Anala Lb.Straine 2012 nr. 2 - Universitatea din București

Transcription

Les articles de Luminiţa Munteanu, Anca Roncea, Daniela Ionescu-Bonanni,
Monica Colţ, Raluca Oproiu (Andreescu) et Dagmar Maria Anoca représentent
les versions écrites des communications présentées à l’occasion de la Session
scientifique annuelle de la Faculté des Langues et Littératures Etrangères,
Université de Bucarest, 5-6 novembre 2010; les articles de Alexandra Ciocârlie,
Joaquina Lanzuela Hernández, Levente Pap, Irina Dubský, Éva Bányai,
Judit Pieldner, Mihaela Chapelan, Monica Oancă, Thomas Schares,
Andreea Diaconescu, Monica Manolachi et Susana Monica Tapodi représentent
les versions écrites des communications présentées lors de la Session
scientifique annuelle de la Faculté des Langues et Littératures Etrangères,
Université de Bucarest, 11-12 novembre 2011.
ANALELE
UNIVERSITĂŢII
BUCUREŞTI
LIMBI ŞI LITERATURI STRĂINE
2012 – Nr. 2
SUMAR • SOMMAIRE • CONTENTS
LITERATURĂ ŞI STUDII CULTURALE/ LITTERATURE ET ETUDES CULTURELLES /
LITERATURE AND CULTURAL STUDIES
LUMINIŢA MUNTEANU, Cuire à l’ancienne. Quelques remarques sur le « Traité de
gastronomie » d’Ali Eşref Dede, Postnişîn du Tekke Mevlevî d’Edirne .................
ALEXANDRA CIOCÂRLIE, Antiquité et actualité: perception du temps chez
Gheorghe Crăciun ...................................................................................................
JOAQUINA LANZUELA HERNÁNDEZ, Le temps dans Le Cid de Corneille .................
IOANA COSTA, Author and Hero (Gregory the Theologian, Basil the Great) ..................
LUCIANA IRINA CĂRĂMIDĂ (VĂLUŢANU), Confucius and Feminism .....................
LEVENTE PAP, Time and Chronology in Tertullian’s Adversus Iudaeos (VIII. 8-15.) .....
IRINA DUBSKÝ, “For Immortality Is but Ubiquity in Time”: Moby Dick on the Horizon
of Myth ...................................................................................................................
ANCA RONCEA, Whitman’s Song and the Myth of Osiris ...............................................
GEORGE GRIGORE, Der Jesidismus: ein Beispiel für religiösen Synkretismus ...............
ÉVA BÁNYAI, Transition Novels ......................................................................................
DANIELA IONESCU-BONANNI, Das interkulturelle Potential der Prosa Rumäniendeutscher
Autoren nach 1990 ..................................................................................................
JUDIT PIELDNER, Time, Memory and Narration in W. G. Sebald’s Austerlitz ................
MIHAELA CHAPELAN, Le temps mis sous rature dans la métafiction ...........................
3
21
31
43
51
59
67
77
83
95
105
121
133
2
IRINA-ANA DROBOT, The Reader’s Perception of Time in Virginia Woolf’s Novels ....
MONICA COLŢ, Elements of Culture Shock in Their Dynamics in Neil Bissoondath’s
The Innocence of Age and the Short Stories ............................................................
MONICA OANCĂ, Christian Time as Perceived by Margery Kempe ...............................
RALUCA ANDREESCU, The End of the World as They Knew It? A Vision of the Apocalypse
in Shirley Jackson’s The Sundial .............................................................................
THOMAS SCHARES, A Poetology of Modernism: Approaches to Wallace Stevens’ The
Idea of Order at Key West .......................................................................................
ANDREEA DIACONESCU, L’enfance – le passé qui ne passe pas dans les romans de
Pascal Quignard ......................................................................................................
MONICA MANOLACHI, Internal and External Time in Caribbean British Women’s Poetry ..
SUSANA MONICA TAPODI, Spatial and Temporal Structure in a Contemporary Hungarian
Novel from Romania ...............................................................................................
DAGMAR MARIA ANOCA, The Plain in the Slovak Language Literature in Romania ...
*
Recenzii ...............................................................................................................................
141
153
171
181
193
213
223
237
243
251
CUIRE À L’ANCIENNE. QUELQUES REMARQUES
SUR LE « TRAITÉ DE GASTRONOMIE »
D’ALI EŞREF DEDE, POSTNIŞÎN
DU TEKKE MEVLEVÎ D’EDIRNE
LUMINIŢA MUNTEANU∗
COOKING IN THE TRADITIONAL WAY: SOME REMARKS ON “THE GASTRONOMIC
TREATISE” BY ALI EŞREF DEDE, POSTNIŞÎN OF THE MEVLEVÎ TEKKE IN EDIRNE
It is often assumed that the life style in the tekkes of the Islamic mystical orders was
characterized by asceticism, seclusion and regular prayers, but also by a certain disdain regarding
the material aspects of the day-to-day existence. In fact, many members of the dervish lodges had
great socialites, enjoyed life to the full and saw no contradiction between their private religious
convictions and their worldly matters; on the other hand, many Sufi adepts were not bound to
celibacy, but returned, after having been initiated, to their daily life and partook periodically to
prayer meetings. The gastronomic treatise of Ali Eşref Dede, postnişîn („Father superior”) of the
Mevlevi tekke in Edirne (1859-1901) offers an excellent example from this point of view. On the
other hand, it has not many equivalents in the Ottoman history, excepting the “cooking book” by
Mehmet Kâmil, which was published in 1844. The treatise of the Mevlevî shaykh offers lots of
valuable information concerning the traditional Ottoman dishes, recipes, ways of cooking, kitchen
ustensils, but also about the most common or rare ingredients, such as herbs and spices, all kinds of
meat and fish, vegetables, fruits, salads, pickles, etc. Moreover, it demolishes some preconceptions
and received ideas about the eating habits of the Mevlevi dervishes (for example, the fallacy of
the prohibition on eating fish, considering that the writing of Ali Eşref Dede includes a large
amount of recipes concerning their preparation). We should also mention that the preparation of
food had a special, symbolic meaning in the ideology of the Mevlevi order, insofar as the cooking
process was likened to the maturation of the disciple under the guidance of his Sufi master.
Keywords: Ottoman cookery book, sufism, Mevlevî order of dervishes, Ali Eşref Dede, 19th century.
Le traité de gastronomie d’Ali Eşref Dede 1 , supérieur (postnişîn) du
« couvent » Mevlevî d’Edirne, date de 1858-1859 (1275, suivant le calendrier
hégirien), étant rédigé peu avant ou peu après la nomination de son auteur à la
charge susmentionnée, qui eut lieu en 18592.
∗
Professeur de littérature et civilisation turques, Faculté de Langues et Littératures Étrangères,
Université de Bucarest ; e-mail: [email protected]
1
El-fakîr-ü’l-Hakîr/Hâdimü’l-Mevlevî Ali Eşref [Ali Eşref, le (humble) serviteur des Mevlevî].
2
Le tekke Mevlevî (aujourd’hui Muradiye Camii) d’Edirne fut élevé sur les ordres du sultan
Murâd II (1421-1444, 1446-1451), étant achevé en 1426 ou, suivant d’autres sources, 1436. Ce
fut le premier tekke Mevlevî (Mevlevihâne) fondé et financé par les Ottomans dans ce qui était, à
4
LUMINIŢA MUNTEANU
Le manuscrit du traité fut découvert parmi d’autres documents semblables
donnés à l’ancien Institut de Recherches sur Mevlâna (Mevlâna Tetkikleri
Enstitüsü) par l’un des descendants de Rûmî et se fait remarquer par son aspect
soigné, même élégant : il est relié en cuir partiellement rouge, partiellement
marbré et imprimé sur un type de papier bleuâtre importé d’Europe ; ses lettres
initiales sont enluminées d’encre rouge. L’aspect travaillé du manuscrit suggère
que le maître ne l’avait pas conçu comme un simple instrument de référence
destiné à ses disciples, mais comme un ouvrage adressé à une audience plus
large, constituée peut-être de sympathisants Mevlevî, de fins connaisseurs, et
même de gourmets. (Il ne faut pas oublier que l’ordre des Mevlevî visait
notamment les élites, dont les goûts et les ressources, matérielles et financières,
dépassaient de beaucoup ceux du menu peuple.) La démarche d’Ali Eşref Dede
représentait sans doute une nouveauté dans les cercles Mevlevî, où
l’enseignement spirituel continuait de rester, tout comme dans les autres milieux
soufiques, essentiellement oral, parce que redevable à la personne révérée du
maître initiateur.
D’autre part, le genre illustré par le « traité » d’Ali Eşref Dede restait une
rareté en Turquie au milieu du XIXe siècle, et cela pour de fortes raisons :
d’abord, la Turquie ottomane était à l’époque une société où la culture écrite
jouissait d’une tradition peu solide, étant supplantée, particulièrement au niveau
des contacts quotidiens, par l’oralité et, partant, la transmission orale du savoir ;
ensuite, malgré les évolutions « démocratiques » survenues à partir de 1839,
l’ « art de la bonne chère » continuait d’éveiller plutôt l’intérêt des élites et des
lettrés que celui des gens du commun, qui se contentaient de la pratiquer, encore
que souvent de manière peu raffinée3.
Il existe peu d’informations sur les mets et les recettes des Ottomans de
jadis, particulièrement sur ceux spécifiques des petites gens ; pour ce qui est de
ce moment-là, leur capitale (Ocak 2002 : 156). Ali Eşref Dede Efendi aurait été nommé à la tête
de cette loge à la suite d’un concours organisé à Konya, du fait que l’ancien supérieur du dergâh,
Osman Dede, était mort sans héritiers. Originaire d’Aydın, il fut initié au soufisme et, plus particulièrement,
au Mevlévisme par Osman Selâhaddin Dede, le şeyh du tekke Mevlevî de Yenikapı (Istanbul),
pour passer ensuite six ans dans le « couvent mère » (âsitâne) des Mevlevî à Konya, auprès du
şeyh Said Hemdem Çelebi, et être finalement introduit dans l’ordre par le sertabbâh [« cuisinier
en chef »] Nesîb Dede Efendi (Halıcı 1992 : 79). Suivant Rıdvan Canım (2007 : 306), Ali Eşref Efendi
aurait remplacé Osman Dede, qui avait été destitué en 1276/1859 ; il garda cette dignité pendant
quarante-six ans, c’est-à-dire jusqu’à sa mort, survenue le 13 Ramadan 1319/le 24 janvier 1901, à
l’âge de soixante-trois ans, et fut hérité par son fils, Ahmed Selâhaddin Dede (m. 1356/1937), qui
devint le dernier şeyh du tekke d’Edirne.
3
Pourtant, l’intérêt pour la gastronomie n’était pas absent dans le monde musulman. Malek
Chebel (1999 : 183-190) évoque, par exemple, l’essor de la cuisine « orientale » à l’époque des
‘Abbassides, c’est-à-dire à partir du IXe siècle, lorsque le genre représenté par les « livres de
cuisine » fut initié par le copiste Al-Warrâq, avec son Kitâb at-Tabkh (précédé au VIIIe siècle par
les travaux d’Ibn Moukaffâ) ; le genre « gastronomique » fut illustré ensuite par d’autres auteurs
de prestige, tels Jahiz, Mas‘ûdi et Miskawayh.
CUIRE À L’ANCIENNE. QUELQUES REMARQUES SUR LE « TRAITÉ DE GASTRONOMIE »
D’ALI EŞREF DEDE, POSTNIŞÎN DU TEKKE MEVLEVÎ D’EDIRNE
5
la cour impériale, on dispose surtout de listes d’aliments et d’épices commandés
ou achetés par les responsables du palais, bien que leur emploi précis reste plus
d’une fois vague. Les matériaux de ce type augmentent sensiblement aux XVIIe
et XVIIIe siècles, qui nous fournissent, à part ces espèces de listes, des détails
sur les menus quotidiens réservés aux sultans, mais aussi aux différentes
catégories de personnes impliquées dans la vie du sérail, depuis les membres de
l’appareil bureaucratique jusqu’aux résidentes du harem, aux eunuques, aux
pages, etc. S’y ajoutent des menus destinés habituellement aux vizirs du dîvân
(le « conseil impérial ») et à leurs suivants, des menus conçus pour certains
banquets ou repas d’apparat (par exemple, à l’occasion des grandes fêtes
religieuses, à l’occasion des réceptions offertes aux ambassadeurs ou à d’autres
hôtes de marque, à l’occasion des circoncisions ou des noces celebrées dans la
famille du sultan, etc.).4 Les renseignements fournis par les archives ottomanes
sont complétées, surtout à partir du XVIIe siècle, par les relations de certains
étrangers, soit de passage, soit établis à Istanbul ; une source particulièrement
intéressante pour la vie quotidienne à la cour impériale ottomane au XVIIe
siècle est, par exemple, la relation d’Albertus Bobovius (Alî Ufkî Bey)5.
Coïncidence ou non, c’est également à partir des XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles
que l’on voit augmenter le nombre de demeures ottomanes pourvues de
cuisines ; pour le gros du peuple, la préparation de la nourriture avait eu lieu
jusque là en plein air, ce qui suggère qu’elle n’était pas trop laborieuse. Dans
l’Istanbul du XVIIe siècle, l’existence de la cuisine (matbah) constituait encore
un indicateur du luxe ou, du moins, du bien-être ; la différenciation fonctionnelle des
pièces des maisons allait devenir plus visible au XVIIIe siècle, lorsque la cuisine commença
à devenir une composante durable des habitations (Tanyeli 2006 : 342-343). Uğur
Tanyeli apprécie, à juste titre, que cette tendance révèle une certaine évolution
de la gastronomie – autrement dit, la cuisson des aliments était devenue plus
élaborée et exigeait des espaces et des instruments plus sophistiqués, au moins
dans les villes. Bien que lentes et plutôt inégales, ces transformations sont
censées refléter l’évolution globale de la société et, donc, de la mentalité
ottomane, devenue plus sensible à l’idée de plaisir, de jouissance. Les contacts
avec la civilisation et la mentalité occidentales ne faisaient que renforcer le goût
du luxe ou, du moins, d’une vie plus facile ; ils se produisaient non seulement à
l’occasion des voyages faits par les Turcs à l’étranger, qui restaient fatalement
limités aux élites, mais aussi à l’occasion des voyages des Occidentaux en
Turquie, notamment à Istanbul – véritable « épitomé » de l’Orient, à la portée
de tout Européen passionné d’« exotisme ». Ces tendances et ces contacts
4
Voir les articles de Hedda Reindl-Kiel (2006) et Christoph K. Neumann (2006), que nous
trouvons fort suggestifs du point de vue de la signification et de la codification sociales associées
l’alimentation dans la société ottomane, encore que ces aspects eussent subi des mutations
sensibles à l’aube de la modernité.
5
Albertus Bobovius, Topkapi. Relation du Sérail du Grand Seigneur (ed. : Annie Berthier
et Stéphane Yerasimos), Paris, 1999.
6
LUMINIŢA MUNTEANU
s’accélérèrent au XIXe siècle, dans le contexte des reformes connues sous le
nom de Tanzimat, lorsque bon nombre d’étrangers décidèrent de s’établir dans
la capitale ottomane et de s’y forger une vie nouvelle ; parmi ces coureurs
d’aventure se trouvaient un certain nombre de restaurateurs et de traiteurs qui
allaient ouvrir des restaurants alafranga, surtout dans le quartier de Péra, habité
ou au moins intensément fréquenté par les Occidentaux. S’y ajoutèrent les
restaurants « à l’occidentale » ouverts par les Turcs à l’intention des Européens
et des autochtones entichés du style de vie occidental.
Dans cette atmosphère, l’intérêt, aussi bien commercial que livresque, pour
l’alimentation et le bien manger alla grandissant et ne fit qu’encourager les échanges,
voire les innovations. Confrontés à l’atmosphère concurrentielle imposée par les
Européens, les Turcs eurent la révélation d’un trésor qu’ils traitaient auparavant
plutôt de banal, mais qui semblait faire la différence entre « la cuisine occidentale »
et « la cuisine orientale », qui était déjà dans l’air. Ce fut, pensons-nous, l’argument
péremptoire pour l’apparition des premiers livres de gastronomie en Turquie.
Melceü’t-Tabbâhîn, « Le refuge des cuisiniers », le premier ouvrage turc
de ce genre, parut en 1260/1844, étant signé par Mehmet Kâmil, enseignant à
l’École de Médicine d’Istanbul (depuis 1839, Mekteb-i Tıbbiye-i Adliye-i
Şâhâne), qui se serait inspiré d’un autre travail similaire, intitulé Ağdiye Risâlesi,
« Le traité des nourritures et des boissons » 6 . Le livre de Mehmet Kâmil
comportait 12 chapitres et 227 recettes ; s’y ajoutaient, sur les marges des pages,
46 recettes de salades, pickles et sauces, agrémentées de conseils pratiques. Les
« livres de gastronomie » parus en Turquie dans la deuxième moitié du XIXe
siècle ne firent que reproduire, d’une manière ou d’une autre, ce premier
ouvrage imprimé, qui connut 9 éditions entre 1844 et 1888/18897. L’ouvrage de
Mehmet Kâmil fut réimprimé en 1997 par la maison d’édition Unipro
d’Istanbul ; la nouvelle édition, soignée par Cüneyt Kut, Turgut Kut et Günay
Kut, réunit le texte originel de l’ouvrage, en turc ottoman, sa version en turc
moderne et le livre de cuisine publié par Turabi Efendi. Malheureusement, nous
n’avons pas eu la possibilité de la consulter.
Le livre de cuisine publié en anglais par Turabi Efendi (1865), qui ne
faisait que reprendre l’ouvrage de Mehmet Kâmil, s’adressait manifestement
6
Selon Turgut Kut (« A Bibliography of Turkish Cookery Books up to 1927 »,
http://www.turkish-cuisine.org/english/pages.php?ParentID=1&FirstLevel=11&PagingIndex=0),
ce traité aurait été écrit au XVIIIe siècle par le fils du gendre du şeyhülislâm Paşmakçızâde
Abdullah Efendi (m. 1145 AH/1732 AD), dont on ignore le nom; le manuscrit, aujourd’hui perdu,
fut étudié par Süheyl Ünver, qui en publia même quelques recettes.
7
Turgut Kut, « A Bibliography of Turkish Cookery Books up to 1927 », http://www.turkishcuisine.org/english/article_details.php?p_id=21&Pages=Articles&PagingIndex=1. Turgut Kut affirme
avoir identifié plus de 40 livres de gastronomie publiés en Turquie entre 1844-1927, en alphabet
arabe ; ceux-ci constituent une source importante pour la reconstitution et la préservation de la
cuisine turque traditionnelle, mais ils sont très difficiles à trouver aujourd’hui, même dans les
grandes bibliothèques publiques. Turgut Kut fait également mention de 7 livres de gastronomie
turque en alphabet arménien, parus entre 1871-1926.
7
aux occidentaux passionnés de la cuisine turque, étant en quelque sorte un écho
de la visite rendue à Londres par le gouverneur de l’Égypte, Mehmet Ali Paşa,
en 1862. Turabi Efendi n’a, d’ailleurs, aucune prétention d’originalité ou de
paternité, ainsi qu’il spécifie dans sa préface, plus que succincte :
I have been induced, through the persuasion of numerous friends acquainted with
the East, and who have a grateful recollection of its ‘savoury dishes’, to translate the
following Receipts, which I have taken the greatest pains to render accurate and concise.
During the visit of the late Viceroy of Egypt to England, he gave a banquet on board his
yacht, at which some of England’s fairest ladies and greatest statesmen were guests, and
were unanimous in their approval of the Turkish cuisine. Emboldened by the recollection I
send my little book to press, in the hope that my efforts to confer a benefit on the culinary
art may not be entirely thrown away. (Turabi Efendi 1865 : « Preface »)
La version anglaise de Turabi Efendi renferme 253 recettes, groupées en
19 catégories, comme suit : Ènvā‘i Chòrbàlar – Soups ; Ènvā‘i Kèbāblar – Kebabs,
or Roast Meats ; Ènvā‘i Kyùl-Bàsstilar – Broiled Meats, &c. ; Ènvā‘i Yàhnilèr
ve Pùlākilèr – Fricassed or Stewed Meats, &c. ; Ènvā‘i Kyùftèlèr – Balls of
Minced Meats, &c. ; Tàwāda Tibkh Òlunān Taamlar – Fried Dishes ; Burèk Nèvìndèn
Òlān Taamlar – Pastry, with Meat, &c. ; Ènvā‘i Bàsstilar – Dishes Made With Meat
and Vegetables, &c. ; Ènvā‘i Dòlmàlar – Stuffed Dishes ; Ènvā‘i Pìlāwlèr – Pilaw, or
Rice, Cooked with Meat, &c., in Various Ways ; Khàmirdan Màmùl Sìjàk Tàtli
Taamlar – Hot Sweet Pastry ; Ènvā‘i Sòghuk Tàtlilar – Cold Sweet Dishes ; Ènvā‘i
Kàyghanalar – Omelets ; Ènvā‘i Sàlatalar – Salads ; Ènvā‘i Tùrshùlar – Pickles ;
Mèyvè Tàtlùlari – Stewed Fruits ; Ènvā‘i Khòshāblar – Various Kinds of Sherbets,
with Fruit in Them ; Ènvā‘i Shùrùblār – Syrups ; Ènvā‘i Rèchèllèr – Jams of Preserves.
Les catégories de recettes mentionnées dans la traduction de Turabi
Efendi se retrouvent dans bien des livres de gastronomie parus en Turquie au
XIXe siècle, dont le point de départ est généralement le même – le livre de
Mehmet Kâmil, voire l’Ağdiye Risâlesi ; on les retrouve aussi dans le traité
d’Ali Eşref Dede, dont il sera question plus loin et qui comporte également
19 catégories de recettes.
Le traité de gastronomie élaboré par Ali Eşref Dede, vraisemblablement
ignoré à l’époque, nous semble intéressant surtout parce qu’il fut conçu dans un
contexte assez différent par rapport aux autres. Il est difficile de savoir si
l’auteur était ou non au courant de l’ouvrage de Mehmet Kâmil, son
prédécesseur en la matière, car il n’en fait aucune mention. Il n’offre, d’autre
part, aucun renseignement sur le but de son travail. Vu sa qualité de maître
spirituel Mevlevî, on serait fort enclin à établir une certaine connexion entre sa
démarche et l’importance particulière prêtée par les Mevlevîs à la cuisine, à la
préparation de la nourriture, aux communions alimentaires et au foyer (ocak),
qu’ils considéraient comme sacré, tout comme les Bektâchî. Il ne faut pas
oublier qu’une bonne partie de l’entraînement spirituel des futurs derviches
LUMINIŢA MUNTEANU
8
Mevlevî se déroulait dans la cuisine du tekke où ils faisaient leur apprentissage ;
les postulants y étaient censés mûrir à l’instar des aliments soumis au processus
de cuisson, durant une période de service ou bien d’épreuve appelée çile,
« tourment, supplice », qui durait mille un jours. En raison de cette posture, ils
étaient également nommés matbah canı, « âmes de la cuisine », tandis que leur
« entraîneur spirituel » portait le titre de aşcı başı ou ser-tabbâh, « cuisinier en
chef »8 (Gölpınarlı 1977 : 223-224). Ce genre de symbolisme associé à la cuisine
remontait à l’époque du patron de la confrérie, Mawlânâ Jalâl ad-Dîn ar-Rûmî,
qui lui prêtait une importance particulière et y faisait souvent référence :
« Molānā compares almost everything to a kitchen : the soul, the heart, the
head, the stomach, and even intellect in whose kitchen the poor Sufis remain
hungry. » (Schimmel 1993 : 145)
Mais il s’agit là de pures spéculations, puisque le livret d’Ali Eşref Dede
n’a pas une visée éducatrice, voire initiatique explicite ; il ressemble plutôt à un
guide pratique de gastronomie, à l’usage des « friands », qu’à un ouvrage
didactique réservé aux postulants Mevlevî. L’aspect soigné du manuscrit
suggère, d’autre part, que celui-ci n’était pas regardé comme une entreprise
quelconque ; à la différence du livre de Mehmet Kâmil, qui s’adressait à l’esprit
pragmatique de la société, il n’était pas destiné à l’impression, donc à la
multiplication : du fait de sa conception, il devait rester unique.
Les 19 chapitres du traité d’Ali Eşref Dede9 sont structurés comme suit : 1.
Potages aux légumes (5 recettes) ; 2. Salades et pickles (4 recettes) ; 3. Variétés de
kebap (15 recettes) ; 4. Viande grillée (10 recettes) ; 5. Helva et kadayıf
(55 recettes) ; 6. Gelées à l’amidon et glaces (13 recettes) ; 7. Petits-fours secs
[aux amandes, pistaches, etc.] (8 recettes) ; 8. Petits-fours enduits de sorbet et
d’autres gâteaux semblables (8 recettes) ; 9. Pickles (10 recettes) ; 10. Plats à
base de pâtes (2 recettes) ; 11. Beignets et galettes (17 recettes) ; 12. Légumes
farcis (5 recettes) ; 13. Variétés d’aspic de mouton (paça) et boulettes
d’aubergine (6 recettes) ; 14. Boulettes de viande (5 recettes) ; 15. Plats à base
d’épinard et de courge (4 recettes) ; 16. Préparation de la moelle [de bœuf] et
des ragoûts (12 recettes) ; 17. Variétés de pilafs (11 recettes) ; 18. Nectars et
compotes (18 recettes) ; 19. Manières de faire geler l’eau (2 recettes).
Il s’agit de 210 recettes au total, y compris les deux formules de préparer
la glace, qui certifient une fois de plus, si besoin en était, son importance comme
moyen traditionnel de refroidissement, mais aussi de conservation des aliments10 .
8
Dans le tekke de Konya – la loge principale des Mevlevî, désignée aussi par le syntagme
« Huzur-i Pîr », litt. « présence du Père fondateur » –, cette fonction était remplie, de manière
exceptionnelle, par le Ser-Tarıyk [Tarikatçı] Dede, à savoir le supérieur de l’ordre.
9
Nous allons nous rapporter, dans ce qui suit, à l’édition de Feyzi Halıcı, parue en 1992 (Ali
Eşref Dede’nin Yemek Risalesi, éd. : Feyzi Halıcı, Atatürk Kültür Merkezi, Ankara, 1992) ; les
renvois aux pages concernent la même édition.
10
À Istanbul, par exemple, la glace et la neige étaient d’abord charriées depuis le Mont
Olympe jusqu’à Mudanya, et ensuite transportées en bateau à Istanbul.
9
Observons, d’autre part, la place assignée aux différentes variétés de halva et de
kadayıf dans l’ensemble des sucreries. Le halva revêtait une haute fonction
symbolique parmi les Turcs, jouissant d’une longue tradition ; il était dispensé
de manière solennelle à la fin des cérémonies d’initiation pratiquées par les ordres
mystiques musulmans (tarikat), mais aussi durant les cérémonies réservées au
départ et à l’accueil des troupes, au bout des campagnes militaires, lors des
cérémonies vouées aux martyrs (şehit) et, plus tard, lors de toute cérémonie
funèbre. Enfin, le halva jouait un rôle essential dans les soi-disant helva sohbetleri,
« causeries du/au halva », qui représentaient une forme de divertissement et de
socialisation hivernale fort agréée dans tous les milieux sociaux (Özbil 2011).
Parmi les friandises mentionnées par Ali Eşref Dede se retrouve le célèbre
râhat-i halkûm11 (voir pp. 36-37) qui, suivant Zeynel Özel (2011 : 171-174),
était préparé jadis uniquement dans la Helvahâne-i Hassa Ocağı, mise au service
exclusif du sultan, pour commencer ensuite, probablement à la fin du XVIIIe ou
au début du XIXe siècle, à être produit aussi par un nombre déterminé de
confiseurs (şekerlemeci) autorisés, au bénéfice du reste de la population (en
signe, peut-être, de la « démocratisation » graduelle de l’alimentation et, pas en
dernier lieu, de l’apparition d’une logique tout à fait différente par rapport à la
traditionnelle – la logique concurrentielle du capitalisme naissant).
À part ces quelques sucreries qui puissent passer pour prétentieuses ou du
moins rares, l’ouvrage gastronomique du maître Mevlevî a le mérite de nous
offrir bon nombre d’informations non seulement sur les recettes d’antan, mais
aussi sur les légumes et les fruits les plus communs, voire familiers ou peu
coûteux, les salades et les ingrédients des salades, les pickles et leur
conservation, les types de viande, de poisson et de kebap les plus réputés, les
sucreries traditionnelles, les variétés de pain et de céréales les plus accessibles,
les épices les plus employées, mais aussi sur les récipients et les ustensiles de
cuisine en usage vers la moitié du XIXe siècle, en Turquie. En voici un bref
inventaire, qui nous paraît assez parlant des ressources, mais aussi des goûts (au
propre, comme au figuré) de l’époque :
Récipients et ustensiles de cuisine : cuillères (kaşık), cuillères en bois
(ağaç eli), louches (kepçe), passoires (kevgir), mortiers en pierre (taş dibek),
mortiers en bois (ağaç havan) et, plus spécialement, en bois de buis (şimşir el
dibeği), mortiers en marbre (mermer havan), tamis de cuisine, plus ou moins
serrés (ince elek, kıl elek, kırbal), égouttoirs de gaze (seyrek astar), assiettes
(tabak), bols (kâse), casseroles (sahan), terrines et marmites
(güğeç/güyeç/güveç), plats de cuisson (tâbe), écuelles (çömlek), plateaux [creux et
ronds] en cuivre (lenger, tepsi), couteaux (bıçak), pinces (maşa), rouleaux à pâtisserie
11
Variété de confiserie dont la composition pouvait comporter de l’amidon, du sucre (dans
les époques plus reculées, du miel), des amandes, des pistaches, des noisettes, de la crème, etc.
LUMINIŢA MUNTEANU
10
(oklava), planches à pâtisserie (tahta), pétrins (tekne), bassins et bassines (leğen),
chiches (şiş) pour les kébaps, trépieds de cuisine (saç ayağı/sacayağı), cruches
en métal (ibrik), bocaux (kavanoz), tonneaux et barriques (fuçu, fıçı).
La plupart des instruments évoqués plus haut semblent assez simples, de
peu de valeur, étant confectionnés de bois, de cuivre, de pierre, de marbre et,
parfois, de terre cuite. Ils sont multifonctionnels, faciles à utiliser, pratiques et
se retrouvaient certainement dans bien des cuisines turques au XIXe siècle, sans
avoir subi trop de changements au cours du temps ; de ce point de vue, on
pourrait parler d’une certaine « atemporalité » des outils.
Épices et fines herbes : poivre (büber/biber), menthe (na’nâ), persil
(mi’denos), safran (zağferan), cannelle (dâr-ı çinî), cumin (kimon/kimyon),
cardamome (kakule), anis (enison/anason), feuilles de laurier (tefne), feuilles de
myrte (mersin yaprağı), feuilles de citron et de limette (limon ve turunç
yaprağı), coriandre (kişniç/kişniş), eau de rose (gülâb) et eau de fleurs d’oranger
(çiçek suyu) – employées notamment pour la préparation des sucreries –, mastic
(sakız), nigelle cultivée ou cumin noir (Şam nebatı), clous de girofle (karanfil/karangil),
musc (misk), moutarde (hardal), salpêtre (güherçile). Il est à remarquer que
certaines des épices et, surtout, des fines herbes mentionnées plus haut (le persil,
l’anis, le thym, la menthe) ne se retrouvent pas parmi les plantes aromatiques
commandées par les intendants des cuisines du palais impérial, ainsi qu’il ressort de
l’étude de Christoph Neumann (2006) ; elles auraient pu être cultivées dans les
jardins de celui-ci, ce qui ne serait pas une chose inhabituelle. Le persil et la menthe
figurent en échange dans le livre de gastronomie signé par Turabi Efendi.
Céréales, produits dérivés de céréales et plats à base de céréales : blé
(keşkeklik buğdayı), farine de blé (buğday unu), riz (pirinç) et farine de riz
(pirinç unu), amidon (nişasta), semoule (irmik/irmik unu), pilaf (pilav), pilaf de
vermicelles (şehriye pilavı). Il est à remarquer qu’il n’y a aucune mention du
maïs (mısır), du seigle (çavdar) et de l’orge (arpa). Le maïs12 fit son apparition
12
Le nom turc du maïs (mısır) est redevable à l’Égypte, d’où la plante se serait propagée en
Turquie, via Syrie, au XVIe siècle (Eren 1999 : 295). Suivant Ellen Messer (2000 : 97), le maïs,
originaire de l’Amérique du Sud, fut introduit dans l’Europe tempérée, de même qu’en Asie et en
Afrique, aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles. Il fit son apparition en Europe grâce à Christophe Colomb, en
1492-1493, et fut mentionné pour la première fois en tant que céréale cultivée en 1500, à Séville,
d’où il se répandit dans le reste de la Péninsule Ibérique. En Europe, où il connut une expansion
plus rapide et plus facile que la pomme de terre, il fut généralement désigné par des syntagmes
que nous considérons fort parlants de sa perception comme « céréale étrangère » et qui, d’autre
part, trahissent souvent ses filières de transmission dans les régions respectives : « Spreading
across Europe, maize acquired a series of binomial labels, each roughly translated as ‘foreign
grain’: in Lorraine and in the Vosges, maize was ‘Roman corn’; in Tuscany, ‘Sicilian corn’; in Sicily,
‘Indian corn’; in the Pyrenees, ‘Spanish corn’; in Provence, ‘Barbary corn’ or ‘Guinea corn’; in
Turkey, ‘Egyptian corn’; in Egypt, ‘Syrian dourra’ (i.e., sorghum); in England, ‘Turkish wheat’
or ‘Indian corn’; and in Germany, ‘Welsch corn’ or ‘Bactrian typha’. The French blé de Turquie
11
dans les cuisines impériales vers la moitié du XIXe siècle, sous le nom de mısır-ı
buğday (Samancı 2006 : 197), mais n’eut pas le même succès que le blé et le riz ;
aujourd’hui encore, il reste moins populaire en Turquie que d’autres céréales. On
l’emploie notamment dans certaines régions du pays (par exemple, sur la côte
de la Mer Noire, où il entre dans la composition d’une sorte de pain appelé mısır
ekmeği ou de certains gâteaux où la farine de maïs remplace la farine de blé).
Variétés de pains : pain blanc (francala), « pain du souverain » (hünkâri
has ekmek) et une variété de pâte phyllo (yufka).
Variétés de viandes : volaille (tavuk), mouton et agneau (koyun, kuzu),
veau [peu mentionné, puisque cher], viscères comestibles, tels le foie, les
poumons et les tripes de moutons, le foie de poule et le pieds de mouton (paça).
Variétés de kebab : chiche-kebab de volaille (tavuk kebabı), chiche-kebab
de mouton ou d’agneau préparé avec du lait (süt kebabı), chiche-kebab avec de
la viande de poule émincée (kırma tavuk kebabı), chiche-kebab aux petits
morceaux de viande (kuşbaşı kebabı)13, tas kebabı [petits morceaux de viande et
de légumes cuits à l’étouffée], kebap aux dattes (hurma kebabı), kébab cuit au
four (fırın kebabı), chiche-kebab au foie de mouton ou d’agneau (ciğer kebabı),
« chiche-kebab du boucher » [kasap kebabı – espèce de rôti de viande de mouton
hachée et assaisonnée d’herbes aromatiques, puis ensevelie dans du suif et cuite
dans une casserole ou terrine], chiche-kebab en écuelle [çömlek kebabı – sorte
de kebab de mouton, cuit dans une écuelle ou, faute de mieux, dans une casserole,
accompagné de gombos, d’aubergines, de courgettes, d’oignon et assaisonnée
d’herbes aromatiques].
On pourrait y associer, en tant que plat spécifique, perçu en Turquie
comme « gourmandise », mais plutôt ignoré, sinon abhorré en Occident, l’aspic
de pieds de mouton (paça).
Variétés de poissons : mulets (kefal), barbeaux truités (levrek), sardines
(sardalya, conservées en été par salaison et appelées à Istanbul et dans les îles
environnantes, en raison de leur goût salé, turşu), anchois (inçivye/ançuvez), turbots
(kalkan balığı) et foie de turbot grillé, maquereaux (uskumru), tassergals (lüfer),
poissons-épées ou espadons (kılınç balığı), poissons d’eau douce (terhos/terkos
balığı), évoqués de manière hyperonymique et probablement moins appréciés,
vu leur odeur désagréable. Ajoutons-y le caviar (haviar salûtası).
(‘Turkish wheat’) and a reference to a golden-and-white seed of unknown species introduced by
Crusaders from Anatolia (in what turned out to be a forged Crusader document) encouraged the
error that maize came from western Asia, not the Americas. » (Messer 2000 : 105).
13
Les kebabs étaient enduits d’huiles aromatiques et d’autres épices en se servant de plumes
de poules – tavuk yeleği.
LUMINIŢA MUNTEANU
12
Le traité d’Ali Eşref Dede, renfermant plusieurs recettes concernant la
cuisson des poissons, dont il paraît d’ailleurs entiché, démolit certaines « idées
reçues » au sujet des tabous alimentaires des Mevlevî, qui ont fait couler
beaucoup d’encre et ont provoqué maintes spéculations14 ; Ali Eşref Dede parle
de poissons en connaisseur et en suggère plusieurs manières de cuisson (il en va
de même pour la préparation de la « salade de caviar ») – il se comporte comme
un véritable expert en la matière, non pas comme un maître Mevlevî soucieux
d’éloigner ses disciples de la « mauvaise chair » des créatures de l’eau.
On pourrait s’interroger sur la source du malentendu en question.
Mawlânâ Jalâl ad-Dîn ar-Rûmî, invoqué parfois par ses adeptes pour justifier
telle ou telle option comportementale, ne paraît pas avoir éprouvé de
l’appréhension pour les poissons. Prenons à l’appui de cette thèse une anecdote
tirée de la traduction française de l’ouvrage d’Aflâkî, suivant laquelle Mawlânâ
(« le Maître ») aurait dit une fois, au sujet des poissons :
« Notre histoire est parvenue jusqu’aux poissons dans la mer ; le bouillonnement
des eaux a apporté mille vagues. » Dans un autre endroit, il a dit encore : « Les poissons
connaissent notre directeur spirituel, tandis que nous en sommes loin ; à ce bonheur, nous
sommes des réprouvés, eux des élus ». (Cl. Huart 1922 : 31)
Lorsque les circonstances et notamment les conditions naturelles le
permettent, les gens qui entourent Mawlânâ s’occupent également de la pêche,
qui semble un emploi de temps tout à fait habituel et ne suscite aucun
commentaire dépréciatif :
« Les anciens amis ont raconté que le cheikh Çalàh-eddîn se trouvait avec son
père et sa mère dans le village de Kâmilé, aux environs de Qonya; ils employaient leur
temps à pêcher du poisson dans le lac de celle localité. » (Ibidem : 195)
Les proches ou les disciples de Mawlânâ le présentent parfois comme
étant fort enclin à l’ascèse, qu’il recommande aussi à ses disciples15. Pourtant, il
14
Les Mevlevî/Mawlawî ne sont pas les seuls musulmans réputés pour ce genre d’intolérance,
dont les explications sont les plus diverses ; ni les Bektâşî, notamment les plus bigots d’entre eux, ne
mangent pas du poisson ; les ‘Alawî (autrefois, Nusayrî) évitent certaines espèces de poissons. Pourtant,
les « créatures de la mer » sont clairement mentionnées dans le Coran parmi les aliments licites (V : 96).
