un poème de l’une des plus célèbres écrivaines germanophones,
Ingeborg Bachmann. Le titre de ce poème est Bohemia est sur la côte, qui
est aussi le titre du dernier chapitre de Ach Europa! d’Enzensberger.
Le jeu intertextuel sert ici de contraste symbolique de la «bonne vieille
Europe» et de sa variété culturelle avec la marque de l’idéal d’unité de
Bruxelles. Je ne sais pas si Enzensberger a jamais étudié la littérature
comparée, mais la rencontre fortuite avec cet étudiant n’est évidemment
pas un hasard; elle apparaît au contraire largement construite. La littérature comparée s’applique parfaitement ici. Elle vit justement de la différence. L’hélice de l’uniformisation et de l’harmonisation européenne
apparaît au contraire comme une utopie négative. La marasme règne là où
il n’y a plus rien à comparer si les différences ont été abolies.
En ce sens, la vision d’Enzensberger me semble nettement diverger
des visions humanistes de Thomas Mann et d’André Gide. Les descriptions négatives d’Enzensberger sont les excroissances actuelles de la technologisation, la dérive scientifique et la commercialisation «au-dessus de
la tête des hommes» au sens propre. Son image de l’Europe est ainsi en
51
même temps l’expression d’un scepticisme philosophique global: « La
posthumanisation à la fois technologique/économique et culturelle/philosophique provoque donc une dissolution des limitations et des démarcations traditionnelles de l’humain.»35
Références
Thomas Mann, Avertissement à l’Europe. Préface d’André Gide, Paris: Gallimard, 1937.
2
Op.cit. Préface, 9–10.
3
Avertissement à l’Europe, 44.
4
Hans Magnus Enzensberger, “Eurozentrismus wider Willen”. In: Enzensberger: Politische Brosamen, Frankfurt am Main, 1982, 31–52.
5
Hans Magnus Enzensberger, Ach Europa! Wahrnehmungen aus sieben Ländern, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1987.
Éd. française: Europe! Europe! Paris: Gallimard, 1988.
6
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, West-östlicher Divan, Sämtliche Werke, Vol.
11.1.2, éd. Hans Richter, München: Hanser, 1998. (Textes de Goethe trad. par
l’auteur)
7
Goethe, West-östlicher Divan: Zu besserem Verständnis, Sämtliche Werke, Vol.
11.1.2, 130.
8
Goethe, West-östlicher Divan, 12.
9
��
Op. cit., “Einführung”, 336.
10
Goethe, Gespräche mit Eckermann, Sämtliche Werke, 19, S.206.
11
��
Cit. Hendrik Birus: “Goethes Idee der Weltliteratur. Eine historische Vergegenwärtigung”, in: Manfred Schmeling (Hg.): Weltliteratur heute. ��
Konzepte
und Perspektiven, Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann 1995, 5–28; 13
12
André Gide, «Les rapports intellectuels entre la France et l’Allemagne», Nouvelle Revue Française, no. 98, 1921, 513–521.
13
Gide, «Réflexions sur l’Allemagne», Nouvelles Revue Française, no. 69, 1919,
46.
14
Gide, «Nationalisme et littérature», Nouvelle Revue Française, 1909, no 5,
430.
15
��
Op. cit., 368–69.
16
Op. cit., 369.
17
Thomas Mann: Autobiographisches, Frankfurt/Main: Fischer, 1968, 176
(Trad. par l’auteur)
18
Enzensberger, “Brüssel oder Europa – eins von beiden”, in Enzensberger, Der
fliegende Robert, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1989, 117–125, 118. Voir le commentaire de Paul Michael Lützeler, Die Schriftsteller und Europa. Von der Romantik bis zur Gegenwart. München: Piper, 1992, 470.
19
Ach Europa!, 482.
20
��
Op.cit., 484.
1
52
Enzensberger, Die große Wanderung, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1992.
��
Op. cit., 10.
23
��
Op. cit., 18.
24
��
“Eurozentrismus wider Willen”, op. cit. note 4.
25
Enzensberger, Die Grosse Wanderung, 57.
26
��
Op. cit., 28.
27
Enzensberger, Museum der modernen Poesie, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp 1960;
nouv. éd. 2002.
28
Museum, éd. 2002, 773.
29
��
Op. cit., 773.
30
��
Op. cit., 786–787.
31
Ach Europa!, 481.
32
Museum, 787.
33
Enzensberger, Böhmen am Meer. Ein Hörspiel aus dem Jahr 2006. In: Der
Fliegende Robert, op. cit. note 18, 126-170, voir 167.
34
��
Op. cit. 167.
35
Stefan Herbrechter, Posthumanismus, Darmstadt: Wiss. Buchgesellschaft,
2009, 155.
21
22
53
Western Humanism and the “Other”
Vakarų humanizmas ir „Kitas“
Jüri TALVET
University of Tartu
Ülikooli 17-403
51014 Tartu, Estonia
[email protected]
Summary
In the background of some significant postmodern misreading / non-reading
of European historical humanism I will try to discuss the possible germs of the
simplifications from which the treatment of humanism has suffered in the last
decades of the 20th century. The question of the “other” is of key importance in
understanding the contribution of humanism to Western and world culture. From
the very early days of the emergence of humanistic activity in 14th-century Italy,
a contradiction can be observed in its basic world-view. Petrarch’s Secretum reveals a divergence in embryo. Humanist scholars of the ancient philosophy and
literature formed the rationally minded mainstream of humanism, which, especially in 18th-century Enlightenment, converged with science. It consolidated the
image of the Western “self” based on the creed of universal reason as a supreme
source of Truth. The other wing of humanism was formed by writers and artists.
Since Petrarch himself and, especially, Boccaccio, it opposed any flat rationality
as well as rationally-rooted idealism. It constantly transgressed the boundaries of
the „self”and propagated openness to nature. In the same contradictory paradigm
humanistic writers, despite fierce ideological opposition by “men of reason and
power”, pioneered in revealing the human “other”, i.e. woman as a personality.
Artistic playfulness, subtle ironies and ambiguity of imagery were the basic means
of humanistic philosophy of tolerance, relativity of meanings and openness to nature as well as to the natural and social “other” in the work of Erasmus and Thomas More, to be followed by an ever-bolder penetration into the world of the “other” and an ever more intense dialogue with the “other” in Rabelais, Montaigne,
Cervantes, Shakespeare, Quevedo, Lope de Vega, Tirso de Molina, Calderón and
other great humanist writers of the fertile intersection area of the Renaissance and
Baroque. This had its direct follow-up in the philosophy of Romanticism (Herder,
the Schlegels, Novalis, Goethe), which was to become the great start of the discovery of the „other“ in literature. In our times of the late (if not subsiding) theoretical postmodernism, the work of Yuri M. Lotman, since his conception of the
„semiosphere“, can best epitomize the continuing vitality of humanistic creation
in its ever-deepening dialogue with the “other”.
Key words: humanism, the “other”, woman, postmodern discourse, romanticism, feminism
54
The question of the “other” has taken a new turn in the background
of postmodern theory. There is an evident insufficiency in identifying humanism, as a phenomenon, with philosophical rationalism and with the
establishment of “definite truths” or “grand narratives”, fiercely attacked
by some postmodern scholars. Indeed, as I have tried to show in my earlier observations on the subject1, postmodern theory has quite strangely
tried to usurp the achievements of European historical humanism, especially as far as the “conquest” of the “other” is concerned, at the cost of
presenting a disfigured image of its supposed opponent.
It is far from being a question of the past, something that by the start
of the 21st century has been “overcome” once and for ever. In the spiritual
and intellectual-humanistic field, the idea of progress and gradual perfection are hardly applicable. It would be highly misleading to imagine that
ultimate wisdom has been achieved in the mainstream of postmodern discourses and that the only task left to our posterity is just to elaborate these
discourses, in ever more subtle rewriting. On the contrary, I suggest that a
new turn in the humanities is urgently needed. It should take into account
the historical experience of Western humanism. The same dilemmas that
the humanities face today were very much present in the early Renaissance, as Dante Alighieri, Petrarch and Boccaccio laid the path for a new
type of conscience of literary creation. They were present at the peak of
the European Renaissance, when Desiderius Erasmus and Thomas More
wrote their essays, boldly defying hate and enmity dominating the political and religious scene of Europe at the start of the 16th century. They
were even more acutely present, when the heyday of the Renaissance was
coming to its close, in the work of Montaigne, Cervantes, Shakespeare,
Calderón and other great writers and philosophers who followed in the
path of creative humanism till the second part of the 17th century.
The application of the term “creative humanism” is not anything
casual in my treatment of the phenomenon. The nature of creation as
such has become a key issue in postmodern theories. Since Roland
Barthes launched the idea and the image of the “death of the author”,
postmodern theories have tried to diminish the role of originality in the
creative act, asserting, instead, that creation is rather a chain of intertextualities and rewriting, a kind of immanent action, not having much to
do with “outward” reality, especially reality outside the realm of culture.
According to these theories, discourses and, especially, written discourses have their own sufficiency; beyond discourses, life does not exist, or
55
at least such life that could have a role in the interpretation of basic values of human existence.
Such arguing follows deeply in the pattern that emerged in the first
part of the 17th century with the French philosopher and scientist René
Descartes. According to him, reality beyond thinking and reason was
meaningless or at least it could not provide any ground for approaching
truth. God is identified in Descartes with Supreme Reason or Highest Intellect. In an older edition of Petit Larousse Illustré I found an intriguing
definition of humanism, in which Cartesianism is identified with humanism2. If Cartesianism is humanism, then, paradoxically, the postmodern
theories attacking humanism seem to have launched a war against their
own origins. One can find interesting short descriptions of the notion of
humanism in other dictionaries. Thus, Encyclopedia Americana includes
among the representatives of “Northern humanists” the political-religious
leader of the French protestants, Jean Calvin. It qualifies Erasmus as “the
Prince of Christian Humanists”, while admitting that “scientific humanism
aims to supplant religion and make scientific knowledge the instrument of
freeing man and enhancing life” 3. It also observes that the term “humanism” has been claimed by pragmatists, existentialists and Marxists.
An important remark about humanism in Большая советская
энциклопедия claims that in the French Enlightenment humanism became
linked with materialism and atheism4. The mainstream of postmodernist discourse has shown a strong defiance of any “godly truths”, having
among its main spiritual fathers the Western anti-Christian champion Friedrich Nietzsche.
A very well known fact not to be ignored is that since the 14th century early Italian Renaissance humanists were identified with those scholars – in opposition to clergymen and theologians – who started to spread
(research and comment on) ancient philosophy and literature. Yet there
is no denying that these hard-working men, who published the results of
their learning mainly in Latin – as they considered vernacular languages
inadequate for scholarly and philosophical expression – are given little
mention in modern dictionaries. Instead, the foreground is firmly occupied
by those men of letters and science who managed to launch some deeper
original work, not just commentaries on the ancients.
For that reason, the term “creative humanism” seems to have its raison d’être. In the (post)modern discussion about humanism we should
try to centre on the originating impulse and current use about which our
56
contemporary dictionaries manifest little disagreement. Articles about humanism seldom fail to mention Petrarch, Boccaccio, Erasmus, Thomas
More, Rabelais, Montaigne, Shakespeare, Cervantes. They form the core
of historical humanism.
Now the question is: is postmodern theory, while declaring its anti-humanist essence5, really opposing and attacking these writers, which I have
just mentioned?
If yes, on what grounds? In her recent doctoral dissertation, the Spanish scholar Yolanda Caballero Aceituno has well observed surprising similarities between Laurence Sterne’s “humanistic project” and postmodern
ideas6. Sterne, a late humanist writer, was a direct offspring of Cervantes,
both in his ludic-metatextual narrative art and his philosophical understanding of the “other”. Is postmodern theory continuing the “humanistic
project”, while denying its origins and sources? Maybe, ironically speaking, it is a “simulacrum” of the denying of the existence of the object or
essence, of which it is a semblance? To be honest, I cannot find any explanation for this paradox beyond an exaggerated fear, on the part of the
postmodernists, of God as the original Author or Creator. In some postmodern translation theories, which insist on translation as creative rewriting, the defiance of God is even translated into the ground of the battle of
the sexes, with linguistic gender as its substantial contributor7.
The gender question is undeniably important. It is not at all a mere
coincidence that in parallel with postmodern ideology a strong feminist
current has emerged since the last quarter of the 20th century. It is also
a fact that all best-known historical humanist writers were men, without exception. The fact however, should not lead us to simplifications.
We cannot expect a wider emergence of women’s creativity in the centuries when Western societies were dominated exclusively by crude and
autocratic male power. Its gradual emergence could not be earlier than the
slow transition to democratic social systems along the 19th century. At the
same time, in the vanguard of those Europeans who pioneered in creating the premises for democratic and liberal tendencies in Western ideology, including a call for understanding the “other” – woman, the socially
and ethnically exploited and humiliated Europeans, indigenous people of
other continents – were always humanist writers. They were the boldest in
defying the abuses of Western male power, as well as in including woman
and nature in the philosophical discourse which supported and provoked
social changes.
57
Once again I would like to stress the importance of literature. It runs
parallel to philosophy and science, but its great advantage over the latter
is that it presents its ideas in images, which cannot be grasped by other
means than the senses. Descartes’s famous cogito, ergo sum, stops to work
in literature. On the contrary, literature works by the principle: sentio,
ergo sum. Literature does not separate intellect or reason from the senses,
that is why in literature our intellectual dimension is deeply intertwined
with nature of which the sensual and the sexual is an inseparable part, in
fact, its essence. Thus literature, not excluding philosophy, includes by
its very nature the “other” in its discourse to a much greater extent than
philosophy or science. Literature is a symbiotic philosophy: ideas lose
their abstract and artificial tendency, thus, they can represent and interpret
the world more fully, while the sensual and the sexual, in contact with the
intellect, can produce surprising epiphanies of human spirituality.
In the following I will briefly exemplify the symbiotic character of the
work of early creative humanists. It is inalienable from the emergence of
the “other” in Western philosophical discourse. Without the humanistic
background, the radical breakthrough in the dialogue with the “other”
in the philosophy of Romanticism or the emergence of the “other”, as a
subject, in the feminist discourse of the last quarter of the 20th century can
hardly be understood.
Dante Alighieri: germinal symbiosis of the female and the male
Dante Alighieri is seldom included in the list of humanists, but in fact
he was the greatest pioneering creator at the dawn of the Renaissance.
The reason why Dante is not mentioned among humanists may possibly
be that he was a deeply religious man. “Paradiso”, the last part of his
Commedia, resembles very much a theological treatise. Dante’s Commedia is “divine” in the sense that as an artistic creation, it has no parallels
in the past; thus, it cannot exhaustively be explained on the grounds of intertextuality. It is a genuine “explosion”, of which we do not possess any
simulacra or imitations in the following centuries that could equal or rival
its “grand narrative”.
The supreme goal of Dante’s journey and narrative was God. However, the greatest difference from all other preceding work is that Dante turned a woman, as an incarnation and symbol of love, into the main
guide to God. His theology is not governed by intellect, but it is a mixture
of love and intellect, their symbiosis. While Dante’s first guide is Virgil,
58
a poet from the past (symbolizing ancient culture as providing the liberating original impulse to the Renaissance), Beatrice, the final guide, is
a young Italian lady with whom Dante was in love. Woman (Beatrice)
manifestly occupies the final and decisive role of guiding Dante to God,
while man (Virgil), even though he, too, is a great poet, like Dante himself, must return to the first circle of the Inferno. In the final two Cantos
of “Paradiso”, Virgin Mary is praised. Beatrice, together with other saints,
clasps her hands to Virgin Mary. (XXXIII, 38–39). In the final epiphany
of God (107–108), Dante once again recalls the divine infant “che d’un
fante / che bagni ancor la lingua a la mammella”, but then, in the transition to the supreme contemplation of God, any indication of a determined
gender is suppressed. Not for a single instance does Dante speak of God
as man / male, nor describes God’s physiognomy. God thus transcends
genders and sexes. Dante speaks of God in the exclusive terms of “somma luce”, “luce etterna”, “l’alto lume” and “l’amor che move il sole e
l’altre stelle”.
The female germ is “luce” (light), the male germ “amore” (love). They
are equal and one in God, in a symbiotic union, whose final essence cannot be determined or uttered by the mortals. God is present only metaphorically. It is the human dream, whose logic can never be captured by
science or reason. Let us not forget that Dante’s vision in his Commedia is
a dream. Dream, too, is a human “other”, or at least a “semiotic window”,
which opens to the “other”, as Yuri Lotman has described it8.
Petrarch: woman’s corporalization
The symbiotic nature of Francesco Petrarch’s humanism has its origin
in the same fertile union of a poet and a thinker that made Dante scarcely
half a century before him stand forth as a supreme creator. Petrarch developed in the deep footsteps of the intellectual tradition reaching from
ancient Roman literature and philosophy. It was epitomized by Latin, in
which he wrote the bulkier part of his work. As Latin has been an artificial
(non-spoken) language since the Middle Ages, it very much embodied
a cultural vehicle parallel to the written tradition (discourses) and intertextuality, which some postmodern theoreticians would like to see as the
exclusive source for textual creativity.
Even though Petrarch revered the ancient Romans, he failed to refute
creative impulses reaching him from his individual existence as a human
being and a man: love for Laura and suffering for love, both in life and
59
beyond life. Like Dante before him, Petrarch could not utter these inmost,
most intimately existential feelings in an artificial language provided by
culture and tradition, but wrote the whole lyrical cycle of his poems, the
source of his fame, in his mother tongue, Italian.
Let us note that in most languages, when we speak of the language
that a baby starts to speak first (as the equivalent of a vernacular language,
the language of the autochthons), we use the expression “mother tongue”
(and not at all “father tongue”!) Lyrical poetry is especially deeply bound
to one’s mother tongue. Thus the germ of Petrarch’s symbiotic-humanist
creation is female. To a much greater extent than Dante, Petrarch represented the woman he adored in bodily terms. It is a commonplace to characterize Petrarch’s love as platonic. A closer look at his poems, however,
would reveal the presence of sexual attraction and anguish. The fact does
not diminish or restrain at all the significance of Petrarch’s love. On the
contrary, such love could also better reach the human “other” beyond the
divine “Other”, or to be more exact, reveal their intimate union.
Petrarch’s sonnet (Poem 334 of Canzoniere) demonstrates the abovesaid in the greatest philosophical concentration of poetic imagery. It is a
substantial addendum to Petrarch’s earlier dispute with St. Augustine in
Secretum. As Petrarch now claims, relying on mature existential experience, Laura’s love and his love for Laura is inseparable from il mundo
(the earthy world) despised by St. Augustine. Laura is not alone when
she comes to meet Petrarch, once the poet leaves his earthly body: she
descends from heaven with gente nostra (our people), those “others” in
whose capacity for high morality (onestate, virtue), supporting the idea of
Patria (fatherland), the poet never had doubts. The female germ (love for
the woman that purifies the man) and mother tongue come in support of
patria, a home for gente nostra, a great variety of “others”, not just select
individuals capable of reaching “Paradiso”, as in Dante’s Commedia.
Boccaccio: woman who speaks
If woman in Dante is shown to incarnate high spirituality (the soul
and mind in union) and Petrarch complements that union with woman’s
bodily beauty, as part of living and concrete nature, Giovanni Boccaccio, Petrarch’s friend and contemporary, was to broaden woman’s presence as the “other” in European culture even more. He was the first
to show women speak. He liberated woman from her muteness, thus
conferring to her the dimension – again in a perfect fusion of nature and
60
culture – of a subject, the entity whose ontology is very much determined by its capacity to express, speak out, establish its stand by verbal
communication. Now, for the first time woman has her own standpoint,
which more than often enters in a direct opposition with the hitherto
reigning male viewpoint. I would argue that by far more important than
the description of sexually active women in Decamerone – though the
liberation of their bodily language can by no means be underrated! – is
the language through which women articulate the erotic call of nature
in their bodies. Without it, relying only on their bodily discourse, they
would be defenseless in the world in which men have crudely appropriated and usurped the word.
To provide only a few examples, it is not at all a casual detail that in
Decamerone’s framing narration young women are in majority – there are
seven young ladies and three young men who tell the stories. Those young
ladies do not only frame the human comedy. One must not forget that the
majority of the stories – including often even the most daring in revealing erotic and intimate details – are told by women. Thus Boccaccio lets
them conquer the domain which until then had been reserved almost exclusively for men. They narrate erotic, bodily love and fortify its standing
forth by verbal argumentation. They intrude into man’s dominion, overturn man’s viewpoint, and show the “other” speaking. What was scandalous and shocking to clergymen and the whole male-dominated society
was not so much erotic openness as the liberated women in Boccaccio’s
work. This posed direct threat to the male establishment. One of the most
eloquent examples of how women could speak and defend their point of
view can be found in the first story of the fourth day of Decamerone, in
which Ghismonda, a young widow punished by her father, justifies her
choice and refutes the accusations.
Boccaccio went as far as to present a woman’s point of view in a much
larger narrative than the stories of Decamerone. His short novel Fiammetta was to become the first extensive female discourse in Western literature, a prelude to Molly Bloom’s interior monologue in James Joyce’s
Ulysses. Naturally, it is very far from establishing woman as a fully independent subject. However, if ever we wish to seek the origins of women’s
liberation as individuals and creative personalities, the work of this early
European humanist provides us most secure guidelines.
61
Celestina: woman’s voice from “below”
After Boccaccio, the next extensive philosophical discourse pronounced by a woman in European literature came from Spain at the end
of the 15th century, a few years after Columbus had reached the New Continent. We should not despise the fact that the speaker was not a lady belonging to the noble society. It was all the more significant, from the point
of view of the social “other”. Here I am referring to Celestina, the old
bawd in Fernando de Rojas’ novel written in the form of a play, La tragicomedia de Calisto y Melibea (1499, 1502). Although she appears only in
the first part of the text, her monologues make her the indisputable main
character of the novel. Her long monologues justifying earthly love as the
supreme law of life established by God himself, who appears as identical
with nature, continued the humanist discourse manifest in Boccaccio’s
work. The new aspect introduced by Rojas is the social concern. Celestina
does not only represent woman as the “other”, but also the lower classes
of society, the “other” of the outcasts and depraved. Love in the lower part
of society cannot follow its natural calls, but is crudely distorted by social
conditions. In fact, it has been turned into business, a means of elementary survival. The broadening of social sensibility is the great contribution
of Rojas’s work. Once again, it proves that the distinguishing feature of
the humanist literary creation was its symbiotic nature, the inclusion of
philosophical discourse in images.
Moria: the ludic and relativising “other”
We have a speaking noble-lady and a speaking bawd. The next spokeswoman in great European literature does not belong to the “high” or the
“low” social space, nor can she be restricted to any epoch or age of human existence. She is the ever-young, immortal Moria in Erasmus’s The
Praise of Folly (1511). In fact, Moria’s witty monologue includes a lot of
ludic ambiguity. Even though a number of chapters of the small book satirize the human follies and stupidities that are real, Moria herself, on the
contrary, in Erasmus’s text is identified with life as the supreme value and
the deepest basis of human existence and knowledge. Erasmus, one of the
most learned and erudite Europeans, launches a vigorous attack on bookish, pedantic and dogmatic knowledge (the real folly), or the knowledge
that, torn off from the individual existential context of our lives, becomes
a value in itself. Erasmus boldly defies stoics and Platonists who reject
passions and consider earthly life as inferior to the life of ideas. Let us
62
not forget that Moria is a woman. As a symbol of life in Erasmus’s philosophy, she is a window open to all possible “others”, or in Yuri Lotman’s
terms, she is the semiosphere, the ever fertile ground of creation, capable
of surprises and provoking shifts to new meaning and qualities. It is life
in its eternal movement and change that turns into nonsense man’s claims
of possessing final truths (abstract knowledge). It is also life, not bookish
knowledge, that moves the deeper intimate essence of human beings in the
finite frame of their earthly existence. Nature in Erasmus’s treatment does
not contradict Christian values: Christian philosophy, according to Erasmus,
combines love with wisdom, while the deepest source of both is nature.
Utopia: the “other” civilization
Erasmus’s friend Thomas More published his Utopia in 1516. After Columbus’s pioneering voyage, exciting news from the New Continent was
reaching Europe daily. Raphael Hythlodaeus, the globe-trotter whom More
asked to tell him about his travel impressions and experiences on the island called Utopia, had not long ago returned from an expedition to the
New Continent led by Amerigo Vespucci. The “other” whose image More
made stand forth in Utopia was thus foretold above all by the discovery
of America and the contact with indigenous people and their civilization.
More’s Utopia is a witty play between the real and the ideal, the known and
the unknown, nature and reason, irony and sincerity. The book was not at
all conceived as a manual of how to build up an ideal society, rather its goal
was to establish a symbiotic, comparative and dialogic relationship between
the “own” and the “other”. Like Erasmus, More had serious doubts about
the knowledge or philosophical discourse used by European males since the
Middle Ages. Despite its claims of universality, such knowledge at its best
could represent only itself, the “own” formed by male reasoning, interests
and instincts. It ignored both womankind and the social and natural “other”.
In contrast, More sought new wisdom and knowledge that would be in harmony with nature in the human being and beyond it. His Utopia forwards a
bold social project above all in search of a new type of human conscience
that would be less male-centered, less anthropocentric and less logo-centric,
less egoistic. It strongly criticized the hierarchy of values established by
the European males and advocated the inclusion of the “other” in the social
projects of the future. More did not seek an ideal (perfect, motionless) society, but such forms of human con-science and co-existence that, being the
result of a long process of historical modification, would be open to change.
63
Conclusion
With Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, Erasmus and More, the foundations
of creative-philosophical humanist discourse were laid. I will not go further here by providing examples from subsequent humanism. Its discourse
was powerfully expanded by Rabelais, Montaigne, Shakespeare, Cervantes,
Lope de Vega, Tirso de Molina, and Calderón de la Barca, among others.
Their philosophy made use of images to produce a radical breakthrough in
the understanding of the “other”. Even though their message was largely
ignored by Western power structures, it was revived by the most alert spirits
of Romanticism and gradually enhanced social change. That message of
total openness to the “other” - beyond discourses, texts, abstract knowledge
and all human artifacts – has not lost its significance at all. Creative-humanist discourse is strongly present in Western modernist and existentialist literature. If ever postmodernism hopes to survive, I would suggest that instead
of trying to “overcome” humanism it should seek its nourishing support.
References
��
Cf. Jüri Talvet, “Between Dreams and Reality: the Message and the Image of
Renaissance Humanism”, in: Sederi XIV: Yearbook of the Spanish and Portuguese Society for The Study of English Renaissance Studies, ed. Figueroa
Dorrego, J. et al, Jaén: Universidad de Jaén, Servicio de publicaciones, 2004,
136-152; “The Revolt of Humanism. (Deconstruction Deconstructed: An Introduction)”, in: Interlitteraria, 8, Tartu: Tartu University Press, 2003, 144–155.
2
Petit Larousse Illustré, Paris, Librairie Larousse, 1973, 517.
3
Encyclopedia Americana, Vol. 14, Danbury, Connecticut: Grolier Incorporated,
1995, 553��
–554.
4
Большая советская энциклопедия, Vol��
��
. 7, ��
Москва: ��
Советская ��
Энциклопедия. 1972, 444.
5
��
Cf. in this context articles about Deconstruction and Michel Foucault in: Encyclopedia of Contemporary Literary Theory, ed. I. R. Makaryk, Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 1993. Their authors do not leave any doubt in
postmodernism’s antihumanist stand.
6
“The Humanistic Project in Laurence Sterne’s Narrative”, a PhD thesis, defended at Jaén University in 2008.
7
��
Cf. Assumpta Camps, “Anthropophagy, or the (Masculine) Obsession with
Originals”, in: Interlitteraria, 10, 2005, 92-106; Jüri Talvet, “Contemporary
Translation Philosophy: Cannibalism or Symbiosis?, in Interlitteraria, 12,
2007, 268–286.
8
��
The Chapter „Dream as a semiotic window“, in: Iuri M. Lotman, Культура и
взрыв, Москва: Прогресс, 1992.
1
64
Aksiologinis aspektas XXI amžiaus
Europos literatūroje: Tesėjo
��
(iš Lietuvos?) beieškant
Axiological Aspect in the
European Literature of the 21st
Century: In Pursuit of Theseus
(from Lithuania?)
Vytautas MARTINKUS
Vilnius Pedagogical University
Ševčenkos str. 31, LT-03111 Vilnius
[email protected]
Santrauka
Straipsnyje keliama vertybių ir šiuolaikinės literatūros kūrinių vertinimo problema. Postmodernizmas transformavo literatūros aksiologijos klasikinę sampratą.
Sustiprėjo dėmesys pliuralistiniam vertybių aiškinimui, jų reliatyvumui ir atsitiktinumui, estetinių literatūros kūrinio kriterijų daugiamatiškumui. Postmodernių
kūrinių vertinimo paradoksas: jie arba iš viso nevertinami, arba jiems taikomi
klasikinės literatūros aksiologjos principai. Sudėtingai ir simbolinei šiuolaikinio
literatūros vertybių pasaulio struktūrai pažymėti siūlomas archetipinis labirinto
įvaizdis. Vertinimas interpretuojamas kaip išėjimas (kelio radimas) iš labirinto.
Postmodernybės sąlygomis tai – vertybių individualumo ir atsitiktinumo simbolinės bei praktinės raiškos vieta. Remiamasi postmodernaus nacionalinio (rusų,
lietuvių ir prancūzų) istorinio romano pavyzdžiais .
Esminiai žodžiai: literatūros aksiologija, postmodernizmas, vertinimas, labirintas, istorinis romanas.
Summary
The article is focused on the issue of values and evaluation of contemporary pieces of literature. Postmodernism transformed the classical conception of
literature axiology. The regard towards pluralistic interpretation of values, their
relativity and coincidence, as well as towards multidimensional aspect of aesthetic
criteria of a piece of literature enhanced. The paradox of postmodernist pieces’
evaluation is as follows: they are either not evaluated at all, or the principles of the
classical literature axiology are applied. To denote a complex and symbolic structure of contemporary literary values an archetype image of labyrinth is offered.
Evaluation is interpreted as the way out of labyrinth (finding out the path). Under
the conditions of post-modernity it is the position of individuality of values and
65
symbolic and practical expression of coincidence. The instances of postmodernist national (Russian, Lithuanian, French) historical novel are taken as the basic
references.
Key words: axiology of literature, postmodernism, evaluation, historical novel.
The states of our consciousness often resemble king Minos��
’��
palace
with its vaults which need rebuilding over and over again. According to
Carl Gustav Jung, “a labyrinth in a human being” is a metaphor of human
nature: it is indecision and alternatives, hopes, victories and losses. All of
this is more than psychoanalytical interpretation. The mythical image of
the labyrinth consists of many practical and symbolic layers. The image
of the labyrinth that emerged even before Theseus’s journey to Crete today still preserves individual and collective experience and goals, unity
of rational and irrational thinking as well as identity of the beginning (entrance) and end (exit). For instance, a number of authors (Jorges Luis Borges and others) use the image of labyrinth to create their plots. However,
the image of labyrinth is in fact an attitude of virtues that is wider than a
particular plot. The latter can be regarded as a plan for creating spiritual
labyrinth of a piece of art.
A universal picture of labyrinth shifts us to the world of values. First
of all, it indicates the complexity of value system and symbolism of evaluations. Evaluating is entering and leaving a labyrinth. A symbolical
function of the labyrinth of values encourages comparing, changing and
demonstrating. Of course, values are not merely symbolic signs of labyrinthine truth or symptoms of state of consciousness pursuing solutions.
The conception of the process of evaluation is a significant unity of cultural past, present and future. Moreover, the image of labyrinth encourages
generalizing each evaluation as well as expressing it individually.
How does an image of value labyrinth function in the modern literature? Does it diverge in literature and criticism (literary theory)?
Initially let’s discuss general aspects and topicality of theory and practice of values.
Any evaluation is thinking, its perception, the account of the thinker to
himself / herself. Thinking as the form of evaluation is a universal condition of creation. The evaluation is performed by the author of the work as
well as by its critic. Therefore, the issue about the place and role of values
is not purely theoretical. On the one hand, perhaps due to the abundance
of practical aspects of evaluation, politicians, specialists of culture and li-
66
terature use the concept of value as a matter of course. On the other hand,
axiology emerged only in the works of neo-Kantianists, i. e., during the
years of classical philosophy.
Unfortunately, today the ideas of Heinrich Rickert, Wilhelm Windelband and other pioneers of axiology are not coherently developed. Barbar
Herstein Smith, professor of Comparative Literature and English at Duke
University, for example, writes:
It is curious feather of literary studies in America that one of the most venerable, central, theoretical significant, and practically inescapable set of problems relating to literature has not been a subject of serious inquiry for the past
fifty years. I refer here to the fact not merely that the study of literary evaluation has been, as we might say, “neglected”, but that the entire problematic
of value and evaluation has been explicitly exiled by literary academy. It is
clear, for example, that there has been no broad and sustained investigation of
literary evaluation that could compare to the constant and recently intensified
attention devoted to every aspect of literary interpretation1.
This means that axiology does not contain a topic defined by new author names or names of works. A traditional content of axiological insight
is examined by the evaluations of the most recent challenges. Most often – by their contingency and relativity:
The pluralisation of standards is repeated in the private sphere of the reader.
The knowledge has spread that not only every section of society but also
every single person has the right and even urgent need to fulfil his or her specific cultural wants in quite different, popular as well as high, fields of culture
simultaneously, reading with (equal) interest and pleasure both ‘’high” art
novels and ‘’low” science or detective fiction, which was formerly considered
‘’kitsch”. This is a distinction that is modernist and has lost much of its currency. And finally, the act of reading itself, whatever the text may be, also has
mixed profile; it is indeed pluralistic: it includes unfocused claims, mixed motives, differences in mood, inclination and understanding, interrelations and
crossovers between meaning and pleasure. We shall come back to the problem
of evaluation from another point of view, i.e., the question of what is art in the
section about the aesthetic attitude.2
Uncertainty of human individuality, society consumerism, behaviour
immorality, manipulating people’s feelings and emotions, technocracy,
political infantilism, totalitarianism, influence of imageology and simulation as well as other peculiarities of today’s culture – all of these elements
67
are obstacles in the quest for norms of evaluation, in grounding them, in
associating them with reality or at least with the logics of visibility.
Thus, today the state of evaluating consciousness is contradictory: evaluations require criteria, and the latter are argumentative. A moral choice
and recognition of values seem unrealistic due to the fact that any reality
lying beyond the field of images created by imageologists is disappearing:
ostensibly there are no scientific, historical, literary and other values.
Therefore, on the one hand, confusion in the understanding of values
affects literary criticism negatively. Evaluation is almost impossible when
negative factors dominate. Consequently, we can see an unusual position:
new works are evaluated according to classical, the so called essential criteria of art or they are not evaluated at all.
On the other hand, evaluation in literature continues as it seems that
the state of confusion does not discourage authors of literature. Of course,
writers do not undertake the work of literary philosophers (critics). Literature, like literary criticism, has its own means for expressing questions
of value. Both ways of thinking encompass the same questions that are of
high importance in axiology. While choosing topics of value and developing stylistic quests literature suggests new or updates classical axiological insights.
Positions of creators of art and assessors of art get close and assimilate in this process because a work of literature is evaluated not only by
abstract but also by particular forms of aesthetic perception. In thinking,
as in evaluation, not only conceptions are present. Sight, hearing, perception – all of these elements are important in this process and each of them
carries a symbolic meaning.
In fact, literature always was and still remains the field in which values
emerge and function, a place where individuality and coincidence of values are expressed. The consciousness of an author selects the values which
he / she is concerned about most, which are meaningful and so on. Literature, like a seismograph, registers not only collective but also individual
changes of life values. In literature “life” values coexist with aesthetic values that unfold like a set of a piece of art (a poem, a novel, a drama etc.).
Good literature is always good literary criticism.
On the one hand, it is unquestionably difficult, one needs to learn reading (perceiving) a work as a reflection. On the other hand, the value of
literature, just like the value of an individual literary work, cannot be discussed only on the grounds of its genesis or structure. Among other kinds
68
of art, the contexts of works reveal the artistic and other values of literature. Literary criticism is based on this.
Besides, professional literary criticism is based on life values as well
as on literary aesthetic values. Values of both kinds have their own criteria. They have to be capable of being grounded. Literary critics must
continue the evaluation of former literary epochs (their authors, works),
revive or change it.
Let’s narrow this wide outlook of literary axiology. Challenges of general European values encourage posing a question if insights of evaluation that update, let’s say, based on the mentioned principle of labyrinth,
function in the topic of values of national literary history.
History is also a chain of evaluations. Historical phenomena are evaluated by their contemporaries according to their own objectives, interests
and actions. Later all events, their descriptions, documents and primary
evaluations are all affected by new factors. So, each generation rewrites
the original historiographic material. The new generation recomposes it
in its own manner as every value is the transformation of reality and a
perspective according to the objectives of that generation (and its individuals). Interpretation, new rewriting of historical values distances (dissociates) them from their original meaning.
For instance, recently we commemorated the 70
��th anniversary of the
Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact: Treaty of Non-Aggression between Germany
and the Soviet Union that was signed on 23 August, 1939. A part of this
pact consists of secret protocols that nobody knew about. They were of
great significance in the modern history. In the context of those documents the question “how did World War II begin?” could be answered
that besides Nazi Germany the war was also arranged and initiated by Soviet Russia. This information changes many things in evaluations. Russian
historians call this fact a lie, falsification of history. Lithuanian or Polish
historians consider this as an objective step leading to the exit of the labyrinth of historical truth.
Literature is an exceptionally individual interpretation of primary historical facts. Differently from historical facts, literary works by their nature make up a unity of the existent and the non-existent (the truth and
its fiction). According to Linda Hutcheon, more and more often modern
historical novels are just a historical metafiction3. In this case historical
ideas, political interests and forms of literary narration (irony, pastiche
etc.) establish an exceptionally complex and intricate field of values. His-
69
torical novel “recomposes” this field according to the author and presents
it as literary values.
The fact that currently literary axiology is in the state of the confusion
of values is not an obstacle for authors. On the contrary, this confusion
assists them in writing the previously mentioned historiographic metafictions. The writers are capable of seeing common historical facts different,
“made extraordinary” while recomposing history as well as its literary
forms. That is to say, they are able to re-evaluate the facts anew and this
ability is the power of Romanticists in breaking the barrier of historical
reality. This is the “eternal” reconstruction of the labyrinth of values.
Examples do not prove anything, but they can help explaining the
thoughts of the speaker.
Let’s have a look at three historical novels by authors whose stylistic
searches are described by critics as post-modern, overstepping the usual
aesthetics of historical novel. Moreover, let these novels represent different tendencies of styles or stylistic popularity. Let us choose the novels
that are extremely popular or, on the contrary, that are elite – the ones
that were awarded prestigious prizes and are recognized for their literary
mastery.
The first example is from the popular Russian prose.
Boris Akunin (Grigory Shalvovich Chkhartishvili, born in 1956) is
the author of the modern Russian detective novel – a story about a Detective Erast Fandorin4. Today Akunin is probably the most popular writer in
Russia. Critics say that he refers to the tradition of the British detective
novel. It may seem that Fandorin is only a parody of Holmes, Poirot or
James Bond. But it is also possible to claim that Akunin��
’��
s texts remind
of stylistics used by Fjodor Dostojevskij or some other classic of Russian
philosophical literature of the 19th century.
In the context of values the things of great importance are not pastiche
elements of Akunin��
’��
s works but rather the fact that the texts of his novels resemble a labyrinth. The entrance to the labyrinth is the problem of
identity of tsarist Russia. Zigzags, spirals and other forms of the labyrinth
mean the possibility for Russia to become European Russia that draws power from East. Having lost the connection with East, Russia is struck by
a tragedy: the Bolshevik Revolution. Consequently, Detective Fandorin
does not find a real exit from the labyrinth but he does not get lost in the
world of values, at the end he comes up to the same values that were present at the beginning of his quest.
70
It seems that in this situation there is nothing new. Interaction of Eastern and Western culture always was and still is one of the concerns of
philosophers. Just like the historical theme of Russia’s identity. It is novel
and important that the very value of identity does not disappear in the
context of pastiche, irony, parody and other layers of historiographic metafiction.
The second example is the case of the renewal of Lithuanian historical
novel. It is a cycle of 14 novels entitled “The Kingdom”5 by Petras Dirgėla (born in 1947). It is a post-modern epic, unpopular among readers
but which was honoured a National Award of the Culture and Art in Lithuania.
It is possible to claim that, similarly to Akunin, Dirgėla writes about
the identity of the country (only in this case it is Lithuania, not Russia).
The novel is a narrative about the implementation of historical possibilities of identity.
However, according to Dirgėla, the labyrinth of the values of Lithuanian identity starts and ends differently and in different places. The gate
(door) to Lithuanian nationhood is a certain form of government. For the
author it is not a republic created by ancient Greeks but rather a kingdom.
Spiritual (mental) energy of Kingdom of Lithuania established in the 13th
century gives food to all other historical forms of the country – the Great
Duchy, Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, Lithuanian Republic of 1918��
1940, Soviet Lithuanian anti-state and finally – (“the second”) Lithuanian
Republic re-established twenty years ago. Identity of Lithuania is a constant “rebirth” of every citizen after each historical drama and the perception that in this way the “kingdom” changes its form but never disappears.
Obviously, the structure of values is created in the novel by constantly
returning to Lithuania of the time when it was run by the King of Mindaugas as an entrance to the labyrinth of historical values of several centuries.
I searched for the third example of the historical novel in the awarded French novels. The novel by a diplomaed philosopher and historian
Jean-Marie Blas de Roblès (born in 1954) Là où les tigres sont chez eux
(“Where the Tigers Feel at Home”)6 was awarded the Medicis Literary
Prize last year. It took the author more than 10 years to write this novel,
similarly to the works by Akunin and Dirgėla, ��
and its length is impressive
(776 pages). The plot is spread between two centuries – 17th and 20th.
Different epochs are compared and their spiritual states are considered
71
to be similar. Family life of a journalist Eleazard von Wogau who arrived
to Brazil is compared with the odyssey in Europe of a Jesuit Athanasius
Kirser. Historical events rewritten several times allow treating this novel
as a historiographic metafiction as well. The world of values presented
in the work is very wide – encyclopedic: it is historical as well as philosophical, psychological and futurological. However, political questions
are given less importance in the narrative. Above the gates to the labyrinth
of values created by Blas de Robl��
è��
s there is an inscription tolerance. Cultural tolerance in the novel is an introductory and principal direction of all
quests and of the way out from mistaken paths.
Instead of conclusions
Evaluation in modern literature has not disappeared. Writing means
evaluating (historical and all other) virtues. Reading means evaluating all
evaluations done by authors. The image of mythical labyrinth still functions among other forms of evaluation. It helps evaluating, encourages searching (for the truth and other values), remembering, discussing, tolerating,
returning to the beginning (which is actually the ending) etc.
Most importantly, it helps determining which value is more important
or even significant, and which is only a meaningless question. Different
European literatures are dominated by different priorities of values.
Several propositions with a (doubt?) clause “it seems”:
• It seems that authors of literary works are merely responsible for
what happens with them in Knossos Palace.
• It seems that philosophers (literature specialists and critics) are still
waiting for a new, another philosopher – Theseus who would come and
unveil the curtain covering the reality of virtues: political, economic, religious or moral phenomena.
However, philosophers will hardly live to see the hero from Athens. Nor will they see the one from Lithuania, Russia or France. Petras
Dirgela’s “Kingdom” is an example that is coming from Lithuania and
only for Lihuanians.
Let’s once again remember Jung: apparently it is not only a labyrinth
but also individual Theseus that is present in every person’s nature.
72
References
1
2
3
4
5
6
Barbara Herrnstein Smith, Contingencies of Value. AUernative Perspectives
for Criti-cal Theory, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass., 1991, 17.
Gerard Hoffmann, From modernism to Postmodernism: Concepts and Strategies of Postmodern American Fiction, Amsterdam-New York:Rodopi B.V.,
2005, P. 50-51.
Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction, London and New York: Routledge,1988.
Boris Akunin, Erast Fandorin series: The Winter Queen, 1998; The Turkish
Gambit, 1998; Murder on the Leviathan, 1998; The Death of Achilles, 1998;
Special Assignments, 1999; The State Counsellor, 2000; The Coronation, 2000;
She Lover of Death, 2001; He Lover of Death, 2001; The Diamond Chariot,
2003; Jade Rossary Beads
Petras Dirgėla, Karalystė, 1-4 t., Vilnius:Lietuvos rašytojų sąjungos leidykla,1997-2003.
Jean-Marie Blas de Robles, Là où les tigres sont chez eux, Paris: Zulma,
2008.
73
La notion de “Littérature
européenne” et ses problèmes
identitaires inhérents. Quelques
échos des zones peu explorées
The Notion of “European
Literature” and Problems of
Identity Associated with it.
Examples from Less Studied
Literatures
„Europos literatūros“ sąvoka ir su
ja susijusios tapatybės problemos.
Keletas duomenų iš mažai tyrinėtų
teritorijų
Roumiana L. STANTCHEVA
Sofia University “St. Kliment Ohridski”
15 Tzar Osvoboditel blvd., 1504–Sofia, Bulgaria
[email protected]
Résumé
Nous allons analyser ici les difficultés d’ordre identitaire qui existent devant
les littératures européennes. En présentant brièvement un volume de littérature
comparée, européenne, récemment paru, nous proposons une définition pragmatique du terme de “littérature européenne”, comme un ensemble de lectures partagées. Plus loin, l’article examine deux démarches de la littérature comparée, admises largement dans la pratique, comme la thématologie et le tiers espace, repris
aux études culturelles. L’idée, que nous proposons, est celle de la généralisation,
appliquée aux tendances littéraires. Ainsi, au moyen de la généralisation nous pouvons nous interroger sur le caractère que l’écrivain confère à son travail artistique.
Certains écrivains se proposent d’étudier le monde à la manière de l’historien, du
sociologue, du physiologiste ou du biologiste. Il s’agit en d’autres termes de la
«conscience du chercheur». D’autre part, l’apparition de l’idée moderniste consistant à «jouer avec le texte» est une deuxième pratique littéraire. La tendance de
l’écrivain à prendre conscience de «soi», à envisager la place de son texte parmi
les autres textes, est appelée ici «la conscience critique». Les exemples de l’ana-
74
lyse concrète sont empruntés à la littérature bulgare, roumaine, française et lituanienne. Il s’agit du poème critiquant la société, travesti en conte, chez Konstantin
Pavlov, Marin Sorescu, Jacques Prévert et Marcelijus Martinaitis. Le «jeu avec le
texte» et la «conscience critique» y sont fortement présents. La construction de réseaux thématiques, stylistiques et comportementaux aura le mérite de faire découvrir des littératures qui n’ont pas encore leur présence tangible dans les histoires
littéraires, ni dans les programmes universitaires de «Littérature européenne».
Mots clefs: «Littérature européenne», thématologie, tiers espace, généralisation des tendances littéraires, réseaux thématiques, stylistiques et comportementaux, Konstantin Pavlov, Marin Sorescu, Jacques Prévert, Marcelijus Martinaitis.
Summary
The Notion of “European Literature”, which aims to cover all literatures on
the continent or at least those of the European Union, has yet to be supported by
real knowledge of the composite literatures, but has been launched by a number of
books on comparative literature. This paper presents some of the difficulties that
arise from the usage of this term to describe literatures, which have a European
identity, but are not known well enough for their national characteristics. This author thinks that in order for this term to acquire its full meaning, a community of
shared texts from all European literatures will have to come into being. In addition
to the known methods of Comparative Literature, this paper suggests the usage
of generalization. This approach, for example, allows us to study the attitude of a
writer toward his own work. The work of some writers is similar to the research
that a historian, sociologist, physiologist, biologist, or in other words a researcher
has to perform. On the other hand, the emergence of the modernist preoccupation with form is another literary tendency. Finally, the predisposition of writers
to comment on their own work and to discuss its place among other texts is labeled here as “critical self-reflection”. The concrete analyses in this paper refer to
the Bulgarian, Romanian, French, and Lithuanian literatures. The genre of politically-critical poem, masked as a story, unites Konstantin Pavlov, Marin Sorescu,
Jacques Prevert and Marcelijus Martinaitis. “Preoccupation with form” and “critical self-reflection” are evident in the works of all four. The drawing of thematic,
stylistic, and behavioral networks allows literatures, still lacking a place in literary
histories and in university courses in “European Literature,” to be noticed.
Key words: “European Literature”, Generalization of Literary Tendencies,
Thematic, Stylistic, and Behavioral Networks, Konstantin Pavlov, Marin Sorescu,
Jacques Prevert, Marcelijus Martinaitis.
Le dynamisme de notre temps a dessiné une carte politique nouvelle
de l’Europe, d’après des principes bien définis, dont l’idée maîtresse est,
à la fois, l’unité de tous les pays et l’individualité de chacun dans cette
union. Dans le domaine littéraire cependant nous sommes encore loin du
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moment où la notion de «Littérature européenne», employée souvent au
singulier acquerra des dimensions exhaustives, claires, définies. La notion
de «Littérature européenne» englobe surtout les littératures occidentales,
conçues comme des exemples significatifs pour les différentes époques et
courants littéraires sur le continent. Les zones littéraires des périphéries
demeurent toujours un peu à l’écart.
1. L’emploi du terme «Littérature européenne»
Dernièrement, plusieurs ouvrages d’histoire littéraire et de littérature
comparée se proposent de présenter et de définir la notion de «Littérature
européenne». J’ai étudié de plus près le volume intitulé «Précis de littérature européenne», sous la direction de Béatrice Didier1. En plus de 700 pages, l’ouvrage collectif examine consécutivement les méthodes, l’espace,
le temps et les formes littéraires en Europe. Dès la préface, la directrice de
l’édition expose les difficultés que présente la tendance à parler des littératures européennes au singulier. Le titre pourtant est bel et bien formulé
au singulier, subordonné à l’ambition d’envisager l’unité littéraire d’une
union politique. Toujours dans la préface, un autre problème majeur est
soulevé: celui des frontières de ce que l’on pourrait appeler «la littérature
européenne» et des différences qui se manifestent au-delà de ces frontières. Une question qui reste, logiquement, ouverte. L’étude s’étend également aux changements internes des frontières en Europe, au cours des siècles, aux hégémonies politiques etc. Et pourtant, l’accent est mis, presque
exclusivement, sur des exemples des littératures de l’Europe Occidentale.
Il arrive rarement de tenter une ouverture vers les autres zones. Ainsi nous
lisons dans la préface: «L’Europe littéraire, c’est aussi l’Europe de ces
langues «rares» sans quoi l’Europe ne serait pas ce qu’elle est: «Ainsi
les littératures hongroise ou tchèque tiennent leur place dans le concert
européen, et il ne saurait être question de les négliger, même si, pour elles, l’étudiant français est obligé de recourir à cet intermédiaire qu’est la
traduction.»2 Nous pouvons lire très peu au sujet des autres littératures de
l’Europe Centrale, des pays du Sud-Est, des pays Scandinaves, des pays
Baltes etc. Il ne s’agit pas d’une considération erronée, mais plutôt d’une
constatation qui décrit aussi bien la réalité de la pratique universitaire, que
le contenu du volume.
Les difficultés ressortant du terme de la «littérature européenne» font
l’objet des réflexions de plusieurs auteurs du volume. Adrian Marino par
exemple, homme de lettres européen d’origine roumaine, commente d’une
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manière plus explicite cette inégalité. D’un autre côté, examinant les démarches positives vers une ouverture plus large, le même auteur mentionne la nouvelle approche au sujet de la «littérature européenne» dans
le volume: «on passe du stade monographique et chronologique au stade
synthétique ou diachronique; on propose des vues d’ensemble concernant
les courants, les thèmes, les types et les formes littéraires européennes.
L’histoire littéraire du type traditionnel finit bel et bien par être dépassée.»3 Marino a parfaitement raison: un pas en avant est déjà fait, mais il
reste encore beaucoup à faire.
Le problème de l’unité de la/des littérature(s) européenne(s) se trouve
également soulevé par les autres auteurs du volume, sans pour autant être
résolu. Car cet ouvrage collectif réussit une synthèse très riche des littératures occidentales surtout. Non pas des autres littératures et de leur
rattachement aux grandes tendances, surtout au XIXe et au XXe siècle. La
solution sentie nécessaire est trouvée: une table s’étendant à presque 200
pages, à la fin du volume et qui se propose de suppléer aux lacunes, en
mentionnant les moments de force de toutes les littératures européennes.
Cependant, les fautes au niveau des données, les lacunes dans les colonnes susceptibles d’exposer les grands événements littéraires en Europe
au cours des siècles, compromettent dans une certaine mesure les bonnes
intentions des auteurs du volume. Je ne mentionnerai que deux omissions
importantes dans les listes, concernant les littératures que je connais le
mieux. La lacune évidente concernant la période contemporaine de la littérature bulgare et de la littérature roumaine laisse une impression déroutante. Après 1970, période, illustrée par le roman d’Emilian Stanev
L’Antéchrist, la littérature bulgare cesse pratiquement d’exister, ce qui
est le cas aussi de la littérature roumaine: à l’année 1965, marquée par les
Onze Elégies de Nichita Stanescu, succède un vide. Quant à la Lituanie,
qui a commencé à m’intéresser en relation avec l’étude actuelle, que je
suis en train de présenter, le dernier événement littéraire enregistré remonte à 1979 – le roman de Juozas Baltusis , La saga de Youza. Même si
nous admettions que seules des oeuvres littéraires remarquables avaient le
droit de figurer dans cette liste, il n’est guère admissible que les 20 ou 30
dernières années, n’aient donné naissance à aucun ouvrage littéraire digne
d’attention.
Nous en venons donc à nous poser la question: pourrions nous accepter la notion générique de «littérature européenne», tant que les littératures
qui la composent ne soient pas étudiées intégralement? N’est-il pas trop
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tôt de s’engager avec un terme pareil? Dans les recherches que j’ai consacrées aux relations entre les littératures roumaine, française et bulgare,
j’analyse les faits à partir de l’unité réelle qui rattache les littératures européennes. Il s’agit concrètement du roman de guerre des années 1920–1930
et de la danse comme thématique unifiante pour le modernisme européen4.
Mais je suis en même temps persuadée qu’il est encore trop tôt de formuler une conclusion d’unité, avant d’analyser effectivement la connaissance mutuelle entre toutes les composantes de cette unité. La littérature
lituanienne qui n’est mentionnée que trois fois dans les tables à la fin du
volume, la littérature bulgare et la littérature roumaine qui sont citées plusieurs fois, mais au prix de fautes et de lacunes désolantes, sont-elles des
littératures européennes? Question provocatrice, visant le paradoxe, bien
entendu. Mais il ne s’agit pas en fait d’une question paradoxale, car aucun
exemple ne prévoit la participation d’une littérature ou d’une autre, dans
les analyses «synthétique et diachronique [… et les] vues d’ensemble des
courants, thèmes, types, formes littéraires européennes», énumérés par
A. Marino et cités plus haut. Littérature bulgare, roumaine, lituanienne et
ainsi de suite… des zones inexplorées par la Littérature comparée européenne… Des espaces blancs sur la carte littéraire.
2. Les voies connues
2.1. La Thématologie.
La littérature comparée a eu toujours soin de trouver des critères valables pour ses analyses. Les meilleures découvertes dans ce domaine,
qui ne posent pas le problème de l’hiérarchisation implicite, sont la thématologie et la mythocritique. Grâce à ces deux instruments, quelque peu
imbriqués, le comparatiste se sent libre de traiter un thème dans des lieux
différents et de le transposer à des époques différentes. Or, le fait d’approfondir des thèmes comme par exemple la guerre ou l’épidémie ne nous
place pas dans un contexte spécifiquement européen. En revanche, il n’est
pas exclu d’identifier des thèmes européens par excellence, ce que propose Georges Steiner dans son essai «Une certaine idée de l’Europe»5. Je
tâcherai d’énumérer ces thèmes comme des exemples possibles dans le
sens de l’unité: les cafés6; les composantes de la pensée et de la sensibilité
qui sont basées sur des distances pédestres; les lieux de la mémoire, bien
marqués par des plaques, commémorant aussi bien des victoires que des
moments de détresse; «la dualité primordiale» (p. 36), qui dérive du «dou-
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ble héritage d’Athènes et de Jérusalem» (p. 36). Le cinquième critère de
Steiner se réfère à «une conscience de soi eschatologique […] qui pourrait bien […] n’exister que dans la conscience européenne» (p. 43–44).
Steiner donne plusieurs exemples dans ces cinq directions, sans s’engager
qu’elles seront les seules, spécifiquement européennes. Qu’est-ce qu’on
va pouvoir faire avec cette Europe, ainsi que nous l’avons? – se demande
Steiner. Il est d’accord qu’il existe un idéal d’unité en Europe qui est en
train de se réaliser. Mais ce qui est plus important pour lui, et, j’estime
que chacun le pense, c’est de garder «les détails» dans cette universalité.
Steiner souligne que «le génie de l’Europe, c’est ce que William Blake
aurait appelé «le caractère sacré du détail infime»». (p. 52) Il insiste de
même sur la nécessité de sauvergarder les spécificités dans l’Europe unie:
«L’Europe périra, assurément, si elle ne se bat pas pour ses langues, ses
traditions locales et ses autonomies sociales.» (p. 53) Je n’irai pas jusqu’à examiner en détail les conceptions de Steiner qui s’étendent à des
préférences politiques ou idéologiques. Je chercherai simplement à savoir
en quoi ses opinions pourraient nous être utiles pour jeter un peu plus de
clarté sur la notion de «littérature européenne». Allons-nous nous fier aux
similitudes ou allons-nous plutôt chercher les détails, les spécificités?
Je crois que la bonne voie doit se trouver au carrefour de la dissemblance et de la similitude. La littérature comparée se sert d’habitude de
la création d’hypothèses, vérifiées par l’ajout d’un matériel littéraire nouveau. L’hypothèse c’est le cadre général, tandis que l’analyse des exemples concrets vient illustrer l’amalgamation du spécifique au commun. En
matière thématique, c’est un objet ou une pratique sociale qui constituent
le cadre, alors que les textes des différentes littératures représentent les
preuves de l’unité. Et cette unité comporte chaque fois des éléments spécifiques.
En abordant par exemple un thème comme la danse, nous avons le
loisir d’examiner l’unité non pas tellement des littératures européennes,
mais plutôt l’unité du modernisme européen. Ainsi, l’indépendance de
l’individu face à la religion, qui donne naissance, d’après Nietzsche, au
surhomme, devient un facteur unifiant pour les écrivains prédisposés au
modernisme. La correspondance entre les idées de Nietzsche et l’élan moderniste devient visible dans un de ses textes, consacré à la relation entre
le philosophe et la vie, relation qui s’exprime par la danse. C’est en ces
termes que Zarathoustra s’adresse à la vie, l’invitant à tourner son regard
vers ses pieds, ivres de danse, un regard rieur, interrogateur et maternel:
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Tu n’as qu’à agiter deux fois ton grelot, mes jambes seront prises dans la frénésie de la danse.
Mes talons se soulevèrent, mes orteils dressèrent l’oreille pour mieux te comprendre: l’oreille du danseur ne se trouve-t-elle pas dans ses orteils?7
La danse de l’artiste avec la vie n’est pas présentée sous des couleurs
idylliques. Bien au contraire, il s’agit d’une collision dramatique: le haut,
l’au-delà, sont des directions d’un attrait irrésistible, indépendamment du
fait que, après le saut et l’envol, le danseur retombera sur le sol. Cette
dramatique recherche des impulsions intérieures de l’homme moderne et
de l’artiste moderniste, exprimée par l’intermédiaire de la danse, peut être
dépistée dans plusieurs ouvrages artistiques du modernisme européen.
En ce qui concerne les aspects sociaux, nous pouvons prendre comme
exemple un écrivain autrichien bien connu, Arthur Schnitzler (1862–1931)
avec sa célèbre pièce de théâtre La Ronde (1900) et le comparer à l’écrivain bulgare Anton Strachimirov (1872–1937) et son roman La Ronde
(1926)8, un roman qui continue à provoquer des analyses nouvelles, à
cause de la collision dramatique entre la vie et la mort et le contexte politique compliqué qui y est inclus.
La femme fatale est un autre sujet universel, qui ne laisse indifférente
aucune littérature européenne moderne. Pour nous, ce thème est intéressant par le fait qu’il prend comme symbole les réincarnations décadentes
d’un personnage biblique: Salomé, qui réclame du roi de Judée, Hérode,
la tête de Jean Baptiste pour prix de sa danse. Innocence et séduction,
danse exquise, monnayée contre un meurtre: un thème à peine évoqué
dans la Bible, qui est repris et développé par de nombreux écrivains:
Flaubert, Huysmans, Maeterlinck, Mallarmé, Oscar Wilde; dans la littérature bulgare il est traité par exemple dans la poésie d’Emanouil Popdimitrov (les poèmes Les Démons, 1909, La Femme-Dragon, 1932) et dans
la littérature roumaine, il est présent à travers les personnages féminins de
Matei Caragiale dans son roman Les Rois mages du vieux palais (1929)9.
Il s’agit de la beauté féminine fatale, camouflée parfois sous les traits
d’une innocence apparente et de la danse séductrice provocante, qui portent malheur. Les impulsions érotiques, les dépendances sociales, forment
un noeud, que chacun des auteurs de l’époque aurait aimé effleurer et
dénouer à sa façon. Dans la société moderne, la danse a perdu sa signification rituelle, mais elle a gardé son rôle social dans la mesure où elle
facilite la communication et l’auto-expression, ce que les mots ne sont pas
aussi capables de faire.
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Il importe d’indiquer aussi l’harmonie entre les littératures européennes, qui réagissent à des messages analogues. L’effort du modernisme
d’atteindre un perfectionnement exclusivement artistique semble être également un élément unificateur. La fusion du modernisme et de la danse nous rend témoins non seulement de la transformation d’un art en un
autre, mais aussi de la conversion de pratiques anciennes, monolithes, traditionnelles et symboliques en éléments du modernisme, dans son sens et
sa pratique complexes. C’est dans le mouvement unique entre le puissant
courant moderniste ayant dominé les arts du XIXe et du XXe siècle et le
thème de la danse que nous voyons un des points de convergence de ces
tendances.
Et pour généraliser: la thématologie assure une consistance à la comparaison et illustre les similitudes au niveau des messages et des formes;
elle ne peut pourtant garantir qu’il s’agisse de thèmes exclusivement européens. L’autre problème qui reste en suspens concerne la collaboration
entre le particulier et le général. À quel point pourraient se coriser effectivement les littératures européennes?
2.2. Les études culturelles et le tiers espace
Contrairement à ce que l’on pourrait penser, le conflit entre le «détail»
et la «vue d’ensemble» n’est pas sans issue. Nous trouvons une solution
de cette rivalité dans le dépassement de la pensée binaire, où la seule qui
présente de l’intérêt est la relation: général – particulier; universel – historique. Dans l’esprit des études culturelles d’aujourd’hui je voudrais souligner la solution, présentée par Homi Bhabha qui parle du «tiers espace»
(Third Space)10. Il s’agit d’une possibilité de dépasser la comparaison
conflictuelle entre «moi» et «autrui», dans notre cas, l’opposition entre
le principe local et un autre principe local. Ce «tiers espace» existe par le
fait que les cultures et leurs protagonistes – les écrivains (pour la littérature) forment leur identité dans le tourbillon de la migration des idées et,
davantage aujourd’hui, de la migration des gens.
C’est là que je trouve l’occasion de m’opposer plus fermement à l’idée
que les littératures occidentales suffisent pour concrétiser la notion de
«Littérature européenne». Ce qu’on a souvent tendance à oublier, c’est
que les littératures européennes ont un canon littéraire commun, basé, il
est vrai, plutôt sur des exemples occidentaux, mais qui n’est pas moins
unificateur. Le troisième espace de la communication exige un effort pour
être créé. Pour les écrivains non occidentaux le canon repose presque tou-
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jours sur une double échelle des valeurs: locale et continentale, réunis par
la contemporanéité. Les écrivains occidentaux bénéficient de plus d’espace dialogique, de profondeur dans le temps, en rétrospective, que dans
l’espace (étant peu intéressés des autres régions littéraires). La vision horizontale des premiers et la conception verticale des autres ne laisse pratiquement pas de possibilité de contacts entre eux sur un terrain commun.
Par conséquent, le tiers espace implique le renoncement à soi au prix
d’une fusion de «soi» et de l’étranger dans une nouvelle dimension privée de territorialité, ou bien sur une territorialité de caractère abstrait, en
l’occurence, l’idée de l’Europe. Dimension qui s’ouvre largement à ses
composantes, dans notre cas: les littératures occidentales et les littératures
européennes des autres régions, moins explorées.
3. Un pas vers la généralisation
Une sorte de libération des contraintes, propres au canon occidental,
peut être retrouvée dans la généralisation. Nous proposons une définition
du terme «littérature européenne», basée sur l’idée de la communication
réelle entre ces littératures et non pas sur une égalité impossible dans le
développement des tendances, des genres et des formes. Si nous nous proposons de comparer les littératures européennes sur la base des courants
littéraires ayant existé en Europe Occidentale, nous n’irons pas très loin.
Les échos du symbolisme et du naturalisme, par exemple, se manifestent
dans les littératures non occidentales à une époque plus tardive. C’est seulement et surtout à l’époque des avant-gardes que l’Europe littéraire peut
se sentir approximativement unifiée littérairement. Après la Deuxième
guerre mondiale, le continent c’est de nouveau retrouvé divisé. Ce n’est
qu’à présent qu’on peut parler d’échanges réciproques plus actifs, générateurs de tendances similaires, pas encore trop visibles. Sans compter que
certaines littératures européennes ne forment pas de courants littéraires
intégraux, mais sont représentés plutôt par des écrivains marquants, attirés
par un courant littéraire occidental. On ne pourrait pas non plus s’orienter
vers le commun en s’appuyant sur des termes spécifiques sur le plan historique et local.
Un consensus dans le sens de la généralisation des tendances littéraires pour les composantes de la «littérature européenne», devient, par cette
logique, une voie privilégiée, susceptible de faciliter la connaissance mutuelle et de résoudre certains problèmes de l’identité supranationale, européenne. A cet égard, nous pouvons nous interroger sur le caractère que
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l’écrivain confère à son travail artistique. Certains écrivains se proposent
d’étudier le monde à la manière de l’historien, du sociologue, du physiologiste et du biologiste. Il s’agit de la «conscience du chercheur», comme
c’est le cas d’un Emile Zola en France (Le Roman expérimental, 1880).
Une pareille tendance, «du chercheur» (réaliste ou naturaliste), connaît
avec le temps des répercussions dans d’autres littératures. Le déplacement d’un courant littéraire dans le temps et sur d’autres territoires implique des déformations, sans pour autant le rendre méconnaissable. Comme
les continuateurs de «conscience du chercheur» dans d’autre littératures
nous pouvons citer Liviu Rebreanu (1885–1944) en Roumanie, Georgi
Raïtchev (1882–1947) en Bulgarie, Grigorios Xenopulos (1867–1951)
en Grèce. Dans les textes de ces derniers, écrits après la Première guerre mondiale, la critique découvre la contamination à d’autres tendances:
l’émergence de l’idée moderniste du «jeu avec le texte», l’intérêt pour la
psychologique et la psychanalyse. Cela fait que les multiples facettes du
naturalisme se répercutent à des époques suivantes, tout en englobant des
tendances nouvelles, en l’occurence, celles du modernisme (psychologie
et subconscient, manipulation du langage etc.).
Après la «conscience du chercheur» «littérature européenne», et le
«jeu avec le texte» une troisième tendance vient s’annoncer, la tendance
consistant à envisager la place du texte parmi les autres textes. J’aurais
appelé cette tendance, orientée vers la conscience de soi de l’écrivain, la
«conscience critique». Ainsi, la citation masquée ou explicite fait son entrée en scène. En partant de la mise en abyme, réalisée par d’André Gide
dans son roman expérimental les Faux Monnayeurs (1926), nous pourrons
classifier les écrivains, conformément aux tendances postmodernes.
Aucune construction nouvelle, même pas le terme attrayant de «littérature européenne» ne donnerait de résultats si nous négligions les littératures peu étudiées dans les pays occidentaux. Il faudrait chercher systématiquement des exemples de la littérature lituanienne, bulgare, roumaine
etc., et les présenter à côté des littératures française, anglaise, allemande
et ainsi de suite. La généralisation sera compensée par la mise en évidence que l’écrivain est plutôt le représentant de sa propre écriture/style
(qui contient, sans pour autant le déclarer, son appartenance nationale ou
ethnique), ce qui l’affranchit des schémas trop restreints et lui réserve une
entrée plus facile dans une identité plurielle ou notion littéraire généralisée.
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4. Le poème critique, travesti en conte
Nous allons illustrer notre thèse par une analyse concrète: celle d’une
des transformations du poème dans les sociétés fermées de l’Europe. Nous
savons que l’Europe de l’Est et du Sud-Est ont traversé la période la plus
difficile pour la liberté de la parole sous les régimes communistes. En ce
qui concerne l’Occident, les entraves devant la liberté de l’individu et,
respectivement de l’artiste, se situent au temps de la Deuxième guerre
mondiale. Or, dans les deux cas, la censure contrôle aussi bien le contenu
que la forme de l’oeuvre littéraire.
L’écrivain ne peut pas se permettre de critiquer les dirigeants au pouvoir, pas plus que les pratiques de la vie quotidienne qui supposent une
surveillance constante sur le comportement de chacun. Une atmosphère
tendue de volontarisme policier règne dans les sociétés respectives. Les
écrivains se sentent menacés et en souffrent. Les libres-penseurs cherchent les moyens de se tirer de l’impasse. Les restrictions sur la forme
(poétique dans notre cas) s’imposent également dans le genre du poème. Surtout à la fin des années 1940 et dans les années 1950, un système
d’exigences dogmatiques est imposé dans le domaine artistique. Plus tard,
ce système a beau être allégé, il ne disparaît pas définitivement. Dans une
étude récente sur la littérature bulgare à l’époque du régime communiste,
l’auteur, Mladen Entchev, trouve plusieurs écrits critiques qui, au temps
le plus dogmatique, interdisent ou déconseillent le genre du conte de fées
pour les enfants. D’après les prescriptions en vigueur, au lieu de chercher
à divertir les enfants et les adolescents, il faut veiller à leur éducation,
en mettant à leur disposition des lectures sérieuses. Le même auteur se
réfère également à des articles, provenant de Pologne et de l’Union Soviétique de l’époque, qui se déclarent résolument contre toute idée de
divertissement dans la poésie et la prose enfantine11. Cette étude révèle les
stratégies concrètes d’un poète bulgare qui lui permettent de continuer à
cultiver le genre du conte enfantin, dans un contexte qui lui est hostile. En
général, chaque écrivain authentique cherche à s’exprimer et à être lu par
le public pour partager ses idées et pour compenser l’absence de liberté
dans une telle société.
Par un déguisement curieux, la critique sociale trouve dans certains
cas la possibilité de s’exprimer sous la forme du conte (populaire ou fantastique), grâce au paradoxe, au jeu de mots. Les situations de déguisement, de jeu, de dialogues, de philosophie naïve portent en eux le code de
l’anecdote et de l’anecdotique. En ce qui concerne la poésie, le dogma-
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tisme critique dénonce fermement l’elliptique moderniste. De leur côté,
les écrivains contestataires font semblant d’obéir. Ainsi est né le poème
qui imite le conte populaire, en y introduisant le personnage recommandé
à l’époque: l’homme issu du peuple. Ce personnage, porteur de la sagesse
populaire et personnification de la vie réelle (s’exprimant souvent à l’aide
du dialogue), est capable d’exprimer tout à la fois la naïveté, le paradoxe, l’enseignement critique et contestataire. Il s’agit ici d’un procédé
qui rattache d’une manière saisissante un poète bulgare à ses confrères
roumain, français et lituanien, notamment: Konstantin Pavlov, Marin Sorescu, Jacques Prévert et Marcelijus Martinaitis. Le choix des littératures
dans ce cas est arbitraire et porte à croire que le principe du poème critique, travesti en conte peut fonctionner un peu partout, dans des conditions
similaires.
Le poète bulgare Konstantin Pavlov12 (1933–2008) dans son poème
Capriccio pour Goya (1963) raconte une histoire presque allégorique où
le dialogue se déroule entre l’horreur et le poète:
L’horreur de jadis n’est plus là –
Férocement totale et
Férocement infinie,
Sans grimaces, ni esprit.
L’horreur a changé de caractère,
Elle me tape amicalement sur l’épaule,
Me fait la cour avec condescendance
Et plaisante d’elle-même avec coquetterie
«Nous sommes animés de la même force
Toi, tu es simplement plus beau…»
Et elle me sourit.
C’est ce sourire qui est dégoûtant,
Dégoûtant et pervers
Jusqu’à la folie.
Je sens la nausée.
C’est comme si j’étais embrassé lascivement
Par des bébés barbus et moustachus.
L’écrivain roumain Marin Sorescu (1936–1996)13 use d’un procédé
semblable. Dans son poème Compétition (en roumain Concurs, 1982) il
énonce ironiquement les règles de la «compétition d’hibernation»:
85
Pas le droit de bouger,
Pas le droit de rêver,
Pas le droit de penser.
Celui qui sera surpris de penser
Sortira du jeu et sera éliminé.14
L’élément ludique, sous la forme d’un conte, y est nettement présent. Le
poème reflète cependant des éléments fantasmatiques et le manque d’espoir
de se débarrasser du régime en place (la résignation face au régime /hibernation est comparée à la patience de la momie du pharaon Chéops).
Jacques Prévert (1900–1977) est également un combattant contre toute
démagogie ou manque d’indépendance et de liberté individuelle: «Dans
un contexte meurtri (1946), il cultive les thèmes de la guerre, de la paix,
de la liberté […]. Volontiers frondeuse et contestataire, sa poésie se cache
sous le masque des mots simples, des expressions populaires, des structures syntaxiques les plus faciles, de la rhétorique la plus répétitive […]
pour faire émerger la poésie du quotidien […].»15 Voici un petit «conte»
poétique intitulé «Le discours sur la paix» qui présente des similitudes
avec les poèmes cités plus haut:
Vers la fin d’un discours extrêmement important
le grand homme d’État trébuchant
sur une belle phrase creuse
tombe dedans
et désemparé la bouche grande ouverte
haletant
montre les dents
et la carie dentaire de ses pacifiques raisonnements
met à vif le nerf de la guerre
la délicate question d’argent.16
Les comparaisons ne s’arrêteront pas là. Mon intérêt pour la littérature
lituanienne est très récent. J’ai lu dernièrement des auteurs lituaniens qui
ont été traduits en bulgare. Et j’y ai trouvé des occasions de rapprochement avec la littérature roumaine, bulgare et française, auxquelles je suis
liée professionnellement depuis bien plus longtemps. Chez Marcelijus
Martinaitis (né en 1936), traduit en bulgare en 2008, je découvre des stratégies de déguisement, rappelant celles de ses autres confrères qui ont essayé de s’opposer à l’absence de liberté par un retour au personnage, prétendu simple, traditionnel, à la fable et au paradoxe. Comme chez Kons-
86
tantin Pavlov, Marin Sorescu ou Jacques Prévert, nous voyons apparaître
le protagoniste préféré de Martinaitis, Koukoutis (du recueil «Balades de
Koukoutis», publié en 1977) qui s’oppose à admettre les fausses nouveautés. L’invocation au personnage est symptomatique:
Ne reconnais pas, Koukoutis,
que tu voudras rester en ce monde…
Ils te feront vivre à leur gré:
t’apparenteront à tes photos,
à la taille notée dans les papiers d’identité,
à la couleur des cheveux,
à la grandeur de la chemise, des souliers et du masque à gaz.17
J’ai eu l’occasion de me renseigner davantage sur l’œuvre de Martinaitis
grâce à l’article de Kestutis Nastopka et Heidi Toelle «Le mythe au service
de l’esthesis»18. Mes premières impressions des poèmes de Martinaitis ont
été pleinement confirmées après la lecture de cet article. L’analyse des deux
critiques littéraires examine en profondeur certains éléments spécifiques de
l’oeuvre du poète. Je ne me propose pas d’entrer dans les détails; je voudrais seulement attirer l’attention sur la nature simple, véridique et honnête
du personnage de Koukoutis, qui, justement par son caractère traditionnel
et candide, gagne les sympathies du lecteur: il exprime la pensée logique
et naturelle d’un homme du peuple (la sagesse populaire face à la grandiloquence du discours officiel du régime). Les pratiques officielles entrent
en opposition avec les pratiques de la vie, régies par les lois de la nature.
Koukoutis saura échapper habilement à la répression omnipotente qui règne
dans la société fermée. L’article consacré à l’oeuvre de Martinaitis commente entre autre une des ballades de Koukoutis: «La ballade se présente donc
comme une critique de la vitesse, inhérente au déplacement en train et rendue responsable du morcellement du corps, de sa désensibilisation et, pardelà, de la désagrégation du cosmos, de la société humaine et des relations
interindividuelles ainsi que de la parcellisation du travail. Inversement et
implicitement, la lenteur apparaît comme permettant, seule, d’assurer la cohérence du cosmos, de la société et du corps. Derrière cette vision des choses, se profile évidemment la dévalorisation du monde moderne mécanisé et
l’éloge du monde rural traditionnel.»19 Nous pouvons ajouter, par ailleurs, le
double sens du «monde moderne mécanisé», qui, gouverné, d’une manière
inhumaine, au détriment de toute procédure démocratique, détruit la personnalité, l’harmonie avec la nature et au sein de la société.
87
En réalité, chacun des poètes mentionnés dans notre étude comparée,
a une oeuvre beaucoup plus riche en messages que les simples exemples
cités ici, pour mettre en évidence leur critique sociale. J’ai pourtant lieu
d’espérer que ces exemples fournissent un materiel suffisant pour illustrer
l’existence de réseaux de la pensée et du comportement contestataire en
Europe. Enfin, en support de notre idée de la généralisation, ajoutons que
chez les poètes analysés, le «jeu avec le texte» et la «conscience critique»
vont main dans la main.
Conclusion
L’ouverture de la littérature comparée européenne à toutes les littératures qui la composent devrait s’opérer effectivement, si nous voulons
employer sans embarras le terme de «Littérature européenne» au singulier, sans lacunes dans la notion. La construction de réseaux thématiques,
stylistiques et comportementaux peut contribuer à la connaissance des
littératures qui n’ont pas encore de présence tangible dans les histoires
littéraires, ni dans les programmes universitaires. Les changements dans
le champ littéraire se produisent lentement. Pour obtenir un progrès dans
ce domaine, il faudrait commencer par s’intéresser aux autres sur le continent, par admettre effectivement la traduction comme un instrument de
la littérature comparée. L’identité des écrivains européens est nationale
et européenne à la fois. Chaque zone mérite d’être connue davantage. La
thématologie, le «tiers espace» ainsi que la généralisation seront nos alliés
quand il s’agira d’envisager la «Littérature européenne» comme une communauté de lectures partagées.
Références
1
2
3
4
88
Précis de littérature européenne, sous la direction de Béatrice Didier, Paris :
Р��
resses Universitaires de France, 1998.
Ibidem, 7.
Adrian Marino, «Histoire de l’idée de «littérature européenne» et des études
européennes», in: Précis de littérature européenne, Op. cit., 13–17.
Roumiana L. Stantcheva, «Le triangle littéraire: Les relations Est – Ouest, les
relations Est – Est», in: (Multiple) Europe: Multiple Identity, Multiple Modernity, ed. by Monica Spiridon, Bucarest: University of Bucarest, 2002, 245–257;
Roumiana L. Stantcheva, «Le modernisme et la danse: parallélismes entre les
Balkans et l’Europe Occidentale», in: Traditionnel, identité, modernité dans les
cultures du Sud-Est européen: la littérature, les arts et la vie intellectuelle au
XXe siècle, textes réunis par Roumiana L. Stantcheva, Alain Vuillemin. Sofia
(Bulgarie), Arras (France): Ed. de l’Institut d’Études Balkaniques et d’Artois
Presses Université, 2007, 352–367.
Georges Steiner, Une certaine idée de l’Europe, Essai traduit de l’anglais par
Christine le Bœuf, Introduction par Rob Riemen, Actes sud, 2005.
6
��
En Bulgarie ont été publiés dernièrement plusieurs volumes d’��
é��
tudes thématologiques. Par��
ex��
��
.: ��
Caf��
é «��
Europe��
»��, ��
Кафене «��
��
Европа��
»��, ��
Отг. редактор Рая
Заимова, София: изд. Дамян Яков, 2007; «��
La��
��
danse��
��
dans��
��
les��
��
litt��
é��
ratures��
��
balkaniques��
», Танцът в балканските литератури, Студии, Съставител Румяна Л. Станчева, София: Изд. Балкани, 2004.
7
Friedrich Nietzsche, Ainsi dit Zarathoustra, Ed. bulgare, Фридрих Ницше,
Тъй рече Заратурстра, издание на Жана Николова-Гълъбова, София: ИК
«Хр. Ботев», 1990, 143–144.
8
Anton Strachimirov, Horo. ��
Soura Bir, Trad. en français par Violette Ionova,
Sofia: Sofia-presse, 1969.
9
Matieu Caragiale, Les seigneurs du Vieux-Castel, Trad. du roumain par Claude B. Levenson, Lausane [Paris]: L’âge d’homme, 1969.
10
Homi K. Bhabha, “The Third Space”, in: Identity, Community, Culture, Difference, ed. J. Rutherford, London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1991, 207–221.
11
Mladen Entchev, en bulgare, Младен Енчев. Лъчезар Станчев, «Мимикриите на играта», сп. Литературна мисъл, 2/2008, 195–211.
12
��
Plus��
��
de��
��
d��
é��
tails��
��
sur��
��
l��
’œ��
uvre��
��
de��
��
K��
. ��
Pavlov��
��
in��: Kleo��
��
Protokhristova, “��
The��
��
Book�
as��
��
Monument��
: The��
��
��
Case��
��
of��
��
Konstantin��
��
Pavlov��
’��
s��
“��
Remebrance��
��
of��
��
the��
��
Fear��”
(1963)”, in��
��: L��
’��
oubli��
é et��
��
l��
��
’��
interdit��
. Littérature,
��
résistance, dissidence et résilience en Europe Centrale et Orientale (1947–1989), textes réunis par Roumiana
L. Stantcheva et Alain Vuillemin, Editions de l’Institut d’Etudes balkaniques,
Editura Limes, Editions Rafael de Surtis, (Bulgarie, Roumanie, France), 2009,
211–216.
13
Le critique et historique littéraire roumain Nicolae Manolescu commente (la traduction nous appartient): «Il existe chez lui une poeticité, différente de celle de
ses congénaires, plus précisément une poéticité orale, comme chez Prévert et
chez Queneau (noms, mentionnés souvent, qui provoquent le mécontentement de
Sorescu, sans aucune raison.)» – Nicolae Manolescu, Istoria critică a literaturii
române. ��
5 secole de lteratură, Piteşti: Editura Paralela 45, 2008, 1034.
14
Marin Sorescu, Drumul, Bucuresti: Editura Minerva, 1984.
15
Évelyne Amon, Yves Bomati, Les Auteurs de la littérature française, Paris:
Larousse, 1994, 230–231.
16
Jacques Prévert, Comment faire le portrait d’un oiseau, éd. bilingue, traduction de Vesselin Hantchev, Valeri Petrov, Ivan Borislavov, Roumiana L. Stantcheva, Sofia: Colibri, 2000, 74.
17
Marcelijus��
��
Martinaitis, é��
dition��
��
en��
��
bulgare��, Марцелиюс Мартинайтис,� Необикновено е да си жив, ��
превод ��
Аксиния ��
Михайлова, ��
София: ��
колекция ��
На
острова на Блажените��
, 2008, 100�.
18
Kestutis Nastopka et Heidi Toelle, «Le mythe au service de l’esthesis», in:
Sémiotique & esthétique, sous la direction de Françoise Parouty-David et de
Claude Zilberberg, Limoges: Presses Universitaires de Limoges, 2003, 39–55.
19
� Ibidem.
5
89
Changing Attitudes Towards Gender
in Europe – a Comparative Analysis
of Fairy Tales Written by Women
Keičiant požiūrį į lytį Europoje
(moterų parašytų pasakų lyginamoji
analizė)
Dearbhla McGRATH
Dublin City University, Ireland
[email protected]
Abstract
The genre of the fairy tale has been used by women writers for centuries. The
reasons for this are many but perhaps most interesting is how the genre has been
used as a subversive tool, to convey social commentaries on aspects of society,
that in the past, and perhaps still, are seen as taboo to speak openly about. One
such area is that of gender and sexuality. Many women writers in Europe have
used this genre of literature to express views on the role that gender plays in our
society. Moreover, we can see the changes in representations of gender roles in
fairy tales spanning from the original tales to modern adaptations. What this paper
seeks to examine is the ways in which modern European women writers represent
gender roles in their works and what this says about changing attitudes towards
gender and sexuality today in Europe. In order to achieve this, the paper will incorporate a comparative analysis of modern adaptations of fairy tales consisting
of works by British, French and Irish women, namely Angela Carter, Marie Darrieussecq and Emma Donoghue. In taking into account the authors social context
we can gain insight from the subverted content in the tales, and through this gain
some knowledge into the changing attitudes in Europe as regards this topic.
Key words:
�� genre of fairy tales, women writers, gender roles, representation,
modernity.
Subversive Role of Women Writers
The term “fairy tale” or “conte de fée” was first introduced in 1690 by
French writer Marie Catherine d’Aulnoy. Fairy tales have been associated
with the female for centuries, more specifically with a matriarchal, oral
tradition. However, the literary fairy tales of 17th century France may have
stemmed from an oral tradition but were originally intended for an upper
class audience, and although, there were many more female fairy tale authors than male, most of the well known tales that have survived the years
90
are those written by men. Nonetheless, even in the 17th century, male writers such as Charles Perrault argued that the genre’s inherent femaleness
was crucial in proving the “tales’ aboriginal status”1. One possible reason
for the popularity of tales written by men is the moral values that were
embedded in the tales, whereas it has been widely noted that many women
fairy tale writers used the genre as a subversive tool, to satirise a society,
in which they lived, but had little influence over. This is not to say that
women writers of the time did not intend to civilise readers, but women
who wanted education and power used subversive tales to undermine the
male code and suggest a more liberal one2.
Modern women writers who tackle the fairy tale genre seem to take
the approach of completely undermining social codes, rather than reinforcing them. In this way, they are using the genre of the fairy tale to
carry out the opposite of what many originally considered its purpose.
Therefore we must ask ourselves the question, if our society today is an
open and liberal one, why do women writers continue to choose to create
ironic and subversive fairy tales?
At the end of the 17th century, between 1680 and 1715 there was a cultural crisis in Europe, a time which Paul Hazard names “crise de la conscience européenne”. This was a time of sceptical and rationalist thought
that “was to provide the foundation for Enlightenment philosophy”3. Fairy
tales were one of the symptoms of this psychology of sénsibilité. Lewis
Carl Seifert contends that they represent a culture’s quest for identity4.
This “fin de siècle” culture was marked by controversies concerning the
proper boundaries of male and female gender roles5. I propose that we can
see a similar trend in the fairy tales written by women at the end of the
20th century, with writers such as Angela Carter, Marie Darrieussecq and
Emma Donoghue still tackling important issues regarding gender roles
and women.
During a time of cultural crisis, fairy tales are a way of striving for
identity. Furthermore, Seifert also points out, that fairy tales “should indeed be interpreted as a form of gendered writing, that is, writing in which
the gender of the author is inscribed as a distinguishing feature of textual
production and meaning”6. Catherine Orenstein asserts that “fairy tales
are at their core about sexuality – about the codes and manners and qualities and behaviours that society deems desirable, and thus which make us
desirable to each other”7. In order to conduct an analysis of three tales by
different writers, I will focus on the animal groom theme, or the “search
91
for the lost husband” tale type8, a theme that has been particularly popular
with women writers for centuries. Animals and metamorphosis are extremely common in many tale types. Jack Zipes suggests a possible reason
for this tales popularity with women writers is that the symbolism of the
beast suggests that the male has not reached the cultural level of the human or woman9. Another interpretation is that the woman author identifies
with the oppressed heroine10, and also that the power to save or destroy
the male character lies with the woman11. However, in recent times, many
tales have come to focus more on the beast than the beauty character and
as we will see in many instances it is the Beast that saves Beauty rather
than the other way around.
It is worthy to note at this point the differences between animal groom
tales written by men and women authors. In animal groom tales written
by male authors, “it is not so much beauty and modesty that counts for the
male character as brains and ambition”12 symbolising the superiority of
male intelligence over female beauty13. Many women writers, in contrast,
used the theme to hint that women had to obey society’s rules or face degradation14.
The three tales to be looked at in this paper are The Tiger’s Bride by
Angela Carter from Great Britain, Truismes by Marie Darrieussecq from
France and The Tale of The Rose by Emma Donoghue from Ireland.
Angela Carter
Carter looks at attraction and repulsion together15. She returns to the
animal groom theme many times treating it differently each time. As Marina Warner points out; “her beauties choose to play with the Beast precisely because his animal nature excites them and gives their desires license”16. The Tiger’s Bride appears in a collection of tales based on well
known fairy tales entitled The Bloody Chamber (1979).
“The Tiger’s Bride”
The Tiger’s Bride begins abruptly. The Beauty character is our narrator, although we never learn of her real name throughout the tale. She
states “My father lost me to the Beast at cards”. We are presented here
with an outspoken and cynical heroine. In this tale, the narrator’s father,
a compulsive gambler, has bet and lost his daughter to the Beast. She
watches with “the furious cynicism peculiar to women whom circumstances force mutely to witness folly”17. This Beauty is alot wiser than her
92
father but to her annoyance cannot make him aware of this. In this tale
Beauty’s father can be seen as a beast. He has lost his own daughter to
a strange creature and she comments that “it was not my flesh but, truly,
my father’s soul that was in peril”18. Even the Beast who has won the girl
tells his opponent; “If you are so careless of your treasures, you should
expect them to be taken from you”19.
Carter presents a Beast who is somewhat of an outcast. He wears a
mask and a cloak to hide his appearance and has a pungent odour of civet.
Beauty ponders “what can he smell of, that needs so much camouflage?”
The Beast’s animalistic nature is referenced here. He seems as if struggling to remain upright when he would rather be on all fours20.
As Beauty is brought to the Beasts residence, she muses on the exact
nature of his beastliness. Since he wears a mask, it must hide something.
Carter touches once again on our fear of the other. The narrator recalls a
story she was told as a child of a tiger-man who she was told if she was
naughty would come and “gobble” her up21. Here, Carter reminds us all
of our instinctual fear of being eaten that feels stronger in childhood, but
is, nevertheless, still present as an adult. Carter, aptly, points out that our
narrator is recalling the old wives tales and superstitions of her childhood
on the day her childhood ends22. To be bartered to the Beast in such a
manner is as good as death for this narrator.
The Beast’s desire is to see Beauty naked once and then she will be
returned to her father. This is too intimate an act for the woman to share
with a beast; “That he should want so little was the reason why I could
not give it; I did not need to speak for The Beast to understand me”. Here
we see the first sign of a connection or affinity between the girl and the
Beast, however, she finds his request humiliating23.
The Beast is constantly reminded of his otherness by a human presence.
As the tale moves on, the narrator begins to see similarities between the
Beast’s situation and her own. She notes how women share the same burden
of otherness as would a monstrous creature: “[T]he six of us – mounts and
riders, both – could boast amongst us not one soul, either, since all the best
religions in the world state categorically that not beasts nor women were
equipped with the flimsy, insubstantial things when the good Lord opened
the gates of Eden and let Eve and her familiars tumble out”24.
This meditating on her own circumstances in life seems to bring about
a change of heart in the narrator and she decides to grant the Beast his
request. She, also, sees the Beast’s true form for the first time, a tiger’s
93
body, “the annihilating vehemence of his eyes”25. As the deal with Beauty’s father has now been fulfilled, Beauty is free to return home. However,
witnessing how her father valued her as a commodity, at “no more than a
King’s ransom”26, she realises that beastliness can come in many forms.
Carter ends the tale with Beauty deciding that she is better off as beast and
she is transformed to animal: “His tongue ripped off skin after successive
skin, all the skins of a life in the world, and left behind a nascent patina
of shining hairs. My earrings turned back to water and trickled down my
shoulders; I shrugged the drops off my beautiful fur.”27
In this version of the Beauty and the Beast tale, the Beast did not need
to be disenchanted; Beauty had to learn to love the Beast. Here, Beauty
stands in need of the Beast who holds a mirror up to human values28.
Marie Darrieussecq
Marie Darrieussecq treats the Beauty and the Beast theme, differently,
but not completely unlike The Tiger’s Bride. In Truismes, the protagonist
herself is the one metamorphosing, in danger of becoming a beast.
“Truismes”
Darrieussecq presents, in the short novel Truismes, many different
Beast characters. The narrator, herself, feels she is becoming a beast, due
to her transformation into a sow and she is living in a world where society
in general has become the Beast. Further to this, the male characters in
the protagonist’s life are shown to be beastly in different manners. Darrieussecq uses the Beauty and the Beast theme to give us a commentary
on the cruelty of modern society.
We are given a protagonist, by Darrieussecq, who is naive and allows
herself be exploited. As she begins to transform, she is frightened, and believes she may be pregnant. Her menstruation has ceased and she has rolls
of fat around her stomach. She feels as if she is not a woman anymore, at
least, how she believes a woman should be. She also notices long, thin
hairs which are solid and translucent forming on her legs and back. She is
disgusted by her own metamorphosis, seeing herself as hideous. She resists the transformation for a long time, using various beauty products and
treatments and laments her former splendour: “De ma splendeur ancienne
tout où presque avait disparu. La peau de mon dos était rouge, velue, et
il y avait ces étranges taches grisâtres qui s’arrondissaient le long de
l’échine.” 29
94
Like Carter’s beasts, as the transformation happens to the protagonist,
she becomes attuned to nature. Darrieussecq uses the image of the nightingale, perhaps, referring to the bird in mythology, the tale teller: “Je ne
savais pas jusque-là que j’étais capable de distinguer le chant des rossignols”30.
As she sees herself as beastly, so do others. When she cannot resist the
urge to roll in the muck, onlookers describe her actions as “monstrueux”31.
Once again we see fear of otherness here and disgust at monstrosity.
Darrieussecq satirises society throughout the novel. Commenting on
the beauty and cosmetic industry, she mocks at its exploitation of women’s fears and insecurities. When the protagonist visits the dermatologist
due to increasing worry about her advancing porcine state, she is reprimanded and the dermatologist tells her that she has never seen skin in
such a state. She is punished for her transformation, for her monstrosity
even though it is completely out of her control32.
This theme is further explored when the protagonist must have an
abortion due to her work as a prostitute, which she politely or naively refers to as working as a masseuse. In a bizarre scene, the doctor
performs the abortion while there is an extreme right wing protester
chained to the operating table and we are presented with the shocking image of the police cutting his chains, which are covered in the
protagonist’s blood. The protester assures the protagonist that she will
be damned for eternity and when he learns of her profession, he says
she has “La Marque de la Bête!”33. Here, we can see that Darrieussecq
is presenting us with a dilemma; it is hard to determine, in this scene,
who exactly is the Beast.
The character that represents the evils of society most in this novel is
Edgar, a politician whose slogan is “Pour un monde plus sain”34. What
Edgar means by “plus sain” (healthier), is eradicating difference such as
the mutation of the protagonist. Edgar’s police force, the SAMU-SDF, in
a humorous twist are aided by the armed forces of the SPA, the Société
Protectrice des Animaux, (the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals). When the transforming protagonist gives birth to six piglets,
she has to protect them from the police force35. She must protect them
from eradication as their difference is not acceptable. Edgar believes that
what becomes of people, for example transformation, is a result of their
own misdeeds. Edgar states that a promiscuous lifestyle has led to the
protagonist’s transformation36.
95
Further on in the tale, Edgar exploits the protagonist and keeps her
locked up. Like the Beasts we have seen before, she is excluded from society due to her monstrous appearance.
Like in Carter’s The Tiger’s Bride, this Beauty character finds happiness with the help of another Beast character, Yvan. Ironically, he is the
owner of aptly named beauty brand Loup-Y-Es-Tu and he is a loup-garou,
(a werewolf). Together, they do not fight their animalistic nature. She accepts her beastliness, and when it is accepted it is no longer considered
beastly. Darrieussecq paints a picture of a somewhat gruesome domestic
bliss as the couple orders a pizza and the pig eats the pizza and the werewolf eats the delivery man; “On ne pouvait pas distinguer le sang de la
sauce tomate”37.
Finally, when the protagonist learns to accept her strange state of metamorphosis, she decides to live her life permanently as a sow; as beast
rather than beauty, seeing that the society, in which she lived, had become
the true beast.
Emma Donoghue
Emma Donoghue’s book of tales Kissing the Witch which was published in 1997 is comprised of a number of tales that are all connected.
At the end of each tale, a character is asked how they came to be in the
form they presently are and thus they start their own tale and so on. In this
way all the tales are inter-related and seem to go farther and farther back
in time. The third tale “The Tale of the Rose” is based on Beauty and the
Beast.
“The Tale of the Rose”
The first striking remark that we come across in this tale is when
Beauty describes how she wanted none of her suitors as she “had an appetite for magic” and she wanted something “improbable and perfect as
a red rose just opening”38. We are immediately reminded of the familiar
red rose motif in many Beauty and the Beast stories and also, like Carter’s
Beauty character, Donoghue would seem to suggest to us that this Beauty
is no timid character either.
Beauty’s father familiarly gets trapped in a snow storm and is saved
by a hooded beast. In return the father promises to the beast the first thing
he sees when he returns home, hoping it will be a cat or a bird. Of course
it is Beauty. In his delirium he tells Beauty “Daughter, I have sold you”39.
96
The father in this case has committed a monstrous deed although we are
inclined to feel sympathy for him as Donoghue paints him as a feeble
character. Thus, we have the familiar motif in animal groom tales of the
father gambling with his daughter’s future and thus condemning her to
life with a beast.
It is worth noting here that Emma Donoghue acknowledges Andrew
Lang at the start of the book as an influence and thanks her mother for
reading her tales. Lang’s version of Beauty and the Beast is the best
known English language version, which in turn was influenced by Mme
de Beaumont’s tale from 1757.
Beauty’s fear of monstrousness is shown as she asks her father; “what
does a promise mean when it is made to a monster?”40. Nevertheless, she
vows to keep her father’s promise and what’s more, is excited by the prospect of her encounter with beastliness. She remarks: “Now, you may tell
me that I should have felt betrayed, but I was shaking with excitement. I
should have felt like a possession, but for the first time in my life I seemed
to own myself. I went as a hostage, but it seemed as if I was riding into
battle.”41 What is interesting here is that traditionally animal groom tales
are filled with representations of fear of the unknown, fear of exogamy
and leaving the family home but Donoghue’s Beauty is thoroughly excited by this unnamed creature.
The reader is told that the young queen who lived in the castle had
been either exiled, imprisoned, or devoured by the hooded beast and further more that “no one had ever seen the monster’s face and lived to describe it”42, thus we are told that since the beast is disguised or a recluse,
the presumption is that the creature must be something hideous.
As the masked creature asks Beauty if she comes consenting, she comments “I did, I was sick to my stomach, but I did”43. In analysing the
animal groom cycle, Bruno Bettelheim asserts that the Beast represents
a child’s view of sexuality, therefore as long as the child’s view of sex
is attached to the parent, it must be seen as disgusting, ensuring that the
incest taboo remains secure. When the child is detached from the parent
and sexual longing is directed at a partner of a more suitable age, sexual
longings no longer seem beastly, but are experienced as beautiful44. Zipes,
however, describes this analysis as unhistorical and too glib, stating that
“instinctual drives are conditioned and largely determined through interaction and interplay with the social environment45.
97
The girl and beast develop a relationship over time and she has everything she could want. Yet she does not find a trace of the missing queen
and comments “I had everything I could want except the key to the story”46. When questioned by the beast, the girl admits that she still pictured
him as a monster. Often imagined monstrosity is worse than the reality as
Donoghue clearly portrays in this tale.
The girl is allowed to leave the castle for eight days and promises to
return to the beast. The beast tells her just as she leaves; “I must tell you
before you go: I am not a man”47. On hearing this, the girl imagines trolls,
ogres and goblins. The beast tries in vain to tell her that she does not
understand but she leaves. On Beauty’s return, she nurses her sick father
back to health and her sisters convince her to stay as leaving would surely
kill their father. However thinking of the Beast the girl returns in time to
save the dying creature. She notes that leaving this time she asked “no
permission of anyone”48. This is the first time that she makes a decision
for herself. She finds the beast “a crumpled bundle eaten by frost”49. As
she removes the mask, she finds that the creature is neither beast nor man
but a woman. Beauty discovers: “there was nothing monstrous about this
woman who had lived alone in a castle, setting all her suitors riddles they
could make no sense of, refusing to do the things queens are supposed to
do, until the day when, knowing no one who could see her true face, she
made a mask and from then on showed her face to no one.”50 The girl
learns that beauty is “infinitely various”, and through physically and metaphorically unmasking the beast, she understands her. The tale finishes;
“And as the years flowed by, some villagers told travellers of a beast and
a beauty who lived in the castle and could be seen walking on the battlements, and others told of two beauties, and others, of two beasts”51.
Donoghue blurs the borderlines of sex, sexuality and the concepts of
beauty and beastliness. Preconceptions can never be accurate because of
their very nature. This tale requires looking beyond the obvious and the
initial impression and allowing these borderlines to be blurred.
Conclusion
Elaine Showalter remarked that “the terminal decades of a century
suggest to many minds the death throes of a diseased society and the
winding down of an exhausted culture”52. Contemplating this in regard
to the final decades and years of the twentieth century, there seems to be
a pattern to be looked at with regards to women’s writing, in particular
98
their retelling and reinvention of fairy tales. According to Frank Kermode,
the “sense of an ending” at the end of a century is a myth of the temporal
that affects our thoughts about ourselves53. Moreover, fin de siècle thinking is weighted with the symbolic meaning of death and rebirth. Perhaps
in this manner, women writers are re-evaluating the way in which gender
and sexuality are perceived and represented in modern society. While the
conteuses at the end of the 17th century, satirised the monarchy, women’s
difficulty in access to education and the cruelty of being married off at
young ages, modern women writers have used the same genre to address
issues of importance at the end of the 20th century, such as fear of disease,
sexual threats and homophobia.
Women writers not only have demonstrated a connection with the genre of the fairy tale, but also a tie with fin de siècle thinking or “endism”54.
Carole Pateman has noted that women have traditionally been perceived
as figures of disorder, social and cultural marginality, on the border55. Perhaps this is a reason why they feel a connection with the borders of centuries, times of social and cultural questioning and change. Conversely,
times of cultural insecurity often bring longing for strict border controls
around the definition of gender and sexuality56, yet in the case of Carter,
Darrieussecq and Donoghue, they seem to be blurring these very boundaries and reacting against this aspect of fin de siècle thinking. In remarking
on the retelling of stories at the end of the 19th and 20th centuries Elaine
Showalter contends that “in telling these stories we transmit our own narratives, construct our own case histories, and shape our own futures”57.
Notes and references
1
2
3
6
7
4
5
Marina Warner, Mother Goose Tales: Female Fiction, Female Fact? Folklore
Vol. 101, No 1, 1990, 5.
Jack Zipes, (1991) Fairy Tales and the Art of Subversion; The Classical genre
for Children and the Process of Civilisation New York: Routledge, 32.
Carl Lewis Seifert, (1996) Fairy Tales, Sexuality and Gender in France 16901715, Nostalgic Utopias Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 6.
Ibid, 2.
Ibid, 7.
Ibid, 10.