15
Par exemple, Sipehsâlâr, disciple du père de Mawlânâ et ensuite de Mawlânâ même (les
informations à ce sujet restent plutôt obscures), qui rédigea une sorte de mémorial consacré aux
dires et aux exploits de celui-ci, met en exergue l’attachement de son maître chéri pour le jeûne et
généralement la continence, regardés comme exemples d’œuvre pie, de détachement de la vie et
des biens terrestres, sur la voie de Dieu (voir le chapitre intitulé Orucu, Mücahedesi ve Açlığına
Dair, « Sur son jeûne, son combat et sa faim », 1977 : 45-49). – Sipehsâlâr (litt. « comandant »),
dont le nom réel était Ferîdûn bin Ahmed, « Ferîdûn, fils d’Ahmed », serait mort, selon les
traditions Mevlevî/Mawlawî, vers 1312, c’est-à-dire peu avant ou peu après la mort du fils aîné de
Mevlânâ, Sultân Walad/Veled. La majeure partie de son œuvre, qui fut probablement achevée
13
ne semble pas détaché de la gastronomie et, en outre, éprouve un vif intérêt pour
tout ce qui s’adresse aux sens, y compris le goût et l’odorat ; qui plus est, il conçoit
l’acte de manger comme un véritable symbole de la nourriture spirituelle : « We
can safely assert that Rumi’s imagery is filled, to an amazing extent, with
images taken from the kitchen, although he always calls his disciples to fasting
to the extent of starving, and spent many years in strict fasting discipline. »
(Schimmel 1993 : 138). Les allusions alimentaires parsemées dans ses vers nous
permettent donc de nous forger une image sur les aliments les plus communs à
Konya, au XIIIe siècle, car Mawlânâ évoque des produits, des mets, des ingrédients
et des arômes extrêmement divers, tels le tutmaç (sorte de vermicelles préparés
avec de la viande et du yaourt), les potages, le kebap, les tripes, les pickles, les
pois chiches, les petits-pois, l’oignon, l’ail, le riz, le bulgur, le pain, l’aubergine,
l’épinard, le navet, le lait, le fromage, le beurre, la grenade, la pêche, la pomme,
le kadayıf, le halva (aliment de prédilection dans les cercles initiatiques), le sel,
le sucre, le musc, etc. (Schimmel 1993 : 138-145).
Variétés de légumes : oignon (soğan) et jus d’oignon (soğan suyu), ail
(sarımsık/sarımsak), pois chiches (nohut), épinard (ıspanah/ıspanak), gombos
(bamya), aubergines (badıncan/patlıcan), fèves (bakla), céleri (kerefis/kereviz),
carottes (havuç), haricots blancs (böğrülce), poireaux (pırasa), citrouilles (kitre).
Il serait à remarquer l’absence de quelques légumes très populaires
aujourd’hui en Turquie, tels les tomates rouges et vertes, les haricots verts, les
asperges, les pommes de terre qui, suivant Özge Samancı (2006 : 197), auraient
été adoptés par les élites ottomanes vers la moitié du XIXe siècle16. L’absence
des tomates dans les menus du palais impérial ottoman jusqu’au XIXe siècle17
contredit l’idée avancée par Edgar Anderson, suivant laquelle les tomates
auraient été, pendant des siècles, un légume de prédilection ou, de moins, de
base en Turquie, comme dans les Balkans (grâce à l’influence des Turcs), en
Iran, en Arabie et en Ethiopie18. Il n’en reste pas moins vrai que les tomates
après sa mort par son fils ou par quelqu’un d’autre, fut empruntée par Šams ad-Dîn Ahmad Aflâkî
dans son Mémorial des Saints (Manâqîb al-Ârefîn), commencé vers 1318 et achevé en 1353.
16
Il en alla de même pour certains fruits exotiques comme les bananes, le kiwi et l’ananas
(Samancı 2006 : 198).
17
Suivant Özge Samancı (2006 : 196-197), les tomates auraient été adoptées par le palais
impérial en 1830 (donc, à l’époque de Mahmut II), après avoir été consommées au début, tout
comme en Occident, en tant que tomates vertes ; le fruit mûr éveillait, semblait-il, la méfiance des
possibles amateurs, car il était perçu comme altéré.
18
« [Edgar] Anderson has noted that there is a wide and apparently coherent area,
encompassing the Balkans and Turkey and running along the edge of Iran toward Arabia and
Ethiopia, where the tomato has been used for centuries in the everyday diet of common people. »
(Long 2000 : 357). Edgar Anderson, cité par Janet Long, apprécie que la tomate fut diffusée dans
le Levant et dans les Balkans par les Turcs au XVIe siècle, lorsque l’Empire ottoman dominait la
région, après avoir été découverte dans les ports italiens et espagnols. Ce scénario nous paraît
hasardeux : d’abord, les tomates semblent avoir été introduites en Europe par les Espagnols
14
LUMINIŢA MUNTEANU
(rouges et vertes) et le jus de tomates apparaissent dans plusieurs recettes
reproduites par Turabi Efendi dans son livre19, sans donner l’impression qu’il
s’agit d’un légume « exotique ». Pour ce qui est des pommes de terre 20 ,
omniprésentes dans les menus contemporains, elles semblent peu assimilées par
la gastronomie autochtone à l’époque en question 21 ; plus encore, on dirait
qu’elles sont largement supplantées par l’aubergine, qui s’avère beaucoup plus
répandue dans toute la gastronomie du Moyen-Orient22.
Salades et ingrédients des salades : laitue dite romaine (marul salûtası),
enrichie parfois de feuilles de radis (Türk otu), de fleurs de rose, de gainier ou
de cognassier (gül/erguvan/ayva çiceği).
Pickles : cornichons, courgettes, chou, navet, ail, piment, aubergine, ainsi
que des mélanges de légumes, conservés surtout dans du vinaigre.
Fruits : citrons (limon) et jus de citron (âb-ı limon), cerises (kiraz), griottes
(vişne), cassis (kuş üzümü), raisins de Smyrne (İzmir siyahı), grenades (nar), raisins
verts (koruk), châtaignes [rôties] ([kavrulmuş] kestane), cornouilles (kızılcık),
seulement à la fin du XVIe ou, plutôt, au début du XVIIe siècle ; ensuite, elles commencèrent à
être cultivées dans les Balkans surtout au XIXe siècle.
19
Par exemple, dans celles des şiş kebap – recette 12, p. 4, domatesli kızartma yahni – recette 44,
p. 14, sığır eti yahnisi – recettes 45-46, p. 15, güveç balığı – recette 48, p. 16, uskumru balığından papaz
yahnisi – recettes 49-50, pp. 16-17, güveç bastısı – recette 100, p. 33, domates dolması – recette 116,
p. 40, domates pilavı – recette 127, p. 44, midiye pilâvı – recette 133, p. 46).
20
Les pommes de terre, originaires de l’Amérique du Sud, semblent avoir gagné l’Europe,
via l’Espagne, vers 1570, pour se répandre ensuite en Italie, dans les Pays-Bas et en Angleterre
(Messer 2000a : 190).
21
Une seule occurrence chez Turabi Efendi (recette 45, p. 15), aucune occurrence chez Ali
Eşref Dede. Özge Samancı (2006 : 197-198) affirme que les pommes de terre commencent à
figurer parmi les acquisitions du palais impérial ottoman vers la moitié du XIXe siècle, mais en
quantités limitées, ce qui conduit à la conclusion qu’elles étaient offertes notamment aux hôtes
étrangers. Suivant Helmuth van Moltke, les pommes de terre étaient connues à Istanbul depuis
1835, sans pourtant avoir diffusé dans les autres régions de la Turquie.
22
« The aubergine (eggplant), for example, is omnipresent on Middle Eastern tables. The Turks
claim they know more than 40 ways of preparing this vegetable. It can be smoked, roasted, fried, or
mashed for a ‘poor man’s caviar’. According to a Middle Eastern saying, to dream of three aubergines
is a sign of happiness. » (Roger 1999 : 1142). « Known in much of the world as ‘aubergine’ and in
the Middle East as ‘poor-man’s-caviar’, the vegetable (technically a fruit) is native to southern and
eastern Asia and was only introduced into Europe (by the Arabs via Spain) during the Middle Ages.
It is a member of the nightshade family, which includes the potato, and has a reputation for bitterness,
but is so versatile – it can be fried, grilled, boiled, baked, deep-fried, stuffed, or stewed – that its flavor
changes with different methods of preparation, and in some cuisines (and diets) the eggplant, with its
fleshy texture, takes the place of meat. Eggplant is the star in many famous dishes, such as the moussaka
of Greece and the eggplant parmigiana of Italy. Although not especially nutritious, th eggplant is a
good source of folic acid. » (« A Dictionary of the World’s Plant Foods », dans Keneth F. Kiple /
Kriemhild Coneè Ornelas (éd.), The Cambridge World History of Food II, 1999 : 1770).
15
abricots (kayısı), prunes (erik), prunes de Mardin (Mardin eriği), prunes de l’île
de Chio (Bardaşa eriği), prunes d’Amasya et de Poziğa, pommes (elma), poires
(armut), oranges (portakal), fruits du laurier-cerise (taflan ou kara yemiş), pignons
(çam fıstığı), figues (incir), razıyanı/reazdene/rezzaki/razzâki üzümü [espèce de
raisins blancs à grains longs], dattes (hurma), noix (cevaz/ceviz), noisettes (fındık),
amandes (badem), pistaches (fıstık/Şam fıstığı), noix de coco (cevz-i bevvâyı).
Notons la large variété de fruits, y inclus les « fruits secs/séchés » (kuru
yemiş), très agréés par les Turcs et consumés sous toutes les formes possibles
(verts et mûrs, frais et séchés, confits, cuits sous forme de compotes, confitures,
gelées, marmelades, au sirop, sous forme de jus ou sirop, sous forme de fruits
confiés, etc.). Les fruits mentionnés par Ali Eşref Dede nous sont, pour la
plupart, familiers, parce qu’acclimatés dans bien des régions du monde et, pour
la plupart, peu prétentieux23. Notons, pourtant, l’utilisation différente réservée à
certaines variétés du même fruit, légume, poisson, etc., suivant leurs qualités
maîtresses, ce qui constitue une constante de la cuisine et, finalement, du palais
fin des gourmet turcs :
« Millennia have worked to refine the Turkish palate. In Istanbul, the people
choose their drinking water as others would choose their wine. A sip suffices to identify
the spring from which the water comes. And the proverb says, choose your friend by the
taste of his food. In Turkey you never order peaches. You must specify whether you want
Bursa peaches or Izmir peaches. When you want fish you must specify its age. ‘Çinakok’ is
a generation younger then ‘lüfer’. ‘Torik’ is a year older the ‘Palamut’. This sensitivity to
nuance reflects the Turkish aesthetic approach to food. » (Neşet Eren 1982 : 14)
Izzet Sak (2006 : 145) et Özge Samancı (2006 : 198) remarquent la même
sensibilité gustative au niveau du palais impérial ottoman, qui accordait une
grande importance au lieu de provenance des fruits, perçu à l’époque comme
une sorte de « marque » ; on arrivait ainsi à consommer ou à employer dans la
cuisson quatre-cinq variétés de prunes ou de raisins, suivant leur saveur
dominante (douce, âcre, plus ou moins parfumée, etc.), qui devait se marier à la
nature du repas ou du plat préparé.
Sucreries : gâteaux du type kadayıf ou baklava, aşure [sorte de plat doux,
préparé de graines de céréales, de sucre, de raisins, etc.], güllâç [sorte de
sucrerie préparée de gaufrettes fourrées de noix, noisettes, pistaches et sirop de
lait aromatisé de l’eau de rose], halva (helva) 24 , gelée (palûde/palûze/pelte),
purée d’amandes (badem ezmesi), pain de Gênes/génois (İspanya ekmeği), pekmez
23
En étudiant les acquisitions du palais impérial ottoman en matière de fruits et de fleurs
vers la moitié du XVIIIe siècle, Izzet Sak (2006 : 142-145) constate peu de changements en ce qui
concerne les variétés de fruits consumées et leurs emplois entre les XVIe-XIXe siècles.
24
Y compris la variété connue sous le nom de gaziler helvası (pp. 26-27), qui apparaît
également chez Turabi Efendi (recette 163, p. 55).
LUMINIŢA MUNTEANU
16
[mélasse préparée avec du jus de raisins], höşmeri [hoşmerim, espèce de sucrerie
préparée avec du fromage frais, non-salé, de la farine et du sucre ou du miel].
Produits lactés : lait (leben, şîr, süt), yogourt en outre (torba yoğurdu),
crème (kaymak), lor peynir [fromage frais fait de lait de chèvre], çayır peyniri
[espèce de fromage frais], fromage en outre (tulum peyniri), fromage frais,
non-salé – espèce de caillebotte (teleme).
Ingrédients employés pour la préparation des aliments au chaud : sel
(tuz), très important non seulement dans la préparation des mets, mais aussi
pour son poids symbolique, huile d’olives (rugan-i zeyt/zeyt yağı), dont
l’emploi dans la cuisine turque était plutôt de fraîche date25, beurre (rugan-ı
sade), dont l’emploi remontait très loin dans le temps, vu le passé nomade et
l’occupation de prédilection des Turcs anciens, à savoir l’élevage du bétail, miel
(asel/bal), sucre (şeker/şeker-i kanid), y compris « le sucre végétal (nebat
şekeri) » (glucose?)26, vinaigre (sirke), eau de pois chiches (nohut-ab), employé
dans la préparation de certains mets.
Boissons : boza [boisson à base de grains de céréales fermentés], salep
(sahlep), sorbet (şerbet), moût (üzüm şırası), tisane de camomille (papatya suyu).
Ali Eşref Dede indique de manière très méticuleuse les quantités des
ingrédients entrant dans la composition des plats (en kıyye/okka = 1.282 grammes
ou en dirhem = 3.25 grammes, suivant le cas) ; il remarque, en outre, que l’emploi
de ces mesures de masse est plus précis que la méthode proportionnelle, impliquant
l’emploi de certains récipients de cuisine, tels les bols, les écuelles, etc. (p. 21).
Observons que les unités de masse s’avèrent toujours problématiques
lorsqu’il s’agit de s’adresser à un public ou à un lecteur autre que l’habituel.
Cette question est décelée correctement dans maints livres de gastronomie
turque s’adressant aux Occidentaux ; c’est pourquoi Turabi Efendi n’oublie pas
d’ajouter à sa traduction un petit tableau de correspondance concernant les
unités de masse. Neşet Eren 27 , dont le livre de cuisine à l’intention des
25
Il fut longtemps employé seulement dans la préparation du savon et dans l’éclairage domestique.
L’emploi du miel dans la préparation des sucreries était traditionnel, alors que, du moins
pour les époques plus reculées, le sucre, notamment celui de canne, était plus cher et comptait
pour un article de lux, réservée aux élites.
27
Neşet Eren, née en 1915, était la fille de Nüzhet Baba, le dernier şeyh du tekke Bektâşî de
Rumelihisarı, connu sous les noms de Nâfi Baba Tekkesi et Şehitlik Dergâhı. Son arrière-grand-père
fut Nâfi Baba, célèbre à l’époque pour la vivacité de son esprit et pour sa bonhomie. Elle passa
ses années les plus tendres dans le tekke de Rumelihisarı (habité par sa famille jusqu’en 1943), où
elle eut l’occasion de se familiariser non seulement avec les repères du style de vie traditionnel,
mais aussi avec la cuisine turque « classique » : Our home was the headquarters of the Bektaşi
Order of Dervişes of which my family were the heads. We lived in a large mansion on a steep hill
overlooking the Bosporus. From my window in Europe I could see across to the houses in Asia.
26
17
Occidentaux paraîtra cent ans après la traduction de Turabi Efendi, semble plus
relaxée à ce sujet – puisque s’adressant aux Américains, elle emploie les mesures
de poids anglo-saxonnes (onces, livres, etc.) ; lorsque possible, elle indique des
quantités « de bon sens », telles « une cuillerée de… », « une tasse de… », « un
petit oignon », etc.
Ali Eşref Dede offre également des conseils aux cuisiniers, introduits de
manière explicite, par le vocable tenbih, litt. « conseil » ; ceux-ci montrent, une
fois de plus, le caractère plutôt pragmatique de son ouvrage. En voici quelques
exemples : (a) Les poissons et les autres plats cuits en terrine sont plus savoureux
que ceux qui sont cuits dans des récipients en cuivre (pp. 7-8) ; (b) La viande à
préparer par n’importe quel moyen doit être exposée et laissée attendre dans un
endroit assez froid et aéré, avant d’être cuite. D’autre part, lorsqu’on grille la
viande et lorsque la graisse commence à se liquéfier, il est recommandable de
l’enduire, à chaque fois que l’on retourne les morceaux de viande sur le gril,
d’une couche fine de farine, afin d’en faire absorber la graisse (p. 10) ; (c) Il est
recommandable de rouler les poissons dans de la farine avant de les mettre sur
le gril (p. 11) ; (d) L’odeur désagréable dégagée par certains espèces de poissons,
tels le mulet et le maquereau, lorsque mis sur le gril disparaît s’ils sont plongés à
l’avance dans de l’eau bouillante (p. 11) ; (e) Le citron et le jus de citron ne sont
point recommandables pour la préparation à chaud, car ils entraînent un goût
désagréable ; en échange, ils peuvent être remplacés par le vinaigre (p. 11) ; (f) Un
certain ingrédient peut être remplacé par un autre (par exemple, dans le cas de
helvâ-yı İshakiye, on peut substituer la farine de riz à l’amidon – p. 30).
S’y ajoutent d’autres remarques – sur les qualités fortifiantes de certains
aliments ou plats, surtout en hiver (pp. 34-35), ou sur les manières de cuisson
« diététique » (Ali Eşref Dede précise à plusieurs reprises que certaines méthodes
de cuire les aliments ou les sucreries sont plus convenables à la digestion). De
surcroît, le şeyh Mevlevî précise parfois que certains plats ou certaines recettes
proviennent du palais impérial (comme il advient, par exemple, dans le cas
d’une « mixture » fort conseillée pour augmenter son immunité en hiver,
présentée par la formule Saray-ı Hümayundan muhareç memzuc sükkeri
yumurta, « mixture sucrée aux œufs issue du Palais Impérial » – p. 34).
Le vocabulaire du « traité » est assez simple et direct ; on y remarque, par
endroits, un certain soin d’éviter les répétitions fâcheuses, pourtant nécessaires pour
la clarté de l’exposé. Le turc ottoman (osmanlı), avec son hétérogénéité intrinsèque,
permettait souvent la substitution d’un terme d’origine turque par un synonyme
d’origine arabe ou persane, ce qui était non seulement souhaitable, mais aussi
fort conseillé et considéré dans le registre soigné. Ali Eşref Dede semble se souvenir
We kept open house day and night to all the members of the sect who came our way. We never
knew how many would sit around the table or sleep under the roof. As I think about it now it must
have been a veritable challenge to any cook to cater for a constantly unknown number of guests.
And we were supposed to serve a good meal. (Eren 1982 : 11).
LUMINIŢA MUNTEANU
18
parfois de cette exigence, puisqu’il lui arrive d’employer des synonymes du même
vocable, tels sükker (> arabe) et şeker (> persan), pour le sucre ; leben (> arabe),
şîr (> persan) et süt (> turc), pour le lait ; rugan-i zeyt (du persan rawgan,
« huile, graisse, beurre ») et zeyt yağı (du turc yağ, synonyme parfait de rugan),
pour l’huile d’olives ; asel (> arabe) et bal (> turc), pour le miel.
En conclusion, l’ouvrage du postnişîn Mevlevî d’Edirne nous paraît
comparable aux livres de cuisine contemporains, exception faite du vocabulaire,
qui reste fatalement daté, puisque redevable au turc ottoman ; il donne
l’impression que ce genre d’ouvrages n’a pas beaucoup changé au cours des
siècles. Il apporte, d’autre part, une contribution remarquable à la reconstitution
et, aussi, à la préservation de la gastronomie turque traditionnelle, dont la
variété et la richesse sont hautement redevables à l’esprit accommodant, réceptif
de la civilisation dont elle est issue.
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Atatürk Kültür Merkezi, Ankara, pp. IX-XII.
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Kiple, Keneth F., Kriemhild Coneè Ornelas (éd.), The Cambridge World History of Food I : 2000,
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19
Kut, Turgut [2011], « A Bibliography of Turkish Cookery Books up to 1927 », http://www.turkishcuisine.org/english/pages.php?ParentID=1&FirstLevel=11&PagingIndex=0, http://www.turkishcuisine.org/english/article_details.php?p_id=21&Pages=Articles&PagingIndex=1 (consulté :
08.08.2012).
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Cambridge World History of Food I, Cambridge University Press, New York, pp. 97-112.
Messer, Ellen (2000a), « Potatoes (White) », dans Keneth F. Kiple, Kriemhild Coneè Ornelas (éd.),
The Cambridge World History of Food I, Cambridge University Press, New York, pp. 187-201.
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The Cambridge World History of Food II : 1999, Cambridge University Press, New York,
pp. 1711-1886.
ANTIQUITÉ ET ACTUALITÉ : PERCEPTION
DU TEMPS CHEZ GHEORGHE CRĂCIUN
ALEXANDRA CIOCÂRLIE∗
ANTIQUITY AND ACTUALITY: THE PERCEPTIONS OF TIME
IN GHEORGHE CRĂCIUN’S WRITING
George Crăciun’s novel Compunere cu paralele inegale (Composition With Uunequal
Parallel Bars) imbricates four modern variants of the antique story of Daphnis And Chloe. His
narrative has a contemporary plot, revolving around the theme of couple relationships, and is
located in Romania, in the 1980’s. He organizes his narrative in a pattern consisting of two
parallel temporal dimensions which imply opposite meanings of love in order to contrast the
„antiquity” of contemporaneous world with the utopia of banality. The Romanian author
reinvents the most successful Greek novel of love story according to the sensibility of the modern
reader. He keeps the flavor of the original writing, but he intervenes by correcting the obsolete
and weak parts of the Greek masterpiece. Gheorghe Crăciun’s erudite and complex Compunere
cu paralele inegale is written with an artful style and is meant to be a manifesto against the
platitude of the contemporary love stories, by focusing on ideality and depth of feeling.
Keywords: Greek novel / modern novel, antiquity / actuality, utopia / banality, intertextuality.
Dans sa Composition aux parallèles inégales, Gheorghe Crăciun intercalle
quatre épures pour Longos – en fait des réécritures du roman antique Daphnis et
Chloé – parmi ses textes qui, inspirés de la réalité immédiate, fixent différentes
hypostases de la relation de couple dans la Roumanie des années 1980. Pourquoi
avoir choisi l’oeuvre de Longos? Il s’en explique dans le chapitre intitulé Cent
quatre-vingt minutes: sur quelques pages de son carnet, Vlad Ştefan, alter ego
de l’auteur, avoue sa joie d’avoir découvert le charme idyllique de la pastorale
grecque qui fait contrepoids à l’absence d’illusions qui pèse sur les histoires
d’amour de notre temps : « Quel choc pour mes attentes d’homme moderne!
Voilà un roman d’amour qui sur nous autres, enfants de notre temps, aurait les
meilleurs effets. Trop de convulsions, trop de regrets, trop de souffrance chez
les amants contemporains! (…) Où est passée la si nécessaire utopie érotique? »
Le journal de Crăciun (qui va du 4 août au 2 octobre 1985) confirme son
∗
Chercheur à l’Institut d’Histoire et de Théorie Littéraire « G. Călinescu », Bucarest,
e-mail: [email protected]
22
ALEXANDRA CIOCÂRLIE
intention de jouer sur deux tableaux temporels empreints d’acceptions opposées
de l’amour. Le texte respectif figure dans l’addenda à la seconde édition de la
Composition aux parallèles inégales qui a été publiée en 1999. Dans une note
datée 21 août, Crăciun envisage de placer à la fin du récit une lettre de Vlad, le
narrateur, pour rappeler que « la vie moderne est complètement dépourvue de
métaphysique. Une image idéale, idéalisée de l’amour s’imposait. Réécrire le
roman antique était un must. » Même réflexion dans une lettre à Mihai
Gramatopol (elle sera reproduite dans le journal du 27 septembre) : Crăciun
avoue que son intérêt pour Longos « ne doit rien à l’histoire, plus probablement
à la typologie ». Ce qu’il voulait c’était donner une place à une autre dimension
de l’amour dans « une constellation de proses qui présente un monde actuel de
conflits, désarrois, espoirs, insatisfactions et aboutissements, secoué de convulsions
y compris sentimentales ». Témoin de « cette absence totale d’idyllisme dans le
déroulement des implications de l’amour en version contemporaine », Crăciun,
une fois son propre livre fini, sent quelques mois plus tard qu’il doit « construire
une métaphysique qui renvoie toute la problématique dans un espace de plus
ample résonnance » et décide de traiter « partiellement au moins le truisme de
l’amour éternel ». Son choix est dicté précisément par « l’idyllisme naturaliste
de Daphnis et Chloé qui lui permettra d’accentuer jusqu’à un paroxysme
sublime la condition de l’amour libre des contraintes de la civilisation urbaine ».
Les séquences de ses réécritures sont distribuées dans des chapitres séparés : ce
sont des interludes glissés dans ce qui existe déjà, censés fonctionner « comme
des textes antonymes par rapport à l’aspect contemporain du thème mais aussi
comme des lieux géométriques idéaux d’un vécu sur lequel la pression d’un
contexte social n’agit que très vaguement ». Les réflexions de l’auteur sur la
composition de son oeuvre nous rappellent sans cesse qu’entre les deux paliers
de son écriture il y a un contraste qui traduit la problématique de l’amour dans
l’Antiquité et dans le monde contemporain.
Le 28 août, Crăciun note dans son journal qu’il ne désire pas suggérer
un lien direct entre les transpositions du roman grec et les textes de son
propre livre, tout ce qu’il veut c’est établir entre les unes et les autres certaines
« correspondances infrastructurelles ». On identifie dans le livre pas mal
d’images parallèles qui associent, par exemple, la rive vers laquelle Daphnis se
dirige en nageant (épure I) et la plage où Dionys attend Téohar (chapitre III) ou
encore le nuage que contemple Virgil (chapitre XIII) et celui que Daphnis suit
des yeux (épure IV). Ce genre de scènes jettent des « ponts souterrains de
situations » et renforcent l’impression de reflet renversé du passé idyllique dans
l’actualité avilie. Certains procédés narratifs, le fréquent passage, par exemple,
d’un exposé fait à la troisème personne vers un exposé à la Ière voire à la IIe
personne sont utilisés dans les deux zones du livre comme pour suggérer une
relation discrète et pourtant bien présente.
ANTIQUITÉ ET ACTUALITÉ : PERCEPTION DU TEMPS CHEZ GHEORGHE CRĂCIUN
23
Le 13 septembre, Crăciun notait dans le journal une autre justification
pour ce savant croisement des deux plans – une stratégie de composition : « Pourquoi
ai-je senti le besoin d’insérer ce texte quelque peu bizarre dane le tissu du
premier livre? (…) Parce que je devais résoudre un problème de construction.
Non point d’architecture du livre mais de métaphysique du thème. » L’auteur
pense les épures comme « un lieu géométrique idéal du thème du couple ».
Puisqu’il est bien connu que « l’amour, avec toutes ses complications
sentimentales, morales, existentielles et sociales obéit aux circonstances
historiques », Crăciun compte sur une mise en valeur réciproque des deux
paliers de ses textes : « L’actualité sociale de mes couples dans l’univers
roumain des années 80 doit être mise en rapport avec la mythologie (littéraire)
du couple Daphnis et Chloé. Le couple grec offre le contrepoids, il est un idéal
poétique, un dénominateur commun par rapport auquel les autres textes peuvent
dévier ou que, dans bien peu de cas, ils peuvent confirmer ». Le 19 septembre,
l’auteur du journal revient sur l’explication de l’alternance des chapitres ancrés
dans l’actualité avec des épures du roman antique, ces séquences qui ne
reflètent que vaguement ses inclinations, ses intérêts réels : « Ce texte ne doit
rien à ma nature, à ma perception du réel. Je viens d’apprendre qu’il y a des
situations de construction qui vous poussent à écrire contre votre gré. Le livre
est né, sorti de vous il s’en est arraché, à partir d’un certain moment son
cheminement n’est plus dicté par le plaisir mais par le calcul esthétique ».
L’auteur s’expose doublement : au risque de voir se produire des ruptures de
lecture dues à la juxtaposition de deux univers incompatibles et à celui de livrer
un produit rendu artificiel par le caractère sophistiqué de la composition.
Persuadé que pour réécrire le roman de Longos « dans une vision de profondeur
qui fasse de l’amour une communion avec le cosmos » il devrait séjourner une
année dans l’île de Lesbos, il reconnaît le 7 septembre les limites de son
entreprise. Faute d’une documentation aussi sommaire fût-elle, ignorant des
éléments du décor, tout ce qu’il peut livrer c’est un « texte livresque,
d’atmosphère, superficiel et spectaculaire ». Heureusement, le résultat répond à
ses attentes : « Je ne demande pas mieux. Au fond, cette prose-là démontre une
idée, un type d’idéalisme, un point c’est tout ». Les épures de Longos étoffent la
composition du livre de Crăciun en y ajoutant un nécessaire plan de profondeur.
Que la Composition aux parallèles inégales oppose l’Antiquité au présent
et l’utopie au prosaïsme, le constat va de soi. Le livre de Crăciun met en valeur
l’image idéale du monde grec en contraste avec la réalité environnante. « Craignant
de tomber dans la mièvrerie », le journal en parle le 13 septembre, il fait
précéder chaque épure d’une citation relative à l’Empire Romain qui, aux IIe et
IIIe siècles, englobait l’île de Lesbos où Longos place l’action de son roman. Le
premier fragment, tiré de Rome et son destin de Raymond Bloch et Jean Cousin,
présente l’histoire du déclin de l’Empire à commencer par Hadrien et jusqu’à
Gordien III. Le deuxième appartient à Nigrinos, 15-18, de Lucien et présente
24
Rome comme la cité de tous les vices. Le troisième, tiré de Historia augusta,
25-28, 32, raconte des épisodes de la vie scandaleuse d’Héliogabal, le quatrième,
enfin, reproduit la poésie En attendant les barbares de Kavafis. Ces sombres
passages sont censés souligner la dépravation de l’époque où Longos a composé
sa fiction romanesque. Il y a dans le carnet de Vlad Ştefan une réflexion sur le
contraste entre la réalité et sa projection en littérature : « bizarre apparition, par
son innocence et sa sérénité, que ce roman dans une période de décadence de
l’Empire Romain où le crime, l’abus, la luxure pouvaient passer pour la
normalité même ». Si la réalité imaginée par Longos diffère considérablement
de l’actualité des années 80 en Roumanie elle n’est pas non plus le miroir fidèle
des IIe et IIIe siècles où l’auteur grec place son action.
Gheorghe Crăciun sait reconnaître les qualités de Daphnis et Chloé, dont
la simplicité et la fraîcheur lui assurent une place de choix entre toutes les
oeuvres hellènes similaires, mais il débusque aussi les faiblesses qu’il tentera de
ne pas reproduire dans ses épures. Dans son carnet, Vlad Ştefan note ce « vague,
inexplicable malaise » du lecteur moderne que ne satisfait pas « le schéma
passablement abstrait, parsemé de détails à peine esquissés en vue d’une
construction ultérieure ». Paradoxalement, c’est à peine si la nature – qui est
pourtant le cadre naturel de l’idylle – est présente dans l’oeuvre de Longos.
Autre absence regrettable – « les adjectifs, les accents particuliers » et, surtout,
« l’essentiel, la perception ». Quiconque voudrait paraphraser le texte antique
devrait se souvenir que « l’amour transforme le monde environnant, que les
sens gagnent en fraîcheur, que les sensations deviennent plus violentes et les
représentations plus vives ». L’observation se retrouve dans le journal consacré
à l’élaboration des épures. Le 27 août, l’auteur dit vouloir composer « un texte
opulent, centré sur les vécus des deux jeunes amoureux » vu son intérêt pour
l’amour « et tous ses effets et conditionnements sensibles ». Persuadé que « la
perception du monde est plus violente quand on aime », il désapprouve que «
tant de nuances sont appelées par Longos par leur nom au lieu d’être suggérées
». Le 2 septembre, Crăciun s’aperçoit qu’il s’est engagé « dans un texte de
l’opulence sémantique, dans une durée poématique qui doit être générée sans
relâche, toujours fraîche » même lorsque « les mots semblent avoir épuisé leurs
ressources ». Dans sa lettre à Mihai Gramatopol, Crăciun qualifie son épure de
« poème en prose d’une violente sensualité ce qui entraîne la banale observation
que les amoureux ont du monde une perception d’une fraîcheur et d’une acuité
exceptionnelles ». Schématique, le texte antique appelle une compensation :
l’abondance et le concret de sa réplique moderne. Dans son journal de création,
l’auteur dit à plusieurs reprises son besoin de reconstituer le monde grec dans
ses détails sensibles. Le 21 août, il s’inquiète de ces éléments difficiles à
imaginer qui forment le décor antique : nature, vêtements, parler des habitants
de l’île. Le 27 août, il déplore une « patente absence » des informations
géographiques, botaniques, zoologiques, vestimentaires et sociales relatives à
25
l’île de Lesbos aux IIe et IIIe siècles. Le 30 août, il se penche attentivement sur
les éléments botaniques et zoologiques éparpillées dans les idylles de Téocrite
et constate, satisfait, qu’il avait vu juste : « Mon imagination ne se fourvoie pas
trop ». Pourtant, le 13 septembre, il se calme et affirme que les informations
fournies par Mihai Gramatopol « lui sont plus ou moins utiles car dans le cas de
cette perspective poématique on peut se passer sans trop de mal de la
détermination historique-géographique, du cadre et de la mentalité sociale ».
Exactes ou pas, les données concrètes pimentent le texte moderne effeverscent
qui ravive l’oeuvre antique choisie pour modèle.
D’autres défaillances du roman grec sont incriminées par Gheorghe
Crăciun. Dans son carnet, Vlad Ştefan inscrit sa déception – qui est celle du
lecteur moderne – à savoir un « vice de mentalité » imputable « aux limites de
l’époque et des conventions littéraires en vigueur ». Un homme du XXe siècle
trouve peu plausible le final du roman de Longos : les héros, des enfants trouvés
et élevés par des bergers découvrent leurs parents naturels qui sont des gens
aisés ce qui fait que leur bonheur est double du moment que leur mariage
coïncide avec une promotion sociale. Cette solution simultanée de tous les
ennuis arrache un commentaire ironique à Vlad Ştefan : « Ah, non alors! Voilà
ce que j’appellerais la preuve irréfutable du caractère de classe de la litérature! »
Le 22 septembre, Crăciun commente dans le journal sa décision de renoncer à
l’heureux final conventionnel de Longos: « Mon intention était d’idéaliser un
sentiment et non une situation. C’est ce qui fait défaut au monde d’aujourd’hui,
une profondeur du vécu individuel, l’authenticité de la participation aux
événements de la vie. » Dans Composition aux parallèles inégales il n’est pas
question de la brebis, respectivement de la chèvre qui étaient en train d’allaiter
les petits lorsqu’ils furent découverts par les bergers. Seules deux allusions sont
retenues, relatives à leur origine : dans la première épure, Daphnis se demande à
un moment donné si Zeus « n’avait pas sucé, comme lui dans sa petite enfance,
le lait de la chèvre Almatéa » et le pâtre Dryas qui avait élevé Chloé refuse les
demandes en mariage des prétendants trop communs « car il était trop fier et
trop ambitieux pour accepter que Chloé épouse un sans le sou ».
A la place du final invraisemblable du roman antique (joies du mariage
associées au rétablissement du statut social élevé des protagonistes) l’auteur
roumain plaque une version crédible aux yeux du lecteur moderne : c’est
Daphnis ayant atteint l’âge de la vieillesse après une existence aventureuse qui
l’a entraîné dans maintes pérégrinations à la recherche de sa bien-aimée enlevée
par des brigands. Loin d’être une exception, les errances du héros, inexistantes
chez Longos, sont monnaie courante dans les romans grecs de l’époque qui
finissent par les retrouvailles des héros que toute une série de mésaventures
avaient séparés en les jetant dans les coins les plus reculés du monde. Chez
Gheorghe Crăciun, l’ex-pâtre revient finir ses jours à Lesbos après avoir été tour
à tour tanneur à Smyrne, vendeur de poisson à Sydon, vacher en Thessalie,
26
forain à Pydna ou scribe à Alexandrie. Toute une vie passée à défier les dangers
et à parcourir, vainement, le monde à la recherche de celle qui donnait un sens à
son être. Rongé par une souffrance infinie il en vient à mettre en doute
l’existence réelle de la femme tant aimée, « douloureux fantasme, vision de son
coeur palpitant d’espoir, un rêve, un châtiment, une ombre de sa jeunesse
perdue : à se demander si elle a jamais existé pour de vrai (…), cette déité suave
de tes après-midis de pâtre amoureux, ton immatérielle Chloé! ». Revenu sur sa
terre de naissance, le vieux pâtre à qui un commerçant juif de Chypre avait
enseigné à écrire entreprend de fixer à jamais son histoire d’amour pour crier à
tout va cet « amour qu’aucun autre être sous le soleil n’avait encore vécu ». Au
moment historique où Aurélien décide de retirer son armée devant les invasions
barbares, le vieux Daphnis efface un palimpseste pour y copier son oeuvre : son
geste rejoint par sa symétrie celui de Ştefan qui, dans le premier chapitre,
arrache des lambeaux au papier peint de sa chambre pour lire les journaux
collés à même les murs. Sans expérience aucune, Daphnis ne sait comment
écrire ni pour qui. Lui, qui jusqu’alors « n’avait point imaginé un début à son
histoire non plus qu’un cadre pour les faits qu’il voulait raconter » il tâche de
faire entrer sa vie « dans des lignes le long desquelles courraient, éternellement
assoiffés de l’irrépressible curiosité pour les vies des autres, les yeux de quelque
lecteur de nos jours ou, peut-être, d’autres âges ». Bien qu’il « n’eût pas pris le
temps de peser le pour et le contre de cette tentative » et qu’il n’eût même pas
songé à qui pourrait servir son exemple, il se lance dans cette expérience
insolite avec cette seule incertitude : « se pouvait-il que, des années plus tard,
cette beauté amère qui bouillonne dans son coeur aille s’épancher sous les yeux
d’un homme incapable de comprendre ce que fut son monde, ce que fut sa vie
mais qui, en lisant son livre, saurait sans doute possible qu’il avait aimé une fois
pour toutes chaque jour de sa vie ». La sagesse transmise à sa descendance
semble être : « l’amour est la seule chose sous le soleil qui ne change pas ».
Après une évolution plus spectaculaire que toutes les aventures des héros des
romans grecs, le personnage-pâtre revêt l’habit de l’auteur d’une histoire
d’amour. A retenir que dans le projet de final que Crăciun esquisse dans son
journal le 21 septembre, le livre du vieillard revenu à Lesbos – entre temps il
était devenu grand-père – devait offrir une vision de l’amour proche de celle
que présentaient les esquisses sur les couples vivant dans la Roumanie des
années 80: « Les noveaux personnages qui peupleront l’histoire de Daphnis
ressembleront par leurs traits à Teohar, Vlad, Ştefana, Sena, Luiza, Dania etc. A
rappeler quelques vérités inconfortables sur les femmes et l’amour. Au cas où
l’épouse de ce Daphnis vieilli est Chloé même (…) elle ne sera point trop
différente de la Xantipa de Socrate ». Le projet est abandonné et Daphnis, le
personnage qui présente des amours dégradées, sera assimilé à l’auteur même
du livre Composition aux parallèles inégales.