Catherine Orenstein, Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: Sex, Morality, and
the Evolution of a Fairy Tale New York: Basic Books, 2002, 211.
99
8
9
12
13
14
15
10
11
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
16
17
45
100
Anti Aarne, The types of the folktale: a classification and bibliography (Translated and enlarged by Stith Thompson), Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, Aarne, 1981, 140.
Jack Zipes, Fairy Tales and the Art of Subversion; The Classical genre for
Children and the Process of Civilisation New York: Routledge, 1991, 49.
Ibid, 51.
Ibid, 56.
Ibid, 41.
Ibid, 49.
Ibid, 53.
Marina Warner, From the Beast to the Blonde, On Fairy Tales and their Tellers London: Vintage, 1994, 308.
Ibid.
Ibid, 52.
Ibid, 54.
Ibid, 55.
Ibid, 53.
Ibid, 56.
Ibid.
Ibid, 61.
Ibid, 63.
Ibid, 64.
Ibid, 54.
Ibid, 67.
Ibd, 306.
Marie Darrieussecq, Truismes Paris: Folio, 1996, 55.
Ibid, 68.
Ibid, 85.
I��
bid, 57.
I��
bid, 31.
I��
bid, 64.
I��
bid, 91.
I��
bid, 110.
I��
bid, 129.
Emma Donoghue, Kissing the Witch London: Penguin Donoghue,1997, 27.
I��
bid, 29.
I��
bid,30.
I��
bid.
I��
bid, 31.
I��
bid.
Bruno Bettelheim, The Uses of Enchantment, The Meaning and Importance of
Fairy Tales London: Penguin, 1991, 278.
Jack Zipes, Fairy Tales and the Art of Subversion; The Classical genre for
Children and the Process of Civilisation New York: Routledge, 1991, 48.
48
49
50
51
52
46
47
55
56
57
53
54
Ibid, 32.
Ibid, 34.
Ibid, 35.
Ibid, 36.
Ibid.
Ibid.
Elaine Showalter, Sexual Anarchy, Gender and Culture at the Fin de Siècle
London: Virago, 1992, 1.
Ibid, 2.
Ibid, 2.
Ibid, 4.
Ibid.
Ibid, 18.
101
The Cultural Archive and the New
Media Literature
Kultūrinis archyvas ir naujųjų
medijų literatūra
Aleš VAUPOTIČ
Academy of Design Ljubljana, Slovenia & REELC/ENCLS
Malgajeva 15, 1000 Ljubljana, Slovenia
ales��
@��
vaupotic.com
Abstract
The new media technologies have changed the way cultural memory is preserved in archives. The shift can be grasped by a particular theoretical model for
understanding new media objects. Such objects are according to theoretical views
of Lev Manovich comprehended as databases that can be accessed only as mediated through interfaces, which determine the way information is presented spatially. The paradigmatic shift doesn’t concern only digital media. The digitization
is, in fact, penetrating almost all segments of global culture, but excluding several
parts on political and cultural grounds, not due to some technical obstacles only.
Further, the theoretical ideas of the computer interface and the cultural interface
are intertwining, i.e. the shift occurs from human-computer interfacing to humanculture interfacing by focusing cultural forms. The artistic archive as a specific
medium will be discussed in views of the literary new media objects (hypertexts,
textual computer installations, blog-type texts). The new media objects appear interactively before the user. The factor that authorises which letters, words, verses,
images or archival materials will be concatenated is, of course, not just the author,
but the reading act, and in fact, the text itself in the case of the algorithmic “poetry
machines”. As regards the human factor in writing and reading the new media
literature (also multimedia materials), a relevant issue to consider is the recently
diagnosed reality of digital communities, which employ various information technologies to read, comment, contribute to and to modify collaboratively the contents of archives, which thereby become their real substance.
Key words: new media literature, interface, archive, human-computer interaction design, software studies, poetry automaton, digital community, Mouseion
Serapeion
The new media object: interface and database
In his book The Language of New Media (2001) Lev Manovich
presents a very influential definition of new media object in order to pro-
102
vide scholars with a functional concept that refers to electronic, interactive, digital, virtual, multimedia etc. art and literature. The term while
choosing the neutral word “object” points beyond the domain of artistic
creativity into the practices of everyday communication:
“The new media object consists of one or more interfaces to a database of
multimedia material. If only one interface is constructed, the result will be similar to a traditional art object, but this is an exception rather than the norm.1
The databases that Manovich has in mind are digitized archives of
cultural objects and practices. The notion of “cultural interface” transfers
the technical terms of art onto cultural signs beyond the limits of computational manipulation of information2. A cultural interface is a human–
computer–culture interface: it combines interfaces as cultural objects,
the regular practices of communication between humans, with interfaces
as applications that provide access to information stored on (networked)
computers. By associating his approach with the theory of discourse of
Michel Foucault Manovich argues for a theoretical approach focusing on
cultural transcoding.
However, Manovich doesn’t assume that transcoding can be successfully understood in isolation from the study of hardware and software, the
material conditions for new media objects. In his last book Software Takes
Command (2008) he argues for a new discipline: the “software studies”
that focus on interaction between the operations that software provides
for the user, their uses and the effects of the computational objects within
the context of social communication. Manovich considers: “software as a
layer that permeates all areas of contemporary societies”3.
The problems of a computational production of language
Hans Magnus Enzensberger in his examination of theoretical possibilities of a poetry automaton (Poesie-Automat) arrives to a conflictual relationship between two planes of simulation that he attempts to resolve with
a compromise: the primary linguistic structure, which gravitates towards
normal language use, and the poetic secondary structure that demands the
breaking of rules. However, the result should not compromise the poem’s
integrity, with which it enters the dialogue of utterances in speech communication4.
In the monograph Poesiemaschinen/Maschinenpoesie (2007) a German new media artist and theorist David Link, whose work focuses on
103
computational generation of language and texts, points to the fact that
computers as e.g. conceived by Alan Turing in his theory of Turing-Machine are fundamentally alien to language. Espen J. Aarseth notes that
information processing and human semiosis clash, however they nevertheless somehow coexist5.
David Link notes the fact that humans construe computers as anthropomorphous. However, since the body and senses from the human metaphor have been successfully implemented in machines – computers can
recognize patterns or move around by following sets of rules – the human
spirit hasn’t been simulated yet. Link suggests that there are theoretical
dilemmas that need to be considered. A general mistake of the artificial intelligence research is the attempt to simulate the human spirit in general,
not a particular person, as exists in society. The dialogic nature of existence, as described by Mikhail Bakhtin, is beyond the possible scope of a
computer. The reason for that lies in its design.
Anstatt Mengen zu bestimmen, bezeichnen Zahlen in seiner [Turing’s] Konstruktion Zustände und halten Gleiches künstlich auseinander. Null und Eins
setzen sich in einer Identität von Identität und Differenz ebenso entgegen wie
sie in eins fallen, im Gegensatz zur herkömmlichen Mathematik, in der Null
von Eins geschieden werden muß. Wer die Maschine im numerischen Feld
verortet, verfehlt eine Pointe der Turing’schen Erfindung.6
(“The numbers in [Turing’s] construct describe states and hold the same artificially apart, instead of determining quantities. The zero and one are in opposition to each other in an identity of identity and difference and at the same time
establish a unity – which contradicts the usual mathematics where zero and one
need to be kept apart. If one locates the machine in the domain of numbers then
the some points of Turing’s discovery are missed.” (translation – A. V.)
Link emphasizes the level of the computational information processing, which lies semiologically before the separation of symbols between
letters and numbers (Link, “while(true): On the Fluidity of Signs in Hegel,
Gödel, and Turing”). What the machine does is that it transforms symbols,
however this happens only on the level of the material storage medium. It
can never react to a situation on a pragmatic level.
Next, David Link examines the history of early applications that produced an illusion of consciousness in language. Programmed in 1966
Eliza by Joseph Weizenbaum simulates a psychoanalyst who invites the
user to talk about herself. However the Eliza application doesn’t contain
104
a story, it merely turns all the questions around to invite the user to go on
talking about herself. In 1971 Kenneth Mark Colby programmed Parry, a
simulation of paranoid disorder, which by intentionally ignoring the context of conversation is in fact also an excuse for the system’s nonresponsiveness. Parry just goes on about himself and gets more or less aggressive. In both cases, what is simulated, is the condition of language separated
from its contextual use. Another instance, the textual adventure games, such
as Adventure (1976) by William Crowther and Don Woods, require from
the user a temporal suspension of the capacity for language for the textual
machine to function, i.e. for the story to progress according to the user’s
textual commands7. In his own artistic project Poetry Machine (2001) Link
attempts to open the textual generator to the internet in order to bridge the
gap between closed system of a computer and the human language use on
the Web. However, the results are not promising, since the machine could
not establish sense through generative language stream. The construction
of a meaningful sentence out of a lexicon of words and through the use of
grammar remains outside the machine’s reach.
Divided authorship
Mikhail Bakhtin defines the boundaries of an utterance, the fundamental element of his theories, with the “change of speaking subjects”8. In this
way also Vilém Flusser’s theory of techno-imagination can be construed
as an approach that analytically divides the authorship into a programmer
and a user of the apparatus9. The algorithms that guide the functioning of
a machine and its concrete use in a socio-historical context are both the
result of someone’s conscious effort.
It seems to be inappropriate to speak of “emergent properties”, even in
the “weak”, epistemological meaning of the term in order to describe the
unpredictable behaviour of algorithmic cultural objects. The emergentist
approach entails a continuous progression of layers of reality, however
the break that the artistic use of signs constitutively entails is, as noted by
Enzensberger, incompatible with (nonreductive) physicalist image of the
world10.
Google Web search engine
An example of technologically encoded cultural object, Flusser’s techno-image, is Google search engine. Flusser wrote his theories assuming
that the general audience is unable to decode techno-images appropriately.
105
It is the same today, when people “google” without reflecting on how
the information is obtained. It was emphasized that the computer cannot
develop a capacity for language or a consciousness nor can meaningful
behaviour “emerge” out of the mechanical processes. However, what the
machine can do, is perform operations on data extremely fast. As a consequence, new phenomena come to life.
Google was the response to the unordered state of the web. The earlier Web search engines used the model of correspondence between the
search quarry and the text on the page, however with the increasing
amount of “spam” on-line these systems had great difficulties to distinguish “worthless” webpages from the ones that merited human interest. Sergey Brin and Lawrence Page found the solution to the problem
by using the structural power imbalance inherent in the design of the
World Wide Web (by Tim Berners-Lee) to obtain the information on the
“Web-immanent” values of webpages. The condition of the Web is that
the links point to other pages, however the page pointed to doesn’t contain the information that it was “cited”. In order to analyse the reversed
hyperlinks Brin and Page had to analyse the whole Web. In the famous
article The Anatomy of a Large-Scale Hypertextual Web Search Engine
they explain their approach:
Academic citation literature has been applied to the web, largely by counting citations or backlinks to a given page. This gives some approximation of a page’s
importance or quality. PageRank extends this idea by not counting links from
all pages equally, and by normalizing by the number of links on a page.11
Google therefore ranks pages according to the existence of links. A static hyperlink is a conscious product of a person and it is the only relational
information within the system of the Web. When a link is programmed into
a web page the space on the page is used, therefore only a strict selection of
links can be put on a page, without making it unreadable12. To summarize,
since the computer can not decide, whether a page is interesting or not, the
human actions as interpage quotations are used as a quantifiable criterion.
They are counted – which the machine can do on the semiological level
before any reference to real world – whereby providing the objective hierarchy of the webpages within the current World Wide Web.
106
The digital communities
In 2004 the Ars Electronica festival introduced a new category called
Digital Communities. In 2007 the parallel Net Vision category (i.e. internet art) was abolished and the new Hybrid Art introduced instead. The
Interactive Art as a constant of the festival is less telling, whereas it is
important to note that the dividing of the field into not-internet and internet based projects has shifted towards a divide between building of
societies and hybridizing of media. The former has in fact included all the
works that used the internet as a key ingredient (hybrid art in turn began
to compete with the obsolete interactive art). Slogan of this programmatic
change was: “the reclaiming of the internet as a social space”13.
If Google used the information that was implicitly encoded into the
total structure of the Web to present its contents by means of innovative
use of technology, the “digital communities” as limited projects strive to
organize a community by any means possible. The authorship of a multiuser discourse14 is thus determined by its effect, the digital community as
a new form of society: the initial supportive communication systems have
to be developed and maintained, however, on the other hand, the critical
number of users have to be persuaded to participate and the relationships
between them have to be designed in a way that enables the multiuser discourse to sustain itself. The results, such as Wikipedia, additionally point
to new epistemological challenges, since the new expression of a “collective intelligence”15 doesn’t correspond to the subjective and variable assumptions inherent in the “common sense”.
The archive as a medium: Mouseion Serapeion
The collection of different theoretical approaches in the book The Archive edited by Charles Merewether in 2006 points to a new interest in the
archival structures in contemporary arts and in theory. A quote from a contribution by Hal Foster: “If archival art differs from database art, it is also
distinct from art focused on museum”16 should illustrate, on the level of
terminology, the burgeoning interest in the way multifaceted relationships
between archival units are reconfigured17. Moreover, the affinity between
the archive and a computer is by no means taken for granted. Another
point to consider is the current state of studies of discourse as archive that
point to the dichotomy in the avant-garde vision of the world: e.g. Benjamin H. D. Buchloh quotes the work Media Scrap Book by Hannah Höch
107
from 1030s that instead of fragmentation and fissure foregrounds the archival order as the constitutive principle of the work18.
An example of artistic archive that was conceptualized by Narvika
Bovcon and Aleš Vaupotič is Mouseion Serapeion (2004)19. Methodologically it is an “artistic research” into the possibilities of new media discursive practices by means of constructing a model. On the one hand the
strict scientific objectivity is necessarily compromised, however on the
other a deeper understanding emerges from the scholar’s hands-on experience. Also David Link’s understanding of textual generators is founded on
the profound understanding available to somebody that had created a classical work in a still new medium.
Mouseion Serapeion is an archive that presents and critically reviews the first ten years of the artistic production of the Video Seminar
at Ljubljana Academy of Fine Arts (1987–1997). Mouseion Serapeion
is at the same time an artistically coded smart application for Windows
operating system that generates the context for individual elements of the
archive according to the user’s requirements. The main search result in
the centre of the “Territory” view of the application is derived by means
of browsing through the metadata of particular elements of the archive;
the secondary six hits are additionally defined by the user’s horizon of understanding, which was recorded for a generic group of participants in the
art institution as the history of browsing through this particular archive.
The view “List” on the other hand assures the access to all the elements
of the archive and so eases the user’s dialogue with the language of the
Academy’s video production.
Mouseion Serapeion is a construction. First, it models the notion of
social and historic identities as they are developed on the level of the atoms of Power-Knowledge in the theory of discourse by Michel Foucault.
Second, it models the techno version of the “visage”20 as conceptualized
by Emmanuel Lévinas, which confronts the user of the application by
means of dialogue; the visage is therefore unknowable in the mystically
transcendental sense of the word. What the user sees is a visage, not because she animistically projects it, but because the archive elements are
presented through a specific communicative metaphor.
Conclusion
Mouseion Serapeion solves the dilemmas of a contemporary new media archive and, at the same time, the computational production of mean-
108
ing with careful planing of which procedures to choose to manipulate the
initial set of data. As opposed to Google, its scope is limited to a community that corresponds to an existing social group. The input data is used
to align the archive configuration with the existing expectations of what
it consists of. The result is a sort of “mirror” image of the group of users,
which is potentially questioned in its aggressive reconfiguration of the archival units through the history of browsing.
References
Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT
Press, 2001, 227.
2
Ibid, 70.
3
Lev Manovich, Software Takes Command. 2008. 18 June 2009 <http://lab.softwarestudies.com/2008/11/softbook.html>.
4
Hans Magnus Enzensberger, Einladung zu einem Poesie-Automaten. Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp, 2000. 22 Oct 2008 <http://jacketmagazine.com/17/enzrobot.html>.
5
Aarseth, Espen J., Cybertext: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature. The Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1997, 29–31.
6
David Link, Poesiemaschinen/Maschinenpoesie: Zur Frühgeschichte computerisierter Texterzeugung und generativer Systeme. 1st ed. Fink (Wilhelm), 2007. 7 Sep 2009
http://www.alpha60.de/research/pm/DavidLink_Poesiemaschinen_2006C.pdf, 45).
7
Ibid, 85.
8
Michail Bakhtin, Speech Genres and Other Late Essays. University of Texas
Press, 1986, 71.
9
Vilém Flusser, Digitalni videz. Ljubljana: Študentska založba, 2002, 75.
10
Timothy O’Connor and Hong Yu Wong. “Emergent Properties.” The Stanford
Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Ed.Edward N. Zalta. 18 Aug 2009 <http://plato.
stanford.edu/entries/properties-emergent/>.
11
Sergey Brin and Lawrence Page. “The Anatomy of a Large-Scale Hypertextual Web Search Engine.” 1998, 21 Aug 2009 <http://infolab.stanford.edu/
~backrub/google.html>.
12
The normalizing of the value of links by the number of links on the page is an
algorithmic expression of this limitation.
13
Hannes Leopoldseder and Christine Schopf, eds., Cyberarts 2004. Prixars
Electronica. Hatje Cantz Publishers, 2004.
Hannes Leopoldseder and Gerfried Stocker, eds., CyberArts 2006. Bilingual.
Hatje Cantz Publishers, 2006.
Leopoldseder & Schopf 196; Leopoldseder & Stocker 192).
14
Aarseth, 142 ff.
15
(Leopoldseder & Schopf 205).
1
109
Charles Merewether, The Archive. The MIT Press, 2006, 144.
Aleš Vaupotič, and Narvika Bovcon, eds., 11. mednarodni festival računalniških
umetnosti/11th International Festival of Computer Arts. Ljubljana & Maribor:
ArtNetLab & MKC Maribor, 2005. 31 Aug 2009 <http://black.fri.uni-lj.si/riii/
files/tiskovine/11mfru-katalog.pdf>.
18
Merewether, 86.
19
http://black.fri.uni-lj.si/mouseionserapeion/ (1 Sept 2009). Concept, development, editorial selection and commentaries: Narvika Bovcon, Aleš Vaupotič.
Preparation, encoding and data insertion: Tomaž Bobnar, Sandi Humar, Luka
Vrhovec, Jure Bratina. Database entity modeling: Tine Borovnik, Dejan Dular, Matej Guid, Gregor Šoško. Graphical user interface: Gregor Šoško, Sergej
Panić. Search algorithm application: Matej Guid. Database interface: Tine
Borovnik. Data insertion application: Rok Lenardič, Sergej Panić. Production:
ArtNetLab Society for Connecting Art and Science, Ljubljana, Slovenia, 2004
20
http://www2.arnes.si/~avaupo2/files/solaris-frame/levinas-original.htm (30 Nov
2009)
16
17
110
111
II. RHETORIC OF IDENTITY
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
The Dynamics of Cultural Identity:
Persevering the Paradox of Self and
Others
Kultūrinės tapatybės dinamika:
„Savęs“ ir „kitų“ paradoksas kaip
galimybė
Farouk Y. Seif
Antioch University Seattle, Washington, USA
[email protected]
Abstract
This paper uses a “wide-angle lens” to view the dynamic process of maintaining cultural identity and draws attention to the paradoxical relationship of self and
others. Encounters between self and others always reveal paradoxes that are rooted in the human condition. Cultural stability and the influence of other cultures are
commonly seen as a problematic dualism, rather than a paradoxical polarity. The
homomorphic relationship between the polarities of self and others is a significant
feature in the experience of cultural identity. The erroneous perception of self and
others fades away when faced with the reality of self-in-and-through-others. While
encounters between different cultures can trigger a sense of vigilance in response
to the forces of homogenization, perseverance through the paradox of self and
others turns away ethnocentrism and tames idiosyncratic ethnicity. Experiencing
paradoxical encounters between self and others requires perseverance in the face
of cultural tension. Holding this tension creatively demands strength, which can
be developed through experiencing cross-cultural interactions. Developing this
strength is fundamental to understanding the changing cultural map of Europe. By
the creative holding of paradoxical tension, cultural encounters can be viewed as
an opportunity for a beautiful juxtaposition of literature and artifacts. This paper
reveals the interrelationship between the value of perseverance and the notion of
design in maintaining and renewing cultural identity.
Key words: Cultural identity, paradox of self and others, design, perseverance
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Introduction
We live in a most challenging, yet opportune, era. The dynamics between cultural identity and globalization, between one’s culture and the
culture of others, have reached a crucial point that requires a major shift
in our perception and understanding. The processes of homogenization of
cultures and marginalization of ethnic communities have been common
characteristics of modern society. In fact, in the pursuit of the so-called
“global culture,” there has been a strong tendency to diffuse the whole notion of culture1.
On one hand, influenced by digital efficiency and mass-communications, modern societies experience cultural dilution in which sameness
and indifference have grown at a disturbing rate2. This indifferent posture
towards the differences of others, which is attained by relinquishing otherness –“both one’s own otherness and the otherness of others”3 – undoubtedly leads to the mutual exclusion of self and others, and at the same time,
to a reduced sense of individuality4. While a person may feel the pressure
of social relationships that may prevent him or her from experiencing
any individuality, excessive individualization and a self-centered attitude
hamper all semiotic communication, making people feel more alienated5.
As long as our thinking is “exclusively self-centered”, the world will continue to be a mere fragmentation of cultures and individuals6, struggling
for self-preservation and fighting each other for recognition and domination. In fact, the general practices of late twentieth-century cultures have
sharpened the contradiction between self and others, leading to skewed
nationalism or radical provincialism.
On the other hand, scholars who are optimistic about the advantages
of the digital age argue that modern society has an unprecedented opportunity for a promising healthy multicultural human community. In
some sense, their argument seems to be valid. Cultures of times past were
viewed as autonomous entities, often with parochial ethnic attitudes. In a
globally digital world and due to the space-time compression, however,
many different cultural practices and objects are experienced within a
particular culture and even on its own soil7, making provincialism and
nationalism less pronounced but simultaneously intensifying the need and
struggle for cultural identity.
In a technologically advanced world, no longer can a culture be perceived as divorced from other cultures. The long-held assumption that
cultures are mainly associated with respective countries requires a criti-
113
cal examination. Since culture is a socially constructed set of practices,
wherein its members define themselves and make meaning out of their
existence and actions, the idea of culture extends across a large spectrum
of different ethnic groups and professional organizations, even within a
particular nation. This degree of complexity makes any attempt to study
cultural identity an overwhelming task.
In exploring the dynamics of cultural identity, one must be aware that
not only all cultures but also all individuals inevitably experience the ongoing struggle of preserving self-identity in the face of universality. To deal
with this issue in the context of this paper, I identify “self” and one’s own
culture as one pole, and “other” and the culture of others as the other pole in
a paradoxical pair. I have organized the paper in five sequential but interrelated parts: 1) observations and reflections on a cross-cultural experience in
Egypt, which augments the theoretical framework of this paper; 2) a discussion of the paradoxical relationships between self and others in the context
of cultural identity; 3) an argument that cultural identity is best maintained
by perseverance through the cultural tension created by the paradox of self
and others; 4) paradoxes as a phenomenon of cultural identity; and 5) an
introduction of the link between the value of “perseverance” and the idea of
“design” in dealing with the paradox of self and others. I then conclude by
inviting the Baltic States to reflect on their own cultural identities within the
current transformations of the European cultural landscape.
1. The Dynamics of Cultural Identity in a Cross-Cultural
Setting
Cultural identity does not exist without the semiosphere. The process of making distinction between differences are developed and intensified at the physical and social boundaries of semiospheres8. Developing
and maintaining cultural identities depend on the need for self-preservation and the demand for the recognition of others. To develop a deep
understanding of the dynamics of cultural identity, one has to engage in
cross-cultural interactions. Culture, in this sense, “is like a tailwind on a
bicycle path. We only notice the wind when we change direction and find
it going against us. We are unaware of our culture until we meet something which is different, for we have taken it for granted until then.”9 As
anthropologist Edward Hall states, “the great gift that the members of the
human race have for each other is not exotic experiences but opportunity
to achieve awareness of the structure of their own system, which can be
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accomplished only by interacting with others who do not share that system – members of the opposite sex, different age groups, different ethnic
groups, and different cultures – all suffice.”10 Experiencing the dynamics
of cultural identity can be achieved by crossing the frontiers of other cultures, where “the hottest spots for semioticizing processes are the boundaries of semiosphere.”11
Not only do interactions with other cultures set off the problem of
dealing with others’ cultural biases, not only do such interactions uncover
ethnic idiosyncrasy and political ideologies, but also they bring to the surface the primordial need for self-preservation and maintenance of one’s
self-identity. Empirical observation and reflection on my experience in
leading a cross-cultural study program in Egypt for nearly 14 years have
revealed how intense the paradoxical polarity of self and others really is.
Participants in the cross-cultural study have been prepared to delve into
three scenarios: a) known skills and values within an unfamiliar culture;
b) unknown skills and values in a familiar culture; and c) unknown skills
and values in an unfamiliar culture.
In addition to exotic and mysterious physical environments, the unfamiliar cultural ethos, undifferentiated reality, and peculiar ways of life
challenge sojourners’ values and skills and create a paradoxical situation.
Similar to observations made by other scholars12, I have found that – influenced by their emphasis on material things – sojourners tend to judge the
local culture by the American standard of material comfort and welfare.
Members of the traveling team usually seem to feel at home with each
other; however, in connecting deeply with the unfamiliar culture, they
also experience a yearning for being physically back home, with all its
modern conveniences. Sojourners seem to experience “double binding”13,
expressed in their need to continue on with their familiar way of life back
home, and their desire for the ecological ideal by engaging in the local
undifferentiated reality.
The contrast between the sojourners’ values and the locals’ ethos
seems to be the most explicit dynamic of cultural identity. The sojourners’
familiar values and known skills seem to be out of place and useless in
dealing with the unfamiliar culture. For instance, travelers who are comfortable with rational thinking and digital modes of communication find
it odd to deal with the emotional behavior and analog thinking expressed
by the locals. The locals tend to favor the analog mode of communication,
where “polychromic” time-space is more desirable than “monochromic”
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time-space14. Polychromic time is illustrated in the Egyptian cultural practice in which time and place for leisure and work form an undivided flow.
With their preconceived idea about the local social conduct and habitual
expectations for efficiency, sojourners find it extremely challenging to
deal with the slow pace of local service exemplified in food establishments. Sojourners prefer an immediate result to a slow-process outcome;
and this seems to provoke more appreciation for their own cultural patterns.
My experience has shown that sojourners seem to become more tolerant in dealing with the locals and, at the same time, the locals seem
to develop an appreciation for learning more efficient ways of service.
Transparent and unbiased observation in cross-cultural settings proves to
be essential not only in dealing with cultural conflict but also in making a
mindful distinction between self and others. Understanding the opposite
forces of self and others provides an opportunity for discovering highleverage points that allows both sojourners and locals to reframe cultural
challenges and reveals different ways of thinking about the paradox of self
and others. When sojourners and locals share with each other moments of
transparent perception, a meaningful distinction between self and others
outshines the preoccupation with cultural biases and ethnocentrism. Certainly, this manner of perceiving through a limpid lens assists sojourners
not only in becoming aware of the differences of others but also in cultivating graceful ways to maintain their own cultural identities and gain
experience in living creatively with paradoxical situations.
2. Cultural Reality: The Paradoxical Encounter of Self and
Others
Cultures emerge from a complex dynamic social network through
multiple feedback loops that are not only continually modifying but also
maintaining their ethos. While cultural systems maintain coherence,
they must rely on both positive and negative feedback loops not only to
maintain their coherence but also to adapt to new learning for renewal.
Through positive feedback loops, a cultural system must maintain and defend its balance against chaotic, unfamiliar, and ambiguous disturbances.
At the same time, however, that cultural system must rely on negative
feedback loops for its own growth and transformation. These two actions
constitute a paradox. This paradox is a necessity for cultures to experience
an innovative change on the one hand and an uninterrupted sense of con-
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tinuity on the other. Unfortunately, social stability and cultural innovation
are often seen as a problematic dualism, rather than paradoxical polarity.
Unmistakably, all cultures experience the ongoing struggle of preserving self-identity in the face of universality. As I said earlier, the process of
modifying and maintaining cultures is paradoxical. However, this paradox
is not what leads cultures to their demise; rather, it is the insistence on the
duality of self and others that leads cultures to entropy, and ultimately to
their deaths. There is a fundamental need within each individual’s life –
and equally within each culture’s life – to transcend the categories of
knowing that are provided by existing cultural systems. Changing existing
cultural systems leads to either cultural evolution or cultural regression.
This dynamic process both modifies and maintains cultures. Encounters
between different cultures, between self and others, always reveals paradoxes that are embedded in human nature. Ironically, when societies face
the challenging difference between self and others, there is a tendency to
confuse paradoxes with problems.
The attitude of self-centered interest assumes that dominance or compromise is the way to deal with the paradox of self and others. Ever since
Zeno’s paradox until the present time, philosophers have been struggling
with the nature of paradoxes. Paradox can never be dissolved. Quite the
opposite. If a paradox is treated as a problem, it grows and breeds in everincreasing confusion—and “since the paradox has no solution the mind
is caught in the paradox forever. Each apparent solution is found to be
inadequate, and only leads on to new questions of a yet more muddled
nature.”15 The search for a solution as a means of dissolving differences
between self and others is a desperate attempt to camouflage the nature of
paradox.
Attempts to resolve differences between conflicting cultures, between
self and others, are not the answer. This is evident in almost all strategies
to resolve social and cultural problems and despite massive evidence of
the inadequacy of a problem-solving approach, societies seem to continue
laboring under the delusion that differences can be sealed off. Although a
problem-solving approach to mitigating the difference between self and
others frequently arrives at an apparent solution, it substitutes for the paradox short-lived conditions that sooner or later will trigger conflict and
even violence.
Since the paradox of self and others can neither be solved nor resolved, one can only live creatively with its tension. To be able to hold the
117
creative tension of paradox, one must develop endurance and patience for
differences. Holding creative tension brings out our capacity for perseverance, which undoubtedly leads us to a fundamental shift in our perception
of cultural identity. This is not to imply passivity or compliance. Holding
this creative tension demands strength, not power because where power
cannot tolerate the ambiguity intrinsic to the paradox of self and others,
strength thrives on the creative tension of paradoxes. Human strength cannot be taken away; its nature relies on perseverance in spite of all odds.
In contrast, power characterized by rhetoric clings on resistance, and, in
doing so, it always attracts persistence. This means that resistance and
persistence are desperate forces of power that ultimately lead to the escalation of conflicts between self and others and even self-destruction.
3. Persevering Through the Paradox of Self and Others
It is not the differences between opposite cultural forces that are problematic, but rather it is the misunderstanding of the paradoxical nature
of self and others – as well as the lack of imaginative ability to reframe
cultural challenges and contradictions as paradoxes. Fundamentally, the
interconnection between two seemingly contradictory opposite forces provides a beautiful Juxtaposition of differences. This beautiful Juxtaposition
can be achieved through our capacity to reframe and radically re-contextualize our experience; and this Juxtaposition, in turn, can generate unlimited beautiful alternatives for not only maintaining cultural identity but
also transforming culture.
If mishandled, the dynamics between cultures often escalates, whether
downward through violence into the deepest regions of the abyss where
even self-destruction can qualify as a victory16, or upward into a higher
level of creative encounter, breaking new ground for cultural transformation. A creative integration of self and others is the source of beautiful and
sustainable cultural reality. That is, by persevering through the tension
created by the paradox of self and others, we can turn differences into an
opportunity for a beautiful composition. Indeed, I have observed this creative reframing in cross-cultural interactions in Egypt, where sojourners
and locals engaged in the creation of this aesthetic experience. Certainly,
the aesthetic composition of differences seems to be one of the most significant attributes of the phenomenon of cultural identity.
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4. Paradoxes and the Phenomenon of Cultural Identity
All phenomena in life are paradoxical and tensional; cultures are no
exception. Cultures experience the paradox of what Jean Baudrillard calls
“exponential instability” and “exponential stability”17, that is, a time with
no end but only a cycle of paradoxical encounters. The intersection of
exponential instability and exponential stability is the never-ending paradoxical phenomenon of cultural reality. In any social paradox there are
three elements: an awareness of the presence of contradictory forces; an
acknowledgement that these forces are natural and inevitably rooted in
individuals and cultures; and an assertion that these contradictory forces
are linked together and derived from a common source that connects them
and gives meaning to their coexisting opposites18. The recognition of the
three elements is essential not only for our understanding of the dynamics
of cultural identity but also for our willingness to live creatively with the
paradox of self and others.
According to the autopoietic systems theory19, the relationship between self and others is a mutual causal process of interactions between
both, and only becomes possible to the degree that self and others are
homomorphic. “The other is but a reflection of the self. It is represented
within the self before it ever enters the scene.”20 And since the relationship
between self and others – one’s own culture and the culture of others – is
homomorphic, sundering them is impossible. As Mary Parker Follett argues, the notion of self and others is misleading; there is only “self-inand-through-others”– others so deeply rooted in the self and so fruitfully
growing there that separating them is impossible21.
Interestingly, according to Lotman, it does not matter whether a culture sees the savage stranger as a friend bringing a healthy influence or
a foe exhibiting a repulsive behavior; that culture deals with a creation
made in “its own inverted image”22. It is reasonable to presume that this
peculiar self-projection of a particular culture can be overcome by a holographic understanding of others and by a transparent perception of cultural differences. This presumption, however, is not mere speculation, nor
does it come on a whim; it is, as I pointed out earlier, an emergent quality
of cross-cultural interactions. It also echoes Jean Gebser’s diaphanous
perception of the whole in his notion of “aperspective consciousness”23, as
well as the concept of “holos consciousness” initiated by Ervin Laszlo24.
For a culture to live with this sensibility, Gebser reminds us, “is to overcome rationality in favor of arationality, and to break forth from mentality
119
into diaphaneity”25; holography and transparency not only allow cultures
to deal with the dynamics of cultural identity, but they also offer a different disposition that embraces the paradox of self and others.
When we assert that the contradictory forces ingrained in culture are
derived from a common source that gives meaning to their coexistence
and when we live creatively with the paradox of self and others – without
backing out or getting caught by our mental models, without being too
possessive of our own cultural expression – only then can we open to
the chaos of discovery and reach a state of wisdom. A culture (or nation)
deeply engrossed in self-expression and excessive self-identity is often
alien to discovery, missing ways to its own renewal. Rather than “seeing
phenomena through limpid glass, they must look through their own reflected images”26 .
Discovering innovative ways for cultural renewal suggests at least a
temporary removal of the superficial sheath that usually separates self
from others. By holding creatively the paradox of self and others, humans
can also go beyond cultural conflicts into the state of a profound understanding, with good judgment and foresight, of what it means to sustain
one’s cultural identity. The very nature of sustaining identity is not only
to go beyond culture and, as Edward T. Hall states, “free oneself from the
grip of unconscious culture”27 but, more significantly, to learn how to live
creatively and to persevere through the paradox of self and others. Granted that it is impossible to understand fully any other human being – and
no individual will ever really understand himself or herself – the process
of understanding oneself mirrors the process of understanding others28.
Judging from historical social events, when technological advancement reaches a critical point of intensification and saturation in society,
the process invariably reaches the phase of crystallization. However, this
is not to imply that an apathetic or passive reaction is the answer to sustaining cultural identity; rather, by reframing the challenge and leading
the process toward a desirable outcome, we can increase the potential
for intensifying and renewing cultural identity. Only when we persevere
through the paradox of self and others and, particularly when we capitalize creatively on the characteristics of our digital age can we engage in a
purposeful co-creation process that animates and leads to innovative ways
for celebrating cultural differences and sustaining cultural identities.
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5. The Value of Perseverance and the Idea of Design
Cultural reality is the never-ending and diaphanous process between
self and others, between exponential stability and exponential instability.
A meaningful cultural identity requires an understanding that helps people recognize themselves not just as unique individuals, but also as integral parts of a multicultural human community29. Our ability to persevere
through the paradox of self and others is fundamental to understanding
the changing cultural map of Europe. The ability and skills to persevere
through this paradox can be developed through experiencing cross-cultural interactions not only across international boundaries but also within
the national boundary; cultures can maintain their identity in the face of a
globalizing world. By creatively holding paradoxical tension, individuals
can view cultural encounters as an opportunity for a beautiful composition
of literature and artifacts without compromising identities or differences.
Literature and artifacts, as expressions and manifestations of culture, can
benefit greatly from cultural encounters, sustaining their vitality through
the juxtaposition of cultural differences.
An interesting observation from the cross-cultural experience in Egypt
reveals a meaningful interrelationship between the value of perseverance
and the notion of design. The two words, “perseverance” and “design,”
are the same word – tasmeame – in the Arabic language. Design occurs
only through perseverance. To be involved in designing is to persevere
through paradoxes and do well despite all odds of the challenging situation at hand. Since the chief principle of design is to creatively handle
polarity and paradoxes – such as, change and permanence, continuity and
innovation, the finite and the infinite30, attachment and nonattachment,
knowing and not knowing, maturity and innocence, control and surrender,
uniqueness and universality, to name but a few – design seems to be the
best alternative approach to managing the everlasting paradoxical phenomenon of self and others, a paradox that is as old as humanity itself.
Conclusion
Persevering through the creative tension of the paradox of self and others is a promising path to transformation. This path to transformation is only
possible by designing with paradoxes. At the heart of all wisdom traditions,
the promises of paradox is in its seemingly opposite forces. This promise
relies not only on replacing either-or with both-and31 but, in fact, depends
on our capacity to design with self-in-and-through-others in mind.
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Transformations of the European cultural landscape are not just social
occurrences to cope with their unintended consequence. Nor does transformation take place by fixing social problems and maintaining the status
quo. Rather, European nations and cultures are facing the opportunity for
an intentional process that can lead to genuine ways of sustaining and renewing their cultural identities, which goes beyond the ethnocentrism and
provincialism that clouded the European cultural landscape over the past
centuries. Interestingly, the more European cultures persevere through the
paradox of self and others the less the tendency of the state to manipulate the nation toward extreme nationalism and radicalization of cultures.
While the focus on nationalism during the nineteenth century liberated
Eastern Europe from past empires, it asphyxiated local cultural identities
and uprooted traditions.
A culture that uses the idea of design, persevering through the paradoxical challenge of self and others, can not only maintain its identity
but also advance its capacity for renewal and vitality. That being said,
Lithuanians seem to be at an interesting intersection in history. They have
a great opportunity to reflect on their own cultural identity and political
sovereignty in the post-Soviet era, to restore by design their place within
other Baltic States and the European Union, and consequently to renew
their own culture.
References
Roland Robertson, Social Theory, Cultural Relativity and the Problem of Globality, in: Culture, Globalization and the World-System: Contemporary Conditions for the Representation of Identity, ed. Anthony D. King, Minneapolis,
MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1997; and John Tomlinson, Globalization
and Culture, Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 1999.
2
Farouk Y. Seif, At Home with Transmodernity: Reconstructing Cultural Identity in a Globalizing World, in: Transmodernity: Managing Global Communication, Proceedings of the 2nd International Conference of the Romanian
Association of Semiotic Studies (ROASS), Slanic-Moldova, Romania, October
2009.
3
Susan Petrilli, Crossing Out Boundaries with Global Communication: The
Problem of the Subject, in: The American Journal of Semiotics, Semiotics and
Philosophy: Synchronic and Diachronic Perspectives, ed. Joseph Brent, Volume 20, 1-4, 193-209, Washington, DC: Semiotic Society of America, 2004,
201.
4
O.B. Jr. Hardison, Disappearing Through the Skylight: Culture and Technology in the Twentieth Century, New York, NY: Viking Penguin Group, 1989.
5
Yuri M. Lotman, The Universe of the Mind: A Semiotic Theory of Culture,
1
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trans. Ann Shukman, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1990.
Jean Gebser, The Ever-Present Origin, trans. from German by Noel Barstad
with Algis Mickunas, Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 1985, 532.
7
Mark Poster, Information Please: Culture and Politics in the Age of Digital
Machines, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006.
8
Lotman.
9
Elisabeth Plum with Benedikte Achen, Inger Dræby, Iben Jensen , Cultural
Intelligence: The Art of Leading Cultural Complexity, London, UK: Middlesex
University Press, 2008, 67.
10
Edward T. Hall,.Beyond Culture, Garden City, NY: Anchor Books, 1976/1981,
44.
11
Lotman, 136.
12
Edward C Stewart and J. Bennett Milton, American Cultural Patterns: A
Cross-Cultural Perspective, Yarmouth, ME: Intercultural Press, Inc., 1991.
13
Gregory Bateson, A Sacred Unity: Further Steps to an Ecology of Mind, ed.
Rodney E. Donaldson, New York, NY: HarperCollins Publishers, 1991.
14
For further discussion on the notions of “polychromic time” and “monochromic time” see Hall’s Beyond Culture.
15
David Bohm, On Dialogue, ed. Lee Nichol, New York, NY: Routledge, 1996,
63, 64.
16
Friedrich Glasl, Confronting Conflict: A First-Aid Kit for Handling Conflict,
Gloucestershire, England: Hawthorn Press, 1999.
17
Jean Baudrillard, The Illusion of the End, trans. Chris Turner, Stanford, CA:
Stanford University Press, 1994.
18
Smith, Kenwyn K. and David N. Berg, Paradoxes of Group Life: Understanding Conflict, Paralysis, and Movement in Group Dynamics, San Francisco, CA:
Jossey-Bass, 1987.
19
Humberto Maturana and Francisco Varela, The Autopoiesis and Cognition:
The Realization of the Living, Dordrecht, Holland: D. Reidel Publishing Company, 1980. Also, Joanna Macy, Mutual Causality in Buddhism and General
Systems Theory: The Dharma of Natural Systems, Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1991.
20
Winfried Nöth, Towards a Semiotics of the Cultural Other, in: The American
Journal of Semiotics, Communication and Culture, ed. Richard L. Lanigan,
Volume 17. No.2, Summer 2001, 239-251, Carbondale, IL: Semiotic Society of
America, 2001, 242.
21
Mary Parker Follett, The New State: Group Organization the Solution of Popular Government, University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press,
1998.
22
Lotman, 142.
23
Gebser.
24
Ervin Laszlo, Macroshift: Navigating the Transformation to a Sustainable
World, San Francisco, CA: Berrett-Koehler Publishers, Inc, 2001.
25
Gebser, 412.
26
Robert Grudin, The Grace of Great Things: Creativity and Innovation, New
6
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York, NY: Ticknor & Fields, 1990, 31.
Hall, 240.
28
Ibid.
29
This echoes Ervin Laszlo’s articulation of the timely change needed for a sustainable world in his WorldShift 2012: Making Green Business, New Politics,
and Higher Consciousness Work Together, Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions,
2009.
30
Farouk Y. Seif, 2005, Social Change in The ‘Aperspectival World’: The
Paradox of Social Reproduction and Cultural Innovation, in: TRANS, Internet-Zeitschrift für Kulturwissenschaften, no. 16/2005. http://www.inst.at/trans/
16Nr/01_2/seif16.htm, retrieved 2009.
31
Parker J. Palmer, The Promise of Paradox, 3rd ed., San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass, 1980/1993/2008.
27
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Rattraper l’Europe dans la
recherche de soi-même?
Pavyti Europą ieškant savęs?
Raïa ZAÏMOVA
Institut d’Etudes balkaniques
Académie bulgare des Sciences
45, rue Moskovska, Sofia 1000
[email protected]
Résumé
Les processus de la modernité européenne dans les Balkans commencent à
partir du XVIIIe – XIXe s.: on cherche son identité nationale ou, en général, le
côté civilisationnel de l’Europe «éclairée». Ce n’est que pendant la seconde moitié
du XVIIIe s. que les écrits des hommes de lettres et, en général la pensée «européenne» et étrangère trouve une réception dans le sud-est. Des individus de l’époque moderne – voyageurs, écrivains – deviennent souvent le miroir étranger où les
habitants de «l’autre». Europe cherchant à voir leur(s) propre image(s) adaptée(s)
au niveau de la «civilisation». Dans l’article sont traitées quelques interférences
culturelles qui résultent des lectures sentimentales bulgares et roumaines de l’œuvre du poète de la Pléiade Pierre de Ronsard. A partir du XIXe s. le problème des
identités nationales, spécialement en Bulgarie et en Roumanie se forme d’après
le miroir de l’Europe occidentale. La figure de l’illustre Ronsard, ses ancêtres
et l’origine de ses interprétateurs orientaux réapparaissent périodiquement sur la
scène romantique et contemporaine pour émerveiller tout lecteur qui s’interroge
sur «soi-même» et fouille dans les siècles passés pour essayer de restituer la mosaïque de races, dont certains éléments constituent le nœud du National. Le raffermissement de la romanité et de la «fraternité» franco-roumaine détermine la
propagation de l’image ronsardienne voire à nos jours. En même temps, la petite
nation bulgare du sud-est continue à rechercher la culture de l’Autre étranger pour
tourner ses regards vers «soi-même» et prouver que le National est toujours en
rapport avec les «grands» de l’Occident qui ne sont que le critère du niveau, plus
développé en Europe. La recherche d’une telle identité coïncide avec le désir de
sortir de l’ombre orientale et de rattraper le niveau européen qui s’avère le guide
dans la modernité.
Mots-clefs: les Balkans, Pierre Ronsard, l’identité nationale, européene.
La recherche de soi-même et de l’identité nationale préoccupe les esprits des humanistes occidentaux pendant les siècles qui précèdent l’époque des Lumières. Il est notoire que cette période correspond à l’époque
125
ottomane dans les Balkans où le développement socio-économique et littéraire suit une autre voie. À partir du XVIIIe s. la France commence à
jouer le rôle de civilisatrice dans l’Empire ottoman et les principautés
danubiennes, pour l’européanisation morale et matérielle de la société
de l’«autre» Europe. Ce n’est que pendant la seconde moitié du XVIIIe
s., que les écrits des hommes de lettres et, en général, la pensée «européenne» et étrangère trouve une réception dans le sud-est. Des individus
de l’époque moderne – voyageurs, hommes d’Etat, écrivains – deviennent
souvent le miroir étranger où les habitants de l’«autre» Europe cherchent
à voir leur(s) propre(s) image(s) adaptée(s) au niveau de la «civilisation».
Cette adaptation ou plutôt ce rattrapage qui, comprend le traditionnel et
le moderne à la fois, évolue au cours des années.
Ainsi le poète de la Pléiade Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585) qui n’a fait
que des voyages imaginaires sur les bords du Danube a réussi (à partir du
XIXe s.) à provoquer les habitants orientaux des deux rives du fleuve dans
la construction de leur identité nationale et culturelle. Dans l’article seront
traitées quelques interférences culturelles qui résultent des lectures bulgares et roumaines de l’œuvre du grand poète. Une analyse comparatiste
des idées nationales de Ronsard et de celles qui ont inspirées plusieurs
publicistes, écrivains, voire politiciens à faire des commentaires dans la
presse périodique en Roumanie et en Bulgarie montrera les interprétations
identitaires qui suivent le déplacement Orient – Occident – Orient.
Le glacé Danube ronsardien
À l’époque, les activités littéraires de Ronsard pour l’enrichissement
de la langue française sont nombreuses. À l’exemple des Italiens, on cherche un rapport avec les anciennes cultures et l’éveil du passé sert à formuler l’«ego» contemporain et celui de la nation. Quelques œuvres de
Ronsard contiennent des éléments autobiographiques. Dans l’une de ses
élégies consacrée au poète de la Pléiade Rémy Belleau, Ronsard parle
poétiquement de ses ancêtres et de ses origines:
Or, quant à mon ancêtre, il a tiré sa race
D’où le glacé Danube est voisin de la Thrace.
Plus bas que la Hongrie, en une froide part,
Est un Seigneur, nommé le Marquis de Ronsart…1
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Le poète précise que son grand père – le marquis de Ronsard – était un
homme riche. L’un de ses fils qui aimait la guerre était devenu capitaine
et en partant de ses terres natales, avait traversé la Hongrie et l’Allemagne, la Bourgogne et la Champagne. Il s’était rendu auprès de Philippe de
Valois et avait pris part dans la guerre contre les Anglais. On disait qu’il
avait bien servi la France et que le roi lui avait donné des terres au bord
du Loir. Ce marquis de Ronsard s’était marié à cet endroit en France et le
père du poète Ronsard était parmi ses descendants.
Le récit poétique sur la famille de Ronsard nous semblerait incroyable, si l’on ne connaissait pas le texte d’un document des registres de l’ancienne Bibliothèque royale (auj. Bibliothèque Nationale de France) sur
la généalogie de la dite famille2. Le grand père de l’élégie nommé François, est mentionné ainsi: Baudoüin de Ronsard, de Bulgarie, capitaine
de Hongrois qu’il amena en France au Roy Philippe de Valois, contre les
Anglois. M. de Ronsard son fils s’établit dans le Vendômois où il se maria.
Dans la dite élégie il n’est pas question expressément de la Bulgarie,
mais de la région plus bas que la Hongrie. Le nom de «Bulgarie» apparaît dans la titulature des rois de Hongrie bien avant les guerres bulgarohongroises des années 13603. Ce phénomène correspond aux intentions
des papes d’attirer spirituellement les Bulgares orthodoxes par l’intermédiaire des Hongrois catholiques. Cette tendance correspond aussi à leurs
intérêts économiques et commerciaux. Il est notoire que Charles de Valois
(1364 – 1380) devait être le chef d’une Croisade pour la libération des
Lieux Saints des infidèles, dont Philippe de Valois (1328 – 1350) avait
préparé le projet pendant les années 1330 – c.à.d. avant le commencement
de la guerre de Cent ans (1337– 1453). L’un des descendants du marquis
de Ronsard a été probablement capitaine d’un groupe de volontaires qui
ont fait leur service en Hongrie. Ceci correspond entièrement à la pratique
militaire d’autrefois.
Dans ses œuvres et surtout dans «La Franciade», l’épopée morte née,
Ronsard fait descendre ses compatriotes de l’ancienne Troie pour faire légitime la royauté capétienne – c’est une idée lancée même avant l’époque
des Croisades au Moyen Age: selon Frédégaire (VIIe s.) Francion, l’ancêtre des Francs, fils d’un frère d’Enée qui, après la prise de Troie et après
avoir battu les Alains, avait fondé un royaume entre le Rhin et le Danube.
C’est une histoire reprise par plusieurs auteurs au cours des siècles et dont
les variantes constituent le nœud mythologique et imaginaire national4.
À leur exemple, le poète cherche à glorifier son pays natal, célébrer la
127
France moderne et raffermir les anciennes origines de sa nation. Franconyens les ayeux des Françoys est l’expression employée par Ronsard
dans son «Elégie» adressée au voyageur Nicolas de Nicolay et dédiée à
Charles de Valois5. Ainsi, la combinaison entre la glorieuse Antiquité et la
France moderne constitue son modèle qui n’est pas un phénomène isolé à
l’époque de la Renaissance. L’historiographie française du XVIe s. en est
la preuve6.
L’immense œuvre de Ronsard reflète une riche culture d’un poète de
talent qui chante non seulement les malheurs de sa patrie et exalte les
sentiments personnels et patriotiques, mais cherche également des Muses communes en se référant aux anciennes cultures de l’Orient. Dans
l’épitaphe sur son tombeau au prieuré Saint Cosme on parle aussi de ses
Muses qui – selon le texte – tout en se déplaçant vers l’Occident, tiraient
leur origine de l’Orient. Ce déplacement des civilisations de l’Orient vers
l’Occident détermine le processus de la Renaissance et l’aube de la modernité européenne. J’ouvre une parenthèse pour une observation importante: en faisant la comparaison entre les deux textes – latin et français sur
le tombeau – on constate que les «Muses d’Orient» du texte latin sont interprétées en français moderne comme les muses qui naquirent en France
avec Luy [Ronsard]! Le commentaire s’impose de soi-même et concerne
exclusivement la recherche et la défense du sentiment National.
Une telle interprétation de l’œuvre du grand poète après sa mort n’est
qu’une démarche sciemment faite pour faire avancer l’importance et l’originalité de la civilisation française. Il paraît que la fuite du côté étranger
et le retour vers le passé et les civilisations orientales s’estompe pour affermir le National et le moderne. Ainsi, le nom et l’œuvre de Ronsard deviennent le prétexte pour la formation d’une nouvelle mythologie identitaire. Je rappelle que les hommes illustres de l’Antiquité – en commençant
par Alexandre le Grand – ressuscitent dans la pensée humaniste à partir
du XVIe s. et dans les Balkans plutôt à partir du XVIIIe s.7 Chercher ses
origines dans les descendants de Noé ou dans les anciennes civilisations,
surtout grecques, et leurs grands représentants n’était qu’un riche canevas
dans la recherche occidentale de soi-même. Ronsard avait essayé à lier sa
race à l’ancienne Troie, puis dans ses vers dédiés à Scanderbeg raccommodait l’histoire albanaise et balkanique du XVe s. pour faire croire aux
Français que le héros albanais était descendant du valeureux Achille. En
même temps, des poètes italiens glorifiaient le moderne héros Scanderbeg
en l’identifiant avec l’ancien Alexandre le Grand8. On pourrait dire que
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
les Muses de Ronsard circulaient de l’Orient en Occident, ses voyages intellectuels au bord du Danube ou au-delà font partie d’une continuité dans
les interprétations identitaires en France et ailleurs.
Le «marquis» de la rive gauche
Tout en se déplaçant sur les rives danubiennes dans le temps, on se
heurte aux stéréotypes ronsardiens provoqués par la lecture de l’élégie
consacrée au poète de la Pléiade Rémy Belleau. Un français nommé
Vaillant, ex-enseignant au collège «St Sava» à Bucarest, reprend le motif
autobiographique de la dite élégie dans son œuvre «La Romanie», publié
à Paris en 18449. La région de Munténie – située entre le Danube au sud et
à l’est, les Carpates méridionales au nord, et l’Olt à l’ouest10 – qui descend
vers la Hongrie est identifiée avec la Thrace, située au sud du Danube.
Ainsi en établissant le trajet imaginaire de l’arrière grand-père du poète de
la Pléiade, l’auteur lui donne un nom de famille en roumain – Mărăcini.
C’était un ban (marquis) de Craiova qui avait été au service de Philippe de
Valois dans la guerre des Français contre les Anglais. C’était un fils puîné,
ardent de voir la guerre. Et, toujours, selon Vaillant, accueilli comme il
devait l’être, il se fixe en France, épouse une La Tremouille, traduit son
nom roman en celui de Ronsard et c’est de ses descendants unis aux familles les plus illustres de la noblesse française que naquit celui qui devait être surnommé et le prince de poètes et le poète des princes.11
J’ouvre une parenthèse pour préciser que le mot mărăcină en roumain est une traduction de la ronce. Ainsi le ban (marquis) Mărăcină est
identique avec le nom de Ronsard. Le même motif légendaire ou plutôt
une version roumaine est publiée par Ubicini à Paris (1855) et vulgarisée
par Prosper Blanchemain toujours dans la capitale française où, à cette
époque l’œuvre de Ronsard trouve un grand nombre d’adhérents et la présence des émigrés roumains prenant part dans les préparatifs de la révolution (1848) était évidente. Vasile Alecsandri a le mérite d’avoir recueilli
une version roumaine de la dite balade connue sous le titre de «Banul
Mărăcină»12 publiée dans la presse périodique de Bucarest à plusieurs
reprises pendant les mêmes années qui précèdent l’union de Valachie et
de Moldavie (1861)13. Le héros principal – le ban (marquis) Mărăcină –
est placé dans l’actualité franco-roumaine reflétant l’atmosphère politique après la guerre de Crimée (1856) et les aspirations pro-roumaines de
l’époque de Napoléon III (1852 – 1870). Il est notoire que ce dernier fut
l’acteur principal du rapprochement entre la Valachie et la Moldavie14.
129
En général, on cherchait à attirer l’attention de la «grande» nation
française à ses «frères nobles» dans la lutte pour leur indépendance nationale. La balade suggère l’idée que le ban (marquis) imaginaire de Craiova, identifié avec l’arrière grand-père du poète Ronsard, avait combattu
les Anglais du côté français à l’époque et en rappelant ces événements en
français et en roumain les habitants de la rive gauche danubienne faisaient
appel à la France de leur rendre le geste au nom de la fraternité et la liberté. Ce stéréotype ne perd pas son actualité au cours des années, voire
pendant la Seconde guerre mondiale, lorsque l’héroïsme poétique du ban
de Craiova se déplace verbalement en Transylvanie, dans la région de Banat, toujours au bord du Danube15.
La filière bulgare sur la rive droite du Danube
Entre temps des critiques littéraires français ont lancé la thèse de l’origine hongroise du poète de la Pléiade. Mais la polémique à ce sujet se
déplace sur le sol hongrois, à Budapest où en 1891 le philologue Istvan
Szamota expose dans une revue de l’Académie hongroise que le royaume
le plus proche du Danube et voisin de la Thrace, n’est autre que la Bulgarie. De cette façon, la capitale bulgare du Moyen Age Tărnovo aurait
donnée l’origine de la famille ronsardienne. L’explication est simple: dans
la région de Tărnovo il y avait beaucoup de ronces – en bulgare трън,
трънаци!
Au cours de plusieurs décennies et surtout en 1924, lorsque le monde
littéraire rend homage au poète Ronsard (1524–1585) à l’occasion de son
400e anniversaire, la presse roumaine ne manque pas à reprendre son identité danubienne. Le stéréotype du milieu du XIXe s. s’améliore avec encore d’autres images ronsardiennes sur les origines du poète de Craiova, de
la région d’Olténie (ou Munténie), de la région de Brăila ou d’un certain
chevalier français de la quatrième Croisade. L’historien Nikolae Iorga fait
une revue des images ronsardiennes et en soutenant l’origine «roumaine»
du poète ne manque pas à adresser sa critique à la position en dilettante
du côté hongrois16. Il en est de même pour ses contemporains littéraires
et pédagogues de Roumanie qui ne cessent pas à reprendre et publier les
polémiques identitaires des peuples danubiens en suggérant d’un ton patriotique le nœud mythique mentionné. La propagation de ce stéréotype se
fait toujours au détriment de l’Autre voisin territorial – hongrois, tchèque,
bulgare17. D’une part, la pluralité de peuples habitants les rives danubiennes les désunit mentalement dans leurs objectifs idéologiques et d’autre
130
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
part, les unit par le sentiment d’appartenance à une région mixte et composite18.
À partir de ces mêmes années l’homme illustre venant du côté occidental de l’Europe trouve sa réception en Bulgarie. Des publicistes et des
politiciens de nos jours continuent à interpréter l’origine danubienne de
Ronsard. Son nom proviendrait, par exemple, de korsat = Cœur vaillant
d’un chevalier et, ceci sans préciser de quelle langue il s’agit. Ainsi, les
ancêtres de Ronsard deviennent d’origine bulgare de la région de Banat19.
On mentionne également la thèse que la famille de Ronsard provenait
d’une vieille maison bulgare qui avait trouvé son refuge en Hongrie et
puis, en France après les invasions ottomanes (D. B. Mitov). Dans la nouvelle historique de Lioubomir Kostov intitulée «La plume brûlée» (1967)
et dans d’autres textes contemporains (Lioubomir Yordanov) le nom de
Ronsard est interprété d’une autre manière: le mot ronce (avec «c») qui,
selon les dictionnaires, signifie mûrier sauvage, est traduit en bulgare
comme трън – c.à.d. épine. Ainsi, en reprenant le stéréotype hongrois de
la fin du XIXe s. on fait provenir le poète de la ville de Tărnovo – la capitale du deuxième royaume bulgare au Moyen Age! Le remodelage peut
être expliqué par le désir de se rattacher à un «grand». L’argumentation
des auteurs porte sur le fait que dans le sud de la France il y avait autrefois des hérétiques venant de Bulgarie et connus comme «Bogomiles,
Bougres» – identiques aux «Bulgares». En plus, Sainte-Beuve attribuait
à Ronsard une origine hongroise, encore d’autres écrivains français réfléchissaient sur son origine tchèque ou roumaine et dans ce cadre danubien ne manquaient que les Bulgares!20. Les passions pour l’origine
tărnovienne de Ronsard aboutissent à l’aménagement actuel d’un petit
musée Ronsard dans les locaux de l’Université «Saints Cyrille et Méthode» de la dite ville21.
Sur les sites d’Internet on trouve des citations “ronsardiennes” qui
déterminent les territoires de son aïeul: l’endroit où le Danube est près du
Balkan et des Rhodopes, le pays aussi de l’ancien Orphée. Et ceci pour
raffermir les relations culturelles franco-bulgares au cours des siècles.
Dans le même sens, au niveau populaire on souligne indubitablement les
origines de boyard de Ronsard en posant la question: Alors, pourquoi les
Français sont-ils autant fiers?22 Dans ce cas, il ne s’agit pas de rattrapage,
mais de placer les deux parties opposées de l’Europe à un seul niveau
identitaire.
131
Dernièrement la ville de Svichtov située tout au sud de la courbe du
Danube a attiré l’attention des intellectuels de provenance de cette ville.
Les quelques articles de presse de 2004 – 2008 et surtout la grande fête
organisée en avril dernier sous le patronage de l’Institut français de Sofia
et du maire de la dite ville ont montré un niveau identitaire différent des
précédents. En écartant la provenance boyarde de Tărnovo des poètes et
des chanteurs bulgares ont célébré au cours de deux jours le fameux Ronsard, dont les «descendants» de la ville de Svichtov ont donné l’origine
d’un grand nombre d’éminentes personnes de l’époque du Réveil national bulgare23. Les quelques blogues disponibles sur l’Internet reflètent
une grande émotion provoquée par ses sonnets interprétés en bulgare en
plusieurs occasions hors du festival organisé au bord du Danube24. En
général, la version de Svichtov – proclamée sensationnelle – ne sert qu’à
joindre mentalement les deux parties de l’Europe (Orient–Occident). La
figure de l’éminent poète de la Pléiade devrait construire l’orgueil imaginaire des Français et des Bulgares à la fois.
Il est notoire que l’œuvre de Ronsard a inspiré plusieurs publicistes,
écrivains, voire politiciens à chercher d’une part une parenté avec la famille du poète et ainsi confirmer une filiation avec le plus grand poète de
la Renaissance qui avait brisé les chaînes du Moyen Âge. La recherche
d’une telle identité coïncide avec le désir de sortir de l’ “ombre” orientale
et de rattraper le niveau européen qui s’avère le guide dans la modernité.
En guise de conclusion
Ce bref aperçu des exemples tirés de la presse roumaine et bulgare
montre le degré civilisationnel d’interférences d’une grande nation et
d’une(des) petite(s) nation(s). Les «Muses» d’Orient qui à l’époque ont
inspiré Ronsard, ont fait un voyage imaginaire sur les bords du Danube
en se déplaçant de l’Orient en Occident. On pourrait dire qu’elles jouent
le rôle de transmetteur d’une ancienne culture qui détermine l’esprit novateur de la Renaissance au moment où le développement spirituel de l’Occident n’était pas encore connu dans les principautés danubiennes et par
les Bulgares alors soumis au pouvoir ottoman. Il fallait attendre quelques
siècles pour que l’écho dix-huitiémiste des idées nationales et modernes
trouve sa réception et son développement sur le sol sud-est européen. Entre temps, en France l’évolution du National est dépassé et petit à petit le
canevas étranger et le remodelage civilisationnel des siècles précédents
sont oubliés. Il est évident qu’à partir du XIXe s. le problème des identités
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
nationales, spécialement en Bulgarie et en Roumanie se forme d’après
le miroir de l’Europe occidentale. Dans notre cas le Danube joue le rôle
d’une frontière composite où l’appartenance territoriale commune crée
des discordes et une spécificité conflictuelle et identitaire. Selon Cl. Magris, suivre le fleuve en direction de son embouchure signifie également
entrer dans la brume cimmérienne des origines, se perdre dans une fin qui
est aussi un retour aux sources25. La figure de l’illustre Ronsard, ses ancêtres et l’origine de ses interprétateurs orientaux réapparaissent périodiquement sur la scène romantique et contemporaine pour émerveiller tout lecteur qui s’interroge de “soi-même” et fouille dans les siècles passés pour
essayer, non sans émotions, à restituer la mosaïque de races, dont certains
éléments constituent le nœud du National.
Le raffermissement de la romanité et de la «fraternité» franco-roumaine détermine la propagation de l’image ronsardienne voire à nos jours.
Celui-ci n’a pas perdu son actualité non seulement parmi les lecteurs
adultes de la presse littéraire, mais également parmi les mineurs. La petite nation bulgare du sud-est continue, sciemment ou pas, à rechercher
la culture de l’Autre pour tourner ses regards vers “soi-même” et prouver
que le National est toujours en rapport avec les «grands» de l’Occident
qui ne sont que le critère du niveau, le plus développé en Europe. C’est un
processus qui ne peut être dirigé, ni arrêté, seuls les témoignages reflètent
les sources réelles et mentales, la complexité des identités imaginaires et
le multiculturalisme en Europe actuelle.
Références
1
2
3
4
5
Pierre de Ronsard, Œuvres complètes. Texte établi et annoté par Gustave Cohen. Paris, Gallimard, t. 2, 79. (Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 46)
Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département des manuscrits, pièces originales 2540, dossier 56832, fol 30.
Vassil Gjuselev, La guerre bulgaro-hongroise du printemps de 1365 et des documents nouveaux sur la domination hongroise du Royaume de Vidin (1365–
1369). – Byzantinobulgarica (Sofia), 1980, N 6, 153–172.
André Burguière, L’historiographie des origines de la France. Genèse d’un
imaginaire national, in : Annales, N 1, janvier-fevrier 2003, 41–62; Jacques
Poucet, Le mythe de l’origine troyenne au Moyen Age et à la Renaissance:
un exemple d’idéologie politique: http://bcs.fltr.ucl.ac.be/fe/05/anthenor2.html
[27.11.09].
L’Elégie fait partie de l’édition de 1576 de la fameuse relation de voyage de Nicolas de Nicolay en Turquie: Les navigations peregrinations et voyages, faicts
en la Turquie par Nicolas de Nicolay Dauphinoys, seigneur d’Arfeville, Valet
133
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
134
de chambre et Geographe ordinaire du Roy de France, contenants plusieurs
singularitez que l’Auther y a veu et observé. En.Anvers, 1576.
Jean Abelard, Les «Illustrations de Gaule» de Jean Lemaire de Belges. Quelle
Gaule? Quelle France? Quelle Nation? in: Nouvelle Revue du Seizième Siècle,
13/1, 1995, 7–27; Raïa Zaïmova, Voyager vers l’«autre» Europe (Images françaises des Balkans ottomans, XVIe – XVIIIe s.). Istanbul, Isis, 2007, 24–28
(Cahiers du Bosphore XLVI).
Николай Аретов, Н. Национална митология и национална литература,
София: Кралица Маб, 2006, 125-129.
Novo Alessandro, à cui non l’Oriente,
Ma il Regnator dell’Oriente altero
Chiari di se trionfi, e vanto vero
D’un’invito valor diede souvente. (Luigi Groto, in: Gli illustri gesti et vittoriose imprese fatte contra turchi, dal sign. D. Giorgio Castriotto, detto Scanderbeg,
precipe d’Epirro. Vinegia, 1584).
Le professeur J. A. Vaillant – fondateur de l’école «Stavropoleos» à Bucarest
(1830). C’était l’une des premières institutions laïques où, à côté du lycée français dirigé par M. Monti, on enseignait le français: Ştefania Viorica Rujan,
Images, portraits et paysages de France par des écrivains roumains d’expression française. Études d’imagologie comparée. Iaşi: éd. Junimea, 2008,
10–11.
Dès le XVIe s. a apparu le nom d’Olténie pour désigner la partie ouest de
l’autre côté d’Olt. Les villes les plus importantes dans cette région sont Bucarest, Brăila, Tărgovişte, Buzău, Piteşti, Ploeşti.
Vasile Alecsandri, Opere, t. 1. Poezii. Doine, Lâcrimioare. Suvenire,
Mărgăritărele. Text stabilit şi variante de G.C. Nicolescu şi G. Rădulecu-Dulgheru. Studiu intr. note şi comentarii de G.C. Nicolescu, Bucureşti, Ed. Acad.
Rep. Soc. Pop. Române, 1965, 490.
Vasile Alecsandri, 491–496.
V. les commentaires du critique littéraire Charles Drouhet qui a étudié l’influence de la littérature française en Roumanie: Charles Drouhet, Ronsard şi
România, in: Convorbiri literare, anul al 56-lea, Iulie-August 1924, 521–524.
Abel Douay, Gérard Hertault, Napoléon III et la Roumanie. Influence de la
franc-maçonnerie, Paris: Nouveau monde, 2009.
Emil Grigoraş, Enigma Ronsard, in: Vestul, X, N 2323, 6.08. 1939, 4; Résumé
de la conférence du prof. Viorica Dumitrescu à l’Institut français de Timişoara,
in: Dacia, N 284, 20.12.1943, 2; Octav Minar, Eroism şi poezie (Soldatul
Mărăcină şi poetul Ronsard), in: Universul, N 80, 21.03.1944.
Nicolae Iorga, Ronsard şi România. Asupra originei lui Ronsard, in: Neamul
românesc, XIX, 11.06. 1924, N 127, 1–2.
I. M. Raşku, Intre Barbey d’Aurevilly şi Gregory Ganesco. O polemică, din
1867, asupra originei lui Ronsard, in: Capricorn, decembrie 1930, N 1, 9–12.
Claudio Magris, Danube, trad. de l’italien par Jean et Marie-Noölle Pastureau,
Paris: Gallimard, 1988, p. 434 sq.
Gaston Sergheraert, De Pantagruel à Candide. T. 2. Paris, 1963, 60–61.
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Любомир Костов, Обгореното перо, София, ОФ, 1967, 198–199. Pour la
référence de Mitov, voir: Любомир Йорданов, За българския произход на
френския класик Пиер дьо Ронсар, in: Отечество, 3, 1976, 19.
21
Une Association France-Bulgarie et la première école primaire privée avec
l’enseignement du français (après 1990) portaient le nom de Ronsard.
22
http://forum.boinaslava.net [10.07.07]; http://photoalbum [10.07.07] Dans les
commentaires bulgares l’image de Ronsard va de pair avec encore d’autres
«grands», notamment Voltaire et Napoléon.
23
Лилия Панова, Аферата «Ронсар», in: Про-анти, N 31 (659), 5–11.08.2004;
Лъчезар Тошев, За българския произход на Ронсар, in: Детонация, №
3 (19), март 2004; Лъчезар Тошев, Българин ли е най-великият поет на
Ренесанса? , in: Българе, № 10, октомври-ноември 2008, 24–26.
24
http://www.sibir.bg/blog/A_5607/?blogPage=blogPreviewArticle&artID=114
357 [27.11.09]; http://calendar.dir.bg/inner.php?d=4&month=5&year=2009&
cid=&sid=&eid=54067 [27.11.09]
25
Claudio Magris, 503.
20
135
Myths in National Epics, Myths
in Society: Some Chronotopes in
European Epics
Mitai tautiniuose epuose ir
visuomenėje: keletas europinės
epikos chronotopų
Anneli MIHKELEV
Under and Tuglas Literature Centre of the Estonian Academy of Sciences
Tallinn University
Pärnu St. 13–24, 72712 Paide, Estonia
[email protected]
Summary
The Russian scholar Mikhail Bakhtin uses the term “chronotope”, which refers to particular combinations of time and space. A chronotope is actually a compressed world, and one literary work (novel, epic etc.) contains several chronotopes, including mythological chronotopes. In other words, an art work is constituted
by several moments where we can see different combinations of time and space;
a novel or an epic or any art work is a concentration, and its narrative is compact
and thick, or compressed. In terms of epics, the mythological chronotope is most
frequent. Myths and national identity work in similar ways and sometimes they
are intertwined: the purpose of national identity is also to create a specific world, a
national space where we can find the unique spirit and character of the nation. Our
national epics, in written form, include both national myth and national identity or,
in other words, these texts include the chronotope of nationality. At the same time,
we can see the dialogues between several other chronotopes and different meanings which are created from these dialogues. The article analyses three European
epics Anglo-Saxon “Beowulf”, Estonian “Kalevipoeg” and Latvian “Lāčplēsis” in
which the main protagonists are great heroes.
Key words: epics, myths, chronotopes, national identity.
1. Introduction. Time and space in myths
The Estonian researcher Jaan Puhvel, a professor at the University of
California, has written that a myth is not just a story, but through myth
a society creates its own self-awareness and self-realization, as well as
explaining the essence of itself and its surroundings1. There has been no
culture which has not generated a set of its own unique myths. Usually
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these myths and stories are connected with national epics. These narratives play an important role in the formation of national identity: national
or traditional epics are part of the oral tradition of a nation, and involve
myths and legends of nationhood2.
The Finnish researcher Lauri Honko explains: “Each epic is deeply
rooted in the oral traditions of its own cultural ambience even though the
textualisation process varies greatly from case to case. […] They constitute “songs of truth” or national myths for the communities and groups
which regard them as representations of their history and heritage.”3 Although these myths usually originate and appear in the oral stage of human culture, oral myths and literary myths are mixed, especially in contemporary times.
Lauri Honko is of the opinion that the epics of Homer (the “Iliad”
and “Odyssey”), “Beowulf”, “Das Nibelungenlied” and “Kalevala” are
problematic, because “they cannot be characterised as “purely oral” but
they are not literary epics either. Their dependence on oral epic traditions
is obvious, which would not be the case were they literary epics.”4 Honko
calls such epics “tradition-oriented epics”5.
According to Honko “The oral epic has no fixed and permanent form.
Each new performance changes it; some changes remain in the following
performance but most do not. In a way, each new performance annuls the
previous one. […] Since there is no permanence of form, the oral epic
will forever remain “unfinished”. By contrast, the literary epic has a fixed
form, created once by an author and not to be touched thereafter. […] Traditional epics will be placed somewhere on the line joining the two poles,
sometimes closer to the literary epic, at other times nearer the oral epic.”6
This means that there are not very many purely oral epics in contemporary times, because most of them are already written, and they also have
fixed and permanent forms. Some of them are written earlier, some later. In
my opinion, although these texts are written in fixed forms they still change,
because readers change and contexts change, and the other reason is the
specific structure of the epic: usually epics contain several myths and stories
which are intertwined and there are dialogical relationships between different myths and stories. Every myth has its own world. Juri Lotman has precisely stated the idea of myth: the mythological space is small and closed,
but, at the same time, the story itself is about cosmic proportions, about the
whole universe7. A myth creates its own world, its own universe, sacred and
whole, which contains its own time, space and narratives.
137
Concerning narratives, the Russian scholar Mikhail Bakhtin uses the
term “chronotope”, which refers to particular combinations of time and
space. A chronotope is “the intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships that are artistically expressed in literature”8, and it is
also our understanding of narrative: “The chronotope is the place where
the knots of narrative are tied and united”9. According to Bakhtin, the
term chronotope is useful if we analyse different stories: novels, short stories and myths which are written. A chronotope is actually a compressed
world, and one literary work (novel, epic etc.) contains several chronotopes, including mythological chronotopes. In other words, an art work is
constituted by several moments where we can see different combinations
of time and space; a novel or an epic or any art work is a concentration,
and its narrative is compact and thick, or compressed. The author of the
art work has his/her own intention, which he/she wants to express through
a chronotope. The chronotope takes part in the process of the creation of
meaning10.
Bakhtin believes that time is the dominant component in the literary
chronotope, in that there are some moments or icons (literature uses iconic signs in the representation process) of time which give us the meaning
of the literary work. And it is possible that these moments of time have
several meanings. Both the author and the reader have the possibility of
moving in several directions in a literary work: we can fly into the past or
future; we are not limited to the present time11. Michael Holquist is of the
opinion that a chronotope is the space where life and art are connected12.
Dialogism characterizes chronotope, not only between reality and art but
dialogical relations also exist between different represented worlds in the
literary work. At the same time, usually that dialogue is not between equal
chronotopes: one dominant chronotope exists, and it is the chronotope of
the author and/or the reader, who create the meaning13.
In terms of epics, the mythological chronotope is most frequent. Myths
and national identity work in similar ways and sometimes they are intertwined: the purpose of national identity is also to create a specific world,
a national space where we can find the unique spirit and character of the
nation, or Volksgeist, according to Herder. The national specific world is
closed and sometimes also small, and the story of the nation extends far
back into history. We could say that it is the universe of the nation. Our
national epics, in written form, include both national myth and national
identity or, in other words, these texts include the chronotope of nationali-
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ty. At the same time, we can see the dialogues between several other chronotopes and different meanings which are created from these dialogues.
2. “Beowulf”, “Kalevipoeg” and “Lāčplēsis” – epic poems in
which the main protagonists are great heroes
“Beowulf” is the oldest Anglo-Saxon long poem, and has survived
in only one version, in a manuscript in the British Museum. This copy
was probably made by scribes in about the year 1000, in the “classical”
late West-Saxon of Wessex. The poem, first called Beowulf in 1805, was
printed in 1815. Beowulf probably first assumed its present shape in the
eighth century, not in Wessex but north of the Thames in Mercia or Northumbria, since the traditional composition language in which it lives seems
to be more Anglian than Saxon. The first translation of the poem was not
into English but into Danish, in 1820 (Gruntvig’s “Bjowulfs Drape”); it
was translated into English in 1837. The poem itself is set in southern
Scandinavia in the fifth and sixth centuries. “Beowulf” was commonly
known to northern Germanic peoples, and among the Anglian settlers the
story of the poem circulated and developed orally for a long time before it
was set down in its present arrangement and ultimate literary form14.
The main story of Beowulf is the story of the youth and old age of the
hero. In his youth, Beowulf achieves glory in a foreign land by fighting
and killing first the monster Grendel, in King Hrothgar’s hall, and then
Grendel’s mother, in an underwater cave. In his old age, having ruled his
country well for fifty years, Beowulf goes single-handed to fight a dragon
who is destroying his people. At the end of the fight, both Beowulf and the
dragon die, and the poem ends with his funeral and a prophecy of disaster
for his people, the Geats15.
“Beowulf” begins with the representation of the Danish royal house
and the old members of the royal family, the Scylding dynasty. The historical time is not determined very exactly; it is mythical time, which is
similar to the fairy-tale beginning “once upon a time”. The beginning of
the epic flows peacefully: people live and develop their country, kings
reign in the country and, after the old king, his son continues that work.
This is the chronotope of old Denmark.
The situation changes when the monster Grendel comes. According to
the text, he “began to encompass evil, an enemy from hell”. This means
that, besides the chronotope of the old Danish royal house and family,
there is another mythical chronotope, which represents the Bible. The
139
text includes the motifs of Cain and Abel, and Grendel is a descendant of
Cain. So, the main idea of the epic is the fight between good and evil.
The next important chronotope is Beowulf’s chronotope, which represents the great hero, Beowulf the Great, who fights against evil and becomes the new king. Beowulf is not Danish, but a Geat, although he has
very good contacts with the Danish. The chronotope of Beowulf brings
into the epic several battles, some of which are historical, and some of
which are fantasy. Each has its own chronotope, and all of these chronotopes are compressed into the epic and make the proportions of the world of
the epic very large.
The destiny of Beowulf is interesting and meaningful. He fights
against the dragon, kills the dragon and also dies, but the country is free,
although the future will be bitter.
The author, or more precisely the man who wrote down “Beowulf”, is
unknown, but there is a very strong influence of Christianity in this epic
which also demonstrates the two dominant chronotopes mentioned above.
At the same time, we can find several similarities with “Beowulf” in epics
which were written later.
3. “Kalevipoeg” and “Lāčplēsis”
There are three well-known traditional epics in the eastern Baltic Sea
region: in Finnish–Karelian, “Kalevala” (five versions 1833 – 1862), in
Estonian, “Kalevipoeg” (1857 - 1861), and in Latvian, “Lāčplēsis” (“Bear
Slayer”, 1888). The Finnish “Kalevala” is different in that there is not
one great hero, but “Kalevipoeg” and “Lāčplēsis” have great heroes like
Beowulf. Oral myths and literary myths are mixed in these epics: folk
tales about Kalevipoeg were collected in the early 19th century and then
formed the basis of the Estonian epic by Freidrich Reinhold Kreutzwald
(c.f. Latvian epic “Lāčplēsis”). If we speak of Estonian and Latvian epics,
we are actually speaking of literary works which expressed the authors’,
Kreutzwald’s and Pumpurs’, intentions and their time: “a literary work
of art, which combines a multitude of folklore elements”16, as well as the
signs of the time when they were written: “Friedrich Reinhold Kreutzwald
composed the epic Kalevipoeg in the middle of the nineteenth century,
when the rationalism of the Enlightenment and the romanticism of Herderian ideas were blended by the leading thinkers of Estonia into the ideology of the National Awakening. Kalevipoeg is a written epic, created in
the period of the spread of literacy, of Western-style education, of growing
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
social stratification among the peasants, who had acquired the right to buy
land and thus establish their economic freedom from their German masters.”17 According to Ülo Valk, “Kreutzwald modified folklore sources to
compose a work comparable with other European epics, such as Homeric
poems and the Niebelungenlied”18, and similar to an epic about a great
hero, as in “Beowulf”.
The Estonian epic Kalevipoeg begins with an episode in which the old
king Kalev arrives in a country by the Baltic Sea:
The son who rode the eagle’s back,
The wings of the north-eagle,
[…]
He rode across the Gulf of Bothnia,
sailed across the Baltic Sea,
flew across the Gulf of Finland
until under luck’s guidance,
the divinities’ intervention,
the eagle cast him on the coast
onto a high rock in Viru
The man who thus came to our country
Swiftly established a state,
He founded broad dominions
And built a comely hall
Whence his strong and weighty hand19
The symbol of the eagle is royal and majestic. Kalev’s chronotope is
old, and it gives the impression of very ancient times. It is remarkable
that the kingdom is not already established, but the king begins with that
work. Ancient gods exist somewhere far away, and they do nothing for
that kingdom; they only tell the story or, more exactly, they help the author to tell the story:
Vanemuine, lend me your lyre.
A sweet song is stirring my sense
and I long to unfold in song
the legacy of ancient ages20
About the differences between “Kalevipoeg” and “Lāčplēsis”, Sergei
Kruks has written: “The Estonian epic constructs a completely different
concept of individual freedom. Kalevipoeg has not been nominated the
hero but has won this status himself. The epic models a socially active
141
individual. Kalevipoeg manifests a rather pragmatic and socially responsible behaviour”21. Beside the Kalev chronotope, we can see other mythic
chronotopes in this epic, because the hero Kalevipoeg travels through
different places in different times. At the same time, it seems that spaces
(Hell, northern countries and islands, and the end of the world) change
more quickly than does time in this epic.
Most epics begin with the creation of the world. The Latvian epic
Lāčplēsis starts with gods arriving at the palace of Pērkon, the god of
thunder. There is a meeting of gods which is very similar to what occurs in the ancient Greek epics the “Iliad” and “Odyssey”. These worlds
are similar or, in other words, it seems that the Latvian epic tries to find
connections with old ancient nations. It’s notable that the world where
the gods live is already created and it needs protection against enemies.
Pērkon’s chronotope compresses different times together: ancient times
with ancient gods, the time of the 13th century, when enemies threatened
Latvia, and the 19th century, when Pumpurs wrote his romantic epic, as
did Kreutzwald in Estonia.
Conclusion
It seems that chronotopes in literature and art make it possible to select
the most important events from history: the most heroic wars or events,
or the most tragic events from the history of nations, such as the loss of
freedom in the 13th century. This type of selection helps to create national
identity. So, we can see that Estonian and Latvian epics stress tragic history, and time and space are quite concretely determined. The end of the
epic “Beowulf” is more ambivalent: nobody knows what will happen in
the future, and the fight between good and evil never ends.
References
1
2
3
4
5
142
Jaan Puhvel, Võrdlev mütoloogia, Tallinn: Ilmamaa, 1996, 10.
Martin Gray, A Dictionary of Literary Terms, Second Edition, Essex: Longman York Press, 1996, 103.
Lauri Honko, “Comparing traditional epics in the eastern Baltic Sea region,
in: ed., Lauri Honko, The Kalevala and the World’s Traditional Epics”, in: Studia Fennica Folkloristica 12, Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 2002, 327.
Ibid., 332.
Ibid., 332.
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
6
9
7
8
12
13
14
15
16
10
11
19
17
18
20
21
Ibid., 333. Michael Holquist, Dialogism. Bakhtin and his world. London and
New York: Routledge, 1990, 109.
Juri Lotman, Semiosfäärist, Tallinn: Vagabund, 1999, 196.
Michael Holquist, 1990, 109.
Ibid., 109.
Mihhail Bahtin, Valitud töid, Tallinn: Eesti Raamat, 1987, 183.
Ibid., 181.
Michael Holquist, 1990, 111.
Mihhail Bahtin, 1987, 179.
Michael Alexander, Beowulf, London: Penguin Books, 1988, 11–12.
Ibid., 12.
Ülo Valk, “Authorship and textuality. The Kalevipoeg as epic landscape”, in:
ed. Lauri Honko, The Kalevala and the World’s Traditional Epics, Studia Fennica Folkloristica 12, Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 2002, 408.
Ibid., 407.
Ibid, 408.
Friedrich Reinhold Kreutzwald, Kalevipoeg. An ancient Estonian tale, trans.
by Jüri Kurman, Käina: Üle Õla, 2007, 22.
Ibid., 13.
Sergei Kruks, “Kalevipoeg and Lāčplēsis: The Ways We Imagine Our Communities: A Sociological Reading of Estonian and Latvian epics”, in: Interlitteraria, 2003, No. 8, 231.
143
National History, Folklore and
the Bible as Sources of the Baltic
Modernist Drama
Tautinė istorija, folkloras ir Biblija
kaip moderniosios Baltijos šalių
dramos šaltiniai
Benedikts KALNAČS
Institute of Literature, Folklore and Art
University of Latvia
Akadēmijas laukums 1, Rīga, LV-1050
[email protected]
Summary
The article discusses manifestations on the subjects of national history, folklore and the Bible in Latvian and Estonian drama of the early 20th century. Two
plays, Joseph and his brothers by Rainis, and Judith by Anton Hansen Tammsaare
based on the Bible motives serve as case studies. The two works under discussion reveal a bitter experience of individual persons but at the same time they also
point towards the difficulties of the social experience of the nations during the
war. The way towards the national independence has been successful but prickly.
The revaluation of this experience points out that to claim one’s own identity it is
not enough to ensure one’s social status and situation. The search must go further
towards the deepest essence of the individual, the discovery of his or her inner
self. Therefore, the greatest importance in the course of the actions is devoted to
inner self-evaluation of the heroes. There is an omnipresent tension between two
positions, two moralities – one, which is condoned by society and is based on
hundreds of years of inherited propriety; the other, which each individual can arrive only through serious internal struggle and merciless self-analysis.
Key words: comparative literature, drama, national history, folklore, the Bible.
Background information
In the Baltic countries – Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia – drama as a
form of literature emerged relatively late, in the latter part of the 19th
century; however, by the beginning of the 20th century parallels with the
artistic tendencies in other European literatures can be observed.
Baltic drama took its shape as a synthesis of different sources of inspiration –folklore motives (especially in Estonia and Latvia), national
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
history (especially in Lithuania and Latvia), and various influences from
European culture.
Among these, an important part is provided by the texts based on Biblical motives. The focus in this article is on the works of two distinguished
writers, the Latvian Rainis, and the Estonian Tammsaare.
Rainis (1865–1929) started his career as a journalist and translator (the
most important being his translation of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s
Faust published in 1898), and mainly worked in the fields of poetry and
drama. The text under discussion will be Jāzeps un viņa brāļi (completed
in 1914 but unpublished until 1919), the play which has been translated
and published in several other languages (in English in 1924 and 1965, in
the latter case with the revised title Joseph and his brothers). Apart from
the Latvian theatre productions, this five act tragedy has also been staged
in the UK, Estonia, and recently, in 2001, in Orion theatre in Stockholm,
this production directed by Lars Rudolfsson.
Anton Hansen Tammsaare (1878–1940) wrote mainly prose. Among
his most distinguished achievements is the five novel cycle Tõde ja õigus (Truth and Justice, 1926–1933), translated into several languages.
Tammsaare also wrote two plays, the first of those being Juudit (Judith),
completed in 1917 but published only in 1920, and produced in Estonia
the following year.
Both plays belong to the second decade of the 20th century which also
experienced the events of the First World War (1914–1918), as well as the
establishment of the national states of Latvia and Estonia (also Lithuania)
in 1918.
Both plays are also linked by the fact that they are based on Biblical
motives, the Bible story serving as an important starting point to overcome local perspective and to delve into more generally shared human
experience.
Theoretical background
The theoretical background for this research was provided by studies
of modernist literature which has experienced a new development in the
early years of the 21st century as well as by recent approaches to the literature of the Baltic countries.
Inspiration for this article was specifically provided by two scholarly
works examining aspects of modernism in literature and art.
145
Firstly, the study by Toril Moi, Henrik Ibsen and the Birth of Modernism: Art, Theater, Philosophy (2006) was an inspiration in juxtaposing
idealism to modernism in the 19th century culture as the basic field of
tension which exemplifies the most important shifts in cultural paradigm.
Moi describes the general pattern of this process as follows: “The movement away from idealism was a long, slow, piecemeal process, which is
why the period from 1870 to 1914 produced such a profusion of widely
different protomodernist (because anti-idealist) writing alongside the continuing stream of idealist works.”1
Secondly, the book by Richard Brettell, Modern Art 1851–1929
(1999), provided a useful definition of image modernism (as opposed to
unmediated modernism) which is seen as the encounter “between the artist and the world of images they cannibalize”2. Brettell persuasively argues that opportunities for creating a personal image bank were extremely
widened at the turn of the 20th century, and this notion can be well applied
also to changing perception of the world in the emerging cultures of the
Baltic nations.
In this article, I argue that (1) both tragedies under discussion, Joseph
and his Brothers and Judith, which chronologically belong to the end of the
period singled out by Moi, show signs of similar tension between idealism
and modernism; these signs can also be read in the context of the change of
cultural pattern within which the earlier influence of the (idealist) Enlightenment culture (important at the early nationalist stage of the Baltic cultures
in the 19th century) is gradually being confronted with and to some extent
replaced by modernist approaches to literature and life; (2) the Bible text is
in both cases being used as a storage of European images freely adopted by
the authors to suit their artistic purposes simultaneously feeling themselves
involved in the process of creation of world literature. The use of the Bible
also signifies a shift away from the previous colonial experience towards
the appropriation of the European cultural values, a move which coincides
with the process of self-affirmation of the raising national cultures.
Aspects of analysis
There are four main aspects of analysis, namely, (1) the tension between main characters and their environment, (2) solutions/suggestions
provided by the spatial structures of the plays, (3) solutions/suggestions
provided by the temporal structures of the plays, (4) evaluation of the outcome of conflicts.
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The tension between characters and their environment
In both cases the authors deal with the tension between the Self and
the “Other”; both plays start with a crisis situation.
In Rainis’ tragedy it is the anger of Joseph’s brothers over his loss of
the sheep in the pasture; but the long ripened psychological conflict immediately gains a broader perspective. Brothers are willing to transgress
ancient family rules, to turn against the order proscribed by their father.
Symbolic restitution between Joseph and his brothers is achieved only in
the play’s finale, but the price is Joseph’s personal sacrifice – taking leave
of society in search of other, higher truths.
Tammsaare’s play begins of a note of lingering social crisis – drinking
water is becoming scarce in the city of Bethulia, blockaded by the Assyrian army on its way to Palestine, and the people are no longer willing to
obey the decisions of Ozias and the other elders of the city. Against this
backdrop, the actions of the widow Judith –going to the enemy camp to
their leader, Holofernes, on order to get the troops to leave the city – seem
to be socially motivated; Judith’s deeper motivation, rooted in the past
and hidden in her subconscious, comes to light only gradually.
The broader social events in which the action of the plays is couched
serve as a basis for complicated psychology of the central figures illuminating the impulses hidden in their subconscious.
Solutions/suggestions provided by the spatial structures of the
plays
In both plays, there is a juxtaposition of two important locations.
The action of Rainis’ tragedy (five acts but initially planned four preserving the inner symmetry) is divided between Canaan (acts 1 and 2) and
Egypt (Acts 3, 4, and 5).
In Tammsaare’s play, there is a contrast between the besieged city of
Bethulia (acts 1 and 4) and the camp of Holofernes (acts 2 and 3).
The contrast can be summarized as a tension between one’s own and a
different, estranged space within which crucial transformations of characters take place.
Solutions/suggestions provided by the temporal structures of
the plays
Rainis’ play contrasts two different time periods separated by a gap of
seventeen years. In the first two acts, we see Joseph as a seventeen years
147
old teenager; Joseph’s emotions at the beginning of the play, as well as his
dreams, are turned towards the future. In the harsh world of the Old Testament, where the dominating might is male work and the daily rhythm
subordinated to it, the sensitive Joseph lacks humanity and warmth in relationships. His dreams focus upon alternative farming practice, as well as
his desire to be loved and understood.
However, these hopes are being crushed. At the end of the Act 2,
Joseph is thrown into a ditch, betrayed by his kin, and shortly afterwards
sold in exchange for the Egyptian commodities.
Rainis omits all the details leading to Joseph’s prosperity in Egypt.
From the third act, the action of the play resumes after a long break;
Joseph has already overcome initial difficulties and has become a man
of high standing in the social hierarchy, he is honoured as a ruler and the
pontiff has given Joseph his daughter in marriage. But even this degree of
social recognition is not able to quell Joseph’s personal unrest, nor answer
the questions he unrelentingly poses to himself. The arrival of Joseph’s
brothers as supplicants exacerbates this tension to the extreme. The brothers come to ask only for the bread they need to survive, but Joseph’s longnurtured desire for revenge arises.
In Tammsaare’s play, there is the heroine, Judith, who takes a deliberate decision to go to the enemy camp. What motivation does the author
provide for this step, what encourages Judith and also gives her the impulse to behead the fierce warrior, Holofernes, in his own encampment?
Here, we discover temporal tension between the unfortunate past and
the current attempt to restage her destiny.
The internal motivation of the heroine is gradually revealed during
the course of the play, and the true reasons for her actions are to be found
in Judith’s earlier unhappy, childless marriage lacking both physical and
spiritual love. This emptiness keeps her from fulfilling her feminine mission and in a state of tragically agitated emotion Judith sins against her
own conscience by praying for the death of her husband Manase. He dies;
attempting to overcome her deep internal anguish, Judith becomes widely
known as a defender of the common person. But this is not enough for
her to regain harmony with herself. Judith’s internal conflict and her unfulfilled femininity give rise to dramatic and unexpected action when the
enemy threatens to destroy her city.
In public she explains her step as motivated by the desire to change
Holofernes’ mind about the blockade of Bethulia, but what actually hap-
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pens in the warrior’s camp prove that her real motivation lies somewhere
else. The first act ends with Judith bathing when the city is badly in need
of water and anointing herself with perfumed oil, while her servant observes incomprehension. This is already a sign that in her mind Judith has
already been preparing for an erotic liaison never fulfilled in her previous
life. It is possible that she is preparing for battle with Holofernes by making use of all the resources available to her as a woman, and so entering
into the kind of duel that historically often enough decides the fates of
battles and nations. We can presume that this blossoming of psychological, emotional and social ambition is also the path to her self-realization.
However, the balance between these various powers is lost when Judith–just like Salome in the Old Testament – is overtaken by uncontrolled
and uncontrollable desire. And just like Oscar Wilde’s Salome chose John
the Baptist, Tammsaare’s Judith chooses the best of available men. Judith
wants to become not only Holofernes’ lover, but also to help him to further greatness, to become Emperor and to give birth to his children, who
would become the future world leaders.
This intensification of emotion comes into conflict with Holofernes’
emotional exhaustion, his resignation about his past youth and refusal to
spend the rest of his life pursuing power and influence. Holofernes rejects
Judith, but the very same night becomes the victim of her exaggerated
ideas and uncontrollable lust.
The relation of Judith towards Holofernes shows attempts of the writer
to reveal the self-theatricalization of the heroine. In a similar sense, the
festivities devoted to the harvest in Egypt that lead to the encounter between Joseph and his brothers in Egypt provide a match emphasizing the
importance of the motive.
Evaluation of the outcome of conflicts
In contrast to the external motives of the conflicts, the greatest importance in the course of the actions is devoted to inner self-evaluation of
the heroes. There is an omnipresent tension between two positions, two
moralities – one, that is condoned by society and is based on hundreds of
years of inherited propriety; the other, that each individual can arrive only
through serious internal struggle and merciless self-analysis.
In Canaan, Joseph’s greatest authority is his father, Jacob; the emotional ties are mutual, because of Jacob’s love for Joseph, he reacts with
understanding to his son’s apparent impracticality and dreaminess. But
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in Jacob’s eyes, tending the land is women’s work. A man must do the
demanding work of a wandering shepherd; for this reason Jacob sees his
wife and Joseph’s mother Raele’s ability to soften the hearts of Joseph’s
brothers as a sign of passing and perishable happiness.
After a long and torturous period of doubt, Joseph comes to the conclusion that the satisfaction cannot come solely from social achievement
and position; neither can contentment be derived from revenge. Betrayed
by his brothers, Joseph has lost the ability to achieve his greatest desire –
to be loved by them; Rainis’ play ends with Joseph leaving civilization
in order to search for greater, truer harmony with himself. But his initial
perception of the reality – the position of a lonely idealist – has been shattered. The play draws to a close on a note of deep suffering and raw experience that needs to be re-estimated.
The desire of a woman to understand herself is just as important in
Tammsaare’s tragedy, where in the end, after all the social upheaval, the
heroine, Judith, decides to stay with the old and wise Simeon. In one
corner of the room sleeps Simeon, in another there is a similar straw matt
for the dog, but two corners are still empty. Maybe this is the only place
where Judith can regain her almost hopelessly lost belief in love and order
in the world.
Conclusion
The two plays under discussion reveal a bitter experience of individual
persons but at the same time they also point towards the difficulties of
the social experience of the nations during the war. The way towards the
national independence has been successful but prickly. The revaluation
of this experience points out that claiming one’s own identity it is not
enough to ensure one’s social status and situation. The search must go
further towards the deepest essence of the individual, the discovery of his
or her inner self.
References
1
2
150
Toril Moi, Henrik Ibsen and the Birth of Modernism: Art, Theater, Philosophy.
Oxford: University Press, 2006, 67.
Richard R. Brettell, Modern Art 1851 – 1929. Oxford: University Press, 1999,
107.
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Lietuvių poetinio gamtovaizdžio
tradicija: Strazdas, Baranauskas,
Geda (archetipai ir universalijos)
The Tradition of Lihuanian Poetical
Landscape: Strazdas, Baranauskas,
Geda (Archetypes and Universalities)
Viktorija DAUJOTYTĖ
Vilniaus universitetas
Universiteto g. 5, LT-01513 Vilnius
[email protected]
Santrauka
Straipsnyje analizuojama lietuvių poetinio gamtovaizdžio tradicija. Į ją žvelgiama tarsi iš modernaus poeto Sigito Gedos (1943–2008) taško, kas jo poezijai
buvo svarbu, kuo ji rėmėsi, ką keitė, transformavo. Atraminiais tradicijos vardais
laikomi XIX a. poetai Antanas Strazdas ir Antanas Baranauskas. Antano Strazdo
reikšmė itin akivaizdi, Sigito Gedos ne kartą pabrėžta, įtvirtinta poema „Strazdas“. Antano Baranausko gamtovaizdžiuose išskiriamas šventumo jausmas, kalbos metaforomis išreikštos dvasinės būsenos. Teigiama, kad Strazdo gamtovaizdžio dominantė yra laukas, Baranausko – miškas. Sigito Gedos gamtos vaizduose
išskirtinę vietą užima vanduo; pats vadino save vandenžmogiu. Lietuvių poetinio
gamtovaizdžio tradicijoje veikia skirtingi archetipų ir universalijų deriniai, priklausomi nuo pasaulėjautos ir poetinės kalbos principų.
Kertiniai žodžiai: lietuvių poezija, poetinis gamtovaizdis, archetipai, universalijos.
Summary
In this article the tradition of Lithuanian poetical landscape is analyzed by investigating it as if from the point of view of a modern poet – Sigitas Geda (1943–
2008). The analysis aims at revealing the aspects of importance in his poetry, its
sources and the transformations they underwent. Antanas Srazdas and Antanas
Baranauskas are considered to be the figures that established the 19th century poetic tradition. The significance of Antanas Strazdas is quite evident, conveyed in the
poem “Strazdas” and emphasized by Sigitas Geda himself. The feeling of holiness
and spiritual states expressed by metaphors are a prominent feature of landscapes
in Antanas Baranauskas poetry. Field is the dominant element in Strazdas landscapes, while Baranauskas tends to concentrate on depicting the forest. In Sigitas
Geda landscapes water has a special place; he event called himself the aquaman.
The tradition of Lithuanian poetical landscapes features different combinations of
151
archetypes and universalities which are subject to one’s world-view and principles
of poetic language.
Key words: Lithuanian poetry, poetical landscape, archetypes, universalities
Tai žiūrėjo tartum magas
Į gamtos akis žalias
(„Strazdas“)
Gamtovaizdis – visa, kas apima gamtą, jos vaizdus, esančius ar galinčius būti, iškilti sąmonėje. Sąmonė keliauja, patiria kelią per gamtą, visatą. Poetinė geografija, šiuolaikinėje humanistikoje pavadinama ir metageografija. Geo raštą sąmonė perrašo–perrašinėja, įprasmina pagal mentalinių procesų atitikimus. Matau žibuoklę, matydamas patiriu (galiu patirti)
„didžiulį, kosminį žibuoklės džiaugsmą“ (Sigito Gedos ankstyvasis eilėraštis „Arkliai siūbuoja žalią horizontą“). Kosminė galia slypi žibuoklėje,
pavasarinio Lietuvos gamtovaizdžio ženkle, jei sąmonė pajėgia jį suvokti.
Ką pajėgiame suvokti pasaulyje, priklauso nuo to, ką pajėgiame suvokti
savyje – ir kaip universalijų atspindžius. Kūrybingo žmogaus gyvenamas
pasaulis yra tarsi pripildytas reikšmių ir prasmių. Gyventi – tai atpažinti;
tai yra ir manyje. „Esu senas kaip „Anykščių šilelis“, – ištaria Sigitas
Geda1 ir ištaria seną, o kartais ir labai seną patiriančios sąmonės laiką.
Kraštovaizdis – krašto vaizdas, vietovaizdis – vietos. Slinktis nuo plataus prie siaurėjančio, konkretėjančio, viena plotmė pasirodo kita; ir vietovaizdis yra gamtovaizdis. Arba nuo konkretaus prie visuminio. Dangus,
ištariamas nuo savo trobos slenksčio, yra ir dangus bendriausia šio žodžio
reikšme. Visada susitinkame su vieta, esame vietiniai. Ir pagal prigimtį, ir
pagal jauseną, kurią įgyjame įsibūdami. Bet kiekviena konkretizacija, jei
gyva ir gyvybinga, siejasi su didžiąja visuma. Vietos ir erdvės (baltrušaitiškosios ertovės) santykio problema; erdvėje, pačioje žodžio substancijoje slypi erdvumas, keliagubumas, trimatiškumas. „Senas laikas, senos
erdvės“, – ištarta Sigito Gedos jaunystės eilėraštyje „Prie namų vaikai
moliniai...“ Senoj (pirmapradėj) erdvėj susitinkame su senu laiku; laikas
yra įerdvintas, erdvė įlaikinta. Kai žmogus suvokia save esantį, suvokia
ervėlaikyje; net labiausiai urbanizuota erdvė negali atsiskirti nuo gamtos,
yra gamtoje, net jei akis nebegali sutelkti jos visuminio vaizdo. Kiekvienos kalbos poezija prasideda kalboje, gamtos kūnų ir žmogaus kūno dalių
pavadinimai tikriausiai vienodo senumo. Akys, matančios medį, saulę,
vandenį, žolę, akmenį. Ėjimas, keičiantis tam, kas matoma. Senosios dai-
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
nos – tautosaka – kaip esu su tuo, kas yra, kaip matau, kaip tai yra man.