27
Outre les points faibles du roman de Longos qu’il signale dans les notes
théoriques de son livre et dans le journal de création, Gheorghe Crăciun tâche
de corriger un autre point du texte grec qui n’est pas susceptible d’emporter
l’unanimité chez les modernes. Dans ses épures il renonce, sans commenter son
option, au rhétorisme excessif dont le goût de l’époque avait marqué le roman
de Longos. Rien dans la version roumaine ne rappelle la préférence appuyée des
personnages pour les monologues et discours savamment orchestrés non plus
que la construction artificielle qui repose sur des symétries de répliques et
situations où abondent les oppositions, les parallélismes, les reprises. La
variante moderne de Crăciun brille par son ton naturel là où le roman grec
grinçait par une expression souvent recherchée et artificielle, par sa composition
tributaire des règles des écoles de rhétorique.
Une note du carnet de Vlad Ştefan suggère que, dans la vision du
personnage-auteur, quoique « la réécriture du roman de Longos puisse s’éloigner
beaucoup du texte originaire », elle devrait utiliser, « comme de vieilles briques
dans une muraille neuve, certains fragments de la traduction de Petru Creţia ».
Et aussi, elle pourrait inclure des passages d’autres auteurs grecs, citations,
légèrement adaptées à l’esprit du texte actuel, avec « une discrète intégration, là
où c’est possible, dans le tissu du récit ». L’intention d’insérer dans son ouvrage
des fragments des oeuvres antiques est notée dans le journal le 28 août avec la
précision que « cette réécriture absorbera, ça et là, des citations des textes
antiques ». Les notes de Vlad Ştefan révèlent, dans une énumération succinte,
simple liste des noms, les principales sources employées : Empédocle, les
hymnes orphiques, Aristophane, Sophocle, Mimnerme. Un défi légèrement
moqueur est lancé aux lecteurs rouspéteurs : « Hé, vous qui êtes à l’affût du
plagiat, quelle aubaine! » Telle lecture attentive aux sources du texte – avec
délimitation des passages visés et indication des références exactes – peut
donner une idée de la savante construction des épures composées avec une
apparente aisance par le disciple roumain de Longos.
Régi par la dernière phrase de l’introduction de Longos « puisse le dieu
nous aider à écrire les amours des autres d’une pensée sereine », le volume
Composition aux parallèles inégales repose dans son ensemble sur un subtile et
compliqué enchevêtrement d’allusions livresques chères à la génération de 80,
adeptes du postmodernisme. Sans signaler les emprunts, les quatre épures
englobent – avec de légères adaptations – des passages pris à la traduction du
roman de Longos par Petru Creţia et, aussi, des fragments d’autres écrivains
grecs. La première de ces séquences renferme la plus fidèle reprise de la
narration de l’épos grec avec des épisodes spectaculaires tel l’enlèvement de
Daphnis par les pirates et son sauvetage grâce au chant de Chloé auquel obéit le
bétail chargé sur le bateau. Dans la version moderne, les pensées de Daphnis
étendu sur le sable reproduisent les considératios d’Empédocle sur le lien qu’il y
a entre l’inspiration / respiration et la circulation du sang (frg. 275-299 Karsten).
28
L’épisode de Chloé réveillée par une hirondelle qui poursuit un grillon est rendu
dans les mots de Longos, chapitre I, 26. Le monologue de la jeune fille qui
découvre les premiers symptômes de l’amour reprend partiellement le passage I,
14 de la version roumaine du roman. L’arrivée des pirates tyréniens est dite
avec quelques phrases du chapitre I, 32 du livre de Longos. Le chant de Chloé à
la gloire des nymphes est l’hymne orphique XLVIII même et les réflexions du
captif Daphnis sur la précarité de la vie humaine incluent le fragment Diels 2
d’Empédocle. A la fin de la première épure, les considérations sur les pouvoirs
d’Eros, le plus fameux larron, se superposent sur la dernière phrase du premier
chapitre de Daphnis et Chloé. Le même mécanisme d’insertion des citations
antiques dans sa propre narration est appliqué à d’autres sections adaptées par
Gheorghe Crăciun. Dans la deuxième épure, il reprend les paroles de Philétas
sur l’omnipotent Eros du chapitre II, 7 du roman de Longos. Plus tard, il
introduit dans la prière de Daphnis – qui supplie la maîtresse des mers de lui
rendre Chloé que les jeunes métymniens avaient enlevée – un passage de
l’hymne orphique XXI consacré à Thétys. L’invitation aux oiseaux à contempler
le miracle des retrouvailles des deux amoureux est incluse dans un fragment du
chant de la houppe qui appartient aux Oiseaux, 226-262, d’Aristophane. La
troisième épure contient un hymne à la gloire du tout-puissant Eros qui reprend
en fait un fragment de l’Antigone, 781-791, de Sophocle. Le dernier chapitre,
enfin, reproduit quelques vers de l’élégie de Mimnerme qui mesure l’écoulement
de l’existence humaine à la durée de la brève saison fleurie. Les pensées de
Daphnis sur l’effroyable possibilité de perdre Chloé reprennent une partie du
chant d’Alcman qui exprime l’aspiration de se transformer en une mouette qui
vole. Même technique des citations incises dans la séquence qui décrit la
vieillesse de Daphnis. Désireux de mettre par écrit l’histoire d’amour, le
personnage utilise un parchemin dont il efface les réflexions d’Empédocle sur
l’action conjointe des deux principes universels, l’Amour et la Discorde (Diels, 17).
Dans la rétrospective des aventures de Daphnis sont citées, lorsqu’il évoque son
expérience de scribe en Alexandrie, les maximes qu’il a tirées de Sophocle et qu’il
a transcrites lui même (« La fortune n’aide pas ceux qui manquent de courage » ;
« Les insensés ignorent qu’ils tiennent le bien entre leurs mains avant qu’il ne leur
échappe »), d’Aristote (« L’espoir est le rêve de celui qui est éveillé ») ou des
préceptes de la Bible (« Celui qui prend garde au vent ne sèmera point et celui
qui regarde les nuées ne moissonera point » – Ecclesiaste, 11; « L’herbe est séchée
et la fleur est tombée; vraiment le peuple est comme l’herbe » – Esaie, 40). Enfin,
la dernière phrase de l’épure, qui clôt d’ailleurs le livre, reprend les mots de
Longos de l’introduction traduite par Creţia : « Car nul n’a échappé tout à fait et
n’échappera jamais à l’amour tant qu’il y aura de la beauté au monde et des
yeux pour la voir ». Pour paraphraser le roman grec, Gheorghe Crăciun a mis en
oeuvre tout un échafaudage de références littéraires fondues dans le tissu d’un
récit entraînant dans lequel les bouts d’antiquité ne déparent nullement.
29
Partie intégrante des épures, les citations des classiques sont mises à
contribution dans les chapitres qui parlent des amours des années 80 pour souligner,
on dirait, le côté dépréciatif du contexte. Au chapitre X, dans le carnet de Vlad
Ştefan le célèbre « Eheu fugaces » de l’ode II, 14 d’Horace exprime cette fois la
mélancolie du personnage qui se rappelle que c’est l’anniversaire de sa femme.
Dans une lettre qui dénonce l’illettrée, l’héroïne D. écrit à son play-boy Relu un
vers de Plaute (Asinaria, 495) dans la forme déformée « homini homo lupi ».
Au chapitre XIII, l’invitation kitsch au mariage de Graziella et de Tiberiu – qui
contient l’expression « si vis amari ama » de l’épître IX de Sénéque à Lucilius – est
commentée ironiquement par Virgil par la formule du même Sénéque « de
gustibus non disptandum ». Dans tout ce qui a trait a la réalité contemporaine,
les mots des écrivains antiques semblent creuser le fossé entre l’expression
élevée et la réalité prosaïque.
Pour la Composition aux parallèles inégales l’Antiquité n’est nullement
un élément décoratif, elle participe de l’essence même du livre. L’auteur
roumain réécrit le meilleur roman d’amour grec en prenant en compte la
sensibilité d’un lecteur moderne : il en garde la saveur et la fraîcheur originales
et en corrige les faiblesses et les côtés désuets. Véritable auteur d’un travail
d’orfèvre, Gheorghe Crăciun compose avec érudition et virtuosité stylistique un
texte complexe qui fait contrepoids à ce qui lui apparaît comme la platitude des
histoires d’amour contemporaines pour les parer de profondeur et d’idéalité.
This paper is suported by the Sectorial Operational Programme Human Resources
Development (SOP HRD), financed from the European Social Fund and by the Romanian
Government under the contract number SOP HRD/89/1.5/S/59758
LE TEMPS DANS LE CID DE CORNEILLE
JOAQUINA LANZUELA HERNÁNDEZ*
À mes amis roumains
Toutes les choses ont leur temps.
Il y a temps de naître, et temps de mourir.
Il y a temps de pleurer, et temps de rire ; temps
de s’affliger, et temps de sauter de joie.
Il y a temps pour la guerre, et temps pour la paix.
(Ecclésiaste, chap. III)
TIME IN CORNEILLE’S LE CID
While writing the tragicomedy Le Cid, Pierre Corneille (1606-1684), who is closely
following the irregular drama Las Mocedades del Cid of Guillén de Castro, is forced to remove
various scenes and characters in order to adapt it to the rules of the classical dramaturgy,
especially to the rules regarding the time unit. Thus, the work gains in terms of concentration and
internalization as regards the Spanish model. The time destructs the glorious past and the
generational mix allow the perpetuation of the race and the survival of the heroism, relating thus
the past, the present and the future. The time has such an important role in Le Cid, because the
characters are transforming during the action, being transformed in heroes in the service of the
king, of the people, of the country.
Keywords: The Kid, time, heroism, concentration, classical dramaturgy.
Pierre Corneille (1606-1684) a écrit Le Cid à la fin de 1636. Cette pièce a
été représentée avec un grand succès au théâtre du Marais, au début de l’année
suivante. Corneille s’était inspiré d’une œuvre espagnole publiée en 1618, Las
Mocedades del Cid (« Les jeunesses du Cid ») de Guillén de Castro (1569-1631).
Au XVIIe siècle, la littérature espagnole était très à la mode en France. Des
commerçants espagnols avaient gagné les côtes de la Normandie et s’y installèrent.
A Rouen, ville natale de Corneille, s’étaient établis plusieurs d’entre eux qui,
probablement, furent découvrir Las Mocedades del Cid à Pierre Corneille. Un
exemplaire était en possession de Corneille quand il décida d’écrire Le Cid.
*
Professeur de littérature et de langue française à la Faculté de sciences sociales et humaines
de Teruel, Université de Zaragoza; e-mail: [email protected]
JOAQUINA LANZUELA HERNÁNDEZ
32
1. L’unité de temps
Au milieu du XVIe siècle, les théoriciens français, suivant la Poétique
d’Aristote, connue par le truchement des commenteurs italiens de la Renaissance,
commencèrent à élaborer toute une série de règles, qui seront recueillies dans le
célèbre Art Poétique de Boileau en 1674. Les principales d’entre elles – pour ne citer
que celles-ci – étaient les règles des trois unités : de lieu, de jour – comme on disait
alors – et d’action. Boileau lui-même écrivait dans le poème dédié à la Tragédie :
Nous voulons qu’avec art l’action se ménage ;
Qu’en un lieu, qu’en un jour, un seul fait accompli
Tienne jusqu’à la fin le théâtre rempli.
Chant III (vv. 44-46)
Les écrivains français de cette époque devaient adapter leurs œuvres aux
exigences de la dramaturgie française élaborée par les “doctes”. En ce qui concerne
l’unité de jour, la tragédie enfermait l’action entre le lever et le coucher du soleil,
par contre, dans la tragi-comédie, qui ne comprenait pas la règle de l’unité de temps
avec la même sévérité que la tragédie, l’action pouvait commencer au milieu
d’une journée et finir au milieu du jour suivant. C’est le cas de la tragi-comédie de
Le Cid cornélien, modifiée en tragédie en 1648, par la concurrence de la tragédie.
Le théâtre espagnol, qui était beaucoup plus libre que le français,
n’observait pas les règles. L’action, dans Las Mocedades del Cid, s’étendait dans
l’espace de dix-huit mois, par contre, dans Le Cid, bien de personnages épisodiques,
bien de scènes qui se trouvent dans le modèle espagnol, ont disparu. Corneille a
simplifié l’action de son œuvre et l’a réduite à quelques données essentielles,
parmi lesquelles se trouvent : la querelle entre les parents de Chimène et Rodrigue
et le duel qui ont lieu dans le cours d’un après-midi ; la bataille de toute une nuit
que Rodrigue livre aux Maures ; finalement la victoire sur l’ennemi, qui se
produit à l’aube, conduit le roi Fernand à prendre la décision de faire de
Rodrigue le héros national. L’unité d’action, pour ne citer que celle-ci, doit se
plier aux éxigences de l’unité de temps (Lanzuela, 1988 : 63-70).
2. La rélève générationnelle. Le temps qui passe
Mais Pierre Corneille ne se contente pas d’observer avec plus ou moins
de rigueur les règles de la dramaturgie française, il otorgue au temps un rôle très
important qui sert à mettre en relief la destinée des hommes et surtout celle du
principal protagoniste, Rodrigue.
Le Cid commence dans une atmosphère de comédie, ou si l’on préfère,
“comme un conte de fées” (Vignes, 1994 : 96). Rodrigue et Chimène s’aiment avec le
consentiment de leurs pères. Mais une dispute sur les privilèges aristocratiques
33
fait éclater le drame. Le comte Gormas, père de Chimène, soufflette par jalousie
don Diègue, père de Rodrigue, qui vient d’être nommé précepteur du prince et
cette offense faite à son honneur va mettre fin à cette idylle romanesque.
Voilà comment le problème de la temporalité fait son irruption dans la
pièce. Ce soufflet inattendu représente le déshonneur qui annihile, qui flétrit,
dans un instant, le passé glorieux de don Diègue. Et s’il
fut la même vertu,
La vaillance et l’honneur de son temps…
Le Cid, Acte II, scène 2, (vv. 399-400)
il est aujourd’hui un vieillard offensé, humilié, outragé dans le plus profond de
son âme, qui crie son désespoir :
O rage ! ô désespoir ! ô vieillesse ennemie !
N’ai-je donc tant vécu que pour cette infamie ?
Et ne suis-je blanchi dans les travaux guerriers
Que pour voir en un jour flétrir tant de lauriers ?
Acte I, scène 4, (vv. 237-240)
Le sentiment douloureux qui naît de la prise de conscience de la fragilité
de la condition humaine, menacée sans cesse par le temps qui passe, reapparaît,
resumé, quelques vers plus loin :
O cruel souvenir de ma gloire passée !
Œuvre de tant de jours en un jour effacée !
Ibid. (vv. 245-6)
En effet, “l’homme n’existe que dans le temps, il est, à chaque instant, remis
en question dans son être”, nous dit Serge Doubrovsky (1963 : 90-1), qui reconnaît
par la suite, “devant la suprématie impitoyable du présent et l’annihilation de l’être
par la durée, le noble vieilli est alors perdu, entraînant dans la chute et le
déshonneur non seulement son passé individuel, mais celui d’une race ou lignée”.
Bien sûr, la solution ne se fait pas attendre. Le vieux don Diègue, dans le
crépuscule de sa vie, s’adresse à son fils, en qualité de successeur de cette noble
race ou lignée dont il est issu, en lui disant :
Viens, mon fils, viens, mon sang, viens réparer ma honte ;
Viens me venger.
Et, puisque le déshonneur souille toute la lignée, les descendants, il insiste
encore, toujours par l’emploi de la répétition anaphorique, sur cette double idée,
c’est-à-dire la rélève générationnelle et la vengeance pour réparer le déshonneur familial :
34
[…] Venge-moi, venge-toi ;
Montre-toi digne fils d’un père tel que moi.
Accablé des malheurs où le destin me range,
Je vais les déplorer : va, cours, vole et nos venge.
Ibid., (v. 287-290)
Et Rodrigue, avant de courir à la vengeance, avant d’envisager une issue
à ce conflit psychologique, provoqué par le coup imprévu du destin malheureux,
exprime son désespoir, partagé qu’il est entre le devoir et l’amour, dans un long
monologue de stances lyriques qui rompt avec la monotonie de l’alexandrin et
dont la fonction est de mettre en relief la douleur qui l’atteint :
Percé jusques au fond du cœur
D’une atteinte imprévue aussi bien que mortelle,
Misérable vengeur d’une injuste querelle,
Et malheureux objet d’une injuste rigueur,
Je demeure immobile, et mon âme abattue
Cède au coup qui me tue.
Corneille nous fait assister à un second conflit psychologique qui vient
confirmer, en même temps, la forte charge dramatique de ces scènes et les observations
de la critique sur l’intériorisation de l’action dans Le Cid, par rapport à son
modèle espagnol. Notre auteur – écrit Gustave Lanson (1954 : 67) – a su “placer
les événements hors du temps et de l’espace, dans le cœur humain”. Bien sûr,
“dans Le Cid, tout se passe dans le cœur et dans l’âme des jeunes gens. Corneille
a bien vu que l’intérêt profond de l’histoire résidait dans le combat
psychologique et moral que les personnages doivent d’abord livrer contre
eux-mêmes” (Curial, 1990 : 25). Nous y ajoutons les observations que sur le
temps dans l’Iliade, madame Andreea Vladescu a exposé dans le cadre de cette
Conférence internationale, organisée à Bucharest en 2011. Pour elle, “En tant
qu’intermède chronologique psychologique, le temps subjectif n’est pas
seulement celui du débat philosophique sur la condition humaine, mais aussi
celui des moments d’un profond lyrisme des grandes tensions intérieures,
prises sur le vif”, En effet, le temps est la synthèse de la condition humaine, le
sens même de tout conflit psychologique.
Le jeune Irlandais Samuel Beckett, en faisant l’adaptation du Cid
cornélien, a bien compris l’énorme importance que possède le temps dans cette
pièce. Dans The Kid un énorme horloge décorait la scène. Tandis qu’un don
Diègue burlesque, représenté par Samuel Beckett lui-même, prononçait un
discours incohérent, un jeune Rodrigue, pressé, faisait virer les aiguilles d’un
gigantesque horloge (Thibaudet, 1989 : 12). Les horloges sont les émissaires
d’information. D’après Norbert Elias, dans Über die Zzeit (1989 : 24), les
horloges sont des réalités physiques que les hommes font et disposent pour que,
35
d’une façon ou d’une autre (par exemple les aiguilles d’un cadran) restent
incorporés à leur monde symbolique. Sans aucun doute, l’énergie de la nouvelle
génération remplace une génération qui manque de l’énergie nécessaire à
l’action. La tombée du jour dans Le Cid, comme d’ailleurs minuit ou une heure
dans The Kid, sont des points de référence dans le devenir de hommes, des
points du temps qui marquent l’existence, le destin des individus.
Il nous faut constater que la rélève entre générations revêt un double
aspect : elle est d’abord familiale, car Rodrigue, digne successeur de son père,
est aussi l’héritier d’une race, d’une lignée, dont l’héroïsme se perpétue à
travers les générations. Serge Doubrouvsky (1963 : 91) considère que Rodrigue
“opère, par miracle, la synthèse de l’individualité et de la race, du passé et du
présent, rouvrant aussi, du coup, la dimension, un instant fermée, de l’avenir”.
Rappelons encore les paroles de don Diègue, “Viens, mon fils, viens, mon sang,
viens réparer ma honte” (v. 266), ou encore celles-ci, où don Diègue reconnaît
la continuité de cette hérédité :
Ma valeur n’a point lieu de te désavouer :
Tu l’as bien imitée, et ton illustre audace
Fait bien revivre en toi les héros de ma race :
Acte III, scène 5, (vv. 1028-1030)
Mais elle est aussi sociale, car la mission de Rodrigue, après avoir lavé le
deshonneur de son père, de sa race, dans le sang de son adversaire, est de
remplacer le Comte dans son rôle de général jusqu’alors invaincu des armées de
Castille. Et cette seconde rélève, la rélève sociale, se produit dans le cadre d’une
société aristocratique qui est au service du roi, du peuple et du pays.
La victoire de Rodrigue sur le Comte, qualifée de “coup d’essai” (v. 431),
doit se transformer, par la défaite des Maures, dans un coup de maître. Et le vieux
don Diègue, dont le passé est signe de sagesse et d’expérience, projette l’action
de Rodrigue dans une dimension sociale et historique, en l’encourageant à porter
“plus haut le fruit de [sa] victoire” (v. 1053),
Ton prince et ton pays ont besoin de ton bras.
La flotte qu’on craignait, dans ce grand fleuve entrée,
Croit surprendre la ville et piller la contrée.
Les Mores vont descendre, et le flux et la nuit
Dans une heure à nos murs les amène sans bruit.
La cour est en désordre et le peuple est en alarmes
On n’entend que des cris, on ne voit que des larmes.
Encore une fois, c’est don Diègue qui prend l’iniciative. Lejealle et
Dubois, dans Notice, qu’ils ajoutent à son édition du Cid (1970 : 17) remarquent
que le vieil homme “fait de Rodrigue le chef de l’expédition contre les Mores,
36
pour montrer au souverain que la sécurité du royaume n’est pas mise en péril
par la mort du Comte et que le pays a trouvé un nouveau chef militaire qui vaut
bien l’ancien”. On constate dans Le Cid, à côté de la présence du temps qui fuit,
l’énorme pression que celui-ci exerce dans la vie du vieux don Diègue, qui,
avec l’insistance qui le caractérise, s’adresse encore une fois à Rodrigue dans
les termes suivants :
Viens, suis-moi, va combattre, et montrer à ton roi
Que ce qu’il perd au Comte il le recouvre en toi.
Ibid., (vv. 1099-1100)
3. Le symbolisme du temps et la lutte des contraires
Dans une pièce, comme celle du Cid, où l’action s’enferme dans l’espace
de vingt-quatre heures – ou presque –, les différentes intrigues se succèdent très
rapidement. Pierre Corneille en est très conscient et dans son Examen de 1660
écrit : “Je ne puis dénier que la règle des vingt et quatre heures presse trop les
incidents de cette pièce”. Les nombreuses indications temporelles de la pièce
“un moment”, “un instant” sont des expressions temporelles qui évoquent la
rapidité, la brièveté avec laquelle se déroulent les événements de la pièce. Ainsi
nous l’indiquent les paroles de l’Infante, qui “au moment malheureux que
naissait leur querelle” (v. 454) de Chimène, répond pour la consoler :
Un moment l’a fait naître, un moment va l’éteindre.
Acte II, scène 3, (v. 462)
ou l’exclamation de don Fernand devant l’insistance de Chimène qui demande
une seconde fois justice au roi, juste au moment où Rodrigue vient de livrer
bataille aux Maures, mais aussi devant l’impatience de don Diègue qui ne veut
plus différer la querelle :
Sortir d’une bataille, et combattre à l’instant !
Du moins une ou deux heures qu’il délasse.
Acte IV, scène 5, (v. 1447 et 1449)
En ce qui concerne le passage des Maures, Corneille reconnaît dans son
Examen, que “leur défaite avait assez fatigué Rodrigue toute une nuit pour
mériter deux ou trois jours de repos. […] Le roman lui aurait donné sept ou huit
jours de patience avant que de le presser de nouveau ; mais les vingt et quatre
heures ne l’ont pas permis. C’est l’incommodité de la règle”.
Dans Le Cid les distances temporelles entre les actions, les actions mêmes se
mésurent en heures. En ce sens, Robert Brasillach (1938 : 101) nous dit : “Je connais
37
peu de pièces où les heures soient mieux indiquées que dans Le Cid”. Ces notations
nous permettent de cerner les accumulations des événements et par conséquence
l’inévitable décalage entre le temps réel et le temps fictif de la pièce.
Parfois, quelques heures suffisent à delimiter le temps d’une action qui se
prolonge pendant toute la nuit. C’est le cas du combat de Rodrigue contre les
Maures et que l’Infante réduit à “trois heures” (v. 1107), signifiant par là, le
commencement, le milieu et la fin du combat. Trois sont aussi les étapes
essentielles pendant lesquelles la vie de Rodrigue se transforme. La tombée du
jour coïncide non seulement avec le crépuscule de la vie de don Diègue et avec
la mort du Comte, mais aussi avec les débuts de Rodrigue, de cet obscur et
inconnu personnage jusqu’alors, qui doit se plonger dans la nuit et l’eau, pour
devenir, à l’aube, à la sortie du soleil, le héros resplandissant de gloire que le
peuple, en joie, acclame.
Le héros se réalise le long de la pièce et son action est en harmonie – comme
on verra tout de suite – avec les forces d’ordre cosmique, célestes et aquatiques.
Les signes indicateurs de la présence du temps qui passe acquièrent de plus en
plus dans Le Cid un sens plus symbolique que réel. Si le temps est hostile au
début de la pièce, parce qu’il “change le bonheur en malheur”, tel est le cas, par
exemple, – même si nous sommes dans la tombée du jour – de cette “nuit si
sombre” (v. 1013), qui correspond avec l’intériorisation du temps dans le cœur
de don Diègue et qui est en parfait accord avec son état psychologique et
animique, à la fin de la pièce, au contraire, le temps “permet la solution
progressive des problèmes” (Scherer, 1984 : 49).
Les actions dans Le Cid s’encadrent, d’autre part, dans une conception de
l’univers, constitué par une série de forces bipolaires, antithétiques, qui
alternent de façon cyclique. Dans les vers suivants, où l’on voit reapparaître les
forces humaines ennemies, les Maures, et les forces naturelles de caractère
cosmique, la nuit et le flux, réunies,
Cette obscure clarté qui tombe des étoiles
Enfin avec le flux nous fait voir trente voiles ;
L’onde s’enfle dessous, et d’un commun effort
Les Mores et la mer montent jusques au port.
Acte IV, scène 3, (vv. 1273-6)
l’oxymore, obscure clarté, représente l’harmonie et la confrontation de deux
manifestations complémentaires et alternantes, connues sous le nom de coincidentia
oppositorum. Sans aucun doute, d’après Mircea Eliade, (1971 : 308) “les différents
types de bipartition et polarité, de dualité et d’alternance, des dyades antithétiques
et de coincidentia oppositorum se rencontrent partout dans le monde, et à tous
les niveaux de la culture”.
Ce célèbre écrivain Roumain, a souligné, à plusieurs reprises, (1981: 171-3
et 1952 : 234) que dans la conscience archaïque les symboles ont une tendence à
38
se grouper par une série de correspondances, d’analogies qui forment un réseau
de structure cosmique, où il n’existe rien d’isolé et où tout dépend de tout. Et
Gilbert Durand, qui suit de très près les recherches de l’historien des religions
dans les Structures anthropologiques de l’imaginaire (1984 : 40-1), emploie de
préférence les termes de convergence et de constellation des symboles. “La méthode
de convergence – dit-il – tend à repérer de vastes constellations d’images à peu
près constantes et qui semblent structurées par un certain isomorphisme des
symboles convergents”. Ou encore, “Les symboles convergent parce qu’ils sont
des développements d'un même thème archétypal, parce qu’ils sont des variations
sur un archétype”.
Dans Le Cid, les archétypes des Maures, de la nuit et du flux combinés,
convergent dans un isomorphisme commun, le devenir temporel. “Les ténèbres
nocturnes – écrit Gilbert Durand – constituent le premier symbole du temps […]
la nuit noire apparaît donc comme la substance même du temps” (98). D’autre
part, Gaston Bachelard (1985 : 122-3), qui voit, comme Héraclite, la mort dans
le devenir hydrique, précise que l’eau absorve la substance noire des ténèbres et
de claire qu’elle était, devient une eau stymphalisée, même ophélisée, qui invite
à la mort. Voilà ce qui conduit à G. Durand (104), lecteur de Bachelard, à
préciser que “l’eau est l’épiphanie du malheur du temps”.
L’eau, beaucoup plus que les ténèbres de la nuit, est l’élément du mouvement,
de l’instabilité, de la fluidité et cette fluidité ténèbreuse, qui cache et porte les
ennemis jusqu’au port, représente le danger qui jette une partie des habitants de
Séville dans un état moral dépressif. Les Maures, la nuit et le flux, en tant qu’alliés
de la temporalité et de la mort, engendrent dans la conscience de l’homme de
tous les temps des sentiments tels que la peur et l’angoisse, l’alarme et les
larmes, parce qu’ils sont, en definitive, – d’après Gilbert Durand – (71 et ss.),
les “visages du temps destructeur”, les porteurs du chaos, de la dévastation et de
la mort. Reprenons encore une fois les vers cités plus haut,
Ton prince et ton pays ont besoin de ton bras.
La flotte qu’on craignait, dans ce grand fleuve entrée,
Croit surprendre la ville et piller la contrée.
Les Mores vont descendre, et le flux et la nuit
Dans une heure à nos murs les amène sans bruit.
La cour est en désordre et le peuple est en alarmes
On n’entend que des cris, on ne voit que des larmes.
Mais en face de cette réalité biologique universelle qui fait que dans des
situations conflictives certains groupes sociaux (Elias : 164) répondent par une
réaction d’alarme et un comportement de fuite, il existe un autre groupe, élévé
dans l’autodiscipline et le contrôle de ses sentiments, préparé pour affronter le
danger, pour verser même leur sang, au nom d’un devoir supérieur de service au
39
roi et de défense de l’empire. Le courage, l’énergie de Rodrigue et ses amis, qui
ne trouvent point d’obstacle, leur attitude héroïque sont les ressorts physiques et
moraux dont ils se servent pour affronter, repousser et finalement dominer les
visages de la temporalité dévastatrice. Ceux-ci sont combattus au nom d’un
devoir supérieur, mais aussi au nom d’un désir de survivance et de recherche de
transcendance. “Il s’agit – nous dit Gilbert Durand (134) - de mettre ces visages
du temps destructeur hors d’état de nuire et pour cela il faut les affronter, les
combattre, les repousser, en définitive, les dominer”.
Cette énergie positive, qui contrôle et maîtrise les différents aspects du
régime nocturne de l’image, justifie l’apparition des symboles du régime diurne
de l’imagination. C’est ainsi que les visages de la temporalité et de la mort
s’éloignent pour laisser leur place aux forces de signe contraire. Rodrigue relate
au roi l’éloignement de ces vieux ennemis. Bien sûr, l’apparition de la lumière
est une victoire sur les ennemis (Leeuw, 1964: 58) :
Et ne l’ai pu savoir jusques au point du jour.
Mais enfin sa clarté montre notre avantage :
Le More voit sa perte et perd soudain courage ;
Acte IV, scène 3, (vv. 1308-1310)
Et il continue :
[…] leur frayeur est trop forte :
Le flux les apporta ; le reflux les remporte,
Ibid., (vv. 1317- 8)
Ces forces du régime diurne de l’image, telles que la lumière et le reflux, qui
poussent les vieux ennemis à la fuite, sont l’expression de la vie, de la victoire, du
bonheur et de la joie. À partir du moment, où la situation a complètement changé, un
renversement des sentiments se produit qui fonctionne dans un double sens, la joie
pénètre dans les cœurs qui étaient attristés et la frayeur et l’épouvante s’emparent des
ennemis qui fuient en désordre. “Quand vient le jour, – écrit Bachelard (140) – les
fantômes sans doute courent encore sur les eaux. Vaines brumes qui s’effilochent,
ils s’en vont… Peu à peu, ce sont eux qui ont peur. Ils s’atténuent donc, ils s’éloignent”.
L’une des caractéristiques les plus notables du comportement des
symboles est leur ambivalence. De même que la nuit contient en germe dans son
sein la lumière d’un nouveau jour, l’eau, qui était une substance de mort,
devient, avec la lumière du jour, “une substance de vie” (Bachelard : 99). Elle
se présente aussi comme une eau lustrale, baptismale qui lave les fautes de
Rodrigue pour faire de lui un homme nouveau. Don Fernand, lui-même,
constate, que “Les Mores en fuyant ont emporté son crime” (v. 1414). Dès lors
il s’appellera non seulement le Cid – beau titre d’honneur qui signifie en arabe,
Seigneur – mais aussi “l’ange tutélaire et le libérateur” (v. 1116) de la ville.
40
En résumé, c’est par la présence du coup malheureux du destin, que le
temps fait son apparition dans Le Cid. C’est ainsi que les protagonistes de la
pièce prennent conscience de la présence du temps qui passe. Il change le
bonheur en malheur, il détruit le passé glorieux de don Diègue et de toute sa
lignée. La solution au problème de la temporalité se trouve dans la continuité du
“sang”. La rélève des générations perpétue la race, la survivance de l’héroïsme,
elle permet de relier le passé au présent et à l’avenir.
Dans Le Cid, tragi-comédie adaptée à la règle de l’unité de temps, les
nombreux répères temporels nous laissent envisager les accumulations des
événements et l’inévitable décalage entre le temps réel et le temps fictif. Ces
notations servent à encadrer les actions qui gagnent, par rapport à son modèle
espagnol, en rapidité et en brièveté, mais aussi en concentration et en interiorización
et dont les conflits psychologiques, si nombreux dans la pièce, en sont un exemple.
Mais notre auteur met aussi l’accent sur ce double mouvement alternatif
de caractère universel, régulataire des phases successives du cycle vital qui
passe sans cesse de la nuit au jour, du flux au reflux, de la mort à la nouvelle vie.
Chez Corneille, les forces d’ordre cosmique et les forces de nature humaine ne
sont pas indépendantes entre elles, mais solidaires. Tous les répères temporels de
nature cosmique qui existent dans Le Cid, à savoir : la tombée du jour ou le soir,
la nuit, l’aube ou le point du jour, ainsi que le flux et le reflux de l’eau maritime
et fluviale, correspondent, dans un isomorphisme commun, avec le destin des
individus, les sentiments des hommes et les événements non seulement sur le
plan individuel, mais aussi social et historique. Et à cet égard, les recherches de
Mircea Eliade, de Gilbert Durand et de Gaston Bachelard nous ont servi de
point d’appui pour la réalisation de notre travail sur le temps dans Le Cid.
D’autre part, et pour conclure, nous sommes d’accord avec les affirmations
prononcées par la critique cornélienne, que nous rappelons à la suite. Les
protagonistes chez Corneille sont animés par un élan “qui les pousse à s’élèver
vers les hauteurs” (Adam, 1970 : 58), vers la grandeur même. Si le temps est un
facteur essentiel chez Corneille, c’est parce que ses protagonistes sont en train
de se réaliser et ils se réalisent toujours dans l’action. Sans aucun doute, “ils ont
une histoire et ils changent au cours de l’action” (Herland, 1952 : 67). Corneille
fait de ses personnages le long de son œuvre, de grands héros, des capitaines,
des saints (Lagarde & Michard, 1970 : 106), comme il arrive avec Rodrigue,
devenu le héros national, surnommé le Cid, et l’ange tutélaire de la ville.
BIBLIOGRAPHIE
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ARTICLES
Lanzuela, Joaquina (1988), “Le Cid y la unidad de tiempo: modificaciones diversas”, dans
Studium. Filología, nº 4, Colegio Universitario de Teruel, pp. 63-70.
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AUTHOR AND HERO (GREGORY THE THEOLOGIAN,
BASIL THE GREAT)
IOANA COSTA*
Gregory the Theologian wrote an outstanding panegyric devoted to his lifelong friend,
Basil the Great, some years after death had separated them. This eulogy, built as a biographical account, is
actually a bifrons portrait of their friendship, meant to continue beyond the end of their earthly
life. Just as the enduring monuments of the Christian acts they accomplished prolonged their
human presence for the rest of the world, their harmonious affection for each other is to guarantee
the transfer to the perennial life, as an undividable unit – of human beings and saints.
Keywords: panegyric, saints, friendship, authorial ego, portrait, hero, death.
Saint Basil the Great (330 – January 1st, 379) and Saint Gregory the Theologian
(or Saint Gregory of Nazianzus, 329-389/390) constantly appear to be a unitary
presence, either as Cappadocian Fathers (together with the younger brother of
Saint Basil, Saint Gregory of Nyssa, 335 – post 394), or as The Three Great
Hierarchs (together with Saint John Chrysostom, 347-407). The panegyric 1
Saint Gregory composed, entitled Eis ton Megan Basileion epitaphion, belongs
to the last years of his life, coming almost one decade after the death of Saint
Basil. The writing definitely draws two distinct characters, with individual
biographical evolution – and displays, nevertheless, the aura of a unique great
friendship, lifelong accomplished and lasting far beyond life. They were about
the same age and during the years of their adolescence were present together in
Athens, as disciples of the masters living here, both of them making efforts to
define themselves in Christian and human coordinates. The Athenian episode
(“the kindling spark of our union”, par. 17) is emblematic for each of them
separately and, above all, for transforming them into a dual unit, emulating the
mythical pair of Orestes and Pylades, or the Molionides. Their harmony is a
reminiscent of the chamber with well-built walls and golden pillars of Pindar’s
* Professor of Classical Philology, University of Bucharest, [email protected].
1
For the Latin text of the Panegyric, vide Sources Chrétiennes (nr. 384): Grégoire de
Nazianze, Discours 43, in: Discours 42-43, Jean Bernardi (ed.), Cerf, Paris, 1992, p. 116-307; the
Romanian translation I accomplished is to be published in the collection PSB (Părinţi şi Scriitori
Bisericeşti), Editura Basilica, Patriarhia Română; the English translation is available at: http://sttakla.org/books/en/ecf/207/2070069.html.
44
IOANA COSTA
verses (par. 20), is a perpetual competition for the second position, leaving the
preponderance to the other one: none of them wished for himself the winning
prise, but strived fiercely to be the second, as each of them considered his
friend’s glory as his own glory; it seemed that one and only spirit was setting in
motion two bodies and, even if not all elements were in all, they proved that one
was in the other and one was beside the other. They were both endeavouring to
the same aim: virtue in the terrestrial life and hopes for the future life, for which
were perpetually preparing themselves, actually living beyond mortality while
still on earth. They became to each other stimulus for virtue and rule of living,
criterion for discerning right from wrong. Their friendship was simultaneously
harmonising two distinct (though alike) characters, choosing the same path in
life, assuming Christian faith, facing adversities, accepting earthly departure and
hoping for the final reunion.
The discourse known as “Oration XLIII”, the funeral oration on the great
Saint Basil, Bishop of Caesarea in Cappadocia, is a delicate and trustful portrait
of the deceased; though a real panegyric, the discourse does not remain inside
the borders of maximal eulogy. The biographic account is packed with vivid
episodes, brought back to life by the recollections of Saint Gregory that
functions here not only as a speaking witness, but also as participant or, in
dramaturgical terminology, a co-protagonist or deuteragonist. Step by step,
from one paragraph to another, the two portraits are more and more clearly
defined, from the years of the beginning, the adolescence, in a similar space,
belonging to comparable family data and geographical surroundings, to the
years they studied in Athens, having as background the confrontation with the
Aryanism. The end of the earthly life came earlier for Saint Basil: his friend
remained a little more, languishing for the heavenly reunion. Considered as a
literary text, the panegyric includes the two characters in the most relevant parts
of the oration, in the extremities. The opening is to be read as a captatio
beneuolentiae, but the dominant note is theorising the subject chosen for the
discourse, as a confirmation of oratorical ability: just as, during his entire life,
Saint Gregory used to submit to the oratorical exigencies of his friend (who
expected that his writings were more brilliant than his own, par. 1), he accepts
now this final test, of choosing as topic the friend himself. The greatness of the
chosen character imposes the excellence of performing: the author is overwhelmed
by the task assumed. Nonetheless, he elegantly draws a bow: the panegyric is
the necessary accomplishment of a duty (par. 1), knowing that a master of the
discourse ought to be eulogized by a discourse; the topic equals the qualities of
the orator, that would desire nothing else for putting his talent to test;
accomplishing this duty is a joy for himself and a stimulus for those around him,
as model of virtue. Beyond the two characters (hero and author-hero) is to be
contemplated the declared purpose: exhortation to virtue. No matter the
oratorical qualities of the opusculum (and this is, again, a literary topos of
AUTHOR AND HERO (GREGORY THE THEOLOGIAN, BASIL THE GREAT)
45
captatio benevolentiae), once accomplished, the panegyric gains beneficent
consequences: getting closer to the greatness of its topic, its aim is fulfilled or,
by contrary (which is plausible when eulogizing a person like Saint Basil, par. 1),
by its own failure, proves that the subject is far beyond words.