Gamtos poezija – jei ir neišskirsime tokio tipo, tai negalėsime nuo jo ir visai atsiskirti. Poezijos raida, kitimas yra ir gamtos vaizdo kitimas. Poezijos raida reiškia ir kalbinės savimonės kitimą, priklausomą nuo įvykių sąmonėje, nuo regiu, girdžiu, jaučiu. Trys ypatingi lietuvių poezijos taškai,
kuriuose įžvelgiamas aukščiausias dvasinės patirties laipsnis – ekstazė,
atsiveria ekstatiniai pojūčiai ir pokyčiai. Sąmonės įvykis Antano Strazdo „Sieliankoj Aušroj“, Antano Baranausko „Anykščių šilelyje“: Sigito
Gedos sąmonės įvykių keli – kelias nuo pėdų iki giesmių. Nuo didžiulio,
kosminio žibuoklės džiaugsmo iki vėlyvosios „Fugos XXI amžiaus gamtovaizdžiui, II“: „[...] o pačiam laukų vidury / žydi balzganas grikis, mano
širdies švilpynėlė!“.
Per šiuos tris poetus pereina ir pagrindinių lietuvių poezijos gamtos
vaizdo perspektyvų kaita, jei regėsime ją apibendrintai. Konkretinant
vaizdas tankėja, daugėja reikšminių vardų. Strazdas atveria lauką; Baranauskas – miško paslaptį. Sigito Gedos kūryboje, pačioje jos pradžioje,
įvyksta gamtovaizdžio absorbcija (sugėrimas išspinduliuojant), perkeitimas, kažkas ima kilti iš vandenų, žemės gilmenų, nepaprastų intensyvumu jungiasi apačia ir viršus, kasdieniškumas ir šventumas. Sigitas Geda
yra sakęs, kad tik per Baranauską, Maironį lietuvių kultūra įtikėjo savo
kūrybinėm galiom. Ir dėl to, kad šie poetai „suteikė ir mums patiems, ir
mūsų istorijai, mūsų gamtovaizdžiui idealybės projekcijas“2. Ką reiškia
šiuo atveju mūsų, mūsų istorijos ir mūsų gamtovaizdžio idealybės projekcijos? Sakytume, kad savotiškus sąmonės pasimatavimus, prisimatavimus,
sutikimus su vieta, jos gamta ir istorija, kaip savo savastim. Ne tik aušra,
šilelis, ne tik Baltijos jūra, bet ir dvasiniai sąmonės įvykiai, kurie leidžiasi
suvokiami savo gamtinėse projekcijose. Idealybės projekcija, mąstant apie
gamtovaizdį-kraštovaizdį, jų linijų (tiesių, laužtų, išgaubtų, kampuotų ir
elipsinių) prasitęsimai sąmonėje, sąmonės būties įgijimas.
Krašto vaizdas, kraštovaizdis – tai, kas pasirodo vaizdu, matoma. Realieji krašto žemėlapiai, žemėlapių materializacijos. Pažiūri į Lietuvos
žemėlapį – teka Nemunas, Neris – didžiosios, bet mažos upės, rymo kalnai – Šatrija, Medvėgalis, Girgždūtė – didieji, bet maži, tik kalvos pagal
geografinę klasifikaciją. Vilnius – senas Europos miestas, bet koks mažas
palyginus su pasaulio didmiesčiais. Dvigubas žvilgsnis, kitoks matymas.
Maži, mažas kitų akims, matuojančioms, lyginančioms. Savųjų, vietinių,
tų, kurie yra savo vietoje, dydžiai yra absoliutūs, nelygintini. Sąmonės
kraštovaizdžiai, realius vaizdinius sufokusuojantys unikaliu, proporcijas
153
perkeičiančiu būdu. „Kalnai ant kalnų, ė ant tų kalnų / Kalnai ir maži kalneliai“, – tai Antano Baranausko „Dainų dainelę“ poetinio kraštovaizdžio
fragmentas – lyg Lietuvoje mažiausiai būtų Karpatų kalnynai: kalnai ant
kalnų, o ant tų kalnų dar kalnai ir maži kalneliai. Daugiapakopiai kalnai – kilimo, aukštėjimo vaizdinys. Poetinė architektūra, statinys, kuris
bus svarbus ir „Anykščių šileliui“, svarbiausiam Baranausko kūriniui, parašytam bendruoju romantizmo kodu, bet atskiruoju egzistenciniu stiliumi.
Egzistencinis stilius apima ir kalbos bei gamtos sąlyčius, formuojančius
kraštovaizdžio poetiką. Egzistencijos šaknys žmonių bendrumuose, taip
pat ir tautiniuose, sinergetiniuose veikimuose, gestuose. Kraštovaizdžio
jausmui susidaryti reikia savumo pamato, iš kurio kyla buvimo grožis,
paslaptis, baugumas, – tai, kas jau peržengia krašto ribas. Gamtovaizdis
pirmiausia žemėvaizdis, tai, kas yra žmogaus regratyje, akių horizonte.
Akių pakėlimas – atskiras veiksmas; būtinas žemės ir dangaus vienio
pajutimui, kosminei jausenai. Egzistencinio stiliaus energija stiprėja užčiuopdama mirties ir gyvybės ribas, šventumo sankirtas; kalbu ne vien
savo patirtimi, ne vien iš savęs ir ne vien sau. Yra bendrumo, bendrųjų
prasmių horizontas, skirtingai matomas, apsibrėžiamas, priartėjantis ir
tolstantis. Žmogaus prasmių horizonto provaizdis yra gamtos regratis,
pirminiai gamtos daiktai, su kuriais susitinka sąmonė, iš tų susitikimų
formuodama pirminius kalbinius ir kultūrinius darinius – mitus, tautosaką. Individualūs kraštovaizdžiai – ir vizualiniai (piešinių, tapybos), ir
kalbiniai – yra individo veiksmai, individualūs matymo-mąstymo apsibrėžimai, ištrūkimai iš bendrojo lauko, paliekantys jame tam tikrus įtrūkius. Kalbinis-ritminis-intonacinis sąmonės įžengimas į gamtą žymi sąmonės išsiskyrimą: gamta jau yra kita, ji, tu; galima ne tik matyti, bet ir
kreiptis, surasti atitikimų bei atitikmenų, svarbių metaforai ir simboliui.
Atskirumo ir bendrumo, gelmės ir paviršiaus, archetipo ir universalijos
sąlyčiai bei sąskambiai.
Lyrikos atskirumas yra tik atskirumas labai bendrame lauke. Tik bendrumas įgalina atskirus apsisprendimus, apsiribojimus, pasirinkimus. Antanas Strazdas savo vieninteliu rinkiniu „Giesmės svietiškos ir šventos“,
išleistos 1814 metais Vilniuje, pasirodo kaip unikalus archetipų ir universalijų sąskambis. Kaip archetipinis kūrybos atvejis ši knyga po pusantro
šimto metų iš esmės nulemia Sigito Gedos galimybę. Strazdo poetiniame
gamtovaizdyje slypi grįžimo-pasikartojimo energija. Pasaulėvaizdžio ir
kraštovaizdžio sąsaja – abipusė: pasaulio vaizdą kaip sąmonės turinį įtakoja prigimto krašto gamtos būdas; kita vertus, kas iš to būdo perimama, pri-
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
klauso nuo akių, ausų, bendresne prasme – nuo prigimties. Ką, kaip mato,
girdi Strazdas? Daugiausia, giliausiai tuo momentu, kai jaučiasi esąs ir
žmogus, ir paukštis: strazdas, gegužėlė. Strazdas pajunta judesį-junglumą;
daukantiškąją kergę – visa, kas yra, yra iš gyvybės judesio, susijungimo,
sueities. Gyvas patiria buvimą – kur ir kaip. Su žeme ir dangum. Gegužėlės balsas: „Einu žeme, skrendu vėju, / Ponia esmu viso svieto, / Linksma,
soti, nors nesėju; / Kur nulekiu, ten man vieta“ („Gegužėlė“). Panaši ir
strazdo byla – tik dar ekspresyvesnė: „Skrisdamas viršum medžių, / Pačioj
viršūnėj sėdžiu, / Leidžiu balsą per tamsias girias“ („Strazdas“). Žmogaus
žvilgsnis į kitus, į tos pačios būties dalyvius, suteikiant jiems balsą, kaip
bandymą suvokti, kaip kiti yra, kuo tas buvimas pasireiškia, kuo gražus ar
net gražesnis negu žmogaus. Neabejotinai tuo, kad laisvesnis. Ir ne tik socialine prasme, bet ir egzistencine – gegutėlė kukuoja „sėdėdama aukštam
medy“, strazdas skrenda viršum medžių. Mato kraštą iš aukščiau; krašto
vaizdą taupiai, vienu kitu štrichu tenubrėžiamą: aukšti medžiai, tamsios
girios, kalnai, upelės, berželiai, karklynai, lazdynai, ariamos dirvos, pjaunamos pievos; keičiasi metų laikai, ateina rudenėlis, „brudna“ žiema, paskui pavasaris – gyvybės, džiaugsmo laikas:
Žiedai iš žemės pinas,
Pilnas paukščių karklynas,
Siaudžia, griaudžia lizdus pindami.
Pučia saldus vėjelis,
Krenta lengvas lietelis,
Visa žemė linksmai pradžiugo.
Nuo Kristijono Donelaičio „Metų“ lietuvių kraštovaizdis konkretinamas metų laikais; gamtos erdvė–vaizdas yra ir gamtos laikas. Metų laikų
linija jaučiama ir Strazdo poezijoje. Šiltojo metų laiko kraštovaizdis pilnas
paukščių, naminių gyvulių, jaučių, gėrelių, ožkelių, karvių. „Pasterkoj,
arba piemenų giesmėj“ – karvelės, karvytės, karvytėlės. Kraštovaizdžio
garsumą didina piemenėliai: „Piemenėliai, ant triūbelių / Ir ant karklinių
umždelių / Pagrajykit linksmai, gražiai / Prie tam krūmui, prie tai rožei“.
Strazdo poetinio kraštovaizdžio punktyrai tarsi klojami ant tautosakinių linijų. Bet su jomis nesutampa – atskiria žvilgsnis ir kalba: netikėtas žvilgsnis perimamas individualios, ekspresyvios kalbos, tarsi įtemptos tarp žemojo ir aukštojo stiliaus, susiduriančio tame pat tekste – kad ir „Pasterkoje, arba piemenų giesmėje“:
155
Aušros žvaigždė jau pasvydo,
Visi paukšteliai pragydo.
Strazdas čilba visa burna,
Aplenkęs pelėdą durną.
Strazdo pažemiai neatskiriami nuo aukščio, aukštybių. Visa persmelkta gyvybės grožio, maitinamo šviesos. Ant Strazdo žemės krenta begalinė,
ištinkanti šviesa. Krašto vaizdas – šviesos ir gyvybės misterija. Branduolys, iš kurio išsirutulioja, išsikeroja lyrinės lietuvių poezijos kraštovaizdis – „Sielianka Aušra“, pirmoji dalis:
Pasvydo, pasvydo,
Aušra žvaigždė pasvydo, pasvydo,
Ir gaidelis pragydo, pragydo.
Vieversys, vieversys,
Vieversėlis siausdamas
Šoka, vėju plakdamas, plakdamas,
Padangėm,
Siaudžia, griaudžia padangėm...
Vištos karkia palangėm.
Jautelis,
Jaučias, laukan eidamas,
Kasa žemę baubdamas.
Gėreliai su ožkeliais –
Kazokėlį šokdami,
Štukeles rodydami.
Kas gi ten?
Kas gi tenai už miško
Žiba, tvaska, ištiško?
Saulelė,
Saulelė ten tekėjo,
Aukso žiedais mirgėjo.
Įvyksta tai, kas prasideda aukštai, – švinta, teka saulė – ir kas pamatoma, išvystama. Vaizdas atsiranda, susidaro iš to, kas išvystama, kas vienu
metu skleidžiasi ir sąmonėje, sieloje. Kraštovaizdis yra žmogaus išvystas
vaizdas, konkretus, tos vietos, bet persmelktas bendros gamtos ontologijos. Strazdas įprasmina žvilgsnio įvykį – pasvydo, pasvydo. Ir tarsi tą pačią akimirką prasideda pasaulis, jo gyvybė, siausmas tam tikroje vietoje,
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
krašte, akiratyje, kur už miško teka saulė. Iš už miško tekanti saulė – yra
vaizdinis archetipas; lietuvių pasaulėvokoje saulė moteriškos giminės,
motiniška, dažnai mažybinės, malonybinės priesagos.
Strazdas įprasmina sąmonės įvykį – staigų išvydimą – pasikeitimą.
Viskas žvilgsnyje ir kalboje, ritme, intonacijoj. Aš ir tesu matymas, galėjimas pasakyti. Bet jei matau, tai esu ir matomas; todėl tokia stipri vaizdo
ekspresija, saulės išbudintas pasaulis rodosi man; nėra aš, bet yra man. Tai
ir būtų metageografinis vyksmas: vaizdo, bendro vaizdo rašto atsivėrimas
sąmonėje. Žmogus pasaulio užklausiamas: „Kas gi ten?“ Ir atsakymas
ateina iš žmogaus kalbos, nes pati kalba radosi klausdama ir atsakydama.
Atsakymas – ne saulė, atsakymas – saulelė. Saulelėje glūdi santykis. Neįtikėtina ritminė-vizualinė meistrystė: Saulelė sudaro atskirą eilutę, kosminę atskirybę, matomo pasaulio centrą, bet matomą žmogaus, jo kalbos,
mažybinės-malonybinės formos: „saulelė, / Saulelė ten tekėjo, / Aukso
žiedais mirgėjo“.
Lyrikoje nėra tolygaus vystymosi, perdavinėjimo; peršokama, įšokama, įvyksta staigūs šuoliai, perkeitimai. Keičiantis žvilgsnio perspektyvoms, keičiasi ir kraštovaizdžio matymas.
Kas kraštovaizdžio poetikos aspektu sietina su Antanu Baranausku?
Ilgai ir tegalvota, kad svarbiausias jo kūrinys – poema „Anykščių šilelis“
yra kūrinys apie gamtą, gamtovaizdžiai, kraštovaizdžiai – šilelio, jo palaukių, Anykščių krašto:
Žali ėgliai kaip kvietkai po dirvonus keri;
Terpu jų kiškiai guli, kropkos vaikus peri.
Krūmai, žole barzdoti, kraštas mišką riečia,
Ir linijos parėjos skersai mišką šviečia.
Alksniai, lepšių sodyba, palaukėm sužėlę,
Šakom kekes riešučių lazdynai iškėlę
atokaitoj brendina. Ė karklai po slėnį
Terp liulančių paversmių pamėgo pavėnę.
Nesunku pastebėti, kad vietos vaizdas susiliečia su Strazdu – miškas,
lazdynai, karklai (karklynai) krūmai, riešutai, paversmiai (paversmėliai),
kiškiai. Kraštovaizdžio centrai: kas auga iš žemės ir kas yra gyvas, teikia
judesį, garsą. Baranausko žingsnis – kraštovaizdžio architektūros pojūtis.
Krašto vieta, kuri yra ir erdvė, ne plokščia, žvilgsniui tarsi slystant paviršiumi, o trimatė, turinti aukštį, gylį, plotį. Atitinkanti žmogaus kūną; kūnas susiderina su erdve, įveikinėja kolizijas, kylančias iš žmogui primeta-
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mų aplinkybių, situacijų, konfliktus, gimdančius istoriją. Architektūriškai
suvokiamas kraštovaizdis darosi neatskiriamas nuo seniausių mitinių pagavų, kultūrinių įbrėžų, istorinių kolizijų. Kraštovaizdžio išorinės formos
užpildomos vidinių. Baranauskui tai yra žmogiškosios pajautos: „Iš to,
matai, ašaros ir atsidusimas, / Iš to šventos pajautos, iš to giesmės imas“.
Išoriškumas ir vidujiškumas darosi neatskiriamas: žvelgiama tarsi iš vidaus, o matoma ir išoriškai. Vaizdas prasideda nuo pajautų, išreiškiamų
praradimų sujaudintu balsu:
Skujom, šakelėm ir šiškom nuklotą
Kepina saulė nenaudingą plotą,
In kurį žiūrint teip neramu regis:
Lyg tartum rūmas suiręs nudegęs,
Lyg kokio miesto išgriuvus pustynė,
Lyg kokio raisto apsvilus kemsynė!..
Baranauskiškoji forma – formos tako akivaizdybė: „In kurį žiūrint teip
neramu regis“. Matai išorę, o regi tarsi vidinėmis akimis, regi ir savo sielos neramumą, matymo sukeltą; iš jo kyla klausimai – kas gi įvyko, kur
tie rūmai, miestai, ta labiausiai regima žmogaus pasaulio architektonika? Kaip ji susijusi su šileliu, su pirmine gamta, pirminiu, pirmapradžiu
Anykščių krašto vaizdu? Miškas yra lietuvio sąmonės archetipas, pirmasis
prieglobstis, gynėjas, užtarėjas. „Anykščių šilelyje“ kalbama iš archetipinių situacijų. Iš situacijų, kuriose iškyla vertybių – ir pirmiausia šventumo, šventų pajautų problema. Šventumas yra svarbiausia žmogaus dvasios
vertikalė, tiesiogiai atsispindinti ir žmogaus aplinkoje, gamtoje, vietoje,
kur gyvenama. Tai pradėta suvokti palyginti neseniai – ta linkme pastūmėjo ir Sigito Gedos mintys. „Sudega namai, supleška kaimo architektūra, nieko nelieka, bet žmogus žino, kaip statytis, kur šiaurė, kur pietūs,
kur žemė, kur dangus, nes iš to susideda mūsų gyvenimo būdas. Kokios
gi Čiurlionio ar Baranausko nelaimės buvo? Kad tai gamtos aprašymai,
kad provincialų darbas!“3. Ne, ne aprašymai, ne tik aprašymai. „Anykščių
šilelis“ liudija sielos atsivėrimą pasauliui pačiu pasauliu, labiausiai tuo,
kas archetipiškiausia – mišku, medžiais, akmenimis, kuriuose slypi mitai,
istorija. „Visos senos religijos per medžius jaučia ryšį su protėviais. Kuo
pavirsta mūsų palaikai? Koks artimiausias įvaizdis? Medis augalas. Ta
giria tada nėra tik šiaip sau giria, o visa mūsų... kaip čia pasakyt... visa
mūsų gamtinė tauta, pavirtusi žiedais, kvapais...“4. Architektūros principas: pamatų svarba. Kas matoma, laikosi ant nematomo. Nuojauta, vėlgi
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
fiksuota Sigito Gedos, kad Baranauskas užčiuopė senos šiaurės religijos
pėdsakus, perteikė jos reliktus5.
***
Lietuvių poezijos mįslės, atsidengusios XIX amžiuje, XX amžiaus.
Paskutiniaisiais dešimtmečiais labiausiai tekėjo į Sigitą Gedą. Matyti tie
poezijos gūbriai, kurie jam buvo svarbiausi. Bet galima sakyti, kad nesvarbių ir nebuvo. Išžvalgė pačią lietuviškos raštijos pradžią, stabtelėjo
ir ten, kur atrodė jam tolima – net prie Kleopo Jurgelionio. Matome Gedą
kaip poetinių tradicijų mazgą – neatrišamą, prieštaringą. Tradicijos laikė
jį, kėlė, buvo joms dėmesingas, bet sąmoningai stengėsi nuo jų atitrūkti.
Žinomas ir Europoje, verstas į daugelį kalbų, išleistų ir atskiromis knygomis, Geda pirmiausia yra vietos poetas, Lietuvos, labiausiai išsireiškusios
jam gimtąja Dzūkija, poetas, savitas, bet ir savitumu susijęs su kitais, su
pasauliais, artimais ir tolimais. Bet: vietos poetas, vietos taip, kad ir viseto. Kaip reta intensyviai susijęs su bendraisiais ir kartu pirminiais kultūros dariniais – su Biblija, Koranu, Dante, su senąja egiptiečių kultūra, su
šumerais. Daug jo verstų ir aiškintų poetų. Bendra, tik primintina mintis:
kuo intensyviau kūrybinėje sąmonėje dalyvauja kiti, atėję iš pasaulio, iš
kitų erdvių, tuo labiau permąstomas, perjaučiamas ir prigimtos kultūros
klodas. Iš Arvydo Šliogerio, skaityto, reflektuoto ir Sigito Gedos, minčių:
Save aš visada randu su Kitu6. Pridurtina – randu erdvėje ir laike, erdvėlaikyje, didžiąja dalimi duotame mums gamtos, vietos žemėje. Ir mieste, ir
didžiausiuose mūsų miestuose – Vilniuje ir Kaune – lieka kraštovaizdžio
dominantės: upės, upių santakos, miškų likučiai, net virtę parkais, atskiri
medžiai, įprasta augalija (pienės, peraugančios šaligatvius, skurdžios trūkažolės, pražystančios dykvietėse, apleistose vietose, kalvos, dangus su
saule, debesimis). Gimęs ir augęs mažoje trobelėje ant ežero kranto, didžiąją gyvenimo dalį praleido Vilniuje, bet sąmonės gyvenimas liko dvilypis: ten ir čia. Šią transcenduojančią horizontalę papildo vertikalė, jungianti žemę ir dangų. Gimtąją erdvę pakeitė įsigyta sodyba Vieciūnuose,
taip pat Dzūkijoje, priešais Liškiavą. To paties kraštovaizdžio apgaubtyje:
Visa problema: kraštovaizdis, kiekviena jo detalė, dalelė, dulkė... Istorija,
žmonės... įstrigę giliau mūsų sąmonėje, nei atrodo.
Poetai, kurie ištraukia iš giliau.
Dėl šitos priežasties egzotiškas yra pasaulis, kuris „šalimais“. Kiti kraštovaizdžiai bei tikėjimai.
Tikrieji ryšiai, jungtys ir sąsajos.
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Čia skirtumas tarp žmonių, kurie naudojasi jau esamais stereotipais ir tarp tų,
kurie atkasa gilesnius klodus.
Netikėtai jungia – erdvėje ir laike.“7
Šias mintis galima laikyti Sigito Gedos kraštovaizdžio poetikos pamatiniais principais. Kraštovaizdžio matomo plokštumo įveika sąmonės gilumu, archetipine atmintim. Kito kraštovaizdžio buvimas. Jungčių ir sąsajų
galimybės. Kraštovaizdžio bei tikėjimo jungties svarbumas.
Kraštovaizdis, žvelgiant į jį iš poezijos, priklauso prigimtai kultūrai;
suvokiamas ir tiesiogiai (matant, matant, jaučiant), ir iš kalbos, taip pat ir
iš meno kalbos. Kraštovaizdis yra žmogui, bet ir žmoguje – neatskiriamai.
Panašiu principu ištariame: gamtos kalba ir kalbos gamta; kalbos gamta
yra kiekvienos kalbos darybinė dalis. Sigitas Geda gamtą ir kalbą mąsto
neatskiriamai. Šiais dosniai atsiveriančiais kanalais jis susikuria prieigas
prie to, kas jam atrodo reikšmingiausia lietuvių kultūroje – prie Strazdo,
Baranausko, Čiurlionio, Žemaitės, nusitiesia interpretacinius takus. Itin
akivaizdžiai pasirodo kultūros veikimo būdas: kūrybinė sąmonė suaktyvina, sutvirtina, pratęsia kitus, kartu ir pati prasitęsdama. Bet tam veikimo
būdui reikia tarsi kokios sąmonės prisitvirtinimo vietos. Reikia būti savo
vietoje, kad ją galėtum peržengti, kad sąmonė įgytų transcendavimo galią.
Lietuvių poezijoje – ir tai itin ryškiai parodo Sigitas Geda – tebeveikia
gamtos sąmonė. Kritiniame tekste vartoju šį pasakymą perkeltine prasme, bet poetinėje vaizduotėje ji pasirodo tiesiogiai – realiai ir nerealiai,
mistiškai. Esame paveldėję gilų gamtos jutimą, kuris retkarčiais iškyla,
atsiliepia netgi sakraliniu atspalviu. Geda tai itin juto – savindamasis tai,
ką pajėgė pajusti, aprėpti, prakalbinti: „Aš norėčiau kalbėti tik apie savąją Gamtą, savąją, galbūt širdies, religiją (apie savą, individualų tikėjimą
mėgdavo šnekėti V. Krėvė-Mickevičius)“8. Sigitas Geda – bent dabar atrodo paskutinis, kuriame šis sakralinis gamtos jausmas atsiliepė taip išskirtinai galingai, persunktas itin stiprios vaizduotės, vaizdinijos gimdytojos.
Tai nėra panteizmas, uždarantis sąmonę gamtoje, tai gamtinio sakralumo
jutimas – atveriantis. „Buvau tokias dvi poemas parašęs – „Ledynas baltas
kaukaspenis“ ir „Delčia rudenė deivė“. Lig šiol nedaugelis gal jas skaitęs.
Aš tai vadinu mistine poezija. Kas yra gamtos mistika, ar mistinė gamtos
poezija? Kai žiūri į gamtą, ir ji tau yra beveik sapnas – baisus nerealumas.
Tose poemose daug vizijos“9. Įprasta į kraštovaizdį žvelgti kaip į realų,
esantį savo medžiais, vandenimis, keliais, kalnais, pakalnėmis, lygumomis. Bet tai sąmonės realumas, glūdintis ir S. Gedos klausime: „Ar medis
iš mūsų vaikystės nėra gyvas, realus, augantis, nors jau seniai nukirstas?
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Tatai paslaptis“10. Mene kraštovaizdis yra žvilgsnio – akies percepcija,
sąmonės ir pasąmonės, vaizduotės žaismas, akimirkos derinys. Tai, kas
akimirką matyta, jau nebėra, išnykę. Tik vizija. Keleriopas persikūnijimas
ir įsikūnijimas, materializavimasis kalba. Literatūroje, juolab poezijoje susitinkame su kalbos kraštovaizdžiu; visa, kas yra, yra pavadinta, žvilgsnis
pervadina, perkeičia. Poezijos kraštovaizdis visada poetinis.
Vienas ankstyvųjų Sigito Gedos eilėraščių, įėjęs į pirmąjį rinkinį „Pėdos“, – itin aiškiai ženklinantis ir tai, kas būdinga jo kraštovaizdžiui:
Laukinis ežeras.
Pirmapradis vanduo.
Rudosios nendrės,
Kvepiančios protėvių kūnais.
Žalios žolėtos žuvys dugne,
Ančių lizdai šiltame vandeny
Ir keturi kiaušiniai.
Tūno vėžys,
Prisidengęs skydu.
Žiemą ar vasarą –
Jokių pėdų.
O žalios žuvys
Žaliam dugne,
Jūs susapnuokit
Greičiau mane!
Vandens vaizdiniai – laukinio pirmapradžio gamtos gausmo: šiurkštumo ir švelnumo, galios ir glaudumo jungtys. Stipri jutimiškumo kalba: žalios žolėtos žuvys dugne, ančių lizdai šiltame vandeny. Kiaušinys, vėžys –
gyvybės formos, pavidalai. Vandenžmogis, nardytojas, – prasitars poetas
apie save, nuolat prisimins pirminius gyvenimo potyrius prie Teiraus ar
Sniegyno ežerų. Rinkinys „Žydinti slyva Snaigyno ežere“ (1981) prasidės „Pavasariu senovėje“: „ežeras / apsemia / žemę / žemė eit žolei liepia“. Visa išropoję, išlipę iš vandens: vėžlys, reliktinis gyvūnas, vaikystėje
dar matytas, lytėtas (vėliau nusipirktas, laikytas namuose), pieštas ir perpieštas rankraščių paraštėse, knygų puslapiuose, gyvybės ženklas, kartais
senovinės svastikos pavidalų. Žinojo ką reiškia luokinti žuvis, poezijoje
nuo pirmojo rinkinio iki dienoraštinių užrašų šis žodis ir su juo susijusios
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pagavos išliko. Žuvies įvaizdžio įvairumas, simbolinis neišsemiamumas,
patirties ir krikščioniškojo turinio jungimas.
Danguje – paukščiai, ežere – žuvys, lauke – žmogus, dirbantis, ariantis. Poemoje „Strazdas“ Gedos kraštovaizdis įgauna mitologinę dimensiją:
„Ir ūmai pasaulis plečias – / Keliasi erdvė kaip gaubtas – / Ar ne angelas
čia plazda, išvarytas iš dangaus?“. Matomas-girdimas-jaučiamas-suvokiamas pasaulis pulsuoja atsiverdamas, virsdamas žodžiais, kalbėjimo energija, metafora. Poezija veikia savo magija – liepimu būti:
Atsiverkite, žaros,
Man į amžius senus, –
Iškėtojęs sparnus,
Strazdas Lietuvą aria.
Gėriukėliai po pievas.
Plaukia upės. Kalnai.
Danguje dyvinai
Žydi saulė ir dievas.
Antano Strazdo atošauka, bet ir Antano Baranausko kalnų; mitinės
pradžios metafora: „Žydi saulė ir dievas“.
„Pėdos“ ir „Strazdas“ įformina Gedos poetinio kraštovaizdžio kūrimo
pirmąjį etapą; jo žymės – vanduo ir mitinės pradžios jausena. Antroji kraštovaizdžio skirtis galėtų būti siejama su jotvingių tema. Ji prasideda „Pėdose“
eilėraščiu „Jotvingių žemė“, matymo, kvapų jutimo, girdėjimo eilėraštis.
Pirmosios rinktinės „Varnėnas po mėnuliu“ skyrius pavadintas „Jotvingių
žemėje“. Iš jo eilėraštis „Rudens vakaras“; gali būti svarbus ir tuo, kad itin
akivaizdi einančiojo būsena (poetas mėgo vaikščioti, jo išvaikščiotos ir Vilniaus apylinkės, priemiesčiai; nors anksti pradėjusios skaudėti kojos einančiojo džiaugsmą ir apribojo). Taigi – „Rudens vakaras“:
Pro varnalėšas vieškelin išeinant,
užtemę spalvos, niaukės vakare tamsiųjų eglių eilės,
o tu sakei, kad niekur nebėra
gražesnio krašto...
Akių linijos, kas matoma, kokie augalai, kokios spalvos, kartu einančios reakcija; patirties laukas. Gražus ir baugiai temstantis; siela ieško
prieglobsčio, puiki ribos ir beribiškumo sankirta, paguoda, kylanti iš grožio, kurį tik ir liudija kalbėjimas:
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Ten, gudobelės niūksančioj pastogėj,
aprims mūs siela, bet kodėl baugu
tamsių žarų, melsvųjų ėglio uogų,
pasaulio tylinčiųjų progumų?...
Mes einam į saulėlydį, vaikeli,
mane atskirs greit prieblanda juoda,
neišsigąsk, mus gaubia visagalė
rudens auksinių bulvių valanda...
Gedos kraštovaizdyje išskirtinai daug medžių, krūmų, paukščių, žolių,
gėlių, augmenijos; tai gyvybės kraštovaizdis. Saulėlydis yra gyvybės karštovaizdžio skaudžioji linija.
Ryškus kraštovaizdžio percepcijos etapas – giesmių. Ciklas „Septynių
vasarų giesmės“ to paties pavadinimo knygoje (1991) sutelkia aukštąją
kraštovaizdžio poetiką. Ypatingas ryšys su ankstyvąja kūryba, iki „Strazdo“ imtinai: kas rodėsi horizontalėmis („Ateina dienos didelės. Apžioja
horizontus...“; „Žemyn iš šiaurės krinta traukinukas...“; „Arkliai siūbuoja
žalią horizontą...“), dabar išryškėja metaforų vertikalėmis. Metafizinės poetikos principas („Tai, ką slepia tobulos formos, yra juk dvasia. Ta šviesa,
kur užlieja, įtraukia, užvaldo“ – „Akvarelė iš Nidos II“). Dvasios gyvybė,
gyvybės dvasia, persmelkianti visa, kas yra ir bus, – garsais, judesiais,
kuždesiais: „O žvirbliai ir šarkos čirškėdamos neša man žinią, / Kas dedas
šeivamedžio žemėj, kas juodojo alksnio tėvynėj“ („Giesmė apie gyvybės
rasą“). Atsiranda ir kraštovaizdžio įvaizdis: „Kraštovaizdis! Tėvikė mano,
vilkolakiai, sniegas, vaikystė, / Šiaurinių tamsių ežerų amžina vientulystė...“ („Sūnaus palaidūno grįžimas“). Grįžtamojo ontologinio judesio pradžia, gimtinės regėjimas iš kitų perspektyvų („Giesmė iš Japonijos jūrų“).
„Giesmės“ yra aukščiausias poetinio S. Gedos regėjimo taškas – viršūnė, nuo kurios imama leistis: iš naujo sutelkiamu ir dekonstruojamu
poetiniu pasaulėvaizdžiu (ypač „Babilono atstatymas“) ir tiesioginės percepcijos užrašais, dienoraščiais, gyvavaizdžiais. Gyvavaizdžiai gali būti
suvokiami ir tiesiogine prasme – kaip gyvai patiriamas, matomas, girdimas vaizdas, kur žmonių balsai neatskiriami nuo paukščių ir kitų gyvių, o
vyšnios žydėjimas yra ir kultūros simbolis. Eilėraščiai proza „Priemiesčio
metų laikai“ iš knygos „Septynių vasarų giesmės“ gal ir buvo pirmą kartą
užčiuopto kelio pradžia: tai, kas kyla iš dvasios, iš jos vidinio kalbingumo, neatskiriamai susiję su tuo, ką regi akys: su akiračiu, regračiu. Kraštovaizdis yra ir akivaizdis; tai, kas akivaizdu, bet kas kiekvieną akimirką
kinta išlaikydamas tapatumą. Eilėraščiai proza (ne vienas dienoraščio įra-
163
šas gali būti šiam žanrui priskirtas) rodo labai stiprią prigimtinę regimojo
pasaulio prado pagavą – spalvų, linijų, jų sankirtų, ovalų: Fragmentas iš
„Priemiesčio metų laikų“: „Melvas ūkas, kursai atsiranda Šiaurės žiemą,
vasario pradžioj, anksčiau jo nebūna, dangus jau su mėlynom properšom,
medžiai, vėjas jau pakitėję. Didelė sniegena, raudonu, raudonu gūžiu, įsispyrus į šventdagį – kažkokio dievo šiaurinio, kosminio gaisro visatoje
apraiška.
Kurapkos, mažais pulkeliais lakstančios kapuose, tarp paminklų, lyg
bandytų skaityti išblukusias lenkiškas ir lotyniškas epitafijas.
Laikas leisti šaknis į dangaus ir žemės šaltinį“ („Žiema I“). Žvilgsnio
trajektorijos: horizontu (ūkas), dangum ( jau su mėlynom properšom),
žeme (kurapkos). Šaknys į dangų ir į žemę. Apie Sigitą Gedą galima sakyti: jo kraštovaizdį sudaro žemėvaizdis ir dangovaizdis.
Sigito Gedos poetinis kraštovaizdis ir laiko, ir vietos. Visada svarbu
metų laikai – tradicija nuo Kristijono Donelaičio „Metų“. Netgi paros
laiko, apšvietimo. Pagal vietoves – gimtųjų vietų, kaip grįžimo judesio,
Vieciūnų (prie Nemuno), Buivydiškių, Vilniaus priemiesčio. Bet viską
gaubia, viskam gyvybę teikia sąmonės kraštovaizdis. Kad virstų kalba,
kraštovaizdis bent kuriuo savo kraštu turi paliesti sąmonę, į brėžti joje pirmines, vos vos blykčiojančias rašto linijas.
Sigito Gedos poetinis gamtovaizdis jutimiškai erdvinis; savaip ir gaubiamojo pobūdžio, perrašantis tai, kas jau perimta poezijos, daugeriopos
sąmonės patirties.
Vėlyvieji poezijos taškai – dvi fugos XXI amžiaus gamtovaizdžiui.
3 – 4 balsų muzika savo idealia forma suteikia galimybę matyti kelių
perspektyvų gamtovaizdį: matome ir kitų matymu ir matymu, matančiu
mus matančius:
Realybė ima skambėt ne nuo ilgo žiūrėjimo,
ne nuo mūsų sučiuptosios substancijos,
o dėl to, kad vis kryžminam akį.
Vietoj savojo žvilgsnio išleisdami
čia akmens, čia dangaus patvarumą.
Tegu žiūri ir stebisi: paukščiai,
akmenys, žuvys. Tegu raižo
morenose savąją šviesą.
Taip, mes žiūrim visi, mūs žiūrėjimas skamba,
ošia ir mirguliuoja,
kaip pervis mėlynuojančios jūros.
(„Fuga XXI amžiaus gamtovaizdžiui, I“)
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Žvilgsnis yra sukryžmintas: matymas ir kitais, kitais, matančiais ir žiūrintį, tą, kuris kalba. Žiūrėjimas skamba, apima ir tai, kas gamtoje yra pirminė muzika. Žiūrėjimas yra ir spalva, pirminė gamtinė tapyba.
Apibendrinimas
Poezija yra kalbinė sąmonės kelionė – prieš keliaujančio akis iškyla ir
keičiasi vaizdai, geografija, virstanti metageografija, pirminių geo raštų
perrašymais. Antanas Strazdas – pirmas ryškus lietuvių lyrikos žingsnis,
poetinė lauko, sodiečio gyvenamos erdvės perspektyva, pripildyta gamtos gyvybės. Antanas Baranauskas – miško paslaptis, iš giliai kylantys
šlamesiai, persmelkiantys žmogaus dvasią. Sigitas Geda – kraštovaizdžio
prasmių absorbcija, perkeitimas, vandenų balso pasigirdimas. Žemėlapiai,
kuriuos mes turime sąmonėje – metažemėlapiai. Visur santykis, susidarantis iš pokalbio su kitu, iš palyginimo. Keliagubas žvilgsnis, matymas matančiais. Maži, mažas kitų akims, matuojančioms, lyginančioms. Savųjų,
vietinių, tų, kurie yra savo vietoje, dydžiai yra absoliutūs, nelygintini. Tas
paukštis, toks medis, ten patekanti saulė. Kraštovaizdžiai yra ir sąmonės
kraštovaizdžiai, realius vaizdinius sufokusuojantys unikaliu, proporcijas
perkeičiančiu būdu. Daugiapakopiai poetiniai Baranausko kalnai – kilimo,
aukštėjimo vaizdinys. Poetinė kraštovaizdžio architektūra, kalbos statinys:
Baranausko „Anykščių šilelis“ parašytas bendruoju romantizmo kodu, bet
atskiruoju egzistenciniu stiliumi. Egzistencinis stilius apima ir kalbos bei
gamtos sąlyčius, formuojančius kraštovaizdžio poetiką, suderina gamtinį
universalumą ir sąmonės suvokiamo kraštovaizdžio unikalumą. Egzistencijos šaknys žmonių bendrumuose, taip pat ir tautiniuose, sinergetiniuose
veikimuose, gestuose, keliuose, kuriuos nueina atskira, atskirumu bendrumuose įsirašanti sąmonė.
Kraštovaizdžio jutimui susidaryti reikia savumo pamato, iš kurio kyla
buvimo grožis, paslaptis, baugumas. Kraštovaizdis pirmiausia žemėvaizdis, tai, kas yra žmogaus regratyje, akių horizonte. Akių pakėlimas – atskiras veiksmas; būtinas žemės ir dangaus vienio pajutimui, kosminei jausenai, dangovaizdžiui. Egzistencinio stiliaus energija stiprėja savo pačios
akiratyje užčiuopdama mirties ir gyvybės ribas, šventumo sankirtas; jos
tarsi patikina, kad kalbama ne vien savo patirtimi, ne vien iš savęs ir ne
vien sau. Yra bendrumo, bendrųjų prasmių (archetipų) horizontas, skirtingai matomas, apsibrėžiamas, priartėjantis ir tolstantis. Žmogaus prasmių
horizonto provaizdis ir yra gamtos regratis, akiratis gamtos daiktai, su
kuriais susitinka sąmonė, iš tų susitikimų formuodama pirminius kalbi-
165
nius ir kultūrinius darinius – mitus, tautosaką. Kristijonas Donelaitis paliko mums daikto poetinę sampratą, svarbią ir gamtovaizdžiui: „Mes silpni
daiktai, kaip švents mums praneša Dovyds, / Nei žolelės ant laukų dar
augdami žydim“. Individualūs kraštovaizdžiai – ir vizualiniai (piešinių,
tapybos), ir kalbiniai – yra individo veiksmai, individualūs matymo-mąstymo apsibrėžimai, ištrūkimai iš bendrojo lauko, paliekantys jame tam
tikrus įtrūkius. Kalbinis-ritminis-intonacinis sąmonės įžengimas į gamtą
žymi sąmonės išsiskyrimą: gamta jau yra kita: ji, tu; galima ne tik matyti,
bet ir kreiptis, surasti atitikimų bei atitikmenų, svarbių metaforai ir simboliui. Atskirumo ir bendrumo, gelmės ir paviršiaus, archetipo ir universalijos sąlyčiai bei sąskambiai.
Lyrikos atskirumas yra tik atskirumas labai bendrame lauke. Tik bendrumas įgalina atskirus apsisprendimus, apsiribojimus, pasirinkimus. Antanas Strazdas savo vieninteliu rinkiniu „Giesmės svietiškos ir šventos“,
išleistu 1814 metais Vilniuje, pasirodo kaip unikalus archetipų ir universalijų sąskambių kūrėjas. Kaip archetipinis kūrybos atvejis, kuris po pusantro šimto metų lemtingai atsiliepia Sigito Gedos kūryboje, gal net jos
galimybėje, anksti pasirodžiusioje ir prasitęsinėjančioje; kai savo kelionėje šis poetas prieidavo ką atveriančio, atsiverdavo ir Strazdas. „Babilono
atstatyme“ – eilėraščio proza motyvas, vėjo, kuris yra lyg gamtos vaizdo
dvasia – dvasia su Strazdu: „Nelieskite Strazdo, nejudinkit jo nė sparnelio, leiskit vien vėjui, vienui paliest jo sparnus, užpūst kiaulpienės šviesą,
vieną mažytę dulkelę“.
Stipriame sąmonės ir kraštovaizdžio sąlytyje slypi grįžimo-pasikartojimo energija. Pasaulėvaizdžio, gamtovaizdžio ir kraštovaizdžio sąsaja – keliapusė: pasaulio vaizdą kaip sąmonės turinį veikia bendrieji gamtos principai, bet konkrečiau įtakoja prigimto krašto gamtos būdas. Kita
vertus, kas iš to būdo perimama, priklauso nuo akių, ausų, bendresne
prasme – nuo prigimties. Kuo ji stipresnė, tuo atviresnė. Ką, kaip mato,
girdi Strazdas? Daugiausia, giliausiai iš tiesų kaip paukštis, kaip strazdas,
gegužėlė. Strazdas pajunta judesį-junglumą; visa, kas yra, yra iš gyvybės
judesio.
Antano Baranausko žingsnis – kraštovaizdžio architektūros pojūtis.
Krašto vieta, kuri yra ir erdvė, ne plokščia, žvilgsniui tarsi slystant paviršiumi, o trimatė, turinti aukštį, gylį, plotį. Atitinkanti žmogaus kūną;
kūnas susiderina su erdve, įveikinėja kolizijas, kylančias iš žmogui primetamų aplinkybių, situacijų, konfliktų, gimdančių istoriją. Architektūriškai suvokiamas kraštovaizdis, per kurį, kuriuo keliauja akis, didžioji
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
keliautoja, darosi neatskiriamas nuo seniausių mitinių pagavų, kultūrinių
įbrėžų, istorinių kolizijų. Kraštovaizdžio išorinės formos užpildomos vidinių; Baranauskui tai yra žmogiškosios pajautos: „Iš to, matai, ašaros ir
atsidusimas, / Iš to šventos pajautos, iš to giesmės imas“. Išoriškumas ir
vidujiškumas darosi neatskiriamas: žvelgiama tarsi iš vidaus, o matoma ir
išoriškai. Arba atvirkščiai – tik ženklas, pėdsakas, o sąmonės kelias spirale vyniojasi gilyn. Sigitas Geda ištars būsenų virtimą į formas, virsmu tas
formas ir sukuriant.
Sigito Gedos poetinio kraštovaizdžio kūrimo pirmąjį etapą įformina
„Pėdos“ ir „Strazdas“. Išskirtinės pirminio kraštovaizdžio žymės – vanduo
ir mitinės pradžios jausena. Antroji kraštovaizdžio skirtis galėtų būti siejama su jotvingių tema. Ji prasideda „Pėdose“ eilėraščiu „Jotvingių žemė“,
matymo, kvapų jutimo, girdėjimo eilėraštis. Pirmosios rinktinės „Varnėnas po mėnuliu“ skyrius pavadintas „Jotvingių žemėje“. Darosi akivaizdi
einančiojo būsena (poetas mėgo vaikščioti, jo išvaikščiotos ir Vilniaus
apylinkės, priemiesčiai; nors anksti pradėjusios skaudėti kojos einančiojo
džiaugsmą ir apribojo). Eilėraščiui svarbu, kas matoma, kokie augalai, kokios spalvos, kaip visa siejasi su patirties lauku.
Sigito Gedos poetinėje vaizdinijoje išskirtinai daug medžių, krūmų,
paukščių, žolių, gėlių, augmenijos; tai gyvybės kraštovaizdis.
Ryškus kraštovaizdžio percepcijos etapas – giesmių. Ciklas „Septynių
vasarų giesmės“ to paties pavadinimo knygoje (1991) sutelkia aukštąją
kraštovaizdžio poetiką. Ypatingas ryšys su ankstyvąja kūryba, iki „Strazdo“ imtinai: kas rodėsi horizontalėmis, dabar ryškėja metaforų vertikalėmis. Metafizinės poetikos principas, formos tobulumą susiejantis su
dvasia. Dvasios gyvybė, gyvybės dvasia, persmelkianti visa, kas yra ir
bus, – garsais, judesiais, kuždesiais. Atsiranda ir kraštovaizdžio įvaizdis:
„Kraštovaizdis! Tėviškė mano, vilkolakiai, sniegas, vaikystė, / Šiaurinių
tamsių ežerų amžina vientulystė...“ („Sūnaus palaidūno grįžimas“). Grįžtamojo ontologinio judesio pradžia, gimtinės regėjimas iš kitų perspektyvų („Giesmė iš Japonijos jūrų“).
„Giesmės“ yra aukščiausias poetinio Sigito Gedos regėjimo taškas –
viršūnė, nuo kurios imama leistis: iš naujo sutelkiamu ir dekonstruojamu
poetiniu pasaulėvaizdžiu (ypač rinkiniu „Babilono atstatymas“) ir tiesioginės percepcijos užrašais, dienoraščiais, gyvavaizdžiais. Gyvavaizdžiai
gali būti suvokiami ir tiesiogine prasme – kaip gyvai patiriamas, matomas, girdimas vaizdas, kur žmonių balsai neatskiriami nuo paukščių ir
kitų gyvių, o vyšnios žydėjimas yra ir kultūros simbolis. Eilėraščiai proza
167
„Priemiesčio metų laikai“ iš knygos „Septynių vasarų giesmės“: tai, kas
kyla iš dvasios, iš jos vidinio kalbingumo, neatskiriamai susiję su tuo, ką
regi akys: su akiračiu, regračiu. Kraštovaizdis yra ir akivaizdis; tai, kas
akivaizdu, bet kas kiekvieną akimirką kinta išlaikydamas tapatumą. Eilėraščiai proza (ne vienas dienoraščio įrašas gali būti šiam žanrui priskirtas)
rodo labai stiprią prigimtinę regimojo pasaulio prado pagavą – spalvų,
linijų, jų sankirtų, ovalų. Sigito Gedos gamtovaizdį sudaro žemėvaizdžio
ir dangovaizdžio vienybė. Kelias, kelionė patirties akiračiu tarp žemės ir
dangaus, įrėminančių kraštovaizdį, patirties žemę.
Sigito Gedos poetinis gamtovaizdis nėra abstraktus – ir laiko, ir vietos.
Visada svarbu metų laikai – tradicija nuo Kristijono Donelaičio „Metų“.
Netgi paros laiko, apšvietimo. Susieti su vietovėmis – gimtųjų vietų, kaip
grįžimo judesio, sodybos prie Nemuno, kur vasarodavo, Buivydiškių, Vilniaus priemiesčio. Bet viską gaubia, viskam gyvybę teikia unikalus sąmonės kraštovaizdis, archetipų ir universalijų lydinys. Vėlyvieji eilėraščiai,
pavadinti fugomis („Fuga XXI amžiaus gamtovaizdžiui, I, II“) atspindi
žvilgsnio į gamtą keliagubumą, muzikinio ir spalvinio prado sublimaciją.
Pastabos, literatūra
Sigitas Geda, Adolėlio kalendoriai. Dienoraščiai, gyvavaizdžiai, užrašai, tyrinėjimai, Vilnius, Lietuvos rašytojų sąjungos leidykla, 2003, 666.
2
Sigitas Geda , Ežys ir Grigo ratai, Vilnius, Vaga, 1989, 40.
3
Ten pat, 146.
4
Ten pat, 152.
5
Sigitas Geda, Man gražiausias klebonas – varnėnas. Pokalbiai apie poeziją ir
apie gyvenimą, Vilnius, Vyturys, 1998, 151.
6
Arvydas Šliogeris, Apie Save ir Kitą, Pašvaistė, Kultūros gyvenimo žurnalas
jaunimui, 2009, 1,1.
7
Sigitas Geda, Vasarė ajero šneka, Dienoraščiai ir tyrinėjimai, Vilnius, Vaga,
2008, 501.
8
Gairės: Mokytojams ir moksleivams (sud. Viktorija Daujotytė, Arvydas Šliogeris), Kaunas, Šviesa, 1993, 41.
9
Ten pat, 52.
10
Ten pat, 40.
1
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
La perspective des recherches
imagologiques. Image de Paris dans
la littérature lituanienne
Imagologijos tyrimų perspektyva.
Paryžiaus įvaizdis lietuvių
literatūroje
Nijolė VAIČIULĖNAITĖ-KAŠELIONIENĖ
Université Pédagogique de Vilnius
Rue T. Ševčenkos 31, LT-03111 Vilnius
[email protected]
Santrauka
Straipsnio tikslas – nubrėžti imagologijos tyrimų perspektyvą ir pritaikyti jos
metodologines nuostatas tiriant Paryžiaus įvaizdį lietuvių literatūroje. Siūloma
nauja imagologijos tyrimų kryptis – KITO įvaizdžio analizė buvusio socialistinio
lagerio zonoje, ieškant sąlyčio taškų su postkolonijine kritika. Nagrinėjant pasirinktą objektą, išskirtos kelios svarbiausios nuostatos: keturi fundamentalūs požiūriai į užsienį (manija, fobija, filija ir idiokrazija) ir trys analizės lygmenys (referentas, sociokultūrinė vaizduotė, kūrinio struktūros). Išanalizavus tris Paryžiaus
įvaizdžio lietuvių literatūroje pavyzdžius, galima drąsiai teigti, kad imagologijos
strategijos pasiteisina.
Esminiai žodžiai: imagologija, manija, fobija, filija, idiokrazija, ideologija,
utopija, mimezė.
Abstract
The article “The Image of Paris in the Lithuanian literature. Perspectives of
Imagology Research” aims to reveal the perspective of the imagology and uses
its methodological rules in the anlysis of the Parisian image in the Lithuanian
literature. It presents a new field of imagology research- the image of „the other“
in the works of former Soviet block authors, and uses post-colonial critique for
comparison. In the analysis of the subject there appear several basic principles:
four fundamental approaches to a foreign culture (mania, phobia, philia, idiocracy) and three levels of research (referent, sociocultural imagination, structures of
the literary work). Following the analysis of three literary works the author claims
that the strategies of imagology research serve the purpose.
Key words: imagology, mania, phobia, philia, idiocracy, ideology, utopia, mimesis.
169
En parlant des études imagologiques en Europe, Yves Clavaron
présente les chercheurs francophones et anglophones, allemands, italiens, espagnols et des Pays-Bas, ce qui partage la carte de la géographie littéraire de l’Europe en zone où de tels études ont déjà une assez
longue tradition, et une zone où elles ne se font pas1. C’est vrai que le
terme «imagologie» dans le contexte du comparatisme lituanien est
nouveau, comme il l’est aussi pour les recherches comparatistes des
pays postsoviétiques. Ce n’est pas étonnant ayant une expérience de
vie «derrière le rideau de fer» qui divisait le monde de telle façon que
l’image de l’autre était déformée servant l’idéologie du marxisme-léninisme. Néanmoins ça serait trop simple d’apprécier toutes les images
de l’étranger des temps soviétiques comme idéologiques. On peut dire
que la critique postsoviétique a des points communs avec la critique
postcoloniale: on a commencé les nouvelles études de la littérature
soviétique et de son contexte socioculturel, et on peut constater déjà
que les réflexions dans ce domaine mènent naturellement vers les recherches imagologiques, surtout si on les considère comme l’étude des
représentations littéraires de l’étranger métodique et objectif. C’est là
qu’on peut voire une nouvelle perspective d’imagologie: appliquer ses
repères méthodologiques dans l’étude de la spécificité de l’image de
l’autre dans la zone des pays sortis du camp socialiste.
Mais tout d’abord il faut se persuader que la stratégie de l’analyse que
l’imagologie propose est efficace pour l’étude des images de l’étranger.
En cherchant les repères méthodologiques pour l’analyse imagologique, on se tourne vers la France, bien que, selon Yves Clavaron, les
études imagologiques ne sont pas la spécificité française. Néanmoins ce
sont les français: Yves Chevrel, Daniel-Henri Pageaux, Jean-Marc Moura,
Alain Montandon et autres ont proposé la stratégie élaborée de l’analyse
de l’objet. En voilà quelques unes des repères essentielles qu’il faut prendre en compte si on veut faire une analyse imagologique: trois attitudes
fondamentales par rapport à l’étranger: la manie, la phobie, la philie (qui
serait l’indice d’un véritable dialogue des cultures), et la quatrième, idiocrasie (regard individuel et particulier); trois niveaux d’analyse: le référent, l’imaginaire socioculturel, les structures d’une œuvre; (privilégier le
référent, c’est insister sur le réalisme de l’image. Il s’agit alors de «l’imagination reproductrice», définie par Ricoeur, en oposition de «l’imagination productrice», dans le cas de laquelle la question du référent passe
au second plan, et la représentation littéraire est considérée comme une
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
création ou une recréation.) Jean-Marc Moura, en suivant Ricoeur, propose d’envisager une typologie des images de l’étranger entre un pôle
idéologique et un pôle utopique2. Pour le phénomène idéologique, Ricoeur
déploie trois couches de sens: marxiste (idéologie comme phénomène de
distorsion/dissimulation); idéologie conçue comme légitimation de l’autorité; idéologie liée à la nécessité par un groupe quelconque de se donner une
image de lui-même, de «se représenter», au sens théâtral du mot. En ce qui
concerne les représentations utopiques, elles sont excentriques par rapport
aux schèmes symboliques du groupe et constituent souvent un contre-modèle servant la critique des valeurs. Insistant sur la nécessité de prendre en
compte l’imaginaire social, il trouve les pronoms latins «alter» et «alius»,
dont ALTER est l’autre d’un couple où se définit une identité et donc son
contraire et ALIUS est l’autre indéfini, mis à distance de toute association
facile, l’autre utopique. Trois étapes de l’analyse: le repérage des grandes
structures (le plus souvent oppositionnelles) du texte, les grandes unités
thématiques, enfin le niveau lexical, en accentuant les mots grâce auxquels
s’écrit l’altérité. Par là on arrive à discerner «l’organisation générale du
texte» et «les principales stratégies narratives ou discursives», selon une démarche qui emprunte ses principes à l’anthropologie structurale de Claude
Lévi-Strauss. En ce qui concerne l’image de la ville il s’agit, comme Henri
Garric le souligne, de savoir quand il y a ville en littérature, quand on peut
affirmer que la littérature parle de la ville3. Il convient d’étudier le répertoire
qui permet, dans les œuvres littéraires, la constitution d’une représentation
de la ville. La compréhension de ce qu’est «la ville en littérature» passe par
la description d’un vaste ensemble de «pré-représentations» héritées et qui
interviennent aussi bien dans la production du texte que dans sa réception.
En l’analysant (Garic) on pourrait avoir recours au cercle de la représentation du temps chez Ricoeur (dans son Temps et Récit) :«mimèsis I» (précompréhension), «mimèsis II» (configuration de cette pré-compréhension);
«mimèsis III» (réception de lecture où l’expérience humaine se trouve transformée). Enfin on présente le «concept de ville» (totalité délimitée extérieurement et organisée intérieurement; face aux représentations produites on
indique l’originalité de la nouvelle conception de l’auteur)4.
Je vais essayer de me baser sur ses repères en analysant mon sujet.
Comme le thème L’image de Paris dans la littérature lituanienne est vaste, je vais passer en revue quelques images de Paris spécifiques et m’arrêter sur un roman d’un jeune auteur lituanien qui marque, à mon avis, le
tournant dans les représentations de l’étranger en littérature lituanienne.
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L’image de Paris dans notre littérature apparait au temps de la première indépendance de Lituanie du XX siècle (3 – 4 décennie) avec
l’orientation nouvelle de notre culture vers l’Occident et vers la France
en particulier, surtout après l’avènement du nazisme en Allemagne. Plusieurs écrivains et hommes de lettres, peintres et artistes lituaniens faisait
le stage ou voyageait à Paris et publiaient leurs impressions de la ville et
du milieu parisien. Nous avons «Les lettres de Paris» et «Les lettres de
France» de nos écrivains classiques Vienuolis et Vaižgantas, nous avons
aussi le roman d’une femme-écrivain Liūnė Janušytė Une faute de correction (1938)5. Dans tous ces cas l’image de Paris présente l’exemple à suivre comme ville qui crée l’atmosphère bienveillant et particulier pour les
nouveaux-venus et notamment pour les artistes qui trouvent dans la ville
le trésor de l’héritage de l’art et de la culture européenne en général; la représentation de Paris y est réelle et magique à la fois. Le regard sur la ville
dans le roman de Janušytė porte des signes d’une manie – c’est une ville
des amoureux, son quartier latin – un lieu idéal pour la bohème littéraire
et la bohème tout court, une ville de liberté, en comparant avec laquelle
Kaunas (capitale provisoire de Lituanie) apparait comme une province
culturelle, et ce provincialisme est l’objet de la moquerie. Si on considère une telle représentation comme idéologique (en comprenant par là
nécessité pour un groupe quelconque – ici bohème artistique lituanienne
à Paris - de «se représenter», de se mettre en jeu et en scène), que penser
d’une image de Paris totalement inverse, dessinée par le même auteur en
1969 où Janušytė présente le visage du quartier latin «couvert des abscès
du monde bourgeois»6. Nous avons trouvé chez Ricoeur le premier niveau du concept «idéologique» nommé «marxiste». Il s’agit de l’idéologie comme phénomène de distorsion / dissimulation, ce qui convient bien
dans notre cas. Et alors l’étape suivante serait d’analyser une pré-représentation, le pré-texte d’un texte, qui aurait pu découvrir les motifs d’une
telle déclaration. On sait que Liūnė Janušytė était obligé de désapprouver
son attitude antérieure envers l’Occident, le camp capitaliste ennemi, et
manifester sa conception du monde marxiste-léniniste pour pouvoir vivre
tranquillement dans son pays natal. Pour le lecteur qui sait lire les textes
soviétiques, l’image trop répugnante du quartier latin (qui cache en soi
une dose remarquable d’humour noir même) apparait comme une exagération voulue et laisse constater apparemment la manière «de dire le
contraire de ce qu’on pense». Il s’agit alors du cas considéré aujourd’hui
comme un des procédés de la langue d’Esope qu’il est nécessaire d’ana-
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
lyser si on veut se faire une notion véritable de l’imaginaire soviétique,
système complexe et compliqué.
Une autre étape dans l’histoire de l’image de Paris commence avec la
deuxième indépendance de Lituanie qui a donné l’accès à des nouvelles
interprétations libres de l’image de l’étranger. Nous n’avons pas le but
d’étudier toutes les images contemporaines de Paris, nous en avons choisi
trois qui pourrait représenter trois attitudes sur l’étranger.
La première, c’est celle de Herkus Kunčius, qui présente la position
postmoderne de nos jeunes écrivains, l’œuvre anti-traditionnaliste dans
le contexte de la littérature lituanienne. Le protagoniste de son roman Le
moment imparfait (1998) erre dans la capitale de France possédé par l’humeur noir, qu’on pourrait nommer nouveau «spleen de Paris», et son regard sur le monde est sceptique par excellence7. C’est juste le contraire de
ce qu’on pourrait attendre de l’écrivain de la nouvelle époque, devant lequel les nouveaux horizons s’ouvrent et qui est libre de plonger dans l’univers de la culture occidentale, riche en couleurs et en formes, un seul fait
déjà qui peut produire l’enthousiasme. On ne peut pas dire que Kunčius
manque d’intérêt pour la culture française ou la littérature européenne.
Les intertextes qu’on trouve dans le roman le prouvent. Les écrivains et
les œuvres citées manifestent la disposition de l’âme du conteur et aident
à former l’image spécifique de Paris. Le titre du roman de Patric Suskind
Les Parfums y mentionné accentue la puanteur non seulement du quartier
arabe où le protagoniste habite, mais exhale sur toute la ville (on peut le
flairer partout comme une partie des objets et des espaces parfumés) pour
devenir enfin un élément du concept de l’étrangeté que le narrateur souligne ayant recours aussi à L’Etranger et au Mythe de Sisyphe d’Albert
Camus. Le protagoniste se sent débarassé de l’illusion du sens de la vie;
au lieu des valeurs esthétiques et étiques reconnues il déclare les valeurs
hédonistes, dictées par les instincts, ce qui rappelle «l’homme naturel» de
Camus. C’est logique que Paris ne peut rien donner à un personnage qui,
reconnaissant la ville comme son lieu de séjour, nie son aspect spirituel.
Selon Audinga Peluritytė, ce renoncement ou l’écart voulu est programmé
d’avance: on s’écarte ainsi non seulement d’une hiérarchie des valeurs,
mais aussi d’un complexe d’infériorité qui persécute l’homme de L’Est de
l’Europe dans la capitale de France8. Il faut prendre en compte cet aspect
de l’imaginaire social qui influence la pré-représentation de l’image de
Paris dans le roman de Herkus Kunčius. Il est difficile de dire s’il s’agit
d’une image idéologique ou utopique (plutôt ce dernier, car l’image est
173
excentrique et présente un certain contre-modèle en rapport avec les représentations traditionnelles). Mais Paris n’a même pas de visage, et on
pourrait constater alors un manque du répertoire pour la constitution d’une
représentation de la ville. En parlant d’identité, dont la nature se découvre
analysant le rapport entre ALTER et ALIUS, on pourrait indiquer l’existence de cette dernière cathégorie comme manifestant un refus radical de
la culture du groupe. Ce qui parait original dans ce roman, c’est l’étique et
l’esthétique de la provocation. Le regard sur l’étranger peut être qualifié
comme idiocrasie, car il est basé sur la position individuelle que l’auteur
manifeste volontairement.
On devrait situer dans le pôle contraire Les Lettres de Paris de Rimantas Vanagas9. C’est une prose documentaire qui manifeste les valeurs
traditionnelles de la culture lituanienne: l’attachement à son pays, le lien
vital avec sa terre natale. L’objectif de l’écriture consiste à concevoir son
identité et le destin de son peuple dans le contexte de la culture française.
L’auteur vise cet objectif en ayant recours à la mémoire de la culture lituanienne: outre ses propres impressions, il publie les lettres de l’écrivain
Antanas Vienuolis-Žukauskas, son compatriote qui les a écrites en 1937
à Paris, il cite les lettres écrites en France par un autre compatriote, un
grand classique de la littérature lituanienne Vaižgantas, il mentionne les
lettres de Paris par Oscar Milosz, il commente également le livre Dans la
foire aux illusions par Laimonas Tapinas. L’image intertextuelle de Paris
est construite à partir des textes antérieurs d’autres auteurs, tout en les
mettant en parallèle et en ajoutant ses propres impressions. Ce qui intéresse surtout le lecteur des Lettres de Paris, ce n’est pas Paris en général mais les idées qu’il fait venir à l’esprit des habitants d’Anykščiai qui
ont échappé à la vie quotidienne. Le récit est manifestement dominé par
l’imaginaire reproducteur, l’image transmet le programme idéologique et
culturel du groupe entier. Il est intéressant et significatif, parce qu’il fait
découvrir certains détails de l’ambiance parisienne, les singularités du caractère des Français et de la culture française, il confirme aussi la vitalité
des liens culturels. ALTER de l’énonciation est l’autre d’un couple dont
l’analyse vise au dialogue interculturel à droits égaux; c’est ce que les
imagologues appellent «la philie».
Le troisième exemple, c’est le roman Les émigrés d’un été de Valdas
Papievis10. Nous essayerons de l’analyser selon la méthode proposée par
les imagologues.
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Mais tout d’abord, de quoi s’agit-il dans ce roman? La réponse peut
être brève: il s’agit des errances d’un Lituanien à Paris, un Lituanien qui
est venu pour des cours d’été. En tant que l’errant se présente lui-même
comme écrivain Valdas de Lituanie, on peut considérer ce roman comme
les notes d’un voyageur. D’autant plus que sa composition est fragmentaire : tout le texte est divisé en de petits segments de longueur différente;
un nouveau segment ne prolonge pas nécessairement l’histoire antérieure.
La position de l’énonciateur qui change sans cesse (presque toutes les personnes grammaticales sont employées, le plus souvent «tu», «il», «elle»,
«je») traduit différents points de vue. Ayant décidé que «l’expérience vaut
mieux que la science», le protagoniste du roman valorise les errances sans
but à travers Paris autant que les études universitaires. Ces errances sont
marquées par la communication avec les voyageurs du monde entier; deux
femmes - Natalie et Mélanie qui tiennent la compagnie à notre errant,
l’aident à apprivoiser une capitale européenne et à faire d’une ville étrangère la sienne.
Le micro-univers du roman est formé des oppositions figuratives et
thématiques. L’opposition «le sien – l’étranger» est à la base de l’opposition entre les Polonais et tous les autres étrangers: on appelle «Polonais» les imigrés de l’Est ; ils se distinguent des autres étrangers par leur
incapacité de se réjouir ; ils dégagent de la tristesse, ils portent en eux
une souffrance qu’ils ont peur de perdre, parce qu’ils ne sauraient plus
quoi faire11. La clocharde oppose elle-même aux autres vagabonds de la
Seine: ils considèrent le destin comme un malheur, alors que le Vagabondage, la notion qui, au niveau lexical, manifeste le plus clairement
l’altérité, accentue le vagabondage en tant qu’un mode de vie choisi librement12. Le voyage du protagoniste «à travers Paris, c’est un voyage à
travers les labyrinthes d’idées et de sentiments qui reprennent le réseau
de rues et de ruelles». Selon Eric Landowski13, le voyageur peut être tenté
non seulement de reconstruire l’ailleurs de façon à se l’approprier, mais à
se découvrir lui-même partiellement en se laissant prendre à une nouvelle
forme de présence à soi, dont le lieu, peu à peu, lui fournira les points de
cristallisation.
Au niveau du discours, on aperçoit plusieurs isotopies qui se complèttent: celle du cercle, celle du labyrinthe, de la toile d’araignée, du miroir.
Le cercle divise l’espace de la ville en plusieurs parties. Le centre et le
cœur de Paris, c’est l’île de la Cité avec les ponts, et à partir de là «une
multitude des villes qui ne se ressemblent qu’en apparence s’étendent, tel-
175
les des cercles, partent en ondulant dans tous les sens, et pour accéder de
l’une à l’autre…»14. L’impression qu’on reste à chaque fois au-delà d’une
limite tracée par on ne sait pas qui est liée à l’incapacité de s’ouvrir, d’être
à l’écoute de l’autre. Au cours du roman, le sujet se promène en ville, seul
ou à deux, jusqu’au moment où il a enfin “essayé de se distancier, de se
dissocier de lui-même en traçant avec une craie un cercle ironique”15.
L’équivalent externe du labyrinthe d’idées et de sentiments, ce sont les
quartiers de Paris: «[…] chaque quartier est comme un labyrinthe dont on
ne sort pas, on ne peut que passer d’un labyrinthe à un autre ; où se retrouvera-t-on, que trouvera-t-on derrière un coin?»16.
La figure de la toile d’araignée caractérise l’agent collectif. Les gens,
c’est «une infinité de petites araignées tissant une immense toile». Bien
que parfois, ayant perdu la patience, «l’araignée ait envie de s’échapper»,
l’instinct vital lui dit: «dès que tu te sépares, tu disparaîtras»17.
La figure du miroir réunit des détails séparés en une unité: «Il regardait
cette ville qu’il essayait d’apprivoiser et qu’il n’arrivait pas à apprivoiser,
mais il paraissait qu’il regardait dans un miroir dont la surface bombée
reflétait son propre visage»18.
Le miroir reflète ce qu’on voit et, en tant qu’un objet magique, il défigure en même temps l’image, la clive comme on clive la personnalité en
ouvrant les profondeurs effrayantes.
Le protagoniste du roman retourne sans cesse au centre géographique
de Paris qu’est l’île de la Cité. C’est un espace topique du roman rempli d’un temps particulier, non-vide. Cet espace topique se transforme en
un espace utopique, celui de réalisation. On atteint l’objet de valeur: ce
qui est ETRANGER devient SIEN. Paris, refuge des vagabonds, est vu
comme «un mythe qui s’ouvre par lui-même et qui est construit par un
rite répété tous les soirs».
L’imagologie n’est pas limitée à l’analyse textuelle immanente. Henri
Garric, l’auteur du livre Portraits de villes, souligne qu’une ville en tant
qu’objet sémiotique superdéterminé peut être défini comme un espace saturé d’images de représentations.
Les sources construisant l’image de Paris sont des photographies, des
cartes postales, des tableaux qu’on a vus, des chansons qu’on a entendues, des œuvres d’écrivains célèbres qu’on a lues. L’espace parisien est
traversé sans cesse par les images de Vilnius et de toute la Lituanie: en
marchant dans une rue de Paris, «il arrivait de jeter un coup d’œil sur une
entrée et on découvrait tout à coup une petite cour de Vilnius, oubliée
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
depuis longtemps […], on se sentait soudain comme si on était pénétré
dans les profondeurs de son être»19; dans le marché du quai de Mégisserit,
de petits poissons nagent au-dessus des «étendues surnaturelles des forêts
sous-marines qui sont encore plus mystérieuses que les forêts lituaniennes
de Daukantas»20; la clocharde de la Seine est comparée à l’icône de la
Sainte Vierge Marie de la Porte d’Aurore de Vilnius; un bouquiniste de la
Seine montre une carte, et le protagoniste se réjouit d’y avoir trouvé des
noms de villes et de villages lituaniens, écrits selon une orthographie non
lituanienne.
Les couches de l’imaginaire social que nous venons de mentionner
pourraient être appelées, en suivant Paul Ricoeur, la première mimèsis
(«mimèsis I»).
Au niveau de modification de la conception antérieure, le niveau qu’on
appelle la deuxième mimèsis («mimèsis II»), le protagoniste construit
l’image de Paris, alors que Paris, à son tour, le crée, lui. Dans les rues
de Paris, le protagoniste-sujet effectue «l’acte de dépasser lui-même» en
entrant dans l’AUTRE, en pénétrant dans une âme étrangère de la ville,
dans ce qui est inconnu. C’est ainsi qu’un lituanien Valdas qui est étranger
à Paris, devient «émigré d’un été», et ce dernier se transforme en un vrai
émigré. En participant à la transformation du sujet, la ville qui était un
objet devient un sujet capable séduire, fasciner, attirer par des promesses
trompeuses. A la fin du roman, le lecteur rencontre de nouveau les figures du cercle et de la toile d’araignée. Le roman finit par une question,
de sorte que le doute concernant l’état du sujet persiste. L’analyse de la
réception de l’œuvre nous amène au niveau de la troisième mimèsis («mimèsis III»).
Essayons de résumer les résultats de notre analyse dans le contexte
théorique d’imagologie. Tout d’abord, le Paris de Papievis, une image
d’étranger, est présenté comme AUTRE et DIFFERENT – mystérieux,
énigmatique, équivoque, agressif, capable de se transformer et de transformer autrui, d’intégrer sans cesse des éléments nouveaux et DIFFERENTS.
Deuxièmement, le Paris de Papievis est remarquable par sa tolérance,
sa compréhension, son hospitalité. La plus grande valeur, c’est la liberté
d’individu qu’on propage et l’ouverture culturelle, le besoin de partager
son héritage culturel.
Troisièmement, le Paris de Valdas Papievis contient des éléments de
la culture lituanienne. Le roman se distingue par un imaginaire poétique
177
et la vision romantique du monde qu’on peut lier aux particularités de la
culture lituanienne. On peut indiquer la base historique de «l’imaginaire
social» : après la chute du «rideau de fer», le champ d’attraction de Paris
s’est renforcé, et les vagues de migration ont fait ressortir des valeurs nomades.
L’image de Paris dans le roman est basée sur les représentations traditionnelles, en créant l’écart nécessaire de la totalité de ces représentations
pour que nous puissions la considérer comme originale et novatrice. Elle
est idéologique et utopique à la fois; se trouve entre ALTER et ALIUS
et son cas peut être qualifié comme idiocrasie. La littérature lituanienne
n’avait pas jusqu’alors de telle image de Paris dynamique et humanisée.
Trois interprétations de Paris – trois voies vers la connaissance de
l’AUTRE. Dans le cas de Herkus Kunčius la représentation de la ville est
destructive et pleine d’esprit de révolte, ce qui incite le refus des valeurs
reconnues; Rimantas Vanagas témoigne la possibilité du dialogue équivalent; Valdas Papievis considère l’assimilation de l’AUTRE comme le perpétuel devenir de la personnalité, nécessaire pour l’existence digne de soi.
Notre analyse nous a persuadé que la stratégie de recherche que l’imagologie propose permet d’étudier à fond les représentations de l’étranger
et que sa méthode est dynamique, mobile, ce qui garantit son avenir.
Références
Imagologie, par Yves Clavaron, La recherche en littérature générale et comparée en France en 2007. Bilan et perspectives : études réunies par Anne Tomiche et Karl Zieger, Presses Universitaires de Valenciennes, 2007, 81-90.
2
Jean-Marc Moura, L‘Europe littéraire et l’ailleurs, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1998, 48-55.
3
Henri Garric, Portraits de villes, Paris: Honoré Champion éditeur, 2007, 12-16.
4
Henri Garric, 2007, 19-30.
5
Liūnė Janušytė, Korektūros klaida, Kaunas: Sakalas, 1938.
6
Liūnė Janušytė, Lotynų kvartale, Atsiminimai apie Petrą Cvirką, sud. A. Mickienė, Vilnius: Vaga, 1969, 427.
7
Herkus Kunčius, Būtasis dažninis kartas, Vilnius: „Tyto alba“, 1998.
8
Audinga Peluritytė, „Rašymo „linksmybės“ Herkaus Kunčiaus prozoje“,
Naujausioji lietuvių literatūra /1988-2002I, Vilnius: Alma littera, 2003, 220224.
9
Rimantas Vanagas, Laiškai iš Paryžiaus, Vilnius: UAB „Petro ofsetas“,
2008.
10
Valdas Papievis, Vienos vasaros emigrantai, Vilnius: Baltos lankos, 2003.
11
Ibid, 32.
1
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
12
13
Ibid, 308-309.
Éric Landowski, Présences de l’autre, Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 99.
Valdas Papievis, 2003, 45.
Ibid, 328.
Ibid, 223.
Ibid, 186-187.
Ibid, 145.
Ibid, 63.
Ibid, 14.
179
“The world repeats itself in
its boredom”1. Third Spaces in
Lithuanian Literature
„Pasaulis nuobodžiai pasikartoja“2.
Trečiosios erdvės lietuvių
literatūroje
Christina PARNELL
Gutenbergstraße 09
D-99423 Weimar
[email protected]
Summary
In this paper, Homi Bhabha’s notion of the “third space” will be applied to
images and topics of fluctuating identity in Marius Ivaškevičius’ novel Žali (“The
Greens”, 2002) which is a fascinating example of the productive discussion of
dichotomous constellations for Lithuanian and European culture. His novel deconstructs the myth of the Lithuanian partisan war against the Soviet army in the
years between 1944 and 1953. The antagonism between the Reds and the Greens
is being broken up by topoi of equivalence, likeness and repetition as well as
continuing identity games. It represents the artistic opening-up of a ‚third space‘
where dualism and essentialism are overcome. This “third space”, the Other, is
represented as an intellectual space which benefits from the knowledge of both
sides of the existing antagonisms by the author. Hence it appears that Russians as
well as Lithuanians are both victims and perpetrators, subjugated to totalitarian
power structures. Equivalence and likeness as well as the changeability of identity
are the basis to see the Other in an open and processual circle of interpretation.
Key words: colonialism, post-colonial discourse, third space, deconstruction,
national myths, Lithuanian partisan war, Soviet occupation
The third-space concept, which refers to Homi Bhabha’s widely discussed Location of Culture (1994)3, has emerged as the principal category
of the post-colonial discourse. Bhabha derives it from the double vision
of the migrant who, by using his homelessness, grows into a “productive parasite” to the cultures of both his mother and his host country. This
inseparable fusion will create the so-called hybrid identity of a “third
space”, which is characterized by difference, heterogeneity and instability
as well as by the undermining of dichotomous constellations.
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Where, how, and in which constellations in Lithuanian literature are
colonial relationships described? How far can we talk about a post-colonial cultural situation, and, finally, does it make sense directly to apply
post-colonial theory as widely used by Anglo-Saxon critics on Lithuanian literature? Our investigation into possible “third space” in Lithuanian
literature will focus on the process of cultural confrontation and fusion
which creates the “third space” first of all as an intellectual realm.
If we take the relationship between Soviet Lithuania and Soviet Russia
to be a complex case of colonialism, the question must be raised how the
specific dependency of the colonized (that is Vilnius) from the colonizer
(that is Moscow) is expressed in comparison to the respective constellations described by Edward Said4. In contrast to the traditional colonialism
in which the imperial power was incorporated by the West or the North
while the East and the South represented the colonies, the specific case of
colonized Soviet Lithuania can be defined by the fact that the heart of the
empire was in the East, the colony itself, which was shaped by a Western
self-image, however, in the West.
Furthermore, which would support the idea of applying post-colonial
theory on a colonial relationship, since the beginning of the Great Thaw
in the Soviet Union, there has been a period of mutual cultural exchange
between Lithuania and Russia and the other republics of the former union,
so that we can state that even Lithuanian culture did have some influence
on the Russian. Evidence for mutual influence and interference may be
drawn, for instance, from the connection between the Lithuanian streamof-consciousness novel (Mykolas Sluckis) and the Russian bytovaja proza
(Jurij Trifonov). That the bilingualism which had been decreed upon public life had contributed to the Russification of the Lithuanian language and
that the domination of Russian culture had corrupted and even impaired
Lithuanian patriotism cannot be put into doubt5.
However, the comparatively long period of Soviet occupation in
Lithuania had, involuntarily or not, permitted creative adoptions of Russian culture and enabled the Lithuanians to move more or less freely and
to express themselves in two or more cultures. This is a potential for the
new Europe which can hardly be underestimated revealing at the same
time the particular nature of Lithuanian colonial past. Any Lithuanian
writer, who, due to the experience of the Soviet era and of contemporary
neo-liberalism, is familiar both with the West and the East, will benefit
from the situation in-between by drawing productive knowledge from it.
181
Post-colonial theory will help to analyze the challenge to Western hegemony arising from the growing interference of national and ethnic minorities. However, Lithuanian culture is neither a minority culture in its
own country nor a migrant one putting West-European culture under the
pressure. But with regard to the power centers in the European Union, it
is located (once again) at the periphery. This is a specific threshold situation which connects it with the fate of the migrants in the metropolis of
the West. Thus post-colonial theory appears to be particularly promising
when applied upon contemporary Lithuanian literature.
In recent Lithuanian literature, the rendering of colonial experience
differs widely in its artistic strategy: as the day of reckoning with the
former colonial empire of Russia and with the opportunism of the father
generation in the stories of refusal or the symbolic killing of the father
(Ričardas Gavelis, Jurgis Kunčinas; Sigitas Parulskis), in the pounding to
pieces of national myth (Sigitas Parulskis), or in the provocative revision
of national historiography (Marius Ivaškevičius).
In this paper, I am going to focus on Marius Ivaškevičius6, a narrator
and playwright born in 1973. The persistent debate of the problem of nation and identity in Ivaškevičius’s writings, his debunking of the heroic, is
concomitant with the postmodern deconstruction of Lithuanian national
myth, with the specific way of re-reading national identity: Lithuanians
and their geographical neighbours in the present and past, their political and military allies or enemies – Russian and German, Swedish and
French, as well as the foreigners in their own country, the Jews – , have
aroused an antagonism which was continuously dissolved, for their interdependence and equivalence would undermine any clear-cut dichotomy.
Irony is shed upon sacred national topics (the Lithuanian Partisan War
1944–1953 in the novel Žali (“The Greens”); the Siberian deportation in
the play Malыš (“The Small One”), as the author removes the taboos and
stereotypes of Lithuanian historiography. Both the setting and the profaning of the mythical sufferance produce grotesque effects. The irreverence
for authority can also be noticed in works of art taking up current causes
for conflict, as in the play Apgaubti (“Shielded”), which is a parody of the
process of transformation. As a postmodern narrator Ivaškevičius enjoys
yoking together motifs that are normally incompatible and laying open the
constructiveness of situations and characters. By provokingly breaking up
national and ideological dichotomies and by reducing them to a common
anthropological origin, his books are filled by the boundless enthusiasm in
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
playfully blending the separate beyond the postmodern practice of “shifting”. Even if the Lithuanian society undergoing the process of transformation is sometimes not immediately present to the audience, the discussion
and the interpretation of personal and collective identity problems will
provide an original thought-provoking impulse for the rest of present-day
Europe.
The novel Žali (“The Greens”, 2002)7, which centers upon the Lithuanian partisan war against the Soviet army (1944–1953) is narrated from
the point of view of both the Lithuanian and the Russians – the Lithuanian
partisan leader Jonas Žemaitis and the Russian soldiers Vasilij and Afanasij. This view is expanded through the letters of the Russian corporal
Mar’ja Petrovna, of the Russian colonel Lebedev and the Lithuanian-Soviet secret agent Rapolas. The action is concentrated on summer 1950.
Both groups are searching for the house of the farmer Žemaitis, who has
been soiled with the stain of a traitor by the Russians, in order to lure into
a trap the partisan leader Žemaitis, his namesake. There are no victors in
this war: Žemaitis is shot in Moscow in the Ljubljanka, the Russian soldiers Vasilij and Afanasij are liquidated on behalf of the secret agent Rapolas, a Lithuanian, and, in the metamorphosis of a very old man, Colonel
Lebedev reflects upon the same methods of oppression continuously applied in whichever form of society.
1st main topic: The narrative departs from the confrontation of the parties involved and their critical analysis. Accordingly, the Russian soldier
Vasilij takes the Lithuanians as bandits and enemies (“They were them,
and we were us, which is sufficient for the war”8). But due to the events,
this dichotomy is dissolved and replaced by the feeling that any kind of
decidedness will be ineffectual: “In the morning I believed the war to be
unambiguous: the enemy is close to us, being among us. He must be surrounded and destroyed. This is a demining job, but not a war.”9 Partisan
warfare in the dugouts of the forest meant that this was not a fight with
clear front lines, while the Lithuanian fighters were hidden under the earth
and the Russians acting above, but a battle between two different parties which are diverse in themselves: Lithuanians (Žali / Greens) fought
against Russians (Raudoni / Reds), among whom, as it is said, there were
also Lithuanians. And among the Lithuanians “this and that Russian or
German served”, while sometimes the “Yellows” (the Jews, C.P.) had to
be protected from the Greens10.
183
Large space is devoted to both parties recalling past life memories and
to their reflections, which are similar, indeed. Their recollections merge
with current events in time and space and, surprisingly, represent common
features in their biographies and social experience, in their language, historical experience and even in personal relationships.
At the very beginning of the novel, the narrator puts himself in the position of the enemy:
Common man, who cannot be blamed for being born Russian […], has fought
in the greatest battle of the world, walks on his own earth, which he has retrieved from the enemy. And suddenly, the rumor comes up that somewhere
at the edge of this earth, deformed shapes appear in order to kill his brethren
in arms. I, at his place (If I were Russian), without much ado, would have
packed my knapsack as fast as possible and gone off to kill the villain. That’s
what the Russian has done.11
2nd main topic: By neutralizing the dichotomy through figures of
equivalence, a series of patterns of likeness is being advanced:
– The likeness of the physical as well as psychic situation results
in a state of exhaustion which unifies both parties. Life seems to be for
Žemaitis, the partisan leader, a chain of fatiguing repetitions in love and
life situations, and his comrade, the milk woman (pieninė), can “hardly
expect” their enemies arrival: “Because I am very tired.”12
– The likeness of worshipping (Both Rapolas, the Lithuanian, and Vasilij, the Russian, call for the Mother of God: “His lips spoke with my
own words”, when the bunker is being blown up)13.
– The likeness in their relatedness to the earth (Earth draws a deep
breath, is evil or not evil. So we are told by the Russian soldiers Vasilij
and Afanasij. Earth represents the war-disabled motherhood for Lithuanians and Russians as well. The destroyed earth and the war are depicted
as an existential experience of the Absurd)14.
– The likeness with regard to the power struggle in their respective
hierarchies.
– The likeness concerning cruelty (Punitive action taken at night by
one party and by day by the other one directs the national fight against the
Lithuanian people itself. That the people are not any longer able to distinguish between friend and foe, this is said with regard to the partisan leader
Žemaitis15).
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
– The likeness in moving in space (Looking for Žemaitis both sides
are riding through the Lithuanian forest in a circle and do not find their
way).
– The likeness in recognizing the absurdity of this war, which is expressed in nearly the same words by Lithuanians and Russians:
Afanasij: “Why are we here?”16; Žemaitis: “I want to know, why the hell I am
fighting”,17 Vasilij: “Was it really worth while coming from the Ural to this
place?”18; Kasperevičius: “I just thought, why are we here?”19
– The likeness of “own” and “foreign” (In retrospective, to his French
lover in Paris in the 1930s, the former Lithuanian officer and today’s partisan leader Žemaitis draws a picture of his country as a peaceful, non-specifically European idyll which may have been equally possible in France.
This is explicitly emphasized in the text by Natalie, the French woman:
“This is France, Žemaitis.”20
3rd main topic: In the following, I am going to describe the playful
application of the identical as a function of the work which can be understood as a message according to the intellectual space as initially described21.
Patterns of likeness are usually connected with those of the doppelganger and of compatibility, which is relevant to the understanding of the
protagonist Jonas Žemaitis (1909–1953), who is not only an authentic
historical person, but being one of the most eminent characters of the
Lithuanian partisan movement he has risen into the aura of the hero. So,
the postmodern game played by Ivaškevičius upon historical facts and the
exchangeability of persons breaks down the atmosphere of taboo. In fact
one cannot deny that the great number of mistakes in persons creating a
great deal of confusion regarding the partisan leader will leave in a state
of utter fragility not only the category of identity, but in particular the
identity of the national hero22.
Ivaškevičius raises the point of exchangeability, mutability and the
processual nature of identity. The “true Žemaitis”, who is on the run, in
tatters and exhausted, is taken for the false one, the false, however, being
tall, for the genuine one. If he dies, it is said about Žemaitis, his doppelganger will be sent (“Thus I am the other one too”23). In the house of
“Sir Washington”, who is the financier of the partisan war, green paint has
been deposed. Just with a brush for spreading the colour ‘green’ you are
made a fighter24. Thus identity is a construct that remains volatile. The
185
great Žemaitis appears both repulsive and egotistical, when he amuses
himself with his wife in the bed of her former lover who has become an
invalid. Or when killing appears customary to him: “We are going to kill
somebody. And have a swim in-between.”25
In the prologue Ivaškevičius considers the partisan war as a part of the
history of all meaningless warfare and, with his remark on the “entertaining character” of it, destroys any possible notion of its pathos. As a variant
of the absurd, the “entertaining character” is realized through a series of
similar and equivalent elements and the continuously ironic voice of the
narrator. Even capture and death appear profane: The Lithuanian partisan
Palubeckas is torn out of the swamp by his wriggling legs, shot with bare
feet, and, as a dead body, is allowed to sleep in. Fighting action is triggered off by personal and, in many cases banal, motives and appears to be
foolish and produces comic effects26.
Even the bitter disappointment of the Lithuanian fighters for being left
in the lurch by the Americans is trivialized: “[…] and all those who have
not yet booked for their holidays are requested to wait until next June.”27
But where, finally, is the third, the new, which is “something else besides”? As soon as essentialism and dualism have been transcended, what
about difference and heterogeneity? Will not the pattern of equivalence
shift the pattern of equality right into the centre?
At the close of the novel, the frontlines merge in a vision of reconciliation and in the awareness of common existence of life and death: “Jonas,
said the comrade”, who is no other one than the Russian Colonel Lebedev
who was a fellow student of Žemaitis before the war in Paris, “we went
through evil times. We inflicted them upon each other.”28
However Žemaitis will be shot to death. “Such is the system”, Colonel
Lebedev regrets, not without offering him a glass of cognac just before
the execution29 „Such were the times,“ dead Žemaitis replies from the
grave to the question of the count Tyškevič30 why his double, the farmer
Žemaitis, had to be shot31.
And this takes us to another structural effect enhancing the efficiency
of the novel: the figure of repetition.
4th main topic: apart from the repetition of the same actions on both
sides, accompanied by literally the same comments from the characters,
the same situations, patterns of relationships and images are used repeatedly. Represented as an eternal cycle, life casts doubts on any possibility
of development. The concatenation of warring and fighting shows the ex-
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
haustion and absurdity of any action aimed at killing32. War is like spilling
a can of milk, Žemaitis says33.
Due to this figure of repetition the constancy and eternity of life are
celebrated, as especially in the series of female characters like Elena
(Žemaitis’ wife), Natalie (Žemaitis’ lover) and the pieninė (Žemaitis’ last
female comrade), who merge in the memory of Žemaitis. They incorporate the other, the repressed, the sensual and the earth itself, which is the
opposite of killing. Women incorporate the other, the earth itself, which
is the opposite of killing. As the war is conveyed to the reader as a male
power game for influence and possessions and any pattern of identity is
cast into doubt, there is a constant that comes to the fore: the metaphorical motif of milk and of the woman’s breast from which it pours. In this
context we have to see the cattle farm owned by the partisan leader’s father, which embodies the traditions of the family and the nation. Milk and
dairy products stand for Lithuania, its fertile fields and meadows. Consequently, Žemaitis’ last female companion is the milk woman (pieninė),
so called for her large breasts which, due to her continuous pregnancies,
always carry milk. But the milk woman is clubbed to death by the Ukrainian soldier. For with the barrenness of the breasts the source of life and
the Lithuanians’ dream of freedom dry up. Without a bosom no freedom
is possible, had proclaimed the sensual milk woman and assumed the role
of Lithuania’s freedom statue34. Significantly, the death of the women is
the author’s only instance to allow the narrative turning to tragedy.
In history the colonizer suppresses the rebellion in the colony. In the
novel, however, he proves quite similar to the colonized not only with
regard to the loss of his illusions, but to the fragility and vulnerability as
well. The dichotomy is abandoned, as both sides are not sure any longer about their own pursuits. Through the authoritative voice of Count
Tyškevič the Lithuanians are accused of nostalgia and self-pity, whereas
the Russian side is still haunted by the traumata of the last grand war35.
Any obvious distinction between good and evil is thus made impossible. In this regard Ivaškevičius discusses the problem of the betrayal. The
partisan leader Žemaitis wants to execute his namesake in order to pass a
verdict on an act of treason the true circumstances of which would rather
demand forgiveness. And, it cannot be excluded, that even Žemaitis, the
leader, had faltered when interrogated in the Ljubljanka (“I admit everything. Agreed.”36). By foregrounding this topic Ivaškevičius underlines
the relatedness of betrayal. Where betrayal appears to be the construct of
187
calumny or the result of psychological coercion and blackmail no eitheror assessment will be possible. The likeness of treason is persistent. So,
Žemaitis adultery committed with his French lover Nathalie37 and the supposed treason by Žemaitis the farmer appear to be connected. If the one,
who is to pass Judgment on the traitor and concentrates all military action
on him, is equally liable to treason, the phenomenon of treason itself is
put to the fore. Thus betrayal, which is traditionally negative, is described
as a reaction beyond rational control and loses its identical structure.
The novel terminates with the question raised by the dead Žemaitis
what is going to happen if one betrays all those who have never existed.
This is what spatial structure and imagery are drifting to: There is no one
and only truth and no easy solution, and the enthusiastic quest for the
elevation of the just one and the detection of the culprit will only lead to
new exclusion and enmity.
Perhaps the unifying moment in the literatures of the transformation
states is the breaking up of dichotomies, the fusion of opposites and the
undermining of the obvious. And here is the chance for thinking in “third
spaces”, where the dualism of Self and Other is abolished in favour of
both sides’ common history and destiny: Where old enemies are being
overcome, new confrontations will equally become questionable. From
the meeting of the equal-ranking centre and periphery raises the fusion of
“something else besides”.
References
1
4
2
3
5
6
188
Marius Ivaškevičius: Žali. Vilnius 2002, 25: „Pasaulis nuobodžiai pasikartoja.“
Ibid.
Homi Bhabha: The Location of Culture. London 1994.
This shows us the difficulty of any assignment: formally the Lithuania Soviet
republic has been a part of the Soviet Union’s national republics where the Russian republic represented one among others. See Edward Said: Orientalism.
London 1978 and Imperialism and Colonialism. London 1993. In either book
Said discusses the Orient as a projection of Western thinking.
See Sigitas Parulskis, Trys sekundės dangaus. Vilnius 2002. To depict his
generation’s spiritual and moral emptiness Parulskis uses the metaphor of the
interspace, calling it the topos of physical existence and “existential linguistics” where language operates on a vulgar level using a “non-Lithuanian” sign
system. These “non-Lithuanian” signs, made of swear words of Russian and
Turkish origin, represent the strange, the Non-European.
Meanwhile Ivaškevičius is well known in the Western European countries too.
His Drama Malыš (“The Small one”) was performed in France and Poland,
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
17
18
15
16
21
19
20
his Drama Apgaubti (Shielded) was produced in Düsseldorf. His novel Istorija
nuo debesies (Story about a cloud, 1998) was translated into Polish in 2001, the
novel Žali (The Greens, 2002) was translated into Russian. Furthermore there
are translations into German in manuscript by Claudia Sinnig.
Marius Ivaškevičius, Žali. Vilnius 2002. Quotations are translated into English by myself. The English translation is checked against the Russian translation by Georgij Efremov.
Ibid., 117: „Jie buvo jie, o mes buvome mes, kare šito turi užtekti.“
Ibid., 118: „Nuo ryto šį karą įsivaizdavau vienareikšmiškai: priešas yra po mumis. Jis apsupamas ir sprogdinamas. Išminavimas, o ne karas.“
Herewith Ivaškevičius refers to the partly unfortunate structure of the Lithuanian partisan army, which enrolled men who had been included in the extermination of the Lithuanian Jews during the Nazi occupation: “[...] people fought
for the Green. That is the color of our forests. Particularly, people marched
against the Red – the color of the enemy’s blood. Although it happened, that
the Yellows had to be protected of the Greens. It happened.” (See Ivaškevičius,
Marius: Žali. Vilnius 2002, 5: „[…] žmonės kariavo už žalią. Tokia mūsų miškų
spalva. Labiausiai jie kariavo prieš raudoną – tai priešų kraujo spalva. Nors
pasitaikydavo ginti ir geltoną nuo žalios. Buvo ir taip.“)
Ibid., 8. „Eilinis žmogus, nekaltas, kad gimė rusas […], laimėjo didžiausią
pasaulyje karą, jis eina per savo miestą, nes jis tą miestą apgynė. Ir staiga jį
pasieka gandas, kad kažkur jo šalies pakrašty esama išsigimėlių, užsimaniusių
dar pakariauti. Aš to ruso vietoje, bet jeigu tik būčiau rusas, apie nieką daugiau
negalvodamas, susikraučiau kuprinę ir važiuočiau pribaigt išsigimėlių. Rusas
taip ir padaro.“
Ibid., 295: „– Jau laukiu, kada jie ateis, – prisipažino Pieninė. – Nes aš labai
pavargau.“ See also p. 25: „Pasaulis nuobodžiai pasikartoja.“ (Žemaitis)
Ibid., 33: „[…] jo lūpos tarė mano žodžius.“
Vasilij: “In Vorošilov there is just the same, […]. Only the earth there is more
peaceful. But the rivulet, one can say, is the same. Only the earth here is evil.”
(Ibid., p. 35: „Vorošilove – tokia pat, buvom užtvenkę, išlūžo. Tik ten žemė
ramesnė. Nors upė gal ir tokia. O čia žemė pikta.“)
Ibid., 28: „Bet žmonės nustojo jus painioti.“
Ibid., 150: „Kodel iš tikrųjų mes čia?“
Ibid., 152: „Man irgi reikia žinoti, už ka, po galais, aš kovoju.“
Ibid., p. 204: “Tai, – nusispjoviau. – Ir dėl to reikėjo atsikraustyti čia iš Uralo?“
Ibid., p. 217: „Pagalvojau, dėl ko mes čia? – sakau Kasperavičius […].“
Ibid., p. 314: „Tai vis dar Prancūzija, Žemaiti.“
As the action progresses, somebody called Žemaitis (who is the partisan leader
and as his Doppelganger a simple peasant) is repeatedly found and kidnapped,
just to disappear again. Right unto the end it is not clear in which shape the
“genuine” Žemaitis will reappear or be resurrected. Žemaitis, the partisan leader, believes about himself that he could have been the umpteenth combination
of the different men his comrade, the milk woman (pieninė), might have had.
189
Let’s have a look at the Doppelganger: Ivaškevičius’ fictitious character of the
Lithuanian peasant Žemaitis falls into the clutches of world politics, as soon as
he tries to abduct from the hospital the sick wife of Žemaitis the partisan leader.
But he fails. So, the Soviet secret service stages him as a traitor and uses him
as a decoy to trap the partisan leader Žemaitis, who tries to take his revenge on
Žemaitis the peasant.
The peasant’s torture by the Secret service is revealed by the remark that the
peasant has turned grey within a day. On the cart steered by the farmer Žemaitis,
the partisan leader’s mate, Kasparevičius, is again taken to the hospital. The
Russians believe him to be the partisan leader and draw him into a fight in
which his beloved is killed. The peasant Žemaitis seems to be responsible for
it (“This Žemaitis served us perfectly.” See ibid.,. 43: „Šitas Žemaitis mums
labiau nusipelno […].“). Žemaitis rides the partisan Kasperavičius into a trap
(“Can she shoot?”, Ibid., 87: „Šaudyti moka?“). Žemaitis, the farmer, reports
Marja Petrovna, the Russian examining magistrate, the fulfilment of the job:
“Lady commander, I brought you there, where you commanded me to.” (Ibid.,
138: „Ponia tardytoja, atvežiau ten, kur įsakėt.“)
23
Ibid., 112: „Nes aš ir esu tas kitas.“
24
Ibid., 153: „Aš jūsų reikalų neišmanau, – staiga susierzino Seras. – Jei man
sako: dusins raudonus, aš einu ir perku žalius. Aš tų šifrų visų nesimokiai.“
25
Ibid., 26: „Mes užmušime vieną žmogų. Maudysimės pakeliui.“
26
Žemaitis, it is said, fought this “second war” because of Elena, his wife; The
Lithuanian Bartkus leaves his machine gun in the cottage of Žemaitis the peasant, from where his 70 year old mother will fire on the Russians whom she
takes for partisans while riding like an Amazon on the gun (See p. 217).
27
Ibid., 159: „[…] ir tie, kas uždelsė su atostogomis, gaus laukti kito birželio.“
28
Ibid., 326: „Jonai, – sako bičiulis, –mudu išgyvenom baisų laiką. Mudu vienas
kitam jį užtaisėm.“
29
Ibid.: „Tokia visa sistema.“
30
Tyškevič – a representative of the Polish speaking Lithuanian aristocracy. His
family owned many palaces and gardens in Lithuania. Tyškevič was a great
patron of the arts, a Maecenas of M.K. Čiurlionis. 31
Ibid., 221: „Tokie buvo, grafe, laikai.“
32
Žemaitis, the partisan leader, asks himself, whether he is able to assert that
the purpose of his war “is a good one”, that it is all that they can do “for our
children and grandchildren”, and that it “will create jobs for everybody”. (Ibid.,
151: „[…] ir kas toks būčiau, sakydamas: geras karas, dar užteks vaikams ir
vaikaičiams, darbo turės visi.“)
33
Ibid., 108: „Žinai, kas yra šitas karas? Mums išsprūdo pilnas stiklainis.“
34
Ibid.,159: „Krūtys nė vienai dar nepakenkė, – visu rimtumu kalba ji. – Statulos – ne išimtis. Ir jokia laisvė be jų neapsieis.“
35
See Mar’ja Petrovna’s, the corporal’s, letter, where she reflects her life, destroyed by war and Nazi occupation, as a woman and human being, not allowing her to develop any femininity or delicacy of feeling (“There are no women
in my age-group”, p. 85). Ibid., 143: „Kai pilnametystė sutampa su karo pradžia,
22
190
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
moterys arba lieka vaikais, arba pasiverčia vyrais. Dvidešimt trečiųjų gimimo
neteko sutikt nė vienos, kuri būtų tapusi moterim. Mano amžiaus moterų kaip
ir nėra.“; See also Ibid., 310: „Dvidešimt penktųjų gimimo moteris – visai kas
kita.“).
36
Ibid., 325: „Su viskuo sutinku, pripažįstu.“
37
Natalija: “[…] how can you betray without changing yourself?” (Ibid., 224:
„[…] kad galima šitaip išduoti ir kartu neišduoti.“).
191
De Banville à Banville:
le développement littéraire
de la représentation picturale du
mythe de Cythère Nuo Banville‘io iki Banville‘io:
mito apie Kiterą tapybinės
reprezentacijos literatūros raidoje
Brigitte LE JUEZ
Dublin City University
SALIS, DCU, Dublin 9, Ireland
[email protected]
Summary
This article examines the literary development of the pictorial representation
of the myth of Cythera. Cythera itself is not a myth; it is a real island, situated
in the Ionian Sea. But it has always been associated with myth. Since Greek Antiquity, indeed, Cythera has been known as the birthplace of Aphrodite, the goddess of love. Over the centuries and until recently, this myth has regularly been
revisited in Europe. From its Greek origins, it slowly came to represent, as it was
discovered in Italy, France, Britain, Ireland and Lithuania, different aspects of a
subversive utopia devoted to art, and an essential element of European cultural
memory. Cythera has inspired poets, artists, composers and even film-makers. In
their fables involving Aphrodite or Venus (her Latin counterpart), Hesiod, Homer,
Ovid, Apuleius, all mention Cythera. Later, the popularity of Greek and Latin
mythologies ensured that Cythera should continue to be mentioned in literary
texts. In the seventeenth century it is found in Shakespeare’s work, in Madeleine
de Scudéry’s and in La Fontaine’s. It is then either an erotic metaphor or a symbol
of transcendental beauty. The most important phase of the development of the
myth of Cythera began in the eighteenth century with Jean-Antoine Watteau’s
three variations on the theme – The Island of Cythera, Pilgrimage to Cythera and
Embarkation for Cythera – and continued until the end of the nineteenth century.
Then, the enigmatic nature of the paintings fascinated the Parnassian poets, Théodore de Banville and Paul Verlaine, in particular. Banville perceived in it a lost
paradise, in complete opposition to the materialistic society of his times. He was
followed by others, in France (notably, Baudelaire) and throughout Europe. In the
twentieth century, John Banville has proved himself to be their most remarkable
heir. This article examines not only the most important stages which have marked
the making of the myth of Cythera as we know it today, but puts special emphasis
of John Banville’s innovative work.
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Key words: myth, Cythera, poetry, visual art, subversion, innovation, Watteau,
Théodore de Banville, John Banville, European cultural heritage, museum of images, memory.
Le mythe de Cythère est souvent réapparu, renouvelé, au cours des
siècles en Europe. De ses origines grecques, il en est progressivement
venu à représenter de l’Italie à l’Irlande en passant par la France et l’Angleterre, non seulement divers aspects d’une utopie subversive aux accents féminins et vouée à l’art, mais aussi un élément important de la
mémoire culturelle européenne.
Cythère a inspiré les artistes : poètes, peintres, compositeurs et, plus
récemment, les cinéastes1 et les romanciers. Parmi les premiers, Théodore de Banville a joué un rôle essentiel dans le développement du mythe
et, parmi les derniers, John Banville, auteur irlandais contemporain, s’en
avère le parfait héritier. J’aimerais revenir sur certaines des étapes qui
jalonnent la création progressive d’une Cythère moderne afin d’identifier
celles qui permettent à John Banville de l’aborder de façon novatrice.
Cythère est une île ionienne, située aux pieds du Péloponnèse2. Dans
l’Antiquité grecque, l’île de Cythère abritait un temple dédié à Aphrodite,
déesse de l’amour. Dans la Théogonie d’Hésiode, on apprend que Cronos,
ayant castré son père Ouranos, lança au loin son sexe qui retomba au milieu de la mer. Les vagues entourèrent le sexe du dieu et l’écume se mêla
à la semence. Il en naquit Aphrodite, la déesse de l’Amour. Emportée
par Zéphyr, elle toucha en premier lieu l’île de Cythère – ce qui explique qu’on l’appelle parfois Cythérée. Aphrodite devient parfois Vénus,
son équivalent romain, dans les poèmes et les fables dédiés au thème de
l’Amour et à Cythère.
Pendant bien des siècles, alors que les navires représentaient le moyen
de transport le plus important, Cythère fut considérée comme un point
stratégique. Depuis les temps les plus reculés et jusqu’au milieu du dixneuvième siècle, Cythère fut le carrefour des commerçants, des marins
et des conquérants. Sa culture fut influencée par différentes civilisations,
ce qui se remarque encore dans son architecture (un mélange d’éléments
égéens et vénitiens essentiellement). Au cours des siècles, elle connut une
succession de présences politiques dominatrices, des Grecs aux Romains,
Byzantins, Vénitiens, Turcs et Britanniques, tout en étant fréquemment
pillée par des pirates, pour finalement, en 1864, être rattachée à la Grèce.
Un reste d’indéfinition persiste pourtant, comme si Cythère ne pouvait
193
appartenir à personne. Son histoire complexe participe à l’évolution du
mythe qui l’entoure dans les cultures d’Europe. En effet, le voyage pour
Cythère peut représenter un but inaccessible, un rêve ou une excursion
périlleuse. C’est cette impénétrabilité même qui fait de Cythère, en plus
d’être l’île de l’Amour, la terre d’une éternelle destination et d’une beauté
idéale.
Avant les dix-huitième et dix-neuvième siècles, qui connurent les plus
importantes vogues du mythe de Cythère, on répertorie diverses mentions
à l’île de l’Amour, par le biais de Cythérée-Aphrodite-Vénus, et notamment des poèmes et contes reprenant le mythe d’Eros et Psyché, par ex.,
les vers de Moschos, ou les Métamorphoses d’Ovide ou d’Apulée. Plus
tard, les poètes reviennent aux mythologies grecque et romaine. Ainsi, au
seizième siècle, Cythérée apparait dans l’œuvre de Shakespeare, en particulier dans «The Passionate Pilgrim», A Winter’s Tale et The Taming of
the Shrew3.
C’est au dix-septième siècle que l’on remarque le premier grand renouveau de Cythère inspiré par un regain d’intérêt pour les auteurs antiques. Il y a deux courants. Le premier, populaire, utilise Cythère comme
lieu d’histoires érotiques4. Helmut Börsch-Supan confirme que, à l’époque, Cythère constituait un euphémisme désignant l’amour libre et associé au Parc de Saint-Cloud sur les rives de la Seine5 – cette tendance a en
fait duré jusqu’au début du vingtième6. Le second courant, plus classique,
commence en Italie avec Giambattista Marino (qui va devenir Cavalier
Marin en France) dans un poème intitulé L’Adone (1623) identifiant Cythère au symbole éternel de la beauté transcendantale. En France, Madeleine de Scudéry y souscrit et remplit aussi son Artamène, ou Le grand
Cyrus (qui date des années 1650) d’images d’amours féminines et régénératrices associées à l’île d’Aphrodite et à Sappho. Elle en profite également pour exprimer son refus du patriarcat absolutiste de son époque.
Jean de La Fontaine, s’inspirant à son tour de Cythère, en admirateur de
Marino, compose son propre Adonis (1658), et en ami de Scudéry, poursuit le côté épicurien du mythe et crée Les Amours de Psyché et de Cupidon en 16697. La Fontaine soutient Scudéry dans sa représentation d’un
monde artistique à la sensibilité féminine, opposé au régime de Louis
XIV, et annonce ainsi le mouvement parnassien – le Parnassus, domaine
des arts étant opposé à l’Olympus, celui du pouvoir. Une utopie subversive commence ainsi à s’attacher au mythe de Cythère. L’île d’Aphrodite
devient le symbole d’une résistance pacifiste et libertine.
194
Ce mouvement met en place l’œuvre la plus célébrée sur Cythère, celle de JeanTAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
8
Antoine
(1684-1721),
Pèlerinage
l’île
de Cythère
Ce Watteau
mouvement
met en place
l’œuvreà la
plus
célébrée .sur Cythère, celle de Jean8
Ce mouvement
met Pèlerinage
en place l’œuvre
célébrée
Antoine Watteau
(1684-1721),
à l’île ladeplus
Cythère
. sur Cythère, celle de Jean-Antoine Watteau (1684-1721), Pèlerinage à l’île de Cythère8.
Watteau avait déjà réalisé sa première représentation de Cythère huit ans auparavant, en
9avait déjà réalisé sa première représentation de Cythère huit
1709, ile avait
deWatteau
Cythère
.
Watteau
déjà réalisé
sa première représentation de Cythère huit ans auparavant, en
ans auparavant, en 1709, Ile de Cythère9.
9
1709, ile de Cythère .
Il réalisa une autre version du Pèlerinage deux ans après, en 1719,
Il réalisa une autre version du Pèlerinage deux
ans après, en 1719, qu’il intitula
qu’il intitula Embarquement pour Cythère10.
10
embarquement
pour Cythère
. Pèlerinage deux ans après, en 1719, qu’il intitula
Il
réalisa une autre
version du
embarquement pour Cythère 10 .
195
En 10 ans, il commence à développer ce thème, alors que Louis XIV,
En 10en
ans,
à développer
alorsalors
que que
Louis
XIV,XV,
en depuis
fin de règne,
finildecommence
règne, pèse
sur les arts,ceetthème,
le termine
Louis
peules
auarts,
pouvoir,
plus
d’expression
artistiquepermet
que une
pèse sur
et le permet
termineune
alors
quegrande
Louis liberté
XV, depuis
peu au pouvoir,
son
prédécesseur.
On
voit
nettement
cette
progression
entre
la
première
plus grande liberté d’expression artistique que son prédécesseur. On voit nettement cette
version de Cythère et les deux autres tableaux dans la posture des personprogression
première
Cythère
et lesdedeux
autres
tableaux ledans la
nages.entre
Pour laJulie
Anne version
Plax, lesdefêtes
galantes
Watteau
expriment
l’aristocratie
s’identifier
de de
loisirs
perçues
posturedésir
des qu’avait
personnages.
Pour Juliede
Anne
Plax, lesaux
fêtesformes
galantes
Watteau
expriment
comme
pastorales
et hédonistes
mais en aux
réalité
anti-absolutistes
et à ten-comme
le désir
qu’avait
l’aristocratie
de s’identifier
formes
de loisirs perçues
dance égalitaire11. En effet, Watteau peint des scènes qui rappellent les11
pastorales
et hédonistes
enépoque
réalité 12anti-absolutistes
et àirrévérencieux
tendance égalitaire
cantates
pastoralesmais
de son
et les personnages
de la . En
effet, Watteau
peint
des scènes
qui rappellent
les cantates
commedia
dell’arte
(Arlequin,
Colombine,
Pierrot).pastorales de son époque 12 et
L’exégèse
du Pèlerinage
l’Ile de Cythère
jusqu’àColombine,
nos jours parles personnages
irrévérencieux
de la àcommedia
dell’artereste
(Arlequin,
Pierrot).
tagée : certains y voient un départ joyeux pour l’île d’Aphrodite, d’autres,
L’exégèse
du les
Pèlerinage
à l’ile
Cythère
restemélancoliques
jusqu’à nos jours
partagée :
au contraire,
préparatifs
d’un de
retour
aux tons
– le «à»
13
certains
y voient
départ «sur»
joyeuxl’île
pour
d’Aphrodite,
d’autres, aului,
contraire,
pourrait
ainsiunsignifier
de l’île
Cythère
. L’Embarquement,
évite les
l’ambiguïté,
ce qui
peut-être pourquoi
souvent
privilégié
préparatifs
d’un retour
auxexplique
tons mélancoliques
– le « àil»est
pourrait
ainsi
signifieren« sur »
tant que choix
de référence par rapport au Pèlerinage. Quoi qu’il en soit,
13
l’île de Cythère . L’embarquement, lui, évite l’ambiguïté, ce qui explique peut-être
de tous temps, la Cythère de Watteau est perçue comme un paradis éphépourquoi
il comme
est souvent
privilégié auenplaisir
tant que
choix de
del’enchantement
référence par de
rapport
au
mère,
une invitation
au milieu
la
nature,
une
invitation
à
la
fête
galante,
autre
titre
du
Pèlerinage.
Bien
des
Pèlerinage. Quoi qu’il en soit, de tous temps, la Cythère de Watteau est perçue comme
critiques y voient une forme narrative qui part de la droite et se déroule
un paradis éphémère, comme une invitation au plaisir au milieu de l’enchantement de la
nature, une invitation à la fête galante, autre titre du Pèlerinage. Bien des critiques y
196
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
vers la gauche décrivant l’évolution du rapport amoureux, à la manière
d’une pièce en trois actes.
Au tout début du dix-huitième siècle, Cythère était déjà à la mode
dans les spectacles aussi bien de l’Opéra que des tréteaux des foires.
La légèreté de leurs ballets et vaudevilles est aussi dans la peinture de
Watteau. Les couleurs chaudes (or-rose) qui accompagnent ses verts ou
bleus forment des contrastes et des dégradations de lumière représentant
à la fois la fin d’une journée et la fin d’un voyage. Elles rappellent les
décors de théâtre qui, à l’époque, illustraient le texte présenté. Le théâtre joue d’ailleurs un rôle prépondérant dans la réalisation des tableaux
de Watteau, et il a souvent été avancé qu’un vaudeville de Dancourt14,
Les Trois Cousines (1700), lui aurait donné l’idée du Pèlerinage à l’île
de Cythère. La pièce se termine en effet avec des villageois déguisés en
pèlerins se mettant en route pour un voyage vers le Temple de l’Amour,
et chantant : «Venez dans l’île de Cythère en pèlerinage avec nous. […]
Jeune fille n’en revient guère ou sans amant ou sans époux»15. Cythère
se référerait ainsi à la première expérience amoureuse, et les mots «pèlerinage» et «embarquement» prendraient valeur d’euphémisme, nous ramenant à l’érotisme que nous mentionnions plus tôt. Rappelons qu’avant
de devenir célèbre, Watteau avait été l’élève de Claude Gillot, lui-même
peintre et décorateur de théâtre, fasciné par les comédiens italiens. Watteau hérita probablement de lui son amour de l’univers théâtral, en particulier de la commedia dell’arte, dans laquelle l’expression de la gaieté
et des sentiments amoureux est davantage traduite par les gestes et les
postures que par les paroles16.
La gaieté identifiée dans l’œuvre de Watteau est, comme dans la
commedia dell’arte, parfois teintée de mélancolie, et bien que la période révolutionnaire ait mis fin temporairement au succès de ses toiles,
considérées alors comme réactionnaires et frivoles, cette mélancolie devient l’énigme à résoudre pour bien des observateurs au dix-neuvième.
Théodore de Banville fait partie des auteurs à qui l’on doit le regain
d’intérêt pour l’œuvre de Watteau. Banville y vit un paradis évanoui, en
totale opposition avec la société matérialiste de son époque17, peupla ses
propres œuvres des personnages de la commedia, notamment de Pierrot
auquel il s’identifia, et cela à travers les grands mimes que furent JeanGaspard Deburau et Paul Legrand, passant des heures dans le Théâtre
des Funambules.
197
Cythère apparaît dans la poésie de Banville, dès 1873, dans sa «Ballade aux Enfants perdus» (Trente-six ballades joyeuses)18, et surtout dans un
poème intitulé «Cythère» sur lequel je reviendrai plus loin. Mais d’abord,
et très brièvement, je voudrais mentionner quelques aspects de l’évolution
du thème au dix-neuvième. La réputation de Watteau relancée, on remarque un foisonnement d’écrits s’en inspirant. Des Frères Goncourt à Marcel Proust, en passant par Rodin, nombreux sont ceux qui commentent
sur la grandeur de Watteau, et les poètes ne sont pas en reste. Dès la fin
des années 1830, Théophile Gautier fait la critique de l’œuvre de Watteau
et s’inspire de Cythère (notamment dans «A Claudius Popelin, Sonnet II»,
qui paraîtra en 1869). Gérard de Nerval, dans Sylvie (1853), s’inspire du
Pèlerinage de Watteau, dans un chapitre intitulé «Voyage à Cythère» qui
amène deux personnages, ayant rejoint un groupe sur une île, à revivre
de façon éphémère un amour de jeunesse, moment de bonheur mélancolique qui rappelle le ton du tableau de Watteau19. Dans le poème intitulé
«Cythère», de son second recueil, Fêtes galantes (1869), Paul Verlaine
s’inspire de Watteau20.
Gérard de Nerval avait raconté dans son Voyage en Orient comment,
en abordant Cythère, il aurait vu un pendu. C’est cet épisode qui inspira à Charles Baudelaire21 le poème « Un voyage à Cythère » des Fleurs
du mal (1857)22. Ce même voyage à Cythère inspira à Algernon Charles
Swinburne, poète anglais, son hommage à Baudelaire, avec «Ave Atque
Vale», de 1878. Jules Laforgue, avec «Cythère» du recueil Des Fleurs de
bonne volonté (1890), rendit lui aussi hommage à Baudelaire23. Il y en eut
bien d’autres encore, comme Mary Tighe, Robert Bland et Michael Field
en Angleterre. Notons que cette vogue de Cythères tisse des liens entre les
poètes et entre les cultures, ce qui pourrait représenter à la fois une belle
étude de réception à tiroirs et un exemple de l’existence d’un paysage littéraire et d’un musée d’images européens.
Mais revenons à Banville et à sa «Cythère» publiée dans le recueil
Dans la fournaise (publication posthume de 1892 rassemblant ses dernières poésies) qui contient plusieurs références à l’île ionienne.
198
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Cythère
Comme j’écoutais dans les flots
Gémir une plainte lointaine,
Avec de langoureux sanglots
Qui s’éloignent, le capitaine
Me dit: Si tu veux évoquer
Les vieilles âmes de la terre,
Ami, nous allons débarquer
Dans l’ancienne île de Cythère.
Mais tu n’y verras pas Cypris,
La vierge guerrière et déesse,
Marcher près des splendides lys
Qui la frôlaient d’une caresse.
Aphrodite, fermant ses yeux,
Dort, aussi pâle que l’ivoire,
Et le voile mystérieux
A couvert sa prunelle noire.
[…]24 Certes, je sais bien que Vénus
Est dans la nuit et dans le rêve.
Mais c’est toi, perfide enchanteur
Baisé par les rouges aurores,
Musicien, rimeur, chanteur,
Assembleur des verbes sonores;
C’est toi, c’est ta vaillante amour,
Toujours si fidèle et si forte,
Qui la ramène dans le jour
Et qui l’empêche d’être morte !
Ecrit à la première personne par un homme sur un bateau, qui n’est pas sans rappeler L’Odyssée (et Homère a aussi mentionné la naissance d’Aphrodite dans ses
écrits), le poème abonde en références
mythologiques, bien que clairement situé
dans le présent.
Plusieurs références au rappel du passé
dû à un chagrin personnel, apparemment
amoureux, sont évoquées.
Le capitaine propose de «débarquer à
Cythère», termes qui renvoient naturellement à Watteau.
«Ancienne» indique que l’île n’est plus
considérée comme autrefois, d’où le ton
nostalgique – regret d’un temps révolu, de toute évidence celui de l’amour.
Cypris, en effet, est un des autres noms
d’Aphrodite et de Vénus, toutes deux
mentionnées ici aussi.
Le poème suggère que l’amour a disparu
mais peut ressusciter à travers l’art et la
poésie, l’artiste étant le garant de son immortalité.
Le poète suggère ainsi la renaissance perpétuelle de l’amour, tout comme les tableaux de Watteau qui se situent dans un
printemps éternel, figé dans la saison de
la renaissance.
Il est intéressant que la résurrection ou l’immortalité soit au cœur du
poème de Théodore de Banville car c’est le point de départ du roman de
John Banville Ghosts (1993), second roman d’une trilogie qui commence
avec The Book of Evidence (1989) et se termine avec Athena (1995)25. Le
protagoniste et narrateur des trois, Freddie Montgomery, assassine une
jeune femme dans le premier roman à cause d’un tableau et se retrouve
en prison. Dans le second, ayant étudié l’histoire de l’art, on le retrouve
vivant sur une île au large des côtes irlandaises et travaillant sur un artiste
fictif, Jean Vaublin, qui ressemble fort à Antoine Watteau. Il est remarquable que l’exégèse autour de Ghosts soit aussi floue que celle autour
199
du Pèlerinage à l’île de Cythère. Certains critiques considèrent que le
protagoniste est effectivement sorti de prison et se trouve sur l’île, mais
John Banville a lui-même suggéré que Freddie était peut-être encore en
prison, en train de rêver son île, suggestion qui siée tout à fait au thème de
Cythère.
A la fin du premier volet de la trilogie, Freddie avouait sa faute et recherchait déjà le moyen de se racheter:
I killed her because I could kill her, and I could kill her because for me she
was not alive. And so my task now is to bring her back to life. I am not sure
what that means, but it strikes me with the force of an unavoidable imperative. How am I to make it come about, this act of parturition? Must I imagine
her from the start, from infancy? […] I am big with possibilities. I am living
for two. (BE 215-6)
Le narrateur est clairement «gros» d’une nouvelle vie, celle à laquelle il va (re)donner le jour dans Ghosts. Le seul moyen de rappeler à la
vie la femme assassinée est l’imagination. Freddie se retrouve ainsi entre
deux espaces temporels éloignés du présent: le passé à réparer et un futur
indéfinissable, un peu comme on imagine parfois les âmes perdues, les
«ghosts» du titre. C’est par ce passage incertain qu’il entre dans «Le monde d’or», un monde qu’il fabrique et dans lequel il nous fait pénétrer au
fil de sa narration, un monde irréel inspiré des tableaux de Watteau. C’est
un peu comme si les tableaux de Watteau s’animaient et se mêlaient pour
donner vie aux personnages du roman, nés de l’imagination du narrateur.
Ce monde se situe sur une île qui se voudrait un peu Cythère, où les
personnages, pourtant imaginaires eux-mêmes, ont tous l’impression
d’être déjà venus, et où Pierrot apparaît de manière ekphrastique à différents moments. Ce Pierrot-là, mélancolique, comme il se doit, est aussi
le Pierrot créé par les Parnassiens, notamment par Théodore de Banville,
comme je l’ai mentionné plus haut, fasciné par le mime Deburau. Or Deburau, comme Freddie Montgomery, avait été condamné pour meurtre
en 1836. Pour reprendre les termes d’Alain Montandon, son mélodrame
muet faisait de Pierrot «un être impulsif, violent, incarnant des appétits
vulgaires, n’hésitant pas au vol et au meurtre»26, ce qui pourrait aussi bien
décrire Freddie.
Le récit commence avec sept personnages qui débarquent sur l’île,
leur bateau s’étant échoué, un accident apparemment dû à l’ivresse du
capitaine. Ils ne sont pas ravis d’être sur cette île, plus proche de la mer
200
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
d’Irlande que de la mer Egée. On retrouve là le voyage dépeint comme
une quête difficile:
Here they are. […] They are struggling up the dunes, squabbling […] wanting
to be elsewhere. That, most of all: to be elsewhere.
[…] ‘Cythera, my foot.’
[…] Thus things begin. It is a morning late in May. The sun shines merrily.
How the wind blows! A little world is coming into being. (G, 3-4)
Ici, les pèlerins sont à l’opposé de ceux de Watteau qui regrettent de
partir, tandis qu’eux regrettent d’arriver. «Cythera, my foot» (Cythère,
mon œil): la formule désacralisante est répétée plus loin (p.31), alors que
le narrateur est tenté d’abandonner son projet de créer une nouvelle Cythère. «Such suffering, such grief: unimaginable»: pour lui, il ne peut en
effet s’agir de Cythère puisque Cythère n’est pas l’île de la souffrance
ou du chagrin. Mais il se reprend tout de suite en disant: «No, that’s not
right. I can imagine it. I can imagine anything.» Cythère étant le fruit de
fantasmes, son île à lui peut aussi bien faire l’affaire. Et effectivement, il
emmène promptement son équipée dans une aventure aux connotations
amoureuses digne des mythes de la Grèce antique et des poésies des Parnassiens.
Afin de pouvoir mêler les représentations de Cythère, Freddie, maintenant expert en histoire de l’art, invente un artiste, Jean Vaublin (presque
une anagramme de John Banville), mais qui n’est qu’une version à peine
déguisée de Watteau:
The painter is always outside his subjects, these pallid ladies in their gorgeous gowns – how he loved the nacreous sheen and shimmer of those heavy
silks! – attended by their foppish and always slightly tipsy-looking gallants
with their mandolins and masks […] dancing the dainty measures of their
dance out at the very end of the world… (G, 35)
L’œuvre fictive de Vaublin, Le monde d’or, n’est pas sans rappeler
L’âge d’or des Grecs, qui décrit un temps d’innocence et de justice, ce que
Freddie cherche précisément à recréer. Et puisque nous voici revenus à
la mythologie, soulignons que le personnage féminin qui va bouleverser
le narrateur se nomme Flora. Or, Flora est le nom d’une autre déesse de
la fécondité, celle des fleurs. Elle symbolise le printemps, le renouveau,
la renaissance de la vie. Petite sœur d’Aphrodite, en quelque sorte, elle
devient rapidement un objet de fascination pour Freddie, et restera sur
201
l’île, laissant les autres rentrer sans elle, à la fin du roman, laissant planer
le doute sur la «rédemption» de Freddie. De façon significative, dans une
chambre où elle est allée se reposer, Flora découvre une gravure qui mêle
le Pierrot et l’Embarquement pour Cythère de Watteau27. Elle s’endort
alors et se met à rêver qu’elle se réfugie non pas auprès mais à l’intérieur
de Pierrot:
At last she runs behind the motionless, white-clad figure and finds that it has
turned into a hollow tube of heavy cloth, and there is a little ladder inside it
that she climbs, pulling the heavy, stiff tunic shut behind her. There is a musty
smell that reminds her of her childhood. In the dark she climbs the little steps
and reaches the hollow mask that is the figure’s face and fits her own face to it
and looks out through the eyeholes into the broad, clam distances of the waning day and understands that she is safe at last. (G, 64)
L’apparition du Pierrot de Watteau, qui module l’image de grossesse
du départ, permet à Freddie d’évoquer le retour à la vie et à l’innocence,
celui de la femme qu’il a tuée et le sien par la même occasion. Freddie se
rend compte qu’il n’a jamais vécu dans le présent, qu’il a cherché à s’en
échapper mais qu’il est enfin arrivé, arrivé à Cythère, qui signifie ici un
monde nouveau s’ouvrant à lui, un monde de possibilités qui s’affirmeront
dans le roman suivant:
All my life I had been on my way elsewhere, despising the present, pressing
always into the future, wanting the next thing, always the next thing; now at
last I had come to rest […]. I had sailed the sea and come to Cythera. That
much I could say. Now I was waiting. […] And then one day, […] a door
would open into another world. […] Look at this foliage, these clouds, the
texture of this gown. A stricken figure stares out at something that is being
lost. There is an impression of music, tiny, exact and gay. This is the end of
a world. […] the galliot awaits. The figures move […] They are the human
moment. (G, 221-2)
Nous constatons que le mythe de Cythère persiste et se développe encore, tout en continuant son voyage artistique en Europe. Il est même venu
en Lituanie – ce que j’ai pu découvrir grâce au Professeur Kęstutis Nastopka à qui j’exprime ici ma reconnaissance – par le biais du poète Alfonsas
Nykas-Niliūnas et son «Embarquement pour Cythère» (du recueil L’Arbre
d’Orphée, 1953). Aujourd’hui, son évolution nous amène plus que jamais
202
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
à l’aspect métaphysique du rêve paradisiaque, à la réflexion humaniste et,
à travers son association à Pierrot, à la question existentielle28.
Références
A Voyage to Cythera by Theo Angelopoulos (Taxidi sta Kithira, 1983).
��
Cythère est aussi connue sous les noms de Kythira, Kythera, Cythera, Cerigo
ou Tsirigo.
3
“��
Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook / With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and
green, / Did court the lad with many a lovely look, / Such looks as none could
look but beauty’s queen” (The Passionate Pilgrim, IV, 1599��
��
). “violets, dim But
sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes Or Cytherea’s breath” (A Winter’s Tale, acte
IV scène 4). “Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee straight Adonis painted by a running brook, And Cytherea all in sedges hid, Which seem to move
and wanton with her breath, Even as the waving sedges play with wind” (The
Taming of the Shrew, introduction, scène 2). ��
Il est à noter également que The
Tempest est probablement à rattacher au mythe de Cythère, et que le roman de
Banville est un exemple de narration inspiré des deux.
4
��
Cf. Gaétan Brulotte & John Phillips, Encyclopedia of Erotic Literature,
Vol.2, New York: Routledge, 2006.
5
Meister der französichen Kunst – Antoine Watteau, Berlin: Tandem Verlag
GmbH, 2007, 64.
6
Après une simple recherche sur Cythère dans Gallica (BNF) on obtient 2410
résultats dont voici quelques exemples: La médecine de Cythère, parade en 2
actes, en vaudevilles, tirée des fastes de Syrie, de Grandval, Charles-François
Racot de (1710-1784), 1765; Un Voyage à Cythère, poème élégiaque. (Par Boireaux –date ?) – impr. de J. Clerc (Belfort): «… tout-à-coup l’un deux, avec
mystère, Dit: «Je propose un voyage à Cythère: Là, nous pourrons, sans craindre les cancans, Parler d’amour, cueillir la fleur des champs, Graver nos noms
sur l’écorce d’un hêtre…»; Le congrès de Cythère, poème érotique en cinq
chants (par Francesco Algarotti, 1712-1764), traduction libre de l’italien, par
C. P*** – J.-G. Dentu (Paris) – 1815; Le Chansonnier des braves. Recueil de
rondes, romances et chansons militaires – E. Chaillot aîné (Avignon) – 1830
(contient un poème intitulé «Le voyage à Cythère»). Certains textes sont assez
vulgaires, d’autres composés en argot.
7
��
«De par la reine de Cythère,
Soient dans l’un et l’autre hémisphère
Tous humains dûment avertis
Qu’elle a perdu certaine esclave blonde,
Se disant femme de son fils,
Et qui court à présent le monde.
Quiconque enseignera sa retraite à Venus,
Comme c’est chose qui la touche,
Aura trois baisers de sa bouche;
Qui la lui livrera, quelque chose de plus» (Livre 2).
1
2
203
L’esclave blonde est Psyché, la reine de Cythère Vénus (Cythérée ici) et Cupidon (l’Amour) son fils.
8
Son Morceau de réception à l’Académie Royale de Peinture.
9
��
Redécouverte en 1981 seulement.
10
La première se trouve maintenant au Louvre, la seconde au Château de Charlottenbourg à Berlin.
11
Cf. Watteau and the Cultural Politics of Eighteenth-Century France, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Et aussi Mary Vidal, Watteau’s Painted
Conversations: Art, Literature, and Talk in Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century France, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992.
12
Cf. les Livres de Cantates françoises et italiènes, 1709–1716, et Les Fêstes de
l’Eté, 1716, de Michel Pignolet de Montéclair.
13
Cf. Michael Levey, «The Real Theme of Watteau’s Embarkation for Cythera»,
The Burlington Magazine, 1961, Vol.103, No.698, 180–185.
14
��
Florent Carton, dit Dancourt (1661–1725), acteur et auteur dramatique, précurseur du vaudeville moderne, apprécié pour ses chroniques de mœurs sociales,
plutôt irrévérencieuses.
15
Cité par Michael Levey, op. cit., 184.
16
��
Cf. Catherine Cusset, “Watteau: The Aesthetics of Pleasure”, IN Wagner, Peter ed., Icons, Texts, Iconotexts: Essays on Ekphrasis and Intermediality, New
York: Walter de Gruyter, 1996.
17
��
Cf. Marine Kahane, Théodore de Banville et le théâtre, Paris: Somogy Editions d’Art, 2006, 23.
18
��
«Ballade de Banville aux Enfants perdus»
Je le sais bien que Cythère est en deuil!
Que son jardin, souffleté par l’orage,
O mes amis, n’est plus qu’un sombre écueil
Agonisant sous le soleil sauvage.
La solitude habite son rivage.
Qu’importe! allons vers les pays fictifs!
Cherchons la plage où nos désirs oisifs
S’abreuveront dans le sacré mystère
Fait pour un chœur d’esprits contemplatifs:
Embarquons-nous pour la belle Cythère.
La grande mer sera notre cercueil;
Nous servirons de proie au noir naufrage,
Le feu du ciel punira notre orgueil
Et l’aquilon nous garde son outrage.
Qu’importe! allons vers le clair paysage!
Malgré la mer jalouse et les récifs,
Venez, partons comme des fugitifs,
Loin de ce monde au souffle délétère.
Nous dont les cœurs sont des ramiers plaintifs,
204
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Des serpents gris se traînent sur le seuil
Où souriait Cypris, la chère image
Aux tresses d’or, la vierge au doux accueil!
Mais les amours sur le plus haut cordage
Nous chantent l’hymne adoré du voyage.
Héros cachés dans ces corps maladifs,
Fuyons, partons sur nos légers esquifs,
Vers le divin bocage où la panthère
Pleure d’amour sous les rosiers lascifs:
Envoi
Rassasions d’azur nos yeux pensifs!
Oiseaux chanteurs, dans la brise expansifs,
Ne souillons pas nos ailes sur la terre.
Volons, charmés, vers les Dieux primitifs!
Embarquons-nous vers la belle Cythère.
19
��
Cf. Posner, Donald, Antoine Watteau, Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press,
1984, 182-184, Ostrowski, J.K., «Pellegrinaggio a Citera, ‘Fete Galante’ o
‘Danse Macabre’», Paragone, 1977, No.331, 9-22.
20
��
«Cythère»
Un pavillon à claires-voies
Abrite doucement nos joies
Qu’éventent des rosiers amis ;
L’odeur des roses, faible, grâce
Au vent léger d’été qui passe,
Se mêle aux parfums qu’elle a mis ;
Comme ses Yeux l’avaient promis,
Son courage est grand et sa lèvre
Communique une exquise fièvre ;
Et l’Amour comblant tout, hormis
La faim, sorbets et confitures
Nous préservent des courbatures.
21
Baudelaire plaça Watteau parmi les «phares» de l’humanité dans l’un de ses
plus célèbres poèmes («Les Phares», 1855).
22
��
«Un voyage à Cythère»
Quelle est cette île triste et noire ? – C’est Cythère,
Nous dit-on, un pays fameux dans les chansons,
Eldorado banal de tous les vieux garçons.
Regardez, après tout, c’est une pauvre terre.
– Île des doux secrets et des fêtes du cœur !
De l’antique Vénus le superbe fantôme
Au-dessus de tes mers plane comme un arôme,
Et charge les esprits d’amour et de langueur.
Belle île aux myrtes verts, pleine de fleurs écloses,
205
Vénérée à jamais par toute nation,
Où les soupirs des cœurs en adoration
Roulent comme l’encens sur un jardin de roses
Ou le roucoulement éternel d’un ramier !
– Cythère n’était plus qu’un terrain des plus maigres,
Un désert rocailleux troublé par des cris aigres.
J’entrevoyais pourtant un objet singulier !
[…]
Dans ton île, ô Vénus ! je n’ai trouvé debout
Qu’un gibet symbolique où pendait mon image …
Les Fleurs du mal, édition établie par John E. Jackson, préface d’Yves Bonnefoy, Paris: Librairie générale française, 1999 (Livre de poche classique, 677),
173-175.
23
��
«Quel lys sut ombrager ma sieste ?
C’était (ah ne sais plus comme !) au bois trop sacré
Où fleurir n’est pas un secret.
Et j’étais fui comme la peste.
«Je ne suis pas une âme leste !»
Ai-je dit alors et leurs chœurs m’ont chanté : «Reste.»
Et la plus grande, oh ! si mienne ! m’a expliqué
La floraison sans commentaires
De cette hermétique Cythère
Au sein des mers comme un bosquet,
Et comment quelques couples vraiment distingués
Un soir ici ont débarqué ....
Non la nuit sait pas de pelouses,
D’un velours bleu plus brave que ces lents vallons !
Plus invitant au : dévalons !
Et déjoueur des airs d’épouse !
Et qui telle une chair jalouse,
En ses accrocs plus éperdument se recouse !....
Et la faune et la flore étant comme ça vient,
On va comme ça vient ; des roses
Les sens ; des floraisons les poses ;
Nul souci du tien et du mien ;
Quant à des classements en chrétiens et païens,
Ni le climat ni les moyens.
Oui, fleurs de vie en confidences,
Mains oisives dans les toisons aux gros midis,
Tatouages des concettis ;
L’un mimant d’inédites danses,
L’autre sur la piste d’essences....
- Eh quoi ? Nouveau-venu, vos larmes recommencent !
- Réveil meurtri, je m’en irai je sais bien où ;
Un terrain vague, des clôtures,
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Un âne plein de foi pâture
Des talons perdus sans dégoût,
Et brait vers moi (me sachant aussi rosse et doux)
Que je desserre son licou.»
24
��
[…] Son fier palais, ses blanches tours
Sont des ruines et des tombes,
Et les aigles et les vautours
Ont déchiqueté ses colombes.
Veuve de ses belles forêts,
Avec ses eaux qui s’évaporent,
Cythère est un impur marais
Où des monstres s’entre-dévorent.
Et dans un horrible repos
Où le vent orageux se joue,
De longs serpents et des crapauds
Y rampent, tout couverts de boue.
Tandis qu’un bel azur serein
Se mirait dans l’eau convulsive,
Tel s’attristait le vieux marin
Quand nous atteignîmes la rive.
Alors, silencieux, cachés,
Dans le chemin que nous suivîmes,
Parmi les ombres des rochers,
Voici les choses que nous vîmes.
L’île n’était qu’un champ de fleurs
Aux mille corolles écloses,
Où s’harmonisaient les couleurs
Des violettes et des roses.
Et Celle à qui plaisent nos voeux,
La grande âme de la nature,
Dont l’air baigne les doux cheveux,
Cypris à la belle ceinture;
Cypris, vierge, ravie encor
Dans sa divinité première,
Qui porte une couronne d’or
Brillant à son front de lumière,
207
Parut. Ses yeux noirs pleins d’éclairs,
Pareils au brasier qui flamboie,
Emplissaient follement les airs
D’éblouissement et de joie.
Et tandis que se reposaient,
Oubliant leurs douces querelles,
Et tendrement s’entre-baisaient
De glorieuses tourterelles,
Des zéphyrs jaloux et tremblants,
Errant parmi les feuilles basses,
Venaient adorer ses pieds blancs.
Derrière elle marchaient les Grâces.
Or le vieux matelot me dit,
En prenant des mines confuses:
Ah! poète, enchanteur, bandit !
C’est bon, je reconnais tes ruses.
25
26
27
28
208
Telle qu’une fleur de lotus
Qu’a brisée un tranchant de glaive […]
John Banville, The Book of Evidence, London: Minerva: 1989; Ghosts, London: Picador, 1993; Athena, London: Picador, 1995.
Alain Montandon, (critique du livre de Louisa E. Jones, Pierrot-Watteau. A
Nineteenth-Century Myth, Paris: Editions Jean-Michel Place, 1984), IN Romantisme, 1986, Vol. 16, No. 52, 126-127.
Watteau peignit Pierrot en 1718-19, c’est-à dire entre le Pèlerinage et l’Embarquement.
D’autres romanciers modernes ont repris le mythe de Cythère : Pierre Louÿs,
Monique Wittig, Maurice Roche, etc. La Fête à Venise (1990) de Philippe Sollers est un roman basé sur un tableau fictif de Watteau. Il y réfute la perception
d’un Watteau mélancolique, développée au dix-neuvième. Voir aussi Jeanne
Hyvrard, Les Prunes de Cythère (1975).
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Out of the Remains of an Old
World – The British at War in Novels
by Woolf, Ishiguro and McEwan
Iš senojo pasaulio likučių – britai
kare Woolf, Ishiguro ir McEwano
romanuose
Laura Fernanda BULGER
Universidade de Trás-os-Montes e Alto Douro, Vila Real
1200–733 Lisbon, Portugal
[email protected]
Summary
Englishness is usually associated with the British Empire, an elusive concept
that reinvents itself during moments of national crisis when patriotism demands a
collective sense of unity and sacrifice in order to fight against the enemy, as in the
epic of the British at War. Post-colonial and post-war novelists often engage in the
reconstruction of such moments in a self-conscious pursuit of an English identity,
Virginia Woolf having been one of the authors who started this retrospective trend
in Between the Acts, written during the British retreat to Dunkirk, in 1940, and
published posthumously in 1941. The parodic treatment of the pageant-play in
Woolf’s novel uses the “looking-glass of fiction” as a means to question both an
individual and a national identity. Nowadays, the past continues to be dug up as an
attempt to evaluate its effects in the present, shaken by major changes in the British social fabric owing to, among other circumstances, the successive waves of
migrants from the former colonies looking for a better life in what was once designated as the metropolis. Britain’s membership in the European Union is also perceived as a challenge to the country’s traditional values, the threat of home-grown
terrorism also becoming one of the concerns surfacing in recent literary texts.
Thus, retrospection is used in a type of fiction that by enhancing Britain’s prestige
and decline as a superpower, in the last two centuries, ultimately concurs with the
redefinition of an English identity in today’s globalized world. The purpose of our
paper is to examine this ongoing endeavour in the fictional remakes of the British
wartime experience in Ian McEwan’s Atonement (2001), and in Kazuo Ishiguro’s
The Remains of the Day (1988). In Atonement, where the Dunkirk saga enlarges
the personal drama of the protagonist, rescued from prison to fight in World War
II, individual and national identity is tied to class and endurance, disguised here
as wartime bravery. A less heroic view is reflected in The Remains of the Day,
where an old-fashioned butler questions the patriotism of his former employer, an
English aristocrat who might have collaborated with the Germans, identity, being
209
tied not only to class, but to a darker side of Englishness that strives to keep order
and decorum at any cost, including the concealment of treason. By examining a
wide range of strategies used in the three novels, we seek to demonstrate how they
mirror a world about to disintegrate in between and after the two World Wars the
lasting implications of which are reflected not only in today’s Britain, but also in
an ever changing European landscape.
Key words: war, Empire, Englishness, identity; country-house; Modernism,
class.
In this paper, we will analyse three works of fiction where the war is
thematised starting with Virginia Woolf’s Between the Acts (1941), a precursor of what became known as “historiographic metafiction”1. Woolf’s
novel will be the benchmark for our readings of Kazuo Ishiguro’s The
Remains of the Day (1988), and Ian McEwan’s Atonement (2001), each
using the English country-house as a setting for the wartime dramas unfolding in it, each developing its own brand of Englishness2. Through the
analysis of a wide range of formal, symbolic and intertextual strategies
used in the three novels, we will seek to demonstrate how they render a
world about to disintegrate in-between and after the two World Wars.
To leave out the Empire while discussing Britain’s role in the two
World Wars would be to bypass an imperial joint venture that cost the
lives of thousands of recruits who flocked from all parts of the empire to
serve in the trenches. Inside Britain, the unbidden colonial support went
almost unnoticed, a powerful front called for demonstrations against a
“great” war, for them, Britain’s battle to preserve the empire. The atrocities committed by Nazi Germany were also perceived as lies, or rumours,
by an invincibly minded public opinion. Despite this antiwar, anti-imperial mood, the BBC, reflecting the official policy, went on fostering
imperial and patriotic sentiments among its audiences, and megalopolis
London staged a few imperial extravaganzas3. Yet, to hold the Empire
together, or raise the nation’s morale, after the unnerving outcome of the
Great War, was no easy task for British Governments. To quote Gertrude
Stein on the Great War, it “had neither a beginning nor an end”4 and, one
might add, neither winners nor losers bringing no reconciliation but a
fragile truce broken in less than two decades. As to the overseas territories
during the thirties, London had to cope not only with the dominions’ demands for separate constitutional rights, as in Canada or South Africa, but
also with the on the rise anti-colonial nationalisms, particularly in Asia.
For Britain, a country going through a severe economic crisis and desper-
210
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
ate social conditions at home, the Empire, no longer “internally peaceful”
as envisioned by George Orwell5, had become a burden rather than a political and economic asset.
Britain’s on and off insularity is often blamed for her political vacillations while fascism was spreading in continental Europe. A more plausible
reason was the drain caused by her first war experience that, together with
the strain in dealing with the dominions and colonies, left her quite unprepared for a second military challenge. The “people’s war” propaganda by
the new media shrouded the impotence of a once imperial superpower to
protect her own shores from outside invaders and “win the war” on her
own6. Looking back at those wartime years, it is clear that both imperial
erosion and war hardships played their part in the gradual loss of Britain’s
former international prestige, also prompting the decolonization process,
and so Britain’s contraction into her former insular shape. For some intellectual elites, her decline prefigured the end of an old world, if not the
world, a “civilization in ruins”7.
If Britain’s ambiguous relationship with “the imperial beyond”8 and
her no less ambiguous partnership with continental Europe have caused
tensions, eventually leading to minor and major conflicts, it has also
aroused a national consciousness seeking its self-image in the glow, or
darkness, of England’s past, where the nation’s historical and cultural authenticity could be found. The search became even more apparent as the
imperial architecture started showing its cracks, and the collective sense
of unity and sacrifice to fight the second war began to waver. The claims
for an English identity have not stopped ever since, more difficult to ascertain, though, in today’s multicultural, multiethnic United Kingdom.
In literature, the lure of the past led to a self-reflexive9 way of writing
historical fiction as well as to a new way of reading it, the reader’s role as
an “activator” being as important as the writer’s in making some “sense of
the past”10.
The idea that some modernists “were already designing alternative
modes for adapting historical materials”11 may come as a shock to those
who regard the formalist aestheticism of Modernism as predominantly
ahistorical. Like any other current, Modernism went through different
modes and practices, “its point of transition,” says Marina MacKay, happening during the interwar period12. History was certainly no “nightmare”
for modernists like Virginia Woolf whose first experiment in writing historical fiction was Orlando (1928), the second, Between the Acts (1941).
211
Neither novel was read as historical when they were published since Walter Scott’s classical model, though worn out, had not disappeared altogether. Woolf’s reputed mastery in rendering individual consciousness
might have lead the critics to frown at her skills in rendering a social collective, her disruptive ways of handling historical narrative also being part
of the problem, theirs, not hers. Yet, in Between the Acts “the presence
of the past” is everywhere, the multiple voices, “the stories and counter-stories” in it also allowing for a “pluralism” not peculiar just to “today’s thought”13. What might be regarded as one of her novel’s aesthetic
flaws – the alternation of modes, narrative, dramatic and lyrical – is also
one of its innovations, considering that hybridism is part of the “novelness” of a genre that, says Bakhtin, challenges conventional boundaries
and is continuously reshaping itself, its nowadays’ contours only reaffirming its mixed-up origins14.
Like with the wars, English Modernism cannot be detached from the
empire, neither one being disassociated from Englishness, a concept that
is frequently confused with Britishness. To discuss the entanglements
between the latter two notions would take us far beyond the scope of
this paper, more concerned with what is perceived as “icons of Englishness,” such as “local landscapes, persons, objects of architecture”15, or
the so-called English ways. Englishness is indeed an unstable notion that
came into sharper focus when Salman Rushdie redefined it in The Satanic
Verses through the words stuttered by a burlesque character, Mr. Whisky
Sisodia16.
Englishness does resemble a movable feast, celebrated in different
visible and invisible forms, reinvented according to the occasion. In late
Victorian days, a global type of Englishness happened to coincide with
the universalistic and cosmopolitan claims by highbrow modernists such
as Eliot, Foster and Woolf. Haughty, or snobbish Englishness is seen as
relating to an empire aspiring to a worldwide communality. During the
thirties, writes Jed Esty, “the fading of Pax Britannica opened the way for
a redefinition of Englishness”17; it was by then less “metropolitan,” eventually turning inward into a local type of Englishness, keen on the folksy
rituals and pastoral lore expressed in the traditional English pageant. The
polarization between global and local already revealed disenchantment
with the imperial endeavour, a malaise diagnosed by Paul Gilroy as “postcolonial melancholy”18. This brand of Englishness, tied to a “nativism”
or an “Anglocentric revival” of history and inherited culture19, was more
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
in tune with both the politics and aesthetics of late Modernism. More recently, the concept of Englishness has been updated, associating it with
“freedom, democracy and human rights”, although “ethnically and racially coded”20. Its latest reincarnation was contrived when Britain was nearly
reduced to the size of John of Gaunt’s Island-Fortress21, one of the earliest
manifestations of Englishness, and the foundation for the myth surrounding England’s invincibility, one reason for the passivity shown by those
who believed that England would never be invaded.
In fiction, Englishness seems to materialize as a physical space identified with rural England, described as a country of meadows, rivulets and
a class-bound society still feeding on past glories and social privileges. It
is further connected with the feudal configuration of the country-house, a
symbolic reminder of both “England’s local genius and its imperial majesty”22. The country-house, in its various architectural shapes and looks –
cottage, manor, or stately-mansion –, is also part of the memorabilia of
the English novel, as in, among others, Austen, the Brontes, Hardy and
Lawrence. It is in the house that locale and past merge turning it into a
lieu de memoire, an abode of English authenticity and identity23.
Between the Acts, published posthumously in 1941, was written in
1940, while Britain was facing major military setbacks: Dunkirk, the Battle of Britain and the London Blitz. The novel reflects both historical time
and experienced time appearing as a re-enactment of the gloomy atmosphere at the onset of the Second World War. It is set, like Mrs. Dalloway,
on a single day, in June 1939, in a vaguely located country-house, Pointz
Hall. The title sets forth the ironic tone of a novel with no plot or action
in it, in the Aristotelian sense, the “in-between” pageant-play being nothing else but a catch to attract a bunch of nostalgic old people to Pointz
Hall for an old-fashioned type of entertainment. Whatever happens in the
novel, not much besides the gig, is shown within the temporal and physical boundaries of the old country-house, the spatiotemporal reference of
the pageant-novel.
The open terrace and the barn, Pointz Hall’s equivalent to a “public
square,” is where the audience gathered to watch the villagers’ pageant
and have refreshments, the weather, one of the favourite English topics,
being either “fine” or “wet.” The pageant-play was a re-creation of England’s historical and literary past by a stereotyped “bossy” feminist, Miss
La Trobe, and was performed by “simple” locals, easily identified by the
audience. Her play consisted of a chronological assemblage of periods:
213
from Chaucer’s Middle Ages, the Tudors, the Reformation, the Age of
Reason, to the Nineteenth-century Victorians. The audience vented their
emotions by laughing, clapping, cheering, only breaking “in between the
acts” for the usual cup of tea and chitchat while the players changed their
garish raggedy costumes. Neither the chuffing of the old gramophone,
hidden in the bushes, nor the cacophony of voices and sounds, frequently
smothering the actors’ words, bothered them in the least. Refreshments
were served in the decrepit “Noble Barn,” inhabited by mice, birds, insects, and one stray bitch. Some nibbled on the food prepared by the
cook, who went about her catering as if blind to the filth around her. The
guests did not seem to mind either, gobbling down the “fly-blown” cake,
or drinking the “rust boiled water,” pretending that it was “delicious”. For
a while it was merry old England at her best.
Things began to turn sour when La Trope failed to provide the much
awaited, militaristic “Grand Ensemble” as a grand finale. Instead, she introduced an Act titled “Ourselves” with the idea of bringing the audience
back to their “present-time reality.” The players, choreographed to dance,
leap and jump, held up splintered mirrors in front of the audience so that
they could see themselves reflected in the broken glasses. What followed
was simply anarchy. The audience did not recognize themselves in the
“scraps, orts and fragments” reflected by the shattered mirrors, nor in the
dismal portrayal of the English race by La Trobe24. To minimize her blunder, the vicar offered to interpret the play for a, by then, disgruntled audience, but his speech was broken by the “zooming” sound of the airplanes
flying above their heads. Soaked by the rain that suddenly showered on
them, the audience began to disperse feeling as perplexed as Miss La
Trobe, at a loss as to what had gone wrong with her production of the
pageant-play, which became an artistic and social failure.
The novelistic frame also purports to a somewhat lunatic world lived
inside Pointz Hall, also referred to as “the house in a hollow”, its peculiar
topology preventing its residents from seeing what happened outside their
walls. Despite its isolation, Pointz Hall, somewhere “in the very heart
of England,” had all the elements to be identified as a lieu de memoire25.
Its present owners, the Olivers, had been living there for only a hundred
and twenty years, their memoires going no further back than one generation, not much by English standards. The aristocratic looking lady in the
portrait hung at the top of the staircase was no “ancestress” of theirs. All
in all, the Olivers stood out as phonies, their Englishness being tied to the
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
authenticity of an ancient place in which they did not quite fit. As gentry,
the Olivers were also being upstaged by new comers, who were buying
their way up to become the new gentry, like Mrs. Manresa’s husband,
whose new money came from his obscure dealings in the City26. Cranky
Bartholomew Oliver, “Master” for the servants, had spent his youth in
the Indian Civil Service and, like most men of his generation, had never
shaken off the empire from his system. His sister, Mrs. Swithin, “Old
Flimsy” for the servants, was a potty old lady who daydreamt of pre-historic England when the island was a piece of land attached to the continent, a metaphorical projection into the future, if Hitler had his way. Giles
Oliver, old Oliver’s super-macho son, broke easily into “rages” owing to
his many frustrations, including his stale marriage to Isabella, or Isa. She
had a crush on a gentleman farmer who kept vanishing, her recurrent visions, or hallucinations, showing her unbalanced mind. The couple had
drifted apart but would remain together because that was the thing to do.
Habit and tradition made of Pointz Hall a space of routines, its stifling
atmosphere only interrupted by the excitement of the pageant, put on year
after year by Miss La Trobe, a sort of permanent artist-in-residence. Nothing had changed in Pointz Hall since 1833, when Figgis’ Guide Book was
first published27.
About the untold story unfolding outside Pointz Hall no one wanted to
speak, except for Giles Oliver28. The twelve aeroplanes flying “in perfect
formation” might have been the novel’s turning point, had the audience
identified them with the imminent danger over their heads. However, they
compared the squadron to a “flight of wild duck,” disavowing, as they
had done with the mirrors, their “present-time reality.” The novel comes
to a sudden close with Pointz Hall enveloped in shadows and darkness, as
in a Gothic novel, the gloomy scenario more attuned to its depiction as a
“house in a hollow”. For Giles and Isa, Pointz Hall “had lost its shelter,”
their ambiguous thoughts suggesting that Pointz Hall, a synecdoche of the
Island, was no longer a safe place in which to live.
As to the backbone of the novel, Miss La Trobe’s dramatized version
of England’s past, it was put together with tirades of patriotic rhetoric,
rhymes and grotesquely drawn historical types, played by actors who kept
forgetting their lines. The interclass pop-like show mixed High Culture
with Low Culture, aristocracy with the “riff-raffs”, classical music with
jazz, folksy Englishness with imperial Britishness, highlighted by renditions of “’Ome Sweet ‘Ome” and “Rule Britannia.” The audience, mostly
215
old-comers from highly “respected families,” is rendered as a philistine
lot whose nonsensical dialogues, blended with racial and sexual innuendos, advance their parochial Englishness. Mrs. Manresa, the “wild child
of nature”29, and the village idiot stand out as the most Rabelaisian figures among the many comical ones, the former playing her usual “vulgar”
“over-sexed” self, the latter, always in character. La Trobe had promised
more than she could deliver, her pretentious stage production reflecting
her conventional views on England’s history, particularly when it came to
the Victorians. More than artistic innovations, her gimmicks, like the trick
played on the audience with the splintered mirrors, make her plight of the
misunderstood artist turn her into a caricature of the artist as a romantic
idealization. The pageant’s upside-down-world is in line with the carnivalesque ritualistic pageantry of the Middle Ages, as described by M. M.
Bakhtin in Rabelais and his World (1965).
Between the Acts is written “between” two models, as if in a transition
from a “fading world of elite cosmopolitanism” to “a revived core of insular nativism”30, the shift triggered not only by the threat of fascism, but
also by social and cultural changes inside Britain. Between the Acts parodies the anachronistic pageant in order to show the drama – it does turn
out to be a drama – of an isolated community that, besides not displaying much sense of unity and communality, let “their present-time reality”
pass them by, convinced that, by some twist of fate, they would survive
on their Fortress-Island. One may go so far as to speculating on whether
Virginia Woolf wrote Between the Acts to make up for her past aesthetic
and ideological standing31. One must take into account, though, that Woolf
was writing on the biggest wartime crisis in Britain’s history while living
through it, one of those occasions when historical time is also experienced
time. Between the Acts comes out as a bitter, first-hand account of a tragedy disguised by laughter.
Disavowal, one important trait in Between the Acts, is also apparent in
Kazuo Ishiguro’s Booker Prize winning novel, The Remains of the Day,
written as a retrospective narrative of the years before and after World
War II. The novel’s present, circa 1956, coincides with another crisis, the
Suez Canal, “a late flourish of imperial self-assertion” that did not turn out
well for Britain32. From his present, Stevens, a middle-aged butler, looks
back in time while on a motoring trip through rural England. Through his
thoughts, the reader is allowed to watch not only the meanderings of his
fickle mind, but also a labyrinth of dark corridors in Darlington Hall, his
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
ever-present dwelling even when away from it. The impressive stately
house had staged “great” conferences on “great” world issues discussed
by equally “great” international figures, including Ribbentrop, Keynes,
Churchill and the like. Stevens recalled his involvement in such “great”
affairs, while at the service of Lord Darlington, meanwhile deceased. In
addition to other distortions, Steven’s superlative vision of the house, a
projection of his Anglocentric self, makes him an unreliable narrator. In
the hands of the Darlington family for only “two centuries”, slightly longer than Pointz Hall with the Olivers, the manor had just been sold to a rich
American, Mr. Farraday, the “genuine old-fashioned English butler” being
part of the package deal. The novel is dominated by Stevens’ obsession
with becoming a “great” butler, his only goal and achievement in life, as
made clear when he and Miss Kenton/Mrs. Benn, Darlington’s former
housekeeper, parted company, each handling it in a very proper, repressed
Englishness, learned likely from their “betters”.
From Stevens’ confessional monologue, one gathers that underneath
his professional concerns lay the concealed story of his previous employer’s alleged treason. Lord Darlington, connected somehow with the British establishment, had tried to relax aspects of the Versailles Treaty in order to appease the Germans; later, his pro-Hitler sympathies had prompted
him to have the Jewish maids kicked out of Darlington Hall, an order that
Stevens executed with great efficiency, his never questioning orders from
above, just obeying them, as a professional butler should. Stevens insisted on Lord Darlington’s innocence, his argument being that his previous
master, a “gentleman through and through”33, had acted out of idealism,
his patriotism and sense of honour unquestionable. On the other hand,
Stevens recalled being told that “his lordship” had been manoeuvred “like
a pawn” by the Nazis, admitting that, seen from the present, Lord Darlington’s ideas might appear “rather odd.” What was really at stake was not so
much if “his lordship’s good name was destroyed for ever”34, but that he
himself, having been a witness to what had been said during the conspiratorial meetings held in the house, might be considered an accomplice in
Darlington’s crime. The butler’s rambling thoughts on the “dignity” of
his profession only helped postpone his having to find a “dignified” way
out from his compromising situation. Stevens disavowed his having any
part in Darlington’s wartime dealings by avoiding discomforting topics
such as Hitler’s totalitarianism, or the “well-being” of the empire, since
the imperial enterprise was regarded as a pretty undemocratic one as well.
217
The “loyal” butler went as far as denying to have ever worked for Lord
Darlington35.
In the end, Stevens was only too eager to please his new American
boss by playing the Hollywood type-casted butler, learning new meanings of old English words to “banter” with vulgar Mr. Farraday. In The
Remains, the English old-fashioned class-system is ridiculed through the
butler’s fixation on his equally old-fashioned profession, both leftovers
from an Englishness living on the privileges of a pre-war society still defined by “class-labels”36. Unlike the audience in Between the Acts, Stevens
was well aware of his “present-time reality,” a world that would never be
the same, Britain no longer playing the biggest role in “great” international affairs. From then on, they would be run by American know–how
and American cash. The butler would likely go on being a “great” butler
for whoever hired his professional expertise. In his mind, “dignity” and
servility overlapped. To be a “great” butler meant to serve either power or
money showing that pragmatism in dealing with contingency was the key
for survival, as Britain would learn in postwar years.
As in The Remains, historical events, facts and real figures appear fictionalized in Ian McEwan’s Atonement, a novel built on a variety of intertexts, from historical to literary ones, starting with the introductory epigram
from Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey, where Englishness and Christian
values are used as an exhortation against suspicion and false judgment. Like
the pageant-play in Woolf’s Between the Acts, the episode about Dunkirk,
which hangs by itself as a wartime experience, is framed between two sections. The “horrors” described in it are seen from the perspective of a seriously wounded infantry corporal Robbie Turner who, together with his two
soldier companions, was on the way to the beach where the “chaotic retreat
could go no further”37. The first and longer section of the novel tells the
events leading to a double crime, told in the perspective of the leading characters, among them Briony Tallis, then a precocious thirteen year old with
aspirations of becoming a writer and, strangely enough, one of the perpetrators. The third section, smaller than the first, deals with guilt and self-punishment. The setting has moved from the countryside to London, and the
reader is shown glimpses of the city’s ordeal through the Blitz, now from
Briony Tallis’s point of view. She had become a nurse trainee in a military
hospital while attempting to publish her first novel.
The last twenty pages, purporting to London, in 1999, refer to the novel’s present, time not only for wrapping up but also for astonishing revela-
218
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
tions by a now first-person narrator, the same Briony Tallis, who meanwhile
had made it as a writer and was about to celebrate her seventy-seventh birthday. Threatened by loss of memory due to “vascular dementia”, she hurried
to finish the last draft of her novel while she could remember things as they
happened, or, rather, as she had them happen by altering facts, she says, to
make things right. For Briony, only fiction could redeem human nature her
last novel being, thus, a novel of atonement. It would be kept in a vault until
all implicated in the crime mentioned in the first section were dead herself
included. Briony’s retrospective account went as far back as 1935, when
she had accused Robbie Turner of having raped her cousin, Lola Quincey,
the latter and the rapist himself, Paul Marshal, being her “fellow criminals”,
Briony’s revelation later in the novel. Her motivations for her false accusation are difficult to pin down since each character has a different perspective
of it, Briony’s own version changing as the novel progresses. Whatever
her reasons might have been, her fantasy-prone mind as a would-be writer
turned Robbie Turner into a “sex maniac”, and through her convincing testimony he was arrested and thrown into prison.
A Cambridge graduate in literature, Robbie was no stranger to the Tallis household. Jack Tallis had paid for his degree and would likely support
him through medical school, Robbie’s ambitions to become a medical
doctor considered to be “presumptuous” by the rest of the family. The
son of a cleaning woman and a father who had vanished when he was a
small child, Robbie grew up with the Tallis children, working for the family as a gardener. Once disclosed, his romantic involvement with Cecilia
Tallis would likely be frowned upon, class, money, even jealousy having
something to do with it. Briony was certainly the first to make sure that
Robbie would stay away from her sister. Her crime, made even more hideous by the war, destroyed everyone’s life, including hers, since she carried her guilt for the rest of it. Briony also shattered Robbie’s dreams of a
medical career, or of being reunited with his beloved Cecilia. Actually, the
lovers’ meeting at the Wiltshire cottage never happened, Cecilia having
been killed during the Blitz in 1940, the same year Robbie Turner died in
Dunkirk. In her fiction, Briony brought them together, likely to make up
for having separated them in life, her “kindness”, as she says, being part
of her attempt to redeem herself. Judging from the frequency of the word
“punishment” in the novel, everyone seemed to be paying for a much bigger crime with the exception of Lola and Paul who eventually married and
lived happily ever after. Sexually precocious Lola had been raped during
219
the night, near the eighteenth-century temple erected to “enhance the pastoral ideal”38, the remainder of a long gone past about which little is told.
On the site of the “Adam-style” structure destroyed by fire, an “ugly”
house had been built by grandfather Tallis who had made his money in
the trade of locks and latches. In Atonement, the country-house is just a
drab place with no history, a lieu of very bad memories, only redeemed
after having been transformed into the hotel where Briony celebrated her
seventy-seventh birthday. By then, the feudal, imperial structure of the
country-house had become nothing else but a showpiece of England’s
heritage and tourism industry.
Atonement is a novel with plot and characters, “recycling” themes,
situations and figures from Mrs. Dalloway in order to reassess England’s
second war endeavour in World War II the causes and consequences of
which were different from those in the Great War39. Had the war been lost,
Britain’s freedom would also be lost, and Dunkirk, the outcome of her
military ineffectuality, could never be transformed into a moment of great
bravery even through an act of patriotic “kindness”.
In the first section, Cecilia Tallis, like Clarissa Dalloway, fusses over
the flower arrangements for the party to celebrate her brother’s homecoming. The summer morning is as radiant as the one when Clarissa Dalloway thought of the flowers for her own party. After opening the French
window, Clarissa Dalloway had suddenly “plunged” into her not so radiant distant past, in Bourton. Cecilia’s excitement over the flowers is also
interrupted by the memory of her uncle’s funeral, and his worthless death
in the Great War. Uncle Clem, like Septimus Warren Smith in Mrs. Dalloway, went into the war moved by his idealism, both willing to die for
England. Unlike those two war veterans, Robbie Turner had not volunteered for the war, having other plans for his life. He had been arrested
for a crime he had not committed, and later released in return for fighting
in the war. For Robbie, the war meant, ironically, freedom and death, his
memory having been rehabilitated only through fiction. Robbie Turner
was no war hero, just a pawn in a stupid plot by a child, and ultimately,
like Uncle Clem and Septimus, a victim of “the collective insanity of
war”40. In the Dunkirk episode, Turner and his two companions were trying to escape from the Germans in occupied France, Cecilia’s words constantly echoing in his mind, Come back to me. But he never did. The love
story overshadows the war story that, as Dunkirk, falls short of being a
heroic wartime epic.
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
The three novels examined here point to the end of a world that had
lost its innocence, hoping, in both Ishiguro’s and McEwan’s fiction, to
restart afresh. Meanwhile, the “truth” about wartime crimes will be kept
in some archives, as those of the Imperial War Museum, waiting to be
retrieved for further interpretations, keeping up with the changes in the
European human landscape.
References
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
12
13
10
11
14
Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism, History, Theory, Fiction, New
York, London, Routledge, 1988, 105–123.
All further references are to the following editions, and will be indicated in
footnote as indicated after each novel: Virginia Woolf , Between the Acts, intr.
Frank Kermode, Oxford, Oxford World Classics, Oxford University Press,
2008, BA; Kazuo Ishiguro, The Remains of the Day, New York, Vintage International, A Division of Random House, 1993, RD; Ian McEwan, Atonement,
Toronto, Vintage Canada Edition, 2002, A.
See Piers Brendon, “The Empire, Right or Wrong” and “Englishmen Like Posing as Gods” In The Decline and Fall of the British Empire, London, Vintage,
2008, 248–349; Bernard Porter, “Everything Becomes Fluid: 1914–20” and
“Moving Quickly: 1939–70” In The Lion’s Share, A Short History of British Imperialism 1850–2004, Harlow, Pearson Longman, 2004, 226–232; 292–297.
Gillian Beer, “The Island and the Aeroplane: the Case of Virginia Woolf”
In Homi K. Bhabha, Nation and Narration, London, New York, Routledge,
1995, 266.
George Orwell, Orwell’s England, The Road to Wigan Pier in the Context
of Essays, Reviews, Letters and Poems selected from The Complete Works of
George Orwell, ed. Peter Davison, int. Ben Pimlott. London, Penguin Books,
2001, 322.
Marina MacKay, Modernism and World War II, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2008, 23.
Richard Overy, The Morbid Age, Britain Between the Wars, London, Allen
Lane, Penguin Books, 2009, 23.
Ian Baucom, Out of Place – Englishness, Empire, and the Locations of Identity, Princeton, New Jersey, Princeton University Press, 1999, 5.
On self-reflexivity, see Elizabeth Wesseling, Writing History as a Profet, Postmodernist Innovations of the Historical Novel, Amsterdam, Philadelphia, John
Benjamins Publishing Company, 1991, 83.
Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism, 77.
Elizabeth Wesseling, Writing History as a Profet, 74.
Marina MacKay, Modernism and World War II, 1–21.
Matei Calinescu, “From the One to the Many,” In Zeitgeist in Babel, Bloomington, Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1991, 173.
Michail Bachtin, “Epic and Novel” In The dialogic Imagination, Four Essays,
221
15
16
17
18
21
19
20
24
25
22
23
28
29
30
31
26
27
34
35
36
37
38
39
32
33
40
222
ed. Michael Holquist, trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist, Austin, University of Texas Press, 1981, 3-40.
Graham MacPhee, and Prem Poddar, “Nationalism beyond the Nation-State”
In Empire and After, Englishness in Postcolonial Perspective, eds. Graham
MacPhee and Prem Poddar, New York, Oxford, Berghahn Books, 2007, 1.
Ian Baucom opens his “Introduction” by quoting Mr. Sisoda’s famous comments on Englishness: “The trouble with the Engenglish is that their hiss hiss
history happened overseas, so they doo don’t know what it means.” Out of
Place, Englishness, Empire, and the Locations of Identity, 3. It is also interesting to read the remarks made by Homi K. Bhabha on Rushdie’s redefinition of
Englishness in “DissemiNation: time, narrative, and the margins of the modern
nation” In Nation and Narration, London, New York, Routledge, 1995, 317.
Jed Esty, A Shrinking Island, Modernism and National Culture in England,
Princeton, Oxford, Princeton University Press, 2003, 94.
MacPHEE, GRAHAM and PODDAR, PREM, “Nationalism beyond the Nation-State” In Empire and After, 3.
Esty, 55.
MacPhee and Poddar, 16–18.
Richard II (II. i. 42–45). See Gillian Beer, “The Island and the aeroplane: the
case of Virginia Woolf” in Nation and Narration, 269–270.
Baucom, 176.
Ibid, 37.
BA, 168–9.
Pointz Hall was a former Elizabethan manor whose story went far back in
times; seen from flying over its site, it stood out as a national landmark.
BA, 37.
Ibid, 48
Ibid, 42-43; 49
Ibid, 37.
Esty, 107.
Virginia Woolf’s ideological standing regarding the war and the empire is one
of the aspects developed by Marina MacKay in “Virginia Woolf and the Pastoral Patria,” Modernism and World War II, 22-41.
Bernard Porter, The Lion’s Share, 311.
RD, 61.
Ibid, 235.
Ibid, 123.
George Orwell, Orwell’s England, The Road to Wigan Pier, 325.
A, 247.
Ibid, 72.
Besides containing enough Woolfianisms to prove that Modernism is not dead,
Briony’s novel “within” the novel is also a daring attempt by McEwan to show
a novel in the process of being written, a prank played by a God-like narrator
who wanted to save her soul through fiction at the reader’s expense.
A, 353.
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
A journey in Search of the Human
Self: Alessandro Baricco –
“Novecento”
Kelionė ieškant savo žmogiškosios
savasties: Alessandro Baricco
„Novečente“
Nicoleta CĂLINA
University of Craiova
A.I. Cuza, 13,Craiova
[email protected]
Summary
With a philosophical and musicological background, Alessandro Baricco, one
of the most appreciated contemporary Italian writers, narrates in one of his latest
novels, “Novecento” – a monologue, either a story to read with loud voice or a
theatrical text, as it was considered – the journey towards America of the musician
T.D. Lemon Novecento. A journey of the soul impregnated with words, music and
memories that beyond the literary success gained applauses in cinematography,
too (due to the talent of Giuseppe Tornatore, who greatly directed “La leggenda
del pianista sull’oceano / “The legend of the pianist on the ocean” and in theatre
(the play “Novecento” transposed on the real stage by Arnoldo Foà, directed by
Gabriele Vacis)). The artists, after reading the text of the novel, considered that
the crossing of the narrative to the stage was almost a debt in order to make more
valuable and known, the text considered to be a classic of the contemporary literature. This rhythmic monologue was first recited at Asti, by Eugenio Allegri.
As the theatre is an independent language among others, it requires a body and a
voice for the narrator. In Novecento’s case, the actor assumes a lot of hypostases,
up to identifying himself with the friend whose story he is narrating. Baricco
creates characters who are on the edge, limited and there is also the case of his
protagonist, an enigmatic person, a musician without nationality, always traveling
between Europe and America, in a continuous search of himself.
Key words: contemporary literature, traveling, search of the self.
After his literary debut with Castelli di rabbia (Castels of Rage), followed by Oceano mare (Ocean Sea), Alessandro Baricco did not abandon
the theme of the sea that serves as a metaphor, pursuing with it in the
monologue Novecento, a text that “occupies a certain place between a real
223
enactment and a story to be read with loud voice”1. With a philosophical-musicological background, Alessandro Baricco, one of the most appreciated contemporary Italian writers, narrates in one of his latest novels,
Novecento – a monologue, either a story to read with loud voice or a
theatrical text, as it was considered – the journey towards America of the
musician T.D. Lemon Novecento. A journey of the soul impregnated with
words, music and memories that, beyond literary success, gained applauses in cinematography, too (due to the talent of Giuseppe Tornatore, who
greatly directed La leggenda del pianista sull’oceano (“The legend of the
pianist on the ocean”) and in theatre (the play Novecento was transposed
on the real stage by Arnoldo Foà and directed by Gabriele Vacis2. The artists, after reading the text of the novel, considered that the passage of the
narrative to the stage was almost as a debt in order to make more valuable
and known, the text considered to be a classic of the contemporaneous
literature.
This rhythmic monologue was first recited at Asti, by Eugenio Allegri.
The theatre, being a language, requires a body and a voice for the narrator. In Novecento’s case, the actor assumes various roles, up to identifying
himself with the friend whose story he is narrating.
The monologue of Baricco tells the remarkable story of Danny Boodmann T. D. Lemon Novecento, a man who spent his entire life aboard the
steamship “Virginian”, who was found abandoned by someone traveling
third class on the black piano of the transatlantic, in a box of lemons and
who was born and died without ever walking on solid ground. It tells
the story of a man who is the best pianist of all times. A man who lives
through the desires and passions of others, a man who is, at the same time,
accomplished and devastated by music, who lives suspended between his
piano and the sea. A man who never finds the strength to go beyond, who
does not succeed in overcoming the fear to love and to create roots of his
own, so he devotes his life to play in order to relieve the hearts of the passengers from the immense fear of the ocean3. The story is narrated by his
trumpeter friend and takes place between the two World Wars, when the
ship was constantly crossing the Atlantic from Europe to America.
The book does not have many pages, but they are extraordinary, intense and full of magic. The main character is named Novecento (The
Twentieth Century) and is unable to get off the ship and deal with life
on land. Music which “sounds because the ocean is big and scary” is his
entire life. Jazz, played by him at the piano is music through an infinite
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
finitude that makes his voyages to be always caught in-between his music.
According to the characters, this is the only music you play when you are
at sea. Baricco manages to sound very poetic even since the title, which
sums up everything that happens around the Twentieth century.
He preferred to remain on the steamboat rather than reach a compromise with his life, disarm himself in front of his dreams, hopes, and let
them be alive in his mind, on the transatlantic, where he spent all his life,
there where he has known his fears and protected his desires. But the real
paradox is that, in terms of theory, Novecento does not exist because he
and his name are not recorded in any population records.
Earth is a ship too big for him, so he has never descended on land
from his universe which is that transatlantic floating down towards America. The book is an entire world in a micro-novel, a drama, a poem or just
a charming impromptu for the piano and the trumpet. It can be read as a
parable (the world as a ship) or be listened like a relaxing music, like a
song that fills your soul.
We can always imagine ourselves as different from everybody and perhaps this is the reason why the protagonist of the book is simply accepted
by himself for who he is. He wanted to “get involved”, trying to get off
the ship and start a “normal” life, but in the most beautiful moment, he
acknowledged his limits and came back. He has chosen the path that was
easier for him and returned to do what he could do the best, which is to
play his music, to play jazz. He probably believed that only in his small
world he would be able to exploit and cultivate his abilities4.
One of the first images in the present text is America as the ideal embodiment or better-said, as the destiny. The mythical vision of America
created by the Europeans is a land where things that once could only be
intuited, thought and imagined, become an absolute reality. America is the
Promised Land to which only the worthy and fortunate enter when they
are destined for it. We may consider that the action itself is almost zero,
since the “story” can be summarized in just a few words and reduced to a
few epic nuclei of low tension and uncertainty, placed at the limit between
hilarity and incredible tragedy.
Baricco represents the ship as a floating city, a world in miniature,
and also the micro-cosmos of an evasion space. Ports appear as spaces of
transition between water and land which are contaminated by prejudice.
Thus, we are dealing with a ship-type floating island, a paradisiacal space
in a really existing time, so that harmony between individuals could be
225
tangible5. The characters, like the author’s approach, are comic or tragic
and they gravitate around this ship, which is another space, a “non-space”
floating on the ocean. In fact Novecento means “Virginian”, he himself is
the soul of the ship, identifying his soul with the boat because it was not
contaminated by another space.
Music is the defining feature through which his existence can be established. The piano is his only consolation – he was dropped on a piano – and through it, he successfully wiped out the pain of losing Danny
Boodmann. Novecento manages to make the music the attribute of the
trip. He imagined himself mentally “visiting” countries that has not really
seen and, just like a master of observation and analysis, he recomposes
the world, the universe, observes and re-creates it in whole parts, just
like a big puzzle. The piano composes the memories of the moments that
he has never lived, but that are present in the collective unconscious. He
searches for, investigates and asks confessions and descriptions, in order
to recompose the ground, but yet deprived of brutality, misery, sadness
and tears6. Novecento’s music relates about events, conditions, situations,
emotions; he connects everything to it; music is a perfect union of all the
expressions of a harmonious world.
Tim’s proposal to leave the boat and go ashore to see another world
seems very abstract. On leaving the vessel and descending on land, the
decision is taken under an incomprehensible desire: to be able to change
perspective, and to experience life out of subjectivism7. But descending in
the world is refused since the steamboat is its ideal representation. Novecento prefers the finitude of the piano keys; interpreting, he finds freedom
rather than assuming the land of the infinity. He does not want the transgression of the limits but when he is near to violate them, he realizes that
such a tragedy is triggered and chooses to retire in the small space where
he can feel free to pursue his own adventure rather than to seek liberty.
Outside there is a universe too large for him.
This chosen exile of the main character equalizes with the withdrawal
in front of the unknown and wild, because the finitude of the world requires a much higher possibility of being controlled, known and broken
into smaller and more intimate pieces. He will not let himself go to the
dispersion of his personality. From here derives the possibility to reduce
the vessel at the quintessential value of the world, a small version of it.
Novecento is without doubt a great solitary; loneliness seems to be the
main character feature, his best world ever in which he can be himself,
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
which may be closer to the core of the world and within which he can
create his own freedom8. Giving up to the finite space of the ship would
mean to re-create his universe. Therefore he remains faithful to the microcosmos which is without limits, without losing his independence. In fact,
he was the one that had chosen this voluntary exile. Alessandro Baricco
believes that a common feature of his characters is that they win by loosing.
His style transposes pieces of the soul in his book that combines writing with pure poetry and his work simply cuts literary genres in order to
convey emotions. What may be amazing about the style is that it is soliloquized, its orality being a refined seeking, a combination of slow but
strong and alert tones. There are even phrases of a liquid fluent speech
associated with a naturalness of epic yarn given by the memory-flow technique.
Baricco creates characters that are on the edge, and it is also the case
of his protagonist, an enigmatic person, and musician without nationality,
always traveling between Europe and America, in a continuous search of
himself.
In September 1994, the author, referring to this novel, wrote the following words:
I do not know if that means that I have written a dramatic story: I doubt it,
though. Now that I see it published as a book, it seems to me rather a text that
oscillates between a real scene and a fitting story to read aloud. I do not think
that such texts have a name.
Anyway, this is not too important. It seems to me a beautiful story that deserves to be told to others.9
The book is captivating, engaging and deep but, at the same time, ironic. It is impossible not to remain fascinated by the attractive and mysterious figure of Novecento, as he is described: as a person for whom there
are no complications or problems, but only the music and the ocean. It is
a fascinating writing, which gives intense feelings and, above all, makes
us reflect upon ourselves; after reading the novel, we might resonate in
perfect harmony with the characters. The end is touching, through it, it is
possible to understand the paradoxical and yet curious philosophy of the
pianist: the earth is an immense keyboard of destiny.
This masterpiece of the contemporary literature escapes from the classical labeling of a monologue, offering to the lecturer the characteristic
227
feature of a novel livened by the interweaving direct discourse, reflexive
fragments, temporal jumps, flash backs, but the most important is that he
manages to reach for the mysterious tone, the hypnotic atmosphere able to
cause fascination.
References
1
2
3
4
7
5
6
8
9
228
Santena Buscemi, Alessandro Barrico. Novecento, in Cultumedia, 1st May,
2000
Massimo Novelli, Baricco, ripartenza per il suo Novecento, in La Repubblica,
25 aprile 2001, 43.
Valeria Surico, Novecento, in Teatro, 22th December 2006
Costinela Rolea, Alessandro Barrico şi mitual solitudinii in Pro-Saeculum,
nr. 3/2009, 39, 44.
Santena Buscemi, op. cit., 2.
Costinela Rolea, op. cit., 44.
Melfino Materazzi, Giovanni Presutti, Letteratura Italiana Modulare. Storia
e testi, Ed. Thema, Bologna, 2005
Costinela Rolea, op. cit., 45.
Alessandro Baricco, Novecento. Un monologo, a cura di Paola Lagossi, Milano, Universale Economica Feltrinelli, 2006, XII.
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
The Category of Montage as the
Tool to Understand the Grammar
of the City in Postmodern Cinema.
Representation of the Changing
World in “Pulp Fiction”
Montažo kategorija kaip įrankis
suprasti miesto gramatiką
postmoderniame kine. Kintančio
��
pasaulio reprezentacija
„Bulvariniame skaitale“
Beata WALIGORSKA-OLEJNICZAK
Adam Mickiewicz University
Instytut Filologii Rosyjskiej
al. Niepodleglosci 4
61–874 Poznan, Poland
[email protected]
Summary
Upon the UK release of one of Quentin Tarantino’s films he said that he did
not want his films to be disposable. “Disposable” is the word which comes to
mind while discussing the world created by him in Pulp Fiction, the work which
seems to evoke particularly strong associations with junk culture, the culture of
the instant and the recycled. The vision of the city where the plot is set up can
belong to any modern city which is constantly changing and resembles thousands
of similar places. It can constitute a simulacrum of daily exposure to consumption,
which leaves an individual unable to comprehend and gives an illusion of cultural
identity. It can also represent the place where everything is traded, not only merchandise but also relationships. The article focuses on the category of montage
perceived as the key for understanding the organisation of the post-industrial space
in Tarantino’s film Pulp Fiction built on the mixture of pop culture values. It tries
to establish central and peripheral areas of the city shown in the film and examine
the role of urban facilities such as restaurants, motels and restrooms pictured in it.
The studies lead to the analysis of heroes’ journeys, which push them somehow
outside the city where they lived, and their behaviour in relation to internal and
external architecture of the space.
Key words: montage, visual shifts, emotional shock, intellectual engagement,
postmodern city, central and peripheral areas.
229
Critics say that Quentin Tarantino’s films represent the final triumph of
postmodernism, which is to empty the artwork of all content, thus voiding
its capacity to do anything except helplessly represent our agonies (rather
than to contain or comprehend)1. Tarantino’s distinctive squash of sadism, comic-book violence, consumerist trivia, and very good dialogue has
come to seem a defining product of the fin de siècle. The director himself
claims that everything he writes is extremely personal and has to do with
whatever is going on with him at that time. For example, Tarantino was
experiencing Europe for the first time when he wrote Pulp Fiction, thus
John Travolta’s character has just come back from Europe and that is all
he can talk about.
The film’s script had its origins in the old pulp crime stories published
by Black Mask magazine. The director comments that “The idea was to
start off with really old pulp ideas – the boxer who’s paid to throw a fight
but doesn’t, the gangster who takes out his boss’s girl, knows he shouldn’t
mess with her, but… – and sort of go to the Moon with them, take them to
a place you’ve never seen them taken to before”2. The characters from one
story sometimes interact with those of the next, chronology is discombobulated: characters that die in one story come back to life in another. Consequently, Pulp Fiction is most often associated with chaos, emptiness and
slangy dialogue. Tarantino, however, in numerous interviews emphasised
the fact that he had been drawn to the genre for its interest in charting the
modern urban landscape and the opportunity of working on an emotional
level of the audience leading them into unknown territories3.
This article is aimed to focus on artistic means used by Tarantino in
Pulp Fiction, due to which the spectator is able to go beyond the uncomplicated level of the content and discover the depth, the hidden meaning
of the work of art, initiate communicative interactions with the film. The
core subject I will try to discuss here is the problem of the grammar of the
postmodern city, internal and external relationships existing in it as well
as its central and peripheral areas, the analysis of which may help to draw
conclusions concerning the condition of the human being at the time of
technological breakthrough. The specific key used for the studies of the
problem of my interest will constitute the theory of montage of Sergei
Eisenstein, the famous Russian film and theatre director, which should
allow to understand the inner logic of Pulp Fiction, which seems to be
based on the binary way of thinking, continuous juxtaposition of opposite
ideas in order to overcome seemingly chaotic non-linear narrative and
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
lead the spectator into one unifying truth. For Eisenstein montage was not
only the way of efficient organisation of stories being told as it was for his
predecessors, but first of all it constituted the tool for the interpretation of
life and conscious management of viewers’ reactions4. The above features
of Eisenstein’s method seem to show artistic similarity between creative
principles of the aforementioned American director and the Russian film
classic motivating the need to establish core intellectual issues, which
remain common for both cultures, the East and the West, in spite of temporal and spatial distance between them.
As it is known, Eisenstein’s method of work was based exclusively on
the reaction of the audience for he saw the main task of every theatre or
film in guiding of the spectator into a desired direction5. The elementary
creative tool for Eisenstein was so called attraction, i.e. every aggressive
moment in a work of art that brings to light in the spectator those senses
or that psychology that influence his experience, every element that can
be verified and mathematically calculated to produce certain emotional
shocks in a proper order within the totality6. In practice, it meant that
harmonic composition was understood as much more than the need for
the connected and sequential exposition of the theme and action, it was
rather perceived as free montage of arbitrarily selected independent molecules which were to engage the audience in the basic intentional line of
a film, the core idea. The characteristic element of Eisenstein’s style was
pathos built up through continuous change of categories, moving from
one intellectual dimension into another in order to evoke a particular reaction of the spectator. It was put to life by the juxtaposition of two seemingly unconnected images, different styles or thoughts to communicate
a completely new idea7. This ecstatic balancing on the verge of separate
worlds seems to be also the method utilised by Quentin Tarantino in Pulp
Fiction, in which the director employs the machinery of pop culture in an
effort to build a link between his audience and the ontological questions
that he poses on-screen. The circular structure of the film suggests that
montage in this work of art may be associated with a series of explosions
or dynamic fights of opposite ideas rather than a gradual chain reaction of
images.
Fights, violence and shootings are familiar elements of conventional
action films set up in California. Standard nature of Pulp Fiction’s three
main narratives draws attention to the clichés of the film, display a knowledge of the crisis of the Hollywood action-cinema, which is apparent in
231
the relations between the milieu of Los Angeles and the protagonists. The
L.A. of Pulp Fiction is predominantly a space of “rootlessness” with no
visibly present central milieu or individual protagonist8. L.A. is shown as
any space in both temporal and spatial terms. Characters appear to drift
in and out of neutral, non-definable spaces such as coffee shops, motel
rooms, bars and apartments. The protagonists appear to have no concrete
relations with these spaces; they stroll from one to another. According to
Paul Gormley this sense of instability is compounded by the non-definable era of these spaces. We travel from the contemporary space of the
apartment block to the boxing ring backstage to the Godarian motel room.
In the apartments there is nothing to catch our eye, most of the time we
can observe walls, floors or elevators from different perspectives, dirty
or clean, old or modern but not personalised. Mia’s house is presented
as sterile space to be shown around, to admire or to take pictures of. As
we follow the movements of the camera we can see spacious interiors
resembling those in designers’ catalogues, we wonder if this is really a
place where someone lives. A completely different image is created while
wandering with Vincent and Jules along narrow corridors of the apartment block just before the retrieval of Marsellus’s briefcase. The dramatic
intensity is built up by long shots of the characters’ talking in the dirty
elevator or in the hall before reaching their destination. The apartment
itself is in a state of rather claustrophobic mess, but it is definitely the
space where people do their daily routines of eating and sleeping in a big
city. The aforementioned images show that L.A. seems to be an undefined
and unstructured space which does not evoke a nostalgia for characteristic sensory-motor relations of action between the protagonist and milieu.
Instead, the film supplies such density of intertextual allusions to cultural
artefacts of the past that the viewer’s attempts to keep up provides its own
kind of distraction.
In other words we could say that any attempt to use a reference as a
sign of any unified structure of meaning behind the film leads in Pulp
Fiction to yet another citation. A prime example is the much-discussed
briefcase, which Jules and Vincent are to pick up for their gangster boss.
The briefcase is opened twice and each time a bright golden light absorbs
the opener’s face and the screen. “The viewer never gets to see the source
of this golden light, the unseen contents of the briefcase thwart attempts
to read it as containing some symbolic deep structural meaning”9. We
could argue that on a surface level the golden light operates here as a
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
symbol of violence itself, an allusion to Spielberg’s Raiders of the Lost
Ark and Aldrich’s Kiss Me Deadly as both films feature boxes with an unseen object emanating golden light which can be associated with ultimate
violent destruction. We can broaden this interpretation with the close-up
of the code Vincent uses while opening the briefcase. It consists of triple
six which, according to Christian symbolic, can be associated with the sin
and the Apocalyptic name of Antichrist rising from the ground, although
it also reminds of six days of the Creation of the World in the book of
Genesis. Consequently, the briefcase could be associated both with the
beginning and the end of the World, which is confirmed by the opening
of the discussed object both at the initial and final scenes of the film. The
double meaning of the briefcase may be also connected with the rebirth of
Jules and the death of Vincent which bring to mind the dual nature of the
world, mutual relationships between the spirit and the matter in all aspects
of life.
At the same time, these futile attempts to find meaning in the briefcase
suggest that the golden glow itself produces an affective reaction in the
viewer. “The golden glow functions as an example of the Deleuzian colour-image in the sense that it does not refer to a particular object, but absorbs all that it can”10. The golden light fills the screen and seizes all that
happens within its range, absorbs not only the spectator but also the characters and the situations. The curiosity evoked by the unseen nature of the
briefcase’s contents suggests the possibility of depth and meaning, as the
viewer strains to see the object producing the golden light. Paul Gormley
claims that there is something in the image that is beyond the surface that
invites the viewer to give it significance beyond its literal physical appearance, beyond the superficiality and obviousness of the images11. The opposition between surface and depth may be understood here as a metaphor
to express a nostalgia for the real, the spectator’s desire for depth.
This search for the culture which is somehow more real and deeper than the surface simulation of postmodernism can also be noticed in
the creation of the black figures of Marsellus and Jules. Superficially, the
film’s two black characters are similarly composed of intertextual allusions to other stock cinematic figures, but unlike the white genre characters both Marsellus and Jules are constituted and linked to a truth beyond
the plot level. In Jules’s case this is probably most marked when he moves
on from being a simulation of a Baptist preacher. At breakfast at a diner
Jules and Vincent pursue a philosophical debate unusual for a film of this
233
nature, which seems to highlight Jules’s complex and mysterious conversion. Jules understands the power of the miracle that he witnesses because
he possesses the ethical faculties to listen to the transformational power
of their experience. Jules engages in the act of what Miller refers to as the
“ethics of reading”. “At such moments an author turns back on himself, so
to speak, turns back on a text he or she has written, re-reads it”12. As the
de facto author of his own life, Jules reflects upon his past experience as
text, attempting to interpret its meaning before his conversion. Previously
employing the text of Ezekiel 25:17 as a means for delivering death, after
the advent of his conversion Jules reinterprets the passage and discovers
the horrible truth about his past existence. For the first time, Jules realises the value of human life and his own ability to sustain it. Tarantino
establishes Jules as the moral centre of his film, the viewer can observe an
image shift as the character transforms from a gangland caricature into a
man trying to follow a right path. The viewer feels involved in his transformation as the shots accompanying his philosophical conversation with
Vincent are mostly close-ups of their faces and eyes, which makes the
whole process credible and easy to believe. The idea of using Ezekiel citation as a killing speech and later on as an avenue for redemption, inspired
by a kung fu movie, proves again that for Tarantino cultural ephemera
very often lead to larger ontological discussions concerning God and reveal multi-level structure of his works13.
The juxtaposition of opposite categories is also visible in the creation of the controlling figure of Marsellus. This often unseen character
constitutes in fact the central omnipotent figure of the film hovering over
all the narratives and functioning as the one concrete link between the
protagonists and the milieu of the L.A. Underworld14. The first on-screen
appearance of Marsellus is in the opening sequence of “Vincent Vega and
Marsellus Wallace’s Wife”. We can see a two-minute-long take of expressionless and motionless Butch listening to the unseen instructing voice of
Marsellus. The rest of this scene features shots of the back of Marsellus’s
black head, partially covered with a band-aid and Butch’s non-reaction
to the situation. Throughout the scene the viewer strains to see the face
from which the voice is emanating, the shot of the back of Marsellus’s
head seems to increase the divide between a visible, simulated and surface
whiteness and an unknowable and deep blackness. The band-aid stuck
across the back of his head obviously stands out in contrast to Marsellus’s
black flesh. “The juxtaposition of head and the plaster evokes the film’s
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
construction of whiteness as artificial, while the black flesh underneath
is unseen and unknowable”15. The studies show that the film is often perceived as the one setting up a dualistic structure where the white culture is
revealed as a blank, empty and meaningless space, and African-American
culture is fetished as both knowing the meaning and value of popular culture, and a space of affective depth16. The godlike character of Marsellus
controlling the symbolic realities of the other characters seems to represent the reversal in cultural authority, the power to energise the world.
Shifts of energy, but of different kind, can be observed also in scenes
with Vincent Vega and Mia. The shot of Vincent driving through the darkness in an idyllic heroin-soaked haze to meet Mia reminds us of the pleasures of inactivity and the need to hang out. The atmosphere continues during the visit in Jack Rabbit Slim’s, where the waiters and waitresses are
Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, Zorro, James Dean, Martin and Lewis,
Buddy Holly etc., whose catch lines and phrases sell steaks and burgers –
“Hi! I’m Buddy, pleasing you, pleases me”17. The spectator has a chance
to observe static shots of Mia and Vincent sitting at the table, amusing
themselves with the same brand of playful banter that characterises all of
Vincent’s relationships. As the evening unfolds the couple share a contestwinning dance, shots of the characters’ dancing become dynamic with lots
of close-ups of their bodies’ movements and facial expression lost in twist.
The shots take a lot of time, the deliberately unhurried pace of the date allows Tarantino to infuse the scene with the archetypal cinematic expectation of sex. It is confirmed by the comic scene in the bathroom, in which
Vincent literally staring at his own image in the mirror reminds himself
of the inherent dangers awaiting him in the other room, where Mia glides
to the song “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon”. Both the characters and the
spectators are seduced by this scene, share a kind of erotic tension which
suddenly switches into Mia’s accidental heroin overdose that requires
Vincent to save her and his own life by stabbing Mia in the heart with an
injection of adrenaline. The anticipated sexual encounter is replaced by
the cover-your-eyes scene in which Vincent and his drug dealer try to save
the boss’s wife by plunging a needle into her heart per instructions in a
medical book. The woman is on the brink of death, we can see the closeup of the needle looking about 13 inches long while Lance and Vincent
are arguing about the instructions. Tarantino himself says that he loves to
watch that scene. “When you watch it, the audience is broken into thirds:
a third is diving under their chair, a third is laughing, and the other third is
235
doing both at the same time”18. The director deliberately put that scene to
work on viewers’ emotional level as it is both extremely funny and very
dramatic.
Similar emotions are evoked by mixing the categories of tragic and
comic in the scenes preceding the adrenaline shot, namely during Vincent’s manic drive to Lance. We have no doubts that it represents nothing
more than his interest in his self-preservation, there is no place for genuine affection or romantic feelings aroused just few minutes earlier. Before
answering the phone Lance watches a cartoon representing typical simple
comic-strip humour, just few seconds later he experiences similar situations in real life when Vincent literally drives into his house with his car.
This time, however, the scenes may seem funny only for the spectator,
Lance and his wife are moved from the atmosphere of weekend relaxation
and fun into fury and quarrels connected with the unexpected invasion of
Vincent. We could say that switching between scenes evoking opposite
reactions of the spectator is a kind of Tarantino’s signature mark, it is a
game the film maker is playing with the viewer to make him involved
with his work. Utilising the language of Eisenstein and his definition of
attraction we could say here that Tarantinian humour balancing on the
verge of opposite categories is the aggressive element applied to provoke
the spectator, to produce emotional shocks leading to the discovery of the
basic intentional line of the film.
Similar shocking effect based on two-dimensional character of the story may be associated with “The Gold Watch” episode. The tale opens with
a dream-flashback sequence in which Butch as a boy is presented with the
heirloom watch by his father’s fellow officer from the Vietnam conflict,
Captain Koons. In addition to establishing the heroic tradition of Coolidge
men, Koons’s long monologue tells the story of bizarre method of rectal
transport necessary to return the watch to Butch from Vietnam. The unconsciously ironic narrative turns paternal love into control, sentimental attachment into obsession haunting Butch just prior to his big fight19.
Sacrum mixes with profanum here, the gold watch becomes the symbol
of the objectification of the human, the dominance of object relations in
postmodern world. Butch’s traumatic legacy makes him risk his life and
go back to his apartment setting in motion the dramatic chain of events.
It starts with putting a pop tart into the toaster at his apartment. The
spectator is shocked by a sudden springing up of the tart causing Butch
to jerk the trigger of the gun and kill Vincent Vega. The link between the
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
object and death appears also in the scenes in the pawnshop, particularly
when Butch confronts his most challenging ethical test whether or not
to spare Marsellus from sodomy and certain death at the hands of two
hillbilly sadomasochists. This crucial moment, a point of moral regeneration as well as a life-changing decision for Butch is marked by an elaborate inventory of the store’s stock as he searches for a weapon. “First, he
picks up a hammer from a drawer below the counter, then a baseball bat
snatched off the counter, which is in turn dropped for a chainsaw taken
from a chest-height shelf. Finally, the camera focuses on Butch’s face
as he stares upwards. He climbs up to get this object, which turns out
to be a samurai sword”20. The quasi-magical properties of the object are
suggested in Butch’s protracted gaze, in the suggestions of an archetypal
quest and its relation to folk tale and myth. The elements of the folk tale
may include the dark room at the back of the pawnshop resembling a sort
of cave or dungeon or Maynard and Zed’s shift image from the respectable to murderers. Butch’s process of choosing the right weapon assumes
qualities of the ritualistic conferral of the magical gift. Butch with the
quasi-magical sword is able to conquer the beasts and save Marsellus, he
kills Maynard with curiously expert samurai-style techniques. The episode
in the pawnshop is a way for Butch to achieve something of the moral
victory and heroism of his forebears. He is forgiven for his betrayal and
rides off triumphantly on Zed’s motorcycle, free and dignified. Marsellus
cancels the feud between them with the words “there is no me and you”
and the exile he imposes “You lost all your L.A. privileges”.
To sum up, we could say that Pulp Fiction mixes lurid, outrageous
elements with sweetly appealing ones to the point where the viewer never
has the faintest idea what to expect21. It makes people think, laugh, cry
and shiver22. Aiming for the emotions it is a movie that moves the audience, the quirky dialogue shifting unexpectedly from funny, hair-splitting small talk to terrifying extremes accompanies dramatic visual shifts
and startling changes of pace23. Extravagant ideas such as the restaurant
designed as a shrine to American popular culture with diners sitting in
convertibles and a staff made up of ersatz 1950’s celebrities mix with
philosophical questions about death imposed by images of samurai sword
or martial art techniques. The circular structure of narratives constituting the film plot correspond to the spiral system of citations put to life by
the intertextuality of the film. This constant game of opposite elements
initiated by the brilliant montage based on intellectual engagement of the
237
viewer creates the image of the postmodern city being a space of surface,
simulation and emptiness associated with the white culture. The white
characters are either killed or moved to peripheral areas with no name or
identity. The film seems to turn attention to the possibility of the black
culture occupying the central place and re-energising the white with the
affect that culture lacks.
References
1
4
2
3
5
6
7
8
9
12
10
11
13
16
17
14
15
18
19
22
20
21
23
238
James Wood, “You’re sayin’ a foot massage don’t mean nothin’, and I’m sayin’ it does’”, The Guardian, 1994, 19 November, 31.
Jim McClellan, Taranti, The Observer, 1994, 3 July, 28–30.
Ibid.
Jerzy Plazewski, Jezyk filmu, Warszawa: Wydawnictwa Artystyczne i Filmowe, 1982, 157–160.
Jurij Lotman, Semiotyka filmu, Warszawa: Wiedza Powszechna, 1983, 106–
130.
Sergei. Eisenstein, The Film Sense, London: Faber and Faber LTD, 1997, 166�–
168.
Eisenstein, Nieobojetna Przyroda, Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Artystyczne i
Filmowe, 1975, 221–240.
Paul Gormley, “Trashing Whiteness, Pulp Fiction, se7en, strange days, and
articulating affect”, Angelaki, 2001, vol. 6, No. 1, 155��
–��
170.
Ibid, 159.
Ibid.
Ibid.
Hillis J. Miller, The Ethics of Reading: Kant, de Man, Eliot, Trollope, James,
and Benjamin, New York: Columbia UP, 1987.
Beverly Lowry, “Criminals Rendered in 3 Parts, Poetically”, New York Times,
1994, 29.
Gormley, 161.
Ibid.
Ibid, 157.
Fred Botting, Scott Wilson, ““Uuummmm, that’s a tasty burger”: Quentin Tarantino and the Consumption of Excess”, Parallax, 2001, vol. 7, No. 1, 29-47.
Lowry, 28.
Robbie B. H. Goh, “Shop-Soiled Worlds: Retailing Narratives, Typologies,
and Commodity Culture”, Social Semiotics, 2002, vol. 12, No. 1, 5-25.
Ibid., 20.
Todd Gitlin, “Revenge of the Nerd”, New York Times, 1996, 3 March, 21.
David Sterritt, “Cannes’ Top Prize Goes to US-Made ‘Pulp Fiction’”, The
Christian Science Monitor, 1994, 25 May, 16.
Janet Maslin, “Stylish Storytelling and Some Fodder for Remakes at Cannes”,
New York Times, 1994, 20 May, C3.
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
The Creation of “Global
Ethnoscapes” in the Literature of
Migration
„Globalių etnovaizdžių“ kūrimas
migrantų literatūroje
Sandra VLASTA
University of Vienna
School of European and Comparative Literature and Language Studies
Department of Comparative Literature
Berggasse 11/5
A-1090 Vienna
[email protected]
Summary
The anthropologist Arjun Appadurai uses the term “global ethnoscapes” to
describe spaces which are created by migration and mass media. Especially during
the second half of the 20th century these spaces have become more and more the
place where social, cultural and spatial group identity is being created and acted
out. These new, “global” identities, unlike ethnocentric identities, are no longer
created with regard to the actual place where one lives, but are defined by long
distance affiliations to other places (the homeland, the place where one’s parents
come from etc.) and often maintained via mass media. Therefore, the importance
of the imagination in the creation of “global ethnoscapes” and new identities is an
ever-increasing one. Literature of migration plays a very active role in this process. The term in this context is used to describe literature by the authors who write
in a language different from their mother tongue and/or who have experienced migration either themselves or as second or third generation immigrants. In this paper, Appadurai’s concept is adapted and used to analyse recent examples of the literature of migration in German and English (Julya Rabinowich’s novel Spaltkopf
(2008), Seher Çakır’s collection of short stories Zitronenkuchen für die sechsundfünfzigste frau (2009), and Monica Ali’s novel Brick Lane (2003)). The analyses
show how “global ethnoscapes” are being described and created in the texts and
how they therefore can be read as exemplary depictions of living in migration.
Key words: literature of migration, global ethnoscapes, identity and migration, Julya Rabinowich, Seher Çakır, Monica Ali.
“Global ethnoscape” (also simply: ethnoscape) is a term which anthropologist Arjun Appadurai uses to describe spaces that are created by
239
migration and mass media. He defines “ethnoscapes” as “the landscape
of persons who constitute the shifting world in which we live: tourists,
immigrants, refugees, exiles, guest workers, and other moving groups and
individuals”1. Particularly during the second half of the 20th (and onto the
21st) century, with ever increasing mass migration and the development of
mass media, ethnoscapes have more and more become the space where
social, cultural and spatial group identities are being created and acted out.
Appadurai even argues that the term “ethnoscape” could be used as an alternative for entities such as places, villages or communities. Ethnocentric
identities, which are connected to such traditional concepts and indicate a
strong link to actual places, are challenged and eventually rewritten by the
concept of ethnoscapes.
The adjective “global” underlines that “ethnoscapes” are deterritorialized, not tied to particular places, and that they are heterogeneous. This
is not supposed to mean that there are no stable or relatively stable communities and relationships anymore, rather it implies that these, let us call
them “traditional”, relationships are at the same time always also characterized by moving individuals or groups (leaving or coming back) or at
least the fantasies of having to move.