In the other margin of the discourse (par. 82), the touching account of the
final moments Saint Basil lived on earth and of his funeral is the closure of the
gift offered him by the friend who stood beside him lifelong, in the same
ambience, aging together, step by step, from early youth till the end. If the gift
was not worthy, the lonely friend should not be blamed, as he carries the burden
of old age, of weakness, of loneliness and longing: his sadness will only be
dissipated when meeting again his friend, in the heavenly realms. Until then, it
remains unanswered the final question of the panegyric, rising echoes
throughout centuries and individuals: “who will there be to praise us, since we
leave this life after thee, even if we offer any topic worthy of words or praise in
Christ Jesus our Lord, to Whom be glory forever?” (par. 82).
The author uses scarcely the name of the protagonist: it appears only six
times. Not without relevance, there is a seventh occurrence in par. 10, regarding
the father of Saint Basil the Great and, also, an eighth occurrence, in a plural
form, depicting a special variety of admiration, in a mimetic way: “so you might
see many Basils in outward semblance, among these statues in outline, for it would
be too much to call them his distant echo: for an echo, though it is the dying
away of a sound, at any rate represents it with great clearness, while these men
fall too far short of him to satisfy even their desire to approach him” (par. 77).
Whenever appears, his name is accompanied by the surname “great”, that
finally becomes part of his standard identification, “Basil the Great”: par. 1, 16,
27, 56; his name does not have the adjoined element in par. 63 and 82 (the last
one being a direct approach, in vocative case, by the end of the panegyric); in
paragraph 10, devoted to his father, the name is analyzed in its lexical meaning,
with precise emphasis on the grandeur: “who has not known Basil, our
archbishop’s father, a great name to everyone”.
For all the other instances of referring to Saint Basil, the approached modality
is as simple as possible, either by using a pronoun or a demonstrative, or implying
the equally unadorned and unspectacular term anér: “the man”, “this man”, “our man”,
e.g. par. 23, 28, 70, 79. Here and there, the term is completed by the epithet “noble”: on
the other hand, “noble” is to be found alone as reference to the character (e.g. par. 29).
Another appropriate epithet is „saint” (par. 55) or, in an ampler wording, „the
holy man of God however, metropolitan as he was of the true Jerusalem above”
(par. 59); „this saint” is the appellation in par. 80. Paragraph 24 includes a
precise though unexpectedly rare term, covering the bond between author and
hero of this panegyric: „my friend”.
The portrait of Saint Basil the Great is accomplished in two perspectives:
direct knowledge, which places on the same level the author of the panegyric
46
IOANA COSTA
and all the persons he addresses this opusculum, and, skilfully inserted into this
background, elements of biographic realities that open to the literature of
ancient world. The author gracefully alternates the angles, in a texture so dense
that an intentional arrangement is almost imperceptible: the famous examples of
classical works and characters come up naturally, as part of a human life. Just as
biography and literature are convoluted, the author and co-protagonist (deuteragonist)
are one and the same. The friend speaking in front of those living around him
brings to the surface memories that many of his contemporaries found in their
own past; the memories are brought to life and increased from individual to
common recollection, become profound in Christian sensitivity and are fed by
ancient culture. From the very beginning to the end, from the biography of the
ancestors to the grandiose spiritual standing of the saint, each trait is revealed by
references to sacred and ancient texts. From their first encounter in Athens to
the final reunion beyond death, each trait finds its resonance in the life of the
friend that is speaking now. Athens had brought them together just “like two
branches of some river-stream, for after leaving the common fountain of our
fatherland, we had been separated in our varying pursuit of culture, and were
now again united by the impulsion of God no less than by our own agreement”
(par. 15); driven by God’s will, they were together there and remained as one
and single unit, even when life pushed them apart, in remote spaces. The two portraits
are shedding light on each other, in vivid episodes scattered all life long, from
their adolescence when everything needed to be studied, to the settling of
sentiments and knowledge by the age of maturity and, finally, to the wise age.
Shyly considering the crossroads of his own life, Saint Gregory contemplates
his friend, admires him increasingly and wishes even more to reach the realm he
always desired: kept aside by adverse circumstances, he is “inclined to ascribe
all the inconsistency and difficulty which have befallen [his] life” to “the
hindrances in the way of philosophy, which have been unworthy of [his] desire
and purpose” (par. 25). He recognizes without a shadow of doubt: “this is the
source of all the inconsistency and tangle of my life; it has robbed me of the
practice, or at least the reputation, of philosophy” (par. 59).
From the text of this oration emerge, completely stated, the reasons that
transform Saint Basil into a paradigm – for all around him, during his lifetime
and long after that, mostly for Saint Gregory: in a circular construct, he is
legitimating this way the panegyric itself when saying “he was a standard of
virtue to us all […] nor have I thought that to praise him befitted any other more
than me” (par. 2). Both necessary and legitimate, the oration needed a
prolonged gestation period, largely clarified by the author, both in common
knowledge and personal motivation. He only arrived at this point, long after
many others eulogised, publicly and privately, the beloved memory of Saint
Basil, mostly as he had to prepare himself for a proper homage: “my first reason
was, that I shrunk from this task […] as priests do, who approach their sacred
47
duties before being cleansed both in voice and mind” (par. 2). Taking a bow to
the memory of Saint Basil could be considered, mainly in these opening
paragraphs, as a modality of preparing the tangible public, the persons that were
about to listen to him; he rendered an oration that minutely elaborated, using the
tools he perfectly wielded, as recognized all the people that knew him and were
acquainted with the friendship of the two masters of words. Bringing closer this
detail, Saint Gregory immediately re-establishes the respectful distance, in a
graceful balance between friendship and admiration: “I must now proceed with
my eulogy, commending myself to his God, in order that my commendations
may not prove an insult to the man, and that I may not lag far behind all others;
even though we all equally fall as far short of his due, as those who look upon
the heavens or the rays of the Sun” (par. 2).
The entire text is deliberately censored, in order to obey the oratorical
exigencies of the distant author, id est Saint Basil the Great: both character and
spiritus mouens for the concrete author of the panegyric, Saint Basil continues
to exist as part of a unity composed by two beings, acting as dynamic monoliths.
The spiritual community of mind, already suggested in the opening paragraphs,
becomes a palpable reality as oration proceeds: the author and the hero are permanently
exchanging their roles, subtly, almost unwillingly, without claiming public complicity,
only by unfolding the biographical threads, touching the Christian faith and building
the wording volutes. One example: just after the episode devoted to the parents
of Saint Basil (par. 10), the immediate author turns back to the hero of the
panegyric, asking for his support in finding the proper words: “we only need his
own voice to pronounce his eulogium. For he is at once a brilliant subject for praise,
and the only one whose powers of speech make him worthy of treating it”.
Topic and oratorical model, Saint Basil was the only one capable of writing a
proper eulogy for a personality like himself: “The praise, then, which I shall
claim for him is based upon grounds which no one, I think, will consider
superfluous, or beyond the scope of my oration”.
The idea stated here on a theoretical basis is to be found by the end of the
oration (par. 60), when considering the text in the light of high criteria, as those
Saint Basil taught: “I am afraid that, in avoiding the imputation of indifference
at the hands of those who desire to know all that can be said about him, I shall
incur a charge of prolixity from those whose ideal is the golden mean; for the
latter Basil himself had the greatest respect, being specially devoted to the
adage ‘in all things the mean is the best’, and acting upon it throughout his life”.
While alternating the two authorial approaches (shyness and superiority),
Saint Gregory blurs his presence assuming the role of second to his character,
being created by his own hero of the oration. Self-inflicted shyness is always
counterbalanced by the confidence in the proper accomplishment of his task, of his
duty toward the friend he venerated and to whom stayed firmly aside: “I am
anxious, and seize this opportunity to add from my own experience somewhat to
48
IOANA COSTA
my speech, and to dwell a little upon the recital of the causes and circumstances
which originated our friendship, or to speak more strictly, our unity of life and nature;
[…] so do we linger in our description of what is most sweet to us” (par. 14).
Stylistic constraints are repeatedly worded, explicitly, just as if the author
discusses his own text with someone capable of understanding the subtle texture:
this collocutor could not be anyone else but the hero himself, physically (and
naturally) absent, but robustly present from all the other possible perspectives:
“I feel that I am being unduly borne away, and I know not how to enter upon
this point, yet I cannot restrain myself from describing it; for if I have omitted
anything, it seems, immediately afterwards, of pressing importance, and of more
consequence than what I had preferred to mention; and if any one would carry
me tyrannically forward, I become like the polyps, which when they are being
dragged from their holes, cling with their suckers to the rocks, and cannot be
detached, until the last of these has had exerted upon it its necessary share of
force” (par. 19). Talking about his friend, the hero of the panegyric, the author
constantly speaks about himself. The result is strongly visible when commenting an
unwanted detour, eulogy of himself transformed in eulogy of his hero, indefinitely
multiplying their bonds: “I have been unawares betrayed into praising myself,
in a manner I would not have allowed in another. And it is no wonder that I
gained here in some advantage from his friendship, and that, as in life he aided
me in virtue, so since his departure he has contributed to my renown” (par. 22).
The final three paragraphs (80-82) are the accomplishment of the itinerary
Saint Gregory attentively prepared from the first words. The natural ending,
biographically predictable (the ultimate moments, the saint body carried by the
grieving people, that did not want to accept his departure, struggling to touch
the garments or at least his shadow), is the rising of voice in the lonely weeping
of the one left behind on earth, as a sad half of a once harmonious unity of two
spirits: “I, Gregory, who am half dead, and, cleft in twain, torn away from our
great union, and dragging along a life of pain which runs not easily, as may be
supposed, after separation from him, know not what is to be my end now that I
have lost my guidance” (par. 80).
This loneliness inside the long-ago monolith – their perfect friendship – could
become a stimulus for bringing closely together a community, transferring the
bond of two persons into a manifold connection, as Saint Gregory is asking
everybody to join him, glorifying the memory of Saint Basil and living in
Christian spirit: “Come hither then, and surround me, all ye members of his
choir, both of the clergy and the laity, both of our own country and from abroad;
aid me in my eulogy, by each supplying or demanding the account of some of
his excellences; […] all men will […] praise him who made himself all things
to all that he might gain the majority, if not all” (par. 81).
Unfolding the whole oration, Saint Gregory turns over himself a constantly
severe glance: from time to time, he softens his severity by accepting the limitation
49
brought by the age. The panegyric is put under the sign of recollection and old age,
the remembrances of Saint Basil and weakness of Saint Gregory: “our feelings […]
worn out with age and disease and regret for thee” (par. 82). Tribute and incentive,
his friend remains for him the thorn in the flesh, given by God, and his own
commemoration is to become a new stimulus and a new model. Author and
hero are a unit, the roles are performed at turn and the levels are spectacularly
interweaved, from biographic episodes regarding one or the other, to philosophical
and institutional authority, from assuming teachings to foundation of love.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Grégoire de Nazianze (1992), „Discours 43”, in Jean Bernardi (ed.), Grégoire de Nazianze,
Discours 42-43, Cerf, Paris, pp. 116-307.
Gregorio di Nazianzo (2000), „Orazione funebre per il grande Basilio”, in Claudio Moreschini (ed.),
Tutte le Orazioni, Bompiani, Milano, pp. 1030-1121.
CONFUCIUS AND FEMINISM
LUCIANA IRINA CĂRĂMIDĂ (VĂLUŢANU)∗
Feminists have always criticized the treatment of women determined by Confucianism but
the relationship between Confucianism and Feminism should be reconsidered in the light of the
entire socio-political context of the time. In the early Confucian writings, the Masters of Confucianism
did not explicitly put women in a subordinate position. When we judge whether women are
inferior to men, we must take into account the fact that, in a patriarchal and highly hierarchical
society, not only women but all members had their fixed and clear roles. The flourishing of the
didactic literature for women in a period of vigorous thriving of Neo-Confucianism can be
interpreted as a wish of control coming from the leading authorities but, at the same time, can be a
sign for the gradually growing power of women. Indirectly women were recognized as a mass of
people that could influence the well being of an entire society, from the family level to the top.
Keywords: Confucianism, feminism, re-interpretation, didactic literature for women, roles, gender.
For the specialists in Confucianism, the juxtaposition suggested by the
title of this presentation would have been unimaginable before the 1990s, when
the first studies1 on the philosophical affinities between Confucianism and feminism
were written. Their authors made significant progress in respect to the work of
their predecessors2, effectively breaking the ground for research into the feminine
issue of the Confucian ethics and philosophy from completely different perspectives.
They attempted to counterbalance the image created by a plethora of scholars,
that of a stereotypical woman forever subjugated, powerless, silent and obedient.
The theme of the universal oppression of women in ancient China and
Japan during the Tokugawa period has known several variations (Raphals, 1998: 1-2),
from the sociological to the cosmological and not least, to the philosophical.
Both the Chinese and the Japanese social systems were obviously patrilineal
and patriarchal, based on the separation of influence and power zones – women
traditionally belonged to the “interior”, that is the domestic area, while men
were associated with the “exterior”, that is with governance and business. A
∗
Drd., University of Bucharest, Department of Cultural Studies, e-mail: [email protected] ;
this article represents a slightly modified version of an article published before.
1
Chenyang Li, 1994, Henry Rosemont, Jr., 1997, Terry Woo, 1998, Tu Wei-ming, 1998, Karyn
Lai, 2000, Sandra A. Wawrytko, 2000, Kelly James Clark and Robin Wang, 2004, Jing Yin, 2006,
Xinyan Jiang, 2009.
2
Li Yu-ning, 1992, Dorothy Ko, 1994, Susan Mann, 1997, Lisa Raphals, 1998.
LUCIANA IRINA CĂRĂMIDĂ (VĂLUŢANU)
52
social organisation of this type implicitly meant women were excluded from
public life and deprived of legal rights, from the freedom to dispose of their
own bodies and possessions to the ultimate interdiction to use their names.
The cosmological grid built around the Yin-Yang principles and used to
justify the inferior position assigned to women within family and society has
known a progressive evolution: at first, gender analogies emphasised a
complementary difference between female and male, then the nuances opposing
the two principles developed, and in the end, the order became explicitly
hierarchical. This last phase has come to dominate, and ultimately annihilate,
the previous tradition.
The philosophical and ethical version of this theme was attributed to
Confucianism, which, a fact admitted even by its staunchest defenders,
undeniably led to a consolidation of woman’s inferior position as wife, mother
or daughter within a markedly hierarchical society.
Beginning with the 1990s, the studies focusing on the life and role of
women in Chinese and Japanese societies have taken a fresh turn motivated by
the desire to achieve balance within the “woman persecuted by man” model,
which until then presented a unilateral view of the negative influence of
Confucian doctrine on the female status. With their more moderate approach,
several articles3 made the transition to a new style of research. Chinese historian
and philosopher Hu Shi, through an article entitled “Women’s Place in Chinese
History” (1931), counts as one of the first critics of the Confucian tradition who
raises this issue, but, at the same time, suggests that women have nevertheless
managed to find themselves a very well defined place “within family, society
and history”, ruling over men and governing empires, contributing to the world
of art and literature and educating their sons. (“If she has not contributed more,
it was probably because China, which certainly has treated her ill, has not
deserved more of her”) (Hu 1931: 15). Lin Yutang (1939: 139) considers that
the gender difference advocated by Zhu Xi, by which the “correct position” of
the husband outside the home and of the wife inside it were prescribed, is not
necessarily an attempt at creating a hierarchy, but more of a need resulting from
a better division of labour. (“Confucianism also gave the wife an “equal”
position with the husband, somewhat below the husband, but still an equal
helpmate, like the two fish in the Taoist symbol of yin and yang, necessarily
complementing each other”) (Lin, 1939: 139). In his opinion, the issue of
women in China, oppressed by men or not, presents two major aspects – on the
one hand, there is clear evidence in the Neo-Confucianism of the Chinese Song
and Ming Periods and in the Japanese Tokugawa Period which attests to the
different treatment given to men and women in society; on the other hand, Lin
is one of the first researchers to state the supremacy held by women within the
3
Hu Shi, 1931, Lin Yutang, 1939, Priscilla Ching Chung, 1981, Richard Guiso, 1981
53
family, which, he argues, would make their deprivation of social rights simply
“unimportant/irrelevant”. Richard Guiso (1981: 60), too, despite his criticism of
Chinese classical texts, which accepted tacitly or even perpetuated female
stereotypes in a patriarchal society, acknowledges the respect shown to
“elderly”, “wise” or “experienced” women. Nevertheless, as noted by Chenyang
Li (2000: 7), the one who truly held power in the family of the Confucian world
was the “mother”, not the “woman”, and this type of influence cannot, in fact,
be compared to that wielded by men. As regards studies on women from the
upper classes, we mention the one written by Priscilla Ching Chung (1981),
which stresses the prestige and power attributed to palace women of the
Northern Song Dynasty.
Following these works we call “transitional” in the research on women,
there came a trend in which scholars reconsidered Confucian values,
reinterpreted them in the light of new philosophies and gave novel meanings to
classical excerpts, thus highlighting ideas that would, in fact, have led to a better
position for women. Li Yu-ning (1992) stresses the importance assigned by
Confucianism to equal education and self improvement regardless of social
origin and gender. Dorothy Ko (1994) analyses the privileged status held by
educated women in the 18th century and the important role allotted to the
“mother” and “wife” ruling the destinies of a family. Ko tries to explain a
complex phenomenon manifested at the level of the elites, by which women
actively embraced and internalised Confucian values in order to pass them onto
the next generations. Susan Mann (1997), in her study on educated women
during the Qing Dynasty (1683-1839), identifies writing not only as a weapon
to defend values, but also as a means for them to gain respect and individual
satisfaction. Thus, Mann gives them an important and well-deserved position,
challenging a century and a half during which Chinese radicals and Western
missionaries viewed women as “victims” of a “cultural tradition”. In her book
Sharing the Light, Lisa Raphals (1998) offers representations of women as
agents of “intellectual, political and ethical virtues”, by analysing the
“biographies of exemplary women”. Despite the fact that these didactic texts
had been written with the explicitly stated intention of disseminating the
Confucian moral lifestyle at all social levels, they also prove “what women are
capable of”, meaning their power acknowledged and sometimes feared by men.
With these works the foundations of, some would think, even more
“daring” approaches are being laid, which end up juxtaposing Confucianism
and feminism, in an attempt to rehabilitate this school of though, to adapt this
cultural tradition to social and political changes.
Some authors highlighted the similarities between the two schools of
thought. Chenyang Li (1994) focuses on the aspects shared by the feminist ethics
of compassion, of altruism and the Confucian jen ethics, and demonstrates that
both exhibit a similar understanding of the self as social construct, that both lie
54
a heavy stress on situational moral judgement rather than on judgement based
on principals and also that both advocate the importance of compassion in ethics.
The concept of jen and that of “compassion” are equally centred on the system
of human relationships. Confucianists as well as feminists see the human being
as social, integrated into a system in which it occupies a referential place. Li
borrows arguments from the feminist perspective on compassion and quotes the
opinions of consecrated authors, such as Carol Gillian and Nell Noddings, in
order to support the affinity of these two “philosophies”, as he calls them. Li
identifies the “feminist” grain in early Confucianism, which, in his opinion,
should go back to Confucius and Mencius in order to do away with the later
additions and amendments brought throughout history to the concept of “female
gender”, under the influence of various political and philosophical systems.
Like all the other authors who have attempted a parallel between these schools
of thought pertaining to different epochs and apparently placed in complete
opposition, Li also sees them as complementary, remarking on the reciprocal
“help” they could provide in order to acquire new nuances.
In his essay “Classical Confucian and Contemporary Feminist Perspectives
on the Self: Some Parallels and Their Implications” (1997), Henry Rosemont Jr.
draws a parallel between classical Confucianism and contemporary feminism
and brigs arguments in favour of a reconstruction of Confucian philosophy on a
new basis, which would inevitably comprise a vision of the equality between
genders adapted to the modern world.
Terry Woo (1998) suggests, with examples taken from the writings of Confucius
and Mencius, that the two were “indulgent supporters” of traditional norms of sexual
segregation and exacerbated masculine authority, rather than “misogynists” as they
have often been labelled. She sees feminism in its active form, as the necessary
force in the struggle for equal rights. She cannot avoid noticing the irreconcilable
differences between Confucianism and feminism, but at the same time she points
out their common principles: an equal opportunity for education and an attitude of
flexibility and openness. She also offers a solution for the future – “an appropriation
of jen and a better understanding of the history of Confucianism might offer a
sense of cultural recovery” (Woo, 1998: 138) to Chinese as well as Western feminists.
Tu Wei-ming (1998) is yet another prominent scholar who researched the
subject, trying to bring more proof of the acknowledged necessity to establish a
dialogue between Confucianism and feminism. Within the frame of the
discussion on “the five essential relationships” mentioned explicitly in the
writings of Mencius and “the three subordinations of women”, Tu Wei-ming
discusses the “separation between husband and wife” based apparently on the
reciprocity principle, in view of a better division of labour. A wife’s patience
and obedience are interpreted as signs of great inner strength and not of
weakness, and the author sees woman as equal to man precisely by virtue of her
capacity to adapt and to manipulate silently.
55
The majority of these texts have their roots in a common tenet, namely a
return to the founders of Confucianism, Confucius and Mencius, who, in their
turn, preached a rediscovery of the ancestors and a valorisation of lost meanings.
The reinterpretation of classical texts in the light of new realities has been
considered necessary for formulating the hypothesis on which all modern
scholars of classical Confucianism rely, namely that the fathers of
Confucianism never openly expressed an oppressive attitude towards women.
Yet nor did they advocate the idea of gender equality, mainly because they lived
in a patriarchal society which appeared to have already devised a clear place
and role for each of its members. Their neutral attitude in this respect is also a
subject of discussion, given the sparse reference to women in their works.
“The Analects” have been analysed from many angles and there is even a statistics
on the frequency of certain words in the text. One aspect scholars view as revealing is
the fact that “woman” appears only twice and never in direct reference to her status.
The fragment which is behind Confucius’ image as sexist (17:25) has
known countless interpretations: (“Only nüzi and petty people are hard to rear.
If you are close to them, they behave inappropriately; if you keep a distance
from them, they become resentful.”) (Ames and Rosemont Jr., 1999: 17-25).
The word used to refer to women is nüzi (the characters for “woman” and
“child”), and its interpretations have led to all manner of conclusions. Those
who read simply “women” underlined Confucius’ defamatory attitude towards
this gender. Others, among whom Chinese linguist Wang Li, took zi, which
means “child/children”, as an adjective to nü, the resulting compound word
meaning not “women” in general, but “girls”. Other interpretations seeking to
eliminate the sexist note replaced “women and small/unimportant people” with
“servants, both female and male”, but this particular decoding is seen as
straying too much from the text’s original meaning. Others consider that women
are compared to “unimportant people” (the characters for “small” and “man”),
allegedly the opposite of the Confucian ideal of the “superior man”, and the
accusation that “they are difficult to nurture/cultivate” – yet another meaning
ascribed to this word – would indeed be serious, were we to analyse the
philosophical and pedagogical dimensions of “nurturing” (in the sense of
“nurturing the mind”), since it would lead to the obvious conclusion that women
lack the ability to grow spiritually and intellectually. James Legge, the famous
translator of The Analects, felt the need to clarify this term and he said it was a
reference to “concubines” rather than to women in general. He could not help
himself from not noticing that “we hardly expect such an utterance, though
correct in itself, from Confucius” (Legge, 1935: 330). Nevertheless, there are
some nuances that would give new meanings to the fragment: Confucius would
say that it is “difficult” to cultivate women, not that such a task is impossible,
and seeing that he considers the journey to self-cultivation as intrinsically
difficult, there would be no discrimination between women and men, who face
56
similar challenges. The complexity and ambiguity of this excerpt, the multitude
of interpretations possible at all levels – semantic, ideological etc. – lead us to
the conclusion that the scholars who took into consideration only the sexist
aspect oversimplified things in the general context of the Confucian view on
gender, created by successive additions throughout history.
The other fragment in which Confucius refers to women is also
considered suffused with discrimination between genders. (“Shun had five
ministers and society was well managed. King Wu said, “I had ten able people
as ministers.” Confucius said, “Is it true that it is difficult to find talent? The
Tang-Yu period was a high time for talented people. [Among King Wu’s
ministers] there was a woman; so there were only nine people.”)4
This was taken by scholars as proof of Confucius’ belief in woman’s
inferior status. Even though King Wu counted a woman between his most
trusted councillors, thus placing that woman on an equally footing with men,
Confucius was keen on correcting his attitude and this is the reason why he said
there were only nine people worth mentioning.
Such textual debates can continue endlessly but it is important to mention
that in the late years different approaches appeared. Some contemporary
scholars, like Xinyan Jiang (Xinyan, 2009), see in this fragment that, on the
contrary, Confucius admits woman’s ability to become involved in official
matters, building their interpretation on very early comments on the text. Huang
Kan (488-545) considers that the “woman” Confucius speaks of could be King
Wen’s mother, whom he admired and wished to singularise in this way.
It is universally accepted that the founders of Confucianism were not the
ones who produced this discriminatory vision of women, but later developments
of this ethical and philosophical system, notably Neo-Confucianism, which
effectively sealed women’s fate. In the works by Confucius there is no mention
of the three subordinations of woman, which place her successively under the
authority of her father, her husband and her son. However, Confucius’
antifeminist inclinations were considered evident from the fact that he had no
female disciples among his followers. But this can also be explained due to the
hierarchical structure of the gender relations in the society of his time.
We consider that the key to the reinterpretation of the classic texts in relation
to the new feministic approaches is Tu Wei-ming’s remarks that we shouldn’t
forget there always was a major difference between the social and cultural practice
and the Confucian teachings. One clear example to support this affirmation can be
found in the didactic literature for women, written in China starting from the Han
dynasty and which spread in all the other countries that went under the influence of
Confucianism. Illustrated didactic books played an important role in establishing
social norms and behavioural ideals, the tracts for girls were meant to stimulate
4
The Analects 8.20 in the translation of James Legge.
57
moral values by praising exemplary models and also supported a patriarchal ideology.
They expressed a perceived necessity to conceptualize the female gender but the
question is whether the portrayals of women in these texts offered as accurate and
natural representations of the women as they really existed. Why did this kind of
literature flourish in a period when Neo-Confucianism was at its peak? Was didactic
literature responding to a recent change based in part on women increasing access
to work outside the home and increasing knowledge gained from literacy? Another
supposition meant to sustain this theory is that these developments in the lives of
common women were so potentially disruptive to the ideal order conceived of by ruling
elites that severe admonition was necessary. And here we go back to the remark of Tu
Wei-ming who understood the discrepancy between reality and the Confucian principles.
Tu Wei-ming also recognized the feminist potential of Confucian thought
in that “unlike other spiritual traditions, there is no theoretical limitation within
Confucianism against educating women or against training generations of
women Confucian masters. The tradition does not impose any constraints on
this” (Tu 1984: 62). It is true that, for example, in Japan, the secularization of
education was virtually completed before the end of the 17th century and
according to Dore and the best available data, something like 40 per cent of
Japanese men were literate by the end of the Tokugawa period but only 10 per
cent of Japanese girls “were getting some kind of formal education outside of
their homes” (Dore 1965 : 254). Tokugawa education indoctrinated all levels of
society, both men and women, with the goal dictated by Neo-Confucianism to
serve the family, the group that one belonged to and ultimately, the country.
The relationship between feminism and Confucianism has long been one-sided,
with feminists criticizing the status of the women conferred by Confucianism,
but recent research tried to contextualize it and discover other aspects related to the
socio-political reality of that time. Confucianism cannot be blamed for discriminating
women in a patriarchal society in which women’s subordination is seen as
necessary for the whole hierarchy. It is worth mentioning that the fixed roles were
not assigned only to women, but every member of the society should have known
his place and should have behaved accordingly. It is said that the function of any
philosophy is contextually determined and Confucianism is not an exception. That
is why recent research on the classical books tried to redeem the subordinate status
of women in Confucianism, “as their inferiority, at least as shown in the texts, is
seen as contingent and functional rather than innate and biological” (Sin 2000: 165).
The Confucianism made use of different means for disseminating its conception
and one of them was the didactic literature. One majore part of this kind of writing
was dedicated to women because the Confucianist thinkers considered necessary that
women should be educated and instructed about the family matters. Feminists judged
those texts as discriminatory and restrictive, but, at the same time, they re-evaluated
and appreciated them for their educative value, even if limited to the domestic
realm. The encounter between the Confucianism and feminism enriched them
reciprocally and criticism was important and benefic for both of them.
58
BIBLIOGRAPHY
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Translation, Ballantine Books, New York.
Chung, Priscilla Ching (1981), “Power and Prestige: Palace Women in the Northern Sung (960-1126)”,
in Richard W. Guisso, Stanley Johannesen (ed.), Women in China: Current Directions in
Historical Scholarship, Philo Press, Youngstown, New York, pp. 99-112.
Clark, Kelly James, Robin Wang, (2004), “A Confucian Defense of Gender Equity”, in Journal of
the American Academy of Religion, 72, 2, 395-422
Dore, R. P. (1965), Education in Tokugawa Japan, University of California Press, Berkeley
and Los Angeles.
Guisso, Richard W., Stanley Johannesen (ed.) (1981), Women in China: Current Directions in
Historical Scholarship, Philo Press, Youngstown, New York.
Hu, Shi (1931), “Women’s Place in Chinese History”, in Li Yu-Ning (ed.), Chinese Women
Through Chinese Eyes, M.E. Sharpe, Armonk, New York.
Ko, Dorothy (1994), Teachers of the Inner Chambers: Women and Culture in Seventeenth Century
China, Stanford University Press, Stanford.
Legge, James (1935), The Chinese Classics, vol. 1, vol. 2, Shanghai: Oxford University Press,
reprint Hong Kong University Press, Hong Kong.
Li, Chenyang a. (1994), “The Confucian Concept of Jen and the Feminist Ethics of Care: A
Comparative Study”, Hypatia: A Feminist Journal of Philosophy, 9:1
Li, Chenyang b. (2000), “Introduction: Can Confucianism Come to Terms with Feminism?”,
Chenyang Li (ed.) The Sage and the Second Sex: Confucianism, Ethics, and Gender, Open
Court Publishing Co., Illinois.
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People, The John Day Company, New York.
Mann, Susan (1997), Precious Records: Women in China’s Long Eighteenth Century, Stanford
University Press, Stanford.
Raphals, Lisa (1998), Sharing the Light: Representations of Women and Virtue in Early China,
The State University of New York Press, Albany, New York.
Rosemont Jr., Henry (1997), “Classical Confucian and Contemporary Feminist Perspectives on
the Self: Some Parallels and Their Implications”, in Douglas Allen (ed.) Culture and Self:
Philosophical and Religious, East and West, Westview Press, Boulder, Colorado.
Sin Yee Chan (2000), “Gender and Relationship Roles in the Analects and the Mencius”, in Asian
Philosophy: An International Journal of the Philosophical Traditions of the East, 10:2, 115-132.
Tu, Wei-Ming a. (1984), Confucian Ethics Today: The Singapore Challenge, Curriculum Development
Institute of Singapore, Singapore.
Tu, Wei-Ming b. (1998), “Probing the Three Bonds and Five Relationships”, in Walter H. Slote,
George A. De Vos (ed.), Confucianism and the Family, The State University of New York
Press, Albany, New York.
Wawrytko, Sandra A. (2000), “Kongzi as Feminist: Confucian Self-Cultivation in a Contemporary
Context”, in Journal of Chinese Philosophy, 27:2, 171-186.
Woo, Terry (1998), “Confucianism and Feminism”, in Sharma, Arvind, Katherine K. Young (ed.),
Feminism and World Religions, The State University of New York Press, Albany, New York.
Xinyan Jing (2009), “Confucianism, Women, and Social Contexts”, in Journal of Chinese
Philosophy, 36.2: 228-242.
Yin, Jing (2006), “Toward a Confucian Feminism: A Critique of Eurocentric Feminist Discourse”,
in China Media Research, 2(3), 9-18.
TIME AND CHRONOLOGY IN TERTULLIAN’S
ADVERSUS IUDAEOS (VIII. 8-15)
LEVENTE PAP∗
Although early Christians attempted to reject the heritage of the Antiquity, they could not
succeed in this, therefore this legacy survived together with the Hebrew values they were deeply
attached to. This duality characterizes the works of Tertullian as well. In Adversus Iudaeos, he
uses The Book of Daniel, one of Bible’s eschatological prophecies to prove that the Christ
founded Christianity himself and he was the expected Messiah, his advent having already been
foretold. In order to support these assertions, Tertullian enumerates the rulers of the ancient world,
calculating the years of the prophecy by seven-year long septennial years. His major goal was to
prove the authenticity of the prophecy, and nonetheless a strict historical accuracy – this could be
the reason why he uses malleably both the Jewish approach to time and the Greek linear concept
of time in the treatment of time and dates.
Keywords: Tertullian, time, Daniel, Christianity, emperors.
Man is unable to perceive time directly. Therefore, we form our concepts
of time with the help of spatial ones. We live in time, and we approach its
changes by the concepts of motion in space, observing its pulsation from our
own perspective. Everyone is situated at a certain point of a temporal vector,
with his face towards the future and with his back towards the past. In
approaching time in this way, we are the followers of the ancient Greeks.
The Hebrew conception of time is a completely different one. In its
foreground there stand not the duration, direction, or its movement, but its content
and meaning. Its nature is determined by the fact that, contrary to the Greek way
of thinking, dealing primarily with things, the Hebrew way of thinking focuses
on the characteristics and meaning of the events, and on their relationships with
each other. Consequently, in the Hebrew language time is expressed not with
the help concepts of space, but through the forms of everyday activities. It is
natural that while we can form quantitative terms about space, the nature of the
events is described in qualitative terms. Rékai (2000: 70-72)
The Ecclesiastes says: “A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to
plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to
heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up.” (Ecclesiastes 3:2-3.)
∗
University Lecturer, Sapientia Hungarian University of Transylvania, Romania,
[email protected]
60
LEVENTE PAP
The dating according to the years of reign was the typical method of
determining time in despotic monarchies, not only in the ancient Orient, but also in
Hellenistic monarchies, in the Byzantine Empire and in medieval feudal kingdoms.
It expressed the view that the person of the actual ruler primarily determined the
character of a particular year. A different way of dating emerged in societies
governed in a non-despotic manner, or where the memory of an earlier “primitive
democracy” was stronger. Eponymous dates consist in the fact, that each year was
named after the annually changing person, usually fulfilling a sacerdotal (but in any
case a highly esteemed) office, the dates bearing his name. This eponymous system
formed the basis of the Greek record of years as well. Each Greek city-state
possessed an own system in this respect. In Athens, the year was defined by the
name of “the archon”. This title was worn by the leader of a nine-member
“archonic” body, who therefore was later conferred the title of “archôn epônymos”,
the “eponymous archon”. The Roman Republic also followed the eponymous
system, counting the years according to the consuls. Each year was marked by the
names of the two consuls. Even the omnipotent emperors of the fourth century
emitted their decrees dated according to the consuls. Only Justinian abolished the
office of the consulate in 537 and restored the ancient Oriental and Hellenistic
pattern of dates according to the years of reign. Hahn (2004)
The ideological basis of developing Christian world-eras were the eschatological
approach – i.e., regarding Doomsday as the final goal of the history of mankind – and,
respectively, one of its forms of manifestation, chiliasm. According to this very
approach, the history of the world forms a closed unity, which, from the
beginning – from the creation of the “first man” – advances throughout vast milenial
ages (chilioi = “thousand”, hence “chiliasm”) according to a divine schedule towards
the ultimate outcome, the eschaton, i.e. the final divine judgment. Hahn (2004)
First of all, we should posit a generally accepted principle. While Greek
thinking was static, in other words, the Greeks were looking for real, authentic
existence in an unchanging permanence, taking only the unchanging and resting
phenomena as real, Hebrew thinking was concerned with motion, action and the
event itself. For the Hebrew thinking of the Old Testament, real existence is to
be found in the events, in change. For this thinking, real existence means
dynamism. From this position, we can comprehend the concern of Hebrew
thinking for history, alongside with its positive approach to time. Here time
serves as the unitary and universal framework for actions and events.
The Greeks, like other European nations, cannot imagine time without
associating it with space. In other words, when there is mentioned a duration, a
date, a period or an interval, these mean a certain spatial order in every instance.
We perceive time, tempus in this spatial order. The past is what is behind us, the
present is the very point we stand at, while the future has to be ahead of us.
When a Greek is speaking about time, he divides it into past, present and
future, thus also making it abstract and even relativising it. The Hebrew, on the
contrary, does not emphasize the measurability and quantitative importance of
TIME AND CHRONOLOGY IN TERTULLIAN’S ADVERSUS IUDAEOS (VIII. 8-15)
61
time, but rather its quality, the events taking place in it. For him, time does not
exist merely in itself. He does not possess such an abstract image of time. He is
not able to separate time as an abstract concept. Instead he always perceives it
as closely related to events and happenings. Adorjáni (2000: 2) Early Christian
thinking, wanted to deny pagan Roman world, however, it could not succeed in
this, because without the culture of the Antiquity this religion would have been
condemned to death. The values of Hebrew culture were also an integral part of
the new religion. Thus, they could not omit the Greek-Roman culture, while
they were attached to Hebrew culture as well. This duality characterized early
Christian literature and, accordingly, the works of Tertullian as well.
The prophecies of the The Book of Daniel have always been an interesting
gleam in the series of the Bible’s eschatological prophecies. Hammer (1976) The
events of the 1st century BC had increased the interest of the Jews in this topic. This
was the time of the actual split of the unity of Hebrew religion, new directions have
appeared, trying to provide newer and newer explanations of this prophecy, and
have excelled in its precise calculation. Without attempting to discuss here the
period of its edition in a more detailed manner, in which the discovery of the Dead
Sea Scrolls provided nevertheless an undoubtedly important support, The Book of
Daniel is now important for us rather from the aspects of its content. Vermes (1998)
The origins of this book are also linked to an important event, since it was
written when the army led by Cyrus the Great conquered the capital of the
Babylonian empire. In addition, this was the year when Cyrus allowed the Jews
to return home and build their Temple. Collins (1994)
Let us see the text: It was the first year of Darius son of Artaxerxes, a
Mede by race who assumed the throne of Chaldaea. In the first year of his reign I,
Daniel, was studying the scriptures, counting over the number of years – as
revealed by Yahweh to the prophet Jeremiah – that were to pass before the
desolation of Jerusalem would come to an end, namely seventy years... When
your pleading began, a word was uttered, and I have come to tell you. You are a
man specially chosen. Grasp the meaning of the word, understand the vision:
'Seventy weeks are decreed for your people and your holy city, for putting an
end to transgression, for placing the seal on sin, for expiating crime, for
introducing everlasting uprightness for setting the seal on vision and on
prophecy, for anointing the holy of holies. Know this, then, and understand:
From the time there went out this message: "Return and rebuild Jerusalem" to
the coming of an Anointed Prince, seven weeks and sixty-two weeks, with squares
and ramparts restored and rebuilt, but in a time of trouble. (Dan 9, 1-2; 23-25)1
Daniel’s prophecy speaks about the building of the Temple, about its
destruction and about the Messiah. Along the centuries, various explanations were
born regarding this issue, but a unified position did not exist, therefore the highly
respected Rav stated in 246: “All the settled points of the end of times have already
passed, the thing now depends only on repentance and on good deeds”. Ruff (2006)
1
Translation from: Wansbrough (1985)
62
LEVENTE PAP
In the Middle Ages Maimonides wrote the following about this, “Daniel
has elucidated to us’ ‘the knowledge of the End Times. However, since they are
secret, the Wise, may their memory be blessed, have barred the calculation of
the days of the Messiah’s coming so that the untutored populace will not be led
astray when they see that the end times have already come but there’s no sign of
the Messiah. For this reason the Wise, may their memory be blessed, have
decreed: “Cursed be he who calculates the End Times.” But we cannot assert
that Daniel was wrong in his reckoning.” Santala (1992: 24), Davidson (2005)
Ruff T. has an appropriate remark to this in the concluding part of his article
cited above: “Anyway, the prohibition did not have enough results: both the Jews
and the Christians are still often preocupied with Daniel’s prophecy.” Ruff (2006).