“Ethnoscapes” are characterized by migration and (mass) media. Mass
media accompany migration, they play a decisive role in creating what
Appadurai calls the “communities of sentiment”2, communities which begin to imagine and feel things together. Film and video, in particular, but
also ways of communication such as the Internet, e-mail, telephone, text
messages etc. create diasporic communities, on the one hand, and determine long-distance relationships with the “homeland”, on the other.
Moving images meet deterritorialized viewers: “Turkish guest workers in
Germany watch Turkish films in their German flats, […] Koreans in Philadelphia watch the 1988 Olympics in Seoul through satellite feeds from
Korea, […] Pakistani cabdrivers in Chicago listen to cassettes of sermons
recorded in mosques in Pakistan or Iran […]”3. The collective experience
of mass media creates solidarities, both within the diasporic communities
and with the homeland left behind.
This impact of the media on deterritorialized viewers leads to Appadurai’s argument that during the past decades, imagination has increasingly become a collective, social fact. Of course, imagination has always
played an important role in social life. Art, myth, legend, etc. have always
been an important part of societies. What is changing though, according
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
to Appadurai, is the fact that imagination is no longer restricted to certain
parts of life and that it is no longer only certain individuals (religious
leaders, politicians, monarchs etc.) whose imagination affects social life,
but ‘ordinary people’, who in a “postelectronic world”4 have the possibility to deploy their imagination to actively shape and change their lives.
This means that imagination has become part of the daily life of ordinary
people from many different levels of society. The access to mass media
accounts for more people than ever, considering “a wider set of possible
lives than they ever did before”5, as they are confronted with many different ways of living in films, on video and, then again, through the experience of migration, an experience which they might have had because the
idea of leading a life different from that of their parents has enabled them
to take that step. Mass media, therefore, create ‘agency’, i.e. they affect
people’s lives and provoke re/action, be it in a positive or negative way.
Mass media can also account for idealized and/or radical views of the
homeland left behind. Global fundamentalist movements often are also
based on the “communities of sentiment” which unite deterritorialized
groups and the former homeland.
Appadurai’s concept calls for a re-orientation of anthropology, as
it points to important factors, which ought to be taken into account in
creating new methodologies for anthropological studies with a transnational scope. In this paper, I would like to apply his concept to the “literature of migration”, which, I argue, plays an active role in the process
of rewriting identities and/or inscribing them into “global ethnoscapes”.
The term “literature of migration” is only one of many used to describe
literature by authors who write in a language different from their mother
tongue and/or who have experienced migration either themselves or as
second- or third- generation immigrants. This definition, however, is
not to be read exclusively. The ongoing discussions on terminology,
particularly in German Studies, reflect the difficulties which definitions
such as this pose6. “Literature of migration” is, of course, not only a current phenomenon – writers such as Vladimir Nabokov, Samuel Beckett,
Joseph Conrad or Adalbert von Chamisso would be famous examples of
authors who chose (also) foreign languages for their works. Recently,
though, “literature of migration” has been given more attention by readers, critics and scholars alike. Many of the texts (but not all!) reflect the
deterritorialized world of migration and media and are at the same time
part of it. They are an expression of the heterogeneous identity produced
241
by migration and are an expression of the link between imagination and
social life.
In his work Appadurai himself analyses narrative and film for he believes it is important from an anthropological point of view to take a closer look at what he calls “expressive representations”7, such as films and
literature, because many lives are now “inextricably linked”8 with such
representations and these links ought to be studied.
In this paper, works by Julya Rabinowich, Seher Çakır and Monica
Ali, respectively, will be analysed in order to support the argument that literature of migration can be read as an expression of “global ethnoscapes”.
Julya Rabinowich’s novel Spaltkopf9 (Splithead, a ghostlike figure
from Russian mythology – we will come back to him later) was awarded the prestigious Austrian Rauriser literary prize earlier this year. The
autobiographically inspired text tells the story of Mischka, a girl born
in Saint Petersburg, who emigrates to Austria with her parents and her
grandmother at the age of seven. Rabinowich herself was born in 1971 in
St. Petersburg to Jewish parents; in the 1970s she came to Austria, where
she later studied translation studies, psychotherapy and applied arts. In
2005 she received her first literary prize and has since then published
several shorter texts and plays in anthologies. Spaltkopf is her first novel,
published in 2009.
The text tells, with Mischka as a first-person narrator most of the time,
memories of the Russian past, episodes of growing-up in Vienna and ends
with a journey to Saint Petersburg. Already these structural characteristics
of the text evoke the notion of a global ethnoscape expressed geographically: the places which are mentioned illustrate the network which migration has opened up. The protagonist’s Jewish family migrates from Saint
Petersburg to Vienna, although for security reasons they first tell the child
that they are going on holidays to Lithuania. Other relatives also choose
to emigrate; they go to the US, to Israel (part of the family is Jewish), to
South Africa and Japan. All these places of migration are mentioned on
the first pages of the novel, establishing the family’s geographical global
ethnoscape right from the beginning. Furthermore, Mischka in the very
first, short part of the novel (which is characterized by a slightly different style and structure than the rest) starts her account on board of a ship,
leaving Ireland for Scotland. The journey, the constant moving and shifting which characterizes ethnoscapes, has already started when the reader
encounters Mischka for the first time, then a young woman and pregnant.
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It is a journey which continues throughout the text and does not find its
end even on the last pages, when Mischka, as an adult woman, finds herself in Saint Petersburg, and not only literally on a journey, but also travelling back in time to find out more about herself.
Mischka herself, always slightly ironic and mocking about her family, albeit often rather despairingly – enlarges the ethnoscape even further
when she calls her family members, in particular those in Russia, “cosmonauts” (p.143). This of course evokes concepts such as outer space and a
distance impossible to bridge, but also has connotations of Communism
and the West as its opposite, as well as particular forms of communication.
Now, how does communication with the “cosmonauts” take place?
Here the role of the media as described by Appadurai comes in. As the
larger part of the novel is set in the late 1970s and 1980s, of course, more
recent media such as the Internet or e-mail are still absent, but the telephone as well as letters play a decisive role in keeping up the various
strings of the network (as we have seen, Appadurai himself mentions what
today are already dated forms of media (such as tapes) as examples of
how global ethnoscapes and “communities of sentiment” are characterized
and shaped by the media)10. The first-person narrator herself discusses the
importance of the telephone and letters, which become the only means of
keeping in touch in migration. Also here, the picture of “cosmonauts” in
their space suits is evoked:
Die Emigration reißt Menschen auseinander. Sie erfahren von Höhepunkten
und Unglücksfällen über Brief und Telefon. Direkter Kontakt ist unmöglich.
Als hätten sie sich auf einem anderen Planeten niedergelassen, geht ihr Atem
schwer in ihren Raumanzügen, die sie nicht abzulegen wagen, aus Angst, in
der ungewohnten Atmosphäre keine Luft zu bekommen. Schwer geht die Brust
auf und nieder, die Lunge schmerzt. Die Stimmen anderer Siedler krächzen
aus den Mikrophonen ihrer Helme. (p. 84)
Emigration tears people apart. They find out about highlights and mishaps via
letters and the telephone. Direct contact is impossible. As if they had settled
down on a different planet, they breath heavily in their space suits, which they
do not dare to take off, afraid, that they might not be able to breathe in the
unfamiliar atmosphere. Strenuously, their breast moves up and down, their
lungs are hurting. Voices of other settlers croak in the microphones in their
helmets. (my translation).
243
Decisive moments in the life of the family take place on the telephone,
important information has to be given via the line: when Mischka’s grandmother (from the father’s side) dies, Mischka watches her father, who
is told the sad news on the phone. Earlier on, to Mischka herself, her
grandmother becomes a vague memory, a voice in the telephone earpiece,
which then falls silent forever.
The scene is replicated later, when Mischka’s father dies on his first
trip back to Russia and the family in Vienna is again informed on the
phone. In these scenes, it is not only migration which tears the family
apart, but the very media which, on the one hand, ought to bridge the
distances, but on the other hand, interfere and disrupt it at the same time.
When calls from and to Russia are mentioned in the text, most of the time
they deliver sad news.
Another important medium, which maintains the ties with the lost
homeland, but at the same time becomes part of a new, global identity
as part of the “ethnoscape”, are narratives from the corpus of Russian
mythology. Figures such as the already mentioned “splithead” or “Baba
Yaga” turn up again and again (and dominate the text by being used in the
title), first in Russia, then in Austria. The “splithead” remains a fantastic
figure which children are scared of, even though at the end of the novel
Mischka manages to confront him. Baba Yaga, on the other hand, takes on
different forms. She is described in her traditional form at the beginning
of the text, when the family is still in Russia. She then turns up again in
Austria, where Mischka calls an old landlady in the countryside “österreichische Baba Yaga” (p.110)11. Eventually, Mischka herself becomes a
“Baba Yaga Girl” (p.123), taking the name her boyfriend Franz gives her.
Here, it is made explicit how imagination bridges places and transforms
them at the same time and what effects imagination (here associated in a
rather traditional way with myth and legend) has on the actual life in migration; it therefore becomes possible that a traditional figure of Russian
mythology becomes part of the identity of a young girl in Vienna.
As a second example I would like to discuss Seher Çakır’s short stories which have been published in the volume Zitronenkuchen für die
sechsundfünfzigste frau12. Seher Çakır was born in Istanbul and grew up
in Vienna. She has published poems and short stories and won several
prizes.
Çakır’s texts vary considerably in style and atmosphere. Some of them
are set in rather traditional surroundings in Turkey, others are inhabited by
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young, urban protagonists and take place in European metropolises such
as Vienna, Prague or Lisbon. Seen as a whole, already a mixture of settings, but also languages and protagonists, this collection of texts reflects
the global ethnoscape created and expressed by migration and the media13:
- There is Adem, whose name evokes a Turkish background; he runs
a small restaurant in Vienna;
- Hülya, who calls herself Helen with reference to the Greek goddess and to her parents’ hometown Canakkale, the ancient Troy;
- Zehra, whose desperate letters from Turkey have been collected by
her (Turkish) mother, who lives in Vienna;
- The young Alevi Sevim and his Sunni girlfriend Savaş, who love
each other in their hometown Vienna despite the traditional ideas
of their parents and
- Selin, whose mother left Istanbul because she was in love with Vienna and had decided to live there.
Leaving / travelling / arriving are major topics in the stories, although
the protagonists’ motivations are quite diverse. Some go away for a weekend, others start a new life in the new country, still others are ever commuting between places and lives.
One of the most striking examples, which illustrates the intersection
of modern life with migration and the media and the challenges connected
to them, is the short story “Sevim and Savaş”. It is told by a first-person
narrator who appears in the narrative which forms the framework and tells
the reader that the following story supposedly has happened just the way
it is told: the young Alevi Sevim and the Sunni girl Savaş are a couple in
Vienna. When Savaş’ family decides to take her to Turkey, both are worried it might be for Savaş’ arranged wedding – a worry which proves to be
true. However, Savaş successfully opposes her family’s plans and eventually returns to Vienna. Once arrived, she tries in vain to contact Sevim
and in the end finds out that he has killed himself. Savaş’ father had told
him on the phone that she was about to get married after all and was not
interested in him anymore.
In this story the global ethnoscape in which the protagonists move
is illustrated in different ways. Religion is the first factor which points
from Vienna, the place where Sevim and Savaş live their love, to a traditional background, where religious belief and long-established customs
are still of great importance. As another example, the “Turkish village”
is opposed to Vienna and the Viennese café where Savaş and Sevim meet
245
before she leaves. The village is not described in more detail, neither is
its name mentioned. This might be read as a rather clichéd version of “the
traditional (i.e. backward) Turkish village”, but this danger is countered
by descriptions of the Internet café in the village as well as the doctor at
the hospital where Savaş’ parents have to take her to when she goes on
a hunger strike. She accuses the supposedly modern, émigré parents of
backwardness and shouts at them.
In the story, the role of the media is also made manifest: the young
couple communicate via e-mail when Savaş is still in Turkey. One of
those e-mails forms part of the text, just like Sevim’s letter of goodbye,
which he leaves for Savaş (and the reader) to read after his suicide.
Another medium, which disrupts communication rather than enabling
it, is the mobile phone. When Savaş returns to Austria, she is unable to
reach Sevim on his mobile phone, nor does he respond to her text messages. However, it is a medium which is described in a peculiar relation
to religion and tradition. When Savaş’ father calls Sevim in order to terminate the relationship of the young couple, the medium not only works,
but Sevim believes Savaş’ father because he knows him to be a religious
man. Lying is therefore forbidden to him. He believes Savaş’ e-mails,
rather than her father’s words on the phone, to be lies. Here, the contrast
and the contemporaneity of modern media, modern life in migration and
strong links to the traditions of the home left long ago, are made obvious.
Sevim is weighing the importance and credibility of the various messages
he has received and decides for the most traditional one, the one closest
to religion, which, to him, is the one most likely to be true. This is a form
of a “community of sentiments” – religious beliefs link migrants to the
homeland as well as to each other.
In Çakır’s short story, the net, which I would also like to interpret as
a “global ethnoscape”, is determined by many different layers and directions, all of which come together in different knots in different places: religion, tradition, respect, migration and its impacts, modern life, love etc.
Other stories by Çakır reflect this net in similar ways.
With Monica Ali’s Brick Lane14 we turn to an example of the literature
of migration in English. Monica Ali was born in Dhaka in Bangladesh and
grew up in England. Already before Brick Lane, her first novel, was published, her name was put on the “Granta list of best young British novelists”. Brick Lane tells the story of Nazneen, a woman from Bangladesh
who is slowly coming to terms with her life in London and eventually
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manages to lead an independent, self-determined life with her two daughters.
The structure of the book is affected by the media which are used to
keep in touch with Bangladesh and the people left behind. There are the
letters of Nazneen’s sister, Hasina, which arrive in London on a more or
less regular basis. In the book, they appear in italics, at one point a whole
chapter consists only of Hasina’s letters. Towards the very end of the novel, there are the letters of Nazneen’s husband Chanu from Bangladesh,
which are, however, only mentioned, never actually rendered in the text.
Also, Chanu makes telephone calls every now and then. Letters and the
telephone are therefore the media in question in Ali’s text.
We might add to these media Nazneen’s memories of Bangladesh and
of her childhood, which also connect her current life in London to Bangladesh. This is an especially important aspect as she, during her first years
in London, states that she is homesick not for a different place, but a
different time: “[…] she knew that where she wanted to go was not a different place but a different time” (p.35). To comfort herself, she would
often slip away into her childhood memories, using her imagination to
simultaneously bridge the distance to her homeland and to come to terms
with her new situation in London. The impact which her imagination has
on Nazneen’s current life is made obvious, although it is not used by her
in a ‘productive way’ yet. However, her identity in the first years in London is based just as much, if not more, on her memories as on her actual
surroundings.
While Nazneen’s memories go back to a hard, though idealized life in
a small village, Hasina’s letters reflect her difficult everyday life in Bangladesh. In these letters, which are written in broken English, a debatable
stylistic choice, the particular nature of long-distance relationships caused
by migration can be observed; here the connection between émigrés and
the homeland is illustrated. The letters are especially interesting as they
are written by one woman to the other. Coming from a traditional background, where home and the family are associated with women, family
bonds seem to be the main interest both for the sender and the addressee.
But then, social and economic issues (Hasina, who lives in changing, but
always difficult situations, has to take care of herself most of the time)
become just as important and, finally, decisive political events take place
in front of Hasina’s eyes. In Hasina’s letters, it is the particularly tumultuous time before the parliamentary elections of 2001, which accounts for
247
the violent atmosphere described in them. Through her letters, Nazneen
is able to take part in the current events in Bangladesh, and a “community
of sentiments” (though uncommented!) is formed, not only with her sister,
but also with the homeland.
Besides the long-distance relationships, the London district Tower
Hamlets may also be interpreted as an expression of the global ethnoscape. Here, where a lot of immigrants from Bangladesh live, it becomes
clear how imagination serves to construct identities in migration, in particular with regard to the situation of the novel’s women. In their new surroundings they manage to imagine better lives if not for themselves, then
at least for their children. To achieve this, through the experience of migration, they arrange their lives accordingly. For instance, Ali describes:
- the emancipation of Bengali wives, who start working from home,
first to contribute to the family income, later in order to become independent, and/or to be able to finance their children’s education;
- their attempt to learn English;
- their ambitious plans for their children;
- the slow progress of Nazneen, who, coming from a periphery
(Bangladesh), explores first the surroundings of the block where
she lives and at the end of the novel literally manages to travel
alone to the very centre of London, a journey which reflects her
personal coming-of-age.
Conclusion
In applying Arjun Appadurai’s concept of “global ethnoscapes” to
literature of migration this paper has tried to show how this concept is
reflected by and inscribed into the literary texts themselves. Looking at
the different aspects which link the “new” and the “old” homeland, the
various media which are used to keep in touch, the way the formation of
“communities of sentiments” is described, etc. has shown that migrant
fictions can be read as representations of the living in migration, which
again might be linked to the actual lives of migrants. What effect these
texts might have on the imagination of groups and individuals, is a question which has to be brought back to anthropologists.
However, from the point of view of literary studies, it has to be added,
that the perception and creation of “ethnoscapes” in the texts happens
on an individual level and leads to very different interpretations, as has
also been testified by the present analysis. Literature of migration there-
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fore “represents individuals” rather than groups; it points to the constructedness, fluidity and individuality of identities rather than represent “the
identity (of Jewish Russians in Austria, Turks in Vienna or Bangladeshi in
London) in migration”. It can therefore be read only as an exemplary illustration, but not as a distinct picture of certain groups of migrants.
References
Arjun Appadurai, Modernity at Large. Cultural Dimensions of Globalization,
Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998, 33.
2
Ibid., 8.
3
Ibid., 4.
4
Ibid., 5.
5
Ibid., 53.
6
For current summaries on the discussion of terminology see for instance: Hiltrud
Arens, ‘Kulturelle Hybridität’ in der deutschen Minoritätenliteratur der achtziger
Jahre, Tübingen, Stauffenburg, 2000, in particular 24–34; Carmine Chiellino,
Interkulturalität und Literaturwissenschaft, in: C. Chiellino ed., Interkulturelle
Literatur in Deutschland. Ein Handbuch, Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler, 2000, 387–398,
in particular 389f.; Sabine Fischer, Moray McGowan, Migrant Writing in the
German Federal Republic, in: R. King et. al. eds., Writing Across Worlds. Literature and Migration, London: Routledge, 1995, 39–56; Saskia Hintz, Schreiben
in der Sprache der Fremde. Zeitgenössische deutsche ‘Migrantenliteratur’ und
Kreatives Schreiben im Fach Deutsch als Fremdsprache, New York: University
of New York, Dissertation, 2002, in particular 50–62.
7
Ibid., 64.
8
Ibid.
9
Julya Rabinowich, Spaltkopf, Vienna: edition exil, 2008, further quotations
from the book will be indicated by page numbers in brackets.
10
��
In her reading of the Turkish-German writer Emine Sevgi Özdamar’s
��
narrative
“The Courtyard”, Leslie A. Adelson also takes up Appadurai’s concept. There
also, the text deals with rather old-fashioned forms of media, such as the telephone and the television. However, Adelson describes how these interact with
other leitmotifs of the text such as mirrors, windows, doors and books, which
in a way become media too. Leslie A. Adelson, The Turkish Turn in Contemporary German Literature. Towards A New Critical Grammar of Migration, New
York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2005, 41ff.
11
��
“Austrian Baba Yaga” (110).
12
Seher Çakır, Zitronenkuchen für die sechsundfünzigste frau, Vienna: edition
exil, 2009 [Lemoncake for the 56th Wife]. Further quotations from the book will
be indicated by page numbers in brackets.
13
��
In one of the stories, single Turkish words such as “yani” (93), “gülpastahanesi” (94), “tatlı kızım“ (99) are used and are explained in footnotes.
14
Monica Ali, Brick Lane, London: Doubleday, 2003. Further quotations from
the book will be indicated by page numbers in brackets.
1
249
Vers un radieux avenir English
speaking? Quelques réflexions sur
l’impact et les enjeux linguistiques
de la mondialisation en Irlande et en
Inde
Towards a Radiant Future
with Global English? Some
Considerations on the Linguistic
Consequences of Globalization: The
Cases of Ireland and India
Į šviesią ateitį su anglų kalba?
Keletas pamąstymų apie kalbines
globalizacijos pasekmes Airijoje ir
Indijoje
Ekkehard Wolfgang BORNTRÄGER
Département d’anglais et de slavistique
Université de Fribourg Suisse
C.P. 133
CH-1701 Fribourg
[email protected]
Summary
One of the key points of the public (and scientific) discourse on globalization rests on the assumption that the spread of English is concomitant to – if not
a precondition for – effective socio-economic modernization and the free circulation of modern, emancipatory ideas, as well. English has long become a synonym and a symbol for progress. Little wonder that more and more voices are
demanding that English should be introduced as a main or additional “working”
language into crucial fields of inner-state corporate life, educational systems and
scientific research even in humanities. After all, a pattern of sociolinguistic thinking is gaining ground in Europe that has pre-existed in many former colonized
countries outside Europe. In order to exam whether the equation spread of English
= spread of progress holds true, we shall first have a look at Ireland, a case in
point for a massive collective language shift taking place before globalization. By
way of comparison with other smaller European language communities that man-
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
aged to preserve their linguistic autonomy, we will try to identify some hints as to
how Ireland’s culture and economy would fare had she never abandoned Irish or
should she return one day to Irish again. After this more hypothetical approach we
will outline the actual dynamics of language competition in India, which beyond
its centrality in the demographical and linguistic sense, holds a distant mirror to
the prospects of a re-organization of the language landscape in Europe, potentially
anticipating (and subsequently diminishing) part of it, i.e. the high penetration of
English. Our findings will partly reverse the conventional wisdom about globalization as a motor for the unlimited spread of English. They show that socio-economic success triggered by liberalization and globalization does not only lead to
an increased demand for English, but at the same time gives rise to a society made
up of more self-reliant citizens and consumers less inclined to traditional fatalism
and submissiveness. This new self-assertiveness finds one of its expressions in
the way the language question is addressed. The prestige of the former colonial
language is shrinking, whereas the use of Hindi is expanding, in particular in the
print and audio-visual media. It is becoming increasingly popular even among the
new urban middle classes.
Key words: linguistic globalization, intercultural relations, language policy,
language contact.
Esminiai žodžiai: globalizacija kalbų srityje, tarpkultūriniai ryšiai, kalbos
politika, kalbų kontaktas.
Un discours de la mondialisation largement rabâché veut que l’économie mondiale soit le principal moteur de l’expansion de l’anglais. Cette
nouvelle langue universelle faciliterait l’accès au progrès technique et
scientifique; en outre, c’est bien elle qui serait utilisée dans la grande majorité des échanges commerciaux. Qui plus est, des voix s’élèvent en faveur d’un rôle croissant de l’anglais même au niveau national: l’ancienne
commissaire européenne Diamantopoulou a proposé d’élever l’anglais au
rang de deuxième “langue officielle” en Grèce; mais c’est à un homme
politique allemand que revient la palme de la mondialisation linguistique
à l’anglo-américaine: Oettinger, l’ancien chef du gouvernement du Land
de Bade-Wurtemberg allait jusqu’à suggérer très sérieusement l’abandon
de l’allemand dans toute la vie professionnelle – ou, du moins, pour les
postes de travail qualifiés – au profit de l’anglais, ne réservant à l’allemand qu’une place au foyer et les moments de convivialité, par exemple
pour un verre entre amis.
La réalité linguistique est encore assez loin de ces idées extrêmes. Toujours est-il que l’anglais, surtout après 1989, a non seulement consolidé sa
position déjà très forte comme lingua franca dans le cadre des échanges
251
et des contacts internationaux – que ce soit au niveau commercial, culturel ou scientifique – mais au sein de l’administration de l’U.E. également,
il occupe de facto une position dominante, malgré d’autres dispositions
légales et le discours sur la défense du plurilinguisme1. Dans la plupart
des pays européens, l’anglais a pu renforcer son statut de première langue
étrangère au niveau de la formation secondaire et universitaire ; de même,
son rôle dans la vie professionnelle va augmentant, y compris dans des
secteurs dont les échanges internationaux ne constituent guère l’axe principal. Certains pays européens sont en passe d’abandonner partiellement
ou intégralement la langue nationale au profit de l’anglais dans nombre de
domaines scientifiques2.
Nous nous proposons d’étudier, à l’aide de deux cas concrets fort
différents mais tous deux paradigmatiques, comment pourrait évoluer la
situation linguistique dans le contexte de la mondialisation là où l’anglais paraît déjà bien implanté ou s’est déjà substitué presque totalement à
l’idiome local. Afin de mieux saisir les enjeux des nouvelles dynamiques
culturelles, nous présentons non seulement un cas européen, mais nous
oserons aussi tendre au paysage européen des langues une sorte de miroir lointain: l’Inde, deuxième pays le plus important après la Chine, de
par sa population, sur la scène linguistique internationale. Une attention
particulière sera portée à la question de savoir si l’équation: adoption de
l’anglais (comme langue officielle ou co-officielle dans l’enseignement et
la recherche, ainsi que comme moyen privilégié de communication dans
la vie professionnelle) = progrès économique et culturel, et sa formulation
complémentaire: pas de progrès économique et culturel sans adoption de
l’anglais, correspondent à une situation réelle. Des constats comme celui
du British Council: “English vital to India’s success” reflètent-ils une vérité facilement extensible même à l’Europe, ou sont-ils issus du “wishful
thinking” partisan de l’un des acteurs principaux du marché des langues?
L’Irlande: un exemple d’assimilation presque parfaite?
Jetons d’abord un regard sur le seul pays européen qui a subi une sorte
de «mondialisation linguistique» avant la lettre assez complète: l’Irlande.
Au cours de la première moitié du 19e siècle déjà, les irlandophones devinrent minoritaires3.
Aujourd’hui, la quasi totalité de la population irlandaise est composée
de monoglottes anglophones, à l’exception d’une faible minorité de bilingues (entre 20’000 et 70’000 personnes utilisent l’irlandais quotidienne-
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ment, dont environ un tiers sont résidents de la Gaeltacht, la petite «réserve» irlandophone au régime linguistique spécial répartie sur plusieurs îlots
territoriaux dans l’ouest du pays) et d’une fraction plus grande ayant des
compétences variées en irlandais comme seconde langue (environ 30% de
la population totale)4.
Moins de 15% des livres vendus en Irlande proviennent des éditeurs
irlandais, l’écrasante majorité des titres étant importés du Royaume-Uni
et des Etats-Unis. La production des éditeurs irlandais reste modeste :
ils publient environ 1800 titres par an5 (dont pas plus de 200 en langue
irlandaise), chiffre remarquablement bas pour un pays de 4,4 millions
d’habitants – en tous cas dans le contexte de l’Europe du Nord. A titre
d’exemple, l’Islande, dont la population est plus de dix fois moins nombreuse que celle de l’Irlande , publie en moyenne 1500 titres par an, dont
70% en langue nationale et un pourcentage de traductions évalué entre
25 et 30%6. D’ailleurs, tous les pays scandinaves peuvent se targuer d’un
marché du livre autochtone majoritaire. Les pays baltes devancent eux
aussi l’Irlande, et cela malgré des conditions socioéconomique plus difficiles: la Lituanie publie environ 4000 titres par an, et l’Estonie 3100 titres
dont 2560 en estonien7, pour un public estonophone dépassant à peine le
million de lecteurs.
Un partisan de l’anglophonie irlandaise pourrait être tenté de faire fi
de ces données statistiques prosaïques du marché du livre et rappeler, a
contrario, la gloire du triumvirat des grands auteurs irlandais faisant partie de la littérature mondiale. De fait, il serait difficile d’imaginer Shaw,
Yeats et Joyce utiliser l’irlandais dans leurs œuvres, malgré un éventuel
attachement de leur part à un style ou à des thèmes reflétant une spécificité
irlandaise; vu le piètre état dans lequel se trouvait cette langue au seuil du
20e siècle, elle n’aurait pu être l’instrument adéquat pour servir un grand
talent littéraire. Par ailleurs, tout le parcours créateur de ces auteurs aurait
été impensable sans l’étroit contact qu’ils entretenaient avec la vie littéraire anglaise, dont ils faisaient pleinement partie; tous trois avaient passé
la plus grande partie de leur période la plus féconde (ou même de leur vie
toute entière) hors d’Irlande.
Un fervent défenseur de la langue et de la cause irlandaises pourrait,
de son côté, avancer l’hypothèse qu’un Shaw ou un Yeats irlandophone
aurait exclusivement à la gloire des lettres irlandaises sur la scène de la
littérature mondiale; il pourrait également invoquer les grandes pertes
qu’a coûtées le passage à l’anglais dans la génération de talents littéraires
253
potentiels «sacrifiés» – ceux qui ne maîtrisaient plus assez l’irlandais pour
écrire dans cette langue, sans pour autant maîtriser pleinement l’anglais.
Plutôt que d’entrer dans une spéculation de plus en plus virtuelle, il sera
plus judicieux de se poser la question de façon plus générale: un auteur de
grand talent s’exprimant dans une langue «mineure» quant à sa diffusion
sera-t-il, dans le contexte du monde culturel d’aujourd’hui, condamné à
une reconnaissance et à un public «provinciaux», sans véritable portée internationale? La réponse est claire: à l’étape actuelle de la mondialisation,
il y a très peu de risque que cela se produise dans un pays développé, la
popularité des traductions et leur forte représentation parmi les best-sellers
de certains marchés comme celui de l’Allemagne en sont la preuve. Mieux
encore, il n’est plus nécessaire d’être un Andersen, un Hamsun, un Ibsen,
un Kadaré ou un Kazantzakis pour être traduit à partir d’une «petite» langue. Pour la période 2000–2005, l’Index translationum de l’Unesco recense
plus de 160 traductions à partir de l’albanais, 351 à partir du lituanien, 360
à partir de l’islandais et bel et bien 1444 à partir de l’estonien, pour ne
pas parler des 4385 à partir du danois et des 7952 provenant du suédois8.
Comme tous ces chiffres représentent en première ligne des traductions littéraires, il est évident que même un auteur de deuxième, voire de troisième
rang aura aujourd’hui bien des chances d’être traduit. La position du «genere nazional-popolare», (Gramsci) de la littérature d’évasion demeure plus
faible dans les langues périphériques, qui en importent plutôt à partir des
langues hyper-centrales9. Néanmoins, la prépondérance de l’anglais – et du
français, Georges Simenon oblige – dans ce domaine s’avère un peu moins
forte aujourd’hui. Le roman policier s’internationalise : des auteurs tels que
Vázquez Montalbán, Petros Markaris ou Henning Mankell l’ont enrichi
d’ouvrages traduits dans la plupart des langues majeures.
Par ailleurs, le succès des traductions souligne que leurs limites inhérentes à la transposition culturelle ne sont pas assez prégnantes pour les
voir éclipsées par des auteurs connus dans leur langue d’origine10.
Cependant, il n’en est pas moins vrai que les auteurs les plus traduits
ne sont souvent pas forcément les meilleurs, ou même ne font pas partie
d’un canon littéraire quelconque : rappelons que Barbara Cartland, avec
ses romans roses, trône toujours sur le piédestal de l’auteur le plus traduit
au niveau mondial.
Pour en revenir à l’exemple de l’Irlande, la production littéraire irlandaise dans son ensemble a-t-elle profité de l’anglophonie? Il sera difficile
de répondre à cette interrogation. Tout en admettant qu’avoir accès au
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
plus grand marché mondial du livre avec le texte original constitue toujours un avantage indéniable, il faut néanmoins nuancer. Ce qui vaut sans
doute pour un auteur établi, d’un certain prestige et rayonnement, ne vaut
pas nécessairement pour un jeune auteur en herbe, lequel aurait parfois
plus de chances de se voir publié s’il écrivait en irlandais dans une société
majoritairement irlandophone. En témoignent les plaintes des éditeurs irlandais quant à la difficulté de promouvoir de nouveaux auteurs anglophones locaux face à l’omniprésence des auteurs anglophones importés11.
La concurrence est très forte dès le départ, ce qui laisse peu de marge aux
auteurs irlandais pour s’affirmer et progresser peu à peu.
Selon notre petit exercice de spéculation linguistique, un retour partiel
ou complet – et en réalité fort hypothétique – de la littérature irlandaise
à l’idiome traditionnel facilitera donc la découverte et la promotion de
jeunes auteurs grâce à un marché national mieux protégé. La production
nationale de titres littéraires et non littéraires sera plus grande et probablement plus riche et différenciée, couvrant davantage de domaines; le livre
made in Irlande sera cependant un peu plus cher que dans la situation
actuelle, comme d’ailleurs le livre traduit importé – du moins dans l’hypothèse d’un unilinguisme irlandais.
Mais quelles seraient les conséquences de l’adoption du gaélique au
niveau socio-économique? Une telle Irlande risquerait-elle d’être moins
développée?12 L’anglophonie généralisée n’a pas empêché le traditionalisme et l’immobilisme dans lesquels la société irlandaise a longtemps
persisté à rester, avec toutes les conséquences économiques et sociales qui
en découlaient.
Mais l’essor économique impressionnant qu’a connu l’île verte à partir des années 1990 n’est-il pas une sorte de rente de situation tardive du
passage à l’anglais? Aurait-il pu avoir lieu avec une langue celtique pour
hypothèque? A nouveau, l’exemple de l’Islande démontre de manière plus
que convaincante que l’anglophonie intérieure n’est point une condition
préalable pour un succès économique international faramineux – aussi peu
solide qu’ait été, au demeurant, l’expansion des banques islandaises. La
situation initiale n’était guère plus favorable en Islande qu’en Irlande, les
deux îles ayant vécu dans leur histoire moderne une émigration massive,
et leur structure économique peu diversifiée ne laissant guère présager un
décollage économique récent.
Une tendance linguistique tout à fait nouvelle apportera une réponse
encore plus révélatrice: dans la foulée de l’essor économique du «tigre
255
celtique», on observe que, pour la première fois depuis l’Indépendance,
s’amorce une tendance au renforcement de l’irlandais dans la vie quotidienne et l’espace public. Un sociologue irlandais résume ainsi ce renversement de situation: “This new prosperity brought a sense of pride
and self-assurance that prompted a rediscovery in Ireland’s “cultural assets””13. Longtemps condamnée à une lente mais inéluctable agonie où
elle jouissait d’une vie muséale dans la Gaeltacht et était dotée d’un rôle
comparable à celui du latin dans l’enseignement, la langue irlandaise est
revenue en force: les dernières années ont vu une augmentation rapide
du nombre des écoles unilingues irlandaises, les gaelscoileanna; de plus,
les jeunes commencent à pratiquer la langue hors des classes d’école, n’y
voyant plus une corvée aride. L’irlandais est tout à coup devenu chic, au
campus universitaire “it’s no longer regarded as “uncool” to speak Irish”,
et même parmi les nombreux migrants étrangers le gaeilge fait des adeptes14.
Reste à savoir si cette mode se transformera en un véritable changement d’attitude envers langue nationale; aussi prometteurs que soient ces
développements pour les partisans du gaeilge, il n’en reste pas moins vrai
que de solides infrastructures socioculturelles, sur lesquelles une telle renaissance de la langue pourrait s’appuyer, font toujours dramatiquement
défaut15. Les médias, qui jouent ailleurs le rôle de fer de lance de l’émancipation linguistique (voir ci-dessous), constituent toujours en Irlande,
malgré la création en 1996 d’un canal de télévision émettant en irlandais
(TG4), un fief de l’anglophonie: le seul hebdomadaire en langue irlandaise
a cessé de paraître par manque de subsides des autorités publiques – alors
qu’en pays basque espagnol, un quotidien en euskara sort déjà depuis
longtemps.
Le cas indien: la réémergence de l’hindi
L’Inde est souvent perçue comme l’une des régions phare de la mondialisation linguistique, et par conséquent langue emblématique y serait
en forte expansion16. L’Inde se voit parfois attribuer le titre de pays anglophone le plus grand du monde, le nombre de ses locuteurs anglophones y
dépassant probablement déjà celui des Etats-Unis. En tout cas, soixante
ans après l’Indépendance, l’ancienne langue coloniale demeure encore la
langue co-officielle de la Fédération indienne; au sommet des hiérarchies
sociale et administrative, elle paraît mieux ancrée que le hindi, pourtant
officiellement première langue de l’Etat central. Dans la haute culture,
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
celle à rayonnement international, la prédominance de l’anglais ne semble pas faire de doute, le seul domaine culturel connu à l’étranger dans
lequel les langues indiennes ont su se tailler leur place étant les mélodrames de Bollywood. Des écrivains de renom et de public international, de
Arundhati Roy à Amitav Ghosh et Vikram Seth, continuent à se servir de
l’anglais, et certains auteurs de la diaspora indienne comme V. S. Naipaul
ou Salman Rushdie se moquent parfois de la littérature «en langue vernaculaire». On soulignera également la prolifération rapide de hautes écoles
et instituts techniques où l’anglais, dans les faits, reste la langue largement
préférée, aucune langue indienne ne pouvant lui contester cette position.
De l’informaticien et mathématicien indien apprécié et sollicité partout
dans le monde aux collaborateurs indiens d’un call center, on s’imagine
bien que toutes ces incarnations personnelles de la succes story indienne
des vingt dernières années auraient difficilement pu «fonctionner» dans un
autre idiome que l’anglais; son adoption serait même l’une des origines de
cet envol technique et scientifique.
Au niveau du «nation planning» fédéral, l’anglais a longtemps été crédité d’un rôle de médiateur «neutre» servant à renforcer la cohésion au
lieu d’attiser les tensions interethniques, comme le résuma l’adage des
années 1960: «English unites, Hindi divides». En fait, lorsque l’administration centrale voulut s’attacher à imposer le hindi comme seule langue
à l’échelle fédérale, après l’expiration du sursis de quinze ans à partir de
l’Indépendance prévu dans la Constitution, les Etats fédéraux non hindous
y opposèrent leur veto, suspendant ainsi ce projet pour un temps indéterminé, l’administration centrale ne voulant pas mettre en danger cohésion
de l’Etat.
Tout ou presque semble donc annoncer l’avenir radieux d’une Inde
marquée par une anglophonie de plus en plus diffusée grâce aux progrès
de la scolarisation et de l’alphabétisation, et cela du sommet de la société
aux couches rurales modestes.
La grande surprise surgit lorsque l’on a le loisir de mieux cerner les
dimensions réelles de cette anglophonie et les dynamiques sociolinguistiques profondes qui se sont déployées à grande échelle en Inde au cours de
cet envol économique et social.
Jetons tout d’abord un regard sur le pourcentage des anglophones:
«Actuellement, le nombre des locuteurs dont l’anglais est la langue maternelle est évalué à 0,3%, soit 179000, lors du recensement de 1991 […].
Selon les estimations les plus sérieuses, on peut considérer qu’entre 3%
257
et 11 % des Indiens auraient une maîtrise de l’anglais suffisante pour leur
permettre de se placer sur le marché du travail national et international»17.
On admettra facilement que le pourcentage des native speakers (avec pour
critère la langue maternelle) figurant dans les recensements nationaux indiens paraît un peu bas; mais même les estimations actuelles les plus optimistes font tout au plus état de 2% de la population, soit un peu plus de
20 millions de personnes – abstraction faite du discours sur le recul de la
«qualité» de l’anglais indien par rapport au standard des pays anglophones. Très rarement, les estimations pour les trois catégories que représentent les native speakers, les locuteurs de l’anglais comme 2e langue et
ceux qui le parlent comme 3e langue dépassent les 10%, soit environ 100 à
110 millions de personnes. Un chiffre certes impressionnant comparé aux
60 millions d’anglophones du Royaume-Uni, mais à relativiser nettement
si l’on tient compte des plus de 900 millions de non-anglophones en Inde.
Mais cela ne change rien au tableau de la diffusion limitée de l’anglais dans ce pays, a fortiori si l’on tient compte de la forte croissance de
l’hindi, également comme deuxième langue hors des régions hindiphones
traditionnelles – dont certains Etats dravidophones où il a fait son entrée
grâce aux mass media audiovisuels. Près de la moitié de la population indienne maîtrise aujourd’hui la langue nationale à différents niveaux18.
Si l’on excepte la proportion actuelle de 1-2% de native speakers tout
au plus, le pourcentage d’anglophones ayant une maîtrise suffisante de la
langue pour être «opérationnels» dans un milieu professionnel qualifié est
loin de dépasser le pourcentage analogue dans nombre de moyens et petits
pays européens tels les Pays-Bas.
Le point essentiel, c’est la rupture de l’équation traditionnelle entre
le plein accès à la culture écrite, un solide bagage culturel et un statut socioéconomique élevé, d’un côté, et l’anglophonie, de l’autre. L’essor rapide des classes moyennes, auquel la libéralisation économique des années
1990 a fortement donné le coup d’envoi, s’est en grande partie déroulé
par la voie du hindi et des autres langues indiennes principales, malgré la
place importante de l’anglais, par endroits, dans le système scolaire – en
particulier dans les écoles privées. Comme en Irlande, mais avec une ampleur et une dynamique incomparablement plus grandes, le succès économique et l’émancipation sociale ont largement fait disparaître le traditionnel complexe d’infériorité face à un anglais investi de toutes les valeurs
positives de la vie moderne. L’anglais, symbole traditionnel d’appartenance à la petite élite «acculturée» au British way of living d’ailleurs fa-
258
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
rouchement défendu par une partie de celle-ci, n’a pas su exercer le même
attrait que jadis sur les couches récemment alphabétisées ou urbanisées,
et même au sein d’une part croissante des nouvelles élites pour lesquelles
“Hindi is hip. It spells glamour, cheer and success”19.
Un angliciste indien peu suspect d’anglophobie caractérise ainsi cette
nouvelle configuration sociolinguistique:
[…] there are lots of people who are affluent or professional who do not use
English, who use […] Hindi most of all […]. So it is on its own steam, and
lately driven by the market, that Hindi has emerged […] as the predominant
Indian language […] – a status that could not be achieved for it, by state intervention. […] over the last 20-odd years […] we have seen the rise of Hindi in
a way that one could not have contemplated before that.20
Ce découplage entre ascension sociale et passage à l’anglais a eu des
répercussions très manifestes sur les comportements culturels.
Les préférences en matière de lecture sont l’un des reflets de ces changements. Observons tout d’abord le marché du livre.
Les best-sellers anglais y trouvent un public, il est vrai, mais pas très
nombreux. Ils enregistrent rarement plus de 5000 exemplaires vendus de
la version originale. On ne s’est même pas arraché les Harry Potter qui,
dans de nombreux pays, ont pourtant battu tous les records de vente ; en
Inde, on n’a enregistré qu’environ 20’000 ventes de ces livres à succès,
ce qui souligne les limites du public anglophone – et cela, alors que les
ouvrages des auteurs populaires d’expression hindi atteignent facilement
des tirages de 100’000 exemplaires et plus. Dans ce contexte, il ne faut
pas oublier que le livre, à la différence des mass media, a traditionnellement représenté un article de luxe pour la vaste majorité de la population,
tant au sens culturel qu’au sens matériel; c’est aussi pour cette raison qu’il
a longtemps constitué une sorte de dernier bastion de l’anglais. Dès l’Indépendance et jusqu’aux années 1990, l’ancienne langue coloniale était
la langue de publication préférée, plus de la moitié des titres sortant en
anglais. En 1980 et 1981, 44,6% des publications se faisaient dans cette
langue, contre 13 % en hindi21. Cependant, la langue nationale semble –
pour la première fois – avoir récemment détrôné la lingua franca exogène
en ce qui concerne le nombre de titres publiés: plus de 30 % d’entre eux
auraient paru en hindi contre 30% en anglais, même si les statistiques du
marché du livre indien restent sujettes à caution22. Bien que le secteur
du livre scientifique continue à être dominé par des ouvrages anglopho-
259
nes, les autres genres de publications ont en général passé aux langues
indiennes; d’ailleurs, plusieurs langues «régionales» de grande diffusion
ont elles aussi vu les chiffres de leurs titres publiés s’envoler au cours des
quinze dernières années.
Rien n’illustre mieux la nouvelle donne linguistique en Inde que le
fait que Penguin Books, le géant du livre de poche anglais bien ancré sur
tous les marchés du Commonwealth, a décidé en 2005, pour la première
fois dans son histoire, de publier dans une autre langue que celle de l’Empire défunt : sa filière indienne a lancé sa première collection en hindi. Ce
n’est certainement pas là une décision trahissant le spleen de l’amateur de
langues «vernaculaires exotiques», ni un simple acte symbolique pour faire preuve d’ouverture multiculturelle, mais une nécessité économique au
vu de la forte dynamique du marché du livre hindi, laquelle résulte d’un
changement des mentalités culturelles, comme le résume Ravi Singh, éditeur de Penguin India : “In the past, people would have been embarrassed
to admit that they were not comfortable reading English [...]. The status
that was given to English was such that it was seen the language of the
elite, but also of the “intelligent”. That’s changing now.” 23
Le plus frappant, c’est que l’un des moteurs principaux de ce retour
en force des langues indiennes est l’économie. Le secteur où la nouvelle
donne sociolinguistique saute aux yeux de la manière la plus évidente
est bien sûr la publicité, qui se fait de moins en moins en anglais – à la
grande différence des pays germanophones, lesquels affichent à cet égard
un comportement plutôt digne d’un pays en voie de développement – et
c’est le hindi, les langues régionales ou cet étrange hybride connu sous
le nom de hinglish qui prennent sa place. Ce hinglish, que l’on aurait du
mal à toujours classifier comme une simple variété indienne de l’anglais,
semble tantôt un argot ludique mais passager, tantôt un futur créole. Il est
en vogue auprès des nouveaux yuppies à l’indienne – la jeune génération
montante des milieux socioprofessionnels élevés – tout d’abord comme
moyen d’expression orale, mais également comme idiome «branché» pour
la communication écrite de tous les jours, la messagerie électronique, etc.
Le hinglish conteste ce terrain aux formes plus «British» de l’anglais indien et laisse également son empreinte sur le vocabulaire du hindi – du
moins du hindi colloquial, celui des films de Bollywood entre autres. Tout
comme l’anglais indien subit une vague de changements lexicaux et structurels en raison de son contact avec le hindi et les autres langues indiennes, de façon analogue le vocabulaire du hindi compte de plus en plus
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TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
d’emprunts lexicaux et conceptuels à l’anglais, et même des mots bien
établis se voient concurrencés par ce genre de néologismes.
Il reste cependant fort douteux que la mode actuelle du hinglish aboutira un jour à une acceptation générale de ce créole comme langue authentiquement nationale, ainsi que le prévoient – et le souhaitent – certains
observateurs. Qu’un auteur comme Chetan Bhagat ait connu un énorme
succès avec ses romans populaires fort imprégnés de hinglish ne suffit pas
encore pour que les lecteurs indiens plébiscitent un jour cet idiome mixte
aux dépens de l’hindi.
La presse et les mass media parlent de plus en plus un autre langage
que l’anglais, à savoir le hindi ou d’autres langues indiennes de grande
diffusion – mais pas le hinglish, même si le hindi journalistique n’excelle
point en termes de pureté littéraire.
Le recul de l’anglais dans le domaine de la presse est encore plus impressionnant que dans le monde du livre, souvent plus élitiste. Jusqu’en
1977, la circulation totale des journaux en anglais dépassait celle de toute
la presse non anglophone. Par la suite, le paysage linguistique des journaux indiens a radicalement changé: d’après le National Readership Survey de 2003, pas un seul journal anglais ne figure parmi les dix quotidiens
les plus vendus24.
Il serait cependant erroné de considérer la presse jaune comme principal vecteur de cet essor de l’hindi et des autres langues indiennes à grande
diffusion. Depuis vingt ans, une presse régionale de qualité s’est développée en langue indienne, même si elle ne peut encore rivaliser en matière
de ressources avec la crème de la presse anglophone et son phare, le Times
of India25. Néanmoins, l’écart de qualité entre presse anglophone et presse
indophone, s’il existe toujours, va diminuant également du côté anglophone, où une partie importante de la presse est en train de perdre la bonne
maîtrise de l’anglais et de se rapprocher de plus en plus, quant au choix et
à la présentation des thèmes, du modèle de la presse people26.
Conclusion
Afin d’éviter toute «mécompréhension» signalons qu’il n’a point été
dans nos intentions de prédire un prochain retour de l’Irlande à l’irlandais, pas plus que nous prévoyons un abandon complet de l’anglais en
Inde d’ici quelques années. En revanche, à l’aide de ces deux exemples,
nous avons voulu illustrer le fait que la mondialisation économique peut
entraîner des évolutions dans la sphère linguistique qui vont à l’encontre
261
des idées reçues quant à l’expansion inéluctable de l’anglais non pas uniquement dans les communications internationales, mais également dans
un nombre croissant de domaines au niveau intra-national. Parallèlement,
nous avons repéré des indices qui montrent que la modernisation socioéconomique elle-même est susceptible de devenir un moteur d’émancipation linguistique et culturelle. En effet, le présupposé populaire – assumé
également dans certains milieux académiques – selon lequel l’assimilation
linguistique à la langue «mondiale» dominante serait la clé du progrès
économique, scientifique et même culturel semble issu d’une perception
sélective ou même partisane de la dynamique de la mondialisation et de
ses enjeux.
Références
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
262
Voir l’étude perspicace de Robert Phillipson, English-Only Europe?, London:
Routledge, 2003, 105–138.
Ce n’est pas par hasard que le plus haut responsable de la culture allemande s’est publiquement demandé il y a quelques années, avec une forte dose
de scepticisme, si l’allemand aurait encore un avenir en tant que langue de
la science, voir aussi Ulrich Ammon, Ist Deutsch noch internationale Wissenschaftssprache – Englisch auch für die Lehre an den deutschsprachigen
Hochschulen, Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1998; pour une plaidoirie en faveur du
plurilinguisme dans le contexte culturel européen, voir Fritz Nies (éd.), Europa
denkt mehrsprachig – L’Europe pense en plusieurs langues, Tübingen: Gunter
Narr, 2004.
Andrew Carnie, “Modern Irish: A Case Study in Language Revival Failure”, 1995 (MIT Working Papers in Linguistics), http://dingo.sbs.arizona.edu/
~carnie/publications/PDF/Endangered.pdf [30-10-2009], 3-5.
Chiffres cités sur la base du “Preliminary Report of Census” de 2002, d’après Ó
hÉallaithe, Donncha, From Language Revival to Survival http://anghaeltacht.
net/ctg/altveritas.htm [30-10-2009], 11.
Philip Jones, “Book output up, publishers down�”, 3-2-2009 http://www.thebookseller.com/.../76269-book-output-up-publishers-down.html.rss [31-102009].
Iceland National Bibliography, version électronique, reference time 1999-2007.
http://www.utgafuskra.is ��
[28-11-2009] ��
Les statistiques islandaises considèrent,
il est vrai, déjà une publication à partir de 50 pages comme un livre, mais cela
ne change rien à la haute productivité des éditeurs locaux par rapport a ceux de
l’Irlande.
Ekkehard W. Bornträger, “��
��
Litauen und die baltischen Kulturen auf dem internationalem Translationsmarkt Versuch einer übersetzungsgeographischen
Bestandsaufnahme��
”��, Colloquia, Vilnius 2009 .
http://databases.unesco.org/xtrans/xtra-form.shtml [30-8-2009].
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
��
Gramsci avait fait ce constat pour l’Italie de l’Entre-deux-guerres, voir Antonio Gramsci, Letteratura e vita nazionale, Turin: Editori riuniti, 1987.
10
��
Si part des traductions reste faible sur le marché du livre anglophone, cela n’est
guère dû à la qualité de la traduction en tant que telle, mais à la grande différenciation
thématique interne au sein de la littérature anglophone; une certaine autosuffisance
ou un nombrilisme culturel y a certainement aussi sa part.
11
Caroline Walsh, “Publishers and shops launch campaign to boost Irish book
sales��
”��, Irish Times, 1-10-2009 http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/ireland/2009/1001/1224255613596.html [31-10-2009].
12
Evidemment, si l’on veut rester dans la logique de notre spéculation, le problème
majeur ne sera pas l’adoption en soi du gaeilge, mais l’effort énorme et coûteux
– matériellement et intellectuellement – de la transition, qui pourra prendre plus
d’une génération.
13
��
Maire Nic Ghiolla Phádraig, voir Don Duncan, “Ireland’s Language Dilemma��
”��,
Time, 23-10-2008 http://www.time.com/time/world/article/O,8599,1853128,00.
html [31-10-2009].
14
Don Duncan, op. cit.; il donne le témoignage d’un ��
migrant tchèque qui s’est
lancé dans l’apprentissage de l’irlandais pour être mieux intégré linguistiquement: “People don’t realize I’m not from here when I speak Irish […]. A
��
lot of
Irish people who speak Irish speak it as a second language and so we are all on
the same footing. I��
fit in better in Irish”.
15
Certains spécialistes comme Ó hÉallaithe restent très sceptiques et rejettent
catégoriquement toute idée d’un language revival, même limité, comme une
illusion pure et simple (voir Donncha Ó hÉallaithe, op. cit., 14); une attitude
compréhensible devant l’échec retentissant de tels projets en Irlande, mais qui
paraît néanmoins trop négative en regard des nombreuses expériences européennes encourageantes réalisées à partir du 19e siècle dans diff��
é��
rents pays,
dont les pays baltes.
16
Une telle vision des choses se retrouve également – sous une forme certes plus
nuancée – dans nombre de publications scientifiques, en particulier celles issues
de la plume des auteurs appartenant à l’ancienne élite anglicisée, ou celles rédigées par des chercheurs d’origine dravidienne, qui affichent souvent une attitude
réservée face a l’hindi et à son rôle. Les chercheurs hindiphones, en revanche, ont
plutôt tendance à voir l’avenir de leur langue avec plus d’optimisme.
17
Jacques Leclerc, “Inde”, in: L’aménagement linguistique dans le monde, Québec: Université Laval 2009 http://www.tlfq.ulaval.ca/axl/asie/inde-1Union.htm
[25-8-2009]. Une étude récente du linguiste David Graddol commanditée par
le British Council estime la proportion de fluent speakers de l’anglais à 5% à
peine, et met en garde contre les désavantages économiques présumés d’un
dépassement de l’Inde par la Chine pour ce qui est du nombre d’anglophones,
voir Stevenson, Alexandra, “India losing English advantage to China”, Financial Times, 19-11-2009
18
Selon le dernier recensement de 2001, il y aurait 41% d’hindiphones de langue maternelle; leur nombre va augmentant depuis des années: en 1971, on
en comptait 37 %; en 1981, 38,9% ; en 1991, 39,3%, voir Statement 6, “Com9
263
parative ranking of scheduled languages […] ��
1971, 1981, 1991 and 2001”.
http://censusindia.gov.in/Census_Data_2001/Census_Data_Online/Lang [411-2009]. Le
��
potentiel linguistico-culturel des hindiphones s’est accru plus que
ne le suggèrent ces chiffres, puisqu’il faut tenir compte des rapides progrès de
l’alphabétisation au sein de cette population dont le taux d’illettrisme a longtemps été l’un des plus élevés en Inde. Les estimations quant à la diffusion de
l’hindi comme deuxième ou troisième langue varient sensiblement; le nombre
de ses locuteurs sera très probablement plus ou moins du même ordre que celui
des anglophones – ou même plus élevé – mais il ne dépassera pas les 90 millions.
D’autres observateurs du sud de l’Inde continuent à considérer l’anglais comme
plus attrayant que l’hindi pour la plupart des bilingues dont un peu plus de 50%
auraient opté pour l’ancienne langue coloniale, voir Amritavalli, R. et Jayaseelan,
K. A., “India”, in: Andrew Simpson, Language and National Identity in Asia,
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007, 80, le pourcentage des bilingues et leur
préférences quant à la deuxième langue varient cependant de manière considérable entre les Etats fédéraux, l’anglais n’arrivant pas en t��
ê��
te dans une majorité de
régions, voir les calculs de McConnel, Grant cités par Louis-Jean Calvet, Pour
une écologie des langues du monde, Paris: Plon, 1999, 84 – 88.
19
Gajendra S. Chauhan, “Resurgence of Hindi in the Wake of Globalization��
”��,
Language in India, 6:12, 2006, 6. En 1996 encore, un observateur déclara dans
un ouvrage standard: “The question now seems to be not whether English can replaced, but whether the spread and penetration of English can be controlled […]��
”��,
Dua, Hans Raj, “The spread of English in India […]��
”��, in: Fishman Joshua et alii
(éd.), Post-Imperial English, Berlin-New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 1996, 585
20
��
Contribution de Harish Trivedi, in: “The rise of Hindi as the lingua franca of
the literate in India��
”��
, émission lingua franca: Radio National, Australie 11-22006 http://www.abc.net.au/rn/arts/ling/stories/s1565945.htm [31-10-2009].
21
Lokenath Bhattacharya, Books and Reading in India, Paris: Unesco, 1987
(Studies on Books and Publishing, N° 26), 12.
22
Chad W. Post, “The future of publishing in India – a view from across the
Atlantic��
”, Newsletter: Frankfurter Buchmesse, 2009 http://www.buchmesse.
de/en/company/press_pr/newsletter/2009/01141/index.html [31-10-2009].
23
Amelia Gentleman, “Penguin turns to publishing in Hindi��
”��, New York Times,
16-5-2006.
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/05/15/business/worldbusiness/15iht-books165032280.html [30-8-2009]
24
Sutanu Guru, “When the Regional Lords it Over the National��
”��
, Planman Consulting, 2005 http://www.planmanconsulting.com/when-the-regional-lords.
html [4-11-2009], 2.
25
Jeffrey Robin, India’s Newpaper Revolution, New Delhi: Oxford University
Press, 2000.
26
Kanishk Tharoor, “India’s Media Explosion��
”��, Foreign Policy, July 20, 2009.
http://www.foreignpolicy.com/articles/2009/0720/indias_media_explosion [411-2009], 4-6 (pagination de la version internet).
264
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
Modern Paranoia and Kafka’s “Der
Bau” (“The Burrow”)
Modernioji paranoja ir Kafkos “Der
Bau” („Urvas“)
David ADAMS
Ohio State University
4240 Campus Drive
Lima OH 45804 USA
[email protected]
Summary
One of Franz Kafka’s late stories, “Der Bau”, can be read as a comment on
Western epistemology and in particular on efforts at knowing the self and the
other. The story’s sole character and first-person narrator is an unnamed and unidentified animal, a burrowing carnivore. His burrow is his lifework, and the story
consists entirely of his description of his life in this home, of his pleasures and
fears in relation to the burrow’s strengths and flaws. Every clever feature and
crafty stratagem serves also as a sign of the animal’s vulnerability, and eventually
the animal becomes convinced, based on minimal evidence, that another creature
is coming after him. The animal’s difficulty in assessing his own vulnerabilities
and the nature of the other he might encounter anticipates difficulties readers have
in interpreting Kafka’s story; like the animal, readers know nothing certain about
the existence of the predator or the fate of the narrator and his burrow, and many
readers have difficulty accepting the contingency and uncertainty that the animal
accommodates. By foregrounding such contingency, the story serves as a critique
of the ancient injunction to know thyself, of Cartesian dualism, and of the ideal
of objectivity in the human sciences. More paranoid than the animal are, at times,
Kafka’s readers, who attempt to arrest the flux and contain the contingency by
diagnosing the animal, attributing to him a variety of psychological ailments and
moral flaws. Both the animal’s anxiety and the critics’ paranoia serve to marginalize the animal, heightening his isolation. Kafka’s final story, “Josefine, die Sängerin oder Das Volk der Mäuse”, written several months after “Der Bau”, addresses
questions of community only hinted at in “Der Bau” and thus points the way toward understanding the animal as a social being. His imagined social contact with
another creature becomes the primary focus of the narrator’s anxiety. No retreat
into solitude, no burrow, no diagnosis, no construction of any kind can insulate the
animal from his social origin.
Key words: Franz Kafka, reception, paranoia, epistemology, contingency,
“Der Bau”, “The Burrow”, “Josefine, die Sängerin oder Das Volk der Mäuse”,
“Josephine the Singer, or the Mouse Folk”.
265
Among its other uses, literature provides us with dense case studies of
social and psychological challenges, and sometimes literary works turn
the tables on us by transforming readers into case studies. As readers,
we routinely find ourselves repressing, resisting, transferring, projecting,
identifying, and succumbing; we animate the text with our own desires
and anxieties, and in some cases we exercise our paranoia by discovering patterns not readily perceived by the characters, the author, or other
readers. Suspicious readers are sometimes the best readers, and this has
been true in the reception of one of Franz Kafka’s late stories, “Der Bau”,
known in English as “The Burrow”. No work of literature offers a more
intimate, unsettling experience of paranoid self-knowledge in the modern
world.
Kafka wrote “Der Bau” in 1923, in the final year of his life. The firstperson narrator is an unidentified animal, a burrowing carnivore. His burrow is his lifework, and the story consists entirely of his description of
his life in this home, of his pleasures and fears in relation to the burrow’s
strengths and flaws. In the opening sentence he optimistically announces,
“Ich habe den Bau eingerichtet und er scheint wohlgelungen.”1At times
the burrow is the most felicitous space imaginable for him; he feels secure
and relaxed, delighting in the absolute silence. He is proud of a visible
false entrance which runs into solid rock, while the real entrance is hidden
under moss 1,000 paces away. But he also fears that this cunning might
backfire, that the visible false entrance will serve as a sign to a predator
that the area is worth investigating further. “Freilich manche List ist so
fein, daß sie sich selbst umbringt”2, he concludes about the false entrance,
but the observation could apply to the burrow as a whole. Every clever
feature and crafty stratagem serves also as a sign of the animal’s vulnerability, and the animal’s close identification with the burrow seems eventually to put him at risk.
Such paradoxes and reversals occur repeatedly throughout the story
of his rational analysis of dangers and defenses. At the heart of the burrow lies the keep, or stronghold, a cell where the animal stores most of
his provisions. Tunnels radiate out from this keep, widening periodically to create smaller cells for resting or feeding. When he decides it is
too risky to store all his provisions in the keep, he distributes them to
these smaller cells; then he decides to consolidate the provisions again,
frantically returning them to the keep and in the process disturbing the
tranquility of his home. He is not usually impulsive and he rationally
266
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
justifies many of his changes in strategy and attitude – he acknowledges
that such “mühselige Rechnungen” involve “die Freude des scharfsinnigen Kopfes an sich selbst”3 – but this mental labor never finds firm
footing and he is left with no way to mediate between contradictory
lines of thought. Thus at one point he admits about one of this ideas,
“Ich kann in dem ehemals verständigen nicht den geringsten Verstand
finden.”4 In short, his anxiety and his strategy are constantly in flux. He
observes that “meiner Gegner gibt es unzählige, es könnte geschehen,
daß ich vor einem Feinde fliehe und dem anderen in die Fänge laufe”5;
but then he also reports, “Es gab glückliche Zeiten, in denen ich mir fast
sagte, daß die Gegnerschaft der Welt gegen mich vielleicht aufgehört
oder sich beruhigt habe.”6 These waves of surging and receding anxiety
wash away all certainty, exhausting the reader as well as the animal. No
wonder W. H. Auden confessed after reading this story, “I am inclined to
believe that one should only read Kafka when one is in a eupeptic state
of physical and mental health.”7
The exhausting fluctuations become more clearly connected to modern
thought in the middle of the story when the animal tells of an excursion
out of his burrow, enabling him to spend time spying on his own refuge.
The episode provides a clever critique of the ancient injunction to know
thyself, of Cartesian dualism, and of the ideal of objectivity in the human
sciences (animal though he is). While observing his burrow’s entrance
from a nearby hiding place, he feels as if he stands not in front of his
house, but in front of himself, as if he enjoys a deep sleep while vigilantly
guarding himself. The burrow has become not merely an means of defense
but an integral part of his identity. Observing his burrow from above, he
reports, “Ich bin gewissermaßen ausgezeichnet, die Gespenster der Nacht
nicht nur in der Hilflosigkeit und Vertrauensseligkeit des Schlafes zu sehen, sondern ihnen gleichzeitig in Wirklichkeit bei voller Kraft des Wachseins in ruhiger Urteilsfähigkeit zu begegnen.”8 But this combination of
perspectives does not result in an integral or stable self-knowledge. The
initial satisfaction he takes in the external view of his burrow soon succumbs to the realization that he cannot simultaneously be inside and out.
He has the “kindischen Wunsch” that he might spend the rest of his life
observing from the outside how well the burrow would protect him if he
were inside. He is then startled out of this dream by the thought that the
apparent safety of the burrow might result from his absence, for no enemy
can detect him when he’s not there. Having decided he can therefore learn
267
little by observing his burrow from the outside, he begins the long, tortuous process of plotting his return.
The final phase of the story begins once he finally returns. His initial
delight in reuniting with his home is disturbed by a faint hissing sound
which he would not even hear if his burrow were not so quiet. At first
he assumes the hissing is coming from air blowing through the small air
vents dug by smaller creatures, but he is unable to find the source. He
decides to dig a series of experimental trenches through the burrow to
locate the sound; this also fails to accomplish anything other than to damage his burrow. He begins to imagine with increasing conviction that the
sound comes from a predator, a burrowing beast approaching him not
from above ground but through the earth. But when he attempts to listen
closely from different positions in his burrow, he is unable to detect any
variations in volume, unable to determine the direction from which the
sound comes. The hissing is pervasive and seemingly without a source.
Kafka wrote this story of nearly 13,000 words in one long night a few
months before he died of tuberculosis. He reportedly set it aside before
completing it, though it is difficult to imagine a more appropriate ending than the one he left us. The final sentence reads: “Aber alles blieb
unverändert – – ”9. Indeed all remains unchanged in the sense that everything continues in flux, contingent and indeterminate. Like the animal,
we as readers know nothing about the source of the noise or the existence
of the predator or the fate of the animal and his burrow. The boundary between common sense and paranoia shifts, blurs, and disappears. Although
the animal employs reason in creating his refuge, his reasoning is rendered ineffectual – perhaps detrimental – by the impossibility of knowing
when and in what form an antagonist will arrive, if one arrives at all. He
therefore recognizes also the impossibility of building the perfect burrow
and achieving perfect peace. The text offers readers no ground or frame
of reference beyond the shifting perspectives of the first-person narrator;
readers are invited to share his perplexity, though many readers refuse this
invitation.
Literary critics as a breed are disinclined to surrender to perplexity,
and in response to this story we have provided a variety of diagnoses in
an attempt to fix the floating frame of reference. One reader labels the animal’s monologue “a sequence of schizophrenic projections”10 and another
concludes that “the animal must necessarily suffer from a persecution
complex.”11 Some readers reduce the story’s indeterminacy by assuming
268
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
the animal is hallucinating when he hears the hissing sound, while others
go to the opposite extreme by taking for granted the imminent arrival of
the beast and death of the animal. Even some of the most nuanced close
readings of the text focus on what is wrong with the animal: two critics
agree “that the animal’s intellectual failure points to a moral fault” so they
can then disagree on how to characterize this fault. Many of these readings seem to share the animal’s own anxiety about the unknown and go
further than the animal in assuming and asserting knowledge even when
lacking evidence. In short, these readings are often more paranoid than the
animal’s own narrative in their reluctance to stare down the ungrounded,
shifting experience of knowledge, especially self-knowledge. Such readings of “Der Bau” serve as a microcosm of much intellectual endeavor in
the modern age. Indeed, Kafka’s story serves as a parable of modern European thought, which is similarly rational and ungrounded, rigorous and
mutable, disinterested and paranoid.
Both the animal’s anxiety and the critics’ paranoia serve to marginalize
the animal, heightening his isolation. Kafka nevertheless finds a way to
bring the social world back into what seems the most private, solitary suffering. While most of the time the animal refers to the ominous noise as
a hissing sound – Zischen – he makes an interesting substitution on three
occasions, calling the noise a whistling, or Pfeifen. Whistling is central
to Kafka’s final story, “Josefine, die Sängerin oder Das Volk der Mäuse”,
written several months after “Der Bau”. The mouse folk are all accomplished whistlers, for whistling is their characteristic mode of expression,
a defining feature of their lives. By conflating Kafka’s last two stories,
one might assume that the whistling noise disturbing the burrowing animal comes from the mouse folk, who would no doubt be as disturbed by
his presence as he is by theirs. But the stories resonate with each other on
another level. The first hint of this is that their characters have so much in
common. Like the burrower, the mouse folk, we are told, are always darting back and forth for purposes that aren’t always clear, plagued by incalculable dangers. As if commenting on the burrowing animal, however, the
narrator of “Josefine” observes that one cannot carry the burden of anxieties and fears alone; one needs a folk. Thus the story addresses questions
of community only hinted at in “Der Bau”.
The unresolved mystery at the center of “Josefine” is captured in two
interconnected questions about Josephine’s whistling. The member of the
mouse folk narrating the story wonders whether Josephine’s singing is
269
any different from the everyday whistling of her compatriots and, given
the difficulty of answering this first question, how she manages to exercise such enormous influence. The discussion of the first question makes
clear that whistling in all its forms – both the folk’s everyday habit and
Josephine‘s artistic performance – provides a fundamental social bond.
The story addresses the second question, about Josephine’s relation to her
folk, by imagining her eventual death. Kafka’s final understanding of the
individual’s relation to the community, though enigmatic, is not particularly paranoid: the narrator announces that the community grants gifts but
does not receive them, and that Josephine will find her redemption in being forgotten by the folk.
Kafka’s final story casts light on the way its immediate predecessor,
“Der Bau”, succeeds in placing the animal in a social context, even though
this most solitary of creatures remains the only character in the story.
Separated from any folk, the burrower apparently has no hope of salvation. But his yearning for salvation finds expression in his response to the
whistling sound, which is not merely a source of terror for him. He begins
considering his potential relations to others, or to an other. Through the
entire story he has never had a single thought or memory of another creature of his own kind – he mentions only the smaller creatures he preys on
and his imagined predators. But at the end of the story he begins to wonder whether the beast he imagines as the source of the whistling might
not be pursuing him at all; perhaps the beast, like the narrator himself, is
building a burrow. The animal allows himself to dream of a “Verständigung” with his neighbor, though he knows such a dream to be impossible.
He does not imagine he can tolerate such a neighbor, but then he begins
to wonder what the neighbor might know about him already; he wonders,
in short, whether he is recognized. This imagined social contact becomes
the primary focus of the narrator’s anxiety. The intuition the animal seems
to be developing at the end of the story is nicely summarized in Theodor
Adorno’s observation that “der gesellschaftliche Ursprung des Individuums enthüllt sich am Ende als die Macht von dessen Vernichtung”.12 No
retreat into solitude, no burrow, no diagnosis, no construction of any kind
can insulate the animal from his fellow creatures. Indeed, the contingency
the animal feels so acutely as well as the dream of an enigmatic, redemptive forgetfulness are both thoroughly social. The animal’s struggles and
concluding words still resonate, for this social truth “remains unchanged”
270
TAPATYBĖS RETORIKA
References
Franz Kafka, ��
“Der Bau”, in: Franz Kafka, Beschreibung eines Kampfes: Novellen, Skizzen, Aphorismen aus dem Nachlaß. Gesammelte Werke in acht Bänden, Frankfurt am Main: Fischer��
, 1983, 132.
2
Ibid., 132.
3
Ibid., 132.
4
Ibid., 158.
5
Ibid., 133.
6
Ibid., 141.
7
W. H. Auden, “The I Without a Self”, in: The Dyer’s Hand and Other Essays,
New York: Vintage, 1989, 166.
8
��
Kafka, 140–141.
9
Ibid., 165.
10
Peter Stine, “Franz Kafka and Animals”, Contemporary Literature 22, 1981,
75.
11
Heinrich Henel, “Kafka’s Der Bau, or How to Escape from a Maze”, in: P.F.
Ganz, editor, The Discontinuous Tradition, London: Oxford, 1971, 231.
12
Theodor W. Adorno, „Aufzeichnungen zu Kafka“, in: Kulturkritik und Gesellschaft I: Gesammelte Schriften 10.1, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1977,
264–265�.
1
271
III. CENTRE / PERIPHERY AS A CHALLENGE
CENTRO / PERIFERIJOS IŠŠŪKIAI
World Literature(s) and Peripheries
Pasaulio literatūra(-os) ir pakraščiai
Marko JUVAN,
Scientific Research Center of the Slovenian Academy of Sciences and Arts
Novi trg 2, SI-1000 Ljubljana, Slovenia
[email protected]
Summary
The original Goethean (cosmopolitan, but peripheral) notion of world literature as analogous to the capitalist world-system has become relevant to transnational comparative studies: it implies a conceptual-evaluative background and
practices, media, and institutions that allow intercultural transfer, intertextual absorption of global cultural repertoires, and self-conscious production for international audiences. Since the cultural nationalism of the nineteenth century, the
theoretical or poetic consciousness of world literature, its intertextual coherence,
and its material networks have been “glocalized.” The literary world system is
accessible through the archives of localized cultural memory and particular cognitive or linguistic perspectives, whereas centrality and peripherality are variables
that depend on historical dynamics and system evolution.
Key words: comparative literary studies, world literature, literary system, globalization, cosmopolitanism, cultural transfer.
The recent intensity of the debate over the concept of world literature is a symptom of social and political shifts in literary studies under
conditions of globalization1. On the one hand, comparative literature is
challenged by the “shrinking world” and the neo-liberal ideology of the
free circulation of capital, goods, and people. On the other hand, it has to
respond to postcolonial and anti-globalist emancipatory movements. Such
conditions have also developed an awareness of the global mobility of
cultural products, their deterritorialization, singular local appropriations,
and hybridizations, and the massive variation of the same matrixes in disparate parts of the world. This is the reason why literature, considered
as a global phenomenon, has become relevant to comparative literature.
272
The debate on this subject has changed its focus: from disputes about the
under-representation of marginalized communities and peripheries in the
global cultural canon, which implied questioning the Eurocentrism and
occidentocentrism intrinsic to literary studies, the debate turned to the
problem of how the geopolitical distribution of power, with its centers and
peripheries, shapes intercultural understanding.
Of course, addressing world literature belongs to comparative literary studies’ oldest disciplinary constants and the notion of Weltliteratur
has been with us ever since the late 1820s. As is generally known, it was
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe that – feeling somehow deprived as a German writer in relation to the French or English metropolises and their internationally renowned national canons – launched the concept of “world
literature”2. The historical consciousness of literature’s worldwide scope
thus had a rather peripheral, nationally biased origin, notwithstanding its
cosmopolitan pedigree and claims to universalism. The intellectual background of the idea was definitely established by post-Enlightenment cosmopolitanism, a belief that “in their essence” people are equal, regardless
of affiliations to various states, languages, religions, classes, or cultures.
Since the eighteenth century, cosmopolitanism has informed the lifestyles
of urban intellectual elites as well as conceptually inspired ethics and international law, economic theories of the free market, political science, the
arts, and the humanities3. Coining the phrase Weltliteratur, Goethe – as
Marx and Engels later would – expected “world literature” to transcend
national parochialism through cosmopolitan cultural exchange. In accordance with the ius cosmopoliticum from Immanuel Kant’s Perpetual Peace
(1795), Goethe thought that knowledge of other languages and literatures,
their deeper understanding, and openness to their influence would lead
people from different countries to mutual understanding and peace. The
ideologeme of world literature was invented to buffer the dangers of imperialism, cultural wars, and economic competition between national entities in post-Napoleonic Europe. However, even Goethe fueled his cosmopolitan idea with nationalist anxieties and goals; after all, his Weltliteratur
aimed at the transnational promotion of German literature, which was facing strong international competitors and British or French cultural hegemony4. Encouraged by the considerable foreign success of his works and
enjoying an influential position in culturally prosperous Weimar, Goethe
believed: “There is being formed a universal world literature, in which
an honorable role is reserved for us Germans. All the nations review our
273
work; they praise, censure, accept, and reject, imitate, and misrepresent
us, open or close their hearts to us.”5
From his particular perspective, marked by German cultural nationalism6, Goethe – as one of the most outstanding cosmopolitans of the
Herderian brand – was experiencing world literature primarily as a vast
network of transnational interaction; that is, as a rise in the circulation of
literary artworks across linguistic and national borders, and increasing
cultural exchange between continents and civilizations. As will be seen
later on, Weltliteratur also appeared to him in the guise of the modern
capitalist market going global. The mutual understanding and interconnections of literatures in various linguistic expressions through translations, theatrical performances, reports, and reviews; the creative response
to literary repertoires stemming from various periods and cultures of the
world (from the classical Chinese novel through Persian poetry to Serbian
folk songs) – Goethe considered all of this essential to the viability of the
German and any other national literature and to the experience of what
he called the “generally human”7. With his cosmopolitan idea of world
literature, in which all creativity appeared to be equal, regardless of its canonicity or linguistic or national provenance, Goethe discovered a deeper
meaning in many of his daily activities, such as multilingual readings,
identification with culturally distant literary characters or problems, monitoring the international reception of his works, establishing contacts with
European artists and scholars, or editing the journal Über Kunst und Alterthum, devoted to Weltpoesie.8 He also transfigured world literature into his
poetic principle, leading to a globalized imagination and world intertextuality. Goethe’s West-Eastern Divan (1819/27), inspired by the German
translation of Hafez’s Divan (1812), is an example of how an Orientalist
intercultural “synthesis” can be intertextually inscribed in a literary text
from one of the literatures that were becoming nationally conscious9.
In the second half of the nineteenth century, Goethean Weltliteratur
evolved to the regulatory idea that shaped the new discipline of comparative literature, defining its transnational subject as well as methods
of examining international cultural relations10. In comparative studies, the
concept of world literature has by now obtained several meanings: (a)
the sum of literatures expressed in all languages of the world, (b) literary works with “generally human” values that transcend local, national,
and limited historical importance, which qualifies them as cornerstones
of the universal canon, (c) global bestsellers distributed in several lan-
274
guages, (d) authors, texts, structures, and ideas that cross the borders of
their domestic culture and are actively present in other languages and societies – as “multiple windows on the world”11, imported originals, translations, the subject of discussions and the media, and sources of literary
influence and intertextuality, and (e) a system of interaction and interference between heterolingual literatures and areas that shape international
or transnational literary processes12. After a period during which notions
of world literature as the global literary canon or history of inter-literary
relations and developments prevailed, the original Goethean conception
has recently come back to the forefront of comparative studies, especially
in the transnational approach. There are many good reasons for Goethe’s
comeback13. According to Goethe, world literature implies a network of
practices, media, and institutions that transfer international resources in
the home literary field, encouraging transcultural circulation of concepts,
representations, and intertextual absorption of global cultural repertoires
as well as self-conscious production for an international audience. Goethe
is currently considered a visionary mainly due to his symptomatic use of
economic metaphors14. Knowing that he was – at least through German
adaptations and interpretations – familiar with Adam Smith’s The Wealth
of Nations (1776), one cannot be surprised by Goethe’s interdiscursive response to the “free market” ideology – for example, when expressing his
hope that the German “production” in England “would find a market” and
achieve “a balance of trade”15. In their Manifesto of the Communist Party
(1848), which is currently read as a description of today’s globalized capitalism, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels followed Goethe’s economic lead;
here they connected the global expansion of the capitalist market and
economy to the beginnings of the transnational system of world literature,
which was held to be formed by the exchange and interaction between the
spiritual products of national, local literatures16.
World literature, however, may not be reduced to mere interaction on
the international cultural market. It is also a category of ethical, political,
historical, and aesthetic thought. This category was shaped in the nineteenth century not only because of the development of communications,
transport, and markets and the expansion of international politics, all of
which was required by industrialized capitalism and imperialism, but also
in view of travel writing, newspaper reports on world events, archaeological and anthropological discoveries of pre-classical civilizations, the
broadening of the translation repertoire (including Egyptian, Mesopota-
275
mian, Chinese, Indian, and Arabic literature), and attempts at reconstructing the sense of the original otherness in translations17. In order to fashion
an awareness of world literature and foster intercultural transfers, a sort of
localized infrastructure within European cultures was also necessary. In
addition to the media, such as reviews and journals that included translations, or theaters with an international repertoire, the sheer mobility of
books, manuscripts, and other cultural objects was truly instrumental,
much like their exchange, systematic collection, and cataloging, and the
encyclopedic ordering of knowledge about foreign cultures. Such networks “translated” (in Bruno Latour’s use of the word) remote foreign
objects, texts, and their representations in a multitude of local archives
and libraries, where their referential and contextual liaisons with original spaces were adapted to particular epistemes and the strategies of the
receiving location – for example, the formation of Orientalist corpora in
western libraries and preparation of encyclopedias, such as Barthélemy
D’Herbelot’s Bibliothèque orientale from the turn of the eighteenth century, which represented and systematized Islamic civilization for the needs
of the French metropolis18.
In the theoretical and poetic consciousness of world literature
(Goethe’s case), as well as in the case of establishing the media and institutional infrastructure for its circulation and representation (D’Herbelot),
there is a taste of a “glocalization”19 of world literature that led to its plurality in as early as the nineteenth century. The need to speak of world
literature in the plural form becomes even more urgent due to the fact
that the Goethean concept of Weltliteratur was launched through the ideologeme of “national literature” and that it was modeled by nationalist
cognitive centrisms. Ever since Goethe, world literature’s interactions and
universal canons thus presuppose extant or at least emerging national literatures as their basic elements. Inclusion of the national in the world,
the presence of the world in the national, and nationality as a necessary
condition for the appearance of world literature are symptoms of the interlocking ideologies of the post-enlightenment cultural nationalism, cosmopolitanism, and the aesthetic understanding of art practices20. According
to Siegfried J. Schmidt, two complementary processes were characteristic
during the making of modern European literary fields in the eighteenth
and nineteenth centuries: autonomization and nationalization21. Following
Pierre Bourdieu, it may be said that the ideology of aesthetic autonomy,
which was fed into texts, activities, and actors in the literary field, was
276
actually compensation for the fact that (as shown by Balzac’s depiction of
the 1820s in The Lost Illusions) literary life became subject to the market
mechanism and political manipulations of public space in print media: the
value of artistic products was contingent, and the accumulation or loss
of cultural capital depended on the shifting interests of publishers, social
networks, and cliques and on their tactical use of the media22. The process
of nationalization, on the other hand, profiled literature as a crucial linguistic and cultural attribute of the nation’s “imagined community”23. Autonomizing and nationalizing literature invoked the “nation” as a cultural
hero on the ruins of the ancient canon and, from its Eurocentric perspective, generalized this aesthetic and national attitude to all literatures of
the world24. Following the logic of identity construction, nations as imagined communities only became possible through their relations with each
other: while emulating the same discursive repertoire of the transnational
current of nationalist ideology, they sought their individuality through
relentless comparisons with and differentiation from other nations (here,
comparative methods in philology, folklore, and literary history were also
instrumental). Hence modern European nations were established within a
new geopolitical reality that was perceived as inter-national25; borders on
the newly imagined map of Europe were now drawn almost exclusively
by existing or emerging nation-states.
An example of these processes in one of Europe’s peripheries – Slovenian ethnic territory in the Habsburg Monarchy – is the poetry of the romantic France Prešeren (1800–1849) involved in devising the context of
national, “Slovenian,” or “Carniolan” literature. In addition to his national
self-awareness and cultural activity, however, Prešeren saw himself in a
larger European context. His poem Glosa (1834/47) tackles the relationship between verbal art in Slovenian language and the local environment,
in which parochial bourgeois capitalism plays a decisive role26. Prešeren
reinforces his insistence on the poetic vocation by alluding to a set of
models of the world’s classics (Homer, Ovid, Dante, Petrarch, Camões,
Cervantes, and Tasso), who at first sight seem to justify the poem’s thesis
that art – in opposition to the logic of profit – is always bound to be socially marginalized. Prešeren intertextually transfers world literature in a
Slovenian text written in a Habsburg province, thereby giving meaning to
both his own poetic work and the emerging national literature. With locally perspectivized allusions to world literary classics, Prešeren accumulates
their cultural capital in his text, evoked by the “currency” of their famous
277
names. For Prešeren, such a testimonio of world literary classics represents imaginary compensation for the plain social phenomenology of economic capital. Generally speaking, through the formation of the canon of
world literature, the cultural elites of the romantic period spread their belief in the transcendental importance and autonomy of art. With reference
to the canon of world and European literature, Prešeren also advocated an
autonomous order of the literary that inverts the principles of the capitalist
market27. From this we may conclude that the emergence of a peripheral
national literary system tends to imply a specific local understanding of
the global nature of literature, as well as the world imagination and intertextuality. The glocal inscription of world literature into Prešeren’s poetry
was embedded in a social network of “culture planning,” which also involved other intellectuals pursuing the task of establishing national “socio-cultural cohesion” among the bilingual and biliterary educated classes
in Habsburg Carniola28. His mentor and friend, the librarian Matija Čop,
took care of collecting manuscripts, books, and news about current cultural events abroad, as well as studying the histories of many literatures;
on the other hand, through his vast correspondence, he spread information
on past and contemporary Slovenian literature among the intellectuals and
poets in Czech, Slovak, and Polish territory.
The emergence29 of the peripheral national literary field described
above is an example of how, in the circumstances of the bourgeois society
and the capitalist art market, national identity is established relationally,
through realizing its position among literatures in other languages and
within world literature understood as a common heritage of mankind. The
case could be explained by recent conceptions of the world system that
build on Goethe and Marx’s observations. I am thinking of Immanuel
Wallerstein, Franco Moretti, and Pascale Casanova. Elaborating upon
Marx’s insights, Wallerstein writes that capitalism, encouraged by new
technologies of transport and communication, made the economy global by introducing forms of exploitation, labor division, capital flow, and
surplus value appropriation that were organized geographically and politically. The world economy thus created and multiplied local state structures that regulated social tensions by both fostering particular cultural
identities (national literature having a key role) and embracing universal
patterns of the capitalist “geoculture”. In the growing international system
of global capitalism, which produced and spread geoculture, nation-states
were positioned unequally: whereas “core-states” as the sites of developed
278
production could accumulate capital and control the geopolitical division
of labor, “peripheral” or “semi-peripheral” areas, whose means of production were less developed and statehood was weaker, remained dependent
on those centers30. Hence the world system of capitalist economics with
its geoculture, cores, and peripheries shows many striking analogies with
the gradual formation of a “world republic of letters” from the eighteenth
to the twentieth century. On the one hand, world literature participates in
the transnational circulation of geoculture; on the other hand, however, it
is – parallel to the capitalist world-system – a complex field of asymmetrical relations and struggles for visibility and recognition. La république
mondiale des lettres is conceived by Casanova as a hierarchically organized semiotic space, in which the established and emerging literary fields
interact from unequal positions, either as centers of cultural influence,
where consecration of literary products for the international cultural market takes place, or as peripheries with poorer cultural capital and worse
linguistic, social, or political possibilities for international literary breakthrough31. According to David Damrosch, world literature is the space
reserved for the diffusion and flow of literary texts that, after having been
recognized by some global metropolis, exceed the linguistic boundaries
of their literary fields and become “actively present” in other languages or
cultures32. Drawing on Itamar Even-Zohar’s polysystem theory, Moretti
also portrays the “world literary system” as analogous to the world economy (although not identical with the history and spatial distribution of
economic cores and peripheries); it consists of influential productive centers and primarily receptive peripheries33. Nonetheless, according to EvenZohar and Moretti, strong and developed literatures, which now function
as centers of the world literary system, used to be peripheral in the phase
of their emergence (e.g., the French and English dependence on Classical Antiquity); without interference with peripheral productivity and the
resources of “small” or “minority” literatures (e.g., the global influence
of orientalism, bard poetry, Nordic ballads, Balkan imagery and folklore,
Karel Čapek’s robot, and Latin American magical realism), even central
literary systems would stagnate. No cultural system is self-sufficient and
free of interference34. It would be misleading to draw evaluative conclusions from the asymmetries of cultural power described above. Centrality
and peripherality are variables that depend on historical dynamics and
system evolution; there are normally multiple centers that attract different
global areas to their sphere of influence and compete with each other for
279
wider dominance; in this millennium, for example, Eastern metropolises
(China, South Korea, and India) are overshadowing the role of the US and
the Western world. Important artistic innovations are also occurring on the
fringes of the world system. Moreover, cultural transfer from metropolitan source literatures to (semi-)peripheral target literatures should not be
reduced to Moretti’s neat formula of “a compromise between a Western
formal influence (usually French or English) and local materials,” derived from his important and large-scale analyses of the European novel35.
While the formula may be operational at the macro-level of the transnational literary market, which, with its wavelike diffusion of successful
cultural products, causes diverse peripheral fields to choose and adapt the
most demanded, appealing, prestigious, fascinating, or innovative global
patterns, it proves to be too superficial at the level of intertextuality36:
“strong” peripheral authors that are aware of their strategic borrowing
from a foreign literary repertoire and its grafting into the “local” conventions tend to cope with the Bloomian “anxiety of influence” in many other
ways – for example, by ironic and self-reflective fictional presentation of
their systemic dependence on the world literary canon (Prešeren’s metapoetic sonnets that ironize his own romantic Petrarchism). Being frustrated
by their marginality or border position, small or peripheral literatures tend
to be more open and “nomadic” in their search for disparate world sources. Because of their often irregular development, they mix and transform
foreign transfers in very singular ways (e.g., Balkan Zenithism and Srečko
Kosovel’s avant-garde poetic constructions). Nevertheless, it still cannot
be denied that the path of a peripheral innovation to the metropolis is certainly more difficult, exceptional, and often delayed37, as Slavoj Žižek’s
move from the circle of the Ljubljana Lacanians through US academia
to the world theoretical icon might testify. According to Casanova, every
writer that seeks to enter the space of the world republic of letters depends
on the international prestige (cultural capital) accumulated in his or her
home language, traditions, and society – British authors, for example,
have much better conditions for starting an international career than those
that write in Slovenian or Lithuanian38.
Peripheries or semi-peripheries, such as central Europe, are not just
passively dependent on their in-between position and interferences from
neighboring world centers. These areas, too, contain their own urban centers (Vilnius, Warsaw, Prague, Zagreb, Ljubljana, Trieste, etc.) and their
respective literatures sometimes establish mutual contacts without the
280
necessary intermediation of global metropolises (e.g., various Slavisms in
the nineteenth century and after the First World War). Artworks, authors,
techniques, and themes from one among the peripheral literatures are thus
also “actively present” outside their home literary fields, operating within
what Ďurišin called inter-literary community or centrism (e.g., Arab or
South Slavic)39. Without inter-literary transfers within such communities,
the world literary system as a complex network would collapse. The cultural capital that authors accumulate through the reception of their works
within such multinational and multilingual areas may also pave their way
to the metropolis and wider international recognition. Globalization and
the postcolonial situation have created favorable conditions for regional
and global success of peripheral authors (not only modern) and allowed
them to self-confidently plan their writing for world audiences. For example, the Trieste Slovenian writer Vladimir Bartol (1903–67) privately
considered his novel Alamut (1938) a potential global hit. The text was
conceived to become an international bestseller: it draws on Orientalist
historical knowledge, sets the story in exotic medieval Iran, displays erudition, uses an easily translatable style, clings to successful genre patterns,
creates suspense, and addresses big issues of totalitarianism and conspiracy theory. In the very year of its first publication in Slovenian, Bartol tried
to offer his novel to the global cultural market. He submitted a screenplay
about Alamut Castle directly to the Hollywood film metropolis, but MGM
studios rejected it. Notwithstanding, Alamut later won wide recognition
and was translated into about eighteen languages (and in 2004 also into
English). Alamut’s entrance into world literature occurred due to a favorable, although contingent, historical situation and thanks to “consecration”
in a global metropolis: in 1988, Alamut was translated into French because its story and setting coincided with the topicality of Islamic fundamentalism and terrorism after Khomeini’s revolution in Iran40.
In conclusion, I am returning to world literatures in the plural. The
plural designation has been used so far mainly for “great” literatures in
the world languages, which differ from “small” literatures with what Paul
van Tieghem once called “limited radiation”41. Nevertheless, my point of
departure is the problem of how the complex world literature mega-system, with its linguistic variety and multitude of texts, could possibly be
cognitively grasped and represented. Even if we attempted to overcome
national literature’s atomism with Dionýz Ďurišin’s methodology of inter-literary processes that take place in a range of culturally, historically,
281
geographically, or politically coherent areas or, if we followed Moretti’s proposal for “distant reading” (i.e., systematizing second-hand information on foreign literatures)42, we would at best highlight only some
highly generalized hypotheses about the underlying “laws” of the development of world literature. It is therefore necessary to agree with Zoran
Milutinović, who has recently considered that the history and theory of
world literature could only be fragmentary and appear through specific
viewpoints43. World literature is thus inevitably reflected in a plurality
of different versions and images. It may be true that the literary world
mega-system primarily exists as a network of transfers, interference, and
developing relationships between texts, conventions, and structural matrices from different national literatures or inter-literary communities. Nonetheless, it should be remembered that world literature also consists of the
media and institutional infrastructure, the materiality of texts, and, above
all, the canon of world literature (as a repository of cultural memory) and
the consciousness – theoretical, practical and poetic – of the interconnectedness and interdependence of the world’s literatures. Poetic awareness
of world literature is realized in literary texts in the form of intertextuality and globalized imagination. The literary world system is therefore a
complex topology, which is cognitively and creatively accessible only
through the archives of localized cultural memory and singular cognitive
or linguistic perspectives. They show world literature as a set of variant
corpora, representations, inspirations, and classifications. World literature
is being constantly translated and presented in manifold localized inscriptions, which are the subject of reflection and reworking in different semiospheres. To begin with, canons of world literature are plural because
they exist only within particular literary fields and interactions between
them: each national literature or country has its own version of the world
literature canon, and any literature intertextually bases its production on
different selections from global cultural heritage. Any literature or literary history sees world literature through the lenses of how they perceive
their position within the global literary system. The different perceptions
of world literatures in metropolitan or peripheral cultural environments
condition even “national” schools of comparative literature, although this
discipline should in principle be the most cosmopolitan form of literary
knowledge. However, this issue is already the subject of another discussion44.
282
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Marko Juvan, Ideologije primerjalne književnosti: perspektive metropol in
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4
David Damrosch, 2003, 8; John Pizer, 2000, 216; Pascale Casanova, La
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5
Johann W. Goethe, 1973, 5. Later, too, it often turned out that ambitious, cosmopolitan writers from peripheral literatures (James Joyce, Derek Walcott, or
Tomaž Šalamun) were more strongly inclined toward global imagination than
those from metropolises (David Damrosch, 2003, 13).
6
Joep Leerssen, Nationalism and the Cultivation of Culture, in: Nations and
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7
Johann W. Goethe, 1974, 458.
8
Hans-Joachim Schulz & Philipp H. Rhein, 1973, 3.
9
John Pizer, 2000, 218.
10
John Pizer, Ibid., 214; Marko Juvan, 2008, 72–77.
11
David Damrosch, 2003, 15.
12
��
See: Dionýz Ďurišin, Theory of Literary Comparatistics, Bratislava: Veda,
1984, 79–90; Dionýz Ďurišin, Théorie du processus interlittéraire I, Bratislava: Ústav svetovej literatúry SAV, 1995, 11–37, 45, 51–54; David Damrosch,
2003, 4–6, 14–24; Marián Gálik, Concepts of World Literature, Comparative
Literature, and a Proposal, in: CLCWeb, 2000, 2.4: <http://docs.lib.purdue.
edu/clcweb/vol2/iss4/8>; Pavol Koprda, La mondialité de la littérature chez
Dionyz Ďurišin, in: Medziliterárny proces IV, Nitra: Univerzita Konštantína
filozofa, 2003, 251–265.
13
John Pizer, 2000, 213–214; Pier Paolo Frassinelli & David Watson, World
Literature: A Receding Horizon, in: Pier Paolo Frassinelli, Ronit Frenkel &
David Watson, eds., Traversing Transnationalism: The Horizons of Literary
and Cultural Studies, Amsterdam: Rodopi (in press), 1–19.
1
283
��
See, e.g., Pascale Casanova, 1999, 27.
Johann W. Goethe, 1973, 7–8. See Bernd Mahl, Goethes ökonomisches Wissen: Grundlagen zum Verständnis der ökonomischen Passagen im dichterischen Gesamtwerk und in den “Amtlichen Schriften”, Frankfurt am Main: P. Lang,
1982.
16
Karl Marx & Friedrich Engels, Manifesto of the Communist Party, New
York: Cosimo Classics, 2006, 45–46.
17
Ginette Verstraete, Tourism and the Global Itinerary of an Idea, in: Ginette
Verstraete & Tim Cresswell, eds., Thamyris/Intersecting 9 = Mobilizing Place,
Placing Mobility: The Politics of Representation in a Globalized World. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002, 33–52; David Damrosch, 2003, 39–77; Peter V.
Zima, Komparatistik: Einführung in die Vergleichende Literaturwissenschaft,
Tübingen: Francke, 1992, 211–213.
18
Bruno Latour, Ces résaux que la raison ignore – laboratoires, bibliothèques,
collections, in: Marc Baratin & Christian Jacob, eds., La pouvoir des
bibliothèques: La mémoire des livres dan la culture occidentale, Paris: Albin
Michel, 1996, 23–46; Nicholas Dew, The Order of Oriental Knowledge: The
Making of D’Herbelot’s Bibliothèque Orientale, in: Christopher Prendergast,
ed., Debating World Literature, London: Verso, 2004, 233–252.
19
Roland Robertson, Comments on the “Global Triad” and “Glocalization”,
in: N. Inoue, ed., Globalization and Indigenous Culture, Tokyo: Kokugakuin
University, 1997, 217–225.
20
Marko Juvan, 2008, 64–77.
21
Siegfried J. Schmidt, Die Selbstorganisation des Sozialsystems Literatur im
18. Jahrhundert, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1989, 282–283; see also Pascale Casanova, 1999, 148–152, 260–265.
22
Pierre Bourdieu, The Rules of Art: Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field,
trans. Susan Emanuel, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996, 20–21,
48–68, 81–85. Bourdieu is actually discussing the radicalization of this situation in the second half of the nineteenth century.
23
Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and
Spread of Nationalism, Revised edn. London, New York: Verso, 1998.
24
David Damrosch, 2003, 6.
25
Pascale Casanova, 1999, 56–59.
26
France Prešeren, Zbrano delo, vol. 1, ed. Janko Kos, Ljubljana: DZS, 1965,
111–112.
27
Pierre Bourdieu, 1996, 20–21, 48–85.
28
Itamar Even-Zohar, Culture Planning, Cohesion, and the Making and Maintenance of Entities, in: Anthony Pym, Miriam Shlesinger & Daniel Simeoni,
eds., Beyond Descriptive Translation Studies: Investigations in Homage to
Gideon Toury, Amsterdam & Philadelphia: John Benjamins, 2008, 277–292.
29
César Domínguez, Literary Emergence as a Case Study of Theory in Comparative Literature, in: CLCWeb, 2006, 8.2: <http://docs.lib.purdue.edu/clcweb/vol8/iss2/1> [21 Sept. 2009].
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Immanuel Wallerstein, Geopolitics and Geoculture: Essays on the Chang14
15
284
33
31
32
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
ing World-System, Cambridge University Press, 1991, 139–156, 184–199; Immanuel Wallerstein, The Modern World System, in: The Modern World System: Capitalist Agriculture and the Origins of the European World-Economy in
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Duke University Press, 2004, ix–xii, 23–75.
Pascale Casanova, 1999, 119–178.
David Damrosch, 2003, 4–6.
Franco Moretti, Conjectures on World Literature, in: New Left Review 2000,
1, 54–68.
Franco Moretti, More Conjectures, in: New Left Review 2003, 20, 73–81: 75–
77; Itamar Even-Zohar, Polysystem Studies, in: Poetics Today, 1990, 11.1, 59,
79.
Franco Moretti, 2000, 58–60; 2003, 78–79.
Marko Juvan, History and Poetics of Intertextuality, West Lafayette, Purdue
University Press, 2008, esp. pp. 54–69.
Franco Moretti, 2003, 75–77. Even-Zohar (Polysystem Studies, 65) speaks
of the “incubation” period that is necessary for the interference of a peripheral
literature into a central one.
Pascale Casanova, 1999, 28–32, 63–64. – For a similar observation see Itamar Even-Zohar, 1990, 59.
Dionýz Ďurišin, 1995, 21–24, 48–51.
Miran Košuta, Alamut: roman – metafora, in: Vladimir Bartol, Alamut, Ljubljana: Mladinska knjiga 1988, 551–597: 554; Miran Košuta, Usoda zmaja:
ob svetovnem uspehu Bartolovega Alamuta, in: Jezik in slovstvo, 1991, 36.3,
56–61.
Paul Van Tieghem, La littérature comparée, Paris: Librairie Armand Colin,
1931, 16.
Dionýz Ďurišin, 1995; Franco Moretti, 2000, 56–57.
Zoran Milutinović, Jasno opredeljen pojav in enotna perspektiva: ali je zgodovina svetovne književnosti možna?, trans. Seta Knop, in: Darko Dolinar &
Marko Juvan, eds., Primerjalna književnost v 20. stoletju in Anton Ocvirk, Ljubljana: Založba ZRC, 2008, 223–238: 236–237.
Marko Juvan, 2008, 80–86.
285
The Urban Landscape in
Macedonian Literature in the
Context of the Centre / Periphery
Discussion
Miesto peizažas Makedonijos
literatūroje centro / periferijos
diskusijos kontekste
Sonja STOJMENSKA-ELZESER
Institute of Macedonian Literature
Ss. Cyril and Methodius University
Grigor Prlicev 5, p.o.b. 455
1 000 Skopje, R. Macedonia
[email protected]
Summary
Skopje – the capital of the small Balcan country Macedonia, is very often an
urban scene for the literary works written by Macedonian writers. How do they
see the city of their own? Do they feel it as an European urban space? Skopje
from the memories (before the catastrophy of the earhquake in 1963) is conserved
in the literature with intimate and nostalgic aura. But the contemporary city is a
field for a lot of transformations reflected in the literary works nowadays. Skopje
can be discussed in comparison with European cultural centres in the context of
the opposition centre-periphery. The paper is a kind of summary from one “literary walk” through Skopje on the coordinates given in the contemporary novel The
Snow in Casablanca by Kica B. Kolbe. In a way it refers to the tradition of modernist flâneri and also to the postmodern treatmen of the city in the works of art
(Walter Benjamin, Michel de Certeau, Chris Jenks etc.).
Key words: Macedonian literature, Skopje, urban landscape, centre-periphery
discussion.
In the last decades in humanities the opposition centre/periphery was
very much explored and discussed. It is rather provocative to rethink the
literature and culture through the prism of spatial, even geographic terms.
What is central and what is peripheral, what is local and what is global,
what is European and what is non-European, what is Western and what
is Eastern in the culture, and in its frames in literature? Both writers and
thinkers have been preoccupied with these questions, which provoked
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them to analyze and create their own visions of such spatial distinctions.
After projects such as geophilosophy, psychogeography and geopoetics it
is clear enough that culture is very strongly connected with space (location, place), almost the same or even more, as it is with a certain historical moment, with the time itself (finally, they always work together, as it
is emphasized in the Bakhtinian concept of xronotop). The great role of
geography and geometry in the understanding of literary processes and
works is strongly emphasized in the maps of Franco Moretti (2005) who
has shown how creative the rethinking of literature can be with categories
of space and location.
Centre/periphery opposition as a spatial category is explicitly characteristic of urbanization, of making order in space and its organization.
That is why it is dominant in the rethinking of urban culture, although
the phenomena of the city has been researched by almost all disciplines:
first of all, by sociology, then by history and politics, architecture, geography and tourism, etc. Polis, urbs, civis, city – that is not only the place
where we live, not only houses surrounded with city-walls, but the idea of
how we live and how we wish and could live. The dignity of the city was
decreased by the rural utopia of rusoism in the eighteen century when it
started to be considered as a place of crime and evil. The city was thought
to be created by the devil, and on the contrary, the country was given birth
to by God. In the period of Enlightenment, the main focus was on the ethnic dimension of urbanity. Modernism made urbanity the main stage of art
works - novels, stories, films and many other pieces of art. “The city is a
state of mind”, wrote Robert Park, leader of the Chicago school of urban
sociology, in 19151. This observation is a strong argument for the meaning
and influence that the city life has on identity, psychology, and creation.
The relation between cities and art always vibrates between the reality
and fiction. The city in artistic works is never the same as it is in reality.
It is always fictional, the result of complex imagination, the mixture of
private and collective memory, something learnt, something experienced,
something conscious and something unconscious… In literature, there
have always been excellent stories, novels, poems devoted to particular
cities, known or unknown in reality, imagined (and even invisible in the
manner of Italo Calvino).
When we speak about the relation between the city and literature we
cannot omit the impressive modernist figure of flâneur, or in German
wandersmänner (as it is known from the influential work by Michel de
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Certeau) which is a great metaphor of the closeness between the individual and his urban surroundings. It is the personification of urbanity
itself and has survived through literary works for a long time. At the end
of the nineteenth century it was a very popular literary character. The term
comes from Walter Benjamin’s analyses of Charles Baudelaire’s poetry.
This figure is a kind of stroller who walks on foot through urban landscapes and undergoes mysterious experiences in it, mainly produced by
visual effects. His walks are without particular motivations, and they usually turn into adventures and bring him aesthetic or erotic pleasures. First,
flânery was strictly connected with Paris from the period of the nineteenth
century and flâneur was walking in the novels written by the authors of
High Modernism. This figure was also present in the paintings from that
period. Later, this kind of creative city experience was modified, but remained one of the most productive strategy of prose writings. Following
influential essays by Walter Benjamin, Chris Jenks, Michel de Certeau
and others, this figure of flâneur became a metaphor and methodological
tool for analyzing urban culture.
In literary studies, this figure is still a creative principle and has a great
role in the researches of the modern novel. The novel itself is compared
with the city, so the process of reading can be thought of as a kind of flânery. It is also obvious that the strategy of description is very compatible
with the flânery, that is why we find such narration in many contemporary
novels.
Our interest in this paper is to see how some echoes of this literary
figure function in prose writings in Macedonia, how the urban landscape
is described in Macedonian prose and how it is turned into a process of
identification. For these purposes we focus our attention on one recent
Macedonian novel, the novel The snow in Casablanca by Kica B. Kolbe,
published in 2005. In a way, this novel is a very interesting continuation
of the tradition of modernist flânery, but its main preoccupation is exactly
through those promenades and city walks of the main character (a young
woman Dina Asprova) to build her complex identity crucified between
the experience of European cities and the experience of her native town
Skopje. Long walks in her town evoke her memories of her childhood and
youth and help her find a spiritual harmony. The first element that separates this novel from the modernistic tradition is the ordinary fact that the
narrator of the story who walks through her place of birth is a woman. The
modernist flâneur was generally a man. In modernist literature the city
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was seen through man’s eyes. In this example, we can see the city of Skopje through women’s eyes, and that is may be the reason why the feeling
of the city in this novel is deeply connected with a love story. It is interesting that in this novel promenades, city walks (not only in her own town
of birth, but in the major European cities) are main chains of the subject.
Young intellectual Dina who temporarily lives in Florence (and works in
Ufficci gallery) is forced to come back to her town of birth Skopje to take
care of her empty family apartment. She has left her town for more than
ten years and lived for a while in Rome, Paris, Prague, and finally, in Florence. This is the key counterpoint of the novel: European urban centres
versus Skopje. This is how Dina Asprova describes Florence:
Believe me, in the last ten years I’ve lived in all the beautiful cities in Western
Europe, but none of them is like this unearthly pearl. Florence is not just a
city. It is embodied artistic vision...2
On the other hand, her native Skopje is “behind the back of Europe” ,
as she says:
For me, Skopje was always far from Europe and the world, it was always provincial and narrow that strangles me [...]. I must escape from this spirit of narrowness. Here. From this suburb of Europe. Macedonia. I dream of Europe!3
The novel The Snow in Casablanca is based on ironic discourse which
can be recognised in the ludic toponimia: Dina Asprova creates her virtual
biography in which her country Macedonia is named Casablanca and her
town Skopje is named Justiniana. That is irony towards the position of the
Macedonian state and people in the contemporary world:
... the picture of Casablanca is created by weakness, due to constant defeats in
my conquest of the West Europe. We were not a province in that time, when
we recited Rimbaud on the edge of the river Vardar. We are province now! If
we are province, then let us be a true one. With style! Exotic. That’s why I
figured all that stuff: Casablanca, Justinijana, Balkanija. Codes of powerlessness!4
The urban landscape in this novel is a mode of finding and building
the identity of the main character (and of the authoress herself). Walking
through the cities is the most common form of narration. Dina Asprova
walks in museums of European centres in their famous places and feels
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herself as a spiritual relative to all the precious icons of the European
culture: her closest spiritual relatives are Frantishek (France Kafka) from
Prague, Proust, Musil, Mann, Beckett, Dostojevsky and all the great writers of the European tradition whose creations are her own spiritual treasure. They all build her complex identity which struggles the stigma of not
being accepted and not being recognised:
I told myself that it shouldn’t bother me that those famous ancestors in Western Europe don’t consider me for their relative ... Anyway, I am sure that I
didn’t go into the heart of Europe by chance. One day, even those invisible
spiritual ancestors in the eternity will have to understand and accept that their
European spirit has always lived in my heart.5
The European spirit on the one hand, and the native town and native
country with all its dirt, dust, provinciality, and all the backwardness on
the other, are in struggle in the character of Dina. But what happens when
she turns back to her ugly town? (She admits that her city is not beautiful, it is beautiful only when covered with snow, as it is during the almost
whole period of the novel, mainly because of the metaphoric role of the
snow.) From the corners of the city come flooding back her memories of
the happy childhood and especially of the love of her life which unfortunately lasted only one night. The young painter whom she fell in love with
left Skopje the day after their meeting. But it seems that he was her destiny. In her walks through Skopje on one of the most beautiful streets of the
town she recognises the house that she walked past very often as a child
to enjoy the music played by one mysterious woman. The love is found
again after many years, and it is symbolised by the nice stylish house,
the home that she finds with her beloved man, his old dying mother, her
friends from the youth etc.
It happens that her life, which was concentrated on the European art
and culture, museums and theatres, walks through the streets of the most
beautiful European cities, suddenly gets a new centre – she finally finds
her own home in which all the values that are considered to be European
for her can harmonise with her intimate life. In such an outcome the terms
like European spirit and home get together, and the oppositions get lost.
But Europe makes fun of our yearning for world culture! She herself has
forgotten this yearning long time ago. That’s why she is cynical towards us!
She wants to squeeze out our vital liquids, even the last drops, that keep us
alive. Do you know how painful it is to wish one’s whole life to go to live in
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the land of Proust, to live a year in Paris, to be foreigner there and everybody
to look at you as at an ox with three heads when you pronounce the name of
Proust? Because they all believe that you are the Barbarian from the Balkans
to whom they have to make a primat, to teach you to read and write! But you
go there to tell them that even when you were fifteen, when you were sitting
by the waters and smells of the river Vardar you also enjoyed the aroma of
the Proust’s linden tea. You will tell them passionately that we, Nora and I,
your students, recited Rimbaud and Mallarme all the nights standing on Stone
Bridge! We, the dreamers of the world culture. ... I was not taught to love
Proust by any non-governmental organisation or any old European Foundation during my wanderings through the European wasteland! You are the one
who taught me that love, here, in Skopje, the town about which in Paris they
asked me whether it is a suburb of Istanbul or of Tirana? …Europeans, they
will never believe me that my father has taught me that admiration for world
culture before Europe came to Macedonia and made big mess from our lives.
They want to believe that we have always been barbarians because if they
don’t believe it, then their truths about Macedonia will be false. And they are
lies. Europe doesn’t know Macedonia. We are a secret for her, because she is
an arrogant ignoramus...6
In these words you can feel the stigma of the Macedonian intellectual
who has always considered herself as a part of one European spiritual
community, but formally is not accepted in it. This double standard for
what is and what is not European tradition bothers the young writer. The
problem of the location of the European culture through the spatial terms
contribute to its rethinking as much more complex phenomena than just a
simple characteristic of one of the world’s continents. Are the geographic
points or geopolitical tendencies the only arbiters of what is or what is not
part of the European cultural heritage?
The new European imagination is crucified between two tendencies:
to connect all the different streams in one common identity based on the
common memory and creativity, and, at the same time, to take care about
the specificity and uniqueness of all the different identities in its frames.
The idea of unity in diversity is very positive, creative and potential, but
it is still very far away from its practice. What is the correct balance between the unity and the diversity, unfortunately, is still impossible to say.
The opposition centre / periphery comes from various spheres: geographical, political, economic etc., but if we want to summarize, we can say in
aother words: power, money, greatness in terms of quantity make the picture of the world. But the stigma of being peripheral is not characteristic
only of poor, weak, or “small” peoples and cultures. The richest regions
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of Europe (in its North) have the same problem with the complex of being
peripheral.
We must also have in mind that throughout history the points of cultural radiation, or positions of cultural centres were changeable. Even the
Balkans, that “barbarian” periphery of Europe was centre of cultural radiation in particular historic circumstances. So, the question what is/are
the centre (or centres) and what is/are the periphery/peripheries of culture
is still open. Culture itself, creation itself, art itself in harmony with her
intimate life is the real centre for the young woman in the novel we talk
about. She asks herself:
Maybe it’s wrong that I look for the answer to my secret of creativity in the
famous cities of Western Europe. David and his colleagues play Mozart in
Skopje, and in this moment here is the heart of Europe.7
The European heart is something common for the people of art, music,
literature, culture, wherever they are on the globe – maybe this concept
could be a solution to overcoming the stigma of being peripheral, marginal, provincial.
That is why in this paper we tried to question the meaning of opposition centre / periphery in culture with the illustration of only one contemporary novel from Macedonian literature in which urban landscape is
dominant. There are also other titles in which we can find the same preoccupation with this problem, because most provocative issues in Macedonia nowadays is membership in European Union. It produces various
images of Europe, and in popular culture we can find a really wide spectrum of feelings and attitudes towards EU, from extreme euro-fascination
to complete euro-phobia. In the novel The Snow in Casablanca by Kica.
B. Kolbe this ambiguity can be felt, but mainly this story argues that the
way to overcome those contradictions is to find one’s own identity which
doesn’t stand to be thrown by force on geographic pieces and different
sides of the world. In the novel Dina Asprova says: “I live over the all
geographic determinants”8. Therefore, this novel shows us that identity
is built up somewhere between, (in this particular case, between different
geographic places in Europe and different cultural backgrounds) and is always a kind of mixture, a kind of cultural and experiential compendium.
292
References
1
2
5
6
7
8
3
4
The city: Suggestions for the investigation of human behavior in the urban environment, in: R. E. Park, E. W. Burgess, and R. McKenzie. The city. Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1967, 1.
Kolbe, Kica B.: The Snow in Casablanca, Skopje: Tri (Колбе, Кица Б. Снегот
во Казабланка, Скопје, Три), 2005, 7.
Ibid, 124, 169.
Ibid, 251.
Ibid, 113.
Ibid, 313.
Ibid, 322.
Ibid, 109.
Literature
Walter Benjamin,
�� Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism, NBL 1977. 1935 = “Paris – the Capital of the Nineteenth Century,” 1938
= “The Paris of the Second Empire.”
Michel de Certeau, Walking in the city, in The Practice of Everyday Life, Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1984.
Franco Moretti, Graphs, Maps, Trees, London, N.Y, Verso, 2005.
Chris Jenks, Watching your Step: The History and Practice of the Flaneur, in:
Visual Culture. Ed. Chris Jenks. NY: Routledge, 1995.
Chris Jenks (ed.) Urban Culture: Critical Concepts in Literary and Cultural Studies. NY: Routledge, 2004.
Raymond Williams, The Country and the City, London, Chatto and Windus, 1973.
Reprinted, London, Hogarth Press, 1985.
293
The Borderline Situation and the
Border Crossings in the Baltic Prose
at the Turn of the 90’s
Pasienis ir sienos kirtimas Baltijos
šalių prozoje įžengiant į paskutinį
XX a. dešimtmetį
Zanda GŪTMANE
Liepaja University, Latvia
Liela St. 14, LV-3401, Liepaja
[email protected]
Summary
The article deals with the reflective, essay-type and bold prose in Latvian,
Lithuanian, and Estonian literature of post-communist period which tends to go
beyond all the borderlines marked in the literature of the Soviet period. The philosophically reflective prose helps us realise the Soviet / post-Soviet individual’s
identity problems and is one of the catalysts of the political changes in the Baltic
states at the turn of the 90’s. I have selected three novels from this prose tendency
which can be described as novels of liminality and which have become like the
border phenomena in their national literary contexts. They are the novels by the
Lithuanian author Ričardas Gavelis: The Poker in Vilnius (Vilniaus pokeris, 1989),
Latvian author Aivars Tarvids: Transgressor (Robežpārkāpējs, 1990), and Estonian writer Tõnu Õnnepalu (pen-name Emil Tode): Border State (Piiririik, 1993).
The novels’ protagonists can be called the borderline situation heroes. According
to Bildungsnovel tradition they are outsiders who dissent from the surrounding
world. I have characterized the novels of liminality from the point of view of
post-colonial criticism because this kind of novel is a typical post-colonial prose
variety. I have concluded that the mentioned prose texts of Baltic literature show
this process of colonisation as a cultural bomb (using the theoretician of postcolonialism Wa Thiong’o Ngugi’s concept) and a consequence of colonisation as
colonisation of the mind or the captive mind (using Czeslaw Milosz’s concept).
All these three novels of the Baltic authors reveal us the Soviet/post-Soviet human
being’s unenviable condition at the end of the 20th century. The protagonists of the
novels try to get free from the mind colonization, to break the disturbing physical
and mental borders. They start their way to freedom but do not get free. Their development or Bildung is not possible, for they are real border situation figures. The
mentioned novels of liminality uncover the fact that although the national border
has formally been abolished, the mental border still exists.
294
Key words: novel of liminality, pos-tcommunist literary studies, post-colonial
studies, cultural bomb, colonization of the mind, national border, mental border.
A new paradigm in Baltic literature was formed only at the beginning
of its Third Awakening. The end of the 80’s and the beginning of the 90’s
is the time when the Baltic States regain their independence, and it is also
the borderline in the literature of these countries.
The prose that appeared during that time is a witness of the political
liminality situation: it reflects the society’s mood and model of behaviour,
life during the Soviet system’s decline and the first years of independence;
thus life in the interspaces of two essentially different systems. It is interesting that the very events (the singing revolution, rapid political collisions, euphoria of the restoration of independence) are hardly reflected in
the prose. The tendencies of writing back and re-writing are present in the
prose a lot more. Here there is a turn to the distant and quite recent past:
firstly, it is an explosive and quantitative upsurge of the memoirs literature
where the experience of the withheld and tragic repressions is revealed.
This experience is rendered in a simple, traditional realistic form, but in
most cases these texts have a documentary narrative style. Secondly, there
appears a reflective, essay-type prose where attention is paid to the Soviet/
post-Soviet individual’s identity issues, the conditions of identity formation, creation and changes.
In both cases the narratives are directed backwards, in both cases the
borderlines drawn by the Soviet regime are trespassed: history is re-written through an individual’s prism, life stories, which were forbidden and
withheld before, are being told now, a traumatic experience is shown. In
both cases the literary text is one of the catalysts of the political changes:
an awareness of the tragic experience is psychologically necessary for
the nation’s further development. However, the philosophically reflective prose helps us understand identity problems. I would like to focus
just on this part of prose - the reflective, essay-type bold prose which
tends to go beyond all the borderlines mentioned before. At the turn of the
80’s/90’s, in Estonia there appears the so called “new, bold literature” Its
representatives are Mati Unt, Viivi Luik, Tõnu Õnnepaly (pen-name Emil
Tode), the writers Jurgis Kunčinas, Jurga Ivanauskaitė, Ričardas Gavelis
in Lithuania, and the “angry girls” Andra Neiburga, Rudīte Kalpiņa, Gundega Repše in Latvia, as well as the writer and publicist Aivars Tarvids
295
whose work has remained as the unprecedented case in the history of
Latvian literature,.
In this prose I would like to single out three novels which can be described as novels of liminality, and which have become as if the border
phenomena in its national literary context. They are the novels by the
Lithuanian author Gavelis: The Poker in Vilnius (Vilniaus pokeris, 1989),
Latvian author Tarvids: Transgressor (Robežpārkāpējs, 1990)) and Estonian writer Tode: Border State (Piiririik, 1993).
When Tarvids’ novel was published, it was an event in Latvian culture.
However, in comparison with the Lithuanian and Estonian provocative
pieces of work, which more or less have managed to overcome the national hermetic thinking, the Transgressor has not produced an international
echo. Its main reason is the novel’s abutment with journalism, placards
and schématisme. In Latvian literature, Tarvids’ novel sums up and closes
the wave of the new, angry and the so called black prose, but it becomes
an unconnected phenomenon till the mid 90’s 1 and even the beginning of
the new millennium, when Latvian writers turn to identity issues and reassessment of the recent past. Gavelis is called the foremost literary chronicler of the pos-tcolonial condition in Lithuania, and now Tode is traditionally considered to be the discoverer of the post- colonial situation. Unlike
the novels of Tarvid’s Lithuanian and Estonian colleagues, his work has
not been assessed from the point of view of post-colonial criticism.
Despite the fact that post-colonial studies are traditionally devoted to
the research of the consequences of European colonization, the term “Baltic post-colonialism” has gained more weight and became more popular,
and it is believed that “it is possible and fruitful to extend the boundaries
of the post-colonial studies’ paradigm to cover the literatures of post-communist countries. This would help elaborate on a general comparative
framework for post-communist literary studies”2. In the context of Baltic
prose it is possible to notice a productive approach to post-colonialism,
therefore more philosophical meaning denoting a space or position beyond colonialism is yet inextricably linked to it.3
In the present paper I will analyse the three novels as novels of liminality4, which is a typical variety of post-colonial prose, and look at these
novels as modifications of the traditional Bildungsnovel. The novels’ protagonists can be called the borderline situation heroes, for they are trying
to escape the so-called colonization of the mind or “the captive mind”,
as Czesław Miłosz called it in his essay The Captive Mind (Zniewolony
296
umysł , 19535). The mind is colonized by means of education and culture,
the colonized ones are gradually integrated into the Other - culture and
history of the colonizers, they acquire their language and assume their
identity as well as mentality.
The primary aim of Gavelis, Tarvids and Tode novels’ protagonists is
to get free from the mind colonization, to break the disturbing physical
and mental borders.
Gavelis’ structurally complicated novel The Poker in Vilnius is permeated with the depressive mood which is the cause of the awakening. The
novel shows the intellectual’s tragic situation in the Soviet system, reveals
his striving for mental freedom in the space of captivity. In Gavelis’ novel
there is a strong opposition against representatives of totalitarian regime
(who are called They in the novel) and victims of the mind colonization
(in the novel they are called homo sovieticus and homo lithuanicus). One
of the narrators Vytautas Vargalis does not include himself into the latter
group, therefore he fosters illusions about the possibility of mental nonconformity. He becomes an inner exile. However, this opposition does
not come into life in the surrounding world. By resisting the totalitarian
regime for a long time (which in the novel is impersonated in Their image), the individual also gradually destroys his own system of values. The
individual I becomes Their victim. The novel illustrates the Georgian philosopher Merab Mamardashvili’s idea that it is not possible to work and
think through the looking glass or inside the absurd world, it is important
to get out of it.6
The attempts of “getting out” are shown in Tarvids’ novel. The protagonist of Tarvids’ novel is a depressed Soviet doctor who leaves Latvia,
tries to escape from his past, and looks to the future which is full of hope.
The narrative is woven from the hero’s reflections about the recent past
in the Soviet space and his future possibilities. The hero of Tarvids’ novel
looks at the whole society with cynicism and treats both the Soviet officials and members of the singing revolution in a sarcastic way. He is
aware that the nation of today will be inappropriate for the future. He
rejects the past and does not believe in the future. Neither he has any illusions about his own life. Here Gavelis’ term is appropriate to characterize
Tarvids’ hero who is a real homo sovieticus, and he is well aware of it.
Tarvids’ hero represents an individual whose mind is fully distorted, and
which the theoretician Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o calls “the cultural bomb: “The
aim of the cultural bomb is to shatter people’s belief in their names, in
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their languages, in their environment, in their heritage of struggle, in their
unity, in their capacities and ultimately, in themselves. It makes them see
their past as one wasteland of non-achievement, and it makes them want
to distance themselves from the wasteland.”7
The hero of Tarvids’ novel is on the way, thus he lives in uncertainty,
in the inter-space between the past and the future, between two different
systems. Being on the way marks a borderline which has to be crossed
not only physically but also mentally. Neither staying in his country, nor
emigration can eliminate the border. As the hero admits, the border is
high and inviolable, it is nearly as absolutely safe as the distant wall ( the
Berlin Wall8 is meant). In the novel, the trespasser’s ideal of freedom that
he has dreamt about breaks as a soap bubble. The hero is well aware that
the limiting cage of his personal freedom is not only the frame imposed
on him by the system, but also the construction that has been rooted in the
mind. Tarvids breaks the illusion that the change of the place can automatically solve problems of the individual crippled during the Soviet regime.
What Gavelis’ and Tarvids’ novels share is first of all the fact that
the heroes’ reflections have a strong destructive effect. Nihilism, anger,
even aggression having been suppressed for a long time, are directed
against the system where people were forced to live during the Soviet regime. This negative pathos in literature is also reflective of socio-political
changes of the time, and it proves that at the end of 80’s and the beginning
of 90’s the Baltic states were under a social explosion. The second feature
common to both novels is the choice of lexicon which reveals cynically
a distorted world. It is possible to notice a maximal language profanity
in the heroes’ expressions and stream of consciousness, there is a lot of
speech simplicity, russifications, and slang. In order to depict the things
and phenomena, concentrated dark colours are mainly used, metaphors
and comparisons are chosen to reinforce the idea of decay, and everything
that is physiological and extremely profane is emphasized. Due to the language of homo sovieticus, the distortion of one’s own language, gradual
acceptance of Other languages and depreciation of values are revealed.
The literary critic Guntis Berelis admits that in a certain way the Transgressor is a unique work in Latvian literature, for “the language existence
in a real situation” is shown in it, “the ideological slang” 9 formed by the
socialist system. Tarvids’ novel exceeds the borders of the previous literary traditions not only because of its openness, but also because of the
language usage.
298
Other methods of narrative are used in the Estonian writer’s Tode’s
novel Border State which is characterized by laconicism, clear forms, and
the choice of homogeneous narrative methods. In comparison with Gavelis’ and Tarvids’ work, Tode’s novel is much more poetic and there is
no profanity here. Despite the different narrative, Tode’s novel merges
into the mentioned threesome, for the feelings which appear after the border crossing and loss of the fatherland, are revealed strongly here. Tode’s
hero is basically a cosmopolitan traveller, an individual who considers the
change of domicile as a way of his inner problems’ solution.
His reflections about the recent past and present feelings reveal precisely
the Eastern European human being’s complicated self-awareness at the end
of the 20th century. The narrator’s psychological discomfort and his sharpened identity crisis reflect real complexes of the post-soviet society trying to
integrate into the European space. Like thousands of people, the hero feels a
strange nostalgia which is full of dislike for the lost fatherland, and is forced
to admit that he is an alien to the Old Europe. Although the national border
has formally been abolished, the mental border still exists.
The novel conveys the ambivalent feelings – hopes, sorrow, incredulity, nostalgia - of a person who has left his fatherland, which resembles
balancing on the border and searching for balance. It is an everlasting
hope to see the border, where the real world has to begin10, and an inevitable disappointment when it is not there.
Conclusions
All three novels of the Baltic authors reveal us the post-Soviet human
being’s unenviable condition at the end of the 20th century: wherever his
choice is, this human being feels fatally stamped. He lost his ability of a
positive approach, is insecure and tense inwardly. As in the tradition of
Bildungsnovel, the protagonists of the novels are outsiders who dissent
from the surrounding world. They start the initiation, but do not complete
it, for they are real border situation figures. Their identity is unstable and
flowing; split, self-destructive They think in black-and-white and are subjugated to fast changes of mood and sudden impulses. The protagonists’
disability to implement the initiation also confirms other researchers’ conclusion that in the post-colonial situation development is not possible, for
the hero as if gets stranded in the developmental stage and cannot get out
of it. Development is not possible because of the mind colonization, and
the mind can be set free only after several generations have passed.
299
References
Guntis Berelis, Latviešu literatūras vēsture No pirmajiem rakstiem līdz 1999.
gadam. Rīga: Zvaigzne ABC, 1999, p. 298.
2
Piret Peikerm, 2006. Post-communist literatures: A postcolonial perspective.
SA Kulturileht, Vikerkaar. Available from: www.eurozine.com/RSS/Goethe.
html ��
[Accessed 07.09.2009.].
3
Ibid.
4
Wa Nyatetu Wiagwa Wangari, The Liminal Novel: Studies in the Francophone-African Novel As Bildungsnovel. Peter Lang, 1997, 134 p.
5
Česlavs Milošs, Sagūstītais prāts. Rīga: Zvaigzne ABC, 1998, 186. lpp.
6
Merab Mamardašvili, Domātprieks. Rīga: Spektrs, 1994, 116. lpp.
7
Wa Thiong’o Ngugi, Decolonising the Mind: The Politics of Language in African Literature. London, James Currey, 1986, p. 3.
8
Aivars Tarvids, Robežpārkāpējs. Avots.1989, Nr.8, 8. lpp.
9
Berelis, 298.lpp.
10
Emīls Tode, Robežvalsts. Rīga: Preses Nams, 1995, 113. lpp.
1
300
Georgian-Lithuanian Literary
Relationships (Historical and
Philological Overview)
Gruzijos-Lietuvos literatūriniai
ryšiai (istorinė ir filologinė
apžvalga)
Nana GAPRINDASHVILI, Nino TSERETELI
Ivane Javakhishvili Tbilisi State University
Ilya Chavchavadze av.1, 0179, Tbilisi, Georgia
[email protected]
[email protected]
Summary
Georgian-Lithuanian literary relationships, which became especially strong in
the Soviet period, are an extremely interesting phenomenon. Due to the obvious
reasons, they were strongly affected by the ideology of the time with the works
of dubious literary quality being promoted and those of genuine value, concealed.
However, Soviet writers and translators managed to break the shackles of censure and export real aesthetic values. Despite territorial distance, the Georgians
and Lithuanians have much in common in terms of spirituality. Therefore, these
relationships are to be viewed as a highly positive cultural phenomenon and be
further enhanced and deepened in the light of the twenty-first century artistic and
aesthetic thought.
Key words: Georgia, Lithuania, literary relations.
It is a widely accepted view that culture entails a dialogue, and if it is
true, literary and cultural relations play an important role in the formation
of aesthetic and artistic values of the nation, dissemination of aesthetic
ideas and enrichement of culture and literature. From this viewpoint, any
mutual literary relationship is a positive factor reagardless of whether it
will be established between the related cultures or geographically and
culturally remote nations. Some evidence of Georgian-Lithuanian literary and cultural relations can be found in the distant past. For example,
in Georgian historical records the mentioning of Lithuania goes back to
the 17th century in Vakhushti Bagrationi’s historical-geographical work
Kartvel Tavadaznaurta Aghtseriloba (Description of the Georgian Nobil-
301
ity) and Grigol Bagrationi’s essay Mogzauroba Peterburgidan Vilnomde
(Traveling from Petersburg to Vilno)1, 2.
The thirties of the 19th century provide interesting material. Particularly, the diaries written by the prominent Georgian poet-romanticist Grigol
Orbeliani, where he describes the impression made on him by the Kovno
and Vilensk provinces3.
Especially noteworthy is the trip of a celebrated Georgian playwright,
Giorgi Eristavi, who came to Vilno (Vilnius) at the age of 17. There he
studied the Polish language and translated A. Mickiewicz’s poems Homeland Lithuania and The Akerman Steppe. Eristavi had Lithuanians on his
mind when he wrote: “I am deeply touched by such a warm welcome”4.
The Georgian public figure and publicist Mikheil Kipiani5 wrote the
first story devoted to the Lithuanian theme Polshis Karoli (The King of
Poland and the Hetman of Lithuania), which was published in the Georgian literary press. In the 19th century, the articles published by the Lithuanian writer and playwright Antanas Vilkutaitis aroused Lithuanians’ interest in Georgia. Antanas Vilkutaitis lived and worked in Georgia from
1891 to 1902. Of special importance is the newspaper article Georgians
and their State printed in the third issue of the Varpas in 18925.
Although Georgian-Lithuanian literary and cultural relations were episodic, they continued into the early 20th century too. In 1916, a group
of Lithuanian patriots exiled to Tbilisi by the government of the Russian Tsar, founded a musical theatre company under the leadership of
Pašakarnas. The company also had a choir conducted by I. Štarka.
Of special attention is a classic of Lithuanian literature Antanas Vienuolis-Žukauskas who started his career of a writer in Georgia. His essay
Caucasian Legends [Crimean Legends/Meetings in the Caucasus] was influenced by the impressions received in Georgia. The 1910s were marked
by the activity of Jurgis Baltrušaitis, who established close ties with the
prominent Georgian writers K. Gamsakhurdia and T. Tabidze and had a
great desire to translate The Knight in the Panther’s Skin into Lithuanian.
In 1916, the Rustaveli Academic Theatre even hosted the presentation
of his poetry, which is a clear indication of great love and respect of the
Georgian people to the personality of the author and his work.
Unfortunately, beginning around the second half of the 1930s there
is no longer any factual information concerning the Georgian-Lithuanian
relations. And only in 1937 the fourth and fifth issues of the Literaturo
Nauno published Liudas Gira’s article on Rustaveli’s work The Knight in
302
the Panther’s Skin, which could be considered as a response to the 750th
anniversary of Shota Rustaveli, solemnly celebrated in Georgia6.
The 1940s should be regarded as an important period in the history of
Lithuanian-Georgian literary relationship. It was during this toughest time
for both countries that the relations were reinforced.
Naturally, literary relations as well as all literature in the Soviet space
were under a strong ideological pressure, and the aesthetics of social realism did have a great influence on these relations. This was clearly reflected in the themes of numerous works written in the spirit of social realism
which strived to forge new characters, builders of Communism and its
leaders according to the rules similar to those followed in hagiography. In
this regard the presentation of Georgian reality appeared to be useful in
the period of Stalin’s dictatorship. A small Georgian town of Gori, where
Stalin was born, acquired an almost religious importance. It turned into
new Bethlehem which had given birth to a new Messiah. This attitude is
obvious in the eulogies of Georgian writers describing Stalin’s infancy
and childhood (G. Leonidze, D. Shengelaia and others). This approach
is further evidenced in an essay by Petras Cvirka, The Heart of Georgia7.
It contains refined literary passages on Georgia, its history and people.
However, as required by the rules of social realism, for Lithuanian writers Georgia was associated with Gori, the birthplace of Stalin. If it had
not been Stalin’s phenomenon and the rules of social realism, Gori would
have never become the heart of Georgia either for Lithuanian, or Georgian
writers.
As it was mentioned above, in the 1930-40s, Georgian-Lithuanian literary relations moved to a new stage. This was encouraged by the arrival
of the first Lithuanian delegation in Georgia in 1946. Members of this delegation were Antanas Vienuolis-Žukauskas, Juozas Paukštelis and Petras
Cvirka. Their essays dealing with Georgia demonstrate their obedience to
the main principles of social realism – “Socialist in content and national
in form”, as well as an aspiration to take a deep insight into Georgian history and culture.
Of particular note is Paukštelis’ essay The Country of Heroes and Prometheuses,8 in which he focuses on Georgia’s geopolitical situation and
its tragic history. He wrote: “The land of the freedom-loving and proud
Georgians has been a venue of struggle against foreign invaders for over
twenty-one centuries”. The author finds many similarities in the history
of Georgia and his country. Like Georgia, Lithuania throughout its ex-
303
istence has experienced disintegration, annexation, and occupation more
than once.
In the first years of the establishment of the Soviet rule in Lithuania,
a wide range of readers were absolutely ignorant of Georgia’s literature
and culture. The Tarybų Lietuva newspaper published the translation of G.
Leonidze’s two poems. The translator was Juozas Krūminas and preface
writer - Jonas Šimkus9.
In 1914, the whole second issue of the Raštai magazine was dedicated to Georgian literature. The same magazine published fragments of
The Knight in the Panther Skin in Lithuanian. The translation made by J.
Krūminas was based on the word-for-word translation by Balmont. Also
noteworthy is the translation of Akaki Tsereteli’s popular poem Suliko, Titsian Tabidze’s Poems Write Me and Okrokana, translated by Krūminas10.
The third issue of Raštai included the translation of fragments of Gvadi Bigva written by a Georgian writer L. Kiacheli (translator Kirsh)11. This
is a classic example of Georgian socialist literature, which describes the
communist transformation of people’s mentality in a Georgian village.
Perhaps it should be also mentioned that despite the dominance of the
aesthetics of social realism, Georgian and Lithuanian writers succeeded
in sharing and exchanging genuine artistic and aesthetic values. For example, the Pergalė magazine responded to the 100th anniversary of the
prominent Georgian romantic poet N. Baratashvili’s death and printed
Lithuanian translations of his poems To My Star and Sky-Blue12.
In the second half of the 1950s, natural changes relating to the disclosure of the personality cult were followed by the changes of the cultural
atmosphere. The time came known as the ‘thaw’ period during which the
Soviet censorship policy relented and gave more freedom to cultural activity. Loud words about the leaders, Communism, and loyalty to Communist aspirations disappeared from periodicals, and it seemed that the
tight restrictions of social realism loosened. Yet, this was the period of
partial thawing rather than that of giving absolute creative freedom. The
party and the Soviet authorities still discouraged some writers’ deep interest in their homeland, national culture, language, and history and continued to object these fully logical and natural aspirations considering them
as a serious drawback if not a crime on the part of the “people building
Communism”.
In the 1950s there was not a single date important for Georgian literature that the Lithuanian press did not feature: a Georgian art festival
304
in Moscow in 1958 (Aleksas Baltrūnas), the 250th anniversary of David
Guramishvili, articles dedicated to the 120th, 125th and later 150th anniversaries of Ilia Chavchavadze (Antanas Venclova, Marija Macijauskienė and
Vida Gudonienė). Antanas Venclova is the first translator of N. Baratashvili, a classic of Georgian poetry. Lithuanian writers and literary critics
tried not only to shed light and evaluate separate facts and events in Georgian literature, but also to draw typological parallels with similar Lithuanian literary phenomena. For example, national liberation movements
were pursued simultaneously in Lithuania and Georgia. In his article Immortal Forever, Kostas Korsakas13 noted an obvious affinity between Ilia
Chavchavadze and Jonas Basanavičius in terms of their contribution and
service to their nations. Ilia Chavchavadze did the same for the Georgians
as Jonas Basanavičius for the Lithuanians.
Periodicals, such as the Pergalė magazine, the Kauno tiesa newspaper,
and the Literatūra ir menas newspaper, made a substantial contribution
to the Georgian-Lithuanian literary relations. For example, Literatūra ir
menas showed a keen interest in the translation of Georgian works into
Lithuanian and other related issues. Namely, it published Z.Serapinis’ review of the translation of G. Tsereteli’s First Step into Lithuanian (5 January, 1956)14 and the Lithuanian translation of A. Kazbegi’s selected works
performed by K. Biržaz15.
In the 1960s Lithuania and Georgia became more interested in their respective literatures. It was in this period that profound changes took place
in the relations as Georgian and Lithuanian writers got seriously interested
in each other’s literary and aesthetic achievements and became involved
in the exchange of cultural values. The relationship reached its peak in the
1970-80s when several important aspects were outlined:
i) the use of Georgian themes by Lithuanian writers and vice versa,
the treatment of Lithuanian themes in Georgian literature;
ii) Georgian-Lithuanian translating relations;
iii) scholarly study of Georgian-Lithuanian literary relations.
Beginning from the 1960s, the Georgian periodicals regularly printed
poetic works by Eduardas Mieželaitis, Salomėja Nėris, Antanas Venclova,
Jouzas Nekrošius and Justinas Marcinkevičius. The publication of a fivevolume edition of Georgian poets by “Vaga” Publishers in 1966 can be
viewed as a remarkable page in the history of Georgian-Lithuanian literary relations. The literary reviewer of the Literatūra ir menas newspaper
S. Geda dedicated an interesting article to this important event and provid-
305
ed biographic notes on each of the five poets (T. Tabidze, G. Leonidze, S.
Chikovani, I. Abashidze and K. Berulava)16 to the Lithuanian reader. The
same event was responded to by T.Rostovaitė’s article “Exciting, Colourful, Melodic” in the magazine Pergalė 17.
The year of 1966 was declared a jubilee year of the great Georgian
poet Shota Rustaveli, and it was not forgotten to celebrate this event in
Lithuanian literary circles. A literary evening dedicated to the 800th anniversary was held in Vilnius where Eduardas Mieželaitis made a speech18
that was later published in Georgian translation and received acclaim.
Pergalė19 and Kauno tiesa20 published articles written by both Lithuanian
(Jokūbas Skliutauskas, Sprindis) and Georgian (Sargis Tsaishvili, N. Mikava) literary critics dealing with the legacy of Shota Rustaveli. Eduardas
Mieželaitis wrote letters dedicated to Shota Rustaveli, which are marked
by a deep and careful attitude to Georgian literature and history21, 22.
In Lithuanian literature essays and short stories dealing with Georgian
themes were created in which Lithuanian writers tried to understand the
nature of the Georgians, take an insight into Georgia’s history and present
to the Lithuanians an artistic image of Georgia seen through their eyes.
Lithuanians perceived “mountains” and “vineyards” as symbols which
they associated with Georgia. A centuries-old history of Georgia was
also a subject of keen interest to the Lithuanians. Georgian reality was
also successfully reflected in travel literature. For example, a book of essays by Jokūbas Skliutauskas, The Knight from Georgia, printed in 1972
(Montisi Publishers) is the most complete collection of publicistic essays
dealing with Georgian themes23. Georgian motif is traced in the novel by
Mykolas Sluckis Journey to the Mountains and Back 24 and a miniature
novella by Bronius Bušma Georgian Sky in Žemaitia (Literatūra ir menas, 22.09.1977)25.
Beginning from the 1970s, the Lithuanian and Georgian literary critics expanded their research area. Literary seminars devoted to Georgian
and Lithuanian literatures were organised. In addition to this, a meeting of
young writers and a round table discussion were held in Tbilisi and Kaunas (1976).
It was at that time when young translators Virginia Timinskaitė, D.
Gogeshvili and Dalia Juodišienė started their creative activity. Short stories of Georgian writers G. Panjikidze, S. Ioseliani, G. Dochanashvili and
S. Aldiashvili were translated into Lithuanian, whereas short stories by
306
Petkevičius and Rimkevičius were translated from Lithuanian into Georgian.
Georgian people deeply appreciate Lithuania, its people, history, and
culture and feel a strong spiritual connectedness with the Lithuanians.
This is manifested in Georgian literature too. For example, G. Kharchilava’s poem Freedom to a Lithuanian was published during the days of
the siege of Lithuania, in which the poet announced his solidarity with the
Lithuanians’ strive for independence26.
An important task is the study of each other’s language and literature. In this regard, there is a valuable experience in Georgian-Lithuanian, Georgian-Estonian and Georgian-Byelorussian reality. In the 1970s,
Ivane Javakhishvili Tbilisi State University implemented an important
project which was of great cultural and educational importance. Within
the framework of the project, an agreement was concluded with Riga, Vilnius, Kiev, Tartu and Minsk universities on the exchange of students. Students of the Humanities from these universities came to Tbilisi to study
the Georgian language and literature, while Georgian students went to
Riga, Vilnius, Tartu and Minsk to learn Lithuanian, Ukrainian, Estonian
and Byelorussian.This was a highly advanced and well-organised project,
thanks to which qualified specialists of strongly demanded specialisation
were trained. These studens continue to pursue their scholarly, translating, and cultural activity to the present day facilitating the development
of literary and cultural relations and promotion of literary and aesthetic
achievements. There is a pressing necessity for similar projects the successful implementation of which will allow us to respond adequately to
the requirements and challenges of our time.
In the 1970s Darejan Buachidze and Nana Devidze studied the Lithuanian language and literature in Vilnius University. On their initiative, the
students of the Faculty of Philology of Tbilisi State University published
collected works of translated Lithuanian poetry in 1982 titled Khe Imedisa
(The Tree of Hope; Tbilisi State University Publishers), which was dedicated to the 400th anniversary of Vilnius University. It contained Georgian
translations of poems by Petras Cvirka, Antanas Vienuolis-Žukauskas,
Salomeja Nėris and others. Nana Devidze and Darejan Buachidze continued the study of Lithuanian literature in Georgia and its popularisation. Darejan Buachidze investigated Georgian-Lithuanian relations. Her
works, along with those of G. Leonidze, I. Bogomolov, R. Miminoshvili
and others, will be of great assistance to those who will take interest in
307
these issues. Nana Devidze is a dedicated promoter of Lithuanian culture
and translator of Lithuanian literature. She has never deviated from this
endeavour. Thanks to her activity the works of Lithuanian literature are
available to Georgian readers in their native language today. Nana Devidze is a translator of refined literary taste and has an excellent understanding of the Lithuanian language.
All the latest Georgian-Lithuanian translations either belong to her
or are based on her word-for-word translation. From 1982 to 2005 the
Georgian literary press printed her translations of the leading Lithuanian
writers. In 2006, all the translations were collected into one edition. The
works of the contemporary Lithuanian prose translated by Nana Devidze
were published as a separate book titled as Chemi Velebi (My Fields). In
2008 Nana Devidze worked on the book Green Rutha. This is a collection
of Georgian translations of Lithuanian folk songs, which contains translations made by various poets. In 2006 Nana Devidze published a translation of Saulius Tomas Kondrotas’s mythological saga Clan of the Centaur
in the literary journal Chveni Mtserloba.
The Caucasian House regularly issues Mravalsakhovani Kvekana
(Multi-Sided Country) magazine, the fourth issue of which contains Devidze’s translation of the legend Cursed Monks written by Antanas Vienuolis which is based on Georgian motifs.
Hence, Georgian-Lithuanian literary relationships, which became especially strong in the Soviet period, are an extremely interesting phenomenon. Due to the obvious reasons, they were strongly affected by the ideology of the time with the works of dubious literary quality being promoted and those of genuine value, concealed. However, Soviet writers and
translators managed to break shackles of censure and export real aesthetic
values. Despite territorial distance, the Georgians and Lithuanians have
much in common in terms of spirituality. Therefore, these ties are to be
viewed as a highly positive cultural phenomenon and be further enhanced
and deepened in the light of the twenty-first century artistic and aesthetic
thought.
* The authors are grateful to the translator Nana Devidze for assistance while
writing the paper.
308
1
2
3
6
7
8
4
5
9
12
13
14
15
16
10
11
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
Vakhushti Bagrationi, Kartvel Tavadaznaurta Aghtseriloba, in: Kartlis tsxovreba (The Life of Kartli) v.4, Tbilisi 1983, 161.
Grigol Bagrationi, Mogzauroba Peterburgidan Vilnomde (Traveling from
Petersburg to Vilno), Historical Foundation of the Georgian State Museum
#2178.
Grigol Orbeliani, Letters and Diaries, under E.Gatserelia’s editorship and
commentaries, Tbilisi, 1936, v.1.
G. Eristavi, Works, literature and art, Tbilisi, 1966, 11.
Antanas Vilkutaitis, “Georgians and their State”, Varpas, 1892, Nr. 3.
Literatūros Naujienos, 1937, Nr. 4–5.
Petras Cvirka, “Gruzijos širdis: apybraižos”, Vilnius, Tiesa, 1947, 33–43.
Juozas Paukštelis, “The Country of Heroes and Prometheuses”, in: Kelionė po
Užkaukazę, Vilnius, Vaga, 1973, 116–117.
Giorgi Leonidze, “To the Poet, Mkviraloba”, in: Tarybų Lietuva, 1940,
Nr. 15.
Raštai, 1941, Nr. 2.
Ibid., 1941, Nr. 3.
Nikoloz Baratashvili, “To My Star and Tsisa Pers”, in: Pergalė, 1945, Nr. 6.
Kostas Korsakas, “Ever Immortal source”, Mnatobi, 1957, Nr. 10.
Literatūra ir menas, 1956, 5 January.
Ibid.
Sigitas Geda, “The Picture of Georgia’s Conditions”, in: Literatūra ir menas,
1967, 22 April.
T. Rostovaitė, “Exciting, Colourful, Melodic”, in: Pergalė, 1967, Nr. 2.
Eduardas Mieželaitis, “Report made at Rustaveli Jubilee evening”, in: Literaturuli Sakartvelo, 1966, No. 9.
Pergalė, 1966, Nr. 9.
A. Sprindis, “Great singer of the Georgian people”, in: Kauno tiesa, 1966, Nr.
224.
Eduardas Mieželaitis, Glory to Poetry, in: Komunisti, 1966, Nr. 161.
Eduardas Mieželaitis, Light of Beauty. To the 800th Anniversary of
Sh.Rustaveli, in: Pravda, 1966, 25 09.
Jokūbas Skliutauskas, The Knight from Georgia, Vilnius: Mintis, 1972, 179–
207.
Mykolas Sluckis, Journey to the Mountains and Back, 1986.
Bronius Bušma, Georgian Sky in Žemaitija, in: Literatūra ir menas, 1977 09
22.
G. Kharchilava, Freedom to a Lithuanian, in: Literaturuli Sakartvelo, 1990,
No. 20.
309
Between the Center and
the Periphery: the Past and
Present of the Literature of
the Polish-Ukrainian Borderland
Tarp centro ir periferijos:
Lenkijos-Ukrainos pasienio
literatūros praeitis ir dabartis
Oksana WERETIUK
Professor of Comparative Literature
Rzeszów University
Rejtana St. 16c, b. A3
35-959 Rzeszów Polska
[email protected]
Summary
This study examines the interface between the cultural and political identities
of people living on the international border between Poland and Ukraine. Literary
texts created by them are full of ethnic, political and cultural differences governed
by language, religion, national traditions and Centre Canon. The comparative
analysis of the clashing canons and traditions has shown that the literature of the
Polish-Ukrainian borderland falls into the mainstream of two national literatures:
Polish and Ukrainian. However, it may also appear in the form of regional literature, literature of national / ethnic minorities, and in the form of ideo-thematical
unity. In Galicia, there is a confrontation between the two literatures of the same
borderland, but there are two different peripheries, and each of them is the projection of its own Great Center Canon, each of them constructs its own image in accordance with the ideology of its own Centre (the concentration of ethnic-cultural
consciousness in a concrete historical period of the nation). Nevertheless, in such a
space of cultural confrontation very often an interchange of cultural patterns takes
place with a subsequent enrichment of both national literatures. The transformations of European landscape after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, Warsaw
Treaty and Post-Warsaw Pact induced the domination of convergence processes
in the literature of Polish – Ukrainian borderland. The comparative approach has
opened national, international and super-national perspectives of the literature of
borderland.
Key words: literature of borderland, center–periphery, comparative analysis,
national literature, regional literature, clashing canons and traditions, ideo-thematical unity, cultural confrontation, interchange.
310
Comparative literature is the discipline of studies in literature across
national borders, across languages. It also studies literature between these
borders, the literature of borderland, those works which appear on the
land located on or near a frontier separating geopolitical territories – often in a culturally indeterminate area, a melting pot of languages, religions
and cultures with the domination of two opposing languages and cultures.
“Comparative Literature has intrinsically a content and form which facilitate the cross-cultural and interdisciplinary study of literature and it
has a history that substantiated this content and form”, Steven Tötösy de
Zepetnek emphasizes1. In accordance with the literature of borderland, I
am under the impression that the aim of comparative literature is to find the
national identities of these cross-cultural trends with the help of comparing
the clashing canons and traditions, examining resemblances and differences
between them. This is is the comparative analysis which opens national,
international and super-national perspectives of the literature of borderland.
Works of great intellect are great only by comparison with each other, Ralph
Waldo Emerson wrote. Essentially, Polish literature and Ukrainian literature of borderland also show their distinctive characteristic features in comparison. I would like to dwell on the Polish-Ukrainian borderland named
Galicia, which has different, subjectively oriented understanding in Polish
and Ukrainian encyclopedias, and in both these interpretations Poles and
Ukrainians emphasize their historical claims on this territory2.
In the long-standing history of Poland and its neighbouring countries
on the Galician territory there were different kinds of frontiers and borderlands3 - ranging from the hostile and mortal “mine field” („Nie mów
o Polakach i Ukraińcach – to pole minowe…” – K. Wierzyński) to the
place of the most active cooperation of both sides – “market square” (e.g.
Lvov’s Krakidals from Lew Kaltenberg’s memories under the title Ułamki
stłuczonego lustra). Galician historical (social-cultural) borderlands had
different forms:
1) relatively symmetrical borderland between two centers = borderland connecting two opposite areas,
2) relatively symmetrical borderland, on which widespread cultural
and social contacts took place = transitional borderland,
3) asymmetrical borderland, which was formed by one dominating
focus, moving the border of its domination = so called kresy4.
Borderland as the place of sharp confrontations, bloody battles, victories of the one side and defeats and stock colonization of the other as its
311
consequences had the longest historical life in Galicia. For a long time its
fertile soil and its important commercial connections were at the bottom
of conflicts. However, Galicia has always maintained its unique cultural
charm.
Being the place of the Polish – Ukrainian cultural borderland, Galicia formed two main literary phenomena: Galician Ukrainian literature on the bounds of Ukrainian literature and literature of South-Eastern Borderland (Kresy) on the bounds of Polish literature, which are the
two manifestations of national literature of each centre on the opposing
sides of the boundary. Some scholars claim that there exists “one homogeneous Galician literature” (in single form!) based by German, Austrian,
Jewish, Polish, and Ukrainian literatures (the so called concept by Yuri
Prohaz’ko)5 . I, however, prefer the concept of national self-dependency of
each of them, with due regard to their interaction, inter-conditionality, and
transgression. Ultimately, on each side of the Polish-Ukrainian borderland,
at the place of concentration of national and ethnic minorities two literatures of the largest two ethnic minorities might be – potentially – created
on equal terms: in the form of the native language of the author, and in the
form of an official language, as well as bilingually. These and some other
phenomena existing between the center and periphery, both strengthening and weakening, amplify a complicated literary process in Poland and
Ukraine, and pave the way to the integral evolution of Polish and Ukrainian national literatures and European literature as a whole. Although each
side of the divide (literary evolution) comes to the literary table with its
own baggage of linguistic, ethnic, cultural, religious, mental, ideological
experience, an attempt will be made to identify the key elements in the
literary process in Polish – Ukrainian borderland, named Galicia. Afterwords, I will present every type of literature mentioned above, which together form a literary order, a literary variability.
Thus, Galician Ukrainian literature: Galician Ukrainian literature
primarily was the literature of the Ukrainian minority in Austria-Hungarian Empire and in Poland between WWI and WWII. This term has been
used by such authorities of Ukrainian literature as Ivan Franko, Mykhailo
Drahomanov, Lesia Ukrainka, Mykhailo Kotsiubyn’ski to characterize
the Ukrainian literature which was created in Galicia by local writers,
and which differ essentially from Ukrainian literature created in Central
and Eastern (Right-Bank) Ukraine6. Two streams of the same river, two
literatures of the same nation varied thematically, and ideologically, but
312
the greatest differences were linguistic. The Galician language (PolishUkrainian) is a specific system of lingual signs, so called galicyjski bałak
(bo nie mówiło się w Galicji, ne rozmowlałosia, a bałakało). Every town
had its dialect (vernacular). Village people spoke their own language as
well as the Galician language, a mix of Polish-Ukrainian-German-Jewish,
sometimes with Slovak, Hungarian, and Romanian elements.
In the inter-war period Galician Ukrainian literature and Soviet
Ukrainian literature diverged even more for one simple reason: their ideology differed. The first one was created in the space of the domination
of two political and cultural centers: the Ukrainian Galician writer had to
withstand simultaneously the supremacy of its direct Polish metropolis
(Polonisation) and indirect influences of the neighbouring Soviet empire
(Russification). This double centralization intensified the tendentiousness
of Galician Ukrainian literature, which became the embodiment of this
double colonial experience with a definite supremacy of Polish (not Russian) cultural patterns (promoted in the inter-war period by Polonisation,
Polish-language schooling, propaganda, and the support of Polish culture
and literature). After World War II there appeared more conducive conditions for the development of literature in the neighbouring Poland: a
less strict censorship and control of the government, an openness to the
West, contributed to the growth of Polish influences on Galician Ukrainian literature. In the period of Independent Ukraine, a phase which started
after the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, the differences between
Ukrainian literature created in Eastern Ukraine and Ukrainian literature
created in Western Ukraine reduced, but the reader recognizes immediately a work written by a Galician writer: a different mentality, other archetypes, another mythology, imagery, and representation, the handling
of two individual histories. “[D]o you think that the existence of Galician
tradition in Ukrainian writing, with its mountain romance, rationalistic
persistence in building artistic bridges to the West, with its deep, almost
mystical traditionalism, magic poetics of provincial life, philosophic attention to the details, with its excellent feeling of national and cultural
borderland is a “prejudice”, a “minus” for the whole Ukrainian literature? Really? – the Ukrainian intellectual, Oleh Bahan, defends the values
of Ukrainian Galician literature (including today’s literature)7.
It must be remembered that very often in the space of cultural confrontation an interchange of cultural patterns takes place.Then the principle of selection and posterior transformation of these patterns works.
313
For example, the setting – physical details, and circumstances in which
a situation occurs, the background, atmosphere or environment in which
Stasiuk’s and Andrukhovych’s characters live and move, physical characteristics of the surroundings in Biały kruk (1995, “The White Raven”) and
Дванадцять обручів, 2003 (“Twelve Rings”) – is the same: the Bieszczady/id est Carpathian mountains constitute mystery, enigma, create both
the romance of the travelers’ adventures and its credibility; the down to
Earth realism. The similarities and links between the two patterns come
sharply into focus in spite of their thematic and stylistic differences. This
fact confirms that not only Ukrainian Galician popular songs had an influence on modern Polish culture. Juri Andrukhovych’s novels and Roman Lubkivski’s poetry came into it as well, and, of course, vice versa:
Andrzej Stasiuk’s prose and Adam Zagajewski’s poetry – into Ukrainian
intellectual life.
Finally, the works of Juri Andrukhovych, Viktor Neborak, Halyna Pahutiak, Taras Prokhaz’ko and other “Galician” authors are well known
in Poland and other countries, and this is the best argumentation for the
significance of the literature being created by them in the contemporary
culture/literature process not only in Ukraine, but throughout the whole of
Europe as well. Although written by regional writers, these literary works
seem to transcend geographical and linguistic boundaries, slipping away
from the confines of “regional” literature”. In the “most private” – as the
author noted – novel, titled Дванадцять обручів, 2003 (“Twelve Rings”),
Andrukhovych creates a fictional world, which is an integral whole of
the poetic fairy tale reality and bitter Ukrainian post-communist present
on the one hand, and Hutsulia, which the Polish reader associates with
the inter-war vision of Vincenz – on the other. The same can be said
about Bieszczad’s adventures of Stasiuk’s heroes in Biały kruk (1995)
(“The White Raven”). More prosaic are Opowiadania Galicyjskie (1995)
(“Galician Stories”), where the realities of another Polish center (poor
and drunken just post-PGR’s8, post-communist Poland) were projected in
Polish periphery, the borderland Polish – Ukrainian Galicia, called “poor
Ukraine” in Warsaw. The most characteristic features from the perspective of borderland and center-periphery relations are mentioned above My
Europe (Moja Europa), written in co-authorship by Andrukhovych – Stasiuk9. Each author in this book introduces the reader to their own Galician, multicultural, multi-ethnic, multi religious genealogy. Here and in
his other ironic, carnival, postmodernist prose works, Andrukhowych very
314
often undertakes post-colonial motifs, both in relation to the Russian Empire (the novel Moskowiada, 1993), and to the Polish colonist in the historical period of Polish presence in Ukraine (Moja Europa). The cooperation of Andrukhovych with Stasiuk’s additional center “Czarne” led to the
Ukrainian author becoming the most translated into Polish – all his works
were translated into the Polish language. Andrukhovych and Stasiuk are
creating today’s European literature – Ukrainian and Polish, based mostly
on Galician realities, destroying the ideologies of their Centers.
The second flow of Galician literature borderland mentioned above is
Polish literature of South-Eastern borderland, South-Eastern Kresy10. It
is not symmetrical in relation to Ukrainian Galician literature, because it
does not go within the limits of regional literature. Its locality is historical.
Being created primarily by “Kresowiacy”, who were born on the
South-Eastern borderland, it expresses a national grief for the lost territories of the formerly strong Polish state (Polish-Lithuanian Kingdom
between the 16th and 18th centuries and in the inter- war period of the
20th century, the Second Republic of Poland), a hope for the revival
of the power and authority of the as well as an unquenchable love for
this wonderful land of those who lost their rightful place of birth. It has
become a peculiar code of Polish patriotism. Thus, it comprises works
written not only by the authors born on the South-Eastern borderland
before WWII, but also by those Poles who share the same spirit, and
thus it forms an ideo-thematic rather than a genetic-territorial unity (i.e.
they show the South-Eastern Polish borderland not as a place of work
or origin of its author, but emphasize its spirit, ideas, ideals). Thus, the
South-Eastern borderland in Polish contemporary literature is presented
by such authors as Andrzej Kuśniewicz born in 1904 near Sambor (now
Ukraine), Andrzej Chciuk born in 1920 in Drohobych (now Ukraine), and
Włodzimierz Odojewski born in 1930 in Poznań (Poland), Włodzimierz
Paźniewski born in 1942 in Bobrowniki near Toruń (Poland) as well. Tadeusz Drewnowski notes that the “Southern School” [it is his definition]
includes only the eastern part of Galicia, without Cracow and without
the whole of its [Galician – O.W.] western part. That is why Mrożek,
Kijowski, and Nowak do not represent this school11. However, Galician
Mrożek, Nowak, and even Stasiuk and Szuber (who live on the Galician
borderland in Czarne and Sanok) do not represent kres literature mainly
because they do not show kres moods and do not follow kres tradition and
canon. Kres literature has its characteristic yearning for the Home lost
315
(“obszary tęsknot”, T. Chrzanowski) and catastrophic threads (“zniszczoną
Arkadiją”), myths „Austria (read: Galicia) Felix” (E.Wiegandt) and “happy small Fatherlands”(“szczęśliwych małych ojczyzn”, J.Olejniczak), the
myth of Ukraine with “metaspace of adventure (J. Kolbuszewski)”, “mix
of customs” (Andrzej Kuśniewicz, Mieszanina obyczajowa, 1985), heteroglosia and heterogeneity (E. Czaplejewicz), broken up between mine
and stranger. This literature presents the tradition of Polish kres literature (tradycja kresowa), which started with poems entitled “Mohort” and
“Pieśń o ziemi naszej” by Wincenty Pol (Cracow, 1854). Mrożek concentrates on human absurdity as such, Stasiuk raises to the ground the Polish
ideology canons, including kres ideology.
Despite the undoubtedly colonial sense of the term “kresy”/“Kresy”12,
the category “kres literature” („literatura kresowa” / „literatura kresów”) is
still working in Polish literary criticism (Jacek Kolbuszewski, Bogusław
Hadaczek, Eugeniusz Czaplejewicz, Edward Kasperski, Stanisław Uliasz
etc.), because it hasn’t lost its historical sense. Kresy, as it is well known,
is a specific type of borderland in Polish consciousness: Kresy have their
historical, mythical, patriotic sense for the Polish. They vividly present
the ideology of the inter-war Polish Centre after Poland regained its independence in 1918 and the nostalgia of inter-war generation for the territories lost after World War II. Nevertheless, a purely borderland perspective,
borderland option directs its attention towards the Other, those from the
other side of the border, who have no desire to be labelled as “kres” (i.e.
the outskirts of historical Polish empire) in modern times and who are not
Kres, who understand Kresy as Polish ideology, style, and a way of thinking of the Polish colonizer. The mythologem13 of Kres, being a specific
“recurrent pattern” of the symbolic mode of an open communication with
universal values (hankering for the Home lost) coded in the mythocreative acts, has not lost its universally held sense. In this form it has become
strongly steeped in Polish consciousness and plays the role of the kres
literature tradition. The mythologem of Kres in the plurality of its senses also addresses itself to the struggle for “its own” periphery, building
above the universal senses a superstructure, a “second system” (by Yuri
Lotman) with additional, ideological meaning. On the one hand, the very
ideology of borderland-kresy forms a strong literary tradition (tradition as
“the basic concept of the established history of literature” in Juri Tynianov’s opinion). On the other hand, it does not allow for the acceptance of
this status quo in the literature and history of Ukrainian, Byelorussian,
316
and Lithuanian scientists. Thus, “kres literature” is still an object of sharp
discussions among Polish and Ukrainian critics, specialists in Polish and
Ukrainian literatures, comparative literature14. In my opinion, it is only
the comparative perspective which allows objectivity of the critics of this
stream of borderland literature, and which does not ignore the historical
tradition and at the same time suppresses the polono-centrical option.
Being “inbetween peripherality” (Steven Tötösy de Zepetnek’s definition) on each side of the present Polish-Ukrainian borderland – potentially – two main literatures of the ethnic minorities may be created. But
the only Ukrainian literature of Ukrainian minority exists on the Polish
borderland. It does not mean that in post-communist Ukraine circumstances for the evolution of Polish literature are more favourable. Quite on
the contrary, better material goodies, more democracy and longer lasting
democratic tradition, broadened after WWII, and the completely severed
relations with the West, obvious after Poland became a member of the European Union, the possibility to activate contacts with the West without a
bar, and a significant support of Polish authorities for repatriates induced
and are still inducing the migration of Polish writers to Poland. There
sporadically appeared amateur writers representing different generations
and regions of Ukraine (Irena Sandecka, 1912 from Krzemieniec, Dorota
Jaworska, 1957 from Kiev, Jan Bill from Lviv). Their works have a floating artistic value, and they do not provide a structured process in literary
evolution. Whereas the Ukrainian minority driven by similar conditions
in Poland after WWII (in spite of forced deportation to Soviet Ukraine
as a result of operation “Wisła”, 1946) even accentuated by the Ukrainians, migrated from the Ukrainian to Polish side, makes the peculiar fluent
of national literature. Sometimes it is called “diasporic Ukrainian literature”15, but the works created by autochthones Lemko from Bieszczady or
autochthones Ukrainian from Podlasie, Nadsanie present, to my mind,
Ukrainian literature created by Polish Ukrainians. Sometimes it is very
difficult to define the national identity of those writers and their works,
and, of course, their belonging to one of the two national literatures. For
example, Jerzy Harasymowicz-Broniuszyc (1933-1999), a famous Polish
poet from Cracow, presented an oscillation between the Centre and periphery. He wrote his poems in Polish, and although he did not identify
himself officially as Ukrainian or Lemko 16 , his works confirm that. His
poetry is full of Rus imagery, Byzantine traditions, Lemko myths and legends16. He is a typical man of the Polish borderland. His veiled minority,
317
pulled up to the Centre on the linguistic, artistic, and ideological levels,
comes to light on the level of meaning, vernacular, imagery, and stylistics
(i.e. “Nad samym ranem tęsnię/ zaczęły naszczekiwać młode wilczki/ na
dachu gór/ wowk/ wowk/ wowk/ wowk”, (“Na dachu gór”)). The Culture
of the Polish majority forms the Canon for him, which is an aesthetic pattern and ethnocentric source of his creative work. Sometimes this Canon
does not prevent him from providing evidence of the minority’s patriotism
under the cover of local patriotism. I assume it is a kind of compromise
between the centre and periphery.
Another example: Władysław Graban (1955), a Lemko poet from
Krynica, creates in three languages: Ukrainian, Polish, and Lemkos and
is a bearer of cultural trivalence17. He continues Bohdan Ihor Antonych’s
tradition of Ukrainian modernist poetry18. His poems very clearly identify his ethnic roots: his “small fatherland” and spiritual motherland is
Łemkowyna (he names it only in the original Lemkos language!), and
Canon he finds in Ukrainian poetry, but a reader can notice vivid Polish
influences as well. This is a typical borderland phenomenon.
Thus we are coming to the point at which we may postulate that all of
these examples show:
1. The literature of the Polish – Ukrainian (the works which form
the literature) borderland falls into the mainstream of two national
literatures: Polish and Ukrainian, and into the sea of European literature;
2. The literature of the Polish – Ukrainian borderland may appear in
the form of regional literature, literature of national/ethnic minorities, and in the form of ideo-thematical unity.
3. In Galicia, there is a confrontation between the two literatures of
the same borderland, the two literatures of the two peripheries,
each of them is the projection of its own Great Center Canon, each
of them constructs its own image (including the construction of
its tendentiousness!) in accordance with the ideology of its own
Centre, its axis mundi. It doesn’t mean that these centers must be
Warsaw and/or Kiev only. They may be Lviv or Crakow, Poltava
or Lublin, every centrum of ethnic-cultural consciousness in a concrete historical period of the nation;
4. There is a frequent interchange of cultural patterns in the borderland space of cultural confrontation with a subsequent enrichment
of both national literatures.
318
5. Ukrainian Galician literature, being regional literature, attains the
status of “national” writing. It is not a mere sub-category of Ukrainian national literature, but a powerful stream which depicts the specificities of Galician borderland life experienced and viewed simultaneously within a narrower framework and broader perspectives.
6. Transformations of European landscape after the dissolution of the
Soviet Union, Warsaw Treaty and Post-Warsaw Pact induced the
domination of convergence processes in the literature of PolishUkrainian borderland.
This study examines the interface between the cultural and political
identities of people living on the international border between Poland and
Ukraine, full of micro-differences of ethnic and cultural identities governed by language, religion, national tradition, and Centre Canon. It is
still under discussion due to the diverse, complicated and interlaced phenomena in borderland identity.
Steven Tötösy de Zepetnek, Comparative Literature Theory, Method, Application, in: Textxet: Studies in Comparative Literature, Vol. 18, Amsterdam and
Atlanta, GA: Rodopi 1998, 299��
: <��
http://www.univie.ac.at/constructivism/pub/
totosy98/1.html> (08 09 09).
2
�„Galicja, potoczna nazwa ziem dawnej Rzeczypospolitej pod zaborem austr.
1772-1918 (faktycznie od 1770) powstała z nadanej im przez Austrię oficjalnej nazwy Królestwo Galicji i Lodomerii”, in: Wielka encyklopedia PWN, t. 9,
Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN, Warszawa 2002, 493; “Галичина іст��. ��
країна��,
що� ��
обіймає� ��
півд��
.-��
зах� ��
Україну��в� ��
сточищі��
��
гор��
. ��і� ��
сер��
. ��
Дністра, гор. Прута, гор.
Бугу і в більшій частині сточища Сяну”, in��
��: Енциклопедія українознавства
(��
Reedition��
in��
��
Ukraine�
��), ред. В. Кубійович, т. І, Львів: НТШ «Молоде життя»
1993, 343; “[Галичина] “Колись чисто укр. край під впливом многовікового панування П. втратив провідну верству, яка за малим винятком зазнала полонізації...”, ��
in��: Енциклопедія українознавства у 3 томах. Загальна
частина. Перевидання в Україні��; ��
т. 1, ��
Київ��
1994, 170. Compare with the
two English definitions: “Galicia, Polish Galicja, German Galizien, Russian
Galytsiya, historic region of Eastern Europe that was a part of Poland before
Austria annexed it in 1772; in the 20th century it was restored to Poland but later
divided between Poland and the Soviet Union. […] Incorporated into Kiev Rus
by Vladimir I in 981, eastern G. (also called Red Ruthenia, or Red Rus), being
the country arround Halicz (Galich, or Galych) on the upper Dniester, east of
Zbruch confluent and west of the Leadwaters of the San River, became an independent principality in 1087...”, in: The New Encyclopaedia Britannica, 15th
edition by Robert P. Gwinn, vol. 5, Chicago, 1993, 84; “Galicia, the western
region of today’s Ukraine; the southeastern region of Poland between WWI
1
319
and WWII, the northeastern province of the Austro-Hungarian Empire (Galizien und Lodomerien), stretching from roughly Krakow/Krakiw in the west to
roughly Tarnopol/Ternopil in the east. Today, this area would be South-Eastern
Poland and Western Ukraine”: <http://www.halgal.com> (��
05 10 08).
3
��
See: Grzegorz Babiński, Przemiany pograniczy narodowych i kulturowych –
propozycje typologii, in: Polskie pogranicza a polityka zagraniczna u progu
XXI wieku, pod red. R. Stemplowskiego i A. Żelazo, Warszawa: Polski Instytut
Spraw Międzynarodowych 2002, 14.
4
��
Grzegorz Babiński’s typology is used here, op. cit., 15.
5
Юрко Прохасько, Чи можлива історія ‘галицької літератури’? (Лекція-2005 на пошану Соломії Павличко), ��
in��
: ��
Project��
��
Jurka��
��
Prohazka��
. ��
[online],
Center for the Humanities, Ivan Franko National University of Lviv: <http://
humanities.lviv.ua/projects.php?pid=80> (25 08 2008).
6
See e.g. Іван Франко, Література, її завдання і найважливіші ціхи, in: Іван
Франко, Зібрання творів у 50 т., т. 26, Київ: Наукова думка, 1980, 5–14;
Василь Васильович Деркач, Філологічна термінологія М.П.Драгоманова
в системі української наукової термінології кінця ХІХ-початку ХХ ст.,
Автореф. дис... канд. філол. наук, Київ: Ін-т мовознавства ім. ��
О��. ��
О��
. Потеб��
ні��
��
НАН�
України��
,��
1999, 16.
7
Олег� Баган,
�� Галичофобія: міфи і факти, in: День, 2007, ��
No.��
84.
8
PGR – a state-owned farm in commmunist Poland, PGR was a form of collective farming in People’s Republic of Poland, similar to Soviet sovkhoz. Relatively inefficient and subsidized by the government, most PGRs went bankrupt
quickly after the fall of communism and adoption of a market economy by
Poland.
9
��
It is necessary to mention here in the first turn: Jurij Andruchowycz, Andrzej
Stasiuk, Moja Europa. Dwa eseje o Europie zwanej Środkową, Wołowiec:
Czarne, 2000, 156.
10
The term Kresy, meaning “Outskirts” or “Borderlands”, is used to define the
Polish eastern frontier. The term referred to the eastern frontiers of the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth. During the period of the Second Polish Republic,
these territories roughly equated with the lands to the east of the Curzon line. In
September 1939 these territories were incorporated into the Soviet republics of
Ukraine, Belarus and Lithuania. When the Soviet Union broke up, they remained part of those respective republics after they gained independence.
11
Tadeusz Drewnowski, Próba scalenia, Warszawa: PWN, 1997, 397.
12
A negative critic of this term with
��
its colonial sense Daniel Beauvois, a French
specialist in the history of the Slavs, at the end of 80-ies and at the beginning
of 90-ies. See: Kresy jak liter��
acki mit Ukrainy, in: Daniel Beauvois, Polacy
na Ukrainie 1832-1863: Szlachta polska na Wolyniu, Podolu i Kijowszczyźnie, Paryż: Instytut Literacki 1988, 13-19; Daniel Beauvois, Trójkąt ukraiński.
Szlachta, carat i lud na Wołyniu, Podolu i Kijowszczyźnie 1793-1914, przełożył
z jęz. francuskiego K. Rutkowski, Lublin: Wydawnictwo UMCS 2005, 7, 11,
17, and his report Mit „Kresów wschodnich”, czyli, jak mu położyć kres (1993).
We must also remember the dual colonial sense of Poland. Of course, it is dif-
320
ficult to determine “who is the object of coloni��
z��
ation: Poland divided into parts
by three usurpers, or the Eastern territories of old Rzeczpospolita mostly settled
by Byelorussian, Lithuanian, Ukrainian population and oppressed by Polish
gentry?” (here
��
Grażyna Borkowska is of the same mind with me, see: Grażyna
Borkowska, Polskie doświadczenia kolonialne, in: Teksty Drugie, 2007, No.
4, 15.
13
��
“mythologem - a mythical story; a fundamental theme or motif of myth” [in:]
The New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, ed. By Lesley Brown, vol. I, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993, 1875.
14
Олексій��
Сухомлинов,� Креси – польсько-українське пограниччя, in��
��: Державна етнонаціональна політика: правовий та культурологічний аспекти в умовах Півдня України. Збірник наукових праць, Сімферополь, 2003,
134–139; Олексій Сухомлинов,� Проза Ярослава Івашкевича міжвоєнного
періоду: топіка функціональність польсько-українського пограниччя (dissertation), Київ 2004, 198; Stanisław Uliasz, O kategorii pogranicza kultur, in:
Pogranicze kultur, pod red. Czesława
��
Kłaka, Rzeszów: Wydawnictwo WSZP,
1997, 9–20; Stanisław Uliasz, O kategorii pogranicza kultur, in: O literaturze
kresów i pograniczu kultur: rozprawy i szkicy, Rzeszów: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Rzeszowskiego, 2001, 15; Aleksander Fiut, Polonizacja? Kolonizacja?, in: Teksty Drugie, 2003, No. 6, 150–156; Bogusław Bakuła, Kolonialne i postkolonialne aspekty polskiego dyskursu kresoznawczego (zarys problematyki), in: Teksty Drugie, 2006, No. 6, 11–33; Стефан Козак, Український
преромантизм: джерела, зумовлення, контексти, витоки/ Preromantyzm
ukraiński:źródła, uwarunkowania, konteksty, tendencje, Варшава: Кафедра
Української Філології Варшавського Університету, 2003, 225; Стефан
Козак, Polacy i Ukraińcy. W kręgu myśli i kultury ogranicza: epoka romantyzmu, Warszawa: Wydawnictwa Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego 2005, 306;
Edward Kasperski, Przeszłość, romantyzm, literatura. Głos w dyskusji polonisty z ukrainistą, in: Przegląd Humanistyczny, 2006, No. 1, 11–24.
15
��
See: Оcтап Лапський, Про череп’я, Warsaw (��
without publisher), 1997, 12,
25, 33.
16
��
The Ukrainian roots of Herasymowicz and his identity ambivalence Ihor Kalynets, the well known Ukrainian poet and a translator of Herasymowicz’s poetry,
presented in his preface to: Єжи Герасимович, Руський ліхтар, або небо
лемків. Поезія ��
1957-1999. Вибір та� переклад
��з польської
��
Ігоря Калинця,
��
Львів: Світ, 2003, 464.
17
��
He made his debut in 1984 with a book in Polish Twarz pośród cieni, the next
was written in Polish-Lemkos: Na kołpaku gór (Kraków 1991); in 1997 he
edited in Ternopil, Ukraine poems in Ukraine Ikonostas bólu dedicated to
the 50-anniversary of Lemkos deportation. The most recent volume, Znaleźć
równowagę duszy (2004), is written in Polish and Lemkos.
18
Bogdan Igor Antonych (1909 – 1937), Lemkos,
��
was one of the greatest Ukrainian poets of the 20th century. He was born in the borderland Lemkos region
of the Carpathian mountains (now Bieszczady, Poland) which has always been
influenced by both Polish and Ukrainian cultures.
321
Vasilij Kamenskij and ��
Aubrey
Beardsley��
:��
Vulgar Russia versus
Refined Britain
Vasilijus Kamenskis ir Aubrey’is
Beardsley’is: vulgarioji Rusija prieš
rafinuotą Britaniją
Nina BOCHKAREVA
Perm State University
614068, Russia, Perm, Petropavlovskaja St, 121, 204
[email protected]
Summary
The article is devoted to a comparative-typological analysis of the literary
works by the English artist Aubrey Beardsley and Russian futurist Vasilij Kamenskij. In Kamenskij’s poem Emigrant kachaetsja izyskanno the image of “Beardsley’s vignette” becomes a symbol of Englishness which attracts the poet and
repulses him at once. The poem is devoted to Konstantin Balmont because Beardsley’s daintiness is associated with Russian symbolists. At the same time graphic
vision of wordy music unites Aubrey Beardsley and Vasilij Kamenskij, their poetry
and prose. There is a synthesis of drawing and literature in their works. Beardsley’s illustrations, ornaments and text complement each other in his literary works.
Kamenskij’s visual and verbal signs apply to each other in his ferroconcrete poems. The idea of wallpaper for Kamenskij’s books could be triggered marginally
by William Morris whose activities were well-known in Russia. Poster played an
important role in experiments with spatial composition of a text. Beardsley devoted the essay The Art of Hoarding to protecting this new art. Kamenskij wrote a
poetic decree about writing poems on fences, painting the walls of houses, playing
music from balconies. The commonness of topics of these Beardsley and Kamenskij’ works accentuate their differences. The idea of “theatralization of life” unifies
Beardsley and Kamenskij through Nikolaj Evreinov. Both artists treat the images
of song and singer inherited from the folk and knights’ tradition in original manners. As Beardsley is fascinated with Nietzsche and Wagner cult of Dionysus, so
Kamenskij is captivated with spontaneity of Russian folk. Autobiographical characters of Tannhäuser, the lutenist-minnesinger, and Stenka Razin, the guslar-songfighter, are created in Beardsley’s and Kamenskij’s novels. Both protagonists play
music. Motives of wandering and revolt (moral and political) are drawn together
(and also separate) in Beardsley’s and Kamenskij’s main characters (Tannhäuser
and Stenka Razin). The protagonists go through the conflict of passion between
aspiring to heaven (religion) and attracting to earth (sexuality).
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Key words: comparative and typological analysis, English and Russian literature, synthesis of arts, Vasilij Kamenskij, Kamensky, Aubrey Beardsley.
In Vasilij Kamenskij’s poem Emigrant kachaetsja izyskanno
(«Эмигрант качается изысканно») first published in the collection of his
verses, Zvuchal’ vesnejanki («Звучаль веснеянки», 1918)1, “which may
be roughly translated as “Sound-Song of the Pipe of Spring”2, the image
of Aubrey “Beardsley’s vignette” becomes a symbol of Englishness that
attracts the poet and repulses him at once.
From the beginning of the poem the Atlantic Ocean (and a ship) connects and divides an alien country – England – and a home – Russia – in
the chronotop(os)3:
Из Англии по Атлантическому Океану
На корабле плыву домой…
Firstly, Englishness is marked with “a brunette from Scottish islands”,
her “terrier” and “кэпстон” (probably the brand of cigarettes Capstone):
Вся – как бердслейская виньетка –
Не знаю молодо иль старо –
На палубе сидит брюнетка
С шотландских островов.
Гуд дэй, и поднимаю шляпу
Небрежно кэпстоном дымя –
У ног ее терьерик лижет лапу
Своей уютностью томя.
Брюнетка что-то говорит
И хочется мне петь…
In the middle of the poem Englishness is marked with the famous
Englishmen – a writer Oscar Wilde and a scientist Charles Darwin:
Какое дело мне до всех –
Уайльд иль Дарвин Чарльз.
И лень подумать – в чем успех.
Насвистываю вальс.
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Finally, in the English context the image of a night that “puts her
stockings on street lamps” can be interpreted as an allusion to Beardsley’s
erotic drawings:
Брюнетка снова говорит.
Гуд бай. Мне надоело.
Скорей бы ночь на фонари
Чулки свои надела.
The repetitions (lady’s speaking, poet’s singing and greetings – Good
day and Good- bye) organize a composition of the poem. But the images
“a street lamp / stockings / a night” are adopted from Vladimir Majakovskij’s poem “Iz ulitsy v ulitsu” («Из улицы в улицу», 1913)4:
Лысый фонарь
Сладострастно снимает
С улицы
Черный чулок.
Vasilij Kamenskij contrasts refined Britain with Russian futurism and
French primitivism:
В России тягостный царизм
Скатился в адский люк –
Теперь царит там футуризм
Каменский и Бурлюк.
[…]
Мои культурные пути
Полны чудес наитий.
Я гордо славлю примитив –
Гогена на Таити.
The poem is devoted to Konstantin Balmont because Kamenskij associated Beardsley’s daintiness with Russian symbolists. Some Russian
researchers pointed to different aspects of Russian symbolists and Balmont’s influence on Kamenskij’s verses interpreting it ambiguously5. In
1908 Balmont translated into Russian Oscar Wilde’s play Salome that was
illustrated by Beardsley in 1896. Sometimes Wilde’s Salome and Beardsley’s Under the Hill are published in the compendium edition.6
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In the same way graphic vision of wordy music unites Aubrey Beardsley, an English aesthete, and Vasilij Kamenskij, a Russian futurist, their
poetry and prose.
According to Arthur Symons’ recollections, Beardsley created Under
the Hill, or the Story of Venus and Tannhäuser at the concerts of children’s dances in Dieppe: “He would glance occasionally, but with more
impatience, at the dances, especially the children’s dances in the concert
room; he rarely missed a concert, and would glide in every afternoon, and
sit on the high benches at the side, always carrying his large, gilt leather
portfolio with the magnificent, old, red-lined folio paper, which he would
often open, to write some lines in pencil. He was at work then, with an
almost pathetic tenacity, at his story, never to be finished, the story which
never could have finished, “Under the Hill”, a new version, a parody (like
Laforgue’s parodies, but how unlike them or anything!) of the story of Venus and Tannhauser. Most of it was done at these concerts, and in the little, close writing-room where visitors sat writing letters”7. Nikolaj Evreinov contended that Beardsley’s natural and full-fledged musical talent
didn’t leave him in the moments of intense plastic visions and determined
his choice in favour of drawing instead of painting: “In the latter the opportunity to delight in the melodic language of lines disappears at all quite
often, and vice versa – in graphic method the line retains its independent
function and speaks like continuity of moving tones”8. Beardsley arranged
the concerts at the drawing desk just as he used to play the piano in his
childhood.
Kamenskij’s verses were created as songs. A.V.Lunacharskij compared
him to “minnesinger” and “French chansonnier”9. According to Savvatij
Gints, Kamenskij was very musical, played the accordion («гармошка»)
like virtuoso, composed music and often performed his verse aloud melodically and luxuriously10. That is why Kamenskij tried “to display visually (on the paper) inner rhythmics and sound structure of poetry”11. The
poet explained in his memoirs Put’ entuziasta (The Road of Enthusiast,
«Путь энтузиаста», 1931): “The underline of marked words, leading
in verses (with a bold type) numbers, mathematical characters and lines
made a thing dynamic for perception and easier to memorise (you read
words like you read music), with expression of labelled accent). And what
is more, we can draw the graphic picture of a word with single letters”12.
We can agree with Vladimir Markov that “he probably went further than
any other Russian futurist in using the graphic aspects of words […] In
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Kamensky’s ferroconcrete poems, the visual aspects virtually eliminate all
others, and it is nearly impossible to read these poems aloud”13. But first
of all, the poet reproduces city sounds in the visual form of his ferroconcrete poems.
Beardsley and symbolists advanced the theory and practice of synthetic poetics of the verge of the XIX and XX centuries (including Kamenskij’s experiments) when “the sound form of a word” and “the graphic-motor elements of poetic language” are accented at once14. There is a synthesis of drawing and literature in their works. But if Beardsley’s illustrations, ornaments and text complement each other, Kamenskij’s visual and
verbal signs apply to each other. As a result of this, the last ones need in
interpretation of meaning, decoding their peculiar visual language. Thus,
Andrej Shemshurin deciphered Constantinople15 [Шемшурин 1991: 13–
15] and Thomas Keith analizes Telephone16.
The assumptions concerning the choice of a wallpaper for collected
poems «Садок судей» (1910), «Нагой среди одетых» (1913), «Танго с
коровами» (1914) are different17. Kamenskij in Put’ entuziasta declared
on the occasion of Sadok sudej («Садок судей»): “…to print the book on
underside of the cheap room wallpaper marked the protest against luxurious bourgeois editions”18. But the idea of wallpaper for other books
(«Нагой среди одетых», «Танго с коровами») could be triggered marginally by William Morris whose activities were well-known in Russia19.
Morris and other painters designed wallpapers trying to decorate everyday
life, to unite life and art. For example, the Library at Speke Hall contains
one of Morris’s earliest wallpaper designs Pomegranate (1864) which
makes the background for Napoleon’s portrait by Antoine Gros20. Now the
pages of books about William Morris are decorated with his wallpaper designs and each design is titled21. Probably the London trip of Kamenskijaviator had an influence on Tango s korovami (Tango with Cows, «Танго
с коровами»). In London the poet was invited to Lord Chamberlain’s
reception, and in the exhibition of aeronautics English aristocrats gazed
at aeroplanes as cows should gaze at a piano («как коровы пианино»)22.
In Russia Latin-American dance tango was considered “native” for England23. Concerning the decoration of «Танго с коровами» Jurij Gerchuk
wrote that “in the book some vulgar material of an awfully harsh (rough)
bourgeois wallpaper turned into unexpected daintiness, enriched it with
lush colour”24, but “without trying to decorate the book expressly with
ornaments”25. Moreover, the scholars payed attention to the similarity of
326
thin wallpaper underside and canvas, to its yellow colour. Before Majakovskij’s yellow jacket the scandal of Oscar Wilde’ arrest was well-known
beyond the bounds of England. Wilde carried an issue of the magazine
Yellow Book which was suppressed because of it. Aubrey Beardsley was a
contributor of this magazine and didn’t love Wilde.
The poster played an important role in experiments with spatial composition of the text. Beardsley devoted the essay The Art of Hoarding
(1894) to protecting this new art: “Advertisement is an absolute necessity of modern life, and if it can be made beautiful as well as obvious,
so much the better for the makers of soap and the public who are likely
to wash”26. Ian Fletcher appreciated the essay as “the most significant of
his early pieces”27. The topic of popular art and street advertisement isn’t
usual for “refined aesthete”. Democratism and avant-gardism of the essay
approached Beardsley to futuristic manifestos that appeared after twenty
years.
«Декрет о заборной литературе – о росписи улиц – о балконах с
музыкой – о карнавалах Искусств» (“Kamenskij’s poetic “decree” about
writing poems on fences, painting the walls of houses, playing music from
balconies, and otherwise celebrating revolution”28) in the collection of his
verses Zvuchal’ vesnejanki («Звучаль веснеянки»)29 could be called a
manifesto. The common topic of Beardsley and Kamenskij’s works accentuate their differences. While Beardsley contrasts poster artists with
painters, Kamenskij contrasts modern “poets-painters-musicians” with old
writers, artists and scientists:
Вчера учили нас Толстые да Канты
Сегодня – звенит Своя Голова.
Whereas Beardsley opposes old forms (“The popular idea of a picture
is something told in oil or writ in water to be hung on a room’s wall or in
a picture gallery to perplex an artless public. No one expects it to serve
a useful purpose or take part in everyday existence. Our modern painter
has merely to give a picture a good name and hang it. Now the poster first
of all justified its existence on the grounds of utility, and should it further
aspire to beauty of line and colour, may not our hoardings claim kinship
with the galleries, and the designers of affiches pose proudly in the public
eye as the masters of Holland Road or Bond Street Barbizon (and, recollect, no gate money, no catalogue)?”), Kamenskij turns down authorities.
327
Beardsley compared a hoarding with an old fresco over an Italian
church door (John Ruskin’s motive): “Still there is a general feeling that
the artist who puts his art into the poster is déclassé – on the streets – and
consequently of light character. The critics can discover no brush work
to prate of, the painter looks askance upon a thing that achieves publicity
without a frame, and beauty without modelling, and the public find it hard
to take seriously a poor printed thing left to the mercy of sunshine, soot,
and shower, like any old fresco over an Italian church door”. Kamenskij
compared writing poems and painting pictures on fences to building cathedrals (Victor Hugo’s motive):
Давайте все пустые заборы –
Крыши – фасады – тротуары –
Распишем во славу Вольности
Как мировые соборы
Творились под гениальные удары
Чудес от Искусства – Молодости.
The artists must create town environment with street advertisement.
Uniting beauty and utility is the main idea of the style Modern. Beardsley believed: “London will soon be resplendent with advertisements, and,
against a leaden sky, sky-signs will trace their formal arabesque. Beauty
has laid siege to the city, and telegraph wires shall no longer be the sole
joy of our aesthetic perceptions”. Kamenskij sets a more global aim – lifebuilding:
Требуется устроить жизнь
Раздольницу.
Солнцевейную – ветрокудрую
Чтобы на песню походила
На Творческую Вольницу
На песню артельную мудрую.
Beardsley advocated new art forms which “isn’t considered to be
lofty”30 in the XIXth century: “What view the bill-sticker and sandwich
man take of the subject I have yet to learn. The first is, at least, no bad
substitute for a hanging committee, and the clothes of the second are better company than somebody else’s picture, and less obtrusive than a background of stamped magenta paper. Happy, then, those artists who thus
escape the injustice of juries and the shuffling of dealers, and choose to
328
keep that distance that lends enchantment to the private view, and avoid
the world of worries that attends on those who elect to make an exhibition
of themselves”. He also drew posters for theatre31. Beardsley appealed to
theatrical art in the essay “Prospectus for Volpone” (1897, publ. 1898),
which was devoted to the play of Ben Jonson (1573–1637)32.
Beginning his artistic career as a drama actor Kamenskij always related with theatre as a synthetic kind of art33. In his poetic “decree” he joins
poets, painters, musicians for a carnival – a show for the masses:
Предлагаю всем круто и смело
Устраивать Карнавалы и Шествия –
По Праздникам Отдыха –
Воспевая Революцию Духа
Вселенскую.
The idea of “theatralization of life” («театрализация жизни») unifies Beardsley and Kamenskij through Nikolaj Evreinov. In 1912 Evreinov wrote an essay about Beardsley34, in 1917 Kamenskij published the
“monography” about his friend Evreinov35, in 1922 Evreinov published an
essay about Kamenskij in “My magazine of Vasilij Kamenskij”36 («Мой
журнал Василия Каменского»; according to Markov, it “is still the only
book about Kamensky and is written in the best tradition of mutual admiration”37).
Evreinov’s essay about the English graphic artist is begun and ended
with the topic of a scandal that became a leitmotif of Beardsley’s image
in it: “…among delightful scandals of the XIXth century which was typical
for artistic eccentricity of decadence the most striking, overbold, beautiful,
unexpected, and complete was surely the scandal concerned in the history
of drawing with the name of genius Beardsley”38. In Evreinov’s description of the “school of Beardsley” we can see the difference and similarity
of Russian futuristic scandal and aesthetic eccentricity of European decadence: “justification of vice through beauty, aesthetization of sin, conversion of Black God to White God with high magic of art, charm of candour
wearing a mask of abstraction, all-childish satisfaction to oneself, madness of bravery opening forbidden doors, and what is more, demonstration to ridiculous boasting Guards of morality”39. According to Evreinov,
“Beardsley realized extremely well that the persuasiveness of an artistic
scandal straight depends on technical maturity of a gesture”40.
329
In his non-republished “monography” about Evreinov, Vasilij Kamenskij inevitably mentions about Aubrey Beardsley: “Nikolaj Evreinov’s two
books about an ingenious artist Beardsley and Rops as two festivals was
painted in gay in hearts of all who value a beautiful and proud (fine and
majestic) word about beautiful and proud actions. And here the invariably
lively and paradoxical critic Evreinov remains true to himself and wittily
points to historical series of talented scandals on which we value events
and remember heroes”41. Kamenskij confessed that he and his comrades
realized “deep importance of life-theatre”, “significance of theatralization
of life” and “ fascinating beauty of theatricality” with no interminable
complicated theory of theatrical art, with no thoughts, no reasoning, but
once suddenly, spontaneously, with the same inherent instinct of transformation with which Evreinov got out his nursery too…»42. Here like in the
poem Emigrant kachaetsja izyskanno («Эмигрант качается изысканно»)
Kamenskij contrasts the primitive with intellect.
Aubrey Beardsley (1872-1898) was doomed to early death, but was
considered a talented artist by himself and his contemporaries. Vasilij Kamenskij (1884-1961) lived a long life, was considered a talented futurist
by himself and his contemporaries. Now the literary works of Beardsley
and Kamenskij are usually valued as secondary, autobiographical, and
experimental.
Beardsley called Under the Hill, or the Story of Venus and Tannhäuser
(1894-1898) “my first book”43 and wrote: “The Book really will be fine”44.
He supposed to create a synthetic Book45 realizing Mallarmé’s idea about
a single universal Book (Mallarmé’s letter about this idea was addressed
to Paul Verlaine in 1885)46. Haldane Macfall wrote about Under the Hill:
“The book is a revelation and confession of the soul of the real Beardsley […] It is Beardsley’s testament – it explains his art, his life, his vision…”47. Brigid Brophy explained: “He was own hero, the Abbé (as he is
simply called in the illustration); his initials ‘A.B.’, pronounced in French,
say the world ‘abbé’”48. Kamenskij called his first book entitled Zemlyanka (The Mud Hut, «Землянка», 1910) “a new kind of novel”, but Vladimir
Markov claims that “it is a romantic story with some autobiographical elements. Philip, a provincial turned into a fashionable writer now living in
the capital, is a naïvely glamorized self-portrait of Kamensky”49.
Beardsley in Under the Hill and Kamenskij in Zemlyanka describe a
new life of an autobiographical character who escapes to a forest (like in
a fairy-tale). We discover allusions to Dante in Under the Hill and oth-
330
er Beardsley’s works (the poem Dante in Exile)50. Markov wrote about
Zemlyanka: “In fact, for the author, the novel was an ambitious undertaking, something terribly significant, a kind of Divina Comedy with the hero
going through the hell of city life, then cleansing himself in solitary communion with nature, and, at the end, entering the paradise of peasant life.
The peasant, according to Kamensky, partakes of the “enormous mysteries of earth”, which the author refuses to reveal to anyone”51. Beardsley
planned to put some verses into the unfinished prose of Under the Hill52.
Kamenskij put earlier verses into the prose of Zemlyanka: “The lyric quality of the nature chapters is further intensified by the free verse poetry that
often interrupts the emotional prose in which the work is written…”53
Both artists treat the images of song and singer inherited from the folk
and knights’ tradition in original manners. As Beardsley is fascinated with
Nietzsche and Wagner cult of Dionysus, so Kamenskij is captivated with
spontaneity of Russian folk. Autobiographical characters of Tannhäuser, the
lutenist-minnesinger, and Stenka Razin, the guslar-songfighter54, are created
in Beardsley’s and Kamenskij’s novels. Both protagonists play music.
Motives of wandering and revolt (moral and political) draw together
(and also separate) Beardsley’s and Kamenskij’s main characters (Tannhäuser and Stenka Razin). The protagonists go through the conflict of
passion between aspiring to heaven (God and religion) and attracting
to earth (woman and sexuality). Tannhäuser in Wagner’s opera breaks
between Venus (Antiquity) and Elizabeth (Christianity). The conflict of
Stenka Razin appears through the images of two women – Russian wife
Alena and Persian princess Meiran (in Zemlyanka – Marina, the fairytale-like Maika and Marijka).
Both artists are interested in the East. While Beardsley is fascinated
with Japan55, Kamenskij is captivated with Persia. In Beardsley’s drawing patterns of Persian carpets, silhouettes of Egyptian wall-drawing, and
contours of Assyrian relief”56. Kamenskij used Egyptian symbolism57 and
appealed to India and the Caucasus 58.
This comparative-typological analysis of Russian futurism and English culture on the verge of the XIX and XX centuries will be continued.
Another typological pair can be compared on the scale of personality and
nature of gift. Oscar Wilde and Vladimir Majakovskij shocked the audience and died of it. Both were good orators and actors. Wilde was made
fun of in Gilbert-Sullivan’s comic opera, and Majakovskij played himself
in the film Baryshnja i hooligan («Барышня и хулиган»).
331
References
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
332
Василий Каменский, Танго с коровами. Степан Разин. Звучаль веснеянки. Путь энтузиаста / составление и статья М.Я.Полякова. Москва: Книга, 1990, 27–28.
Vladimir Markov, Russian Futurism: a History. Berkeley and Los Angeles:
University of California Press, 1968, 330.
This term is defined as “the interrelation of time and space in a novel” by
Michael Bachtin in: Михаил Бахтин, Формы времени и хронотопа в романе. In: Бахтин, Михаил. Вопросы литературы и эстетики. Исследования разных лет. Москва: Художественная литература, 1975, 234.
Владимир Маяковский, Полное собрание сочинений: в 13 т. Москва: Художественная литература, 1955. Т.1, 38-39.
Владимир Васильевич Абашев, Пермь как текст. Пермь в русской
культуре и литературе ХХ века. Пермь: Издательство Пермского университета, 2000, 152-155; Наталья Фагимовна Федотова, В.В.Каменский:
эволюция лирики: дисс. … канд.филол.н. Казань, 2003, 43–47; Любовь
Олеговна Федорова, Аида Геннадьевна Разумовская. Мотив солнца
в творчестве В.Каменского и символистская традиция. In: Пограничные процессы в литературе и культуре: Сборник статей по материалам
Международной научной конференции, посвященной 125-летию со дня
рождения Василия Каменского. Пермь: Пермский государственный университет, 2009, 343–345.
Oscar Wilde, Salome; Beardsley, Aubrey. Under the Hill. London: Creation
Books, 1996.
Arthur Symons, Introduction. In: The Arts of Aubrey Beardsley. New York:
The Modern Library, 1925, 15.
Николай Евреинов, Обри Бердслей. In: Обри Бердслей, Многоликий
порок. История Венеры и Тангейзера. Стихотворения. Письма. Москва:
ЭКСМО-ПРЕСС, 2001, 27.
Савватий Гинц, Василий Каменский. Пермь: Пермское книжное издательство, 1984, 187.
Ibid, 187–191.
Владимир Поляков, Футуристическая книга. In: Футуризм – радикальная революция. Италия – Россия. К 100-летию художественного движения. Москва: Красная площадь, 2008, 191.
Василий Каменский, Танго с коровами. Степан Разин. Звучаль веснеянки. Путь энтузиаста / составление и статья М.Я.Полякова. Москва: Книга, 1990, 485.
Николай Иванович Харджиев, Статьи об авангарде: в 2 т. / предисловие Р.В.Дуганова. Москва: Архив русского авангарда, 1997. Т.1. C.54. In
his book Nikolaj Khardzhiev analyzed graphic experiments of French poets
from Mallarmé to Cendrars and Apollinaire, their influence on Russian avant-
15
16
17
18
19
22
20
21
23
24
guard. Vladimir Markov quoted the Russian researcher: “The Soviet scholar
N.Khardzhiev sees in Kamensky’s experiments of this kind “a true parallel
to the experiments of Apollinaire [i.e., his “simultaneous” poems] and of the
Italian futurists” (Markov, P. 200). The recent exhibition “Futurism – radical
revolution” (Moscow, 2008) was devoted to the influence of Italian futurism
on Russian budetl’ane (Футуризм – радикальная революция. Италия – Россия. К 100-летию художественного движения. Москва: Красная площадь,
2008). The aim of our papers is the comparative typology of Russian and
English influences and parallels (see also: Дмитрий Сергеевич Туляков,
Нина Станиславна Бочкарева, Соотношение вербального и визуального
в манифестах русского кубофутуризма и британского имажизма 191314 гг. In: Пограничные процессы в литературе и культуре: Сборник статей по материалам Международной научной конференции, посвященной
125-летию со дня рождения Василия Каменского. Пермь: Пермский государственный университет, 2009, 329–333).
Андрей Шемшурин, Железобетонная поэма (Стрелец. Сб.1. Петроград,
1915). In: Василий Каменский, Танго с коровами. Железобетонные поэмы. Москва: Издание Д.Д.Бурлюка, 1914. Факсимильное издание с приложением статей. Москва: Книга, 1991, 13–15.
Томас Кайт, «Телефон-№2В-128» Василия Каменского и «dadadegie»
Рауля Хаусманна/ Йоханнеса Баадера – два примера визуализированной
поэзии в русском и немецком историческом поэтическом авангарде. In:
В.В.Каменский в культурном пространстве ХХ века: Материалы международной научно-практической конференции. Пермь, 2006, 31–38. http://
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Юрий Александрович Молок, Типографские опыты поэта-футуриста. In: Василий Каменский, Танго с коровами. Железобетонные поэмы.
Москва: Издание Д.Д.Бурлюка, 1914. Факсимильное издание с приложением статей. Москва: Книга, 1991, 7–8.
Василий Каменский, Танго с коровами. Степан Разин. Звучаль веснеянки. Путь энтузиаста / сост. и ст. М.Я.Полякова. Москва: Книга, 1990,
443.
К.А Макаров, Эстетика Морриса и судьбы декоративного искусства
России. In: Эстетика Морриса и современность. Москва: Изобразительное искусство, 1987, 114–140.
William Morris: An Illustrated Life. Hampshire: Pitkin Pictorials, 1996, 8-9.
Christine Poulson, William Morris. London: Eagle Edition, 2002.
Василий Каменский Танго с коровами. Степан Разин. Звучаль веснеянки. Путь энтузиаста / сост. и ст. М.Я.Полякова. Москва: Книга, 1990,
455–458.
Юрий Александрович Молок, Типографские опыты поэта-футуриста.
In: Каменский, Василий. Танго с коровами. Железобетонные поэмы. Москва: Издание Д.Д.Бурлюка, 1914. Факсимильное издание с приложением
статей. Москва: Книга, 1991. C. 4.
Юрий Яковлевич Герчук, Русская книга 1910-х годов. In: Искусство
333
книги. Ленинград, 1987. Вып. 10. 1972-1980. С. 216.
Юрий Александрович Молок, Типографские опыты поэта-футуриста.
In: Каменский, Василий. Танго с коровами. Железобетонные поэмы. Москва: Издание Д.Д.Бурлюка, 1914. Факсимильное издание с приложением
статей. Москва: Книга, 1991. C. 7–8.
26
In Black and White. The Literary Remains of Aubrey Beardsley. Including
“Under the Hill”, “The Ballad of a Barber”, “The Free Musicians”, “Table
Talk” and Other Writings in Prose and Verse / ed. by S.Calloway and D.Colvin.
L.: Cypher, MIIM, 1998. http://www.cypherpress.com, 117–120.
27
Ian Fletcher, Aubrey Beardsley. Boston: Arizona State University. Twayne
Publishers A Division of G.K.Hall @ Co, 1987, 143.
28
29
Василий Каменский. Танго с коровами. Степан Разин. Звучаль веснеянки. Путь энтузиаста / сост. и ст. М.Я.Полякова. Москва: Книга, 1990,
148–149.
30
Дмитрий Владимирович Сарабьянов, Модерн. История стиля. М.: Галарт, 2001, 21.
31
Peter Raby, Aubrey Beardsley and the Nineties. London: Collins&Brown
Limited, 1998, 53.
32
For more details see about it in: Бочкарева Н.С., Пикулева И.А. Жанровый синтез в эссеистике Обри Бердсли (“Искусство рекламного щита” и
“Проспект для Вольпоне”). In: Вестник Пермского университета. Российская и зарубежная филология. 2009. №1, 61–71.
33
Екатерина Сергеевна Шевченко, Концепция театральности русских
футуристов: размыкание границ искусства. In: Пограничные процессы в
литературе и культуре: Сборник статей по материалам Международной
научной конференции, посвященной 125-летию со дня рождения Василия Каменского. Пермь: Пермский государственный университет, 2009,
322–324.
34
Николай Евреинов, Обри Бердслей. In: Бердслей, Обри. Многоликий
ЭКСМО-ПРЕСС, 2001, 6–34.
35
Василий. Каменский, Книга о Евреинове. Петроград: Издательство «Современное искусство Н.И.Бутковской», 1917.
36
Николай Евреинов, О Василии Каменском // Мой журнал Василия Каменского. 1922. №1.
37
38
39
Ibid, 24.
40
Ibid, 25.
41
Василий. Каменский, Книга о Евреинове. Петроград: Издательство «Сов25
334
ременное искусство Н.И.Бутковской», 1917, 73.
Ibid, 94.