All these are valid also for the early Christian era, since this question
raised a general interest namely to what extent the prophecy can be related to
the birth of Christ (John the Baptist, Paul the Apostle, etc). These approaches
were not uniform, but their essence was the same: when should the Messiah
arrive, and did Christ actually arrive within this interval?
Tertullian2 in this debate tries similarly, to exploit the argumentative potential
of Daniel’s prophecy in his work Adversus Iudaeos.3 Accordingly the times must be
inquired into of the predicted and future nativity of the Christ, and of His passion,
and of the extermination of the city of Jerusalem, that is, its devastation. For Daniel
says, that "both the holy city and the holy place are exterminated together with the
coming Leader, and that the pinnacle is destroyed unto ruin." And so the times of
the coming Christ, the Leader, must be inquired into, which we shall trace in Daniel;
and, after computing them, shall prove Him to be come, even on the ground of the times
prescribed, and of competent signs and operations of His. Which matters we prove,
again, on the ground of the consequences which were ever announced as to follow His
advent; in order that we may believe all to have been as well fulfilled as foreseen.
(Adv. Iud. VIII. 8-10)4 It is an important matter that he should demonstrate to his
debate partner, of course, with the help of the Bible again, that Christ had to be born,
2
Tertullian was born in Carthage c. 160 and died before 240 AD. He is a controversial
personality from several points of view. There exist many controversies regarding his life (including the
date of his birth and of his death), his qualification and profession (whether he was a lawyer or not), his
theology, his argumentative methods, and his style as well. This controversy also persisted throughout
his entire further reception. While he had brought an enormous effort in the defence of the Christian
faith, he could not enter the ranks of the Church Fathers. While the Decretum Gelasianum condemned
his writings, none of these Fathers of the Church could have ignored them. His works are still subject to
divergent approaches throughout the world, both by ecclesiastic and secular scholars.
3
This work was written around 197; its authenticity is being debated even nowadays. Its
major objective was to prove to the Hebrews that the Christ himself, who was also the expected
Messiah, had founded Christianity and the prophets had already foretold the advent of
Christianity. This work uses the text of the Old Testament in order to persuade his opponents
(retorsio criminis), and is aiming to prove at the same time that Christendom had replaced the
Hebrews in being the chosen people of God.
4
English translation by: Thelwall (1870)
63
moreover, he even had to have to suffer, and all these were consummated in their
due time. Besides, he also wanted to prove that the prophecies also speak about the
destruction of the Temple, and that the Jews will become outcaste, and their homeland
will be burnt up, which actually came true in the early spring of 70 AD Pap (2008).
In order to support his arguments, Tertullian, enumerates the rulers of the
ancient world and the calculation of the years of the prophecy. He starts the
enumeration exactly from the (end of the) reign of Cyrus the Great (559-530),
which can be considered logical, since, as already mentioned, Cyrus made important
concessions toward the Jews, and therefore his reign is a real milestone. The
prophet made his predictions in the time of Darius, who in 519 BC allowed the
Jews – in line with the previous decree of Cyrus – to rebuild the Temple in
Jerusalem. It made sense that he should start his calculations from the end of the
reign of the great king, respectively from the beginning of Darius’ reign. The series
of the rulers living before Christ ends with Augustus, whose reign is supposed to be
of 46 years, and even though – as Tertullian himself also asserts – survived with
15 years the birth of Christ, his whole reign should entirely be added to the
reign before Christ, because this leads to the completion of the foretold 62 and
half septennial years that should elapse until the coming of Christ: Let us see,
therefore, how the years are filled up until the advent of the Christ: For Darius
reigned XVIIII years. Artaxerxes reigned Xl and I years. Then King Ochus (who
is also called Cyrus) reigned XXIIII years. Argus one year. Another Darius,
who is also named Melas XXI years. Alexander the Macedonian XII years. Then,
after Alexander, who had reigned over both Medes and Persians, whom he had
reconquered, and had established his kingdom firmly in Alexandria, when
withal he called that (city) by his own name; after him reigned, (there, in
Alexandria), Soter XXXV years. To whom succeeds Philadelphus, reigning XXX
and VIII years. To him succeeds Euergetes XXV years. Then Philopator XVII years.
After him Epiphanes XXIIII years. Then another Euergetes XXVIIII years. Then another
Soter XXXVIII years. Ptolemy XXXVII years. Cleopatra XX years V months. Yet
again Cleopatra reigned jointly with Augustus XIII years. After Cleopatra, Augustus
reigned another XIIII years... For, after Augustus who survived after the birth of
Christ, are made up XV years. To whom succeeded Tiberius Caesar, and held the
empire XX years, VII months, XXVIII days. (In the fiftieth year of his empire Christ
suffered. being about XXX years of age when he suffered.) Again Caius Caesar,
also called Caligula III years, VIII months, XIII days. Nero Caesar XI years, IX months,
XIII days. Galba VII months, VI days. Otho III days. Vitellius VIII months, XXVII days.
The problem of the 15 years should not be considered a complete anachronism,
since, Tertullian’s list of rulers, as it was mentioned earlier, assigns a determining
role to the years of the rulers from the point of view of counting the septennial
years and not from that of the exact dates of the significant events during these
reigns. This seems to be supported also by the fact that Theodotion’s – version
of Daniel’s prophecy operates with intervals and not with exact dates. If we take
LEVENTE PAP
64
this into account, then the argumentation seems to be logical; even if it may
seem ahistorical at certain points – we should not forget that it was not the
sequence of the events that was important, but the justification of the Christian
narrative of redemption embedded into this series – but his argumentative
deduction is logical. Pap (2008:89-92) Even to that extent that afterwards he can
easily demonstrate that the fall of the Temple in Jerusalem and the dispersion of
the Jews were foretold exactly with the same precision.
The following chart attempts to provide a summary of this:
RULER
Darius
Artaxerses
Cyrus the
Great
Argos
Darius
Melas
Alexander
the Great
Soter
Philadelphus
Euergetes
Philopator
Epiphanes
Euergetes
Soter
Ptolemy
Cleopatra
Anthony &
Cleopatra
Augustus
Septennial
years
Tiberius
Caligula
Nero
Galba
Otho
Vitellius
missing
Claudius
included
YEARS
19
41
MONTHS
DAYS
24
1
21
12
35
38
25
17
24
27
38
37
22
5
13
43
437
5
437*12=5244+5=(5249/12)/7=62.5
22
3
11
36
(36*365+42*30+93)/365/7=5.6
7
8
9
7
3
8
42
5,6
(49*365+42*30+93)/365/7=7.5
7,5
28
13
13
6
5
28
93
65
The emperor list of the chart clearly shows that the name and reign of
Claudius are missing. This could be assigned to the author's inattentiveness,
however, as the calculations show, their sum total should also contain the reign
of Claudius, because the required seven and half septennial years will be
complete only this way. The dates of the reign of none of the emperors would
be appropriate – we would need 13 years – since Augustus himself also reigned
15 years after the birth of Christ, according to the calculation of Tertullian,
therefore he would not fit into the formula. Vespasian, whose reign, according
to the former logic, – according to which only the reigns of those rulers are
enumerated, when important events took place, relevant for the prophecy – is
rightfully missing, reigned for 10 years.
Why is Vespasian omitted from the list? Or what is more, why is also
Claudius? From a mathematical point of view Vespasian’s reign would have
been uncomfortable in the process of argumentation, but Tertullian could have
left it out, without any particular explanation, because the war waged to defeat
the Jews, together with the mobilization against Jerusalem, had already begun,
also during the former emperor's reign, and the decisive victory had not even
been fought by the emperor himself, but by Titus. The omission of Claudius can
probably be traced back to a lacuna, a copy mistake, as Tränkle also notes, not
naming this lacuna explicitly, although his interpretation does not rule out this
possibility. Tränkle (1964)
Although the explanations do not seem documented enough, sometimes,
we can conclude that Tertullian actually had a single important goal: to prove
the authenticity of redemption and the rightly adverse fate of the Jews, and
nonetheless a complete historical accuracy. Of course, in the centre of this
enumeration Christ himself stands as a cardinal argumentative point of this
issue. This is also a reference point in the prophecy of the prophet, dividing it
into two parts, being inserted between the time of building and the Temple and
that of its destruction the Jews will be punished because of their sins; they will
lose the divine grace, represented by the destruction of the Temple. However,
this is a historical fact which could not have been denied even by the Jews of
Tertullian’s age, as it was also a historical fact the reconstruction of the Temple
after the Babylonian captivity, and therefore between these two events the
coming of Christ should be regarded also as a similar historical fact, having
been mentioned by the prophet Daniel. In the treatment of time and dates,
Tertullian uses malleably both the Hebrew approach to time (see the case of
Vespasian) and the Greek linear concept of time (most obviously in the
enumeration of the rulers). The Christian literature of this age was mostly
characterized by this duality, until it succeeded to acquire its own voice, which
naturally would also be an alloy of these two.
LEVENTE PAP
66
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Adorjáni, Zoltán (2000), “A bibliai időszemlélet”, in Keresztény Szó, tome XI, no. 10, pp. 2-6.
Collins, John Joseph (1994), “Daniel: A Commentary on the Book of Daniel”, Hermeneia: a
Critical and Historical Commentary on the Bible, Fortress Publishers, Augsburg.
Davidson, H. A. (2005), Moses Maimonides: The Man and his Works, OUP, Oxford.
Hahn, István (2004), Naptári rendszerek és időszámítás, Neumann Kht., Budapest., accesat în
2012-02-29, http://mek.niif.hu/04700/04744/html/naptarirendszerek0004.html
Hammer, Raymond (1976), The Book of Daniel, C U P, Cambridge.
Pap, Levente (2008), “Tertulliani Adversus Iudaeos”, in L. Pap L., Zs. Tapodi (eds.) Közösség,
Kultúra, Identitás, Scinetia, Cluj-Napoca, pp. 89-103.
Rékai, Miklós (2000), “Az idő a zsidó kultúrában”, in F. Zoltán (ed.), A megfoghatatlan idő.
Tabula könyvek, 2., Budapest, pp. 70-84.
Ruff, Tibor (2006), “A Messiás-kód, Dániel elrejtette könyvében a megváltás dátumát”, in Hetek,
tome X, no. 24, accesat în 2012-02-29, http://www.hetek.hu/hit_es_ertekek/200606/a_messias_kod
Santala, Risto (1992), The Messiah in the Old Testament in the Light of Rabbinical Writings, Keren Ahvah
Meshihit, Jerusalem, p. 24, accesat în 2012-02-29, http://www.ristosantala.com/rsla/OT/index.html
Thelwall, S. (1870), Adversus Iudaeos, ANCL vol. III., T. & T. Clark, Edingburgh, pp. 201-208.
Tränkle, Hermann (1964), Q. S. F. Tertulliani Adversus Judaeos, Franz Steiner, Wiesbaden.
Vermes, Géza (1998), The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English, Penguin, London.
Wansbrough, Henry ed. (1985), The New Jerusalem Bible (NJB), Darton-Longman & Todd and
Les Editions du Cerf, London-Paris.
“FOR IMMORTALITY IS BUT UBIQUITY IN TIME”:
MOBY DICK ON THE HORIZON OF MYTH
IRINA DUBSKÝ∗
The present study aims to offer a glimpse of the White Whale as an expression of an
Absolute Presence, for, as Theodor Adorno writes, “time fixed into space creates the illusion of
an Absolute Presence”. Moby Dick is declared by some “superstitious” whale-men “not only
ubiquitous, but immortal (for immortality is but ubiquity in time)” (Moby Dick). As Mircea
Eliade writes in Images and Symbols, “a myth is something unfolding in illo tempore, actually in
the “space” where time is no more, for illud tempus is synonymous with eternity and with the
Principle.” The whale’s “ubiquity in time” (Moby Dick) places it on the horizon of myth, in illo
tempore, where time turns into space, where the alchemical squaring of the circle is accomplished.
Sequentiality, the defining trait of the elusory dimension of being, is foreign to Moby Dick. The whale
is “true” in that it exists in simultaneity. The conjoining of these attributes points to the mythical nature
of the whale. Myths, being rooted in the realm of essential truths, dwell simultaneously in two
different worlds, in the same way as the whale does. Therefore, myths are two-faceted: one face is
turned towards the sublunary world, while the other one looks upon the sphere of the fixed stars.
Correspondingly, the whale is a double-faceted entity: its face is analogous to the unseen side of
myth, whereas its tail is related to the visible manifestation of myth in its lower aspect.
Keywords: time, ubiquity, myth, whale, timeless, chronology, sequentiality.
William Shurr acknowledges Melville as “the most intellectual and
philosophical of the [American] canonical writers,” (371) a description which
masterfully grasps the awe-inspiring complexity of the Melvillean Opus.
In his absorbing study of Melville’s “reputation” and of “Melville” as a
literary criticism construct, Paul Lauter discusses his students’ response to the
writer and their resistance to reading his work:
‘You really feel belittled when you are reading Melville,’ one said. ‘I know this
is art, and I can’t understand it.’ ‘You feel,’ another added, that ‘something’s wrong with
you; that you’re missing something’ (2).
Professor Lauter assesses that his students feel “ignorant before the dense
web of Melville’s allusive, syntactically intricate style and his convoluted
plotting” (2). Moreover, they seem to “actively dislike Melville” as a consequence
of their being “humiliated by his prose” (2).
∗
“Spiru Haret” University, Bucharest, e-mail: [email protected]
68
IRINA DUBSKÝ
In fact, what is so unsettling and intellectually disquieting in Melville’s
texts is his handling of the mystery with his “visible hands” (Moby Dick 131) and
his agonizing struggle to put into writing “the glimpses (…) of the mortally
intolerable truth” (Moby Dick 105) which he catches during his “wandering to and
fro” – to quote Hawthorne’s description of his friend’s intellectual inquiry – throughout
the vast expanse of the known and the unknown. As the author of The Scarlet Letter
insightfully remarks, Melville has a proclivity towards “reason[ing] of Providence
and futurity, and of everything that lies beyond human ken” (qtd. in Bartlett 112-113)
which is sure to account for the esoteric aura of his work, which, in its turn,
explains the discouraging and humiliating effect his writing has upon some
segments of both his contemporary and modern readership. In fact, Melville
identified himself with his quest – what D. H. Lawrence terms “the last hunt,
the last conquest” (235) – the quester and the quest fusing together to strive for
the ultimate. This mystic conflation of subject and object in Melville’s vision
has also been noted by Martin Bickman who writes that “the paradox (…)
Melville seem[s] to be confronting is that one cannot seize the mystery of life
consciously, but must allow oneself to be seized by it”(Bickman 77).
Melville’s artistic and existential status as a herald and interpreter of “the
mystery of life” sealed him with a mark of excellence which cut him off from
his contemporary cultural environment and his reading audience. His
“discomfort with and alienation from the culture in which he found himself”
(Schneider 193) pervade most of his work and are reflected in the centrality of
his position in the American literary canon.
Melville “cross[ed] the frontiers into Eternity” (Mosses 295) or, as a
literary scholar most poetically phrases it, “Melville, through his living vision,
has killed or conquered time” (Wolf 92). The squaring of the circle, the
transmutation of time into eternity, is the corner-stone of Melville’s literary
edifice, a fact illustrated by his “preoccupation with the circle image” (Wolf 29).
“The idea of eternity possessed by man in time” has been identified as a
recurrent theme in the work of Melville and “other great writers of the
Romantic (…) era” (Poulet 673). The Alchemical Opus is carried to perfection
in the Athanor of Melville’s writing; his knowledge certainly outstrips that
which is conveyed in his literary art, for he professed that he clung
to the strange fancy that in all men hiddenly reside certain wondrous, occult properties
(…) which by some happy but very rare accident (…) may chance to be called forth here
on earth not entirely waiting for their better discovery in the more congenial, blessed
atmosphere of heaven (Hawthorne and His Mosses 300).
“The wondrous, occult properties” of Melville’s vision have been “called
forth on earth” and materialized in his art, but they are still waiting for “a better
discovery”. Thus, he reveals the magnitude of his spiritual insight and his intuition
of timelessness which René Guénon describes as the “awareness of eternity”:
“what can time do against those who carry within themselves the awareness of
eternity?” the esoteric writer asks rhetorically (Etudes sur l'Hindouisme 25-26).
“FOR IMMORTALITY IS BUT UBIQUITY IN TIME”: MOBY DICK ON THE HORIZON OF MYTH
69
If unvanquished by time, “those who carry within themselves the awareness of
eternity” are tormented “with an everlasting itch for things remote"(Moby Dick 7) and
they are destined to “wander to and fro over these deserts” (Hawthorne; qtd. in
Bartlett 112-113) of unanswer/-ed/-able questions. Melville himself, as the hero
of an existential adventure, was “a seeker, not a finder yet” – a phrase he used to
grasp the essence of Hawthorne's artistic stance which can also function as a
most felicitous illustration of the perpetual pilgrimage his own work embodies.
“Melville is a kind of wizard. He writes of strange and mysterious things
that belong to other worlds beyond this tame and everyday place we live in” – a
contemporary reviewer for the New Bedford Mercury most aptly observed
(qtd. in Beecher 95). These “strange and mysterious things that belong to other
worlds” pertain to the realm of the esoteric, of knowledge transcending the
sphere of the immediate and the ordinary.
Ishmael, the narrative voice of the Melvillean epos, makes a memorable
statement which encodes an essential dimension of the whaling tale, namely, the lack
of common measure between the worlds within whose boundaries the action unfolds:
So ignorant are most landsmen of some of the plainest and most palpable
wonders of the world, that without some hints touching the plain facts, historical and
otherwise, (…) they might scout at Moby Dick as a monstrous fable, or still worse and
more detestable, a hideous and intolerable allegory (Moby Dick 203).
By pronouncing the unenlightened “landsmen” to be “ignorant”, Ishmael
points to their condition as prisoners of that ignorance which in the Vedantic
scriptures is referred to as “avidyā, (…) the cause of bondage (…) [which] is
not intellectual ignorance but spiritual blindness” (Radhakrishnan 21).
However, “fables” and “allegories” are the most adequate means of
encoding truth, for, “whatever they mean, they certainly do not mean what they
seem to mean” (Müller 157).
In his Essay on Compensation Emerson reveals the quality of “fable” as a
vehicle for secrecy, as a way of concealing “the wonders of the world” for, he writes:
“the voice of fable has in it somewhat divine (…) it comes from thought above.”
And yet, the “ignorant landsmen”, confined to the common dimension of
existence in a state of spiritual bondage, are unable to grasp the wondrous
quality of the White Whale because of the lack of common measure between
Moby Dick’s level of being and theirs.
In order to comprehend what is beyond the bounds of their reality, the
ignorant try to anchor the core realities into the limited world of “plain facts”;
thus, their perception gets utterly distorted and, in their eyes, the Absolute assumes
the shape of “a monstrous fable, or (…) a hideous and intolerable allegory”.
Therefore, the “fable” of The White Whale imparts the light of the “above” to
the “landsmen”, revealing and re-veiling “the wonders of the world”.
The above-quoted excerpt from the novel makes direct reference to time
understood as a means of mapping a familiar territory, as a way of making the “wonders
of the world” comprehensible to the unenlightened who need “historical (...)
hints” in order to accommodate the unknown into the patternable known.
70
IRINA DUBSKÝ
Moby Dick counterposes two modes of temporality: the linear, the sequential
and the limited versus the vortical simultaneity of timelessness. The human world is
governed by time limitations which are underlined with mathematical accuracy in
the text. When it comes to describing some “plain fact”, bearing upon the mundane
and the temporal, the narrator resorts to exact time phrases such as “one hundred
years”, “more than two centuries past”, “some three centuries ago”:
It is the whale which for more than two centuries past has been hunted by the
Dutch and English in the Arctic seas (134).
(...) originally in the old Dutch Fishery, two centuries and more ago (...) (142)
And some three centuries ago, an English traveler in old Harris's Voyages,
speaks of a Turkish Mosque built in honor of Jonah (...) (364)
I opine, that it is plainly traceable to the first arrival of the Greenland whaling
ships in London, more than two centuries ago (408).
The narrator emphasizes his awareness of both the a-temporal and the
temporal. Moreover, he reveals the connection established between humanity
and temporality, the former being regarded as a source of the latter. He
describes the pre-temporal state as a “wondrous period” in implicit contrast to
the undesirable transience which governs the human world:
I am, by a flood, borne back to that wondrous period, ere time itself can be said
to have begun; for time began with man (Moby Dick 454).
In decided contrast to the transitory stands the world of a-temporality to
which the text speaks abundantly in terms of “a million years”, “billion years”,
“antiquity”, “Eternities”, “many millions of ages” and the list may continue.
The narrator equates timelessness with the awe-inspiring reality of the whale
which presides over time itself as well as over the history of the human race:
I am horror – struck at this antemosaic, unsourced existence of the unspeakable
terrors of the whale, which, having been before all time, must exist after all humane ages
are over (454).
These words point to the “unbegun” and unfinished state of the whale,
seen as a non-temporal reality. Projected against such a backdrop, the “humane
ages” bear the seal of the fleeting unreality of the here and the now, standing for
a parenthesis in a state of permanence which transcends the common temporal
and spatial determinations. The text contrasts the puniness of mankind and its
endeavors with the incomprehensible vastness of the whale reality – “some
centuries” versus “millions of ages”:
71
THAT for six thousand years – and no one knows how many millions of ages
before – the great whales should have been spouting all over the sea, and sprinkling and
mystifying the gardens of the deep, as with so many sprinkling or mistifying pots; and
that for some centuries back, thousands of hunters should have been close by the fountain
of the whale, watching these sprinklings and spoutings (367).
The perspective the narrator offers upon the a-temporal is in harmony
with the majesty of the eternal, being expressed in grandiose terms:
Nor must there be omitted another strange attestation of the antiquity of the
whale, in his own osseous post-diluvian reality (...) (455).
The universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a
million years ago (9).
This whole act's immutably decreed. 'Twas rehearsed by thee and me a billion
years before this ocean rolled (554). INASMUCH, then, as this Leviathan comes
floundering down upon us from the head-waters of the Eternities (...) (455)
(...) for six thousand years – and no one knows how many millions of ages before – the
great whales should have been spouting all over the sea (...)(367)
The underlying opposition which the text foregrounds through the contrast
between the mathematical exactness of the time phrases versus the expressions of
the uncountable is that between “discontinuous quantity, which is represented by
the number per se and continuous quantity, mainly represented by spatial and temporal
measures” (René Guénon, Le Règne de la Quantité 24). This polarity further
suggests the indefinite, immeasurable quality of Moby Dick seen as a container of
potentialities, the very “head-waters of the Eternities” (Moby Dick 455). If projected
against the background of the chronological flux, generation necessarily entails
destruction. However, this implication does not hold true in the whale dimension
for, “in the long course of his generations, he has not degenerated from the original
bulk of his sires” (Moby Dick 455). These references to the immortality of the
whale anchor its reality into the mythical time of the beginning. What Melville
depicts as “the head-waters of the Eternities” (455) coincides with the cosmogony,
the foundation of the worlds, contemporary with the Leviathan in its extra-temporal
dimension. This is what Mircea Eliade describes as “a primordial history, placed in
a mythical time” (Eternal Return 155).
The “unsourced existence” of the whale is suggestive of what Ernst
Cassirer refers to as “an absolute past”:
What distinguishes mythical time from historical time is that for mythical time
there is an absolute past, which neither requires nor is susceptible of any further
explanation (qtd. in Short 166).
72
IRINA DUBSKÝ
Hans Blumenberg locates the source of this binary opposition between
mythical time and identifiable, describable chronology in the Greek thought:
The Greek mython mytheisthai [to tell a 'myth'] means to tell a story that is not
dated and not datable, so that it cannot be localized in any chronicle, but a story that
compensates for this lack by being 'significant' [bedeutsam] in itself (149).
Moby Dick holds a double function, being concomitantly part of
substance and part of essence. Melville captures this dual condition in a
masterful description: the whale “live[s] in this world without being of it”,
remains “warm among ice” and “cool at the equator” (…). It retains “in all
seasons a temperature of [its] own” (Moby Dick 306).
In other words, the Leviathan is equal with itself, and remains undefiled
and unharmed by the shifting conditions of the corporeal.
If regarded from an existential perspective, the whale is essentially “true”
in the esoteric sense of the word, as opposed to illusionary.
According to one of the teachings contained in Corpus Hermeticum
(…) all that alters is untrue. It does not stay in what it is, but shows itself to us by
changing its appearances into one another. All that is subject to genesis and change is
verily not true (Mitchell 45).
Sequentiality is the defining trait of the elusory dimension of being. “The
orderly succession of phenomena may be taken as proof of the unreality of
phenomena in themselves” (Gaskell 383).
But sequentiality and fragmentariness are foreign to Moby Dick. The
whale is “true” in that it exists in simultaneity: “Moby Dick is not only
ubiquitous, but also immortal; for immortality is but ubiquity in time” (Moby
Dick 179). In this statement the text encodes an essential quality of time,
namely, time can be evaluated only in spatial terms, by spatializing its
interpretation. The whale emerges as a continuous, homogenous mode of reality
beyond the Cartesian discontinuity which claims that time, and implicitly
existence itself, are nothing but a series of discontinuous moments.
These attributes reveal the mythical nature of the whale: it is “ubiquitous”
(Moby Dick 179) and “immortal” (Moby Dick 179), participating in the
foundation of the Cosmos, being substantially identical with the realm of myths.
According to Mircea Eliade,
A myth is something unfolding in illo tempore, actually in the “space” where
time is no more, for illud tempus is synonymous with eternity and with the Principle
(Images and Symbols 168).
The whale’s “ubiquity in time” (Moby Dick 179) places it on the horizon
of myth, in illud tempus, where time turns into space, where the squaring of the
73
circle is accomplished. And yet, to the stare of the profane, the whale appears
like “that geometrical circle which is impossible to square” (Moby Dick 346).
The squaring of the circle, a synonym for Magnum Opus, equates with the
attainment of spiritual enlightenment. Moby Dick launches a challenge to the
postulant to try to perform this hermetic operation.
In his essay on Wagner, Theodore Adorno masterfully captures the idea
that “time fixed in space” generates “the illusion of an Absolute Presence” (33),
an idea which most aptly describes Moby Dick’s timelessness. This
understanding of Moby Dick as Absolute Presence, as overwhelmingly present,
yet elusive, reinforces the mythical dimension of the whale. The transmutation
of time into space is encoded somewhere else in the text in such a way that it
bears reference to the overpowering quality of the whale: the “Polar eternities”
reigned supreme when “the whole world was the whale’s”, while the
perpetually rejuvenated “eternities” of the deep, the abode of the same
leviathanic being, become the very foundation of the world. The spatial
meaning is enhanced by the plural form of the word “eternity”:
Here Saturn's grey chaos rolls over me, and I obtain dim, shuddering glimpses into
those Polar eternities; (...). Then the whole world was the whale's (...) (454).
(...) and among the joyous, heartless, ever-juvenile eternities, Pip saw the multitudinous,
God-omnipresent, coral insects, that out of the firmament of waters heaved the colossal
orbs (413).
The end of the story is crowned by the “closing vortex” (Epilogue),
symbolic of the Spherical Universal Vortex which is an all-absorbing spiral,
“whose center is simultaneously nowhere and everywhere, pure absence, yet
self-evident omnipresence” (Mitul 124).
These mutually-exclusive attributes (absence and ubiquity) are also
displayed by Moby Dick. The whale exhibits both “muteness” and
“universality” – as the narrator points out in his description of The Whiteness of
the Whale - that is, absence (“muteness”) and ubiquity (“universality”).
Furthermore, Ishmael depicts the whiteness of the whale by making use
of the apparently paradoxical locution “visible absence”, which is evocative of
the absent ubiquity of the center.
Thus, Moby Dick possesses qualities based on binary oppositions which
trigger the analogy between the whale and the Universal Vortex, a force
generating simultaneity and canceling the dominion of unidirectional chronology.
The spirals of the VORTEX of timelessness when projected upon the
human level into “the soul of man”(364) which acts as a receptacle of eternity
take on the shape of what the narrator portrays as “one insular Tahiti”, a
genuine oasis of immortality:
74
IRINA DUBSKÝ
In the soul of man there lies one insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but
encompassed by all the horrors of the half known life. God keep thee! Push not off from
that isle, thou canst never return! (364).
“Thou canst never return” is a warning against the irreversibility of the
temporal flux which governs “all the horrors” of an existence circumscribed by
the indomitable rule of becoming.
The mythical time in which both the White Whale and the spot of “peace
and joy” are lodged unfolds in circularity – linearity and measuring are foreign
to it. As the Old Testament scholar Brevard Childs pertinently observes in
relation to the quality of illo tempori
There is no actual distinction in mythical time between the past, the present, and
the future. Although the origin of time is projected into the past, to the primeval act of
becoming, this is only a form in which an essentially timeless reality is clothed. Time is
always present and yet to come. It transcends the modern categories of empirical time.
Moreover, the mythical time is in no sense an abstraction by which relations between
temporal things are measured in terms of space as, for example, 'length of time'. Rather, it
is substantialized as a concrete reality which is identical with its content (72-73).
In his provocative study of “Patagonia” and its place in the American
literary imagination, Julian Cowley identifies “the whiteness of the whale” as a
“classic desert space of American literature” (309). Ishmael embarks upon the
expedition lured by “all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights
and sounds” (Moby Dick 6). In Patagonia Revisited Bruce Chatwin remarks that
Patagonia "lodged itself in the Western imagination as a metaphor for the
Ultimate, the point beyond which one could not go"(7). And indeed, the climax
of Ishmael’s journey is the very boundary of spacelessness and timelessness,
namely, the vortex in which “polarities are resolved in motion and binary
oppositions dissolve into kaleidoscopic, polychromatic reality” (Cowley 309).
The description of Moby Dick’s head, which contains “a certain mathematical
symmetry” (Moby Dick 327) masterfully illustrates the whale’s emblematic role as
the union of opposites: “The sideway position of the whale’s eyes” (Moby Dick 328)
is a peculiarity; therefore, it must be able to “analyze two distinct prospects” in
exactly opposite directions at the same time. This marvelous quality is further
proof of the Leviathan’s mastery over duality and capacity to transcend binary
oppositions; contraries can dwell in it without clashing. Moby Dick stands for
the Center where opposites are resolved in a harmonious way. It is emblematic of
the unity which harmonizes the discord. Harmony is the bond which unites the
opposites and causes them to be productive. The whale exhibits the indivisibility of
the Principle. The peace of Oneness develops into the strife of the manifold, of
“the generations pouring/From times of endless date” (Melville, Selected Poems 41).
Chronological linearity is also circumvented through the force of the
ritual. An emblematic ritualistic scene is that of the dark oath the crew of the
Pequod are made to take as a response to the nefarious urges of captain Ahab.
75
In the memorable episode of the oath, Ahab asks his “mates” to “cross” their
lances “full” in front of him so that he can “touch the axis”(Moby Dick 163-164).
“The axis” is emblematic of Axis Mundi linking the three worlds – the
underworld, the Earth and Heaven – thus establishing the cosmic hierarchy.
Ahab’s gesture is symbolic of his reaching the core of being. It is a ritualistic
gesture laden with mystical value: by touching the axis, he places himself in the
center of the world which marks the opening of the tangible into the invisible.
As Mircea Eliade writes in The Myth of the Eternal Return:
the time of any ritual coincides with the mythical time of the 'beginning.' Through a
repetition of the cosmogonic act, concrete time (...) is projected into mythical time, in illo
tempore wherein the foundation of the world occurred. Thus the reality and the duration
of a thing made are assured, not only by the transformation of the profane space into a
transcendent space ('the center'), but also through the transformation of concrete time into
mythical time (21).
By this symbolic reaching of Axis Mundi Ahab attempts to project
himself ritualistically onto the same existential level as the White Whale, by
transmuting the here and the now into the transcendent. Still, he fails in his
enterprise, for he has already “pushed off from that isle” of “peace and joy” (364)
severing himself from the harmony of the circle”
Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; (...); from hell's
heart I stab at thee; (...) still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! Thus, I
give up the spear!" (565)
Ahab’s gesture of “giving up the spear” while still “chasing” the whale is
tantamount to a violation of the sanctity of the circular through the aggression of
the linear: thus, chronology wages war on immortality. However, the denouement
asserts the supremacy of the non-temporal over the flux of time: “then all collapsed,
and the great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago” (566).
The continuity between “those primeval times when Adam walked majestic” (188)
and the time of the story, moments related through unidirectional chronology is
ensured through the permanence of “rolling”, suggestive of the undulating
spirals of the mythical Universal Vortex, of which the White Whale is a token.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Bartlett, Irving (1967), The American Mind in the Mid-Nineteenth Century, Thomas Y. Crowell, New York.
Beecher, Jonathan (2000), “Variations on a Dystopian Theme: Melville's Encantadas”, in Utopian
Studies 11, pp. 88-102.
Bickman, Martin (1980), The Unsounded Centre: Jungian Studies in American Romanticism,
University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill, NC.
76
IRINA DUBSKÝ
Blumenberg, Hans (1985), “Work on Myth”, Trans. Robert M. Wallace, MIT Press, Cambridge.
Chatwin, Bruce, Paul Theroux (1986), Patagonia Revisited, Houghton, Boston.
Childs, Brevard S. (1960), Myth and Reality in the Old Testament, Alec R. Allenson, Naperville, IL.
Cowley, Julian (1996), “Pataphysical Patagonia: Bruce Chatwin's Distantly Interrogative Somewhere”,
in Critique, 37, 4, p 312.
Eliade, Mircea (1961), Images and Symbols: Studies in Religious Symbolism, translated by Philip Mairet,
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*** (1954), The Myth of the Eternal Return, Pantheon Books, New York.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, The Complete Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, New York: Sully and
Kleinteich, 1883.
Gaskell, G. A. (1981), The Dictionary of All Scriptures and Myths, Gramercy Books, New Jersey.
Guénon, René (1946), Apperçus sur l’initiation, Les Editions Traditionnelles, Paris.
*** (1968), Etudes sur l'Hindouisme, Editions Traditionnelles, Paris.
*** (1989), Le Règne de la quantité et les signes du temps, Gallimard, Paris.
Lauter, Paul (1994), “Melville Climbs the Canon”, in American Literature 9, pp. 1-22.
Lawrence, D. H., The Symbolic Meaning: The Uncollected Versions of Studies in Classic
American Literature, Ed. Armin Arnold, Fontwell, England: Centaur Press, 1962.
Lovinescu, Vasile (1999), Mitul Sfisiat (Mesaje Stravechi), Institutul European, Iaşi.
Melville, Herman (1952), Moby Dick: Or, the Whale, Luther S. Mansfield, Howard P. Vincent (eds.),
Hendricks House, New York.
*** “Hawthorne and His Mosses” (1954), in Clarence Arthur Brown (ed.), The Achievement of
American Criticism: Representative Selections from Three Hundred Years of American
Criticism, Ronald Press, New York, pp.289-301.
Melville, Herman, Henning Cohen (1991), Selected Poems of Herman Melville, Fordham University
Press, New York.
Mitchell, Michael (2006), Hidden Mutualities: Faustian Themes from Gnostic Origins to the Postcolonial,
Rodopi, Amsterdam.
Müller, Max (1881), Chips from a German Workshop, IV, New York.
Poulet, Georges (1962), “Timelessness and Romanticism”, in Philip P. Wiener, Aaron Noland (eds.),
Ideas in Cultural Perspective, Rutgers University, New Brunswick, 658.
Radhakrishnan, S. (1960), The Brahma Sutra: The Philosophy of Spiritual Life, Harper & Brothers, New York.
Schneider, Herbert N., Homer B. Pettey (1998), “Melville's Ichthyphallic God”, in Studies in
American Fiction 2, pp. 193-202.
Short, Bryan C. (1992), Cast by Means of Figures: Herman Melville's Rhetorical Development,
University of Massachusetts Press, Amherst.
Shurr, William H. (1986), “Melville's Poems: The Late Agenda”, in John Bryant (ed.), A Companion
to Melville's Studies, Greenwood, New York, pp. 370-385.
Wolf, Jack C. (1986), Hart Crane's Harp of Evil: A Study of Orphism in the Bridge, Whitston
Publishing, Troy, NY.
WHITMAN’S SONG OF MYSELF AND THE MYTH OF OSIRIS
ANCA RONCEA∗
Walt Whitman’s influence in American poetry is perhaps one of the strongest. His work
has been included in the canon of Western literature and discussed from humanist, transcendental,
realist points of view. This paper will try to analyze the influence of Egyptian mythology on one
of his most well known poems, “Song of Myself” where he employs the myth of Osiris to suggest
a different manner of seeing the connection between nature and man. In this great poem of him there is
a strong plea for man to allow himself to be reconnected to nature through the experience of the the
poem itself. I will try to show that Whitman tried to do so by including the ideological framework
of the myth of Osiris into Song of Myself, showing man as fragments of the natural world.
Keywords: Walt Whitman, myth of Osiris, ecocriticism, shamanism, poetry of nature.
Walt Whitman’s influence in American poetry is perhaps one of the
strongest. His work has been included in the canon of Western literature and
discussed from humanist, transcendental, realist points of view. This paper will
try to analyze the influence of Egyptian mythology on one of his best known
poems, Song of Myself where he employs the myth of Osiris to suggest a
different manner of seeing the connection between nature and man.
Though not always drawing inspiration from the Egyptian myths,
Whitman’s interest in Egyptian philosophy was quite strong throughout his life.
If we consider the historical context in which he lived the fascination of the
West for Egypt was becoming increasingly widespread within both America
and Europe. It had started with Napoleon’s conquering of Egypt when Europe
became interested in discovering the legends and philosophy of Ancient Egypt.
At the time that Whitman lived there was already a great deal of historical
research carried on about Egyptian civilization and mythology and thus he had
many sources both modern as well as translations of classics such as Plutarch
available at hand. Stephen Tapscott notes in his article “Leaves of Myself:
Whitman’s Egypt in Song of Myself”:
Whitman showed a marked interest in Egyptian lore and myth throughout his life.
Evidence in his notebooks shows that he knew, either through books and lectures or
through conversations with professional Egyptologists, the work of several of the most
∗
Faculty of Foreign Languages & Literatures, University of Bucharest, e-mail: [email protected]
78
ANCA RONCEA
prominent writers on Egypt, including Champollion. Whitman’s Life Illustrated article of
1855 suggests that by then he was familiar both with the scholarly work of other major
authorities, such as Rosellini, Wilkinson, Lesius, and also with popularized versions of
Egyptology, such as George R. Gliddon’s book and lectures which Whitman also
mentioned in other lectures.(Tapscott, 50)
Whitman was therefore fully aware of the myth of Osiris, one of the most
important in Egyptian mythology when writing Song of Myself and, undoubtedly,
there are references to it however unnamed.
The myth of Osiris has spread around the world as the pieces of the
Egyptian god around the land. It is the story of the god Osiris who, as Plutarch
recounts, attracted the envy and rage of his brother, Set who deceived him and
threw him in a box which he threw into the Nile. As the story goes, his wife,
Isis, found the coffin in a tree trunk in which Osiris was dead already. She
managed to hide the body but Set found it and tore it into pieces which he
scattered all over Egypt. After a while, however, Isis managed to gather all of
the pieces of his body, except for his phallus, and gave him a proper burial.
Impressed by Isis’ devotion the gods resurrected Osiris as the god of the
underworld. In Egyptian mythology Osiris has always been associated with the
yearly flooding and retreating of the Nile and also with the fertility of the crops
in Egypt. Thus the cult of Osiris was one of the most important in Egypt since
he was considered to influence the essence of Egypt’s well being. One of the
most important ideas that springs from this myth and one which Whitman uses
in “Song of Myself” is that of man as scattered around the natural world.
Although Osiris was considered a god his body was represented as human and
its spreading all over the environment stands for a unification of man with
nature. It is one way of endowing nature and the environment with a sense of
sacred but at the same time it explains the bond that man has with the land and
shows that man is part of nature and that his own body is in life as it will be in
death merged with the natural world. Man will be reborn just as nature goes on
through cycles of death and regeneration but at the same time he will contribute
to the regeneration of nature through his body’s return to the ground.
This is one interpretation of this myth which Walt Whitman took in
writing Song of Myself. It is a complex poem with many philosophical
implications on the status of man in the universe as well as in his own society,
while at the same time through it Whitman shows us his view on the status of
man in relation to the environment and implicitly to nature. Throughout the
poem we see Whitman’s description of the poet-Self as a model for man
blending with natural elements. In order for man and nature to merge in this
way he first begins by deconstructing man into fragments either material or
spiritual which he then places into the environment surrounding him. In his
shamanistic experience he associates himself with every other man in the world
and implicitly with his reader whomever he may be. He assumes this role in the
79
26th stanza of Song of Myself while deconstructing himself into “my own body,
or any part of it”, “translucent mould of me”, “shaded ledges and rests” while
finally declaring with “Hands I have taken, face I have kiss’d, mortal I have
ever touch’d” which he all transcends to his listener in a phrase that he repeats
over and over again in this section “it shall be you”. This dissipation of the self
in all material and spiritual form comes in the representation of the self as Osiris
who also rejoined the environment and nature after being split into pieces.
Whitman will do the same thing with his split self and will unify its pieces as
included into the environment.
The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and
air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color'd sea-rocks,
and of hay in the barn,[…]
Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,
Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding (Whitman, 5)
As we can see from these lines in “Song of Myself” in order for the self to
reach nature it must first blend into the environment in which it exists, including
both nature and the urban realm, the latter being that which the self would
transcend in order to reach the natural world.
Whitman suggests that man be absorbed by nature and allow himself to
become once again part of it despite the urban reality in which he now finds
comfort. This idea is created through the constant representation of man as
being absorbed by water, an element which represents nature and the fluidity of
this bonding, an image that served Whitman well in creating the feeling of
nature as encompassing every part of the self.
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,[…]
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room. […]
The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair,
Little streams pass'd all over their bodies. (Whitman, 7)
Later in the poem water will be seen as the element through which both
the environment and man are able to exist, therefore the basis and connector for
all forms of life.
Whitman’s message is for man to allow himself to be absorbed by nature
bit by bit while also absorbing nature within himself. The young men in the
lines above seem unaware of how much water is truly part of their bodies and
existence now and the poet is the only one who sees and is aware of this.
80
ANCA RONCEA
As a poet Whitman sees himself as the mediator between the environment,
nature and man. He thus assumes the role of the shaman and takes a commanding
tone while addressing his listeners.
According to Harold Bloom:
[…] Emerson was correct in his first impression of Whitman as the American
shaman. The shaman is necessarily self-divided, sexually ambiguous, and difficult to
distinguish from the divine. As shaman, Whitman is endlessly metamorphic, capable of
being in several places at once, and a knower of matters that Walter Whitman, Jr., the
carpenter’s son, scarcely could have known. (Bloom, 257)
This instance in which the poet becomes the shaman exists in the context
in which Whitman gives a mythological dimension to his poetry. While using
the myth of Osiris in creating the Self, nature is given a spiritual dimension and
thus becomes the sacred space sung by the poet. By taking the part of the
mediator between this spiritual realm and the material one, Whitman embraces
the role of shaman and becomes a “conductor of forces” (Coupe, 51) who through
poetry connects the reader, whomsoever he might be, to the spirituality of the
environment. As it has been argued previously by critics such as Harold Bloom,
Whitman makes the distinction between the body and the soul, the latter belonging
entirely to nature and the former being somewhat alienated from nature; however,
in interpreting the poet-Self as a shaman one can say that the soul represents for
Whitman that spirituality belonging to nature to which he strives to bring the
body by metaphorically deconstructing it and reconstructing it in the natural world.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of
their laps. […]
I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.) (Whitman, 6, 7)
The poet-Self sees himself as constantly aware of being in contact with
this spirituality of nature and as a poet, armored with words to pass on his
message he becomes the translator of the natural world to man. He thus gives
language a great emphasis and even goes so far as to associate grass with a
“uniform hieroglyphic” (Whitman, 6) to which he goes on and gives an interpretation
“And it means, Sprouting alike in broad/ zones and narrow zones […]”
(Whitman, 6). In using the notion of a hieroglyph he suggests that reconnecting
to nature is as though the reader must understand a new language while at the
same time it is a process which he must be willing to be initiated into in order to
understand. A hieroglyph is also a cultural marker attesting the use of elements
of Egyptian mythology into the content and the nature of the poem.
81
At the same time the word “grass” in the entire poem is not just a metaphor
for the environment or for nature, it is to some extent also a metaphor for man
and for the poet-Self, and in this sense Whitman shows that man is contained
within this natural world and part of his message is for man to allow himself to
be absorbed by his own environment by assuming his identity as a “leaf of grass”.
As a shaman, Whitman also assumes his position in the natural world, as
he is aware of this knowledge which he passes on only by being part of the
spiritual world which he sings of to man. His senses seem to be exaggerated to
the point where he feels everything around himself to the outmost extent. Thus
the natural world which he sings in his poetry also becomes experience for
Whitman, a world which he can sing because he had the ability to experience it,
and at the same time he turns the poem into an experience for the reader through
which he can reach the spirituality of the natural world. Also, by constructing
the poem as a means for man to experience the spirituality of nature, the poet as
a shaman aims this experience towards the soul which may return to nature in
this manner and then lead the body in the same direction.
In creating a poem as an experience for the one he’s addressing, Whitman
was aware of the fact that he needed to bring back into poetry a classical
element which modern poetry had long left behind, namely music. He clearly
sees his poem as being endowed with music or with the qualities of music in
poetry. Even the title shows distinctly that the reference is to the classical
understanding of poetry as song, and thus as an audible message. In his role as a
shaman giving the form of a song to his poem is part of the ritual, as he also suggests
in the poem, it becomes an experience exclusive to one who is initiated. He creates
lengthy lines of enumerations and repetitions which are mantra verses in the
poem as a shamanistic ritual, and though he uses free verse there are frequent alliterations
and assonances in his choice of words. But beyond giving musicality to the
poem itself he makes frequent references within the poem to music as a means
of expressing the environment. Hence music becomes the sound of the environment
which the poet-shaman can hear and interpret as such in order to pass it on to
man. Man is not included in the environment solely by being absorbed by water,
he is also to be brought back to the natural world through its echoes and sounds
which if unheard by man are delivered to him by the poet-shaman who declares
himself as the deliverer of the voices of the environment.
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes, […]
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls restrain'd
by decorum, […]
I mind them or the show or resonance of them--I come and I depart. […]
With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums,
I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for conquer'd and
slain persons. (Whitman, 7)
ANCA RONCEA
82
At times he places nature above all of man’s creations and when he declares
that “A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of
books.”, he seems to be condemning the world constructed by man which creates
a barrier between him and nature. However, in stanza #26 he asserts himself
prepared to listen and “To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds
contribute toward it.”, and thus in his position as a shaman he is able to perceive
everything surrounding him as the sounds that constitute the environment. In
continuing this stanza he enumerates sounds which make up an urban space and
which he calls “Being”. It is here that he accepts urban space as part of the
environment and withholding as much spirituality as nature, he thus urges man
to allow himself to be absorbed by his environment through the music of its
sounds, although that environment may be a universe constructed by man.
In creating this poetry and urge for man to reconnect to nature and equally
to his environment there is also a political purpose which Whitman included in
Song of Myself. Historically speaking he was writing this poem in the context
of the Civil War which threatened to destroy America’s unity. Thus he employed
his poetry to send out a message of unity and democracy to the American
people. By urging man to reconnect with nature and with his environment he
also called out for a social unification, as there is no greater form of democracy
as in nature, while at the same time a return to nature is a return to “the paradise
which has been lost”. In this sense he frequently uses the word “democracy” as
well as naming political figures to help him in carrying on his message. He thus
becomes a shaman who hears not only the sounds of nature and of the
environment but also of the voices of social injustice and political flaws.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Whitman, Walt, 2011, Leaves of Grass, Classic Books International, New York.
Coupe, Laurence, 1997, Myth, Routledge, London and New York.
Eliade, Mircea, 1957, The Sacred and the Profane, Harcourt Inc., San Diego.
Ploutarch, Isis and Osiris, http://thriceholy.net/Texts/Isis.html ; accessed on October 28th 2010, 10:15 PM.
Bloom, Harold, 1994, The Western Canon (Chapter 11 – “Walt Whitman as Center of the American
Canon”), Riverhead Books, New York.
Tapscott, Stephen, 1978, “Leaves of Myself: Whitman’s Egypt in Song of Myself”, in American Literature,
vol 50, no 1, Duke University Press.
Killingsworth, M. Jimmie, 2005, “Walt Whitman and the Earth: A Study in Ecopoetics”, in Walt
Whitman Quarterly Review, vol. 22, no. 4, pp. 201-203.
DER JESIDISMUS: EIN BEISPIEL FÜR RELIGIÖSEN SYNKRETISMUS1
GEORGE GRIGORE∗
THE YAZIDISM: AN EXAMPLE OF RELIGIOUS SYNCRETISM
The Yazidis or Yezidis are adherents of a small religious cult with ancient origins,
organized in small villages spread out in Iraq, Turkey, Syria, Iran, Georgia and Armenia and are
estimated to number in total approximately half million individuals. Early writers attempted to
describe Yazidi origins, broadly speaking, in terms of Islam, or old Iranian religions, or
sometimes even pagan religions; however, publications in the last fifteen years have shown such
an approach to be very simplistic. The religion of the Yazidis is, in fact, a highly syncretistic one:
elements from Zoroastrianism, Manichaeism, Judaism, Christianity and Islam can be found. Also,
Islamic mystic influence and imagery can be seen in their religious vocabulary, especially in the
terminology of their esoteric literature, but much of the mythology is non-Islamic, and their
cosmogonies apparently have many points in common with those of ancient Iranian religions.
Keywords: Yazidism, Yazidis, ancient Kurdish religion, Yaravism, Black Book, Yazdan.
Die Jesiden oder Jeziden sind Anhänger eines kleinen religiösen Kults
uralten Ursprungs, die rund um kleine Ortschaften im Irak, in der Türkei, in
Syrien, im Iran, in Georgien und Armenien organisiert sind und deren Anzahl
auf ungefähr eine halbe Million geschätzt wird (Tawa, 2005: 10).
Die Jesiden gehören zu der kleineren der drei Abzweigungen des Jesidismus.
Die beiden anderen, bevölkerungsreicheren sind Alevismus und Yarsanismus,
die sich vom Jesidismus dadurch unterscheiden, dass sie die islamische taqiyya
“Verheimlichung” anerkennen. Die drei Zweige sind geographisch abgegrenzt und
gegenseitige Kontakte sind selten. Die Jesiden sind im Wesentlichen ethnische
Kurden, und beschäftigen sich mit Ackerbau oder Tierzucht – sie ziehen mit
ihren Herden zu den alpinen Weiden und zurück.
1. Ursprung
Der Ursprung des Jesidismus ist in der Urgeschichte des Nahen Osten
verschleiert. Obwohl die Jesiden Kurdisch sprechen, zeigt ihre Religion wichtige
1
∗
Übersetzung ins Deutsche: Lucian Stănescu (Universität Bukarest).
Universität Bukarest, Rumänien, e-mail: [email protected]
GEORGE GRIGORE
84
Einflüsse uralter levantinischer und islamischer Religionen. Ihre wichtigste heilige
Stätte befindet sich neben Mosul, im Irak. Die eigene Bezeichnung der Jesiden
lautet Êzidî oder Êzîdî. Einige Wissenschaftler vertreten die Meinung, der Name
Yazidi stamme vom alten iranischen yazata “Gott”, andere wiederum sagen er sei
vom Umayyad Caliph Yazid I (Yazid bin Muawiyah) abgeleitet, den die Jesiden als
Inkarnation der göttlichen Figur Sultan Ezi betrachten (dies ist nicht mehr
weitgehend akzeptiert). Die Jesiden selbst finden, ihr Name sei von Yezdan oder
Êzid abgeleitet, die Bezeichnung für Gott. Die kulturellen Bräuche der Jesiden sind
kurdisch, und die meisten unter ihnen sprechen Kurmanjî (Nordkurdisch).
Ausnahme machen einige Dörfer – wie Bayqa und Bahazane im Nordirak – wo
mesopotamisch Arabisch gesprochen wird. Kurmanjî ist die Sprache fast aller
mündlich übermittelten religiösen Traditionen der Jesiden.
Während des XIV.ten Jahrhunderts werden wichtige kurdische Stämme,
deren Einflusssphäre bis weit in die heutige Türkei reichte (für eine Zeitlang
auch die Herrscher des Fürstentums Jazira) in geschichtlichen Quellen als
Yazidi bezeichnet.
2. Der Glaube der Jesiden
Obwohl die Jesiden viele eindeutige Besonderheiten aufzeigen, schenken
sie ihren Glauben einem einzigen und einmaligen Gott, Khoda. Dieser ist voller
unendlicher Liebenswürdigkeit, und doch so weit weg. Er wird hier auf Erden
von sieben Engeln vertreten (kurdisch ezad/ezîdiyan “Engel” sg./pl.) die Ihm
beistehen. Jeder dieser Engel wird der Reihe nach leibhaftig und herrscht eine
Weile über die Menschheit. Somit hat man eine klare Darstellung wie berühmte
Persönlichkeiten, historische oder legendäre, als Verkörperungen der Engel
betrachtet werden: von Moses bis Jesus, bis Mansur al-Hallaj und so weiter.
Dies bietet auch eine passende Erklärung für die große Anzahl der Engel die im
Pantheon der Jesiden zu finden sind.
Von all den Engeln zeichnet sich Malak-Tawus, der Pfau-Engel, ab und
unterscheidet sich als der einzige felsenfeste, standhafte Engel. Er ist der stärkste,
derjenige der all die anderen Engel anführt. Anfangs von Gott selbst vertrieben, da
er Seine Gottheit nicht verehren wollte, ist Malak-Tawus, der Pfau-Engel
letztendlich wieder eingesetzt worden, aber nur nachdem er 7000 Jahre lange bittere
Tränen geweint hat. Eigentlich ist es Malak-Tawus, der Pfau-Engel, derjenige, der
die Welt regiert. Eine Betrachtung dieser Religion von außen würde zur
Schlussfolgerung führen, Malak-Tawus sei der Teufel selbst. Er ist die Quelle des
Bösen, der Grund allen Unglücks und Leides. Um seinen Zorn nicht zu entfesseln,
ist die bloße Aussprache seines Namens zu vermeiden (Tawa, 2005: 11).
Malak-Tawus zu verehren ist anders, als Gott zu verehren. Während der
Pfau-Engel mit Furcht und Anflehung und Demut verehrt wird, erfreut sich Gott
DER JESIDISMUS: EIN BEISPIEL FÜR RELIGIÖSEN SYNKRETISMUS
85
der Verehrung mit viel Erkenntlichkeit und Zufriedenheit. Trotz dessen war die
Furcht, die die Jesiden in sich trugen so erdrückend, dass sie Schritt um Schritt
Gottes Verehrung aufgaben. Heutzutage erwähnen die Jesiden Gottes Namen
nur ab und zu, und dann nur symbolisch, und haben sich gänzlich der
Verehrung des Pfau-Engels gewidmet. Die Erklärung, die sie geben, ist sehr
einfach: Gott würde ihnen, in Seiner Güte und Liebe für Seine Geschöpfe, in
keiner Weise je ein Leid zufügen, wobei der Pfau-Engel nur um des Bösen
willen existiert. Deshalb muss jeder, der sich Glückseligkeit wünscht, Gott
beiseite lassen und Ihn nicht mehr verehren – dagegen sollte er den Pfau-Engel
verehren, um Barmherzigkeit und Verzeihung flehen um somit das Böse, das
Dieser entworfen, auf Abstand zu halten.
3. Jesidismus und andere Religionen
Mittlerweile hat es der Jesidismus geschafft, andere Religionen, mit denen er
in Berührung kam, teilweise oder in Gänze einzugliedern. Um dies zu erreichen
wurden neue Zweige des Kults gebildet indem die höchsten Persönlichkeiten dieser
anderen Religionen in dem jesidischen dynamischen Kosmogoniensystem der
fortfahrenden Inkarnationen eingegliedert wurden. Etliche alte und inzwischen
verschwundene Bewegungen und Religionen scheinen ihre Existenz auch als
Zweige des Engelkults begonnen zu haben, unter ähnlichen Bedingungen wie
diejenigen, die zur Geburt des Jesidismus geführt haben.
4. Ähnlichkeiten mit dem Zoroastrismus
Der Zoroastrismus und der Kult der Engel haben viele gemeinsame Merkmale,
darunter auch den Glauben an sieben guten Engeln und sieben “bösen”, die die Welt
in Aufsicht haben, und auch eine hereditäre Pfarrerklasse. Diese Gemeinsamkeiten
sind das natürliche Ergebnis langer und ereignisreicher Kontakte zwischen den beiden
Religionen. Andere gemeinsame Elemente könnten das Ergebnis des religiösen Gepräges
der arischen Siedler in dieser Gegend sein. Die Religion dieser Siedler muss dieselbe
gewesen sein wie diejenige, die der Prophet Zarathustra später reformiert und in den
Zoroastrismus umgewandelt hat. Das Symbol des Feuers nimmt einen wichtigen
Platz in den Ritualen der Jesiden ein und ist gewiss auch ein zentrales Element der
Parsi Ikonografie. Eigentlich wird auch über die Etymologie des Wortes Yazidi spekuliert
es stamme vom avestischen Yazata, das “Gottheit” bedeutet. Die Mythen zur Schöpfung
haben in beiden Kulturen viele Gemeinsamkeiten (beide kennen z.B. zwei Etappen der
Schöpfung) und es gibt auch eine Heptade (amesha spentas) ähnlich zum jesidischen
haftan. Es gibt des Weiteren sogar entsprechende Feste in beiden Kulturen wie auch
den Brauch um das Tragen eines heiligen Hemdes (Kreyenbroek 1995: 57-60).
GEORGE GRIGORE
86
Obzwar die Symbole und Bräuche auf einer bestimmten Ebene vergleichbar
sind, ist es wahrscheinlicher, dass die Parsi Elemente im jesidischen Paradigma
eigentlich Artefakte der Bewegung und Verbreitung einer Variante des Zoroaster
Glaubens über Entfernungen und Zeit sind. Denn es gibt zwischen den beiden auch
Unterschiede: die Jesiden (und Ahl-i Haqq) glauben in Reinkarnation – im
Zoroastrismus gibt es keinen solchen Glauben, auch gibt es keine Parallele zur Idee
der Seelendauswanderung, die wir in der Yardanist-Tradition finden.
5. Ähnlichkeit mit dem Engelkult
In “The Concise Encyclopaedia of Islam” meint Cyril Glasse, dass Ahl-i
Haqq “Volk des Absoluten, Wahren Gottes” nur eine etlicher Sekten ist die
kollektiv ‘Ali ilahis “‘Alis Vergötterer” bezeichnet wird. Ahl-i Haqq ist ein
kleiner, dualistischer Kult, der bei einigen Persern, Kurden und Turkmenen im
Irak und Iran zu finden ist. Im Iran sind die Anhänger im Westen des Landes
konzentriert, insbesondere um Tabriz, aber kleine Gruppen sind überall zu
finden. Diese sind mit den Jesiden eng verwandt, und entfernter auch mit den
anderen dualen Sekten des nahen Osten. Ihr Glauben lehrt von sieben Göttlichen
Erscheinungen, angefangen mit einer Figur genannt Khawandagar. Des Weiteren
sind sie überzeugt, dass der Cousin ‘Ali bin Abi Talib des Propheten eine dieser
Erscheinungen war, und diese Serie gipfelt mit dem "Gründer" des Kults, eine
Figur namens Sultan Sohak (Ishaq), der im 9ten / 15ten Jahrhundert gelebt hat. In
diesem Kult wird der Hahn geopfert, als Symbol des Schwellenmoments des
Tagesanbruchs. Daraus wird ersichtlich dass der Hahn als populäres Symbol in
Religionen erscheint, in denen es eine Licht/Dunkelheit Polarisierung gibt. Die
Ahl-i Haqq haben eine Zeremonie, die sie sabz namudar “grün machen” nennen,
die auf den Glauben der Manichäer zurückzuführen ist, dass das Göttliche Licht
in der Welt in größtem Maße in den Pflanzen konzentriert ist (deshalb waren die
Manichäer Vegetarier). Der Glauben der Ahl-i Haqq, der von Gruppe zu Gruppe
variiert, beinhaltet Elemente die typisch für gnostische oder manichäische
Abweichungen sind, die am Rande des Islams, und eigentlich aller Religionen, zu
finden sind. Wie die Ahl-I Haqq, glauben auch die Jesiden in die Seelenauswanderung
und sogar in die Reinkarnation, die vier Formen annehmen kann (siehe
Al-Hasani, 1980: 81):
• fashkh – Reinkarnation der Seele in ein Mineral;
• rashkh – Reinkarnation der Seele in eine Pflanze;
• mashkh – Reinkarnation der Seele in ein Tier;
• nashkh – Reinkarnation der Seele in ein menschliches Wesen.
Die Jesiden glauben, gleich anderer Zweige des Engelkults, nicht an
Hölle oder Himmel in physischer Form, voll Teufel oder Engel die am Ende der
Zeit erscheinen werden, sondern an Hölle und Himmel in figurativem Sinne.
Die Gräuel der Hölle und Genüsse des Himmels finden in dieser Welt statt, da
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die Menschen nach ihrem Tod durch Verkörperung entweder ein Leben voller
Wohltätigkeit und Gesundheit leben oder umgekehrt, voller Elend und Armut – je
nach dem, welch ein Leben sie in ihrem ehemaligen Körper gelebt haben. Niedrigste
Form der Reinkarnation ist die eines Minerals, höchste Form die eines
menschlichen Wesens. Am Ende der Zeit jedenfalls werden nur die gerechten
und vollständigen "Menschlichen" die es schaffen, die verfängliche Brücke des
Jüngsten Gerichts zu überqueren (auch mit koranischem al-Sirat al-Mustaqim
“Der Gerade Weg” zu vergleichen), der Ewigkeit des Universalgeistes beitreten.
Sie glauben an Metempsychose so sehr, und diese Überzeugung ist bei den Jesiden
so tief verwurzelt, dass Reiche Leute, die unfolgsame, verschwenderische
Söhne haben, ihr Reichtum begraben, aus Angst, die Söhne könnten es
vergeuden. Sie merken sich den Ort und sind überzeugt, dass ihre Seele den Ort
wiederfinden wird und sie dann die Schätze ausgraben werden und ein Leben in
Schmaus und Braus führen können. Die misslungenen Seelen werden
zusammen mit der materiellen Welt für immer zerstört.
6. Ähnlichkeit mit dem Christentum
Die Jesiden haben religiöse Praktiken die nur in der christlichen Kirche
wiederzufinden sind – die Taufe und die Eucharistie. Es stimmt zwar, dass die
Benutzung des Wassers als Ritus auch bei anderen, nicht-christlichen Sekten
vorkommt, aber die Ähnlichkeit diese Sakraments bei den Jesiden ist dem der
Christen so ähnlich, dass dessen Wurzeln im Christentum liegen müssen, eher
als in irgend einem anderen System. Wie auch ihre Nachbarn müssen die
Jesiden ihre Kinder so früh wie möglich taufen. Im Ausführen dieses Brauchs
benutzt der Scheich, gleich dem christlichen Priester, Weihwasser. Das
Weihwasser der Jesiden entspringt einer kleinen Quelle namens Zamzam, aus
dem Lalish Tal in Nordirak. Das in diesem Brauch benutzte Pokal trägt den
Namen Jesus-Pokal. Sie benutzen auch eine besondere Erde (genannt baratta),
die vom Grab des Scheichen ‘Adi stammt und ähnlich mit der Eucharistie der
Christen ist. Diese wird den Sterbenden oder Todkranken verabreicht und ist als
Allheilmittel gepriesen: “Wer ein wenig baratta über das ganze Jahr hindurch
zu sich nimmt wird in Körper und Seele glücklich sein” (Grigore, 1994: 47-48).
Nicht zu letzt verehren die Jesiden das Christentum und die christlichen
Heiligen. Sie achten die Kirchen und Gräber der Christen und küssen die Tore
und Wände wenn sie eintreten. Im schwarzen Buch wird gesagt, dass die Braut
auf dem Wege zum Hause des Bräutigams den Tempel eines jeden Gottes
besuchen soll, an dem sie vorbeigeht, auch wenn es eine christliche Kirche ist.
Sie verehren auch ‘Isa (Jesus), und zu bestimmten Zeiten waren sie der
Meinung, er wäre eine der Verkörperungen eines der sieben Engel.
GEORGE GRIGORE
88
7. Ähnlichkeit mit den Ophiten
Wie auch Habib Tawa (2005: 17) bemerkte, gibt es interessante Ähnlichkeiten
zwischen den Jesiden und den Ophiten (aus dem griechischen óphis, “Schlange”).
Die Ophiten waren im Nahen Osten ungefähr zwischen 100 A. D. und 400 A. D.
verbreitet, dann wurden sie vom Konstantinischen Christentum vernichtet. Das
gemeinsame Merkmal dieser zahlreichen gnostischen Kulte (z.B. Naassener
Juden – na’asch “Schlange”; Mandäer, Sethianer, Peraten, Borboriten usw.), die
die alten orientalischen, der Schlange gewidmeten Kulte weiterführten, ist die
große Bedeutung, die sie der Schlange schenkten. Die Schlange der biblischen
Geschichte von Adam und Eva, als Gewährer der Erkenntnis, als Verbindung
zwischen dem Baum der Erkenntnis (von Gut und Böse) und Gnosis. Im
Unterschied zu christlichen Interpretationen der Schlange als Satan waren die
Ophiten der Meinung, dass der Wegöffner für die Menschen zur Erkenntnis der
Herr dieser Welt sei. Da die Bibel die Schlange als nur eine Schlange
identifiziert, fanden sich die Ophiten in ihrer Position perfekt gerechtfertigt, und
zeigten, dass die Schlange Adam und Eva Zugang zur Erkenntnis gewähren
wollte – verboten wird diese Erkenntnis von der Figur die Christentum und
Judaismus als Gott identifizieren (Legge, 1914). Eines der sichtbaren, doch
stillgeschwiegenen Symbole des Jesidismus ist die Schlange, die praktisch in
keinem religiösen Text der Jesiden (mündlich oder schriftlich) explizit erwähnt
wird. Der einzige Ausdruck dieses Symbols ist das zwei Meter große Bild der
schwarzen Schlange am Eingang zum Heiligengrab des Scheichen ‘Adi in
Lalish (Asatrian & Arakelova 2003: 7-8).
8. Pantheon der Jesiden
Neben der Heiligen Triade – die heilige Triade besteht aus Malak-Tawus,
Sultan Yezid, und Scheich ‘Adi bin Musafir, eine historische Figur, Gründer
des ‘Adawiyya Sufi Ordens, der später zur Basis der Gründung der
Jesidengemeinschaft steht (gem. Asatrian, Arakelova 2003: 4-9) – die die
sogenannte dogmatische Basis der Religion der Jesiden bildet und sich im Kult
und Glauben eindeutig hervorhebt, beinhaltet der Pantheon der Jesiden eine
Vielfalt von Gottheiten und Schutzgeister die nicht sehr einfach zu ermitteln
sind, aus Mangel an verfügbaren Materialien. Das Erfassen der Identität der
jesidischen heiligen Figuren wird durch Vielfalt und Verschiedenartigkeit der
verehrten historischen Persönlichkeiten versperrt – Angehörige und Milieu des
Scheichen ‘Adi, lokal wichtige Heilige, mit begrenzter Einflusssphäre, die Sufi
Heiligen (Mansur al-Hallaj, der den berühmten Satz Ana al-haqq “Ich bin die
Wahrheit” aussprach; Rabi‘a ‘Adawwiya, die immer mit einem brennenden
Stück Kohle in der Hand umherzog, bereit, den Himmel anzuzünden, und einem
89
Holzeimer mit Wasser, um die Hölle zu löschen, und somit frei zu sein, Gott
ohne jegliche Einschränkung zu lieben), biblische und Qur’anische Figuren, wie
Ibrahim “Abraham”, Musa “Moses” , ‘Isa “Jesus”, ‘Ali, usw., wie auch einfache
Scheiche and Pirs die einen bestimmten Heiligenschein tragen. Zur gleichen
Zeit haben sich viele mythische und halb-mythische Figuren, Heilige, oft
historische Persönlichkeiten, die aus Kulten verschiedener Religionen aus dem
Nahen Osten stammen, z.B. aus dem Islam und insbesondere aus dessen
sogenannter häretischen Umgebung, bei den Jesiden großer Beliebtheit erfreut
und werden bei diesen zusammen mit den authentischen Göttlichkeiten verehrt.
Eine bestimmte regionale Figur dieser Kategorie kann in das Paradigma der
jesidischen Göttlichkeiten aufgenommen werden wenn sie sich tief im
Volksgedächtnis eingeprägt und an die religiöse Tradition angepasst hat
(z. B. Ibrahim-khalil, Hidir-nabi).
Für die Figuren im Volkspantheon ist es unmöglich, die eindeutigen
Attribute der Heiligkeit für eine gegebene Figur zu identifizieren, auch nicht in
den Religionen, die ein offizielles Institut für Heiligsprechung haben (wie das
Christentum). Umso mehr ist es mit den Glaubenslehren verbunden, wo die
Gottwerdung oder Heiligsprechung informal stattfindet, durch Volkstradition.
Im Jesidismus können diese informellen Kriterien von einer Figur erfüllt
werden wenn sie in der mündlichen religiösen Tradition vertreten ist, wie auch,
in den meisten Fällen, wenn sie in einer legendären Grabstätte in Lalish beerdigt
wurden. Heiligsprechung (Gottwerdung) kann auch über Abstammung von
Verwandten oder Untergebenen des Scheichen ‘Adi begründet werden (Scheich
Hasan, Fakhruddin, und Scheich Shams).
Die Figuren, die hier als Gottheiten identifiziert werden, sind diejenigen,
die diverse Sphären menschlicher Tätigkeit beschirmen oder natürliche Phänomene
personifizieren. Diese Liste beinhaltet die sieben Inkarnationen Malak-Tawus´
nicht: ‘Asrael, Dardail, Israfil, Mikail, Jabrail, Shamnail, und Turail (davon
wird ‘Asrael, das angebliche Oberhaupt der Sieben zumeist als Malak-Tawus
identifiziert, und die Sieben sind insgesamt Bildnisse des Letzteren), wie auch
die meisten ihrer Gegenüber im Heiligensystem – historische Persönlichkeiten
des 'Adawiyya Ordens, und zwar Scheich Abu Bakr (Kurdisch: Sexobakr),
Sajaduddin (oder Sijadin, verantwortlich für die Begleitung der Seelen der
Toten in die Unterwelt), Nasruddin (als Todesengel identifiziert; er war der
Henker unter Scheich ‘Adi, tötete jeden der sich diesem widersetzte). Als
Ausnahmen gelten Scheich Shams, der die Sonne symbolisiert, und Fakhruddin,
der mit dem Mond identifiziert wird.
Die jesidische shaykhy Tradition meint dass, zum Unterschied von allen
anderen Völker, die von Adam und Eva stammen, die Jesiden nur einen Urvater
hatten, Adam: Eva spielte in ihrer Genese keine Rolle.
Einst, so erzählt uns die Legende der Jesiden, behauptete Eva, dass sie
alleine Kinder zeugte, und dass Adam keinen Anteil an deren Schaffung hatte.
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GEORGE GRIGORE
Um diese Aussage zu testen wurden Samen der beiden in zwei verschiedenen
Töpfen verschlossen. Neun Monate später, als diese geöffnet wurden, fand man
in Evas Topf Schlangen, Skorpione und giftige Insekten, während in Adams
Topf ein wunderschöner Knabe mit Mondgesicht lag. Den Jungen nannte man
Shahid bin jarr (im Arabischen “Shahid, Sohn des Topfes”); er heiratete später
eine Huri und wurde Vorfahre der Jesiden (Spat 2002: 27-56). Diese
Darstellung über die Herkunft der Jesiden wird auch in einem der Heiligen
Bücher der Jesiden bestätigt, im “Schwarzen Buch”: “Der Große Gott sagte zu
den Engeln: Ich erschaffe Adam und Eva, und mache sie zu menschlichen
Wesen. Aus Adams Kern wird Shahid bin jarr erscheinen, und von ihm wird
auf der Erde ein Volk entspringen, das später die Menschen des ‘Azrayil, d.h.
Malak-Tawus, zeugen wird, und das sind die Jesiden (Al-Hasani, 1980: 37).
Eine andere Version derselben Legende spricht von zwei Kindern in Adams
Topf (Al-Hasani, 1980: 50).
Was die Gottheiten betrifft, die Naturphänomene kontrollieren, wird von
den meisten geglaubt, dass sie diejenigen Krankheiten heilen, die von den
entsprechenden Sphären verursacht werden, die unter der Gewalt der jeweiligen
Gottheit stehen. Man muss dazu noch sagen, dass die heilende Funktion den
Heiligtümern, Gräbern und bestimmten Scheichklans zugeschrieben ist, als
eines der wichtigen Elemente der funktionierenden Wunder (Arakelova 2001).
Die Namen der Gottheiten, Schutzgeister und Heiligen erscheinen
zumeist zusammen mit den Titeln der Kaste. An der Spitze der Hierarchie
stehen der Scheich (im Kurdischen şex, vgl. arabisch šayh “alter Mann”), der
Pir (vgl. Kurdisch pir “alter Mann”, synonym mit dem arabischen šayh), und
auch der Derwisch. Meistens werden zusammen mit den Namen der Gottheiten,
Schutzgeister und Heiligen folgende Beinamen benutzt: malak (vgl. arabisch
malak) “Engel”, xas (vgl. arabisch khass “besonders”), “auserwählt”, “edel”,
xudan “Meister”, “Beschützer”, “Patron”, mer (vgl. kurdisch mer “Mann”)
“heiliger Mann”, aziz (vgl. arabisch ‘aziz “mächtig”, “geachtet”) “heilig”, wali
(vgl. arabisch wali “Freund”) “geliebt”, “nahe [zu Gott] “heilig”, qanj (vgl.
kurdisch “gut”, “stattlich”) “heilig”, “Heilig” (im Ausdruck qanje Xwade
“Gottes Heiliger”), usw. Die Götter, Götterinnen, Heiligen und Schutzgeister
der Jesiden scheinen hauptsächlich in Ritualen zu existieren und werden
zumeist in bestimmten kultischen Ereignissen, die mit ihrem Kompetenzbereich
in Zusammenhang stehen, beschwört. (Asatrian; Arakelova, 2004: 233).
Dementsprechend sind im jesidischen Pantheon, nebst Göttern und
Heiligen, zusätzlich zur Heiligen Triade, folgende Figuren zu berücksichtigen:
der Donner-Gott (und eine Anzahl äquivalenter Figuren); der Herr des Windes
und der Luft; die Ur-Mutter der Jesiden und Schutzheilige der Frauen in den
Wehen; die Herrin der Schwangeren und der Kleinkinder; die Gottheit des
Phallus; die duale Gottheit der Rinder; der Gott der Erde (Unterwelt); der
Beschützer der Wanderer; der Geist der Furche, der Geist des Haushalts; der
91
Geist des Bettes; der Herr der Gräber; die universelle Gottheit (Khidir-nabi);
Gottes Freund (Ibrahim-khalil); der Herrscher der Genies; der Geist der Baumeister;
die Gottheiten der Sonne und des Mondes, und die des Gewands (kiras).
Hier sind ein paar dieser jesidischen Gottheiten:
Birus (auch Malak-Birus genannt, “Der Engel Birus”) ist von birusk “Blitz”
abgeleitet. Das ist aber nicht der einzige jesidische Göttliche der den Donner und
ähnliche Phänomene kontrolliert. Ba-raş –“Geist des Orkans” (wörtlich “Schwarzer
Wind”) sind Namen derselben Gottheit, mit unterschiedlichen Eigenschaften: “strömender
Hagel”, “schleudernd (Blitz)”, “blinkender Blitz” (oder “Wolken-Blitz”), und “Orkan”,
“Wirbelsturm” (Asatrian; Arakelova, 2004: 234).
Das Beiwort Raş(o) (vgl. kurdisch, raş) bedeutet “schwarz”, Farbe die oft
benutzt wird, um die Namen überirdischer Geschöpfe zu definieren. Die
Bezeichnung des jesidischen Geistes des Windes, Ba-raş, benutzt auch die
Partikel raş, “schwarz”, als Attribut zu ba “Wind”, und heißt “schwarzer Wind”
(Asatrian; Arakelova, 2004: 235).
Sex Musê-sor “Roter Scheich Moses” – eine atmosphärische Gottheit, die
die Winde und die Luft kontrolliert. Wird dann aufgerufen, wenn am Dreschboden
mit der Getreideschwinge gearbeitet wird und man Wind bei gutem Wetter
benötigt, um Korn von Heu zu trennen.
Dann werden wir für dich rotes gebackenes Brot zubereiten (Kreyenbroek,
1995: 106). Sex Musê-sor wird zumeist mit dem Titel Sorê-soran, d.h. “Der
Rote der Roten” verherrlicht. Das Attribut sor “rot” könnte hier die Heiligkeit
unterstreichen, da rot im Gegensatz zu blau steht und blau bei den Jesiden die
Farbe der Abtrünnigkeit darstellt. Sultan Yazid benutzt dieses Attribut auch:
Siltan Ezidê Sor “Sultan Yazid der Rote” (Asatrian; Arakelova, 2004: 242).
Verschiedener Legenden zu Folge gehört die Kontrolle über den
“weißen” Wind auch Sexisin “Scheich Hasan”, der angeblich auch Herr der
Tafel und des Griffels ist. Somit dürfen nur seine Nachkommen unter den
Jesiden die Fähigkeit zu lesen und zu schreiben besitzen. Obwohl eigentlich Sex
Musê-sor (Sorê Soran – “Der Rote der Roten”) Herr der Tafel und des Griffels
hätte sein sollen, genau wie sein Gegenüber unter den Ahl-i Haqq, der Erzengel
Pir Musi, erinnert das Motiv klar an die biblische Erzählung mit Moses, der die
Tafeln mit den zehn Geboten von Gott erhielt. Die Verschiebung der
Funktionen von Sexmus zu Scheich Hasan fand durch die Kontaminierung der
Bilder statt, was auch zur Verflechtung der Kräfte zur Kontrolle des Windes
und der Luft führte. Scheich Hasan, der einen historischen Archetyp hat, ist eine
Randfigur zwischen den jesidischen Heiligen (Asatrian; Arakelova, 2004: 243).