43
Aubrey Beardsley, Under the Hill. In: Oscar Wilde, Salome. Beardsley,
Aubrey. Under the Hill. London: Creation Books, 1996, 69.
44
The Letters of Aubrey Beardsley. Ed. by H.Maas. London: Rutherford, Fairleigh
Dickinson university press, 1970, 73.
45
See about it: Ирина Александровна Пикулева, Проблема синтеза в литературном наследии Обри Бердсли: дис. … канд. филол. наук. Пермь,
2008.
46
Стефан.Малларме, Сочинения в стихах и прозе: сборник на французском языке с параллельным русским текстом. Москва: Радуга, 1995, 411.
47
Haldane Macfall, Aubrey Beardsley. The Man and his work. London: John
Lane the Bodly Head Limited, 1928, 81.
48
Brigid Brophy, Beardsley and his world. London: Thames & Hudson, 1976,
99.
49
University of California Press, 1968, 29–30.
50
See about it: Нина Станиславна Бочкарева, Ирина Александровна Пикулева, Дантевская аллюзия в романе Обри Бердсли UNDER THE HILL.
In: Литература Великобритании и Романский мир. Великий Новгород:
НовГУ, 2006. С.105–106; Пикулева Ирина Александровна, Бочкарева Нина
Станиславна. Философская лирика Обри Бердсли. In: Вестник Пермского университета. Серия «Иностранные языки и литературы». 2008. Вып.
5(21), 23–29.
51
52
Ирина Александровна Пикулева, Проблема синтеза в литературном
наследии Обри Бердсли: дис. … канд. филол. наук. Пермь, 2008, 144.
53
54
About the difference of “Stenka Razin” (1915) and “Stepan Razin” (1928) see:
Светлана Леонидовна Константинова, От «Стеньки Разина» к «Степану Разину» к проблеме текстовых трансформаций в прозе В.Каменского.
In: Пограничные процессы в литературе и культуре: Сборник статей по
материалам Международной научной конференции, посвященной 125-летию со дня рождения Василия Каменского. Пермь: Пермский государственный университет, 2009, 345–347.
55
Ирина Александровна Пикулева, Нина Станиславна Бочкарева.
Восток в творчестве Обри Бердсли. In: Лингвистические и эстетические аспекты анализа текста и речи: сборник статей VI Всероссийской
(с международным участием) научной конференции. Соликамск, 2006,
41-45; Ирина Александровна Пикулева, Проблема синтеза в литературном наследии Обри Бердсли: дис. … канд. филол. наук. Пермь, 2008.
С. 172–193.
56
42
335
57
Леонид Фридович Кацис, Владимир Маяковский: Поэт в интеллектуальном контексте эпохи. Москва: Языки русской культуры, 2000, 657–
669.
58
Наталья Фагимовна Федотова, В.В.Каменский: эволюция лирики: дисс.
… канд.филол.н. Казань, 2003, 43-47; Наталья Фагимовна Федотова,
«Гармония всеединства» как вариант художественного синтеза в поэзии
серебряного века. In: Пограничные процессы в литературе и культуре:
Сборник статей по материалам Международной научной конференции,
посвященной 125-летию со дня рождения Василия Каменского. Пермь:
Пермский государственный университет, 2009, 325–326.
336
“Tysk host” (“German autumn”) –
The Swedish Author Stig
Dagerman’s Journalism on Germany
immediately after World War II
“Tysk host” („Vokiškas ruduo“) –
švedų rašytojo Stigo Dagermano
reportažai apie Vokietiją po Antrojo
pasaulinio paro
Roland LYSELL
Department of Literature, University of Stockholm
Sweden
[email protected]
Summary
The poetry of the 1940s represents one of the peaks of modern Swedish literature. The aim of this paper is to discuss Stig Dagerman’s articles collected in
Tysk höst (1947) from the view of a literary historian. How does the Germany of
1946 fit into the general aesthetics of the Swedish Generation of the 1940s (Fyrtitalisterna)? It is shown that Stig Dagerman criticizes all contemporary German
political parties. The only exception is the small group that was anti-fascist during World War II. In those days anarchic syndicalism was sceptical concerning
the state as such. Germany became an example for Dagerman to corroborate this
thesis. Dagerman also shares the metaphysical scepticism of the 1940s. Even if
we know nothing about the deeper reality that we are dependent upon, it makes us
the victims of its revenge and we have to accept the absurdity of human existence
and the fact that distress has become a consolation. The German spirit of the late
1940s is obviously dominated by bitterness and apathy. Concerning stylistic technique Dagerman is also typical of the 1940s: he prefers paradoxes, gives the ruins
a symbolic function, formulates skillful metaphors and uses intertextuality. However, the metaphysical aim of art is not shown to be a failure in Tysk höst, but it is
treated with a certain distance, typical of Dagerman, but not of his generation.
Key words: Stig Dagerman, “Tysk host” (“German autumn”), aesthetics of
Fyrtitalisterna, paradox, intertextuality, the metaphysical aim of art, distance.
The poetry of the 1940s in Sweden represents one of the peaks of
modern Swedish literature. Poets like Erik Lindegren (1910–1968), Karl
Vennberg (1910–1995), Ragnar Thoursie (* 1919), Werner Aspenström
337
(1918–1997), Elsa Grave (1918–2003) and Sven Alfons (1918–1996), all
of them influenced by Gunnar Ekelöf (1907–1968), Thomas Stearns Eliot
and French poetry from Charles Baudelaire and Symbolism to Surrealism,
developed modernist lyric into an intellectually advanced rhetoric poetry,
at the same time very intellectual, very emotive and very dense. At the
same time a new kind of prose was developed by the novelists Lars Ahlin (1915–1997), Stig Dagerman (1923–1954) and Gösta Oswald (1926–
1950).
Stig Dagerman is the only author in this group whose novels have
encountered an international audience. He is still very much read today,
especially in France and Germany, and there is a Dagerman prize that has
been awarded to, among others, Elfriede Jelinek and Jean-Marie Gustave
Le Clézio. His first work was Ormen (“The Snake”, 1945), followed by
De dömdas ö (“Island of the Doomed”) in 1946, one of the most important Swedish novels of the 20th century. He was also an important dramatist. He was married twice, to Annemarie Götze, a daughter of German
refugees, and to the actress Anita Björk (* 1923).
Dagerman had mixed feelings about the role of a journalist. He wrote
570 articles for various newspapers from 1941 to his death 13 years later.
In the summer of 1941 he began to write for the important syndicalist
publications Storm and Arbetaren (“The Worker”). He reviewed books, of
course, and among his favorites were Franz Kafka and William Faulkner.
Apart from his literary criticism in 40-tal, Prisma and BLM, he also wrote
articles on general themes. He was commissioned by the then fairly new
evening newspaper Expressen to Germany in the autumn of 1946 to write
a series of reports about postwar Germany. 13 articles were written and
11 were published. In 1947 these articles were collected and issued as
a book with the title Tysk höst (“German Autumn”), a Swedish classic,
reprinted in the Collected Writings edited by the Dagerman scholar Hans
Sandberg1.
My aim in this article is not to discuss the articles as journalism. Mrs.
Karin Palmkvist, has already done that in a doctoral thesis from 19892.
Her conclusion is: “Dagerman’s reports from Germany differed from
those of other Swedes at this time through the author’s consciousness of
and reflections about his own role, his great empathy with the situation
of the Germans, and the fact that he did not condemn the German people”3. Mrs. Palmkvist shows that in this aspect Dagerman was close to the
Englishmen Stephen Spender (1909–1995), a favourite poet of the 1940s,
338
and Sir Victor Gollancz (1893–1967), whose books about Germany appeared at roughly the same time. All of them discuss “the problem of guilt
and suffering in a universal perspective”, according to Mrs. Palmkvist4.
Dagerman spent two months in Germany, from October 15th (Hamburg)
to December 12th (Frankfurt) – five days in Berlin, a week in the Ruhr
district, and everywhere he tried to come into contact with so many private persons living under different social circumstances as possible5. Of
course he despised the kind of journalist who stays at his hotel and only
uses stuff from local newspapers in his report.
Dagerman’s material must have been overwhelming and it was a question of choice what to publish in the articles. My own aim is to discuss the
articles from the view of a literary historian. How does the Germany of
1946 fit into the general aesthetics of the Swedish Generation of the 1940s
(Fyrtitalisterna). I concentrate on ten dominating themes and stylistic effects: Politics, Scepticism concerning the state, The Question of a Deeper
Reality and the Absurd and the Possibility of Consolation, The Psychology of the Germans, The Ruins, The Use of Metaphor and Intertextuality
and The Function of the Artist.
I. Politics
Confronted with everyday reality, Stig Dagerman severely criticizes
German active political parties.
– The Liberals are conscious of the present situation, but they are unable to act:
“We” that can mean the Liberal party, which in North Germany is rather small
but has a good reputation on account of its anti-Nazi attitude, but which in
South Germany is large and suspect for there we can hear it said “Think Liberal, act Socialist and feel German”. But “We” can mean much else. “We”
can be those middle-class German intellectuals who were at heart anti-Nazi
but never had to suffer for this and perhaps never wanted to suffer for it, who
never voluntarily went against the grain and are now bearing a kind of antiNazi jalousie de métier against the legitimated anti-Nazis, those who were
politically persecuted. (p. 38) 6
– The CDU is a chameleon without any ideology of its own:
The CDU is a chameleon who won in Hamburg thanks to crude anti-Marxist
propaganda and tried to win in Berlin through an equally diligent use of the
word “socialism”. (p. 47)
339
– The social classes are still there:
The thesis of a classless Germany involved a cynical exaggeration. After the
collapse, class frontiers have been sharpened rather than blurred. The bourgeois ideologists confuse poverty and classlessness when they assert that by and
large all Germans are financially in the same desperate straits. (p. 36)
– The Social Democrats seem to be a bit pathetic, e.g. Paul Löbe:
The most tragic aspect of the big meeting under canvas which I attended in
Frankfurt-am-Main just before Christmas and where the old Social Democrat
and former Parliamentary President Paul Löbe spoke, was not perhaps that it
was impossible to spot a single young person in the thousand-strong audience. What was tragic and frighening was that the audience were so advanced in
years. (p. 62)
On several occasions the difficulties between generations are focussed
by Dagerman, the Social Democrats do not want to accept the youth. Kurt
Schumacher, a Social Democrat leader, is criticized for being dangerous
and helpless:
What can be held against Dr. Schumacher is that through his doomsday sermons against the victors he adapts a limited national perspective instead of a
socialist and international one. (p. 91).
Schumacher is dangerous “because of his enormous popularity” (p.
89). Three pages of the book from page 89 onwards are devoted to considering his weaknesses.
Several times Dagerman attacks the Bavarians who sent starving refugees from Hamburg and Essen back home in miserable trains. There
seems to be no German solidarity (p. 69); “Just think fellow-countrymen
evicting fellow-countrymen. Germans against Germans. The worst of all”
(p. 56), somebody remarks. Many Germans suspect the Russians for trying to create a “Verelendigung”, through people coming from the concentration camps and from the east, in the western zones to cause a political
chaos for the British, French and Americans.
The real losers of the war, according to Dagerman, are the German
antifascists:
340
For there is in Germany a large group of honest anti-fascists who are more
disappointed, homeless and defeated than the Nazi fellow-travellers can ever
be: dissappointed because the liberation did not turn out to be as radical as
they had thought it would be; homeless because they did not want to associate
themselves either with the overall German dissatisfaction, among whose ingredients they thought they could detect far too much hidden Nazism, or with
the politics of the Allies, whose compliance in the face of the former Nazis
they regard with dismay; […] These people are Germany’s most beautiful
ruins (p. 24–25).
This point of view is further developed in later chapter:
But there are numerous anti-Nazi Germans who had hoped for another outcome: people who reject the kind of unity without freedom offered by the
Communists, regret that the anti-Nazi enthusiasm of the spring of 1945 failed
to create something other than the ensuing situation of party division and impotence in the face of reaction. (p. 98)
The real losers of the war are apparently the German antifascists.
This political scepticism already occurred in texts by Erik Lindegren.
In the 1930s Lindegren tested many political views, including Marxism
and Freudianism, but always reacted against dogmatism. His only sympathy was a sympathy for anarchism and syndicalism. After the war, in the
early 50s, Karl Vennberg was involved in the discussion about “The Third
Position” (Tredje ståndpunkten). These intellectuals were neither proAmerican nor pro-Russian, but wanted to find a third solution in world
politics.
Thus Stig Dagerman criticizes all contemporary German political parties. The only exceptions are the small groups who were anti-fascists during World War II.
II. Scepticism concerning the state
Discussions about the questions of democracy and human rights are
common among the authors of this generation. According to Dagerman,
the elections in Germany have lost their democratic function:
Throughout that autumn there were elections in various places in Germany.
Participation was perhaps surprisingly active but political activity limited itself to voting. (p. 15)
341
Law and justice have lost their force and people seem to condemn the
Germans, independent of existing laws. Hunger does not seem a righteous
punishment, according to Dagerman:
Even from a judicial point of view such an argument is quite untenable because the German distress is collective whereas the German cruelties were,
despite everything, not so. Further, hunger and cold are not included among
the indictable offences of legal justice, for the same reason that torture and
abuse are not. (p. 11-12).
A common way of criticizing the Germans seems to be to criticize
them for their obedience to the state (p. 12). Thus an old lawyer is severely criticized (p. 70), and the so called “Spruchkammern”, civil courts
where people have to prove that they never were Nazis, are illusory as
evidence tends to be bought. You can feel a cold draught from the time of
terror, “kall fläkt från skräckens tid” (p. 75)7. Anarchic syndicalism was
in those days sceptical concerning the state as such. Germany became a
good example for Dagerman to corroborate his thesis.
III. The Question of Deeper Reality and the Absurd
The importance of silence is emphasized in this work as well as in
many other Swedish literary works of the 1940s: “The silence and passive
submission of these apparently insignificant people gave a sense of dark
bitterness to that German autumn.” (p. 5.) Even reality as such seems to
be questionable:
It is important to remember that statements implying dissatisfaction with or
even distrust of the goodwill of the victorious democracies were made not in
an airless room or on a theatrical stage echoing with ideological repartee but
in all too palpable cellars in Essen, Hamburg or Frankfurt-am-Main. (p. 9).
One of the persons asserts: “Why not see this too in a historical perspective, why not judge what has happened as if it had happened a hundred years ago? Strictly speaking reality doesn’t begin to exist until the
historian has put it into its context and then it’s too late to experience it,
and vex over it, or weep. To be real, reality must be old.” (p. 115). But
at the same time the man with the stick passes the whole bread queue;
somehow very brutal power seems to dominate a reality that does not exist (p. 115).
342
Sometimes Dagerman notices an idiotic absurdity. Hannover was destroyed, but the prominent statue of King Ernst August of Hannover was
not damaged at all (p. 19); Ernst August being extremely unpopular in his
own kingdom. The new kind of consolation could also be said to be typical of the 1940s: “It is not a matter of finding consolation in the midst of
distress – distress itself has become a consolation.” (p. 19). Thus Dagerman shares the metaphysical scepticism of the 1940s. Even if we know
nothing about the deeper reality that we are dependent upon, it makes us
the victims of its revenge and we have to accept the absurdity of human
existence and the fact that distress has become a consolation.
IV. The Psychology of the Germans
What kind of Germans does the narrator of German autumn meet?
Some of them are bitter. In the chapter “Bombed Cemetery” we meet
Fräulein S., once the owner of a fishmonger’s shop, who now inspects ruins to check that those who are able to work really are at work: “Fräulein
S. is said to be very bitter but at the same time grateful for a job that gives
her the chance of keeping her bitterness on the boil.” (p. 29). Many Germans feel that they do not deserve the punishment they are now getting.
(p. 30).
Another interesting character is the lawyer, who has a friend who
writes comical novels, once a silent anti-Nazi, nowadays a “master of
fragile resignation who leans over the equally fragile Meissen porcelain”
(p. 38). Even more intellectual is the hermit writer who has isolated himself in a villa in the Ruhr district writing books and giving lectures on
Burckhardt and Mörike, “a young author with the tired smile and the aristocratic name, smoking cigarettes for which he has traded away books,
drinking tea whose taste is as bitter as the autumn outside.” (p. 113).
There is also something double-bound about the unimportant persons
who are accused of being Nazis in the “Spruchkammergericht”, Herr
Krause and Herr Sinne (p. 78–81). But of course also more proletarian
persons, like the man who plays a “portable organ” on Sundays and a
simpler “barrel-organ” on weekdays appear in the book (p. 43). Even a
hysteric girl in a wheel-chair is focussed at the end of one of the articles
(p. 58).
The essential theme for Dagerman is that a new kind of morality is developed: “The new morality postulates that there are conditions in which
it is not immoral to steal since in these circumstances theft means not de-
343
priving someone of his property but a more just distribution of available
goods; likewise black-marketing and prostitution are not immoral when
they have become the only means of survival.” (p. 45). The new reasons
for keeping together are cynically formulated: “The knowledge that none
of them needs to suffer alone has generated a kind of communal wellbeing.” (p. 56). Obviously the young generation has Dagerman’s sympathy.
The desperation of young people is often focussed. Dagerman criticized
the egoists: “anyone who knows the art of wearing whatever colours he
chooses” (p. 82) is a very free translation of “den som kan konsten att sko
sig med vilket läder som helst”8.
In showing complicated characters reacting in complicated ways
Dagerman fulfills the intentions of his contemporaries. Drastic formulations is another common trait among the poets and prose writers of the
1940s. Dagerman quotes Brecht: “Erst kommt das Fressen, dann die Moral” (p. 14). “Apathy and Cynicism (“…dann kommt die Moral”) were two
conditions which marked the reactions to […] the executions in Nuremberg and the first elections (p. 15). The German spirit of the late 1940s is
obviously dominated by bitterness and apathy.
V. The Paradox
The Paradox is a common rhetoric strategy of the generation of the
1940s, sometimes in weaker forms, when describing both metaphysical
and social reality. Karl Vennberg, for instance, writes about the choice
between the indifferent and the impossible. When Dagerman describes the
advent of the refugees from the East he concludes:
Their presence was both hateful and welcome – hateful because they arrived
bringing with them nothing but their hunger and their thirst, welcome because it fed suspicions which one would willingly entertain, distrust which
one would willingly cultivate, and despair by which one would willingly be
possessed.( p. 5–6).
Another situation reminding us of a paradox is the description on p.
96 of “det fattiga och hederliga, det välmående och tvivelaktiga”; the ”pathetic confrontation [. . .] between two kinds of Germany: the poor but
honest, the prosperous but dubious (p. 96)9. When he describes politics
Dagerman also tries to formulate pseudocontradictions: the Allied Forces
are accused of ”the attempt to eradicate militarism by means of a military
regime” (p. 16).
344
VI. The Ruins
The ruins are extremely important in Tysk höst; one of the chapters is
even called “Ruins” (p. 19). In the first chapter the writer seems to take
a journalistic cynical position: “Ruinhögar av internationell typ” – “high
piles of rubble (standard international variety)” (p. 8)10. But later, at the
end of the Bombed Cemetery chapter, Fräulein S. describes the bombed
cemetery as a sort of objective correlative to Germany: “This is Germany,
Mr. D., a bombed cemetery.” (p. 33.) In fact, this is a normal way of
describing cemeteries in the book. “We wander around in this endless
shambles of a graveyard” (p. 23). The ruins are monuments or symbols
of death and destruction. The “fallen Prussian colonnades rest their Greek
profiles on the pavements” in Berlin (p. 19), some Hitler buildings look
like mausoleums (p. 85), and a man who has lost his family walks around
like a “wandering Second World War memorial” (p. 94).
In the chapter of Ruins the ruins are even described as a stage scenery
for a play:
Rusty girders poke out of the gravel-heaps like the stems of long-since foundered boats. Slender pillars which an artistic fate carved out of collapsed tenements rise from white piles of crushed bath-tubs or from grey piles of stone,
powdered brick and melted radiators. Carefully manipulated façades, with
nothing to be façades for, stand there like scenery for a play that was never
performed. (p. 21)
Interestingly enough this Hamburg landscape is compared to Guernica
and Coventry, more conventional symbols of evil human destruction: “All
the figures of geometry are on display in this three-year-old variation of
Guernica and Coventry” (p. 21).
Death can also be connected to erotics, at least when making advertisements: “On big posters a young woman, her skull showing faintly beneath
the mask of the faces, warns against venereal disease. One has to learn to
see death in every woman one meets.” (p. 102.) Many people cannot get
on the trains, of course, but Dagerman prefers to focus on a woman who
cannot get on the train, although she must reach a deathbed (p. 107).
It seems that the Ruins are not only symbolic ruins but also possess
the metaphysical qualities of Walter Benjamin’s ruins in his book about
The Baroque German Plays11. The whole world seems to be a place of
execution. The hermit writer of the last chapter seems to hide in a very
serene baroque attitude where suffering is transformed into something
345
sublime; but after having left him the narrator seems to see “a chubby
baroque angel” “displaying his ghostly wings against the darkening ruins”
(p. 117); “den en barockens knubbiga ängel jag tycker mig se avteckna
sina spökvingar mot de mörknande ruinerna.”12
My thoughts go to Lindegren’s important lyric volume mannen utan
väg (1942), where ruins of a general character are mentioned. Both Lindegren and Dagerman can be read according to Walter Benjamin, who
stresses the importance of the baroque ruin landscape, representing a
world waiting for a salvation not yet to come. Dagerman had not read
Benjamin, of course, but still his way of making literal ruins metaphysical
and allegoric is similar.
VII. The Metaphors and Intertextuality
Like his colleagues, Dagerman has a good sense of finding good images to represent. The first one is the autumn leaves. The first chapter
begins: “In the autumn of 1946 the leaves were falling in Germany for the
third time since Churchill’s famous speech about the fallling of leaves”.
(p. 5.) The potato, “Germany’s most sought-after fruit” (p. 28), is used
several times, and in the 12th chapter a green apple eaten by a small girl
stays in focus. Another symbol is the cake of the Liberal lawyer, which is
even called “symbolic” (p. 41). It consists of false cream and dry bread.
A story about a Goldfish is told by a soldier as a story in the story: The
four occupiers of Berlin “rule over a pond and each has his own goldfish.
The Russian catches his goldfish and eats it up. The Frenchman catches
his and throws it away after pulling off the beautiful fins. The American
stuffs his and sends it home to the USA as a souvenir. The Englishman
behaves most strangely of all: he catches his fish, holds it in his hand and
caresses it to death” (p. 49). Dagerman also quotes allegorical phrases like
in “In Deutschland ist nix mehr los” (p. 103). Many of Dagerman’s images and metaphors are those especially cherished by his generation. One
of them is the winter. Dagerman’s Munich chapter begins: “A Sunday in
early winter in Munich, with a cold sun” (p. 83). A favorite in Greek mythology is Sisyphus, a famous cat of Karl Vennberg was even named after
him. In Tysk höst the woman who wants to go by train from Celle to Hamburg with four heavy potato sacks is compared to Sisyphos: “She does not
yet know that she is a Sisyphus who has rolled her stone up to the hilltop;
soon it will tip over and vanish far below” (p. 108). Friedrich Hölderlin
was especially celebrated in 1943, 100 years after his death. Vennberg
346
introduced him to a Swedish audience in Arbetaren, and Lindegren published a poem, later included in Sviter (1947). Dagerman writes: “We can
imagine that German soldiers with Mörikes’s poems in their inside pockets subjugated Greece, or that after yet another Russian village had been
levelled to the ground the German soldier returned to his interrupted reading of Hölderlin, the German poet who said of love that it conquers both
time and bodily death.” (p. 114). A last example is the theme of Ascension
and airplanes could be found in W.H. Auden’s The Event of F 6 and in
Lindegren’s imagery13. Tysk höst ends with a final overview when the
plane leaves Frankfurt:
Three thousand five hundred metres. The ice-ferns thicken on the windows.
The moon has risen, a frosty ring round it. We are told of our whereabouts.
We are flying over Bremen but Bremen is not to be seen. Lacerated Bremen
is lying hidden beneath dense German clouds, impenetrably hidden as the
mute German agony. We fly out over the sea and on this rolling, marbly floor
of clouds and moonlight we take leave of Germany, autumnal and icebound.
(p. 120)
Intertextuality is extremely frequent in the poetry of Lindegren and
Vennberg and in the prose of Oswald. In this context I would like to point
out an important example that shows the method of Dagerman. On p. 76
a line from the second stanza of the Horst-Wessel-Lied is quoted, “Die
Strasse frei den braunen Batallionen”, in the context of the trials. When
Tysk höst was written the song was very well-known, also in Sweden. The
reader is thus reminded of the whole stanza:
Die Straße frei den braunen Bataillonen.
Die Straße frei dem Stumabeilungsmann!
Es schau’n aufs Hakenkruz voll Hoffnung schon Millionen.
Der Tag für Freiheit und für Brot bricht an!
[“Clear the streets for the brown battalions,
Clear the streets for the stormtroopers!
Already millions look with hope to the swastika
The day of freedom and bread is dawning!”]
Obvious keywords are “bread” – the lack of food is a frequent theme
in the book – and “hope”, contrasting the despair, or hopelessness, of
postwar Germany. The apparently superficial quotation in fact stresses the
347
ironic contrast between the dawning hope of the Nazis (the losers of the
war) and the despair of the postwar Germans, a despair of course caused
by the illusions of the Nazis14.
VIII. The function of the artist
The Swedish generation of the 1940s is very far from idealism, as well
as from agitprop or l’art pour l’art. Literature has an aim to fulfill, but this
aim is metaphysical. The dream of the artist is that his work of art might
transform suffering, a good example is the woman who reads Rilke with
her friends in a concentration camp. But in the actual context this woman
does not want to write about the force of poetry, she would prefer to write
about her husband who has turned mute after spending eight years in
Dachau. In Dagerman’s Tysk höst art is usually contrasted to poverty and
it is frequently superseded by physical reality. Thus, the metaphysical aim
of art is not shown to be a failure, but it is treated with a certain distance,
a distance typical of Dagerman, but not of his generation.
Notes
1
2
5
6
3
4
9
7
8
10
11
12
13
14
348
Stig Dagerman, Samlade Skrifter, med kommentarer av Hans Sandberg. Vol.
1–11, Stockholm, 1981–1983; Vol. 3, Tysk höst, Stockholm, 1981.
Karin Palmkvist, Diktaren i verkligheten. Journalisten Stig Dagerman [The
Author in Reality. Stig Dagerman as Journalist], Stockholm, 1989.
Ibid, 268.
Ibid.
See the map in Palmqvist, p. 95.
All page references in this paper are references to Robin Fulton’s English
translation of the book: German Autumn, London & New York (Quartet Books), 1988.
The Swedish quotation is from Dagerman, Tysk höst, p. 89.
Ibid, 56.
Ibid, 116.
Ibid, 11.
Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama (Ursprung des deutschen Trauerspiels), translated by John Osborne, London (Verso), 1992.
The Swedish quotation is from Dagerman, Tysk höst, p. 140.
Concerning Lindegren and the ascension theme: Lysell, Roland, Erik Lindegrens imaginära universum (diss.), Stockholm, 1983.
The Horst-Wessel-Lied was first published in the Berlin Nazi newspater Der
Angriff in September 1929. The approximate English translation is quoted from
http://en. wikipedia.org/wiki/Horst-Wessel-Lied.
Regioninės literatūros istorijos
paieškos
Looking for Regional Literary
History
Aušra JURGUTIENĖ
T. Ševčenkos str. 31,
��
LT-03111, Vilnius
[email protected]
Santrauka
Pastaruoju laiku augant globalizacijai, plečiantis Europos sąjungai ir stiprėjant nacionalinių literatūrų metanaratyvų kritikai, vis aktualesne tampa regioninė
literatūros istorijų modeliavimo bei tyrimo tendencija. Be jos neapsieina ne tik
patys naujausi Europos literatūros identiteto įsivaizdavimai, tautinės literatūros,
praradusios homogeninę „tautos dvasios“ aureolę, tyrimai, bet ir tautinių mažumų,
etninių grupių ar tarminių literatūrų gaivinimai. Toks įvairiai profiliuojamos regioninės atminties žadinimas gali būti motyvuotas tik šiandieninės literatūros interpretatorių savimonės ypatumais. Kodėl literatūros istorijose, šalia turėto etnocentrinio tapatybės modelio, vis labiau šiuo laiku įsitvirtina įvairių profilių regioniniai
tapatumo modeliai, kvestionuojantys paveldėtą savo vs. svetimo opoziciją? Kuo
regioninės atminties kūrimo pastangos gali būti svarbios ir perspektyvios atskirų
tautų individams bei jų visuomenėms? Šiems klausimams, pasirėmus konkrečiais
naujausių regioninių lietuvių literatūros tyrimų pavyzdžiais, pranešime yra ieškoma konkrečių atsakymų.
Esminiai žodžiai: etnocentrinis tapatumas, daugiakultūriškumas, istorinė atmintis, Baltų regiono literatūra, Rytų-Vidurio Europos regiono literatūros koncepcija, postkolonializmas.
Summary
Lately, with the rise of globalization, the development of the European Union and the strengthening of the critique of national literary metanarratives, the
regional tendency in writing literary history becomes more and more topical. Not
only the latest conceptions of the identity of common European literature and the
analyses of national literature now devoid of the homogeneous aura of “national
spirit“ but also the enlivening of minority literatures, and ethnic or dialectal literature, cannot manage without it. Such stimulation of multi-profile regional memory
can be motivated only by the peculiarities of the self-consciuosness of the contemporary interpreters. Why do various regional models of identity that question the
opposition of one‘s own to other’s and replacing the previous ethnocentric model
of identity now get stronger positions in literary history? Could regional recollec-
349
tion deveIopment efforts be interesting and important to individuals of separate
nations and their societes? The author of this article refers to concrete examples
from recent regional investigations in the history of Lithuanian literature and seeks
concrete answers to these questions.
Key words: ethnocentric identity, multicultural historical memory, Baltic regional literature, conception of the literature of East-Central Europe, postcolonialism.
Intense and full-scale revival of historic memory that commenced together with the Singing Revoliution (and Reform by Gorbachiov) still
remains strong in Lithuania. This fact is witnessed by increasing publishing of memoires, reminiscences and highly rated television broadcastings
prepared by historians. The Institute of Lithuanian Literature and Folklore
(LLFI) with its programme activities focused on the history of national literature researches. Three latest works stand out as the most fundamental ones: XX amžiaus lietuvių literatūra (1995, 1996) (20th Century
Lithuanian Literature) by Vytautas Kubilius, Lietuvių literatūros istorija:
XIX amžius (History of Lithuanian Literature: the 19th Century) (compiled
by Editor-in-Chief Juozas Girdzijauskas, 2001), and Lietuvių literatūros
istorija: XIII–XVIII amžius (History of Lithuanian Literature: the 13th–18th
Centuries) (written by Eugenija Ulčinaitė and Albinas Jovaišas, 2003).
Besides, we could also mention Lithuanian literature (1997) and Literatur in Freiheit und Unfreiheit (2002) prepared by Kubilius in foreign
languages, and A Short History of Lithuanian Literature (2002) written
by a famous emigrant literary critic Rimvydas Šilbajoris. All these new
books have set one task “to present the correct and objective history of
literature” which was distorted by Marxist ideology in the times of Soviet
occupation.
However, we cannot help but hear increasingly more criticism expressed towards such a national history. This criticism is of two kinds:
first of all, there is scepticism, which is more and more frequently expressed by Western scholars in relation to histories of national literature.
Rethinking Literary History – a selection of articles by famous scholars issued by Oxford University Press in 2002 – could serve as a good example
of it. In this book, the authors – although some more and others less – in
unison question the writing of national literary histories. It is interpreted
as a rudimental phenomenon stemming from the culture of Romanticism
in the current uniting Europe and in the entire world of globalization.
350
Secondly, there is an increasingly more open criticism aimed at historicism and the positivistic metanarrative, and the need to update the methodology for writing literary history. Therefore, the fundamental compensatory Lithuanian literary histories – intended for literature of the 19th and
20th centuries – received not only well-deserved compliments on fulfilling
expectations of the public but also well-deserved questions on whether the
cultural historic school tradition that combines views of positivistic and
hermeneutic historicism and its fostered metanarrative are sufficient in
order to write contemporary histories? Do not the most up-to-date Lithuanian literary histories – written on the basis of the “hermeneutics of trust”
and modernity – deserve more critical reflections? “Whatever is written
now are broadbrush subjects, Soviet histories. The enduring value of these
texts will be revealed in the future”1. “Unfortunately, in our case we are
still asking the same questions as in Soviet times. This is the reason why
we are getting the same answers and replicate the same trains of clichés”2
; “Is the impartial history of the 19th century possible? These days, histories that are in search of total impartiality are drawing to an end”3. Most
of new literary history critics maintained that rewriting histories can no
longer be limited to usual corrections of ideological nature because they
require essential changes of methodological character, which would be
initiated by the post-modern hermeneutics of suspicion, reception, and
the new historicism. Without this, literary studies in Lithuania that broke
free from the Soviet Union will sustain the unchanged old dictatorial and
normative thinking and evaluation habits, as well as common depiction
structures and clichés, only dressed in the masquerade of new style conceptions.
This means that new expectations related to a more in-depth audit of
methodological and philosophic thinking and evaluation habits of writing
literary history are forming in the post-Soviet society. This is the second
reason that makes us go deeper into the issues of historic self-perception
complications. Especially conceptual discussions on this issue were held
in conferences organized by the Lithuanian Literature and Folklore Institute4 and conventions of the World Lithuanian Philology Community5.
From all of these discussions, yet another critical thought of an emigrant
scholar Saulius Sužiedėlis should be mentioned:
During the period of approx. 1940–1990, there was a failure to create Lithuanian historiography both in Lithuania and among emigrants, i.e. the dialogue
between different perspectives that would expand our horizons. Different de-
351
velopments occurred in the Western academic life, where the struggle continued between volatile historic interpretations as well as lively search for new
methodological prospects. In other words, as the first generation of modern
historians (Ivinskis, K. Avižonis, J. Jakštas, and others) were deprived of conditions to create in emigration and the others who remained in the motherland
had to stand the Soviet censorship, it was somewhat forgotten what the science of history was. The stagnation of critical and innovative history among
emigrants was the result of isolation and conservation, and in Lithuania—the
outcome of political oppression. 6
A more exhaustive knowledge of historiography of Western Europe –
which was mentioned by Sužiedėlis – commenced in Lithuania only after
the restoration of independence.
In the world overtaken by globalization, national literature can no
longer be perceived as the greatest value. The younger Lithuanian literature researchers come to this conclusion more and more frequently:
“Following the meltdown of the National Revival, it is possible to refuse
that fetishist stereotype of a united and pure imaginary community”7. The
spreading multicultural phenomena and the migration that grew stronger
together with globalization of the world economics deny the territorial
integrity of the national culture and demand new contemplation. After
Lithuania became a member of the European Union, it not only experienced an intense migration of citizens to other countries of Europe, but
also started receiving newcomers from other nations and different races
who clearly would not want to identify themselves with the locally designed national culture model but declare cultural diversity and independence of their own identity. The growing problem of newcomer integration
on the one hand, and the necessity to suppress the emerging racist manifestations on the other, as well as the imperative democratization of the
post-Soviet society had inevitably encouraged historians to transfer from
closed national literary models to open pluralistic comparative culture
models. Literary historians felt they came short of the national distinctiveness idea that was so carefully fostered in the 19th century and during the
years of occupation, so they started getting more interested in “others”
around the world and getting more in touch with the multicultural reality
of today as well as reflecting more on the concept of hospitality.
What is the purity of the idea of one language or one ethnic group –
which is anchored in national literatures – when history always and everywhere provides us with trends of mixing and changing nations, cultures,
and languages? No wonder that Lithuanian literature from the end of 19th
352
century always generated national values and marginalized everything
non-Lithuanian. So the greatest challenge to historians of Lithuanian literature (and culture) was to revisit the multicultural heritage of the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth (in 16th – 18th centuries) as well as works of
Adam Mickiewicz and Vilnius school of Romanticism together with colleagues from Poland and avoiding nationalistic pushing and pulling towards one side of another. The multicultural aspect of the research should
help to better reveal moments of encounter and communication of national cultures rather than their hostility moments alone. All former disputes
regarding the national identity of Mickiewicz should lose their meaning
as the only obvious and specific fact of his work is becoming clear, i.e.
the multiculturalism without privileging either one national principle of
the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Such an important multicultural aspect
has already been more broadly applied in the most recent researches of
the old Lithuanian literature: Darius Kuolys, Asmuo, tauta, valstybė LDK
istorinėje kultūroje (A Person, the Nation, and the State in the Historic
Culture of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania) 1992, Dainora Pociūtė, XVI–
XVII a. protestantų bažnytinės giesmės (Protestant Hymns of the 16th–17th
Centuries) 1995, Sigitas Narbutas, Lietuvos Renesanso literatūra (Literature of the Lithuanian Renaissance) 1997, Eugenija Ulčinaitė, Retorinės
kultūros ir embleminio mąstymo modeliai (Models of Rhetorical Culture and Emblematic Thinking) 1997, Eglė Patiejūnienė, Brevitas ornata: Mažosios literatūros formos Lietuvos Didžiosios Kunigaikštystės
spaudiniuose (Brevitas Ornata: the Forms of Small Literature in the Publications of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania of the 16th-17th Centuries 1998,
Brigita Speičytė, Poetinės kultūros formos: LDK palikimas XIX amžiaus
Lietuvos literatūroje (The Forms of Poetic Culture: Legacy of the Grand
Duchy of Lithuania in Lithuanian Literature of the 19th Century) 2004,
Dalia Dilytė-Staškevičienė, Kristijonas Donelaitis ir Antika (Kristijonas
Donelaitis and Antique) 2005. Also, we must admit that very important
regional research of the cultural history of Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth today is not satisfactory and that a closer collaboration between
the scholars of the two countries.
Few programme works could be defined as vivid samples of national
literary history transformations to regional history: History of the Literary
Cultures of East-Central Europe: Junctures and Disjunctures in the 19th
and 20th centuries (eds. Marcel Cornis-Pope, John Neubauer, vol. I-II,
Amsterdam: Johns Benjamins Publishing, 2004–2006), Baltic Postcoloni-
353
alism (ed. Violeta Kelertas, Amsterdam: Rodopi Editions, 2006), We Have
Something in Common: The Baltic Memory (eds. Anneli Mihkelev, B.
Kalnačs, Tallinn, The Under and Tuglas Literature Centre of the Estonian
Academy of Sciences, 2007). All these works investigate and shape the
literary history according to the regional comparative principle that unites
national cultures according to certain aspect. Such awakening of variously
profiled regional recollection may be motivated only by the self-awareness peculiarities of modern literature interpreters. Would separate nations
like to attribute themselves to the general regional model of culture as
well as the ethnocentric one? Could regional recollection development
efforts be interesting and important to individuals of separate nations and
their societies? And how – in this case – the opposition “own vs. outlandish” could be legitimated? This is because the identity of any phenomenon
is perceived only in comparison to that of the other.
Czesław Miłosz – who is not only a prominent intellectual and Polish
writer, a Nobel Prize winner, but also the most typical descendant of the
Grand Duchy of Lithuania who grew up in Lithuania, in the estate of his
parents by Kėdainiai and graduated from Vilnius University – can help us
to find an answer to this rather difficult question. He – as well as Adam
Mickiewicz – could not imagine his cultural identity without either Poland or Lithuania while designing the multicultural profile of the “Native
Europe” ( or “Rodzinna Europa”, or “Native Realm”):
I understand well that this little book is rubbing salt into wounds and thus will
raise anger in most readers. The Polish orthodoxy exists with a typical variety
of shades and I have noticed that I have wound up beyond its borders [...]. It
may be that some persons feel badly in ethnocentric cultures. Their usefulness
might exactly manifest itself by designing the “connective tissue” where it
seems impossible to reconcile national contradictions. 8
It was exactly his charismatic personality and books – which were
abundantly translated in Lithuania that regained its independence in
1991 – that educated Lithuanians and Polish in new national awareness
and new interrelations that were severely aggravated following the proclamation of Lithuania’s independence in 1918 and the occupation of Vilnius by Polish armed forces in 1919. This writer would be interesting to
us due to his constant identification with his made-up “Native Europa”
or “Native Realm”, which he described as East-Central Europe. Although
being aware that his Utopian concept of East-Central Europe would not
354
be popular either among nationalistically-minded, or among cosmopolitan
people, he persistently and consistently wrote about it in numerous books:
“My roots are there in the East and this is an axiom. Even if it is hard or
unpleasant to explain what I am, still I need to try”9. This means that he
was encouraged to do that by a very important internal cultural and psychological intention to search Europe for difference of his own “Native
Realm” (East-Central Europe) that would not coincide either with Western
Europe, or with Russia. This is how Milosz explained the identity of the
regional “Native Realm” (East-Central Europa): 1) it is a region of nations
that historically was under constant threat of German and Russian military
forces and national oppression, and acted as an “object of sale” in politics;
2) a writer had an especially high social status in them; 3) their literature
focused on politics, moral, metaphysical, and philosophical problems; 4)
its works were influenced by western borrowings which were originally
reworked beyond recognition; 5) the form of creating – a “lack of form”;
6) it is a region that experienced the annihilation of Jews who used to
reside there in great numbers; 7) and finally, these are mostly intermixed
languages and cultures that can best understand each other10.
The famous Czech writer Milan Kundera – who was a great supporter
of Miłosz’s idea of Central Europe – was mostly concerned in differentiating the Region from Russia by underlining the Region’s greater rationality
and influence made by Enlightenment ideas, meanwhile indicating works
by Dostoevsky as typical examples of Russian simulated sentimentality.
Miłosz emphasized this East-Central Europe difference from Russia even
by contrasting privileges of noblemen and tradition of the Parliament of
the Grand Duchy of Lithuania with the Russian monocracy of the tsar.
And the resistance of – East-Central Europe from Western Europe was
reasoned by him with the help of ideas regarding Western literature created among ruins of values as it was expressed by Robbe-Grillet in international writers’ conferences. So the opposition of West and Central Europe
is still valid on the stale stereotype of opposition of hedonistic Roman
Empire and barbarians from the East. We can trace the tradition of such
interpretation and at once its ironic travesty from the Greek poet Constantine Cavafy’s (1863–1933) Waiting for the Barbarians (1904) to the
Lithuanian mythologist Gintaras Beresnevičius’s (1961–2006) book Imperijos darymas: Lietuvių ideologijos metmenys: Europos Sąjunga ir Lietuvos geopolitika XXI a. pirmojoje pusėje (Forging an Empire: Sketches
of Lithuanian Ideology: The European Union and Lithuanian Geopolitics
355
in the First Half of the 21st Century, 2003). The stereotypical attitude of
Westerners that the East poses only a menace of barbarians is once again
resurrected in these works with no hidden ironic distance, and the paradox of a barbarian identity is discussed. The myth of the “Native Realm”
could be continued by adding yet other exotic “peculiarities”, in Lithuania the most popular of which was the idea of synthesis of the Western
and Eastern Cultures (Stasys Šalkauskis, Sur les confins de deux Mondes,
1919). But for us, the development motivation is no less important than
the content of the “Native Realm” idea.
The creation of the myth or ideological concept of “Native Europe”
(“Native Realm”, East-Central Europe) is not only limited to the desire to
learn more about oneself through comparing oneself to other Europeans.
Miłosz also explained a desire of this new identification from his pragmatic “American point of view” that he gained after emigration from Soviet Poland to the USA. He proposed that the myth of the “Native Realm”
is very important for daily life purposes and practical cultural education of
others. It might help the West to better learn about something that recently
seemed so totally alien, only “barbaric”, “unknown”, and “new” Europe.
According to Miłosz, the creation of the “Native Realm” concept helps
resisting the cultural globalization and nivelation:
I will make no secret of the fact, that while talking about Central Europe I am
simply looking for a stick I could use to fight not only the East but also the
West. You see, I always denied the fact that I had been remade into a West
European or American writer.11
In the global space of science and studies, the “Native Realm” concept gives a chance to design an appealing general university course and
required materials (handbooks, samplers, and readers), as isolated and
weak national cultures from Central and East Europe would not anchor
themselves in study programmes of US and European universities. Besides, Miłosz believed that it is very important to discover a new identity
model for your own culture that would overreach the border of classical
nationalism. And the regional cultural identity could become that identity
model as it would no longer dispose of extremeness of “pure nationality”
that already lost its appeal, but would still help preserving its distinction:
If the nineteenth century patriotism examples are suffering a crisis, a new
identity is sought for. Thus, my family myths and my constant focus on a
356
Polish-Lithuanian duality probably means the same – I am looking for an
identity beyond the classical borders of nationalism as it is described in the
handbook of the professor Chrzanowski.12
These briefly phrased Miłosz’s thoughts and ideas, I hope, may encourage us to seriously consider a possibility of the regional cultural
memory and regional identity.
The book entitled History of the Literary Cultures of East-Central Europe: Junctures and Disjunctures in the 19th and 29th centuries (eds. Marcel Cornis-Pope, John Neubauer, vol. I-II, Amsterdam: Johns Benjamins
Publishing, 2004–2006) – which was written by a large group of authors
of various nationalities – provides us with the postmodern deconstruction
of separate national literatures and remodelling into the wider regional
cultural model of East-Central Europe. It practically realizes the Central
European cultural concept, which was rather widely discussed by Miłosz
and Kundera. Editors and publishers of the aforementioned book used
the term “imagined communities” employed by Benedict Anderson and
do not believe that their offered imagined East-Central European cultural
model would be somewhat better than the former imagined ethnocentric
culture models, but hope that its intention to pursue an encouraging openness of national culture and the need for a better culture is the most important one at the moment, for regional multicultural literary studies are
“destroying” the insularity and purity rather than the national treatment
of literature by focusing on the local/global investigation of relation between facts. In this book, the history of national conflicts in East-Central
European Region is transformed to the new communicative structure of
cultures that enrich each other.
The Baltic Region culture and literature researchers are taking a similar path as well. In these latter years, scientists of the Under Tuglas Literature Centre of the Estonian Academy of Science, Institute of Literature,
Folklore and Art of the University of Latvia, and Lithuanian Literature
and Folklore Institute have been carrying out joint memory researches of
the Balts and organizing biannual conferences as well as launching the
periodical of their works entitled We Have Something in Common: The
Baltic Memory,(Tallinn: The Under and Tuglas Literature Centre of the
Estonian Academy of Sciences, 2007) and Back to Baltic Memory: Lost
and Found in Literature 1940-1968, (ed. Eva Eglaja-Kristone, Benedikts
Kalnačs, LU Literaturas, folkloras un makslas instituts, 2008). The Baltic
memory is an ambiguous concept which has several different meanings
357
that initiate different trends of research: ethnographic, geographic cultural
and historic political. If to perceive the Balts as a separate branch of the
Indo-European parent language and pre-Christian culture of the ancient
tribes, we would deliver the genetic lingual and ethnographic research (in
which – apart from Lithuanians and Latvians – the cultural heritage of ancient tribes of the Balts would be remembered, i.e. Prussians, Yotvingians
(Sudovians), Selonians, Curonians, Semigallians, meanwhile Estonians as
Finno-Ugric people would not be attributed).
If to perceive the Balts as nations of the Northern Europe that settled
by the Baltic Sea (Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Iceland, Finland, Germany,
Poland, Russia, Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia) we would be able to carry
out their geographic cultural research. In Lithuanian culture, this trend
of self-perception would be supported by a strongly entrenched image of
Vilnius and the entire Lithuania as Athens of the North, which stimulates
the geographical axis of Europe’s Southern and Northern countries. The
genesis of the image of Athens of the North – works of Lithuania of the
Renaissance, which on the basis of a similarity between the Lithuanian
and Latin languages the theory of origination of Lithuanians from Romans was derived13. The chronicles of Lithuania of the 15th–16th centuries
(Bychowiec Chronicle) contain the legend about Palemon who came from
Roma and gave the origin to the dynasty of Grand Dukes of Lithuania14.
No wonder that the vision of Athens of the North was brought back again
in visions of Oscar Milosz, a descendant of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania,
French symbolist, Lithuanian diplomat and active supporter of Lithuania’s independence in 191815. Following the restoration of independence
in 1991, the conception of Athens of the North was meaningfully remembered and reiterated in the heading of the first independent cultural weekly. Lithuania as a geographical cultural formation of Northern Europe was
also described in books written by Kazimieras Pakštas The Baltoscandian
Confederation (Chicago, 1942), Kultūra. Civilizacija, Geopolitika (Culture. Civilization, Geopolitics, Vilnius, 2003), on the basis of whose ideas
Silvestras Gaižiūnas initiated the Baltoscandian Academy in Lithuania in
1991.
If we perceive the Balts as an image of “three sisters” (Lithuania,
Latvia, Estonia) living in USSR ocupation, the research should be directed towards historic political memory. It is exactly this direction that
is taken by researches mentioned in the book. In the deep past (until the
18th century), the three Baltic States had little historic generalities. In me-
358
dieval times, Estonia and Latvia did not create states or join the political
power of their Nordic neighbours (Germans and Danish). Lithuania, on
the contrary, created an Empire and played a significant part in the history of Europe until the 16th – 17th century. A political union with Poland
consolidated the historic relations of Lithuania with Central Europe where
the place of Latvia and Estonia was marginal. Estonia and Latvia at the
beginning of the 18th century and Lithuania following the third partition
of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth (1795) – although under more
complicated conditions – were occupied by the Tsarist Russia. During the
occupation the name of Lithuania disappeared from maps and official documents, and became the “North-Western District” (Severo-Zapadny Krai).
In 1918-1939, all three Baltic States gained and retained their independence until the second occupation. Following the Secret Protocols of the
Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, a political spectacle takes place simultaneously
in all three States – they all unanimously request “joining the USSR” in
194016. Unfortunately, only the common trauma of two occupations by
the Russian Empire and later by the Soviet Union now creates realistic
preconditions that allow talking about distinction of the region of three
Baltic States. Although in the Soviet Union, cooperation of 15 “brotherly
republics” was delivered and controlled from Moscow, it is no secret that
Lithuanians, Latvians, and Estonians have always been feeling especially
closely bound by a common destiny. This region’s identity clearly manifested itself at the end of the ninth decade after national reform movements were established and the so-called Singing Revolution commenced
with its most important action – the Baltic Way (1989), when people were
holding hands all the way from Vilnius to Tallinn to express their joint
will to be liberated from the idea of the Soviet Union. It is only in 1991
– following the restoration of independence and statehood – Lithuania,
Latvia, and Estonia made their way into the outlook of the international
community as new states. This sort of gave rise to the political usage of
the term “Baltic” that unites three states (in interwar period, Finland and
sometimes Poland as states that got liberated from occupation of the Russian Empire after the First World War were also named Baltic States).
The prospect of comparative researches of Baltic cultures can no longer be imagined without postcolonial, ideological criticism, and new innovations in historicism that are wider introduced in the book Baltic Postcolonialism (ed. Violeta Kelertas, Amsterdam: Rodopi Editions, 2006).
Concentrating on the topic of national distinction that predominates in the
359
narratives of national literature and basing on new methodology as well as
value focus, joint researches of cultural memory of the Baltic States are
currently being carried out.
Most middle and new generation Lithuanian literary scholars come to
very clear conclusions that the developing phenomena of globalism (capital
movement flows and new investments, labour force migration, spreading
of book translation software, and tourism, the boom of commercial entertainment culture, and development of international scientific programmes)
demands from a historian to change the stereotype of national literature
narration. And that is only possible in two ways: strengthening the self-critical reflection and activating the sense of multicultural present. The growing
national and cultural diversity of the contemporary humankind is the key
cause that forces historians to look for new narrative methods by replacing
national models by the regional comparative ones where no literature would
be presented as universal or privileged. As the contemporary historian can
no longer ignore the criticism of historicism and metanarrative, and can no
longer continue telling the sacred national literary history, the problem of
literary regionality becomes one of the most actual.
References
1
2
3
4
360
Antanas Kulikauskas, Lituanistika dabarties visuomenėje: tradiciniai ir
nauji uždaviniai: I diskusijų stalas, Priklausomybės metų (1940-1990) lietuvių
visuomenė: pasipriešinimas ir/ar prisitaikymas (“Lithuanian Linguistics in the
Contemporary Society: Traditional and New Problems: The 1st Round Table
Discussion, Lithuanian Society during the Years of Dependence (1940–1990):
Resistance and/or Conformity”), Vol. 2, Vilnius: World Lithuanian Philology
Community, 1996, 58.
Violeta Kelertienė, Lengvai pučia keturi vėjai lietuvių literatūrologijoje,
Priklausomybės metų (1940-1990) lietuvių visuomenė: pasipriešinimas ir/ar
prisitaikymas (“Four Winds Breeze in Lithuanian Literary Science, Lithuanian
Society during the Years of Dependence (1940–1990): Resistance and/or Conformity”), Vol. 2, Vilnius: World Lithuanian Philology Community, 1996, 69.
Alfredas Bumblauskas, Lituanistikos tyrinėjimo būdai: naujos temos ir metodai: II diskusijų stalas, Priklausomybės metų (1940-1990) lietuvių visuomenė:
pasipriešinimas ir/ar prisitaikymas (“Research Methods for Lithuanian Linguistics: New Topics and Methods: The 2nd Round Table Discussion, Lithuanian Society during the Years of Dependence (1940–1990): Resistance and/or Conformity”), Vol. 2, Vilnius: World Lithuanian Philology Community, 1996, 134.
Senoji Lietuvos literatūra: Literatūros istorija ir jos kūrėjai (“The Old Lithuanian Literature: Literary History and Its Creators”), Vol. 17, Vilnius: ILLF,
2004; Senoji Lietuvos literatūra: istorijos rašymo horizontai (“The Old Lithua-
5
6
7
8
9
10
13
11
12
14
15
16
nian Literature: Horizons of History Writing”), Vol. 18, Vilnius: ILLF, 2005.
Priklausomybės metų (1940-1990) lietuvių visuomenė: pasipriešinimas ir/ar
prisitaikymas (“Lithuanian Society during the Years of Dependence (19401990): Resistance and/or Conformity”), Vol. 2, 1996; Lituanistika XXI amžiaus
išvakarėse (“Lithuanian Linguistics on the Threshold of the 21st Century”)
Vol. 2, 1997; Lituanistika pasaulyje šiandien: darbai ir problemos (“Lithuanian Linguistics in the World Today: Works and Problems”), Vol. 3, 1998.
Saulius Sužiedėlis, Istorijos politizavimas išeivijoje ir Lietuvoje, Lituanistika
XXI amžiaus išvakarėse: tyrinėjimų prioritetai, metodai ir naujovės (“Politicization of History in Emigration and Lithuania, Lithuanian Linguistics on the
Threshold of the 21st Century: Research Priorities, Methods, and Novelties”),
Vol. 1, Vilnius: World Lithuanian Philology Community,1997, 18.
Artūras Tereškinas, Kūno žymės: seksualumas, identitetas, erdvė Lietuvos
kultūroje (“Bodily Signs: Sexuality, Identity, and Space in Lithuanian Culture”), Vilnius: Baltos lankos, 2001, 124.
Czesław Miłosz, Tėvynės ieškojimas (“In Search of a Homeland”), Vilnius:
Baltos lankos, 1995, 12.
Czesław Miłosz, Gimtoji Europa (“Native Realm”), translated by J. Tumelis,
Vilnius: Regnum Fund, 2003, 6.
Maištingas Czesławo Miłoszo autoportretas: Pokalbiai su Aleksandru Fiutu
(“Czesław Miłosz: A Contradictory Self-Portrait: Conversations with Alexander
Fiut”), translated by B. Jonuškaitė, Vilnius: ALK/Alma littera, 1997, 340-353.
Ibid., p. 345.
Ibid., p. 353.
“We are drawing knowledge from Moscovians, which has nothing ancient and
can not invoke virtue as Ruthenian language is alien to us – Lithuanians, i.e.
Italians who originated from Italian blood […]. Indeed, our forefathers Roman
citizens and worriers arrived to these whereabouts”, Mykolas Lietuvis, Apie
totorių, lietuvių ir maskvėnų papročius (“On Customs of Tartars, Lithuanians,
and Moscovians”), quote from Alfredas Bumbliauskas, Senosios Lietuvos istorija 1009–1795 (“The History of Ancient Lithuania 1009–1795”), Vilnius:
Paknys Publishing House, 2005, 206.
“Prince by the name of Palemon, [...] [was running], bringing along everything
and five hundred Roman patricians with him. [...] And he [Palemon] sailed to
the Mediterranean taking with him one astronomer who understood stars. They
were sailing by ships over the sea in North direction and – bypassing France
and England – entered the Kingdom of Denmark. And in the Kingdom of Denmark they entered the sea-ocean and over this sea-ocean they arrived to the
river mouth where Neman River enters the sea-ocean”, Bychowiec Chronicle,
quote ibid(em), 207.
Neringa Putinaitė, Šiaurės Atėnų tremtiniai (“Exiles of Athens of the North”).
Vilnius: Aidai, 2004, 68–92.
Mika Waltari (Nauticus), Tiesa apie Estiją, Latviją ir Lietuvą (“The Truth
about Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania”), translated by Stasys Skrodenis, Vilnius:
VPU Publishers, 2005, 55.
361
XXI amžiaus pastoralė: „naujieji
išvietintieji“ šiandienos prozoje
The XXIst Century Pastoral:
“New Displaced Persons” in
Contemporary Prose
Livija MAČAITYTĖ
Vytauto Didžiojo universitetas
S. Daukanto g. 58, LT-44248 Kaunas
[email protected]
Santrauka
Išvietinimas (deteritorizacija) arba tautos be namų, be valstybės (tėvynės) ir be
savasties jausena – tarsi natūralus, skirtingų literatūrologų bei kultūrologų įvairiapusiškai tyrinėtas, visą egzodo literatūrą vienijantis motyvas (Jonas Mekas Semeniškių idilės, Pulgis Andriušis Anoj pusėj ežero, Marius Katiliškis Užuovėja). Paradoksalu, tačiau šiuolaikiniai lietuvių literatūros tekstai, panašiai kaip XX amžiaus
istorinių pervartų (karai, tremtis, sovietinė okupacija, cenzūra) situacijoje „gimę“
kūriniai, aktualizuoja sudėtingą išvietinimo situaciją. Tačiau šis „bevietiškumas“
kitoks nei egzodo rašytojų tekstuose, nes XX amžiaus pabaigos – XXI amžiaus
pradžios žmogus atramos bei stabilumo jau nebesuranda nei gimtosios šalies gamtoje, tėviškės laukuose, nei urbanizuoto miesto gatvėse (Marius Ivaškevičius Istorija nuo debesies, Jolita Skablauskaitė Trečiasis tūkstantmetis, Jurga Ivanauskaitė
Miegančių drugelių tvirtovė, Gintaras Beresnevičius Paruzija, Andrius Jakučiūnas
Tėvynė, Sigitas Parulskis Murmanti siena, Renata Šerelytė Mėlynbarzdžio vaikai).
Pačia bendriausia prasme pastoralė vaizduoja nostalgiją praeities, kokios nors hipotetinės laimės ir ramybės būsenos, kuri realybėje buvo kažkaip prarasta (John
Anthony Cuddon). Būdama simboliniu prarastojo rojaus sinonimu, ji suponuoja
gamtos vs kultūros dichotomiją, pirmykštį natūralumą bei archaiškumą priešpriešindama urbanistinei miesto kultūrai. (Post)kolonialistinėse literatūrose kalbėjimas
pastoraliniais terminais įgyja ideologinį valentingumą. Kaip pastebi Lawrence Buell, „naujųjų pasaulių“ pastoralizacija, t.y. kolonizuotų šalių bei jų gyventojų vaizdavimas kaip kitų, kitokių, laukinių, egzotiškų davė pradžią skirtingų nacionalizmo formų gimimui Europoje, Lotynų Amerikos šalyse, Afrikoje bei Karibuose.
Taigi, savo esme pastoralė reiškia ir globiančią, tautos gyvybingumą saugančią
bei nacionalinį jos savitumą arba kultūrinį skirtumą reprezentuojančią uždarą vietą
– topos. Visos tapatybės, o ypač tautinės, yra sukuriamos, išreiškiamos ir patvirtinamos erdvėje ir erdvės. Tačiau ar, perfrazuojant vieną iš pastoralizmo teoretikų
Terry Gifford, pastoralė egzistuoja šiuolaikiniame rašyme? Ar apskritai įmanomas
kalbėjimas pastoraliniais lokalios kultūros skirtingumo, nacionalinės savivokos
išskirtinumo ar idealizuotais tautos bendruomeniškumo terminais, jei dominuojan-
362
tys šiuolaikinės globalizacijos „produktai“ – tautinių tapatybių niveliacija, nacionalinių kultūrų hibridizacija, lokalaus virtimas globaliu, subjekto susvetimėjimas,
atskir(t)umas, bevietiškumas, pasimetimas laike ir erdvėje? Žvelgiant į šiuolaikinės lietuvių literatūros prozos tekstus, ryškėja specifinių vietų ir/ ar erdvių (tiesa,
naujų, visiškai netikėtų bei neįprastų, lyginant su visą XX amžių dominavusia
kultūrine tradicija) pastoralizacija. Tad koks yra esminis kalbėjimo pastoraliniais
terminais šiuolaikinėje lietuvių literatūroje tikslas (pastoralinio naratyvo intencionalumo klausimas)? Kokį vaidmenį pastoralė atliko/ atlieka lietuvių kultūroje bei
visuomenėje? Kokią tautą mato/ vaizduoja lietuvių literatūros kūrėjai šiandien? Ir
koks vaidmuo pastoralei, kaip specifinei nacionalinės kultūros formai, tenka pakitusioje bei nuolat kintančioje XXI amžiaus pradžios situacijoje? Siekis atsakyti
į šiuos klausimus, kartu praplečiant tradicinę pastoralės (kaip konkretaus bei apibrėžto literatūrinio žanro) sampratą, yra esminis šio straipsnio tikslas.
Esminiai žodžiai: pastoralė, tautinis tapatumas, kultūrinis skirtumas, trečioji
erdvė, (be)vietiškumas, šiuolaikinė lietuvių proza.
Summary
Deterritorialization, or the sense of the nation without a home, without a country (Motherland) and without a self-image in the exodus literature is already an almost natural, widely analyzed, and universally accepted phenomenon. Under critical historical circumstances, which threaten the survival of the nation (wars, exile,
Soviet occupation, censorship), the forest, wood, nature (later the village was included) were the places to which people were running, where they were searching
for support and shelter, and which were perceived as the lost paradise – pastoral.
The end of the 20th c. And the beginning of the 21st century mark radical changes
not only in Lithuanian literature, but also in the national consciousness and selfawareness. The subject of contemporary literature is a rover, a nomad, a person
without place, lost in space and in time, and lost in the seared virtues. However,
this „unplaceness“ differs from the texts of the exodus authors, because the person
of the end of the 20th c. and the beginning of the 21st century finds support and
stability neither in the nature of motherland, fields of homeland, nor in the streets
of the urbanized city. So where are running Lithuanians running today? Where are
they retreating? Where do contemporary Lithuanian writers “place” them, when
the traditional pastoral toponyms no longer “work“ in the changed environment
of the beginning of the 21st century (globalization processes, technical achievements, influence of European mentality or Western traditions)? How and for what
purpose is the image of the Lithuanian as other being created in contemporary
prose? In order to answer these questions, the texts of Marius Ivaškevičius Istorija nuo debesies, Jolita Skablauskaitė Trečiasis tūkstantmetis, Jurga Ivanauskaitė
Miegančių drugelių tvirtovė, Gintaras Beresnevičius Paruzija, Andrius Jakučiūnas
Tėvynė, Sigitas Parulskis Murmanti siena, Renata Šerelytė Mėlynbarzdžio vaikai,
are used in this article.
Key words: pastoral, national identity, cultural difference, third space,
(un)placeness, contemporary Lithuanian prose.
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Šiandieninės kultūrinės globalizacijos rezultatas – spartėjantis XXI
amžiaus pradžios subjekto atsisaistymas nuo konkrečios vietos. Nors atskirose tautinėse bendruomenėse ar kasdieninėje vietinės aplinkos patirtyje
dar išlaikomas tam tikras artumas, tačiau jį žadina jau ne lokalizuotos
vietos savitumai – „globalizacija iš esmės pakeičia santykį tarp mūsų gyvenamų vietų ir mūsų kultūrinių užsiėmimų, patirčių bei tapatumų“, pastebi Anthony Giddens1. Panašias pakitusio socialinio, kultūrinio bei geopolitinio gyvenimo realijas reflektuoja ir šiuolaikiniai lietuvių literatūros
prozos tekstai. Dar Donelaičio bei Baranausko tekstuose „gimusi“ ir visą
XX amžių išlikusi agrarinė–mitinė pasaulėjauta, neišardomas žmogaus
ryšys su žeme, atramos bei užuovėjos suradimas natūraliose, civilizacijos
„nepaliestose“ erdvėse (miškas, pelkės, neįžengiami raistai) ar bendruomeninėje kaimo aplinkoje – tai išimtinai lietuviškąją kultūrą bei jauseną
atspindintys motyvai. Reikšminga, jog XX amžiaus pabaigos – XXI amžiaus pradžios tekstuose šioms, tradiciškai lietuvį saugančioms bei globiančioms vietoms, suteikiamos visiškai priešingos – visos tautos mirtį,
moralinį žlugimą, destrukciją pranašaujančios reikšmės:
Pakeisti mus nutarė [pabr. L.M.]. Šitą mišką ant mūsų užsiundė. Mes nuo
maro drimbam, nuo bado ir nuo mirties, o miško nei badas žudo, nei jam valgyti stinga. Jį žemė maitina, o mūsų nebe. Jau mįslių nebeliko. Jei medis pro
kaminą žvalgos – kokia čia mįslė2.
Amžių sandūros pokyčiai (globalizacija, vakarietiškosios kultūros „įsiveržimas“, lemiantys nacionalinių kultūrų niveliaciją, o kartu ir neišvengiamą tautinių tapatumų maišymąsi) lemia, jog nyksta lokalinės kultūros
nulemti skirtumai. Urbanizacija, šiandieninė globalizacija, migracija „išblukina“ tradicinius lietuviškumo modelius, paremtus pirmaprade gamtiškąja (vėliau – agrarine) pasaulėjauta. Nyksta mitologizuoti lietuvio ryšiai su natūralia aplinka, įsigalint vartotojiškam, pragmatiškam požiūriui į
gamtą („Jau mįslių nebeliko. Jei medis pro kaminą žvalgos – kokia čia
mįslė“). Visa Lietuvos žemė – destruktyvi, agresyvi žmogaus atžvilgiu,
todėl bet kokios pastangos ieškoti užuovėjos bei atramos tradicinėje nacionalinėje kultūroje bei lietuvių tautos sąmonėje vis dar „gyvose“ idealizuotose, saugiose vietose (mitinė žemė-globėja, partizanus globęs miškas,
tėviškės sodyba, kaimas su savo bendruomene) tampa beprasmiškos.
XX amžiaus pabaigoje – XXI amžiaus pradžioje pasirodžiusiuose lietuvių literatūros kūriniuose subjekto nesugebėjimas / negalėjimas atrasti
stabilios, saugios, jo egzistenciją įtvirtinančios vietos tampa dominuojan-
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čiu teksto elementu, kurio pagrindu kuriami apokaliptiški, nacionalinės
kultūros „mirtį“ bei tautos egzistencijos nestabilumą akcentuojantys naratyvai (Marius Ivaškevičius Istorija nuo debesies, Gintaras Beresnevičius
Paruzija, Jurga Ivanauskaitė Miegančių drugelių tvirtovė, Herkus Kunčius Gaidžių milžinkapis). Šiuolaikiniam subjektui saugumo nesuteikia
nei tradiciniai pastoraliniai toponimai (žemė, kaimas, miškas, bažnyčia,
tėvų sodyba ar vaikystės namai), nei tuo labiau – šiuolaikinės kultūros sukonstruotos dirbtinės erdvės: miestas, ligoninės, muziejai, gatvės. Regis,
XX amžiaus pabaigoje – XXI amžiaus pradžioje visoje Lietuvos teritorijoje nebelieka vietos, į kurią, kaip į krikščioniškąjį prarastąjį rojų ar antikinę mitologinę svajonių ir iliuzijų šalį – Arkadiją3 būtų galima pasprukti
ir kuri teiktų nusiraminimą bei užuovėją chaotiškų, žmogaus atžvilgiu
destruktyvių, jam priešiškų jėgų apsuptyje.
Tokiu būdu šiuolaikinė lietuvių literatūra atskleidžia bei aktualizuoja
sudėtingą „naujųjų išvietintųjų“4 situaciją. Nors šiandieninę kultūrą tyrinėjantys teoretikai teigia, jog „vietos jau nėra aiškios mūsų tapatumo atramos“5, o subjekto deteritorizacija bei išvietinimo / bevietiškumo pojūtis
yra tapęs kone natūralia XXI amžiaus žmogaus, kaip „pasaulio piliečio“
būsena, visgi analizuojamuose lietuvių literatūros tekstuose tokia ne-vietos (ang. non-place) patirtis suvokiama kaip destruktyvi visos tautos atžvilgiu, todėl patiriama kaip trūkumas:
Tik Vilnius dar laikosi, o kur jis – jau gerai nežinau. Mes irgi į Vilnių einam,
kaip ir tu, bet pametėm kryptį [pabr. L.M.]. Tikriau, kryptį mes žinom, rytuose Vilnius buvo, kai į Vilnių išėjom, bet ar dar jis ten – negaliu pasakyti, nes
viskas taip pasikeitę, kad galėjom pro šalį praeiti. Negi koks basas kareivis
bėglys pasakys, kokia čia vieta. Jis dar mažiau žino, nes šitos šalies iki karo ir
sapnuose nematė.6
Kalbėjimas „mes“ (visos tautos) vardu, laikmečio sociokultūrinių bei
geopolitinių reikšmių aktualizavimas, išvietinimo / bevietiškumo jausenos
reflektavimas, kartu akcentuojant vietos / įvietinimo poreikį, leidžia kalbėti apie postkolonialistines šiuolaikinės lietuvių literatūros linkmes.
Vieta (ang. place) postkolonialistiniu požiūriu suvokiama kaip sąsajinė, istorijos determinuota bei neišvengiamai susijusi su tapatumu. Ji,
kitaip nei erdvė (ang. space) nėra vertybiškai bei ideologiškai neutrali,
kadangi bet kurioje kultūroje bei kasdieninio gyvenimo praktikose būtent
vieta (o ne abstrakti geografinė erdvė) yra matoma, girdima, užuodžiama,
įsivaizduojama, mylima arba nekenčiama, jos bijoma arba ji yra garbina-
365
ma, apie ją svajojama7. Kaip teigia prancūzų antropologas Marcas Augé,
pastovios, tradicinės, todėl kiekvieno tautos nario sąmonėje įsitvirtinusios
kaip natūralios, artimos bei savos, šios vietos „kuria organišką socialumą
[...] teikia kultūrinį tapatumą bei kultūrinę atmintį ir kasdien pasikartojančia organiška socialine sąveika jos gyventojus susieja su vietos istorija.“8
Taigi, vieta, kaip tikslingai (su)kuriamas, į tautinę savivoką
į(s)teigiamas, o kartu tą pačią tautą vienijantis, jos bendruomeniškumą
bei artimumo pojūtį skatinantis konstruktas, nėra emociškai, kultūriškai
bei politiškai neutrali. Dar daugiau, būtent mitologizuota, kultūriškai bei
emociškai „įmagnetinta“ vieta skirtingais istorijos tarpsniais turėjo (vis
dar turi?) galią kurti bendruomeninius tapatumus.
Lietuvių literatūroje, jau pradedant Baranausku bei Maironiu, pastebima natūralių, civilizacijos nepaliestų gamtos vietų pastoralizacija. „Kalbėjimas pastoraliniais terminais bei tam tikrų kraštų / vietovių suvokimas
kaip natūralių sričių, kur viskas galima kaip rojuje, būdingas kolonizuotų
šalių / tautų literatūrai“, pastebi ir kultūrologas bei ekokritikas Lawrence
Buell9. Todėl neatsitiktinai būtent natūralios, civilizacijos „nepaliestos“,
neapvaldytos gamtos erdvės – giria, miškas – šio laikotarpio tekstuose
tampa lietuvį globiančiomis, dvasinį nusiraminimą bei fizinį prieglobstį
dramatiškose istorinėse aplinkybėse (karai, nutautinimo grėsmė) suteikiančiomis vietomis. Po Antrojo pasaulinio karo, atsidūrus Vokietijoje, jau
nebe giria, o kaimas – ta vieta, kuri sapnuojasi prarastojo rojaus peizažais.
Įvairiose pasaulio šalyse istorijos jėgų išblaškyti lietuvių rašytojai sugrįžta
į kaimą, kaip į idilinę vietą, kurios galbūt jau nebėra, o gal niekada ir nebuvo (Marius Katiliškis Užuovėja, Jonas Mekas Semeniškių idilės, Pulgis
Andriušis Anoj pusėj ežero).
Kritinėmis, tautos išlikimui grasinančiomis istorinėmis aplinkybėmis
(karai, tremtis, sovietinė okupacija) miškas, giria, natūrali gamta, o vėliau ir
kaimas – tai vietos, į kurias bėgama, kuriose ieškoma atramos bei užuovėjos
ir kurios suvokiamos kaip simbolinis prarastasis rojus – pastoralė10. Bene
geriausiai šio laikotarpio nacionalinės kultūros, kuriamos tautinės pastoralės, o kartu ir lietuvių tautos savivokos savitumą atskleidžia J. Mekas:
Aš pavadinau savo skiltį Laiškai iš Niekur. Bet skaitydamas visus šituos laiškus aš jaučiau, kad tie laiškai irgi buvo iš Niekur. Jeigu neturi žemės, tai tu esi
niekur [pabr. L. M.].
Žemė, žemės, žemei, žemę, žeme, žemėje, o, žeme!
Apleisk žemę – ir visi miestai sugrius.
Apleisk valstiečius – ir pradėk kasti savo paskutinę duobę11.
366
Tad visą XX amžių būtent pastoralinių naratyvų pagrindu formuojamas lietuvio – žemės vaiko, gamtos mylėtojo, darbštaus, dvasingo žmogaus vaizdinys, kuris lietuvių kultūroje bei nacionalinėje savivokoje įtvirtina agrarinį tautos tapatumą bei mentalitetą (lietuvių literatūroje tipiškas
bei nuolat atsikartojantis lietuvio – žemdirbio vaizdinys). Pastoraliniai
toponimai: gimtoji žemė, laukai, kaimas, miškas, giria, gamtos peizažai,
sodyba įsitvirtina lietuvių kultūroje, tapdami lietuviškumo bei nacionalinio savitumo simboliais. Dar daugiau, toks pastoralinis susisaistymas su
mitologizuota, kultūriškai bei emociškai „įmagnetinta“ vieta tampa simboliniu visos tautos išlikimo, ilgaamžiškumo garantu:
Ir ūkininkai, žemdirbiai, valstiečiai buvo, yra ir bus - - ir aš visados būsiu su
jumis, kur bebūčiau: čia, ten, ar Niekur.12
Perfrazuojant J. Meko mintis, galima teigti, jog šiandienos lietuvių literatūros subjektas yra „nei čia, nei ten, nei niekur“. XX a. pab. –
XXI a. pr. ženklina radikalius pokyčius ne tik lietuvių literatūroje, bet ir
tautos sąmonėje bei savivokoje. Šiuolaikinės literatūros subjektas – tai
klajoklis, nomadas, žmogus be vietos, pasiklydęs erdvėje ir laike, pasimetęs „išskydusiose“ vertybėse. Išvietinimas (deteritorizacija) arba tautos
be namų, be valstybės (tėvynės) ir be savasties jausena – tarsi natūralus,
savaime suprantamas bei visą egzodo literatūrą vienijantis motyvas (Jonas Mekas Semeniškių idilės, Pulgis Andriušis Anoj pusėj ežero, Marius
Katiliškis Užuovėja). Paradoksalu, tačiau šiuolaikiniai lietuvių literatūros
tekstai, panašiai kaip XX amžiaus istorinių pervartų (karai, tremtis, sovietinė okupacija, cenzūra) situacijoje „gimę“ kūriniai, aktualizuoja sudėtingą išvietinimo situaciją. Tačiau reikšminga, jog šis „bevietiškumas“ kitoks
nei egzodo rašytojų tekstuose, nes XX amžiaus pabaigos – XXI amžiaus
pradžios žmogus atramos bei stabilumo jau nebesuranda nei gimtosios šalies gamtoje, tėviškės laukuose, nei urbanizuoto miesto gatvėse.
Gyvojoje gamtoje žmonės (homo sapiens) išsiskiria tuo, jog „yra natūralūs svetimšaliai, būtybės be fiksuotų įpročių, galinčios lokalizuoti save
iš esmės bet kur“13, šiek tiek ironizuodami tvirtina ekokritikos atstovai. Ir
visgi tokio įvietinimo, susisaistymo su konkrečia vieta poreikis yra gyvybiškai būtinas, ypač kalbant apie postkolonialistiniam rašymui atstovaujančius tekstus. Grįžtant prie pagrindinio straipsnio tyrimo objekto – šiuolaikinės lietuvių literatūros, negalima nepastebėti, jog Mariaus Ivaškevičiaus Istorija nuo debesies, Jolitos Skablauskaitės Trečiasis tūkstantmetis,
Jurgos Ivanauskaitės Miegančių drugelių tvirtovė, Gintaro Beresnevičiaus
367
Paruzija, Andriaus Jakučiūno Tėvynė, Sigito Parulskio Murmanti siena,
Renatos Šerelytės Mėlynbarzdžio vaikai – tai tik keletas simptomiškausių
prozos tekstų, perpildytų įvairiomis atskiro subjekto ar visos tautos nevietos patirtimis. M. Ivaškevičiaus, G. Beresnevičiaus bei S. Parulskio
veikėjai vaizduojami kaip pasimetę laike ir erdvėje, panardinti egzistencinėje „tarpo“, tuštumos būsenoje. Visa aplinka suvokiama bei patiriama
kaip grėsminga, destruktyvi subjekto atžvilgiu:
Aš esu dabar burbulinis.
Marija net truputį šyptelėjo.
– Ir nėr ko šypsotis, boba, nes ir tu burbulinė sapne. Visa šeimyna – lietus, ir
nėr kur padėti akių, prie lango prieiti bijau, nes ponas gali išgarint.14
Apskritai, bene visuose šiuolaikiniuose lietuvių literatūros prozos
tekstuose Lietuva – tai netikrumo, egzistencinio nestabilumo, netvarumo
erdvė. Aktualizuojamas tradicinių pastoralinių įvaizdžių bei stereotipinių
lietuviškųjų tapatybių „nusidėvėjimas“, negalia, neveiksmingumas. Pradedamas reflektuoti išėjimo / pasitraukimo iš tradicinių, visą XX amžių
lietuviškumą bei lietuviškąją kultūrą reprezentavusių vietų poreikis bei
„kitų“, nepažintų erdvių ilgesys:
Tai toks apavas. Lietuva.
Svarbu ją laiku sunešioti15.
Turėčiau ieškoti kitokios – kvapnios ir nenudėvėtos tėvynės. Tektų pamažu ją
jaukintis, paskui – ja rūpintis ir ją puoselėti. Tai, naujajai, nebeužtektų vien
šuniško prieraišumo ir ištikimybės16.
„Kitų“, pirmapradiškai gamtiškų, nesukultūrintų erdvių ilgesys ypač
juntamas moterų rašytojų (J. Ivanauskaitės bei J. Skabklauskaitės) prozos
tekstuose. Tokios erdvės trūkumas kompensuojamas atsiveriančia erdvine
tuštuma ar visa apimančia ne-vietos patirtimi:
Nerimas skyrėsi nuo kankinamo namų ilgesio visų pirma tuo, kad jame nebuvo namų [pabr. L. M.] – kaip salos, kurioje gali šnekėtis su paukščiais ir augalais. Atsivėrė erdvė, kurioje ne tik kad nieko nebuvo, bet nieko ir negalėjo
atsirasti17.
Benamiškumas ar plačiąją prasme suvokiamas bevietiškumas, kaip
įžvalgiai pastebi vienas postkolonializmo teoretikų Homi K. Bhabha, yra
368
„paradigminė kolonializmo bei postkolonializmo būsena“18. Būti išvietintu šiuo atveju nereiškia būti benamiu. Reikšminga, jog tokiu būdu patiriama benamystė (bevietiškumas) atveria galimybę naujų / papildomų /
tarpinių teritorijų atsiradimui19. Sekant šia mintimi galima daryti išvadą,
jog ir šiuolaikiniuose tekstuose dominuojanti bevietiškumo, nepritapimo
bei nesutapimo su applinka su jausena bei visa apimanti erdvinė tuštuma atsiveria kaip teigiamybė – vienintelė įmanoma, išankstinių identitetų
nekanotuota, kultūros bei ideologijos „nepaženklinta“ vieta. Tai savotiška Homi K. Bhabha minima „trečioji erdvė“, atverianti galimybę lokalių
kontrakultūrų, kaip opozicijos dominuojančioms hegemoninėms kultūroms, radimuisi20.
Anksčiau straipsnyje aptarti, lietuviškosios kultūros bei specifinės tautinės kultūrinės vaizduotės „pagimdyti“ tradiciniai pastoraliniai įvaizdžiai
(miškas, giria, kaimas) visą XX amžiaus antrąją pusę egzistavo kaip opozicija sovietinės ideologijos primetamoms mąstymo bei rašymo klišėms.
Tačiau prieš ką kovoja ir kam priešinasi šiuolaikiniai lietuvių rašytojai
visą lietuvių tautą iškeldami už Lietuvos ribų (M. Ivaškevičiaus Madagaskaras) arba patalpindami mistinėje siurrealistinėje erdvėje (J. Skablauskaitė Trečiasis tūkstantmetis)? Atsakymą pateikia S. Parulskio Murmanti siena pasakotojas:
Staiga visi suprato, kad visiškai nepažįsta savęs, kad laisvas žmogus yra bauginanti, alinanti, sunkiai pakeliama nežinomybė. Niekas taip neslegia žmonių
kaip nežinomybė. Dar sunkiau buvo susitaikyti su mintimi, kad pasikeitė tiktai kameros dydis ir jos kaimynai, bet ne pats kalėjimas21.
Globalizacija, pakitusi geopolitinė pasaulio situacija (Europos Sąjungos atsiradimas, vakarietiškosios kultūros įsigalėjimas) suvokiama kaip
grėsminga, destruktyvi, niveliuojanti lokalios lietuviškosios kultūros pamatines vertes. Šiandieninės visa apimančios globalizacijos ir nacionalinės kultūros sąveikoje, pasak H. K. Bhabha, atsiveria visiškai kokybiškai
nauja kultūrinė – „trečioji erdvė“ (ang. third space). Ir būtent ši simbolinė
erdvė atveria galimybę ribinėms tapatybėms rastis22. Tokių naujų tautinių
tapatumų paieškas / atsiradimą lietuvių literatūroje simbolizuoja lietuvio
kaip kito, salos mentalitetą turinčio subjekto atsiradimas G. Beresnevičiaus Paruzijoje.
Apibendrinant galima teigti, jog išvietinimas (deteritorizacija) arba
tautos be namų, be valstybės (tėvynės) ir be savasties jausena – tarsi natūralus, skirtingų literatūrologų bei kultūrologų įvairiapusiškai tyrinėtas,
369
visą egzodo literatūrą vienijantis motyvas (Jonas Mekas Semeniškių idilės, Pulgis Andriušis Anoj pusėj ežero, Marius Katiliškis Užuovėja). Paradoksalu, tačiau šiuolaikiniai lietuvių literatūros tekstai, panašiai kaip XX
amžiaus istorinių pervartų (karai, tremtis, sovietinė okupacija, cenzūra)
situacijoje „gimę“ kūriniai, aktualizuoja sudėtingą išvietinimo situaciją.
Tačiau šis „bevietiškumas“ kitoks nei egzodo rašytojų tekstuose, nes XX
amžiaus pabaigos – XXI amžiaus pradžios žmogus atramos bei stabilumo
jau nebesuranda nei gimtosios šalies gamtoje, tėviškės laukuose, nei urbanizuoto miesto gatvėse (Marius Ivaškevičius Istorija nuo debesies, Jolita Skablauskaitė Trečiasis tūkstantmetis, Jurga Ivanauskaitė Miegančių
drugelių tvirtovė, Gintaras Beresnevičius Paruzija, Andrius Jakučiūnas
Tėvynė, Sigitas Parulskis Murmanti siena, Renata Šerelytė Mėlynbarzdžio
vaikai).
Šiuolaikiniuose tekstuose lietuviai vaizduojami kaip salos gyventojai
(G. Beresnevičius Paruzija), iškeldinami už Lietuvos ribų (M. Ivaškevičius Madagaskaras, Istorija nuo debesies), patalpinami mistinėje siurrealistinėje antirealybėje (J. Skablauskaitė Trečiasis tūkstantmetis, R. Šerelytė Mėlynbarzdžio vaikai). Regis, pakitus tradicinei, kelis šimtmečius
gyvavusiai, iš kartos į kartą perduotai tautos sąmonei bei savivokai (G.
Beresnevičiaus Paruzijoje itin akcentuojamas lietuvio – žemdirbio, kaimo
žmogaus virtimas „saliečiu“), tradiciniai pastoraliniai toponimai praranda
esminę savo paskirtį, o kartu ir galią saugoti / globoti / globti lietuvį. Dar
daugiau, atrodo jog būtent dėl tokių lietuvių tautos transformacijų šiuolaikiniai rašytojai yra „priversti“ ieškoti visiškai naujų, XXI a. pradžios lietuvio mentalitetą geriausiai atspindinčių / įkūnijančių / įsteigiančių vietų.
Paradoksaliai, tačiau kaip ir šiuolaikiniais prozos tekstais kuriamų
naujųjų pastoralinių naratyvų, taip ir lietuvių egzodo literatūroje bei sudėtingomis tautai istorinėmis aplinkybėmis (karai, tremtis, nutautinimo
grėsmė, cenzūra) „gimusių“ tekstų tikslas išlieka tas pats – (su)teikti guodžiančius, tautos egzistenciją, jos tapatumą bei savitumą (pa)tvirtinančius
sapnus.
Literatūra
1
2
3
370
John Tomlinson, Globalizacija ir kultūra, ALK, 2005, 114–115.
Marius Ivaškevičius, Istorija nuo debesies, Vilnius: Lietuvos rašytojų sąjungos leidykla, 1998, 68.
Arkadija – antikos poeto Vergilijaus „išradimas“, antikinė mitologinis iliuzijų
ir svajonių šalis, gaivios žalumos viešpatija, tam tikras krikščioniškojo Rojaus
sodo atitikmuo, vėliau kaip itin stiprus meninis įvaizdis naudotas daugelio rašytojų. Žr. in: Wolfgang Iser, Fiktyvumas ir įsivaizdavimas, Aidai, 2002.
4
��
Doc. dr. I. Žakevičienės pavartotas terminas, kuriuo pažymima ypatinga
šiuolaikinio – XXI amžiaus – lietuvio būsena, reiškianti įtampą tarp paklusnumo išoriniams globalizacijos dėsniams ir kartu slaptą ilgesį primirštos, tačiau
vis dar gyvos, lietuvio sąmonėje bei savimonėje slypinčios senosios agrarinės
pasaulėjautos arba „niekur nedingusios, tačiau nebemadingos Arkadijos“. Žr.
in: Irena Ragaišienė, Vijolė Višomirskytė, Indrė Žakevičienė, Ekokritikos
akivarai, Kaunas, 2007, 168.
5
John Tomlinson, Globalizacija ir kultūra, ALK, 2005, 114.
6
Marius Ivaškevičius, Istorija nuo debesies, Vilnius: Lietuvos rašytojų sąjungos leidykla, 1998, 68–69.
7
Lawrence Buell, The Future of Environmental Criticism, Blackwell, 2005,
63.
8
John Tomlinson, Globalizacija ir kultūra, ALK, 2005, 117.
9
144–145.
10
��
Remiamasi dr. Vijolės Višomirskytės įžvalgomis.
11
Jonas Mekas Laiškai iš niekur, Baltos lankos, 1997, 29.
12
Ten pat, 145.
13
71.
14
Ivaškevičius Istorija nuo debesies.(Ten pat, p. 134).
15
Marius Ivaškevičius, Istorija nuo debesies, Vilnius: Lietuvos rašytojų sąjungos leidykla, 1998, 75.
16
Andrius Jakučiūnas, Tėvynė, Vilnius: Lietuvos rašytojų sąjungos leidykla,
2007, 81.
17
Renata Šerelytė, Mėlynbarzdžio vaikai, Vilnius: Alma littera, 2008, 140.
18
Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture, Routledge: London and New York,
1994, 9.
19
Ten pat, 9.
20
Ten pat, 9.
21
Sigitas Parulskis, Murmanti siena, Baltos lankos, 2008, 290.
22
Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture, Routledge: London and New York,
1994, 218.
371
IV. TRAVEL LITERATURE
KELIONIŲ LITERATŪRA
L‘Itinéraire de la Terre Sainte de Fr.
Pantaleão de Aveiro – un voyage de
spiritualité
The Itinerary of the Holy Land by
the Monk Pantaleão de Aveiro – a
Spiritual Voyage
Brolio Pantaleão de Aveiro
piligrimystės į Šventąją Žemę užrašai
kaip dvasinės kelionės vadovas
Maria Teresa NASCIMENTO
Universidade da Madeira
Campus Universit��
ário da Penteada
Funchal – Portugal
[email protected]
Summary
Published approximately at the turn of XVI century, the work by the Portuguese Franciscan monk, Father Pantaleão de Aveiro, pursues his long-term pilgrimage aims to the Holy Land, and offers the pious readers the chance to be guided in this long voyage departing from Venice. The itinerary falls within the travel
literature framework. From the narrator-character’s view, the reader perceives the
narrative unfolding of the stages of his trip, the historical, geographical and topographical description of the islands and villages, as well as the report of the navigation incidents, such as storms and ship wrecks. The stopovers often offer the
chance for the encounter with distinct cultures and religions; yet, the view given
to the latter does not necessarily mean the expression of the unsolved dichotomies
from the point of view of faith. Upon arrival at the Holy Land, the reader participates in the narrator’s long tour to each holy destination site to which tradition has
seen it assigned the Lord’s presence. The meaning of each of the places is worth
for his own ability to evoke The Sacred History. The relation between the writing
of the narrative of the visit to the Holy Land and the Bible is, thus, essential. The
holy text comprises the source text, resorting not only to the facts having already
disappeared, but also to the existing ones but with new features. The describing
372
subject becomes thus the mediator of an observable reality in which details and
precise indications abound. These make a world tangible to the reader to which
converge different religious ideologies, claiming to share the same spiritual spaces. But the experience of the sacred allows one to overcome the sensible perception of reality. Through Divin God, the subject may access the unreachable, and
the pilgrimage trip also plays the role of an encounter, unlikely to take place, as at
the outset, from the Other’s perspective, either the native’s or the foreign pilgrim’s
one, but foreshadows the desirable union with the Creator, instead.
Keywords: Itinerary, Holy Land, travel literature, Other, Creator, unreachable.
Objectifs
• Situer l’Itinéraire de la Terre Sainte de Fr. Pantaleão de Aveiro
dans le cadre de la literature de voyage;
• Identifier des marques de spiritualité.
Justification
L’importance de l’ouvrage dans la littérature portugaise du XVIe siècle et le nombre réduit d’études qui lui sont consacrées explique l’option
de cette étude.
Méthodologie
Analyse critique de l’Itinéraire de la Terre Sainte.
L’Itinéraire de la Terre Sainte du moine franciscain, Pantaleão de
Aveiro, dont nous ignorons la date de naissance et de décès, est publié
à Lisbonne chez l’éditeur Simão Lopes en 1593. Il s’agit d’un texte de
proportions considérables (264 folios) qui a connu encore deux rééditions
au XVIe siècle1. Ce genre de récit était attrayant et le voyage amenait aux
sources de la chrétienté. À l’origine des récits de voyage, on peut situer
ceux de pèlerinage qui, à partir du IVe siècle après la découverte du sépulcre de Jésus-Christ, du Golgotha et de la Croix, ont constitué un filon
fleurissant pour ce type de littérature. Jérusalem devrait même à partir de
la considération de son importance mythique et religieuse s’ériger au centre de la cartographie européenne2. Le lecteur est ainsi invité à partager les
joies spirituelles de l’écrivain-pèlerin, comme le sont «les dévots et désireux de visiter la Terre Sainte et ses endroits dans lesquels le Fils Unique
du Père éternel Dieu et notre Seigneur a bien voulu naître et mourir»3.
Le titre, Itinéraire, reflète ainsi un double voyage, mené dans l’espace
et dans l’esprit. Au bout de ce voyage, et comme dans tous ces types de
récits, auteur et lecteur auront pu enrichir leurs connaissances vis-à-vis de
373
l’Autre, leur égal, ou de l’Autre, le Créateur. Abandonnons-nous avec eux
dans ce voyage au départ de Venise passant par Corfou, Zante, Candia,
Escarpanto, Paphos, Limisso, Salines, Nicosie, Japho, Rhama, Jérusalem,
Belém, Biro, Cinyil, Damas, Baruch, Syro, Sydon, Zibileth, Tripoli, Famagouste et enfin Corfou.
Les motivations du voyage sont expliquées dès le début, dans une
dédicace au lecteur. Longtemps tenus les propos de la visite à la Terre
Sainte, l’obéissance due à l’ordre monastique ne l’avait pas encore rendu
possible jusqu’à l’invitation du prêtre Bonifacio de Araguza.
L’écrit, dicté dès le premier moment, permettrait de soustraire à l’oubli
les chemins parcourus, les expériences vécues, mais une réflexion plus
profonde a voulu les faire partager avec tous ceux qui, désireux de partir
en pèlerinage, n’auraient pas pu concrétiser leur dessein. La confirmation
de la qualité du style fondé sur des «mots rudes et grossiers» suit le topos
de la modestie.
Deux chapitres précèdent le voyage proprement dit. En effet, le récit
commence déjà en Italie avec la réunion des moines, éparpillés dans différentes régions, pour remplacer, pendant une période de trois ans, ceux qui
attendent à Jérusalem. C’est le moment où se réalise le Concile de Trente,
sous le pontificat de Pie IV et Pantaleão d’Aveiro, accompagné du Prêtre Gardien de Jérusalem, a le privilège de s’y rendre, ce qui fait retarder
le voyage, les premiers cinquante-huit moines les ayant précédés de trois
mois vers l’Orient. À Venise, lieu de départ, se rejoignaient les pèlerins
et commerçants de diverses nationalités, tout en essayant de respecter les
périodes comprises entre novembre et le huitième jour de l’Épiphanie, non
conseillées à la navigation. Le Chapitre II – «De la façon d’embarquer»
offre à profusion les détails qui concernent les préparatifs du voyage y compris les tarifs fixés selon les conditions d’embarquement – avec ou sans alimentation à bord, transport, assurance et charges dans la Terre Sainte.
Questions de méthodologie
La rédaction de l’Itinéraire est ultérieure à la réalisation du voyage.
Nous pouvons très bien imaginer l’auteur muni d’un carnet de notes pour
enregistrer les endroits visités, pour relater ses impressions, et surtout pour
laisser des précisions importantes pour ceux qui plus tard prétendraient se
rendre à la Terre Sainte. Dans ce sens, le récit pourrait ne pas respecter
exactement l’ordre suivi dans les visites effectuées pour mieux accomplir
son rôle de guide auprès du lecteur.
374
Pour cette raison, le texte ne manque pas de consignes d’orientation:
les points cardinaux trouvent leur complément dans les expressions «à
droite/à gauche; montant/ descendant» ou encore dans la notation des espaces à parcourir, recourant à l’imagerie des distances atteintes par un
coup de feu ou par un tir à l’arc. Les pas et leur correspondance en miles
sont aussi un important instrument de mesure. Pour que lecteur puisse
juger de la souffrance de Jésus, sont indiqués les pas qu’il a dû parcourir
entre la maison de Caïphe, celle de Pilate et le Calvaire. À Jérusalem, à
l’intérieur de certains monuments, c’est la quantité de marches qui est indiquée pour signaler la transition d’une pièce à l’autre.
Dans la dédicace, déjà l’auteur tenait des propos, répétés jusqu’à la
satiété tout le long du récit, du respect de la vérité puisée dans le témoignage de l’ouïe et de la vision.
Poursuivant cette cible nous le voyons écarter des opinions qui lui paraissent entrer en contradiction avec sa grande expérience vécue.
Le narrateur est extrêmement soucieux de l’authenticité des sources
et la dévotion qu’il prête à un certain endroit est étroitement liée à la mémoire perpétuée par les Écritures. La nature du récit et de son destinataire
sont susceptibles d’imposer certaines contraintes à l’écrit. Il se peut ainsi,
au nom de la vraisemblance, que l’auteur décide omettre des événements
qui, malgré leur authenticité, pourraient ne pas être crus du lecteur. Cela
arrive, par exemple, avec l’omission des détails concernant des événements miraculeux survenus au Couvent du Sauveur. Sur le chemin de la
Terre Sainte, à Corfou, le narrateur et ses compagnons, ayant été invités,
cette fois-ci, par un groupe de Juifs, à assister à la circoncision d’un enfant4, sont clairement mentionnés les motifs pour lesquels la cérémonie ne
serait pas décrite, étant donné sa proscription après l’arrivée de la loi de
la grâce. La décrire, pourrait en plus, éveiller la curiosité des Juifs de son
époque, une affirmation qui nous laisse supposer que la lecture de l’Itinéraire par ce type de lecteur serait une possibilité envisagée par Pantaleão
d’Aveiro. Une situation pareille, mais pensant maintenant aux lecteurs
pieux chrétiens, évitant de les chagriner, consiste à élider le contenu des
disputes théologiques produites à Damas, entre le narrateur et les Juifs
portugais, le narrateur soulignant que l’histoire «prend un chemin un peu
judaïsant»5. Ayant trouvé le moine franciscain qu’ils connaissaient du Portugal, et suite à de grandes manifestations de joie, les Juifs lui ont accordé
une chaleureuse hospitalité, évitant toutefois d’évoquer les différences qui
séparent les deux religions.
375
Le Voyage et les périls de la mer
Le récit du voyage maritime met en relief les spécificités dominantes de
son genre: soit les routines à bord et les débarquements en fonction de l’approvisionnement d’eau et de nourriture ou les échanges commerciaux, soit
les tempêtes inattendues qui font périr vies et embarcation. Reprenant les
mots de l’Ecclésiaste: «celui qui navigue dans la mer raconte ses dangers
et nous nous émerveillons de les écouter»6 l’auteur évoque deux tempêtes.
La première, survenue entre Zante et Candia7, a une durée de trois jours et
trois nuits, la description mettant en relief l’impuissance de l´équipage et
des voyageurs face à la furie des éléments. Craignant la mort, les hommes
demandent la confession et appellent à la miséricorde du Seigneur.
La seconde, à Paphos, a des conséquences tragiques pour un navire
français de grand calibre qui, après s’être fait écrasé contre les rochers,
subit la cupidité des corsaires. Le contraste baroque entre le malheur des
naufragés morts ou blessés et la splendeur ancienne du vaisseau ne laisse
personne insensible8.
Les deux épisodes décrits montrent bien la profonde corrélation entre Dieu et la mer, et l’histoire racontée par un des passagers du bateau
naufragé en est la preuve, imputant la faute du désastre aux péchés des
hommes qui avaient construit l’embarcation grâce à la sueur des pauvres.
Les voyageurs eux-mêmes étaient avides de richesses et parmi eux, il y
en avait qui pratiquaient presque la sodomisation. Ignorant les deux avertissements envoyés par Dieu, les hommes persistaient dans le vice. Le
récit, donnant à voir le spectacle des sinistrés, a des couleurs tragiques:
les larmes affleurent aux yeux et le chagrin au cœur. Mais quand la vie se
voit menacée, l’homme se sent plus proche du Créateur et fait, maintes
fois, des promesses de changement de vie. Il ne manque au témoignage
ni l’exemple de la conversion d’un jeune Juif ni le faux serment d’une
femme juive. L’ayant trouvée plus tard, professant son ancien credo, elle
répondrait que c’était son Dieu qui l’avait sauvée de périr dans la tempête.
La religion de «Franquia» et autres
Le mot «Europe» dans le texte est la plupart du temps remplacé par
celui de «Franquia». Plutôt que la désignation d’un espace géographique,
«Franquia» désigne le lieu d’où proviennent tous ceux qui obéissent à la
Sainte Église et pratiquent la religion selon les rituels latins. «Franquia»
est ainsi point de départ et de retour prenant comme référence la Terre
Sainte et également une marque de distinction à l’Orient9.
376
À Jérusalem, de visite à la Maison Sainte qui garde le Sépulcre de
Jésus, les entrées se font en fonction de l’origine des pèlerins et de ceux
de «Franquia» où l’on leur exige, en plus de l’identification, un paiement
supérieur à tous les autres.
Franquia marque aussi le point de vue du sujet de l’énonciation. Nous
pouvons dire ainsi que la perception du monde se fait selon l’idéologie
de «Franquia», c’est-à-dire, selon les rites latins du christianisme institué
comme paradigme.
Durant son séjour à la Palestine, le narrateur doit, pour des raisons
multiples, et souvent contraignantes, contacter Juifs, Maures, Arabes,
Turcs et les différentes communautés chrétiennes chargées de surveiller
la Sainte Maison. Ces dernières méritent une attention particulière dans
le récit qui s’en occupe le long de sept chapitres, selon l’ordre d’antiquité
de leur mission: Grecs, Arméniens, Georgiens, Jacobites, Chrétiens de
l’Abyssinie ou du Prêtre Jean des Indes, Chaldéens et Latins10. Définir
chaque communauté correspond à la situer dans le contexte d’une pratique idéologique conforme à celle de l’Église Catholique, celle qu’on suit
à «Franquia» . Caractériser chacune de ces communautés consiste donc
à la repérer face aux degrés des scissions par rapport aux rites occidentaux. L’approche émotionnelle du narrateur vis-à-vis ces peuples s’attache
beaucoup à leur éventuelle prédisposition de changement, allant à la rencontre de la manière latine de vivre le christianisme.
Sans tenir compte de grandes dissemblances, le narrateur ne s’exempte
cependant pas de réserver aux Grecs, qu’il accuse de haïr les Chrétiens latins, sentiment qu’ils partagent avec les Georgiens, toute sorte d’épithètes
injurieuses, dénonçant même chez eux la pratique régulière du péché de
simonie11.
Dès le départ de Venise, les pèlerins savaient déjà que, en arrivant
à Jérusalem, ils seraient à la merci des Maures et des Turcs. En effet, il
faudrait leur payer, de façon arbitraire totale, des sommes d’argent qui allaient garantir simultanément leur sécurité et le droit d’accéder à certains
endroits. L’Itinéraire est assez prodigue en détails qui reflètent ce trafic
d’influences qu’il faut gérer et savoir marchander. De ce type de contacts
nés d’une convivialité toujours forcée pourraient déclencher des relations
apparemment amicales comme celles qui s’instituent entre le narrateur et
ses compagnons intégrés dans le cortège de la femme du vice-roi de Damas et son neveu, responsable de sa garde12.
377
Le regard sur les infidèles n’est toujours pas négatif comme le prouve
l’épisode ici brièvement raconté. Le monastère donnait directement sur la
cour de la maison d’un Turc par une fenêtre dont les grilles étaient partiellement détruites. L’amitié entre les moines et cette famille, en particulier
les femmes et les enfants, faisait que chaque jour le monastère recût des
dons de nourriture. De peur que la communication entre les femmes et les
moines pût acquérir des proportions nuisibles, les faisant tomber dans le
péché, le Turc fut averti. Cependant, entièrement convaincu de l’honnêteté de ses femmes et des moines, il refuse de faire disparaître la fenêtre,
déclarant même son intention de la débarrasser du reste des grilles. Et
ses arguments s’appuient sur des mots tellement sages, que son attitude
convertit ce récit dans une véritable histoire exemplaire13.