Das Bildnis Moses in der Tradition der Jesiden muss eine doppelte
Durchschlagskraft gehabt haben, vielleicht eine parallele: ein Mal als Sexmus,
als ein Gott, und ein Mal als ein Charakter aus der Folklore, Musa Pexambar,
d.h. der Prophet Moses; ihm wurde sogar eine Hymne gewidmet “Qawle Musa
Pexambar” (Celîl; Celîl, 1978: 366-368, 438-439).
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GEORGE GRIGORE
In den religiösen Konzepten der iranischen ländlichen Gemeinschaften ist
der Prophet Moses eine populäre Figur, die viele lokale Figuren primitiver
Verehrung ersetzt hat. Die Ahl-i Haqq sehen Pir Musi als eine Inkarnation des
Engels Israfil (Ilahi; Mokri, 1966: 24, 28).
Pira-Fat ist die Herrin der Schwangeren und der Kleinkinder: sie
beschützt sie vor der bösen Dämonin (Asatrian 2001). Eine gebärende Frau
bittet Pira-Fat um Hilfe: Yā Pīrā-Fāt, ālī min bika! “Oh Pira-Fat, hilf mir”! Die
Anwesenden äußern ihre Hoffnung für die Hilfe der Göttin: Çārā Pīrā-Fāt bē
hawara ta! – “Möge der Samen Pira-Fats dir helfen!” (Celîl; Celîl, 1978: 434).
Das Wort çar in dieser Formel bedeutet “Samen”, Bedeutung die sich aus der
ursprünglichen – “Mittel, Möglichkeit” entwickelt hat, über die zwischenzeitliche
Bedeutung “Flüssigkeit, Medizin” (vgl. kurdisch çara “Medizin”, “Lösung”).
Dieser Satz drückt den Wunsch der Frau aus, einen puren Jesiden zu gebären,
vom Originalsamen des Volkes der Jesiden – da Pira-Fat die traditionelle
Beschützerin dieser Samen ist. In ähnlicher Weise beschwören sie diesen
Samen wenn sie sich auf eine Reise begeben: Yā Pīrā-Fāt çāra ta sar ma “Oh
Pira-Fat, lass deine Hilfe (Samen) mit uns sein”. Pira-Fat ist eigentlich die
Urmutter der Jesiden, denn sie hat diesen Samen, aus dem das Volk stammt, vor
Zerstörung gerettet. Der Name dieser Gottheit, Pira-Fat, bedeutet wörtlich “alte
Frau Fat”, und ist anscheinend zurückzuführen auf den Namen der Tochter des
Propheten Mohammed, Fatima. Diese Persönlichkeit hat viele Charakterzüge
vor-islamischer Gottheiten der Fruchtbarkeit und Familie in sich vereint, und
wird in der ganzen muslimischen Welt verehrt, insbesondere bei den Schiiten
(Asatrian; Arakelova, 2004: 245). Die Jungfrau Maria (Maryam) hat im Islam
fast dieselbe Funktion, und gebärende Mütter beten im Regelfall beide Heiligen
an (Donaldson 1938: 31). Dass Fat eine Form von Fatima ist zeigt sich durch
die Benutzung beider Namensformen, in besonderen Kontexten, für die Tochter
des Propheten. Die Hymne, die ‘Ali gewidmet ist, Gottes Löwe (Bayta Ali Şerê
Xwade), gibt dazu einen klaren Hinweis (Celîl; Celîl 1978: 403).
Die Abkürzung des Namens Fatima oder, um genauer zu sein, der Wegfall
der Endsilben ergibt sich offensichtlich aus der kurdischen Interpretation des
Namens: Fatima war als izafet Konstruktion verstanden Fatima “Fat-i-ma”, d.h.
“unsere Fat”. “Die Hand der Fatima”, das Symbol der fünf Hauptpersönlichkeiten
in der Schia – der Prophet Mohammed, ‘Ali, Fatima, Hasan und Husayn – ist ein
Hauptelement der Talismane und Amuletten die vor bösen Geistern und Dämonen
schützen (Budge, 1961: 467-472). Eine metallene Darstellung der “Hand der
Fatima” ist ein wichtiges Accessoire in jedem gottesfürchtigen Schia Haus, nebst
einem Portrait von ‘Ali, dessen Bildnis zugleich bestimmte Charakteristika alter
iranischer Mystiker angesammelt hat – von Verethregna bis Rostam.
Der Heilige Engel ist, wie zu erwarten, auch in den Hochzeitsbräuchen zu
finden. Die Jesiden schmückten einen der Bäume vor des Bräutigams Haus und
legten einen Stock in phallischer Form zwischen den Ästen. Bevor das neu
vermählte Paar das Haus betrat, standen sie eine Weile unter dem Baum, und
die Freunde des Bräutigams schüttelten diesen und sprachen: “Mögen
Bräutigam und Braut so fruchtbar sein wie dieser Baum”.
93
Der Name dieser Figur, Xudane-male, kann als “Meister des Hauses”
übersetzt werden. Er verkörpert das Wohlergehen für Haus und Familie,
unterstützt die Moral der Familie, fördert die Vermehrung der Rinder und gute
Ernten. Xudane-male wohnt in der Feuerstelle,* aber manchmal nimmt er die
Form einer Schlange an und verlässt das Haus. Deshalb stellt das Töten einer
Hausschlange eine große Sünde dar, die das Glück abwenden kann und Ärger
und Not bringen kann. (Christensen, 1941: 83-84; Seferbekov, 2001: 140-141).
Die Verehrung für Khidr, “den grünen Mann”, ist eine allgemein
akzeptierte Praxis unter den muslimischen Kurden. Khidrs heilige Stätten sind
im Kurdistan überall neben natürlichen Quellen zu finden. Die Muslime haben
die Überlieferungen zu Khidr mit denen über den Propheten Elija verbunden,
denn beide sind unsterblich, da sie aus dem Brunnen des Lebens getrunken
haben. Ein Geist der Erde und des Wasser, der unsterbliche Khidr lebt in den
tiefen Wassern der Seen und Teiche. Er nimmt verschiedene Gestalten an und
erscheint Menschen, die ihn um Hilfe bitten, um deren Wünsche zu erfüllen.
Khidr (im kurdischen Xidir-nabi “der Prophet Khidr”), hat offensichtlich
muslimische Wurzeln (ein Andeutung an ihn, vielleicht ohne ihn beim Namen
zu nennen, erscheint im Koran: XVIII, 59-81). In der Tradition der Jesiden ist er
einer der Söhne des Scheichen Sham; er ist in erster Reihe ein himmlischer Krieger,
ein Reiter auf einem weißen Pferd (haspe siyare boz) (Al-Hasani, 1980: 73).
Ibrahim-Xalil (vgl. arabisch khalil “naher Freund”) in das Pantheon der
Jesiden aufzunehmen ist gewiss ziemlich vorläufig, denn er hat keine klaren
Einflusssphären und auch keine Rollen in der Praxis des Kults. Dies ist
vielleicht ein vergötterter Heiliger, der während eines Mahls, insbesondere eines
rituellen Mahls adressiert werden soll.
9. Abschließende Bemerkung
Die Religion der Jesiden ist eine sehr synkretische: man kann darin
Elemente des Zoroastrismus, des Manichäismus, des Judentums, des Christentums
und des Islams finden. Zur gleichen Zeit erkennt man den Einfluss des islamischen
Mystizismus und der Symbolik im religiösen Wortschatz, insbesondere in der
Terminologie der esoterischen Literatur, doch große Teile der Mythologie sind
nicht-islamisch, und die Kosmogonien scheinen viel mit denen der alten
Religionen aus dem Iran gemeinsam zu haben. Frühe Studien haben versucht,
die Wurzeln des Jesidismus allgemein im Islam zu verankern, oder in alten
Religionen aus dem Iran; wurde manchmal sogar als heidnische Religion
eingestuft – Veröffentlichungen der letzten fünfzehn Jahre haben aber gezeigt,
dass diese Angehensweise sehr simplifizierend ist.
GEORGE GRIGORE
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LITERATURVERZEICHNIS
al-Hasani, Abd ar-Razzaq (1980), Al-yazidiyyuna fi hadhirihim wa madhihim, Al-Umma (Verlag), Bagdad.
Arakelova, Victoria (2001), Sufi saints in the Yazidi Tradition, in Iran & The Caucasus, vol. 5, 183-192.
Arakelova, Victoria (2002), Three Figures from the Yazidi Folk Pantheon, in Iran & The Caucasus,
vol. 6, 1/2, 57-73.
Arakelova, Victoria (2004), Notes on the Yazidi Religious Syncretism, in Iran & The Caucasus,
vol. 8, 1, 19-28.
Asatrian, Garnik, Victoria Arakelova (2003), Malak-Tawus: The Peacock Angel of the Yazidis, in
Iran & The Caucasus, vol. 7, 1/2, 1-36.
Asatrian, Garnik, Victoria Arakelova (2004), The Yazidi Pantheon, in Iran & The Caucasus,
vol. 8, 2, 231-279.
Celîl, Ordixanê, Celîlê Celîl (1978), Zargotina Kurda, vol. 1-2, Nauka (Verlag), Moskau.
Christensen, A. (1941), Essai sur la démonologie iranienne, Ejnar Munksgaard (Verlag), Copenhagen.
Donaldson. Bess Allen (1938), The Wild Rue. A Study of Muhammedan Magic and Folklore, in
Iran. Luzac & Co. (Vrerlag), London.
Drower, Ethel Stefana (1941), Peacock Angel. Being Some Account of Votaries of a Secret Cult
and their Sanctuaries, John Murray (Verlag), London.
Grigore, George (1994), Slujitorii Diavolului; Cartea Neagră; Cartea Dezvăluirii, Călin (Verlag), Bukarest.
Kreyenbroek, Philip G. (1995), Yazidism: Its Background, Observances and Textual Tradition.
Edwin Mellen Press (Verlag), New York.
Legge, Francis (1914), Forerunners and Rivals of Christianity. From 330 B.C. to 330 A.D.,
University Press (Verlag), Cambridge.
Ilahi, Nur Ali, Mohammad Mokri (1966), L'ésotérisme kurde. Aperçus sur le secret gnostique des
fidèles de vérité, A. Michel (Verlag), Paris.
Seferbekov, R. (2000), On the Demonology of the Tabasaranians, in Iran & The Caucasus, vol. 5, 139-148.
Tawa, Habib, Les Yezidis, www.edph.auf.org/IMG/pdf/Tawa-Yezidis.pdf
TRANSITION NOVELS
ÉVA BÁNYAI∗
In my study I examine Zsolt Láng’s novel entitled Bestiarium Transylvaniae IV. The
Animals of the Earth in the light of transition narratives, highlight the following aspects: How do
the geocultural specificities, the border tensions of alterities influence the poetics of memory?
How is the transition from ritual coherence to textual coherence represented, how is it textualised?
To what extent are the language of objects and the language of concepts determining from the
viewpoint of understanding the novel, are they comprehensible also for those who live outside the
social and spatial perspective of the novel, heavily relying on geocultural bonds?
Keywords: geocultural narrative, border identity, cultural memory, chronotopic coordinates,
name maps.
The prose trend which I call prose of the turn is becoming a pronounced
element of contemporary Hungarian prose. A major characteristic of novels or
short story volumes which I consider as belonging to this trend is that they try to
grasp, to describe, to speak about the Romanian turn of the eighties-nineties of
the past century through language, they try to transform the turn into narration. I
emphasize the tendency of formation, as the structure and construction of the
various literary works are also influenced by the story, the Romanian regime
change: the problematization of the possibility of rendering through words the
preceding totalitarian regime and the subsequent “turn”.
The narrow scope of the topic is especially traceable in four volumes:
Zsolt Láng: Bestiarium Transylvaniae IV. The Animals of the Earth (2011),
Andrea Tompa: The Hangman’s House (2010), Sándor Zsigmond Papp: Lives of
No Great Importance (2011) and Márta Józsa: Until Grandma Turns Up (2007). I
examine the above works in the first place, but in a wider spectrum Róbert
Csaba Szabó’s Funeral at Ten in the Evening (2011) and Black Dacia (2012),
Gábor Vida’s Fakusz’s Three Solitudes (2005) and Ádám Bodor’s The Visit of
the Archbishop (1999), Melissza Bogdanowitz’s Footprint (2003) and
Verhovina’s Birds (2011) as well as novels by Péter Demény, György
Dragomán and Zsuzsa Selyem, previously already analysed by me, also belong
to the trend of transition narratives.
∗
Lecturer at the University of Bucharest, Romania, Faculty of Foreign Language and
Literature, Department of Hungarology, e-mail: [email protected]
96
ÉVA BÁNYAI
In the interpretation of most of the above listed works there emerges the
viewpoint of the manifestation of geocultural determinedness. In the prose
works implying intercultural experiences, born in an intercultural border-space,
the heterogeneity of the cultural space comes to the front, this is why not only
the space concept resulting from cultural heterogeneity offers itself for
examination, but also the way in which the notion of border identity manifests.
Márta Józsa’s essay novel, Until Grandma Turns Up, is related to the
author’s childhood in Cluj and its outgrowths; the primary purpose of the text is
not to present the transition, the turn, but rather to relate its antecedents and
partly its consequences, to present the Cluj of the seventies-eighties and of the
following years, together with its micro- and macro-social aspects. In Sándor
Zsigmond Papp’s novel entitled Lives of No Great Importance the final days of
the Ceauşescu regime1 and the transition existence after the turn, with its ambiguity,
plasticity and entropy, are revived through the dwellers of the – I quote the
opening of the novel – “massive corner house turned into grey-brown” of
Törekvés street 79, in an unidentifiable Transylvanian town, situated at the
border, with allusions to Satu Mare (but bearing characteristics of Cluj). Andrea
Tompa’s book, The Hangman’s House, similarly to the novels by Márta Józsa
(as well as by Péter Demény and Zsuzsa Selyem), is also a Cluj-novel; we are
informed about the raging and the final days of dictatorship, about the euphoric
atmosphere of the first days after the regime change, the turn (as it has not been
called revolution lately) through the stories, memories, reflections and family
history of a 17-18-year-old adolescent girl. In The Animals of the Earth Zsolt Láng
presents the periods before and after the Romanian turn, also from the viewpoint
of a 17-18-year-old adolescent girl, Bori (rendered through a third-person
narration throughout the novel), the macho dictatorship from a (slightly) feminine
viewpoint (Károlyi 2011).
In the present study I will especially focus on the space concepts formed
in Zsolt Láng’s novel entitled Bestiarium Transylvaniae IV. The Animals of the
Earth, paying attention to geocultural aspects; in my approach I will mainly
resort to Kornélia Faragó’s geocultural theories (Faragó 2009), and I will spatialize
the following set of questions: How do the geocultural specificities, the border
tensions of alterities influence the poetics of memory? How is the transition
from ritual coherence to textual coherence represented, how is it textualised in
the above mentioned prose text? To what extent are the language of objects and
1
The problematic character of narration is indicated by a pronounced feature of these
novels, namely that they refrain from writing down the name Ceauşescu, in the same way as we
used to refrain from uttering it; in Papp’s novel it also occurs only once, in the rest of the novels it
does not occur at all or it occurs rarely, being mentioned as secretary general or the leader of the
nation, etc. With the plural I indicate my subjective involvement in the interpretation, which I
experienced, throughout the reading and interpreting the novels, “As if all this had happened to
me” (Bodor 1999: 49).
TRANSITION NOVELS
97
the language of concepts determining from the viewpoint of understanding the
novel, are they comprehensible (that is, does the linguistic-poetic construction
provide interpretation) also for those who live outside the social and spatial
perspective of the novel, heavily relying on geocultural bonds? The exploration
of the latter set of questions can be of utmost importance from the viewpoint of
geopoetics: in the text displaying well-determined time segments, explorable by
means of strong topographical markers, of a concrete town map or one
displaying ambiguous, floating places, we can also highlight the permanent
topic of totalitarian regimes, namely the nature and landscape of fear, depicted
in its incomprehensibility and difference, rendering the occurrences of the end
of the eighties in Romania from an adolescent perspective.
The text construction, structure formation out of memory mosaics also
has a poetic relevance; it is materialized in the language of the writings, it is
embodied in various linguistic-poetic forms in the above mentioned novels: the
fragmented, corrective language schemes or the several-page-long sentence
flows also problematize the narration and/or inexpressible nature of the
respective turn. As what is common in these stories is the experiment of their
narration; in spite of the fact that as a consequence of its undefinability, the
existence changing role and special importance of that particular turn, that is,
the 1989 “event” from Romania, is undeniable, still, the Great Story is
impossible to narrate, it can only be put together out of mosaics, shavings,
memory fragments (at the same time the act of assembling, putting together is
also questionable). One aspect of some of the novels, which I regard as highly
relevant, can be linked to this, namely the child/adolescent perspective of the
narrators; the novel-constructing significance of the adolescent girl viewpoint,
the multiply burdened gender perspective (linguistic, social, ethnic, gender etc.,
minority perspectives), rendering the historical-social-gender turn(s) from the
turning point of the own life, is not at all ignorable.
In the case of all the four novels the definability of the chronotopic coordinates
has a text constituting character (in a narrower angle: it can be determined in
each case that the text space is constituted by a Romanian, Transylvanian town
and the period of time narrated in the novels can be restricted to the eighties in
Romania as well as to the turn, to the transition), consequently, the co-texts, the
influx of external worlds into the texts also determine the context of the textual
world. Earlier I examined space concepts manifesting in prose writings (by Ádám
Bodor, Zsolt Láng, György Dragomán, Gábor Vida and Sándor Zsigmond Papp)
in the case of which the cultural spatial embeddedness and spatial dependence
had a text constituting force, but all this was relevant with respect to the
relativisation of referenciality and the importance of highlighting the act of
being created in language; however, most of the above mentioned texts are not
afraid of the effect of decreasing the aesthetic value of referenciality, they are
not afraid of the impediment of recognizability (as there is no reason for it).
ÉVA BÁNYAI
98
What Jan Assmann formulates in his volume entitled Cultural Memory in
connection with the transition from ritual coherence to textual coherence
(Assmann 1999), can be encountered in Zsolt Láng’s novel, in its textual
construction. In it we witness an example (but not a parable) of the literary
construction of the twentieth-century Romanian totalitarian regime and one of
its striking and relevant aspects is geocultural narration, the novel being a
depository of linguistic and non-linguistic documents, revealing the culture in
which it came to light.2 The novel (expected for a long time) is the manifest
(also expected for a long time) of the transformation into text of seemingly
undiscussable, unspeakable events, of ritual determinedness (not only in the
Romanian) public sphere.
Geocultural narratology becomes significant, in the first place, in the
description and manifestation of fictitious ideas pertaining to the spatialization
of culture, turning attention to spatial dimensions hidden in the treatment of the
issues of historical situatedness manifesting in them, as well as in the prefix
geo- of geoculture – and especially to border motions, transitions (Faragó 2009: 8).
In the novels under discussion, and especially in The Animals of the Earth the
process of reading is guided by referencializable chronotopic coordinates. The
temporal layers – similarly to spatial ones – are multilayered, on the one hand,
there is a relatively linear thread of storytelling – except the dialogue of half
idiots opening the novel, “socialising” the reader into its world –, the action
starts on 13 May 1989, and – apart from the ten-page, one-sentence closure
unveiling the dénouement – the story (fetus) evolves in 8-9 months, reinforcing
the strong body-poetical parallel. The fragmentary storytelling, the continuously
intercalated historical-anecdotical parts are embedded (sometimes not expressly
organically) into the loose set of happenings. The space of action can be
precisely defined: apart from a few parallel, anecdotical digressions (pointing
towards Cluj and Târgu Mureş), it takes place in Satu Mare, thus, the space of a
north-western Romanian town constitutes the space of the novel.
As Kornélia Faragó also states, the “world” to be narrated, which
becomes presentable through the geocultural narrative, is unnaratable from one
single cultural viewpoint (Faragó ibid.). In other words, it resists the strategies
of homogeneous narratability; heterogeneity, a multilayered and many-coloured
perspective becomes indispensable. The geocultural perspective also presupposes
and entails the distancing from it, that is, from itself. Thus, not a single
characteristic can be identified: the poetic construction creates a network of
relations and viewpoints. In Láng’s novel this becomes relevant, on the one hand,
in the many-colouredness of narration and speech styles, in the continuous
2
Cf.: “Reading places the various perspectives into roles completing each other; a kind of
assembling thinking, the mosaic-method known from the specialist literature of anthropology can
lead to the »whole«. We can consider the narration theories of a geocultural foundation important
due to the turn into the textual.” (Faragó 2009: 7)
TRANSITION NOVELS
99
alternation of the narrative modes and in their adjustment to the style of the
language of narration, on the other hand, in the continuous presence of ethnic
and cultural multilayeredness, in the (re)presentation of their past and present
differances, in the emphasis on otherness.
What is that provides the particularity, the identity of belonging to the
cultural area – simultaneously with the differences – in these novels, that is, in
geocultural narratives? It is, on the one hand, the pronounced feature of nationality,
ethnic distinction (Hungarian vs. Romanian; extended to the Central-EasternEuropean space concept it could be Slovakian, Serbian, Ukrainian, etc.), on the
other hand, from the angle of the others, of those observing from outside, a kind
of “landscape spirit”, some kind of unknowable space formation – which, as a
cultural space, is unapproachable from the perspective of one single nationality
(Cf. Faragó ibid.). Thus, in the narratives discussed here the space, the
landscape, the “earth” are not means to express national identity, belonging
there, identity, but rather they form a cultural space, a multilayered, hybrid
identity, one attribute of a kind of border identity, formed through various
relations, in which cultural meanings and values are encoded. Thus the
interpretation of space – in the examination of which border and periphery come
to the front –, of culturally interpreted landscapes (Mitchell 1991: 30) becomes
indispensable, as they constitute basic features of geocultural narratives.
The spatial layers of Láng’s volume are superimposed out of the layers of
the past, of story and history; the access to the past and to memory is multiply
problematized, all this being complemented by a temporal stratification, connected
to the several-century-old historical turns, transitions. The chronological layers
of space construction start with the foundation of Szatmár/Satu Mare (with
Zotmár’s story, full of ironical comments otherwise characteristic of the whole
novel; for instance, the potential name giver, Burebista, is also included in it),
and continue with the end of the nineteenth century, with squares and street
names, the period after World War I, World War II, stories of totalitarian
regimes, 1989 May to December, then indicate the town square after the turn – the
latter closes the text in form of the texture of a ten-page sentence flow. However,
these are not clearly distinguishable, precisely identifiable chronotopes; changes,
transitions, turns and their consequences are narrated, such as the history of the
building of the gendarme post; the space change is defined in terms of the smell
of foreigners who moved into the houses emptied after the Jews had been
deported from the town – or in terms of the absence of earlier smells.3 At the
same time, the renaming of the squares, of the space is also indicated by the
small culture-historical essay on the act of symbolic territorialization, acquiring
3
Smells have an important role as identity indicators; the tight spaces, apartments, which
can be linked to the different ethnic groups, can be distinguished based on smells. At the same
time – see Ádám Bodor’s The Smell of Prison (2001) – the smell of fear – sometimes compared
to the smell of drains – is identified as a text constituting attribute.
100
ÉVA BÁNYAI
completeness in time, which can be read on pages 17-18 and which includes the
history and culture of the town. It is culture that is spatialized and spatializes – it
is the spatializing force of culture that forms geoculture.
The relations of naming (which in my interpretation result in name maps
in several masterpieces of contemporary Hungarian prose) are significant
elements of geocultural narration; however, in the above indicated part names
are not the indicators of stability, but due to symbolic territorialization, they are
indicators of transition, transformation, changeability (or the perpetuation of
transition), of permanent metamorphosis. The names of certain characters from
the novel also belong here, Vizi from Vízi, Caricaş “(pronounce: karikás)” from
Karikás, Deacu “(pronounce: deáku)” from Deák, in the case of which the
absence of the historical, cultural “background knowledge” also adds to the
(possible) lack of knowing the Romanian language, as the pronunciation or the
sounding of these names is (roughly) the same as the original name, but this
interpretation is not provided by the “reading” according to Hungarian
grammar.4 These names do not only designate, but they also activate spaces of
association, they create relations, forming a geocultural narration instead of
national identity. As the regions belonging toghether geoculturally can never
achieve the stabilization of certain names, and here and now I am not only
thinking of the pseudonyms from Ádám Bodor’s Sinistra District, where
identification is made problematic from the start by the fact that every character
has a pseudonym received from the authorities, the names of the representatives
of power also change (sometimes in an unreasonable and deceptive way), but
also of the toponyms. Thus the issue of name change, of the double or plural
name use also reinforces the presence of border identity (referring to the
impossibility of fixing, grasping identity).
Geocultural experience makes its effect felt in the differenciation of
understanding: due to the use of various linguistic and objectual attributes,
distinguished, localized narratives and interpretations are born. That is, the
interpretation of those who live within the cultural and linguistic boundaries
differs from the one of those who live outside.5 One feature of these texts is
musealisation: objects conceived as cultural signs, various immaterial artefacts
as well as “culture collecting aspects” fulfill the role of text organization
(Faragó 2009: 16). Thus, the transition from the ritual coherence to the textual
4
This is why the text provides “assistance” with the instructions in brackets. It is a memorable
locus of the irony and parody characterizing the whole novel when the instruction urges the reader
to “pronounce as desired” the unpronunceable Dacian sentence. (Láng 2011: 261)
5
“A given literary text is read differently by those who dispose of communicative memory
about the spatio-temporality rendered by the text, at least about one segment of this temporality,
and in whom every name, notion and object opens up a past, inner world segment; they can read
their own stories, their own former questions into them. And it can be understood totally
differently by those who read it in the absence of biographic memory, and their new questions are
born within the time of reading.” (Emphasis in the original.) (Faragó 2009: 42)
TRANSITION NOVELS
101
one is created by these cultural museal pieces and textual loci, the presence of
which also influences the role of the poetics of memory, as it compels the reader
to apply various collating strategies by resorting to the poetics of recognition.
According to Kornélia Faragó, these things, objects, immaterial artefacts do not
only belong to space, but they are themselves the geocultural spaces. For
instance, the Kárpáci without filter6 with Láng, Dragomán and Papp (with each
writer it occurs differently, with a different spelling), or wearing the hateful,
detested school uniform and matriculation number in Láng’s and Tompa’s
novels, together with presenting the act of not wearing them or wearing them
differently, are – besides emphasizing otherness – the signs of latent resistance
in all cases, while they can be interpreted as the geocultural motifs of dictatorship.
The idioms identified as geocultural brand names7 also belong here: for instance,
the expression they took the light away, which provides insight into the degree
of exposedness during the totalitarian regime, but the one who does not have
first-hand experience of the respective period, interprets it, in the best case, as
an incorrect grammatical formulation – or ignores it.
The poetics of musealization has a role of indicating space and time, of
depicting the age: the novel contains series of relics of the totalitarian regime:
the screw-top jar as a scarce commodity; queuing (and its social-psychological
aspects); buying food in exchange of food tickets; the greengrocer’s at the
corner; nylon bag; the resistants are taken to the [Danube] Canal; people
wearing leather coats; the Szabad Európa [radio programme] is disturbed;
Gyorgyudézs [Gheorghiu Dej]; the big boss stays in streets where even the
street lamp is armored; the party secretary is expected by the crowd; cabinet no.
II; patriotic work; harvesting corn; cars allowed to be used only every other
Sunday, etc. As Kornélia Faragó states: “The geocultural meaning components
can be especially recognized in the zone where even the »outside« reader
belonging to the same language culture is characterized by uncertainty and loss
of orientation; s/he has to recognize that s/he does not fully »understand«
everything and that for him/her the co-texts are not fully readable or are fully
unreadable” (Faragó 2009: 21). I would remark in addition: the interpretation
becomes problematic also for the “inner” interpreters not disposing of
biographic memories, as the young generation, born in the narrated time, the
generation of the present students, can get to know (or recognize) the respective
period only from the narratives of the parents or grandparents.8
6
Carpaţi fără filtru – a sort of cigarette without filter.
“But let’s think about these brand names in the absence of the denoted thing: without the knowledge
of the meaning-background of the discourse, without the cultural background knowledge and in the absence
of cultural memory not even the possibility of misunderstanding or wild reception can occur. The
reduction to the name presupposes the referential sameness of the interpretive plane.” (Faragó 2009: 11.)
8
The lack of knowledge related to the basic terms of the period can be a relevant example of the
way of reading and (mis)understanding in the absence of biographic memory: when I put down the first
notes with the purpose of writing the present study, I encountered the following situation in the
7
ÉVA BÁNYAI
102
At the same time, that emphasized layer of the novel which can be
approached from the poetics of the body, can address the young generation,
Bori’s generation from the novel: besides the social-historical turn, the
mapping of the female body (mainly) from a female perspective, the depiction
of the turn in the sexual (maturation) process acquires a special role. The
Animals of the Earth is a border novel: not only due to its geographic position,
but also because of the border existence of adolescence and sexuality. The space,
Szatmár/Satu Mare is also articulated as a female town – the architecture of
unfulfilled love culminated in the construction of the town (Láng 2011: 152);
the town built upon Zotmár’s grave is the town of the woman, it is
indestructible, those many who tried to destroy it all perished. “The memory of
the bitter and sweet love contoured the labyrinth swallowing the enemy. But the
town also revolted against the tyranny of its own dwellers; and even if the
oratories can repress the desire for freedom for a while, the subconscious of the
town will erode the dictators’ pedestal, the bark of the applause square, polished
out of cheap marble, will collapse under them.” (Láng 2011: 153–154) Bori’s
attitude to her own body is similar to the town space formed through the desire
of love. The absence of the discourse about the body, the fantasizing about
sexuality gets completed with the compulsory gynecologic examination, which
indicates that corporeality cannot be withdrawn from the confinement,
emanating fear, of the all-controlling dictatorship; the gynecologic lamp
correlates with the interrogator lamp of the Securitate, this is why it is important
to highlight the liberation-story from the end of the novel, which is, both
concretely and figuratively, the stepping out, the liberation from the drains:
getting out from under the ground Bori notices that light has inundated the
square; she experiences freedom as orgasm: a light has lit up also in the brain.
The previous outer as well as inner confinement has been replaced by the
freedom of spirit and body.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Assmann, Jan (1999), A kulturális emlékezet [Cultural Memory], Atlantisz, Budapest.
Bodor, Ádám (1999), Az érsek látogatása [The Visit of the Archbishop], Magvető, Budapest.
Faragó, Kornélia (2009), A viszonosság alakzatai [Figures of Correlation], Forum, Novi Sad.
Józsa, Márta (2007), Amíg a nagymami megkerül [Until Grandma Turns Up], Noran, Budapest.
Szabadság, the daily newspaper from Cluj: when translating a piece of news taken over from the
Romanian newspapers, the translator and the editor proved that they had probably not been socialized
before the turn, as the widely known UTC (Uniunea Tinerilor Comunişti, Union of Young Communists)
had never been the Fiatal Kommunisták Egyesülete (Szabadság, 29 February 2019), but KISZ
(Kommunista Ifjak Szövetsége). The latter mosaic word also occurs in Zsolt Láng’s novel.
TRANSITION NOVELS
103
Károlyi, Csaba et al. (2011), “ÉS Kvartett” [“ÉS Quartet”], in Élet és Irodalom, 27, p. 8,
http://www.es.hu/;es-kvartett;2011-07-08.html [2011. 09. 10.]
Láng, Zsolt (2011), Bestiárium Transylvaniae IV. A föld állatai [Bestiarium Transylvaniae IV.
The Animals of the Earth], Kalligram, Bratislava.
Mitchell, W. J. T. (1991), “Birodalmi táj. Tézisek a tájképről” [“Imperial Landscape. Theses on Landscape”],
in Café Bábel, 1, pp. 25-42.
Papp, Sándor Zsigmond (2011), Semmi kis életek [Lives of No Great Importance], Libri, Budapest.
Tompa, Andrea (2010), A hóhér háza [The Hangman’s House], Kalligram, Bratislava.
DAS INTERKULTURELLE POTENTIAL DER PROSA
RUMÄNIENDEUTSCHER AUTOREN NACH 1990
DANIELA IONESCU-BONANNI∗
THE INTERCULTURAL POTENTIAL OF THE PROSE WRITTEN BY ROMANIAN
AUTHORS OF GERMAN EXPRESSION AFTER 1990
Intercultural competence is one of the most important skills for any individual who wants to
succeed on the job market. Political and development sciences researchers have shown how literary products
are invaluable sources of cultural knowledge and emphasize their inclusion in special management training.
In terms of content, literary products are so profoundly interconnected with cultural features that literary
fragments with a strong biographical element are increasingly used to exemplify theoretical knowledge
about a foreign country. But since we live in a global world, one particularly interesting question arising
in this context is whether literary productions can be understood correctly without any references to the
cultural background from which they emerge. In this respect it is valuable to examine how literary products
by German authors with a Romanian background may be read or even misread because the appropriate
cross-cultural background is lacking. After Herta Müller won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2009, the
intriguing question is whether a far-reaching imagination or more a mixture of images from different
cultures lend such literary productions their unique intercultural dimension? This paper will take a closer
look at literary fragments by some German authors with Romanian backgrounds such as Herta Müller,
Richard Wagner, Franz Hodjak and Dieter Schlesak. The purpose is to investigate whether their meaning
can be influenced by such a lack of cultural background, and also in considering their provocative images
whether we can find explanations for this literary output in the specific content of Romanian culture.
Keywords: German literature, inter- and cross-cultural communication, Herta Müller,
Romanian background, cultural dimension.
Ich träume schwarzweiß. Wenn ich aufwache, spreche ich Rumänisch mit der toten
Lerche auf dem Balkon, nachdem ich, kurz zuvor, im Schlaf noch Deutsch gesprochen hatte [...]1
Dieses Zitat aus Franz Hodjaks Roman Ein Koffer voll Sand ist symptomatisch
für die literarischen Texte der rumäniendeutschen Autoren – das Leben zwischen
kulturellen Räumen ist eine zutiefst prägende Eigenschaft ihrer Persönlichkeiten
und ihrer Schriften. Die einschlägige Literatur verzeichnet zahlreiche Studien, in
denen die Entwurzelung, die Heimatlosigkeit oder die Unfähigkeit in irgendeiner
∗
Dozentin für Neuere Deutsche Literatur an der Universität Bukarest, Rumänien,
e-mail: [email protected]
1
Hodjak 2003, S. 14.
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DANIELA IONESCU-BONANNI
Kultur anzukommen und sich zurecht zu finden thematisiert werden2. Jedoch gibt
es meines Erachtens einen genauso interessanten Aspekt, der sich erst im
gegenwärtigen Diskurs einer interkulturell angelegten Literaturwissenschaft zu
konturieren vermag. In absentia einer Heimat, um die sich sonst der Dialog mit der
spezifischen Fremdheit anderer Kulturen entfaltet3, bilden die rumäniendeutschen
Autoren in ihren Werken hybride Kulturräume, die sowohl im spezifischen,
sozialen und kulturellen Kontext ihres Herkunftslandes, Rumänien, als auch im
kulturellen Kontext der Urheimat, Deutschland, verankert sind. Meine These ist,
dass ein hoher interkultureller Lerngehalt hinter diesen Texten steht, der auch für
die entstehende Literatur im europäischen Raum von hoher Bedeutung sein kann.
Das Ziel des vorliegenden Aufsatzes ist eine kulturanalytische Betrachtung der
Prosatexte rumäniendeutscher Autoren nach 1990.
Eine solche Absicht kann man nicht fern von den existierenden
Diskussionen durchführen, was die Berechtigung einer interkulturell angelegten
Literaturwissenschaft anbelangt. Demnach zuerst eine kurze Bestandaufnahme
und die eigene Positionierung in diesem Forschungsfeld. Konkrete Überlegungen
zu einer interkulturellen Literaturwissenschaft kann man heutzutage meines
Erachtens nicht von der zuweilen etwas überstrapazierte Diskussion über das
Phänomen der Globalisierung trennen. Ausgehend von einer primär negativen
Definition von Globablisierung als „keinen in sich gesättigten, von störenden
Einflüssen abgeschotteten Vorgang“ 4 sondern vielmehr als Interaktion von
„[...] lokale[n] und globale[n], differenzierende[n] und generalisiserende[n]
Faktoren auf allen Ebenen des gesellschaftlichen Tuns und somit auch in der
Literatur“ 5 werden wir schnell auf die Erklärung stoßen, warum es absolut
notwendig ist, auch die rumäniendeutsche Literatur aus dieser Perspektive zu
beleuchten. Es ist eine Literatur von Kulturbegegnungen, in denen die Dominanten:
Internationalität, Pluralismus, Heterogenität, Differenz, Inter- und Multikulturalität,
Inkohärenz und Interdependenz, Widersprüchlichkeit und Vielfalt6 bestens vertreten
sind. Horst Steinmetz beschreibt in seinem Aufsatz Globalisierung und
(Literatur)geschichte, wie transnationale Überlappungen entstehen und damit
Veränderungen der literarischen Topographie. Besonders bei den rumäniendeutschen
Autoren ist dieser Aspekt stark ausgeprägt. Die Literatur ist extrem wenig
reduzierbar auf objektive Repräsentationen sondern die Welt stellt sich:
[...] immer durch Kulturen gebrochen dar, so daß es verschiedene Welten und
Wirklichkeiten gibt, die alle den gleichen Anspruch auf Anerkennung, nicht aber auf
Alleingültigkeit erheben dürfen. Auch in der Literatur begegnet man dieser Einsicht. [...]
2
Vgl. hierzu die umfangreichen Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für Deutsche Kultur und
Geschichte Südosteuropas (IKGS) an der Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München.
3
Vgl. Ertler 2006, S. 137.
4
Schmeling/ Schmitz-Emans/ Walstra 2000, S. 6.
5
Ebd.
6
Siehe Steinmetz 2000, S. 190.
DAS INTERKULTURELLE POTENTIAL DER PROSA RUMÄNIENDEUTSCHER AUTOREN NACH 1990
107
Regionalität kennt ihre Grenzen, ohne darum ihren eigenen Universalismus aufzugeben,
der einen anderen regional fundierten Universalismus nicht bestreiten, sondern sich mit
ihm vergleichen will.7
Führt man diesen Gedanken weiter, kann behauptet werden, dass durch
das Zusammenspiel des Besonderen und Regionalen sich das Universale
herauskristallisiert, was widerum für die neue europäische Literatur eine
wesentliche Rolle spielen wird.
Selbstverständlich hat es Interkulturalität in der Literatur schon immer
gegeben. Das, was allerdings neu ist, ist die Häufigkeit des Phänomens und die
wachsende Bedeutung in der heutigen Zeit. In einer Zusammenfassung der
Forschungsschwerpunkte einer interkulturellen Literaturwissenschaft führt Karl
Esselborn vier große Hauptbereiche an. Nach der Literatur der deutschen
Auswanderer nach Übersee, der Literatur der Arbeitsmigration in Deutschland,
der der Umgesiedelten und Heimatvertriebenen ist die letzte Gruppe die der
Minderheitenliteraturen im Ausland, beziehungsweise der weitgehend nach
Deutschland vertriebenen rumäniendeutschen Literatur8. Jedoch setzt Esselborn
hier seine Gedanken fort in dem Sinne, das die Grenzen zwischen dieser
Literatur und der von ihm so benannten ausländerdeutschen Literatur relativ
klar gekennzeichnet seien. Ich hingegen wähle einen Ansatz, der an die
dekonstruktivistische postmoderne Haltung von Aglaia Blioumi9 anlehnt, denn
meines Erachtens weist die Literatur rumäniendeutscher Autoren viele
Gemeinsamkeiten mit der Literatur ausländischer Autoren in Deutschland auf.