Ruines et mémoires
La description de l’espace joue dès le début un rôle considérable dans
l’économie de l’Itinéraire. La notoriété du site de Venise lui voit accorder
tout un chapitre – le premier. Entamé le voyage vers la Terre Sainte, nous
pouvons dire que, ce qui fait la progression du récit, c’est le changement
des lieux, strictement liés à des manières distinctes de perception du sujet
descripteur. Pendant la traversée des mers jusqu’à la Palestine, nous le
voyons s’intéresser aux divers sites, aux gens et à leurs modes de vie. Objet de caractérisation seraient ainsi les particularités physiques des différents peuples soit par leurs ressemblances, soit par leurs différences avec
le réel connu. Sur la côte de la Dalmatie, le narrateur dirait par exemple
avoir aimé la façon honnête des vêtements des gens en tout différents de
ceux qu’il avait vu porter par les femmes en Italie et bien semblables à
ceux des Portugais.
Digne de remarque serait également l’hospitalité de quelques-uns de
ces peuples, ce qui permettrait la connaissance de leurs pratiques alimentaires.
Le voyage maritime est susceptible d’évoquer par ci et par là les rapports que certains endroits ont avec certains épisodes de la mythologie qui
ne sont cependant pas l’objet de grand développement, comme celui du
dragon marin14. Il en va de même pour quelques notations d’ordre historique. En fait la description du voyage maritime tient surtout au moment
présent. En revanche, chacun des lieux de la Terre Sainte vit de la mémoire, un mot récurrent dans l’écrit de l’Itinéraire. La mémoire rattache
le présent au passé et permet de remplir les trous:
378
[…] bien que la Terre Sainte ait été entièrement détruite ou presque, on a
une mémoire si étonnante des lieux et des choses de laquelle les Écritures
Sacrées font écho parce qu’ils sont gravés comme sur des pierres vivantes qui
ne se sont jamais tus du temps de Christ Notre Rédempteur et de ses Apôtres
jusqu’à nos jours15.
La relation entre l’écrit du récit de la visite de la Terre Sainte et la Bible est donc indispensable. Le texte sacré se constitue alors comme source
textuelle qui vient au secours non seulement de ce qui a déjà disparu, mais
aussi de ce qui existe avec de nouveaux traits.
La signification de chacun de ces endroits vaut ainsi par la capacité
qu’il possède d’évoquer l’Histoire sacrée. La description ne se fait donc
pas sans appeler au passé qu’on veut à tout prix présentier. Même lorsque
les ruines sont les seules marques d’antan, le sentiment éprouvé devant
une telle rencontre n’est jamais de dégoût, comme si le simple fait d’être
là suffisait par lui-même. En effet, la constatation est que: «Le temps détruit tout, il n’y a que l’amour de Dieu qui est éternel»16.
La vérité est que le voyage à la Terre Sainte est un voyage d’amour, de
rencontre avec le Créateur. Revoir les endroits qu’IL a parcourus et faire
la prière, c’est pour pouvoir se rapprocher de LUI. Et l’Itinéraire accomplit aussi sa mission quand il propose des exemples de prières à l’usage
des pèlerins, accompagnés de grâces (indulgences ou rémission des péchés) reçus lors de chaque visite. Le sentiment dont le narrateur nous fait
part à plusieurs reprises est celui du soulagement, éprouvé au voisinage
des espaces sacrés qui le rendent plus proche de Dieu.
Malgré toute la spiritualité inhérente à la construction de l’Itinéraire,
nous ne sommes pas devant un ouvrage de contemplation, constatation
autorisée par le texte lui-même dans les mots que nous lui empruntons,
écrits lors de la description de la crucifixion: «mon intention n’est pas
d’écrire des méditations, ni de faire des exclamations, mais simplement
de raconter et d’écrire ce que j’ai vu et j’ai marché, et de jouir d’avoir
marché et d’avoir vu.»17
Conclusion
La Terre Sainte est un lieu de contradictions, où différents crédos sont
forcés de cohabiter, partageant un héritage dont chacun se réclame. La
percevoir au gré de convictions individuelles pourrait invalider la rencontre avec l’autre. Mais l’expérience du sacré permet de dépasser la réalité
sensible. Jouissant de l’amour de Dieu, le sujet peut accéder à l’insaisissa-
379
ble et le voyage de pérégrination joue aussi le rôle d’une rencontre, qui ne
se produit plus, comme au début, à l´égard de l’Autre, natif de ces endroits
ou pèlerin étranger, mais préfigure la désirable union avec le Créateur.
Notes, bibliographie
José Nunes Carreira mentionne l’intéret pour cette destination religieuse depuis
le siècle XV au Portugal. José Nunes Carreira, A Terra Santa em Relatos
Portugueses de Viagem (Séc. ��
XVI-XVII), In: CADMO
��
– Revista do Instituto
Oriental, No. 13, Lisboa: Universidade de Lisboa, 2003, 55–78.
2
��
Vide Fernando Cristóvão, Para uma Teoria da Literatura de Viagens, In: Fernando Cristóvão, coord. Condicionantes Culturais da Literatura de Viagem,
Lisboa: Edições Cosmo, 1999, 13–52.
3
��
Vide Dédicace au lecteur, in Fr. Pantaleão de Aveiro, Itinerário da Terra
Santa e Suas Particularidades, 7ªed. , Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade de
Coimbra, 1927.
4
Idem, Chap. IV, 13.
5
Idem, Chap. LXXXVI, 375.
6
Idem, Chap. V, 24.
7
Idem, Chap. V.
8
��
Vide Chap. XI.
9
��
L’explication du mot est donnée au Chapitre XVIII.
10
��
Entre les Chapitres XXVIII et XXXIV.
11
Idem, Chap. XVIII, 118.
12
Idem, Chap. LXXVI.
13
Idem, Chap. XXVI.
��
14
��
Vide Chapitre IX, 36. Maria Laura Monteiro Pereira mentionne le recours relativement commun aux légendes par les auteurs des récits de pèlerinages. Maria
Laura Monteiro Pereira, Viagens de Peregrinação à Terra Santa no século
XVI: perspectiva de Frei Pantaleão de Aveiro, In: Ana Margarida Falcão, Maria
Teresa Nascimento, Maria Luísa Leal, org., Literatura de Viagem. Narrativa.
��
História e Mito, Lisboa:Edições Cosmos, 1997, 207–216.
15
Idem, Chap. XVIII, 71.
16
Ibidem.
17
Idem, ��
Chap. XXIV, 97.
1
380
Encountering the Other in the
Middle Ages: from Ibn Fadlan’s
Account to Michael Crichton’s
Fiction
Susitikimas su Kitu Viduramžiais:
nuo Ibn Fadlano kelionių aprašymų
iki Michaelio Crichton‘o mokslinės
fantastikos
Francesco GIUSTI
SUM – Università di Roma “La Sapienza”
[email protected]
Summary
The Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf, as we read it, is already the literary place
of a cultural encounter over centuries between an old Germanic heroic story and
the Christian culture of the writer, a novel of our days which re-uses the story is
the continuation of a tradition already inscribed in the old poem. But in the poem
another main cultural encounter takes place. If a culture can, or can try to define
himself and narrate its own survival through its hero, a hero needs an antagonist
to define itself: Beowulf’s antagonist is the well-known monster called Grendel.
The article focuses on the encounter with the otherness represented by Grendel in
the original Beowulf and on how it changes in its rewriting in Eater of the Dead
by Michael Crichton (1997): from the threat morally and ethically posed of the
medieval poem to the contemporary anthropological threat revealing our fear of
stages of evolution. Crichton’s novel combines Beowulf’s story with Ibn Fadlan’s
account of his journey among the Bulghars, which gives the novel a geographical
and multi-cultural approach that was absent in the Anglo-Saxon poem. An epic
poem is always a literary space where cultural encounters take place, but these
encounters have to change their features to be felt as relevant in another time and
in another culture.
Key words: Beowulf, reception, Michael Crichton, Ibn Fadlan, rewriting.
Often epic poems contain a clearly stated wish, or a threat, of their
own future survival, and this happens in Beowulf as well, when Whealteow expresses her wish to Beowulf, ll. 1215–12271:
381
Wealhðēo maþelode, hēo fore þæm werede spræc:
“Brūc ðisses bēages, Bēowulf lēofa,
Hyse, mid hæle, ond þisses hrægles nēot,
Þēo[d]-gestrēona, ond geþēoh tela ;
Cen þec mid cræfte, ond þyssum cnyhtum wes
Lāra līðe; ic þē þæs lēan geman.
Hafast þū gefēred, þæt ðē feor ond nēah
Ealne wīde-ferhþ weras ehtigað,
Efne swā sīde swā sæ bebūgeð
Wind-geard, weallas. Wes, þenden þū lifige,
Æþeling, ēadig! Ic þē an tela
Sinc-gestrēona. Bēo þū suna mīnum
Dædum gedēfe, drēam-healdende!
Which in modern English translates to (my translation):
Wealhþēow spoke, before the company she said:
“Enjoy this necklace, Beowulf dear guy,
with good luck, and use this cloak,
from the treasures of the people, and have success;
get well known for your strength, and be generous
in advises to these boys; I will remember the reward.
You gained that from near and far,
men will praise you forever,
as far as the sea, the house of the winds,
surrounds the cliffs. Be blessed, prince,
all life long! With justice I grant you
precious treasures. Be good in deeds
to my children, you who know the pleasures of the court.
The success of this wish, its full realization, is guaranteed by the same
poem we are reading, which starts with the narrator’s words, ll. l–32:
Hwæt wē Gār-Dena in geār dagum
þēod-cyninga þrym gefrūnon,
hū ðā æþelingas ellen fremedon.
And in modern English, almost literally:
Listen! We have heard of the glory
of the kings of the Spear-Danes in former times,
of the daring deeds those princes performed.
382
The poem, as well as Beowulf’s tomb (or, according to Robinson, Beowulf’s shrine3), is a monument to the hero’s memory. Beowulf wants and
deserves a monument as a remembrance among his people, and he wishes
to have it located on a cliff, so that seafarers will see it and, hearing that it
is Beowulfes beorh, will carry his name to distant lands.
It could be that an epic poem is not a telling, but always a re-telling,
and so it is the living-in-word evidence of its same assumption that the
story which takes place in it is worth being re-told. And the Anglo-Saxon
Beowulf, as we read it, is already the literary place of a cultural encounter
over centuries between an old Germanic heroic story and the Christian
culture of the writer. The novel of our days which re-uses the story is the
continuation of a tradition already inscribed in the old poem. But what is
Crichton telling us? What is there to be shown to the reader?
What is meant to survive in the Anglo-Saxon poem besides Beowulf’s
fascinating story, is a whole culture and the narrative of its definition. If a
culture can, or can try to define itself and narrate its own survival through
its hero, a hero needs an antagonist to define itself: Beowulf’s antagonist
is the well-known monster called Grendel. Why a fantastic monster to
define a culture?
It is well known that defining oneself is always a matter of positioning. In order to know where we are culturally, morally, and ethically, we
have to know that someone else is somewhere else, and that this “somewhere” can only be the wrong place. This has always been usual in Western culture even geographically, Bernal suggests that the foundations of a
topographic determinism can be traced back at least to Aristotle’s Politics
(VII.7)4.
In Beowulf the main characterization of Grendel’s otherness, his monstrosity, is expressed in religious and cultural terms which stress his antisocial behaviour. Throughout the poem he is called “Son of Cain”, and it
must be remembered that by killing Abel, Cain destroyed his familial ties
and subsequently, his ties with God; he is a “Wanderer”, someone who
has no home and not even a proper family. He is described as someone
who lives alone where no-one else can live. He is the exact opposite of the
true nobleman living in the joys of the hall – all what Anglo-Saxons called
dream: drinking, eating, music, story-telling – in the organized social life
of the lord’s court. Grendel’s attacks of Heorot, at least before Beowulf’s
arrival, are due to his hatred for the sounds of life in the court.
383
At the same time, Grendel does not represent a far away otherness, a
voyage is not required in order to meet his monstrosity; he is a menace to
be found at one’s door, violating one’s home. Beowulf sails from Geatland (in the south of Sweden) to Hrothgar’s court in Denmark with twelve
fellows, looking for an adventure worthy of his strength, which is the
hero’s usual quest for heroic deeds. Grendel is not his trouble, Beowulf is
a stranger who comes to solve someone else’s problems. Nevertheless, he
is a menace we are genetically tied with, as Cain is always Abel’s brother,
and in the poem we are all Abel’s children5. This is a potentiality that cannot be dismissed when discussing Beowulf’s rewrites, a potentiality the
novel tries to make use of.
Considering Kristeva’s concept of abjection, we can say that in the
poem Grendel is a monster, that is to say a physical embodiment of the
abjected, suitable for both cultures: the pagan warrior society of the Anglo-Saxons who created the story, and of the Danes whose story is narrated in it, because Grendel hates the dream, the highest achievement of
that culture; and the Christian culture who gave a written text of this story,
because of Grendel’s association with the evil counterpart of mankind,
with Cain’s progeny6. To make use of this story in our contemporary culture, to make Grendel be a monster for a contemporary audience some
changes are required. If we want Grendel to be our abjected other, the
object of our fear and rejection, something has to change in his cultural
construction. Let us see how this aim is achieved by the American novelist Michael Crichton.
In order to write the first part of his fiction Eaters of the Dead (1976)7,
or better to say, a mixture of fiction and non-fiction, Michael Crichton
constructs a narrative what in Ibn Fadlan’s account of his journey among
the Bulghars is just a description given by a curious observer of customs
very different from his own, customs of people about whom he states: “I
have never seen people with a more developed bodily stature than they”,
but also “They are the dirtiest creatures of God” and “They are then like
asses who have gone astray”8. In what in the foreword he declares to be
a translation and reveals itself as a creative continuation of the medieval
account9, Crichton creates characters (and cultural phenomena) to confer a fictional reality upon actions described by Ibn Fadlan, such as their
manners when one of them falls ill, the funeral of one of the leading men
of the Rus (or Rūsiyyah, as Ibn Fadlan calls them), their trading (mainly
slave-girls), eating and drinking, wearing and washing, their sexual hab-
384
its, their houses and boats. Mimicking the original, Crichton’s, Ibn Fadlan
is continually concerned with telling the truth, giving an honest testimony
of what he sees and what he has been told, so he often repeats: “I have
seen with my own eyes” or, in the case, he honestly recognizes: “I do not
know”10. In the beginning, in order to create his characters, Crichton takes
names from the Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf, then the story of Beowulf
is taken to carry on his narration, obviously in a revised version, so from
the Bulghar kingdom the Northmen (Crichton’s name for the Rus) move
to Rothgar’s hall, first sailing the Volga northward and then sailing across
the Baltic sea. To understand what happens in Crichton’s fiction we have
to know more about Ibn Fadlan’s account and the occasion of its writing.
The early tenth century, when Ibn Fadlan lived, was the culmination
of great changes in the Islamic world. Over a century had passed since
the establishment of the ‘Abbasid Caliphate in 750, the Islamic religion
was now firmly established from Spain to the frontiers of India and Islamic civilization had been transformed from a society bound to Bedouin
tribal mores into a manifold international culture11. At that time Baghdad
became the largest city in the world, with its densely populated urban area
measuring about 10 kilometres by 9, roughly the same size as Paris within
the outer boulevards12.
These are the features of the world in which Ibn Fadlan was born and
lived as an Arab learned in the laws and customs of Islam and a confidant of the Caliph, so he probably felt he was bringing enlightenment, as
well as a new faith to a region of backwardness and even savagery. Ibn
Fadlan’s mission emerged in response to a message from the king of the
Bulghars (whom he calls Saqaliba). He ruled a kingdom on the upper
Volga River, roughly corresponding to modern Tataristan. His kingdom
included many tribes who performed various pagan rites, as well as some
Muslim converts, and it is likely that he sought to unite all of them under
a single monotheistic faith, and thereby to consolidate his power by creating, in effect, a state religion. Also, since he paid tribute to the Khazars
(the principal hegemonic nation on the steppes of southern Russia) and
wished to be free of this dependence, he sought the support of the enemy of the Khazars to the south of their domains – the area ruled by the
Caliph. The Bulghars’ king asked for aid in building a fortress and for
instruction in the Islamic religion. The inhabitants of Baghdad at that time
knew little about the north and, in a period of intense proselytizing of Islam, Ibn Fadlan was interested in what he saw and heard, as well as eager
385
to instruct the king and his court in Islamic doctrines and practices. Ibn
Fadlan started on Thursday, June 21, 921, following a route which veered
from the well-known path called Silk Road (the main trade route between
the Mediterranean and China’s rich northern plains) only to swing to the
east of the Volga River, avoiding the domains of the Khazars.
In his journal Ibn Fadlan speaks about Islamic Arabs of the Caliphate,
Turkic tribes, Bulghars, Khazars, but the most discussed section is that
about the Rus. James Montgomery gives notes about this portion of
the text, especially on the controversy over whether the Rus were only
Swedes or a mixture of peoples engaged in trade with Bulghars and Khazars13. Probably the Rus were mostly Scandinavian with Slavs and Finns
joined to them over the course of years of settlement in today’s Russia,
but the number of newcomers from Sweden probably was always small
in relation to the native Slavs and Finno-Ugrian-speaking inhabitants.
Sometimes the word “Viking”, “Varangian”, and “Rus” are used interchangeably, but the first term was applied mainly to those Scandinavians
from Norway and Denmark who behaved like pirates rather than merchants14. The Rus or Varangians, on the other hand, were primarily traders, although not averse to plunder. Attempts to differentiate between the
two designations have led nowhere, so we may consider the two as synonymous. The Rus had come to the east in the eighth century and had established themselves in Ladoga in the north as their principal settlement,
but they later transferred to Novgorod. Then they moved south, and Kiev
became their main town. By the time of Ibn Fadlan’s trip, the Rus had
been well established in Novgorod, Kiev, and elsewhere, so those who
came to the Bulghars to trade may have come from any Rus settlement,
“although”, Frye writes, “those described by Ibn Fadlan, we may guess,
came from the north down rivers from the Baltic”15. Those already settled
in towns such as Novgorod probably would not have been so “wild” and
“uncultured” as our author depicts them16.
Although the clothing, jewellery, and arms of the Rus interested Ibn
Fadlan, our author was even more observant of and disgusted by the Rus
practice of washing in a basin rather than having flowing water poured
over their hands and face as the Muslims would do. The presumed superiority not only of the Islamic religion, but also of Islamic practices and
customs over others makes the remarks of our author similar to the attitudes of many European travellers of the nineteenth century in Africa and
Asia. Muslim ablutions and washing of the hands were contrasted with
386
the uncleanliness of the Rus17. Among the customs of the Rus, the funeral
rites made the deepest impression on our author, and Ibn Fadlan goes into
detail about what he saw and what was explained to him by a translator.
But he may have imported into the description Islamic ideas of paradise
as a verdant garden where a dead person would meet relatives who had
preceded him.
Frye comments that Ibn Fadlan’s mission was unsuccessful, the
Bulghar king did not receive the money promised to him, and the fortress
he wished to construct was not built. Close ties between the Caliphate
and the Bulghars were not established. The members of the expedition remained in the bad graces of the Bulghar king, and they may have blamed
their leader Ibn Fadlan for this enmity toward them. The latter did not
succeed in converting the Bulghars from the Hanafi to the Shafi’I school
of Islamic practices and law. In the end, even the book was forgotten,
although excerpts from it were made by others writing about the north.
No manuscripts of his account have survived, which is why the Meshhed
manuscript was touted as unique, but it too was part of a later compilation.
Let us come back to Crichton’s fiction. Ibn Fadlan’s experiences with
the Northmen, in Crichton’s version, involve him in being commandeered
into joining, as the thirteenth warrior, the expedition of the Northmen
leader Buliwyf in aid of King Rothgar and his people who are being beleaguered by a seemingly-inhuman cannibalistic tribe, the “Wendol”. After the long journey across the North, Ibn Fadlan, Buliwyf and his warriors arrive at the king’s hall, where they repel a ferocious night-attack by
the Wendol. Subsequently, they ward off a further assault on Rothgar’s
stronghold before braving the water-protected caves of the attackers. In
the innermost cave Buliwyf kills the matriarch of the Wendol. Though
fatally wounded by this “mother-creature”, he returns to the stronghold
and in the hour before the next dawn stands with his men to face a final
revenge attack from the Wendol, after which the man-eaters disappear
into the mist, never to be seen again. The novel concludes with a description of the ship funeral of Buliwyf and an account of preparations for the
narrator’s departure to his own people.
Such as the Wendol are not a single monster but a tribe of anthropophagic primitive humans, and Grendel’s mother is a priestess and a god
figure for the tribe, so the dragon is not a monster but a military formation
of the Wendol when they are approaching for the final battle18. The battle
387
for survival becomes a meeting and a struggle between cultures: the more
developed heroic culture of the Northmen against the primitive culture
of the Wendol, all witnessed by a third and self-presumed higher culture
embodied by the Arab ambassador. The cultural impact is visible also in
single confrontations, such as a monotheistic religion (Islam) against a
polytheistic religion (Northmen) and writing against orality (with magic
implications about writing).
Ibn Fadlan, as a mediating figure, functions as our educated guide and
representative, and we, as readers, can identify with him and can sympathize with his responses as an un-heroic outsider on a heroic expedition.
He is one of us, so when he is able to rise to the challenge we appreciate
his bravery at a more human level than is possible with respect to Buliwyf
who remains remote, inscrutable and heroic in the novel. So the location
of the “exotic”, of the “other” in this western popular novel is not in the
East but in the north, and the Arab is portrayed in a central positive role:
he is a figure of sensitivity and rational enlightenment (that is why he
gained the approval of the Arab-Americans), which also takes into the
story the author’s rational mode. It is the Northmen who are presented as
part brute and part noble savage. And, what is striking is that the unedifying details come directly from the original part of Ibn Fadlan’s report! In
the novel as well as in the medieval account Ibn Fadlan is the bearer of a
superior culture, and it is Crichton’s authorial will that in the end Ibn Fadlan comes to respect his uncivilized companions.
About the monster, the Wendol, Crichton proposes an identity which
is a scientific rationalization of Grendel and the dragon, and responds
to his attempts to provide a believable basis for his story. The Wendol
would be a group of Neanderthals, which somehow managed to survive
alongside Homo sapiens down the millennia, and which wants its land
back, the land taken by Rothgar’s people. If on the one hand this idea is
a way of rationalising what is unknown and disturbing, giving a scientific
explanation for its existence, on the other hand it causes an anthropological fear of a monster which is the evil side of mankind, such as Grendel in
the poem, fear of something genetically tied with us. A monstrosity which
reveals our inner fear of previous stages of our evolution and civilization:
Ibn Fadlan hardly understands the uncivilized Northmen, the Northmen
don’t understand the even less evolved Wendol. The result of incomprehension is, with all probability, fear. Hugh Magennis is right in saying that
“there is no psychological depth to the threat they pose”19, but not because
388
they are not true evil or because they are existentially definite, as Magennis writes. The threat is not psychological because it is anthropological,
which means that there is no moral distinction between good and evil,
but between different states of evolution of the same species. The anthropological approach is made evident by the intense interest shown by Ibn
Fadlan (and the author) in Wendol’s cultural features and products: small
stone carvings in the shape of a pregnant woman with a bulging belly and
breasts, skulls of giant bears mounted on stout poles to protect the borders
of their land, the custom of collecting human bones and skulls, stone axes
as weapons, bloody sacrifices.
This regressive travel along stages of evolution becomes a travel
across geographical space and different cultures, whereas Beowulf’s seatravel in the medieval poem is fundamentally a journey within the boundaries of the same culture: Hrothgar is a representative of Beowulf’s culture and Grendel is, of course a counterpart, but within the same culture.
While the Anglo-Saxon poem offers Crichton a basic plot and some characters, Ibn Fadlan’s account gives Crichton the chance to turn a monocultural story into a true multi-cultural journey of discovery, using two
sources written roughly in the same age.
Landscape has always some kind of charge in narration, and we can
see a change in the descriptions of physical appearance and landscapes
similar to the change we have just outlined in the monsters. In the medieval poem, Grendel’s inhospitable land and his mother’s cave under the
water are morally charged by the Christian narrator, they are places where
evil finds its home; in the novel, both the cold and windy North and the
Wendol’s misty territory are seen from an anthropological point of view,
that is to say as places where other peoples and cultures dwell, and they
are constantly experienced, by the narrator and by the reader with him,
as very different from the great City of Peace, Baghdad, where the narrator comes from. This interest in environments comes to Crichton’s novel
directly from Ibn Fadlan’s original account and this special feature of
the narrator’s voice is exploited by Crichton to carry on his imaginative
continuation, also because it helps to create the effect of reality of the narration to the reader who feels he is reading a true account of a journey of
discovery turned by chance into a dangerous adventure.
While living together is possible for Ibn Fadlan and the Northmen,
and in the end, a meeting place will be found, even if in hardship, and a
kind of friendship will be born; it seems that the previous state of evolu-
389
tion represented by the Wendol has to be rejected, literally defeated, in
order to carry on one’s – properly human – life. It is worth noticing that
Crichton somehow maintains another central point of the Anglo-Saxon
poem: the reason why Grendel attacks Rothgar’s hall. In the poem Grendel, in his anti-social attitude, hates the dream, the social pleasures of the
court; in the novel Buliwyf and his company secretly believe the Wendol
to be the right punishment for Rothgar’s pride, because he challenged the
gods building such a great and rich hall as Hurot (Heorot in the poem).
Again, it seems to be a battle in cultural terms, a battle against some kind
of progress of civilization.
The Wendol are not one of Ibn Fadlan’s problems, he finds himself involved in someone else’s battle, but fighting together against this dark and
incomprehensible primitive enemy he gets to know the Northmen and the
Northmen get to know him better than before. Crichton’s pseudo-scientific writing creates a “realistic” cultural fight and consciously avoids the
allegorical fight between good and evil which is usually seen in the poem.
Even if scientifically and not morally posed, the threat is not less radical here. Reusing the old bound between Grendel and mankind, Crichton
only updates this bound to bring it up to our contemporary culture. He
introduces into the story our contemporary concern with almost-human,
human-like or human-made beings, and our always problematic relationships with them. To make clear that this is a common trend, we can see
that something similar happens in the recent Icelandic movie Beowulf &
Grendel (Gunnarsson, Iceland, UK, Canada 2005). Another way to modernize the story is to stress the sexual and genetic contact between Grendel and Beowulf or Hrothgar, generically, speaking this is what happens in
two other movies which rewrite the Anglo-Saxon poem: Beowulf (Graham
Baker, USA 1999) and Beowulf (Zemeckis, USA 2007)20. Ruth Johnston
Staver is substantially right when, stressing Crichton’s fictional elements,
she writes: “Many readers will enjoy Crichton’s story , but it should be
read with the understanding that it is not well-researched historical fiction,
but rather fiction masquerading as history”21. But we should also say that
the novel works perfectly as a rewriting of its sources and that Crichton’s
fictional details (superstition about mist, treatment of slaves, sexual matters, for instance) mixed up with historical truths contribute to the effect
on the reader and to the success of the narrative22.
390
References
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
All quotations are from Beowulf. With the Finnesburg Fragment, edited by C.L.
Wrenn, fully revised by W. F. Bolton, London: Harrap, 1973.
On Beowulf’s reception in general, see: Marijane Osborne, Translations, Versions, Illustrations. In: Robert E. Bjork, and John D. Niles eds., A Beowulf
Handbook, Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1997, 341–72; Francesco Giusti, La ricezione contemporanea del Beowulf, Intersezioni, December 2006, 3,
383–394, and Id., Il Beowulf nel Novecento: il fumetto e il romanzo, Linguistica e Filologia, 2006, 23, 211–229.
Fred C. Robinson, The Tomb of Beowulf. In: Fred C. Robinson, The Tomb
of Beowulf and other essays on Old English, Oxford and Cambridge: Blackwell, 1993, 3–19, where Robinson argues that Beowulf’s second funeral is an
apotheosis, a ceremony of ritual deification.
Martin Bernal, Black Athena. The Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization,
London: Vintage, 1987. In that passage Aristotle writes: “Having spoken of the
number of citizens, we will proceed to speak of what should be their character.
This is a subject which can be easily understood by anyone who casts his eye
on the more celebrated states of Greece, and generally on the distribution of
races in the habitable world. Those who live in a cold climate and in Europe are
fully of spirit, but wanting in intelligence and skill; and therefore they retain
comparative freedom, but have no political organization, and are incapable of
ruling over others. Whereas the natives of Asia are intelligent and inventive, but
their era wanting of spirit, and therefore they are always in a state of subjection
and slavery. But the Hellenic race, which is situated between them, is likewise intermediate in character, being high-spirited and also intelligent. Hence
it continues free, and is the best-governed of any nation, and, if it could be
formed into one state, would be able to rule the world.”, Aristotle, The Politics,
VII.7 (1327b, 19–33), ed. Stephen Everson, trans. Benjamin Jowett, revised by
Jonathan Barnes, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988, 165.
According to the story as narrated in the Bible we are all sons of Seth. Having
Cain been killed before he could have children, God gave Eva another son,
Seth, whose descendants were Noah and all the post-diluvian mankind.
Cfr. Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror. An Essay on Abjection, New York: Columbia UP, 1982.
Michael Crichton, Eaters of the Dead: The Manuscript of Ibn Fadlan, Relating His Experiences with the Northmen in A.D. 922, London: Vintage 1997,
first published New York: Knopf 1976, with an Afterword by Crichton, “A Factual Note on Eaters of the Dead”, 182–6, 1993. Crichton’s novel was one of the
two notable fictional rewritings of Beowulf in the 1970s, the other being John
Gardner’s Grendel (New York: Knopf, 1971), which relates Grendel’s story
from Grendel’s point of view, as a first-person narrative.
Richard Frye, Ibn Fadlan’s Journey to Russia, Princeton: Markus Wiener,
2005, 63–64.
Crichton adopts for himself the role of editor and scrupulous annotator of Ibn
391
10
11
12
13
14
392
Fadlan’s sometimes puzzling account, supplying introduction, academic footnotes and other documentations, some of which are real and some of which are
made up. The author’s intention is not to engage in some kind of postmodern
play with the possibilities of fictionality, but to transport the reader in a believable world making believable its words.
Commenting on Ibn Fadlan’s account Montgomery writes: “Perhaps, from an
exclusively Arabic perspective, the most remarkable feature of this account
of the Rūs is the impression it conveys of being essentially detached, indeed
its almost scientific character, eschewing, by and large, the improbable, and
blatantly fictitious, blemishes which loom all too large in the majority of the accounts of foreigners and foreign lands found in Arabic geographical and travel
works. It is a consciously restrained narrative, which does not balk at the opportunity to point to the cultural and religious superiority of Islam, but which is
not drawn by this impulse into wildly extravagant tales, which often pruriently
dwell on sexual improprieties. The account is not, with minor exceptions, a
fusion of tall tales appropriate to a male assembly, the audience which proved
very influential in shaping so much of the Arabic narrative style in the classical
period, but is passably “ethnographic” observation, generally divested of rhetorical filigree and of the propensity for risqué elaboration and the fantastic” in
James Montgomery, Ibn Fadlan and the Rusiyyah, Journal of Arabic and Islamic Studies, 2000, 3, available from www.uib.no/jais/content3.htm, 15 [July
2009].
Richard Frye, Ibn Fadlan’s Journey to Russia, Princeton: Markus Wiener,
2005, 3. Summaries of the work of Ibn fadlan exist, but this is the first complete English translation to be published of what we have of his account. A
translation of the account up to the arrival in Bulghar was published by Robert
P. Blake and Richard Frye, in 1949, Notes on the Risala of Ibn Fadlan, Byzantina-Metabyzantina 1 (part 2), 7–37, and reproduced in Frye, Islamic Iran
and Central Asia, London: Variorum Reprints, 1979, XXIX, 7–37.
Maurice Lombard, The Golden Age of Islam, Princeton: Markus Wiener,
2004, 124–26.
“The Rūsiyyah in the passage which follows are a fine example of ethnic/social
fluidity, combining, as Ibn Fadlān portrays them (assuming, of course, that he
has not himself confused two distinct peoples, either with or without the ethnonym Rūs), both essentially Varangian (costumary, among others) and Khazarian
(regal) ethnic traits. It is quintessentially this fluidity that must be determined”
and “Ibn Fadlān’s traders are the mercantile warrior elite who placed themselves firmly at the top of the Slavic social scale, and his picture attests to the
fluidity of the process of cultural and racial intermingling” in Montogomery, 3
and 14.
This is a much discussed identification among scholars. P. B. Golden writes:
“The evidence is highly circumstantial at best. Given the complexities of their
conjectured origins, it may, nonetheless, not be amiss to view the Rūs at this
stage of their development, as they began to penetrate Eastern Europe, not as an
ethnos, in the strict sense of the term, for this could shift as new ethnic elements
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
were added, but rather as a commercial and political organisation. The term
was certainly associated with maritime and riverine traders and merchant-mercenaries/pirates of “Sakāliba” stock (Northern and Eastern European, Scandinavian, Slavic and Finnic)” in P. B. Golden., Rūs. In: Encyclopaedia of Islam,
viii, Leiden: Brill, 1995, 618–29
Richard Frye, Ibn Fadlan’s Journey to Russia, Princeton: Markus Wiener
2005, 104–5.
“The developing society of the Mare Balticum region was certainly not a national culture in the modern sense. The Danes, the Frisians, and the Rus operating there were a multiethnic, multilingual, and nonterritorial community
composed of nomads of the sea and of urban dwellers in partly eastern, and
partly polis towns and trading settlements. Confirming the theory that the market as an economic organization is the creation of traders and not of farmers or
artisans, the Rus and Frisians appear as international merchants. In this kind of
professional society of a “lower” culture, there is as yet no place for a literary
or sacred language, the basis of a “higher” culture. In urban trading settlements,
different languages served different functions. The vernacular was the medium
of communication within the family and clan, while at least two or more linguae francae were reserved to referential usage. In short, a professional society
developed a low-level, professional culture that was bound neither to a specific
territory nor to a religion that might be expressed through a sacred, written language”, Omeljan Pritsak, The Origin of the Rus’, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard
University Press, 1981, 27.
Discussing the writings of Ibn Fadlan and those of another Arab traveller, Ibn
Rustah, Jaqueline Simpson comments: “The accounts of these Muslim writers are tinged with the amused curiosity of men of an advanced civilization
confronted with those they regard as barbarians, but on the whole they seem to
present a reliable picture of the Scandinavian merchants plying their trade in
Russia”, Jaqueline Simpson, Everyday Life in the Viking Age, London: Batsford, 1967, 113.
The Wendol seems to be inspired to the berserkir, the bear-men of the legendary Germanic tradition.
Hugh Magennis, Micheal Crichton, Ibn Fadlan Fantasy Cinema: Beowulf
at the Movies, Old English Newsletter, Fall 2001, 35.1, 34-8, available from
www.oenewsletter.org/OEN/archive.php/magennis35_1/essays/2/ [July 2009].
For a discussion of Beowulf by Graham Baker see my La ricezione contemporanea del Beowulf, Intersezioni, December 2006, 3, 383-394,
Ruth Johnston Staver, A Companion to Beowulf, Westport: Greenwood Press,
2005, 191.
For a commentary on the truly Germanic material in Ibn Fadlan’s account and
for a comparative view of this text and Beowulf see Hamilton Martin Smyser,
Ibn Fadlan’s Account of the Rus with Some Commentary and Some Allusions to
Beowulf. In: Jess B. Jr. Bessinger and Robert P. Creed, eds., Franciplegius.
Medieval and Linguistic Studies in Honor of Francis Peabody Magoun, Jr.,
London: Allen and Unwin, 1965, 92–119.
393
The Immediacy of Reading Novels.
Travel Fact and Fiction in André
Gide’s Central Africa
Skaitymo betarpiškumas: Centrinė
Afrika André Gide’o kūryboje –
faktai ir grožinė literatūra
Kai MIKKONEN
P.O. Box 3
00014 University of Helsinki
Finland
[email protected]
Summary
André Gide’s departure for central Africa in the summer of 1926 followed
closely the finishing of his literary autobiography Si le grain ne meurt (1926) and
the major novel Les Faux-Monnayeurs (The Counterfeiters, 1926). Some critics,
thus, inspired by the implications that may be involved in this departure for his literary career, have argued that Gide’s travel was in fact motivated by a wish to take
distance from the limitations of the novel genre, not only from the Parisian literary
establishment. The travel, consequently, would have been for Gide a means to turn
away from the category of the novel, the genre with which he had recently, and
amply, exposed his quarrel and dissatisfaction, especially in Le Journal des FauxMonnayeurs. The writer-character Edouard’s journal, included in The Counterfeiters, also voices similar concerns about novelistic pretension and verisimilitude.
However, the assumption that Gide travelled “away from” the novel is not easily
reconcilable with the fact that the writer had in his baggage a number of novels
and that during the journey he engaged in reading many of them with much pleasure, as reported in his travel journal from the former French Congo and Chad. The
travelogue, published retrospectively in 1927 and 1928 as Voyage au Congo and
Le retour du Tchad, was a continuation of the writer’s intimate Journal that he
interrupted for the time of the travel. Frequently in these daily notes, the author
points out not just the immersive qualities of fiction but structures much of his
experience in Central Africa with the help of novels, especially in reference to
Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (1902) and Goethe’s Die Wahlverwandtschaften (1809). Furthermore, Gide continues to interrogate in his entries the relation
between mediated reality and the facts of reality, or between imagination, fiction
and the resistance of facts — questions that are extensively developed in The
Counterfeiters. Besides possible discontinuity, thus, there is compelling evidence
for seeing continuity between the novel and the travel journal. In contrast to the
“rejection of the novel” thesis, therefore, I develop in this article the idea that the
394
germ of travel to Africa is already planted in fiction and that the travel journal
reflects to a significant degree on the power and effects of fiction. In this regard,
I will investigate the functions and uses of novel-reading in travel, with specific
attention to Gide’s systematic exploitation of the novel as a structuring device of
and for experience. The ultimate aim of the article is to illuminate the effects of
complex games of generic mirroring, borrowing, and reversal between self-writing and fiction.
Key words: André Gide, travel, novel-reading, fiction, genre, reality, mediation, generic mirroring.
Reading is a central activity in André Gide’s novel Les faux-monnayeurs (1926) (The Counterfeiters), where almost everyone is an avid
reader, if not also a writer. Reading literature, letters and journals structures much of the characters’ experience. Reactions to books, journals and
letters, and shared readings, have an important function in characterization, as they reveal the character’s inner thoughts, emotions and interests,
and create relations and contrasts between different personalities. Reading
can also play a significant role in terms of perspectival change. Reading
someone’s journal or letter without permission, or as if by accident, which
happens quite often in this novel, always reflects both the reader’s and
the writer’s state of mind, and the nature of their emotional involvement.
Such changes in perspective further mirror the novel’s larger structure in
which excerpts from the writer-character Edouard’s journal are continuously interspersed in the narration, thus imposing on the text a sense of a
criss-cross reading between the third-person narration and a first-person
journal.
Besides serving important functions in presenting the characters’
minds or changes in focalization, the consequences of reading are part
and parcel of the novel’s evolving plot, in which reading incites various
departures and motivates key choices. Gerald Prince has in fact argued, in
thinking of the impressive number of readers and scenes of reading in this
novel, that they provide the novelist with a way to control and measure
narrative voices, and to motivate the evolution of the story, adding to the
complexity of narration in indirect exposition1. The structuring importance of readings is also true in the sense that various scenes of reading
in the novel are tragic, even fatal. The novel starts with Bernard finding
letters from his mother’s lover, which make him decide to leave home;
reading also inspires him later on to become Edouard’s secretary; a letter
makes Olivier feel closer to comte de Passavant; and the reading of the
395
five mysterious words of a talisman provokes the death of young Boris
(or this is at least what those who believe in magic may think). The ability to read and to estimate the full connotations of one’s reading is also
highlighted in that the characters who spend the most time with literature,
such as Edouard and Bernard, seem to be least likely to fall victim to evil,
the demonic forces that are present everywhere – even if in some ways
Edouard, being possessed by his novel-writing project, is also demonic.
But what if we turn our focus from The Counterfeiters to Gide’s African travel journal Voyage au Congo and Le retour du Tchad (translated
into English as Travels in the Congo), which followed the finishing of this
major novel, and think of the many scenes of reading embedded there?
The writer had in fact planned to leave for Africa after finishing Les FauxMonnayeurs, as is revealed in an entry from 1 November 1924 in Journal
des faux-monnayeurs, a journal dedicated to the process of writing The
Counterfeiters, which the writer kept from the summer of 1919 until May
1925. Gide noted that he had postponed his departure for Africa until the
following June in the hope that he could finish the novel before that2.
Another entry from his Journal at the end of May 1925 speaks further of
his expectations of the Congo and of finding the means to fight the apathy
that had recently taken over his life: “je ne compte plus que sur le Congo
pour m’en sortir. La préparation de ce voyage et l’attente des pays nouveaux a désenchanté le présent ; j’éprouve combien il était vrai de dire
que le bonheur habite l’instant. Rien ne me parait plus que provisoire.”3
As to his African travel journal that he kept between July 1925 and
May 1926, it is important to note that Gide does not comment on his act
of writing. The reader is not invited, as he or she is in The Counterfeiters,
to assist in the different phases and hazards of writing, or to scrutinize the
construction of a text, and indeed of a world, from a series of different
perspectives and voices. But what is significant from the point of view
of Gide’s poetics at the time is that the travel journal highlights the act of
reception as immersion, the pleasures of observation and mental alteration, enabled by movement, the changing environment and reading. The
various pleasures and displeasures of travel – and Gide’s early motivation
for the journey, as he describes it in his first notes, is precisely “voyager
pour le plaisir”4 – are frequently framed, complemented and to some extent also controlled, by the pleasures of reading, as the traveller constantly
dives into the classics of Western literature as he simultaneously moves
into the centre of Africa.
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Reading accompanies Gide’s physical penetration into this “heart” of
Africa as a joyful state of being embedded in a book5. Commentary on
readings in Voyage au Congo and Le retour du Tchad is as frequent as in
the writer’s Journal that he interrupted for the time of the travel, or perhaps even more regular, inviting the reader to share the intimate effects
and pleasures of books that accompany various observations of flora and
fauna, African people and spaces. Gide usually reads before and after the
legs of his journey, in the evening, the morning and during pauses. The
books that he has with him fill many boxes, including classics of French
and English literature, such as the fables of La Fontaine, Milton’s epic
poem Paradise Lost and his Samson Agonistes, Shakespeare’s Romeo and
Julia, plays by Molière (Le Misantrophe), Corneille (Cinna, Horace), and
Racine (Iphigénie), poems by Robert Browning, and Chekhov’s travel
story “The Steppe”. Among the novels are, most notably, Conrad’s Heart
of Darkness, Goethe’s Elective Affinities and Faust, the latter two included in a leather-bound Goethe collection in original German, and Robert
Louis Stevenson’s Master of Ballantrae. Gide also has with him a good
number of nonfiction and philosophical texts, for instance, the classics
like Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet’s writings (Traité de la concupiscence; Discours sur la vie cachée en Dieu), or contemporary books like Cuthbert
Christy’s travel book Big Game and Pigmies (1924) and André Cresson’s
Position actuelle des problèmes philosophiques (1924), autobiographical
fiction (The Autobiography of Mark Rutherford), some literary periodicals
and Parisian journals, and a Concise Oxford Dictionary.
Gide seems to spend an enormous amount of time in reading throughout the journey between July 1925 and June 1926. Commentary on literature also marks the beginning of the travel journal. He praises here
La Fontaine, calling his fables a miracle of culture, and wonders if they
are indeed the best literature ever written. He rereads the fables in their
entirety during the first half of his journey, starting on the boat to Dakar.
La Fontaine’s stories point out for Gide, as he explains in the first entry of
his travel journal, the importance of sensitivity in reading. The lightness
of La Fontaine’s expression guarantees the richness of ideas and density
of observation: “Celui qui sait bien voir peut y trouver trace de tout; mais
il faut un oeil averti, tant la touché, souvent, est légère. C’est un miracle de culture. Sage comme Montaigne; sensible comme Mozart.”6 These
remarks set up a kind of a model for sensitivity that the writer-traveller
should emulate in his own observations7.
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To better explain the many meanings in Gide’s commentary on literature and reading in travel, we can draw from David Scott, who has
cogently formulated the basic functions of these readings in organizing
the travel experience. Scott sees, first of all, that Gide’s travel book is
profoundly marked by a “search for découpages that will cut the amorphous mass of jungle experience into comprehensible units”8. The various
scenes of reading respond to this need as types of framing devices that
help the writer come to terms with the foreign reality around him. This
framing and cutting-out process, Scott further argues, involves both the
level of the sign, such as “clichés, instantanés and other images”, and
the “interpretant”, meaning the mental process of interpreting the signs
of African reality. These include “mental images, memories, associated
ideas and taxonomies, whether personal, scientific or cultural”, and other
materials derived from readings9. Literature thus serves Gide either as an
underlying explanatory frame of experience, which helps him to heighten
and detach a given image or experience from the context, or, what is more
frequent, as an interlude between scene changes; as Scott puts it, as “a
curtain to blot out the unfathomable monotony or impenetrability of the
jungle scene”10.
In addition to the general functions of reading as a semiotic frame or
a kind of cognitive black-out, as shown by Scott, we may be able to tease
out some even more precise functions of novel-reading in his travelogue.
In relying on narrative fiction as a major point of reference, especially
with regard to Heart of Darkness (1902) but also to some extent in relation to Goethe’s Die Wahlverwandtschaften (1809), Gide not only organizes the travel experience and manipulates the signs of his reality, but
indirectly poses the questions of the reality of fiction and the fictionality
of reality. We can phrase this latent question of the divide between fiction
and reality (or non-fiction) as a problem of immediacy: How can fiction
achieve immediacy and accuracy? Or how can immediate experience authenticate fiction? The reading and evaluation of Conrad and Goethe in
the travel journal seems to suggest some answers to these questions.
On Conrad
In his travelogue, which is dedicated to the memory of Joseph Conrad,
Gide does not merely use Conrad’s fiction as a major point of reference to
frame and explain his impressions and perceptions of travel, but also to affirm the reality of his perceptions. This is to say that the novella provides
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the traveller with a kind of global frame of reference that extends from the
journal’s beginning to its end. The first of the Conrad references comes in
the form of a long footnote, added to one of the first entries in the journal.
The mention stands out from the other references as a significant metacommentary on the reality of Conrad’s fiction, explaining the necessity
to cite from Heart of Darkness and to resort to this novella as an authority
on the Congo. Gide starts the note by explaining that the town of PointeNoire was the starting point of the Brazzaville-Océan railroad. This leads
him then to mention Conrad’s earlier travels in the same region ten years
prior to the railroad, and to underline the importance of Conrad’s “admirable” book that, as Gide writes, remains still “profondément vrai, j’ai pu
m’en convaincre, et que j’aurai souvent à citer. Aucune outrance dans ses
peintures : elles sont cruellement exactes ; mais ce qui les désassombrit,
c’est la réussite de ce projet qui, dans son livre, parait si vain”.11
The statement suggests not only that Heart of Darkness is “profoundly
real” but that, keeping in mind Conrad’s overall importance for the journal, the novella acts as a guarantee for the reality of the travel experience,
just as the travel guarantees the reality of the novella. This penchant for
reading Conrad’s fiction as fact is repeated later on in an entry for 25
March 1926, when Gide, after reading Conrad for the fourth time, estimates that it is only after having seen the country that Conrad talks about
that he is able to understand the excellence of the description12. The authority of this novella is perhaps equalled only by Lucien Lévy-Bruhl’s
theory of the primitive mind featured in many notes; specifically, the idea
that the so-called primitive mentality cannot differentiate the supernatural
from reality. There is a difference in Gide’s use of these two authorities,
however, in that he had not, in effect, read La Mentalité primitive (1922)
before the journey, but mainly used Lévy-Bruhl’s formulations in hindsight to “theoretically” explain his preconceived notions about the Africans. The rereading of Heart of Darkness during the journey, in contrast,
informs the very motivation for travel, many entries in the journal, as well
as its notes. The book accompanied the traveller throughout his journey.
What is consistent in the references to Conrad’s fiction, mainly Heart
of Darkness but also Typhoon, which Gide himself had translated, is
Gide’s persistent view of them as nonfiction or, perhaps even more than
this, as more accurate than the best nonfiction. In addition to the instances
that I have already mentioned, Gide praises the description of a storm in
Typhoon, that he thinks gives the reader full liberty to imagine the real
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horror of the event. In commenting on the division of the baggage by the
carriers of his équipage, Gide notes a mistake in the French translation of
Heart of Darkness (as Cœur de Ténèbres) in which the measure of half
a kilo (livre) is confused with that of a kilo in reference to the average
weight of one carrier’s load. The status of Conrad’s fiction as an authority
against which interpretations can be adjusted and corrected, and realities
checked, becomes evident also when Gide refers to Conrad’s “admirable” way of talking about the “extraordinary efforts of imagination” that
have been required of Europeans wishing to see black Africans as their
enemies13. In this footnote, Gide undermines certain hostile assumptions
that Europeans have of the Africans’ difference, drawing from Conrad’s
disclosure of such contradictions in his critique of colonialist rhetoric.
The passage from Heart of Darkness that Gide here quotes may, however, be much more radical in its implications than the writer is ready
to admit. The citation comes from Marlowe’s description of six chained
black men who walk in file, passing him only within six inches: “but
these men could by no stretch of imagination be called enemies. They
were called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had
come to them, an insoluble mystery from the sea.”14 What follows, then,
is Marlowe’s interpretation of the reaction of a “reclaimed” black man,
who accompanies these prisoners and hoists his weapon to his shoulder
in seeing a white European. The gesture makes Marlowe infer that: “This
was simple prudence, white men being so much alike at a distance that he
could not tell who I might be.”15 Marlowe’s note indicates a complex understanding of the racial situation where the African, wrongly perceived as
an enemy, may see white men as a group without clear differentiation between individuals, just as the colonials may see the Africans as one mass
of people. This is diametrically opposed to Gide’s recurring lament about
the terrible non-différenciation of the Africans, meaning his impression of
the lack of individuality among the Africans, made about a month before
the above citation16. Gide, thus, holds onto his preconceived ideas of the
Africans while he undermines other racial stereotypes by way of Conrad’s example. He cannot imagine the African’s perspective in the way
that Marlowe suggests may be possible. In this respect, Conrad’s authority also helps Gide to blot out the disturbing possibility that the Africans
could see him stereotypically or with hostility, identical to all white men.
In these references to Conrad’s fiction, real geography confirms literary value, and vice versa. While Conrad’s novella serves Gide as a fram-
400
ing device that guarantees the reality of the places of travel, the journey
enables the writer to live out Marlowe’s adventure. In one of the most
comprehensive discussions of the relation between Conrad’s fiction and
Gide’s travel journal, Conrad and Gide: Translation, Transference and
Intertextuality (1996), Russell West offers an insightful but somewhat
one-sided interpretation of Gide’s use of Heart of Darkness in his travel
writing. The contradiction in West’s argument is that while he shows that
Heart of Darkness thoroughly structures the travel journal, and that Gide
seems to read the novel to a large extent as a documentary17, West simultaneously assumes that Gide gives the novel a secondary status as
nonfiction. In other words, it is not clear from this why the emphasis on
Conrad’s novella as nonfiction would somehow be a sign of its secondary
role, if the book so thoroughly informs the travel journal’s structure.
West argues, more precisely, that Gide reduces the status of Heart of
Darkness to that of a documentary, relegating the novel thus “to a secondary position, subordinated to the relentlessly ‘realist’ nature of Gide’s
travel document”18. The argument might perhaps be supported by a psychologizing “anxiety of influence” thesis in the sense that perhaps Gide
constantly re-evoked Conrad’s novel so that he could better negate its
influence. Gide would thus have wished to show, in giving Conrad such
an authoritative position, that he could outdo Conrad in Conrad’s own territory. Or we might want to suggest, as West does, that Gide remained oblivious to the way Heart of Darkness informed his vision of Africa, that in
a sense Conrad’s powerful presence in the journal was somehow a blind
spot to the writer himself. It seems likely, however, keeping in mind that
the travel journal is dedicated to Conrad’s memory, that the references to
the novella are not oblivious or a simple corroboration of the traveller’s
first-hand observations based on Conrad’s fiction, as West would have it.
Gide’s use of Heart of Darkness is also clearly selective, as the above example about the question of hostile racial images shows.
As the references to Conrad in Gide’s journal confirm the reality of
this fiction, the reliance on Conrad also relocates Heart of Darkness closer
to the domain of travel writing and simultaneously approximates the travel journal to the reality of fiction. Reading the travel journal together with
The Counterfeiters, we may see how the journal takes on and develops
Conradian themes and imagery that are present in the novel. Voyage au
Congo starts where The Counterfeiters closes, that is, with Vincent’s letter
from Africa, the contents of which West appropriately calls a “treasure-
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trove of Conradian tropes”19: the madness-inducing forces of Africa, the
scorching sun, the immense forest, identification with magic and demons,
the wish to escape from civilization and rationalism, and amazing riches
to be found. We may, moreover, ask whether the idea of the novella’s
(nearly) documentary status was really a negative evaluation for Gide at
this particular moment when he himself wished to report about colonial
Africa’s realities, or whether it was rather another argument in favor of
Conrad’s writing (as fiction that surpasses its limits as fiction and by so
doing beats the truth of non-fiction). Voyage au Congo and Le retour du
Tchad defictionalize Heart of Darkness. Gide reassesses Conrad’s novella
in his travel journal, that is, he turns it into nonfiction, while his travel
writing also testifies to the novella’s ability to create an accurate image of
reality. The status that Gide gives to the novella, suggests, after all, that
fiction (or what seems to be fiction) has a capacity to capture a sense of
reality, not just create a reality of its own. This capacity was placed under
serious doubt in The Counterfeiters, as well as in the journal that testifies
to its writing, but seems now to have been restored. Gide’s poetics of the
pure novel, as he developed it at this time prior to the African journey,
was not interested in the representation of reality or the immersive qualities of fiction. His character Edouard, often a mouthpiece for the writer’s
theory of fiction, even provocatively states that if there existed journals of
the making of L’Éducation sentimentale or Frères Karamazov, this would
be really exciting and more interesting than the novels themselves20.
On Goethe
Gide rereads Goethe’s Elective Affinities (Die Wahlverwandtschaften) during his journey in late November and early December 1925,
and writes about the pleasures of reading much for the same reasons
as in relation to other texts that he reads. He starts the novel one night
after finishing the rereading of Master of Ballantrae, surrounded by the
sounds of drumming and dance that come from a nearby village. This
takes place outdoors by a small table, in the insufficient light of a lantern, which accentuates Gide’s sense of the “strange immensity” of the
night and the moon just above him (“Je sens m’environner de toutes
parts l’étrange immensité de la nuit”)21. At this scene, typically, the text
that is being read envelops the environment and the environment frames
the reading, associating the page of the book with the qualities of the
surrounding landscape and life.
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Later, in other notes about reading Goethe’s novel, Gide frequently
notes how he finishes his day by “diving” and “diving again” into the
novel, sometimes reading it in “rapture” (ravissement). The sense of immersion and embeddedness is central to the experience. These readings
may follow an evening bath or are accompanied by reading lessons to an
Arab “boy” called Adoum, one of Gide’s and Allégret’s assistants. Gide
makes the joyful reading also coincide with remarks about the purity and
gentleness of the air or, equally, he may explain how the reading helps
him to forget the monotony of the road after completing the day’s leg.
Gide also cites from this novel, using a famous proverb by the character
Ottilie (“Durch nichts bezeichnen die Menschen mehr ihren Charakter als
durch das, was sie lächerlich finden”), to comment ironically on a recent
article by a critic who calls his fiction “abstruse” (abscons)22. Gide is, further, pleased with himself that he is able to read the novel easily in original German, without the help of a dictionary.
Elective Affinities is one of the readings about which Gide writes most
enthusiastically, also to emphasize or downplay certain travel experiences.
However, I would like to entertain the idea that he draws some particular
pleasures from rereading this novel as a novel in relation to the question
of the nature of the novel, similarly to the questions posed in The Counterfeiters. Gide’s and Goethe’s novels have various structural resemblances. An obvious relation is the double “elective affinity” between a married
couple, Eduard (or Edward in the English translation) and Charlotte, and
their two good friends, the Captain and Ottilie, in Goethe’s novel, and the
intricate relations between the two boys, Bernard and Olivier, and the two
writer figures, Edouard and Robert de Passavant, in The Counterfeiters.
Another resemblance, and indeed an affinity, is the fact that Elective Affinities focuses on the act of reading on more than one important occasion,
and that the scenes of reading serve important functions in characterization and plot development.
Reading in Elective Affinities, as in The Counterfeiters, is always
significant in terms of understanding the characters’ minds. Several
dramatized scenes of reading in Goethe’s novel, as in The Counterfeiters, reveal the nature of the characters’ intimate thoughts, their underlying emotional relations, and their distance from or closeness to each
other, and thus move the story forward. To mention only two of these
instances, Baron Eduard’s and his wife Charlotte’s lack of “affinity”
with each other is revealed in a scene of reading early on in the novel.
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Here the narrator explains that Eduard cannot stand it if someone looks
at the book he is reading (“Eine seiner besonderen Eigenheiten, die er
jedoch vielleicht mit mehrern Menschen teilt, war die, daβ es ihm unertäglich fiel, wenn jemand ihm beim Lesen in das Buch sah”23). And
when Charlotte does so, Eduard’s feels as if he were torn apart. Eduard’s anger, as we are told, is due to his emotional attachment to reading
as a form of thinking: to him, reading the written text equals thinking, or
it is like speaking to someone; the written word thus takes the place of
his heart and mind. To intervene by looking at the book from behind his
back, is not different from intruding upon the inner movements of his
mind. Similarly, Ottilie’s love for Eduard, and the deep emotional closeness of these two, becomes manifest in another scene of reading when
Eduard realizes, upon reading a text that Ottilie has copied for him, that
she has imitated his handwriting. This implies for Eduard, and for the
reader, emotional involvement, or “affinity” to use Goethe’s pseudo-scientific concept, suggesting that Ottilie is not only able to understand his
thoughts but shares them at a deeper level.
Elective Affinities is mostly narrated from an external perspective with
frequent narratorial reports about Eduard’s and his wife’s thoughts and
feelings, but it includes alternation in modes of narration, a constant moving from third to first-person narration, which is relevant here. Various letters are interspersed with the narration; they include those from Eduard to
his wife and to Ottilie, and from Ottilie to her friends. The excerpts from
Ottilie’s journal included in the second part of the novel create a further
contrast with the third person narration. These entries, despite giving us
momentary access to Ottilie’s subjective perspective, are atypical journal notes in that they reveal relatively little of the journal-keeper’s inner
thoughts and feelings. The excerpts are only loosely related to the events
of the novel, consisting mostly of philosophical generalizations or commonplaces, save perhaps the question of life without love, which carries
a direct personal meaning to their writer. Some of these entries comprise
aphorisms about the nature of art or human nature, including meditations
on the development of natural science, moral questions or the passing of
time. As the novel gives no account in third-person narration of Ottilie’s
unspoken thoughts, neither through use of free indirect discourse nor by
any other means, Ottilie’s mind seems to shun penetration, remaining a
kind of mystery even when the reader seems to have access to her most
intimate moment of writing.
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What I would like to specifically point out here is that Goethe’s novel
is one of the first, if not the first, modern novels to systematically include passages from a fictional intimate journal, as if in direct quotation.
The frequent movement in the second part of Elective Affinities between
a third-person narration, with an omniscient narrator, and a first-person
voice of the journal writer, creates the effect of juxtaposed perspectives,
and suggests a prototype of a kind of generic blend that Gide employs and
expands in The Counterfeiters. The effect of multiplied viewpoints is significant in terms of understanding the role of reading and fiction in Gide’s
travel journal as well.
To read The Counterfeiters in an intelligent way, it is essential to follow similar changes in point of view, to process the meaning of the shifts
between the third-person narration, Edouard’s journal, and the author’s
interventions, or between the reality of the fictional world and what the
novelist pretends to make of that reality, and integrate information coming from different sources. Discrepancies between the viewpoints may be
significant insofar as such distortions require the integration of information, as an outcome of varying subjective visions of the same event. While
the narrator’s report of the characters’ thoughts is frequent, free indirect
discourse, in which the narrator can appropriate parts of the character’s
speech or his interior world, is fairly rare. In the chapters in third-person
narration, and often also in the excerpts from Edouard’s journal, dialogue
and thought report dominate, thus leaving the boundaries between who
says/thinks and who narrates relatively intact. The characters’ thoughts
and intimate world remain in some sense a mystery unless, that is, they
are revealed as if directly in the letters or, in Edouard’s case, in his journal, or the movements of the inner world are reported by the narrator – as
may happen, for instance, in relation to scenes of reading. As to dialogue,
Gide often deletes the reporting verb of “saying” and conjunction. This
gives the appearance of directness and the immediacy of the event, but
also prompts the reader to pay careful attention to who is speaking and to
be conscious of the changing perspectives in this way. In the travel journal, on the contrary, there is hardly any direct dialogue, save some short
direct citations. The perspective remains internal and fixed.
Poetics of the novel
Inspired by the biographical relation between the novel and the departure, Gérard Cogez has argued that Gide’s travel was in fact motivated by
405
a wish to distance himself from the limitations of the novel genre: “Comment n’entendrait-on pas qu’il s’agit bien pour l’écrivain de se sortir du
piège romanesque, de prendre avec le genre une salutaire, et peut-être
définitive, distance critique?”.24 The journey, thus, would have been for
Gide a means to turn away from the genre with which he had recently, and amply, expressed his dissatisfaction, especially in Le Journal des
Faux-Monnayeurs. The writer-character Edouard’s journal, included in
The Counterfeiters, voices similar concerns about novelistic pretensions
of verisimilitude, based on descriptive realism, the means to portray the
characters’ state of mind and conventional dialogue. Gide seeks to find,
instead, powerful verbal expressions, tones of voice or nuanced gestures,
which in themselves would reveal the characters’ mind25.
My strategy in reading Gide’s travel book alongside his major novel
has been partly complementary and partly contrary to this argument in
that I have tried to show how a certain poetics of the novel, especially
an interest in the multiplicity of individual perspectives and voices, profoundly informs Gide’s reading experiences during the travel. This is exemplified, among other ways, in how Gide writes about novels en route.
The assumption that Gide travelled “away from” the novel or that he did
so “in hatred of the novel”26 is not easily reconcilable with the fact that
the writer had in his luggage a number of novels, and that during the
journey he read them and commented on them with much pleasure. As I
have shown above, the writer discusses in his notes not just the immersive
qualities of fiction, but structures much of his experience in the Congo
and Chad with the help of novels. Furthermore, there are some striking
thematic affinities between The Counterfeiters and the travel journal. Gide
continues in his travel notes to inquire into the relation between mediated
reality and the facts of reality, or between imagination, fiction and the
resistance of facts – questions that are central to The Counterfeiters and
extensively developed in this novel.
Therefore, there is compelling textual and biographical evidence for
seeing continuity between Gide’s novel and the travel journal. In his travel writing, Gide never poses the question of the genre of writing, which
would, for instance, mean the question of what is proper to a travel journal. In his commentary on literature, however, he postulates two versions
of immediacy, the immediacy of travel and that of reading, which are
intertwined while not altogether compatible with each other. These competing notions of immediacy involve the question of the effects and power
406
of fiction and are reminiscent of the contradictions in Edouard’s theory of
the novel as it is explained in The Counterfeiters. On the one hand, Gide
focuses in his travelogue on the immediacy of the travel experience, the
immediacy of life as the simultaneous flux of things and events. Such
immediacy has the potential to rejuvenate the traveller, even renew him
physically, putting an end to all apathy. Insofar as the travel experience
is not told but directly sensed and felt, Gide conceives travel writing as
a way of registering the action that is “close” to reality, the experience
that imposes itself on the observer. This is evident in the writer’s wish to
penetrate profoundly into Africa – “pénétrer profondément, intimement,
dans le pays”27 – or in the many references to screens of civilization that
tend to blur his vision. Gide is eager to leave behind the “French” Dakar,
the “écran de la civilization” in Brazzaville”28 and his boat, since the boat
makes the landscape seem like a décor and hardly real29, and he is irritated
at the porters who deny him, by their mere presence, direct contact with
African nature.
We come across the same hope of discovering some non-mediated reality in pure expression in The Counterfeiters in Edouard’s contradictory
wish to let the reality “dictate” the novel to him instead of planning the
composition, even if he simultaneously wants his novelist characters to
abandon reality (in the sense of novelistic realism)30. The question of mimesis, as the outspoken subject of Edouard’s novel, involves essentially
the relation between the reality as it appears to the writer and the reality
that is translated as literature, or as he himself puts it, “la lutte entre les
faits proposés par la réalité, et la réalité idéale”31. The author-narrator
also refers to these ideas as the incompatible requirements in the writercharacter’s thinking, which, however, does not make them less important
in the world of the novel. For instance, Vincent, Lady Griffith and Alexandre Vedel, the characters who leave European civilization behind for Africa, seem to want to realize, even to the extent of self-destruction, the full
potential of immediacy. Likewise, Bernard’s interest in Arthur Rimbaud
as someone who presumably exits from literature via action is similarly
motivated. In Gide’s travel writing, in turn, it seems that the writer-traveller has momentarily resolved the problem of mimesis since he projects an
image of himself as someone who is by nature not a counterfeiter, a producer of factice (false, fake), but someone who is capable of immersing
himself in the surrounding world. During the journey, the writer is able
to see – despite the disappointments over the lack of differentiation or
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the harsh realities of colonial rule – more clearly and accurately, since the
reality under observation is inevitably close. The travel experience is immediate, the world of travel is something that is seen rather than told.
On the other hand, however, we are left with the paradox that so much
of Gide’s experience is mediated by literature and that at some level he
has the most direct relation to the literature that he reads. The immediacy
of reading is heightened by travel and we might even say that the travel
experience helps Gide to pay better heed to how his imagination frames
the way he sees things. The journey helps him to read more intensively,
that is, closer to the world of fiction, which reveals its affinity with the
real world, for instance, by appealing to his senses, as in the state of being
immersed. However, Gide’s (re)readings, and especially novel-reading,
also suggest that the experience of travel is lacking in some important
way, and that journal-keeping is in need of another kind of immediacy, the
immersion in the world of the text, and the text as a world. The readings
thus not only blot out the monotony or the heterogeneity of his experience, or guide him onto how to pay better attention to what he sees, but
also affirm the reality around him, as a reality that to a significant degree
is indebted to imaginary constructions.
Gerald Prince, Lecteurs et lectures dans Les Faux-Monnayeurs, in: Neophilologus, January 1973, LVII.1, 20. As Prince further perceives, the ones who
read the least or who never read, like lady Griffith or Vincent, are most likely to
become the victims of forces that they cannot control, 22.
2
André Gide, Le Journal des Faux-Monnayeurs, Paris: Gallimard, 2008, 90.
Gide, in fact, refers here to some other more important reason for postponing
the journey, but does not give any details.
3
André Gide, Journal 1889-1939, Paris: Gallimard, Pléiade, 1951, 805–806.
Furthermore, two brief subsequent entries suggest a necessary connection between the finishing of the novel and the journey: “8 juin: Achevé les FauxMonnayeurs; 14 juillet: Départ pour le Congo” (Ibid).
4
André Gide, Voyage au Congo suivi de Le retour du Tchad. Carnets de route,
Paris : Gallimard, 2002, 13.
5
Gide uses the metaphor of the heart (cœur) of Africa at the end of September in
ways that reveal the intimate ties between this metaphor and the expectation of
the exotic and the strange. First, entering an unnamed village in the forest, he
writes that ”village si beau, si étrange qu’il nous semblait trouver ici la raison
de notre voyage, entrer au cœur de son sujet”, and again the next day, feeling
somewhat disappointed about the lack of strangeness / exotic, that “[a]rbustes
et plantes d’aspect, à vrai dire, fort peu exotique et, sans un étrange îlot de pan
1
408
6
7
8
9
12
13
14
15
16
17
10
11
20
21
22
23
18
19
24
27
28
29
30
25
26
31
danus aux racines aériennes, un peu en amont de la chute, rien ne rappellerait
ici qu’on est presque au cœur de l’Afrique” (65–66).
André Gide, 2002, 14.
See also Marja Warehime, Exploring Connections and Rediscovering Difference: Gide Au Congo, in: French Review, February 1995, 68:3, 459–460, who
points out that La Fontaine is “the most obvious ‘internal’ model” for Gide as
observer.
David Scott, Semiologies of Travel: From Gautier to Baudrillard, Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2004, 164.
Ibid.
David Scott, 2004, 168.
André Gide, 2002, 23n2.
Ibid., 399.
Ibid., 245n1.
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness, London: Penguin Books, 1994, 22.
Ibid., 23.
See André Gide, 2002, 195, 220, and developed in 220n1.
Rusell West, Conrad and Gide: Translation, Transference and Intertextuality,
Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1996, 149.
Ibid., 142.
Ibid., 136.
André Gide, Les faux-monnayeurs, Paris: Gallimard, 2002, 186.
Ibid., 200.
J. W. Goethe, Die Wahlverwandtschaften, Roman, Stuttgart: Reclam, 1965,
36–37.
Gérard Cogez, Les écrivains voyageurs au XXe siècle, Paris: Éditions du
Seuil, 2004, 215.
André Gide, 2008, 82–85.
Gérard Cogez, 2004, 212.
Ibid., 30.
Ibid., 35.
André Gide, Les faux-monnayeurs, 2002, 185; The Counterfeiters, trans. Dorothy Bussy, London: Penguin Books, 1966, 169.
Ibid: “the struggle between the facts presented by reality and the ideal reality”.
409
Travel Narratives in Latvian
Literature of the Early XXIst Century
Kelionės pasakojimai XXI amžiaus
pradžios latvių literatūroje
Maija BURIMA
Institute of Comparative Studies
Daugavpils University
Vienības street 13–318, LV-5400, Daugavpils, Latvia
[email protected]
Summary
Travel is a specific concept; by means of the description of its contents (the
route, participants, destination, places visited, people encountered, experiences
received) it is possible to sketch out the “mental map” of an epoch – the attitude
of the state, nation, and individual toward diverse spaces, the formation of spatial preferences and dislikes, the blank spots and shifts of attitude on the “mental map”. This essay takes into consideration a few texts of Latvian fiction and
nonfiction: Inga Ābele’s diaries and travel descriptions “Austrumos no saules un
ziemeļos no zemes” (“To the East from the Sun and to the North from the Earth”,
2005) and Liāna Langa’s travel essays “Es varēju nesteigties” (“I could have taken
my Time”, 2008) as well as Elvita Ruka’s journalistic travel description “Sirsnīgie
suņi” (“Kind Dogs”, 2006) – a documentary narrative on the expeditions of a
Latvian filming group to Russia (Tofolaria and Yakutiya).
Key words: genre of travel narratives, mental maps, geographical discourse,
literary compass, travel impressions.
The period of Soviet occupation and its political ideology made a powerful impact on the so-called “literary compass” or the selection of places
and themes depicted in the genre of travel narratives in Soviet literature.
The selection was strictly limited to the socialist states considered as “our
own” space and the rest of the world, which was coded as either threatening, e.g. the Western vector, or exotic, e.g. India, Africa. Mental maps
project an associative perception of the surrounding world and its organization in geographical discourse. They are constituted by subjective and
stereotypical notions of geographical landmarks. Mental maps may entail
very detailed and precise descriptions of individual spaces and at the same
time also vast “blank spots” depending on the geographical experience
410
of individuals or groups of individuals – their travels, investigation of
the surrounding places as well as the socio-political situation. During the
Soviet epoch, mental maps acquired different outlines as compared to the
interbellum period. Hence, Latvian literature of the interbellum period
identifies Scandinavia with the North, while in the Soviet literature the
North is recognized as the north of the Soviet Union. The South in Latvian literature of the early 20th century is associated with Spain and Italy,
whereas during the Soviet times – with the Crimea and the Black Sea region. The Eastern vector that had previously been related to countries like
India acquired a parallel semantic vector in the Soviet period related to
Tajikistan, Afghanistan, etc. The Western vector remained the same, but it
acquired a negative connotation and was supplemented by the stereotype
of the Baltic region as the most Western part of the Soviet Union.
In the Soviet times, the genre of travel narratives, travel themes and
images of other countries or regions were not very widespread in literature. This may be accounted for by the suspicious attitude initiated by
the Soviet ideology towards all regions that were not part of the socialist
block. Therefore travel descriptions mostly cover either travels around
the Soviet Union or socialist states and their partisans, e.g. Cuba, India.
Writers were often invited to join the exchange visit delegations and their
travel impressions inspired the descriptions of these travels.
After the Baltic States regained their independence in 1991, all taboos
were lifted from the genre of travel narratives. Gradually, by acquiring the
opportunities and financing for traveling, many people started traveling
intensely and in different directions. Among them were many writers who
conveyed their travel impressions in books. Besides, a number of TV and
radio programs and TV shows appeared that focused on travel topics.
The genre of travel narratives is represented not only by professional writers but also by publicists, as suggested by the particularity of the
genre of travel narratives, i.e. its intention to provide comments on new
spatial experience. Writers, when explicating their experience, build the
thematic standpoint by the equally important manner of literary expression, narrative aesthetic, atmosphere, depiction of personal experience and
feeling, thereby forming a dialogue with the depicted place. Publicists aim
at partiality, revelations of striking details and their precise characteristics,
representing themselves as mediators between the depicted place and the
readers of their texts. Quite often readers of travel narratives are addressed
not only by the text but also by the visual material.
411
Looking at the quite narrow scope of travel narratives brings out several strategies of their formation.
I. After the regaining of independence, Latvian readers and writers got
interested in the previously limited travel routes. First of all, they were
related to Latvian émigrés. For many inhabitants of Latvia, going abroad
after the regaining of independence was associated with the intention of
meeting “their own people” in the direct and indirect sense: both relatives
and spiritually related people. Travelers were guided by the desire to visit
the places that had been marked as threatening by the Soviet ideology.
The destinations of these travels were countries that had large diasporas
of Baltic immigrants. The impressions of these travels were reflected in
works of diverse genres and publicist notes in periodicals that dealt with
Latvian émigré culture.
II. In the late 20th – early 21st century, travels and their descriptions are
concerned with very distant and exotic countries, e.g. Australia. Journalist
Ieva Puķe has provided an extended description of Australian aborigines
in her travel description “Svētdienas sala” (“Sunday Island”, 2004).
III. Another strategic tendency of travel literature is related to the harmonization of historical memory and contemporary reality. Along with
the boom of visiting Western and exotic countries and their depictions in
travel narratives, Latvian literature of the late 20th and early 21st century
reveals another tendency of describing the regions of the former Soviet
Union in travel narratives. This shows that the relative barrier of psychological resistance to the political past has been lifted.
IV. “Literary compass” as a particular geographical location of a literary work in the texts by contemporary Latvian authors is related to
economic emigration as a vast phenomenon of social and economic life
that is depicted in literature. This is exemplified by Laima Muktupāvela’s
novel “Šampinjonu derība” (“Champignon Testament”) that is set in the
milieu of émigré workers in Ireland.
V. The genre of travel narratives in its diverse variations (essays, diaries, etc.) is focused on another thematic vector that develops the tradition
initiated in the early 20th century Latvian literature by both fiction writers and publicists traveling around their native land, especially its distant
regions, marginal places or borderlands, in order to depict, systematically or selectively, their travel impressions. E.g. Rimants Ziedonis’ book
“Sarunās izstaigāta pierobeža” (“Touring Borderland with Talks”, 2008)
describes walks along the eastern border of Latvia, starting from the point
412
where Latvia, Lithuania, and Belarus meet up to the place where Latvia,
Estonia, and Russia meet.
VI. Another strategy is apparent in recent Latvian literature concerns
the depictions of the Baltic States. They continue the tradition of the interbellum Latvian literature of respecting the national character and landscape peculiarities of each Baltic country. This tradition was affected by
the period of Soviet occupation when authors of travel narratives had to
be very cautious about specifically national issues when depicting Lithuania or Estonia. In recent Latvian literature, a vivid depiction of Kesmu
(Käsmu) has been produced by Inga Ābele in her diaries and travel descriptions “Austrumos no saules un ziemeļos no zemes” (“To the East
from the Sun and to the North from the Earth”, 2005).
Further we will characterize some of the travel narratives that reflect
one or several strategies of their formation sketched out above.
Inga Ābele’s diaries and travel descriptions “To the East from the
Sun and to the North from the Earth” are structured in four parts, thus
drawing several vectors in the literary compass of the writer.
In chapter 1 Inga Ābele represents some impressions of her travels
around Germany. Instead of picturesque landscapes or comments on traditions, she has selected everyday life details and extraordinary accomplishments of technology that make human life easier and create a special
sense of comfort. The author makes ironic comments about the fact that in
a foreign land there are fewer realia that can really surprise or move one.
This becomes possible through human communication, which is equally
attractive and enriching whether it appears in one’s native land or abroad.
In chapter 2 the writer depicts Augšbebri village in Siberia. This village is populated by the descendants of Latvians who were deported to Siberia in the Soviet period. Ābele visited it during the state visit of Latvian
culture figures. Deportations of the people from the Baltic region to Siberia are a dramatic episode of the 20th century history of the Baltic region.
It has been explored in a number of books and research works after the reconstruction of the independence. Special resonance in the world has been
achieved by Sandra Kalniete’s book “Ar balles kurpēm Sibīrijas sniegos”
(“With Dance Shoes in Siberian Snows”, 2001), which has been translated
into more than 10 languages and is one of the most translated works of
Latvian literature to date. The book recounts the story of the deportation
of Kalniete’s parents to Siberia and the striving of the family to return to
Latvia. This book is a vivid testimony of Latvian history and personal ex-
413
perience. Inga Ābele’s depiction of Siberia creates a powerful resonance
with other books dedicated to the theme of Siberia. This is not just filling
in the blank spots of history but fulfilling the desire to provide the writer’s
subjective perspective on the current situation. She distances herself from
the national sentiment or the condemnation of historical events; her depiction of people and events witnessed in Augšbebri is devoid of comments
on assimilation, loss of identity, or other anthropological phenomena. For
her, it was essential to create her own current image of Siberian Latvians,
to characterize them as the phenomenon of the blending of diverse cultures, and to create a detachment from the past:
... gājām uz Jāņu vietu. Aizdedza milzīgus ugunskurus. Neticami skaists laiks
– skaidrs, skaidrs. No visiem ciemiem bija sabraukuši cilvēki, kas sevi apzinās kā latviešus, igauņus, vāciešus vai somus. Visvairāk atmiņā viena veca
sieviņa, kas ļoti skaisti dziedāja igauniski, kad viņu uzcēla uz skatuves. Viņas
no darba izkropļotās rokas.
Sievietes no Rižkovas ciema uzstājās kā latvietes tādos tērpos, kādi eskimosiem varētu būt vai lapiem. Bet viņas bija dzirdējušas, ka latviešiem tādi varētu būt. Dziedāja „Kumeliņi, kumeliņi, tu man kaunu iešķiņķoji” – savādiem
vārdiem. Utt.
Ļoti skaisti spēlēja Kaspars ar Lielo ievu – ģitāru un vijoli. Īru tautas dziesmu,
temperamentīgi.
Tad sākās diskotēka. Aizdedza vēl ugunskurus. Dzirksteles gāja mākoņiem
pār cilvēkiem. Es ar padejoju, tad gāju sēdēt uz kalna”1.
[... we went to the place of celebration of summer solstice. Huge fires were
burned. The weather is unbelievably beautiful – very, very clear. People had
come from all villages, who identify themselves as Latvians, Estonians, Germans, or Finns. I recall best of all an old woman who sang in Estonian when
she was lifted up on the stage. Her hands were rugged from hard labour.
Latvian women from Rižkova village performed songs dressed in costumes
that could belong to Eskimo or Lapp people. But they had heard that such
costumes could have been Latvian as well. They sang a Latvian folk-song
with slightly changed verse. Etc.
Kaspars and Great Ieva played the guitar and violin – very nicely. It was an
Irish folk-song,
temperamental.
Then a discotheque began. More fires were burned. Sparks went in clouds
above the people. I also danced a little, and then I went to sit on the hill.]
414
In chapter 3 Ābele depicts the impressions of her trip to Latgale. The
region of Latgale stands out in the context of Latvia by the diversity of its
specific dialects, nationalities, and religions – Catholic, Old Believer, and
Orthodox. Ābele notices and describes these peculiarities in the context of
everyday life. She depicts the kindness of Latgalians, the majority of nonLatvian nationalities in Daugavpils and her reserved attitude to this. She
is especially moved by the motifs related to religious texts, churches and
rituals of different religions.
In chapter 4 – “K-esmu”, Ābele depicts her impressions of the Writers’ and Translator’ House in Käsmu. Estonia fascinates her with the opportunity it provides for experiencing the long expected solitude, asperity
of nature, and reserve of the people. She writes: “Here, in Kesmu, I have
learned to freeze for hours, […] get immersed in myself.”2 More than
in other chapters, in the depiction of Estonia appear landscape descriptions that echo the processes of the writer’s consciousness or are radically opposite to them. The impetuousness of nature provides an impulse
for Ābele to look into her own self, revising and transforming something
there. Conversations with the local people are laconic, but inspiring of
long reflections in the writer’s thoughts and imagination. The Estonian
village indirectly gains the semantic connotation of a spiritually related
and inspiring place.
The book of travel essays by the poetess Liāna Langa “Es varēju
nesteigties” (“I could have taken my Time”, 2008) takes different directions of the literary compass as compared to Inga Ābele’s book. Ābele
recorded her travel impressions shortly after or during her travels, therefore she takes an active narrative position. Liāna Langa’s mental map
has been formed by a different strategy. Langa has described the events
from a greater time distance (sometimes even more than ten years), with
the most vivid impressions on the surface of her memory. These impressions, rather than the abundance of places, events, and details, are shared
with the readers in the overall feeling and impulse. The writer points out
her strategy in the introduction to her book: „Atmiņa ir īpatnējs filtrs. Tā
saglabā smaržas, krāsas un ainavas nianses daudz labprātāk un biežāk
nekā populārus tūristu apskates objektus. Kādēļ tā, nezinu, bet uz savas
atmiņas filtru vēlos paļauties kā uz gana drošu datu glabātāju. Gan jau
atmiņa ir gudra pati par sevi, un tā zina, ko dara.”3 [“Memory is a peculiar filter. It keeps scents, colors, and landscape details much more often
than popular sightseeing objects. Why it is so, I have no idea, but I wish
415
to trust my memory filter as a reliable depository of data. I suppose that
memory is wise and knows what it is doing.”]
The writer’s destinations are rather proportional in marking her literary compass: the West, the South, the East – American cities and countryside, Florence, Israel, Istanbul as well as two days spent in Helsinki
sketching out the northern vector. Only once does the writer step aside
from her principle of trying to inspire people to travel instead of describing tourist objects4.
Each chapter is rounded up by Langa with a concise summary of the
most vivid associative travel impressions: visits of places that are not included in the popular tourist routes, scents and tastes sustained by memory, unforgettable travel guides, e.g. “Latte mornings, espresso days, cypress silhouettes against the stars” in Italy; the cult of carpets in Istanbul; the constant aroma of oranges, seafood, humus, and camels in Israel;
crowded museums in Helsinki.
Langa’s depictions are distanced from the socio-political details of the
epoch, extracting the essence of the visited countries. She often depicts
rigid, even clichéd impressions that are distracted from the historical context but are saturated with a rich lexical material. Her book is accompanied by colorful illustrations by the painter Alexei Naumov, who provides
a visual dimension to her narrative.
Elvita Ruka’s book „Sirsnīgie suņi“ (“Kind Dogs”, 2006) is dedicated to the trip of Latvian documentary cinema producers to Tofolaria
in 2003–2004. This is the place inhabited by the smallest of Siberian peoples in a hardly accessible region of Russia. The desire to make the adventurous trip to the region with a poor infrastructure was determined
by the searching spirit of the group participants and their wish to learn
more about the peoples and nationalities silenced during the Soviet epoch:
„[…]tā ir neizskaidrojamā, raupjā stīga, kas velk pie skarbiem apstākļiem
un nenogludinātas dzīves. Pie cilvēkiem, kas ir tik labi vai tik slikti, kādi
ir, un neizliekas citādi. Pie tiešuma savstarpējās attiecībās…”5. [“it is the
mysterious, harsh string that attracts people to harsh conditions and rough
life. To people who are as good or bad as they are and do not pretend to be
different. To directness in mutual relations…”].
The conditions of human life affected by the harsh climate of Tofolaria
and the directness in human relations explain the realistic and precise
characters of these travel narratives. The objective depiction covers both
the scarce descriptions of the traditions, crafts, and trades of this people
416
(e.g. hunting, gold mining) and the transformations of the lifestyle initiated by the Soviet epoch – alcoholism, sloth and other vices. The book
has an anthropological perspective, with precise descriptions of images
and events supplemented by extensive visual material.
To sum up, it must be noted that the genre of travel narratives is not
very rich in the 21st century Latvian literature; however it reveals diverse
narrative strategies and represents all the projections of the literary compass.
References
1
2
3
4
5
Inga Ābele, Sibīrija, Augšbebri, Austrumos no saules un ziemeļos no zemes.
Dienasgrāmatas un ceļojumu apraksti, Rīga: Atēna, 51.
Inga Ābele, K-esmu, Austrumos no saules un ziemeļos no zemes. Dienasgrāmatas un ceļojumu apraksti, Rīga: Atēna, 146.
Liāna Langa, Es varēju nesteigties. Ceļojuma esejas, Rīga: Lietusdārzs, 2008,
3.
Ibid., 46.
Elvita Ruka. Sirsnīgie suņi, Rīga: Dienas Grāmata, 2006, 27.
417
Travels of Lithuanians from
Scandinavia: Searching for The
Other
Lietuvių kelionės iš Skandinavijos:
Kito beieškant
Sigutė RADZEVČIENĖ
T. Ševčenkos street 31, LT-2009
[email protected]
Summary
In this conference report “Travels of Scandinavian Lithuanians: searching for
the other” using the cultural-historical survey method we will discuss how those
Lithuanians, who lived and worked in Scandinavia, managed to understand and
interpret literarily the realities of cultural geography. Retrospective analysis of
the writers’ way of life and creative work will help us to evaluate the essence
of national identity and these influences that – as one may surmise – may have
determined its change. The material for analysis is taken from the Scandinavian
archives and literary inheritance in Swedish and Danish languages. Contemplation
evolves around the question, how the cultural landscape of the visited lands – during the travel of Scandinavian Lithuanians to strange countries – is expressed in
their creative work and the wider context of literature. Concretizing the subject of
this conference on the relevant issues of Lithuanian culture, I would formulate the
problem raised in my article in the following way: is it possible while living in the
foreign country and searching for the connection between that, which is one‘s own
and noticing that, which is strange, to run away from one’s cultural nature?
Key words: Scandinavian Lithuanians, national identity, cultural lanscape,
Ignas Scheynius, Jurgis Savickis.
Santrauka
Konferencijos pranešime „Lietuvių kelionės iš Skandinavijos: kito beieškant“
pasitelkus kultūrinės-istorinės žvalgos būdą bus siekiama aptarti Skandinavijoje
gyvenusių ir kūrusių lietuvių pastangas suvokti, meniniu žodžiu interpretuoti kultūrinės geografijos realijas. Retrospekcinis žvilgsnis į rašytojų gyvenseną ir kūrybą svetur padės mums įvertinti tautinės tapatybės esmę – spėjamą įtaką jos kaitai.
Stebėjimų medžiaga imama iš Skandinavijos archyvų ir literatūros paveldo švedų
bei danų kalbomis. Straipsnyje svarstoma, kaip aplankytų šalių kultūrinis kraštovaizdis – savotiška Skandinavijos lietuvių gyvenimo kelionė svetur – reiškiasi jų
kūryboje ir platesniame paraliteratūros kontekste. Konkretizuodama konferencijos
418
temą lietuvių kultūros altualijomis, savo straipsnio problemą formuluočiau taip: ar
įmanoma pabėgti nuo savo kultūrinės prigimties, svetimuose kraštuose dairantis
giminystės tarp savo ir svetimo?
Kertiniai žodžiai: Skandinavijos lietuviai, tautinė tapatybė, kultūrinis kraštovaizdis, Ignas Šeinius, Jurgis Savickis.
Lithuanians and Scandinavia
Lithuania and Scandinavia topographically are the closest neighbours,
which are supposed to have a similar geographical landscape and may be
a related historical and cultural experience. However what is the reality?
The question, to what extent we managed in our “Baltic-Scandinavian”
space and time to look in the same direction or explore the world searching for similarities between our own and foreign things, still remains paradoxically open. In this article we will try to acquaint you with one of it‘s
aspects, namely – to answer to the question: what kind of cultural (historical/social) landscape see Lithuanians, when they start out to the wide
world (Russia, Ukraine, Georgia, African continent) from the Scandinavian shores (Denmark and Sweden). Is their perspective of vision formed,
predetermined by some accountability? If this is the case, the question
rises: what is this accountability – genetically decided historial consciousness, mentality, which has matured in Lithuania, or the pragmatic system
of values, adopted in the foreign countries, characteristic to Scandinavia.
In short – we have a peculiar observer: a Lithuanian observing the exotic
landscape not from his native place. What in such circumstances remains
as one‘s own (if at all...) and what is understood as foreign?..
Though we have reliable historical facts about the contacts between
Lithuanians and Scandinavians going back as far as the 12-th century
and a little more of them – in the Middle Ages, also in an ever-growing
abundance – in historically relevant 16-17th centuries, let us move to a
much later time – the period between the two world wars of the 20-th
century. The groundwork for our discussion will be taken from the two
Scandinavian archyves: The Stockholm Baltic Archives1 ir Copenhagen
State Archives2. However, despite the facts, found in these archives, it is
known that two Lithuanian politicians, masters of a literary word: Jurgis
Savickis and Ignas Jurkunas-Scheynius were destined to live and work in
Scandinavian countries. From the very beginning of writing this article it
was wonderful to see, how the parallels, connecting two writers‘ personal
destinies, careers and insights, clearly stood out.
419
Ignas Scheynius ir Jurgis Savickis – the parallels of their lives‘
journeys
First of all, when comparing the destinies of the two contemporaries,
the careers of these Independent Lithuania‘s politicians arrest our attention. Both approximately at the same time (J. Savickis – in the end of
1914, I Scheynius – in 1915) took part in the social activities and joined
the Committee of Support to War Victims. Both were sent to Scandinavia
to secure the financial support for this committee. Both participated actively in the establishment of the Lithuanian Council in Stockholm (1917).
After the formation of the Independent Lithuanian State, both started their
careers as diplomats in Scandinavia: J. Savickis became the first representative of Lithuania in Denmark for the Scandinavian countries, a minister, and I. Scheynius – the first secretary. Later the position and rotation of both colleagues changed during a decade: J. Savickis represented
Lithuania in Norway and Sweden up to 1923, 1923–1925 – in Holland,
1925–1927 – in Finland; whereas I. Scheynius worked in Sweden and
Finland. Both men encountered with the similar political conflicts, experienced the unpleasant feelings when they had to retire. Referring to the
correspondence between J. Savickis and Lithuania’s Ministry of Foreign
Affairs, kept in Copenhagen Archives, we can see, how in the end of 1926
the diplomat was “forced” by Lithuanian Government to transfer big sums
of money, accumulated in 1922, from the Copenhagen bank to the bank of
Lithuanian State. J. Savickis, having been the authoritative figure in The
Board of Danske banken, managed to protest the demand of his direct
authorities. I. Scheynius “disobeyed” in a different manner. After events,
that happened in 1926, while living in Sweden, he started critisizing openly the totalitarian regime of the Lithuanian State and the situation, which
emerged there, and fell into disfavour of Lithuania’s Ministry of Foreign
Affairs. Augustinas Voldemaras, the then Prime Minister and Minister of
Foreign Affairs, officially closed the embassies in Finland and Sweden in
1927. Yet J. Savickis, a man of a more temperate character, got the job:
he was appointed the director of Lithuania’s State Theatre and the director of Rights and Administration at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, later
returned to his diplomatic work in Scandinavia. Whereas I. Scheynius was
forced to suppress his resentfulness and work as a journalist, translator
and agent for Swedish business-men. One way or another, the decade, that
passed in Scandinavian countries, could not remain without an imprint in
the consciousness of those two writers and diplomats. They not only got
420
acquainted with the Scandinavian reality in a perfect way – more than
often cautiously approving the positiveness of the pragmatic world understanding – but publicly stated that it should be adopted by Lithuanians in
their lives. From the standpoint of the system of values, the foreign by the
right of authority was often imagined as one’s own... However we should
not leave out of consideration one important issue: even if the foreign
experience, acquired not in one’s native “landscape”, transformed into a
virtual aspiration, the object of value itself remained the same, namely –
Lithuania and it‘s multifarious, spiritual and material image. According
to Augustinas Savickas, the writer’s son, his father treasured his love for
Lithuania inwardly and expressed it in his creative work, avoiding the
pseudo-patriotic pose, which was characteristic to some officially propagated Lithuanian writers and officials3.
The parallels of the mentioned writers Jurgis Savickis and Ignas
Scheynius’ personalities, pointing to their restless lives, full of continual impressions and changes, are really wonderful. Their intelectual and
spiritual searchings started already in youth when they studied Arts and
similar subjects. J. Savickis, after leaving the higher agricultural course
in Sankt Peterburg, that was financed by his parents, focussed on studying
painting. I. Scheynius graduated from Shaniavsky university in Moscow,
where he studed Arts philosophy.
The principles of the world-view, not accidentally formed in these
schools, were already revealed in the first travel sketches, written by those
young writers in Danish and Swedish. J. Savickis’ “Travelling in Lithuania” (En rejse gennem Litauen)4 is not a common travel guide, full of
geographical, factographic information, but rather an expressive rendering of Lithuanian cultural landscape, considering the fact, that Danish
people knew not much about it and their cultural experience was different.
Emotionally rich, conveyed in an expressive artistic scenary Lithuanian
geographical picture is revealed in the semantics of the sketch by the easily recognizable Lithuanian national identity. Even if you can not always
perceive it actually, but it is felt and implied in the writer‘s consciously
formed, created images. The Lithuanian cultural landscape is presented
in a similar way in I. Scheynius‘ cultural study “Lithuanian culture” (Litauisk kultur)5, in which he emphasizes the observer’s feeling and spiritual outlook. By the way, the introduction and the finishing word of the
latter book is composed of two philosophical chapters about what Art and
nature means to a Lithuanian – in what cultural landscape distance he is
421
inclined to search for them. I. Scheynius, when writing about Lithuanian
culture in Sweden, considered the Scandinavian perception of the world –
which is rational, concrete, palpable. His notice, that Lithuanian Art is
“absolutely anti-utilitarian”, – which is in fact its biggest value, – confirms the author’s actual need to question, even if it is done indirectly, the
pragmatism of Swedish mentality, cultural attitude, which during those
fifty years, spent in Sweden, he could not accept as his own.
Summarising all this, we can state in short: the perspective of the depicted landscape in the first J. Savickis ir I. Scheynius’ travel books is being based on the exceptionally Lithuanian viewpoint, protecting it as one’s
own and “defending” it from the implied Scandinavian rational practicism...
Proceeding with the search for the personal parallels in J. Savickis’
and I. Scheynius’ lives, may be it might not be too trivial to affirm that the
mentioned authors chose their spouses impulsively: I. Scheynius married
a Swedish woman Gertrud von Sydoff in 1917. She soon helped him to
find a place and may be even anchor in the Swedish Writers’ Parnassus.
J. Savickis was married three times: in Copenhagen he met an extraordinarily beautiful jew from Petrograd, named Ida Trakiner, but divorced her
and married a Danish woman, Inge Persen, and in the end of his life – a
Dutch woman, Maria Kock (who is believed to have burnt her husband’s
manuscripts after his death). It would be appropriate to speak about these
women’s contribution (not only in the positive sense) separately, because
they really wanted to shape those Lithuanian talented men according to
their own understanding, their Scandinavian taste and cultural scale. Let
us remember I. Scheynius’ collection of poems and novelletes “Night and
Sun” (Natt och Sol)6 in which the spiritual poet’s landscape, illuminated
by Lithuanian impressionism, is apparently different from the manneristic
narrativeness of the stylistics of Swedish novelletes’.
J. Savickis’ restfulness, characteristic to his travelling nature, was
mentioned by quite a number of contemporaries. Besides, J. Savickis in
his diary-like sketch-book, written in Danish, mentioned: “It is difficult
for me to remain at home, even if there is Ida there. May be because of
inspiration, drawn from Nansen and Hedin, I am haunted by Capri, Tunisia, Marroco“ (Savickis, 1925). Also he writes somewhere else: „The
book about San Michele – i.e. the novel by Axel Munthes – awfully good
book! I must find these places.” And Jurgis Savickis did it – he visited
the remote exotic countries: Tunisia and Marocco and wrote a book „A
422
little bit of Africa“ (Litet af Afrika)7. If we tried to describe the observer’s way of looking at the exotic landscape, we could probably call it a
vigilant observing of the other. Nothing reminded the details of one’s own
landscape – even the contrasts. Exotic views, the evidence of exceptionally different civilisation eliminated even the smallest possibility to evoke
the familiar feelings. Even if this could happen, it would be unnatural,
nonsensical or ridiculous... Views of the milieu, rendered in a pictorially
“african” stylistics of the artistic language, create unique images in the
man’s northen consciousness. They are sparing and psychologically sensitive in “Savickis” manner (though we should not forget that in Savickis
case – usually expressionistic). They alone are the significant signs of
Baltic “landscape”.
Ignas Scheynius was sedentary, as befits a family man. However – according to his contemporaries’ notice – I. Scheynius „hardly ever“ went
to Lithuania with his wife, he preferred staying in Scandinavia. Having
emigrated in 1940 from Lithuania, he did not return back and did not go
to any other country of the world. There are no documents in Stockholm
archives about him being an ardent traveller before 1940 as well. Except
his studies in Moscow and travelling as a journalist in the Soviet Union
in the thirties, he did not go anywhere in the world. The writer’s son Irvis
Scheynius’ (he died this autumn) in his authentic book of short stories
“The Northen Lotinia” (Norra Latin)8 wrote about his family’s travels
to Lithuania in the period between two wars – to the Baltic seashore and
Sheynunai. One can notice that the author of the book is a man of Swedish mindset, but the Lithuanian geographical and spiritual landscape is
presented in his work as the greatest ethical and esthetical aspiration, as
the search for one’s own identity and the inner emotional longing...
Ignas Scheynius’ visiting together with Lithuanian journalists’ group
the Soviet Russia, Georgia and Ukraine in 1934 may be the only exception
in his travels. It was described only after nine years! I. Scheynius’ “The
red journey” (Den Röda Resan)9 most probably was a peculiar “political
project”, which had to sober down the heads of Swedish people who were
duped by neutrality during the World War Two. He also had to maintain
his literary qualification as a publicist. Let us remember, that his book of
historical reminiscences “The red flood” about the Soviet invasion into
Lithuania, published in 1940 in Sweden (soon afterwards in Denmark and
Finland), scored a great success. Yet “The red journey” is not a typical
travel sketch. Though the information here is really very interesting and
423
rich, illustrated by photographs from the travels (giving knowledge about
the geography of these countries, picturesque landscape views, etc.), the
tone of narration is determined by journalistic discourse. The authenticity of material is supported by real people (in Russia often – from the
opposite political side, in Georgia – from „the accidental“ passers-by or
sellers in a market). They provide the opportunity to understand, what is
one‘s own and what is foreign to the writer-narrator. The cultural landscape is being revealed in detail in “The red journey”. The authenticity
of the facts is most interesting. In quite a number of episodes the author
tells thoroughly about his communication with the minister of Lithuania,
writer Jurgis Baltrušaitis and his wife Maria – this was one of the most
beautiful visits in Moscow. One can feel the spirit of old Moscow‘s intelligentsia, dramatic, though temperately critical relationship to the history,
which changed. Yet there is not much of spiritual landscape in this travel
sketch – it is replaced most often by a socially and politically engaged
informative discourse. It seems that the author of the „The red journey“
strives to maintain a balance between the objective publicistics and the
subjective text of fiction. Having in mind such way of narrative, we can
group the episodes of „The red journey“ in the following way: the geography of travels itself (Moscow, Kharkov Rostov on Don, the Crimea, Caucasus), the survey of political life and the analitical notes of a diplomat
fall into the publicistic field. Whereas the authentic telling about the visits
to the Tretjakov gallery, The Bolshoi Theatre and other places reflect the
author‘s impressions on cultural experience. The attention paied to the
human values reveal what it means to live as a guest in a foreign country.
Analysing these three aspects of the travelling, we can not avoid relating
them to the personal I. Scheynius‘ experience. They are especially evident
and often being consciously individualized in the narrative on cultural and
human value themes. The author of a sketch often remembers the cultural
life in Moscow, which he got to know in his youth, ceaselessly comparing
the old Russia, that was up to 1915, with the new Russia of the late prewar period.
What conclusions could be drawn?
1. The authors, remaining in their historical consciuosness flow, can
draw a line between that, which is one‘s own and that, which is
foreign in a remote (different) landscape.
424
2. The author, even if he is evaluating the object of the foreign landscape from a different space, can not help noticing the signs of his
natural historical consciousness.
3. Any effort to „objectively“ show the foreign, unfamiliar landscape
to a person of a different nature is doomed to a factographical discourse.
4. The artistic narrative of an un-known land during the travels is
ensured only by the authentic – and in an artistic sense: genetic –
feeling, which is the touch-stone of evaluation.
References
��
Baltiska arkivet, vol. 1–16, Stockholm: Riksarkivet.
Statsarkiv, Balt., vol. 24, København.
3
Augustinas Savickas, „Svajojęs apie Lietuvą“, in: Gimtasis kraštas, 1980,
balandžio 24, nr. 17. (A. Savickas, “Dreaming about Lithuania”, in: Gimtasis
krastas, 24 april, 1980, no. 17).
4
Jurgis Savickis, En rejse gennem Litauen: København, 1919.
5
Ignas Jurkunas Scheynius, Litauisk kultur. Stockholm: Ord och Bild, 1917.
6
Ignas Jurkunas
��
Scheynius, Natt och Sol. Stockholm: Svenska Andelsförlaget,
1918.
7
Jurgis Savickis, Litet af Afrika. København: Pløjning, 1929.
8
Ignas Scheynius Norra Latin. Stockholm: Fingraf, 1999.
9
Ignas Jurkunas Scheynius, Den ��
röda resan. Stockholm: Fahlcrantz & Gumælius, 1943.
1
2
425
Border State Traveller in Europe
Pasienio valstybės keliautojas
Europoje
Anneli KÕVAMEES
Tallinn University, Institute of Estonian Language and Culture
Narva Road 29, 10120 Tallinn
[email protected]
Abstract
Estonia can be determined as a border-state, which in different eras and times
has been a part of the west or the east. Considering both the physical and mental
geography, the article tries to find out how the authors from Estonia have depicted
one of the centre-points of Europe – Italy. The travelogues of Estonian authors
of the 20th and 21st centuries being written in different times and different ideological conditions are under observation, whereas the author has tried to find out
how Italy has been depicted, which repetitious patterns of structure and stereotypical pictures appear in these very travelogues, so in short, the hetero-image,
Italian image, will be under observation. The aim of the article is to bring out the
general directions of Estonian

Acta litteraria comparativa - Réseau européen d`études littéraires

Transcription

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