Gemeinsam ist nicht nur der Außenseiterstatus, sondern auch die Situierung in
einem Zwischenraum, den auch Immacolata Amodeo für die sogenannte
Gastarbeiterliteratur folgendermaßen beschreibt:
Spracherwerb und Sprachverlust gehen nebeneinander her. Der Ablöseprozeß
von den alten Wurzeln, der Status zwischen zwei Kulturen, wird immer als Gefährdung,
als angstbesetzte Persönlichkeitskrise erfahren.10
Ohne der rumäniendeutschen Literatur ihren Sonderstatus absprechen zu
wollen, sind die Ähnlichkeiten doch verblüffend. Auch nur die Tatsache, dass
zwei unterschiedliche Autoren, einerseits die rumäniendeutsche Literatur als
fünfte deutsche Literatur 11 andererseits die Gastarbeiterliteratur 12 als solche
angeben, ist ein Beweis dieses Sachverhaltes. In der Diskussion um eine
interkulturell angelegte Literaturwissenschaft wendet sich Immacolata Amodeo
7
8
9
10
11
12
Ebd., S. 198.
Siehe Esselborn 2001, S. 343.
Siehe Blioumi 2006, S. 14.
R. P. Carl zitiert nach Amodeo 1996, S. 37.
Vgl. dazu Ritter 1981, S 632 ff.
Vgl. Amodeo 1996, S. 40.
108
insbesondere gegen die ersten Theorien in den achtziger Jahren von Harald
Weinrich und Irmgard Ackermann, denen sie ethnozentristische und kolonialistische
Ansichten vorwirft. Ohne auf diese Polemik eingehen zu wollen, gibt Amodeos
Untersuchung jedoch interessante Hinweise auf die Perspektive der Autoren, die
sich teilweise mit denen der rumäniendeutschen Autoren decken. So wird zum
Beispiel das Gefühl der Heimatlosigkeit und der Unzugehörigkeit genannt, das
oft eine Rolle spielt 13 . Immacolata Amodeo spricht ferner von einer
Hierarchisierung und von dem Bestreben der Autoren auf den Status einer
Minderheitenliteratur zu kommen – was die Schlussfolgerung nahe legt, dass
diese als qualitativ höher eingestuft wird 14 . Diese Betrachtung würde eine
Diskussion über Wertung in den Fokus rücken, die aber im Rahmen des
vorliegenden Aufsatzes nicht geleistet werden kann.
Der Unterschied zu den von Gilles Deleuze und Félix Guattari benannten
kleinen Literaturen15 besteht allerdings laut Amodeo in der Tatsache, dass es
sich um keine klar umrissene und homogene Literatur handelt, was auch
durchaus stimmt. Die Vielfalt der Manifestation dieser Unzugehörigkeit,
gegeben durch die Entstehung und Steigerung verschiedenster kultureller
Begegnungen, und die immerzu wachsende Bedeutung interkultureller Bezüge
können als gemeinsame Nenner dieser Literatur betrachtet werden16. Somit liegt
es nahe, dass man bei den Minderheitenliteraturen und den gegenwärtigen
Literaturproduktionen von Autoren mit Migrationshintergrund gemeinsame
Nenner herausarbeiten könnte.
Ich bin der Meinung, dass ein kulturwissenschaftlicher Ansatz für diese
Untersuchung adäquat ist. Die von Thomas Göller vorgeschlagene Methode für
eine kulturvergleichende Literaturwissenschaft sollte dabei wegweisend sein,
denn erst eine Herausarbeitung der kulturspezifischen Charakteristika
gewährleistet den Texten eine wesentliche Bedeutung17.
Ein solcher vergleichender Blick wird auch mit diesem Forschungsvorhaben
beabsichtigt: es gilt es zu untersuchen, in wie weit das Verständnis und die
Interpretation literarischer Texte rumäniendeutscher Autoren nach 1990, durch
ihr interkulturelles Potential beeinflusst werden kann. Genauer wird die
Untersuchung sich auf zwei Aspekte konzentrieren. Auf der einen Seite werden
Bilder der Interkulturalität untersucht – dort wo in den literarischen Texten
bewusst mit Stereotypen und kulturellen Gehalten gearbeitet wird. Auf der
anderen Seite gilt es Textstellen ausfindig zu machen, in der eine fehlende
Kenntnis des kulturellen Referenzrahmens leicht zu Überinterpretation führen
13
Ebd., S. 52.
Siehe Amodeo 1996, S. 53 ff.
15
Das 1976 erschienene Buch von Gilles Deleuze und Félix Guattari Kafka: für eine kleine
Literatur spielt im Rahmen der interkulturell angelegten Literaturwissenschaft eine Pioniersrolle.
16
Siehe Amodeo 1996, S. 86 ff.
17
Vgl. hierzu Göller 2001, S. 35.
14
109
können. Für beide Aspekte wird es eine besondere Rolle spielen, wie diese
Texte in Deutschland wahrgenommen wurden. Selbstverständlich hat jede
Rezeption und jede Interpretation ihre Berechtigung, es handelt sich stets um
eine legitime Deutungsvielfalt bei einer fremdkulturellen Rezeption 18 , ich
erhoffe mir jedoch interessante Beispiele, der daraus entspringenden Pluralität.
Umso wichtiger ist die direkte Verbindung zu der Rezeptionsforschung, der
auch Norbert Mecklenburg eine fundamentale Rolle in der interkulturell
ausgelegten Literaturwissenschaft zusprach19. In diesem Zusammenhang ist der
Mechanismus, der sich bei der Erschließung von Leerstellen bei der Lektüre
fremdkultureller Texte einstellt interessant. Uta Schaffers spricht in diesem
Sinne von einem „Zwischen“ in dem sie nicht im Gadamerschen Sinne den Ort
der Hermeneutik sieht20, sondern einen positiven Ort der kulturellen Begegnung,
der interkulturellen Verständigung in einer transterritorialen Sphäre:
Mit einer Rezeptionshaltung, die universalisierend den eigenen Kontext absolut
setzt, wird ein möglicher Rest von Unverstehbarkeit, der aus der kuturellen Differenz
resultiert, >überlesen< und die Bedeutungszuschreibung vollzieht sich unter Verweigerung
der Anerkennung von Differenz. Der Rezipient liest in das Unvertraute Vertrautes hinein,
und eignet es sich, so weit es geht, an: Er füllt die Leerstellen, die der Text ihm bietet, mit
seiner Erfahrungswelt und übersetzt die sperrigen Textstellen als ungewöhnliche Darstellung
von eigentlich vertrautem. Das Andere wird angeeignet, assimiliert.21
Es geht also lediglich um die Konstitution von verschiedenen Bedeutungsebenen
und deren Vergleich. Nicht unwesentlich wird dabei sein, wie sich die Schriftsteller
selber zu diesen Sachverhalten positionieren. Im Sinne einer interkulturellen
Germanistik und einer kulturdifferenten Auslegung literarischer Texte charakterisiert
Thomas Göller im Anschluss an Dieter Krusche die Leerstellen als zweierlei:
diejenigen, die ein kulturelles Vorwissen erfordern und diejenigen, bei denen die
eigene Bestimmheit des Textes suspendiert ist22. Letzteres ist fundamental für die
differentierte Wahrnehmung von Texten. Göller erweitert im Anschluss an Scheifele
diesen Begriff der Leerstellen auch dahingehend, dass ihr Effekt bei der Rezeption
von späteren Lesern aus einer fremden Kultur gar nicht einzukalkulieren ist23.
Infolge der vorangehenden Betrachtungen empfiehlt sich für die Zwecke einer
kulturanalytisch geprägten Literaturwissenschaft die Definition von Kultur als einer
Dimension, einem Feld, einem Teilsystem der Gesellschaft, mit den Worten Norbert
Mecklenburgs als „gesellschaftliches Feld symbolischer Formen und Praxis, als signifying
system“24, das sich konsequent in der Literatur widerspiegelt und sich stets verändert.
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Siehe Ebd., S. 33 und Steinmetz 1992, S. 386 ff.
Vgl. Mecklenburg 2008, S. 23.
Vgl. hierzu Schaffers 2003, S. 356.
Ebd., S. 353.
Vgl. Göller 2001, S. 14.
Ebd.
Mecklenburg 2008, S. 15.
110
Innerhalb der Minderheitenliteraturen spielt die rumäniendeutsche Literatur
eine ganz besondere Rolle durch ihren ausgeprägt transnationalen Charakter
zumal Forscher wie Karl Esselborn von der Gegenwart als einem Zeitalter der
transnationalen Literaturen25 sprechen. Die systematische Analyse des interkulturellen
Potentials dieser Literatur kann demnach einen interessanten Beitrag zur
gegenwärtigen Forschung leisten. Wenn auch mitunter die Wirkung rumäniendeutscher
Literatur auf dem bundesdeutschen Buchmarkt als enttäuschend dargestellt
wird 26 , so ist es jedoch allgemein anerkannt, dass die rumäniendeutsche
Literatur in diesem Zusammenhang eine wichtige Ausnahmerolle spielt, nicht
zuletzt weil sich ihre Literatur zu zersetzen27 droht, genauso wie die Minderheit
selber. Besonders wichtig scheint mir dabei die Bemerkung, dass die Literatur
hier nicht erst durch Überschreitung der Herkunftsgrenzen interkulturell
geworden ist, sondern dass es sich dabei um eine interkulturell geprägte
Literatur per se handelt, durch den kulturell-geschichtlichen Kontext, dem sie
entspringt. Sie ist in dieser Hinsicht modern und wegweisend, denn in einem
vereinigten Europa wird es höchstwahrscheinlich der gemeinsame Nenner der
zukünftigen literarischen Produktionen sein, ähnlich wie in den multiethnischen
Staaten zuvor. Norbert Mecklenburg äußert in seinem Buch Das Mädchen aus
der Fremde. Germanistik als interkulturelle Literaturwissenschaft eine interessante
Bemerkung, da er festzustellen meint, dass es bei Celan eindeutige interkulturelle
Bezüge gibt, während es sich bei Herta Müller seiner Meinung nach um einen
Sieg der poetischen Alterität gegenüber der kulturellen handele 28 . Nach
Mecklenburg spiele es bei einer Celan Lektüre durchaus eine Rolle, ob man
etwas über die NS-Zeit weiß oder nicht, während es bei Herta Müller, wegen
der Metapherndichte weniger wichtig ist. Eine adäquate Leseart wäre in diesem
Fall mit oder ohne Kontext möglich. An diesem Punkt möchte ich Mecklenburg
widersprechen und unterstreichen, dass auch für das Verständnis der Texte von
Herta Müller das Hintergundwissen eine bedeutende Rolle spielen kann. In
dieser Hinsicht weise ich auf den Aufsatz von John J. White hin, A Romanian in
Germany: The Challenge of Ethnic and Ideological Identity in Herta Muller`s
Literary Work29, in dem der Autor die Wichtigkeit der täglichen Erfahrungen
für das Verständnis eines Textes hervorhebt. Meine These ist, dass man dem
Text interessante Metaphern zuschreiben kann, wenn der kulturelle Kontext
nicht bekannt ist, ohne dass die Bilder poetischen Metaphern entsprechen. Um
diese Behauptung zu stützen möchte ich an dieser Stelle zwei Erzählung
anführen, in denen die rumäniendeutsche Schriftstellerin und inzwischen
Nobelpreisträgerin Herta Müller auf ihre eigene Interkulturalität hinweist.
25
26
27
28
29
Siehe dazu Esselborn 2001, S. 336.
Vgl. Ebd., S. 457.
Siehe Mecklenburg 2008, S. 459 ff.
Vgl. White 2002, S. 75.
111
Im ersten Beispiel handelt es sich um die Erzählung Die Insel liegt
innen – die Grenze liegt außen30. Anhand des Begriffes Insel verdeutlicht Herta
Müller in dieser Geschichte die ganz unterschiedlichen Leseweisen der Bundesdeutschen
und der Rumäniendeutschen. Wenn die Ersteren sagen: man sei reif für die Insel,
meinen sie einen Ort der Flucht, ein entspannendes Exil, während für die
deutsche Minderheit gerade dieser Status einer Insel im rumänischen Kulturraum
traumatische Züge aufweist, genauso wie die kommunistische Vergangenheit:
Das Wort Inselglück hat für mich zwei auseinanderstrebende Teile. Das Wort
„Insel“ lässt das Wort „Glück“ nicht zu. Ich habe über dreißig Jahre in einer Diktatur
gelebt, jeder war für sich eine Insel und das ganze Land noch einmal. [...]
Ich kenne aus der Kindheit das Inselunglück. Alle bestehen daraus: die im Haus,
die im Dorf. Die Nachbardörfer waren zwei rumänische Dörfer, ein slowakisches und ein
ungarisches Dorf. Jedes für sich mit einer anderen Sprache, seinen Feiertagen, seiner
Religion, seiner Kleidung.31
Das zweite Beispiel stammt aus der Erzählung Bei uns in Deutschland
und erläutert, wie man mit einer innerdeutschen Interkulturalität bei alltäglichen
Beschäftigungen, wie dem Blumenkauf, auf ernüchternde Weise konfrontiert
werden kann:
Zweimal kaufte ich Blumen im selben Laden. Die Verkäuferin, eine Frau um die
Fünfzig, behielt mich vom einen zum anderen Mal im Gedächtnis. Da suchte sie mir zur
Belohnung für meine Wiederkehr die schönsten Löwenmäulchen aus dem Eimer, zögerte
ein wenig und fragte: „Was für eine Landsmännin sind Sie, sind Sie Französin?“ Weil ich
das Wort „Landsmännin“ nicht mag, zögerte ich auch, und es hing eine Schweigen
zwischen uns, bevor ich sagte: „Nein. Ich komme aus Rumänien.“ Sie sagte: „Na, macht
ja nichts.“, lächelte, als hätte sie plötzlich Zahnschmerzen. Es klang gütig, wie: kann ja
passieren, ist ja nur ein kleiner Fehler. Und sie hob den Blick nicht mehr, sah nur noch
auf den eingepackten Strauß. Es war ihr peinlich, sie hatte mich nämlich überschätzt.
Schon als ich „Löwenmäulchen“ verlangte, mußte ich mir denken: „In meinem
mitgebrachten Deutsch, in Rumänien heißen diese Blumen „Froschgöschl“, in der
Dorfsprache von zu Hause ganz direkt „Quaken“, also nur das Gesinge, welches die
Frösche von sich geben. Der Unterschied zwischen Löwen und Fröschen könnte nicht
größer sein, der Vergleich beider Tiere ist abwegig. Das deutschlanddeutsche
Löwenmäulchen ist ein grotesk überschätztes Froschmaul oder Froschquaken. Genauso
wurde ich ein paar Minuten später überschätzt.32
Wäre diese Erzählung von Herta Müller anders ausgefallen, weniger
berichtend, und hätte es im Text lediglich das Wort „Quaken“ gegeben, wäre es
durchaus möglich gewesen, es ohne Kenntnis der Gepflogenheiten im Banat, als
Metapher zu deuten und sich in der Interpretation zum Beispiels auf eine
mögliche Synästhesie dieses Bildes zu beziehen, das seine Wurzeln allerdings
30
31
32
Müller 2008 (1), S. 160 f.
Ebd.
Müller 2008 (2), S. 177 f.
112
nur in einer sprachlichen Verschiedenheit zwischen dem Hoch- und dem
Rumäniendeutschen hat. Ich fühlte mich in meiner Hypothese bestätigt, als mir
ein rumänischer Student, der als DAAD Stipendiat in Tübingen war, berichtete,
welche Frage bei einer Lesung Herta Müllers im November 2009 gestellt wurde:
der Gesprächspartener, Prof. Jürgen Wertheimer, fragte, ob sie Wörter wie
Meldekraut und Herzschaufel (es ging um den Roman Atemschaukel) erfunden
hätte. Die Deutung des Professors war naheliegend, er vermutete starke
Metaphern dahinter. Die Antwort war aber ganz überraschend für ihn – nein,
sagte Müller, diese Wörter gibt es tatsächlich. Sie erklärte sogar, welche
Funktion die Schaufel mit dem herzförmigen Blatt habe, und zwar die größeren
Stücke Kohle mit der scharfen Spitze brechen zu können. Demnach kann man
behaupten, dass sprachliche Elemente ein gutes Beispiel für das interkulturelle
Potential der Prosatexte rumäniendeutscher Autoren nach 1990 darstellen.
Ähnliche Bilder wie aus den Texten von Herta Müller finden sich auch
beispielsweise in der Prosa von Franz Hodjak, so auch in seinem Roman Ein
Koffer voll Sand, in dem die Hauptgestalt, Bernd Burger, durch das Bewusstsein,
er verwendet in seiner Muttersprache Wörter, die es im Duden de facto gar nicht
gibt, erst zum Sprachschöpfer wird:
Bernd Burger konnte den Haß nicht begreifen, der in diesen Sätzen steckte. Die
Sätze platzten vor Mord und Totschlag, und die Worte rechtfertigten alles. Während
Bernd Burger nachdachte und nicht wußte worüber, buserierte33 ihn eine Fliege. Dieses
Wort buserieren, aus dem er dann ein Hauptwort Buseration ableitete, ließ er sich
genüßlich auf der Zunge zergehen, weil es in keinem Wörterbuch verzeichnet war, und
vor Freude, daß es in keinem Wörterbuch verzeichnet war, erfand Bernd Burger Worte
wie Tschutschu oder Gurkulu, oder Pupunusch [...].34
In einem weiteren Roman von Franz Hodjak liegt das interkulturelle
Potential nicht im Bereich der dialektalen Unterschiede, sondern in den geschichtlichen
Gegebenheiten. Grenzsteine ist 1995 erschienen, also relativ schnell nach der
Übersiedelung des Schriftstellers in die Bundesrepublik, und der Text scheint in
erster Linie ein Roman der Verarbeitung jüngster kommunistischer Vergangenheit,
der Dezember Revolution 1989 und der so genannten rumänischen „societate de
tranzitie“, der Übergangsgesellschaft. Die Problematik der Grenze, die schon im
Titel aufgeworfen wird, ist zunächst die einer politischen und ideologischen
Grenze, die durch territoriale Beschränkungen verstärkt wird.
Der Roman beginnt in einer Auf- und Abbruchsstimmung. Die Hauptgestalt,
Harald Frank, entscheidet sich alle Zelte seiner bisherigen Existenz abzubrechen
und sie gegen ein kleines enges Zelt vor der Deutschen Botschaft in Bukarest
33
Das Wort „buserieren“ gibt es im Hochdeutschen nicht, man verwendet es allerdings laut
online-Wörterbuch in Österreich [http://www.oesterreichisch.net/oesterreich-1068-buserieren.html
abgerufen am 15.11.2010]
34
Hodjak 2003, S. 124.
113
einzutauschen, in dem er sich einquartieren will, um sich irgendwann in den
Westen begeben zu dürfen. Hier handelt es sich auch nicht um eine Metapher,
wie man vielleicht annehmen könnte, ähnlich wie in den Texten Herta Müllers,
sondern um eine Realität der bereits angesprochenen Übergangsgesellschaft.
Somit beginnt der Roman nicht etwa mit der Eröffnung von Spannungsfeldern
oder Problematisierungen, sondern mit der bewussten Akzeptanz einer
Übergangssituation in einem zwischenterritorialen Raum, der allerdings später
im Roman vielsagende ideologische Züge annimmt.
Trotz der Ekelgefühle die ihn anfangs auf der Reise befallen, passt
Harald Frank sich, im Zeltlager angekommen, den absurden Bedingungen und
Spielen perfekt an, und nimmt es sich fest vor, alles zu „überwarten“35, indem er
sich mit dem Zelt als neue Heimat abfindet und mit der Sturmlaterne seines
Großvaters wappnet. Der Raum vor der Botschaft wird zu einem exemplarischen
Schauplatz grotesker Bilder politischer Gegenwart: die ablehnende und
abwertende Haltung der Botschaftsvertreter, die Bergleute als Staatsmacht,
politische Parteien die sich blitzschnell, je nach Interessen und Absichten, unter
den Wartenden bilden, all dies ist in der rumänischen Geschichte der frühen
neunziger Jahre nachweisbar:
Ein Reporter rannte herbei. Er wurde sofort festgehalten. Im zelt bildeten sich
etliche Parteien, die eine war der Meinung, man solle den Reporter laufenlassen. Die
andere verkündete hartnäckig die Ansicht, man müsse ihn totschlagen, die dritte Partei
machte den Vorschlag, wenn man ihn schon gefangen habe, solle man ihn überreden oder
zwingen, das spiele im wesentlichen keine Rolle mehr, Spenden zu organisieren, die
restlichen Parteien enthielten sich, indem sie erklärten, sie seien in der Opposition.36
Überhaupt ist die Art der Darstellung dieser Episode im Roman
bezeichnend für Franz Hodjak – gekonnt grotesk stellt er die fragwürdige Rolle
politischer Parteien dar, sowie die endlosen Diskussionen, die sich anhand
lächerlicher Belange in solchen spannungsgeladenen Situationen entfalten.
Dennoch, kennt man die rumänische politische Wirklichkeit der frühen
neunziger Jahre nicht, entbehren diese Zeilen eines Resonanzbodens und
werden sicherlich ganz anders verstanden und gedeutet, wie bereits im Falle der
Texte von Herta Müller vorher beschrieben.
Ein weiterer wichtiger Aspekt dieser Analyse ist die Untrennbarkeit des
Phänomens Interkulturalität von dem der Identitätskonstituierung. Bettina
Baumgärtel widmet diesem Thema ihre Dissertation, wo sie für die
Migrantenliteratur folgendes festlegt und dadurch das wichtige Potential der
Literatur im interkulturellen Diskurs37 unterstreicht:
35
36
37
Hodjak 1995, S. 11.
Ebd., S . 18.
Vgl. dazu Baumgärtel 2000, S. 320.
114
Der Zugang zu Identitätskonzepten in der modernen deutschsprachigen Literatur
kann also nur im Spannungsfeld einer zweiseitigen Ausrichtung stehen, zum einen auf
ihre Validität im interkulturellen Diskurs, zum anderen auf ihre kulturspezifische,
anamnetische und wirkungsgeschichtliche Bedeutung hin.38
Die Identitätskonstituierung gestaltet sich in den Texten rumäniendeutscher
Autoren ausnahmslos schwierig. Gerade in der neu in der Öffentlichkeit entfachten
Diskussion über Integration und Migration kann dies ein interessanter Beitrag
sein – denn diese Autoren müssten eigentlich über die besten Voraussetzungen
verfügen, um sich integrieren zu können: sie sprechen Deutsch als Muttersprache
und leben nun schon seit Jahrzehnten in Deutschland. Und dennoch fällt es auf,
dass in keinem einzigen Text die kritische Gegenüberstellung des Mitgebrachten
und der Zielkultur, die eigentlich die eigene sein sollte, und sich dennoch verschließt,
fehlt. Ein sehr schönes Beispiel dafür finde ich die Erzählung Bei uns in
Deutschland von Herta Müller, in der die Autorin zu ihrem für bundesdeutsche
Verhältnisse leicht ungewöhnlichen Sprachgebrauch Stellung nimmt:
Deutsch ist meine Muttersprache. Ich verstand von Anfang an in Deutschland
jedes Wort. Alles durch und durch bekannte Wörter, und doch war die Aussage vieler
Sätze zwiespältig. Ich konnte die Situation nicht einschätzen, die Absicht, in der sie gesprochen
wurden. Ich ging den flapsigen Bemerkungen wie „Ist ja lustig“ nach, ich verstand sie als
Nachsätze. Ich begriff nicht, dass sie sich als beiläufiges Seufzen verstanden, nichts Inhaltliches
meinten, sondern bloß: „Ach so“ oder „Tja“. Ich nahm sie als volle Sätze, dachte,
„lustig“ bleibt das Gegenteil von traurig. In jedem gesagten Wort, glaubte ich, muß eine
Aussage sein, sonst wäre es nicht gesagt worden. Ich kannte das Reden und das Schweigen,
das Zwischenspiel von gesprochenem Schweigen ohne Inhalt kannte ich nicht.39
Noch intensiver ist das Gefühl des nicht Ankommens in der Urheimat in
den Werken Richard Wagners. Explizit gestaltet er in seinen Texten interkulturelle
Spannungen, deren Gründe sich aus Stereotypen nähren. So auch in der Erzählung
Begrüßungsgeld, wie es folgendes Zitat beweist:
Stirner wusste nicht, wie er sich verhalten sollte.
Ich kenne die Umgangsformen hier nicht, sagte er.
Ich habe ständig den Eindruck, mich falsch zu verhalten.
[...]
Es ist zuviel, sagte sie, wir sind überfordert.
Sie saßen in der Berliner Wohnung, und sie kamen sich vor, als wären sie allein auf der Welt.
Sie übersetzten an der Welt, aber die Welt blieb, was sie war.40
Oft wählt Richard Wagner interkulturelle Ehen, um die Stereotypen besser
im Kontrast darstellen zu können. So beispielsweise in seinem Roman Miss Bukarest,
38
39
40
Ebd., S. 33.
Müller (2) 2008, S. 177 f.
Wagner 2002, S. 101.
115
in dem die interkulturelle Ehe zwischen Lotte, der Deutschen, und Dino, eigentlich
Dinu, dem Rumänen dargestellt wird. Der ganze Roman zeigt die Gegenüberstellung
eigentlich unvereinbarer Lebens- und Kulturmodelle, angefangen von der
Rollenaufteilung in der Familie und bis zu erzieherischen Ansichten. Auch hier,
spielt das Verhalten bei einem Begräbnis eine wichtige Rolle, und Wagner zeichnet
ein vielsagendes Bild der seit Jahrhunderten herrschenden kulturellen Unterschiede:
Der Ordnungssinn der Lehrerin macht sich in allem bemerkbar. Deutsche
Ordnung haben wir früher in Rumänien gesagt. Man konnte es bis zu den Begräbnissen
hin beobachten. Die Deutschen in den siebenbürgischen Dörfern schritten diszipliniert in
Reihen hinter dem Sarg her, die Rumänen liefen wir ein ungeordneter Haufen. Ein
sympathischer ungeordneter Haufen, über den die Geschichte hinweggeht.41
Somit können solche Texte auch als Quelle kulturellen Wissens42 fungieren
und sind umso ergiebiger, wenn sich der Widerspruch und die Gegenüberstellung
so explizit realisiert, wie im Falle dieses Fragmentes von Richard Wagner.
Überhaupt wäre eine ethnologisch orientierte interkulturelle Analyse der
Darstellung des Todes ein sehr interessanter Aspekt der Forschung. Zeigen sich
doch diese Bilder oft in den Texten der rumäniendeutschen Autoren. Franz Hodjak
gestaltet in seinem Roman Grenzsteine ein originelles Todesbild in der Gestalt
eines alten kleinen Weibleins, das der Hauptgestalt Harald Frank nach einer Irrfahrt
mit dem Zug in einem Zwischengrenzgebiet, in einem transterritorialen Raum, am
Ende seiner Reise begegnet. Erst in Anwesenheit dieser Gestalt reflektiert
Harald Frank über seinen Status. Im letzten Dialog entdeckt er die absolute
Identitätslosigkeit, die ihm durch den ewigen Zwischenstatus auferlegt wurde:
Bevor das alte Weiblein die Autotüre zumachte, fragte es, Sabine43, sag mir jetzt, ist
es dir egal, wo du stirbst?
Ja, sagte Harald Frank.
Und ist es dir ebenso gleichgültig, in welcher Erde du begraben wirst?
Ja.
Hast du überhaupt eine Identität?
Nein.
Das Weiblein küsste Harald Frank auf die Stirn und sagte, Sabine, dann bist du glücklich.
Jede Identität ist ein Fluch, der dich bis ans Ende des Lebens verfolgt, da kannst du
machen, was du willst, es hilft nichts, der Fluch lässt nicht locker, keinen Augenblick.44
41
Wagner 2001, S. 34.
Julianne Roth vom Institut für Interkulturelle Kommunikation an der LMU, München ist
dieser Frage unter anderem in einem Hauptseminar im WiSe 09 nachgegangen. Ich erhoffe mir
auch im Rahmen dieses Forschungsaufenthaltes in detaliierten Gesprächen mit ihr zu eruieren, zu
welchen Schlussfolgenrungen, sie inzwischen gelangt ist.
43
Die Hauptgestalt Harald Frank hatte sich zuvor als Frau verkleidet und die Identität
„Sabine“ angenommen.
44
Hodjak 1995, S. 198.
42
116
Die Reise in Franz Hodjaks Roman endet somit in einem Raum der
Zeitlosigkeit, der frei von Zugehörigkeit jeder Art ist, sei es eine gesellschaftliche,
politische oder religiöse. Es ist ein abstrakter weißer Raum der durch die
Entkoppelung, auch Erlösung und die Freiheit bringt, nach der Franz Hodjaks
Hauptgestalt sich immer gesehnt hatte.
Hier sind nur einige wenige Beispiele angeführt – Ziel des Forschungsaufenthaltes
ist eine umfassende Darstellung dieser Problematik in der Prosa rumäniendeutscher
Autoren nach 1990, die interdisziplinär ausgerichtet werden soll und deren
Ergebnisse anhand der Rezeptionstexte überprüft werden.
Ich möchte des Weiteren explizit darauf hinweisen, dass diese Art der
Auslegung keinesfalls die Absicht verfolgt, die Texte rumäniendeutscher
Autoren auf ihren kulturellen Hintergrund zu reduzieren, sondern lediglich
einen Beitrag zum aktuellen Stand der Forschung im Bereich interkutureller
Literatur zu leisten, in dem Sinne, dass ich glaube, dass man sich eines immer
komplexeren Instrumentariums der Analyse bedienen muss, um solche Texte zu
interpretieren und auch dass im Falle dieser Autoren eine besondere Berücksichtigung
ihres kulturellen Hintergrunds unumgänglich ist, deswegen auch die Bedeutung
der konkreten Aussagen der Autoren. Ich sehe diese Problematik vor allem in
einem größeren Zusammenhang einer Neupositionierung der Diskussion um
kulturelle Räume und Interkulturalität in einem Europa nach 1990, in dem die
Mobilität eine zentrale Rolle spielt und umfangreiche Verschiebungen
stattfinden. Nicht unwichtig ist, dass sich die Autoren der rumäniendeutschen
Literatur teils selber so sehen, wie es folgendes Zitat aus Erwin Wittstocks
Roman Das jüngste Gericht in Altbirk zeigt:
Ich gestehe, daß mich bei Dichtern, die heute viel genannt werden – Nietzsche,
Ibsen, Strindberg, Zola usw. – manches fasziniert. Was se schauen. Was sie können. Ihre
Kunst, Schlüsse zu ziehen. Ihr Sozialismus genaosu wie ihre aristokratischen Auffassungen.
Doch kaum, daß ich etwas von ihnen gelesen habe, komme ich von ihnen auch schon ab.
Sie können mir bei meiner Aufgabe nicht helfen. Sie schrieben für zahllose – für
Millionen – Leser, die in ihrer Vorstellung eine gleichartige gestige Haltung,gleichartige
Lebensform und gleichartige Ideen haben. Ich aber lebe im Land der Unterschiede von
Tür zu Tür, Haus zu Haus und Volk zu Volk. Wer mich verstehen will, muß meine
Elastizität im Denken und Fühlen besitzen, die ihm ermöglicht, unsere Vergangenheit und
Gegenwart in ihrer besonderheit zu verfolgen und zu dem Besonderen zu verbinden, das mir
als Spiegelbild unseres Daseins, mit allen Freuden und Nöten, für mein Volk vorschwebte.45
Wenn man dieses Zitat liest, merkt man, dass es eigentlich auch auf viele
andere deutschsprachige Autoren unserer Zeit zutreffen könnte, die alle ganz
unterschiedliche Hintergründe und Lebenswege haben: Zafer Senocak, Yoko
Tawada, Sevgi Özdamar, Ilja Trojanow oder auch Catalin Dorian Florescu, um
nur einige der Namen zu nennen.
45
Wittstock 1972, S. 127, zitiert auch in Mecklenburg 2008, S. 466.
117
Norbert Mecklenburg vertritt in seinen Ausführungen die These, dass
regionale Literaturen den allgemeinen Geltungsanspruch gerade daher
gewinnen, dass sie sich ins Besondere versinken46, und gerade das wird meines
Erachtens auch der gemeinsame Nenner, der in Europa produzierten Literatur
sein – das Besondere wird durch die Mischung interkultureller Elemente
gegeben. Was Mecklenburg heute noch als symptomatisch für die Minderheiten
und Migrantenliteratur angibt, wird immer mehr Bedeutung gewinnen und nicht
nur in der deutschsprachigen Literatur:
Damit bietet sich für den Begriff der Interkulturalität in Hinblick auf
Minderheiten- und Migrantenliteratur nicht nur ein literaturhistorischer und soziologischer,
sondern auch ein literaturkritischer Gebrauch an: verstanden nämlich als interkulturelles
Potential literarischer Werke, als ihr Vermögen, für Kulturunterschiede zu sensibilisieren,
Vorurteile und Stereotype in Frage zu stellen, für Menschen anderer Kulturen Verständnis
und Achtung zu wecken. In diesem evaluativen Sinne ist deutschsprachige Literatur im
Ausland als eine Regionalliteratur in multikulturellen Regionen, ebenso wenig von Natur
aus durchgängig als interkulturell anzusprechen, wie deutsche Migrantenliteratur in einer
multikulturellen Gesellschaft. Ein interkulturelles Potential muss am einzelnen Text erschlossen
und bewertet werden, und zwar als Teil seines poetischen Potentials. Kulturelle Alterität
wird angemessen nur als poetische Alterität literarisch ins Spiel gebracht.47
Somit könnte man die rumäniendeutsche Literatur nach 1990 nicht nur
als fünfte deutsche Literatur, als Subkultur charakterisieren, sondern auch als
eine Literatur der kulturellen Überlagerung, die im Kontext des neuen europäischen
Raums zum tragenden Merkmal wird48. Auch hier wäre es interessant weiter zu
verfolgen, in wie weit diese Überlagerung nach der Übersiedlung in die
Bundesrepublik präsenter wird. Sozusagen das Überschreiten der Grenze als
Bewusstwerden der Alterität und als Beginn des Kampfes der Individualität.
Dies wäre sicherlich nicht zuletzt im Rahmen der aktuellen Integrationsdebatte
in Deutschland interessant – wenn man bedenkt, dass diese Autoren die besten
Voraussetzungen haben, sich komplett zu integrieren und man dennoch
ausnahmslos in allen Romanen spürt, wie schwierig es sich mit dem Thema
Integration verhält, um auf die Episode im Blumenladen in Herta Müllers
Erzählung Bei uns in Deutschland zurückzukommen.
Die logische Schlussfolgerung der vorangehenden Betrachtungen ist
somit, dass der kulturelle Rahmen für die Rezeption der Texte rumäniendeutscher
Autoren nach 1990 eine wesentliche Rolle spielt, ohne dabei in irgendeiner
Form auf eine Kategorisierung in richtig oder falsch zu verfallen. Die Resultate
der Betrachtungen sind genauso gültig wie vielfältig subjektiv. Diese Texte sind
Texte, in denen wir Zeugen einer Abgrenzung zwischen den Kulturen aber auch
eines abwechselnden Lernprozesses werden. Sie sind Ausdrücke der Vielfalt, in
46
47
48
Ebd., S. 473 f.
Siehe auch Mecklenburg 2008, S. 473.
118
der eine ethnozentrische Isolierung undenkbar ist und gar nicht erst
überwunden49 werden muss. Bezeichnenderweise malt Franz Hodjak in seinem
Roman Ein Koffer voll Sand karrikierte Bilder einer authentischen
Internationalität in einem historisch multikulturellen Gebiet: Siebenbürgen. In
einer Episode des Romans geht es um einen erfolglosen Bahnhofvorsteher, der
am Ende seines Arbeitslebens gezwungen ist, da sein Bahnhof stillgelegt wird,
auf einem Friedhof zu arbeiten. Es wird zu seiner größten Genugtuung, zuerst
die Kreuze und dann sogar die Leichen der unterschiedlichen Minderheiten zu
vertauschen, ohne dass der Missstand entdeckt wird. Es ist seine Art eine
Gemeinsamkeit, eine Transnationalität zumindest in der Transzendenz zu
erreichen – in der Absicht einen wahrhaftigen Internationalismus zu erzeugen:
Er vertauschte diskret die Grabsteine und Kreuze auf den Gräbern, weil er sich
sagte, jeder soll für den Toten des anderen beten, nur so kommt Internationalismus auf.
Schließlich ging er so weit, daß er nachts in der Leichenhalle jeden Toten aus seinem
Sarg umbettet in einen anderen Sarg und so beerdigte jede Trauergemeinschaft einen
anderen Toten. Er war der Meinung, nur so kann tasächlich Frieden auf Erden sein. Dabei
blühte er buchstäblich auf. Acht Jahre hat er das gemacht [...] und als er starb, lag so viel
Zufriedenheit in seinem Blick, eine Zufriedenheit, die größer war als das vereinte Europa,
von dem wir nun sprechen.50
Eine interkulturelle Leseart solcher Texte kann nur aus der Verbindung
unterschiedlicher Perspektiven entstehen. Einem Text mit einem komplexen
kulturellen Rahmen wird man nur gerecht, wenn man versucht diesen Rahmen
in verschiedene Spiegel zu reflektieren. Und so eine Vorgehensweise, wie sie
beispielsweise von Hans Gehl für die Belange der multiethnischen Gebiete OstEuropas beschrieben wird51, wird in einem Europa, in dem die Kulturkontakte
ständig zunehmen, zur adäquaten Herangehensweise. Ich möchte hierin explizit
solchen Meinungen, wie der von Michael Böchler widersprechen, dass eine
kulturdifferente Lektüre eines Textes mit Germanistik-Studenten nicht möglich
wäre52. Meine Lehrerfahrung zeigt, dass nach einer entsprechenden Sensibilisierung
und einer gezielten Formulierung einer Arbeitshypothese die Resultate sehr interessant
sein können. Im Sommersemester 2010 bot ich an der Universität Bukarest ein
Hauptseminar zum Thema: „Interkulturelle Elemente in den literarischen Texten
49
Wierlacher und Eichheim bekunden in ihrem 1992 erschienenen Aufsatz Der Pluralismus
kulturdifferenter Lektüren. Zur ersten Diskussionsrunde am Beispiel von Kellers Pankraz, der
Schmoller, dass eine interkulturelle Germanistik ethnozentrische Isolierung überwinden helfen
kann. In: Jahrbuch Deutsch als Fremdsprache, Bd. 18/1992, München: 1992, S. 373.
50
Hodjak 2003, S. 17.
51
Vgl. Gehl 2002, S. 23.
52
Michael Böchler sollte als Teilnehmer des Workshops Der Pluralismus kulturdifferenter
Lektüren. Zur ersten Diskussionsrunde am Beispiel von Kellers Pankraz, der Schmoller mit
seinen schweizer Germanistik Studenten diese Texte lesen und interpretieren, was er verweigert,
mit der Begründung, Germanistik-Studenten seien sowieso das Generalisieren gewohnt und ein
solches Unterfangen wäre von vornherein zum Scheitern verurteilt. (Vgl. Böchler 1992, S. 518).
119
deutscher Autoren mit rumänischem Hintergrund“ an. Alle 28 Teilnehmer dieses
Seminars verstanden auf Anhieb die Problematik, konnten sich für eine kulturorientierte
Lektüre begeistern und das Resultat waren sehr interessante Fallstudien, die ohne
eine entsprechende referenzielle Rückbindung nicht möglich gewesen wären.
In die Texte rumäniendeutscher Autoren fließen umfangreiche kulturelle
Erfahrungen mit ein, deswegen müssen sie im Anschluss an Doris BachmannMedick und James Clifford als Knotenpunkte, Schnittstellen von Diskursen und
Konventionen 53 betrachtet werden. Daher auch meine feste Überzeugung der
Produktivität einer solchen Herangehensweise, nicht zuletzt im Hinblick auf
eine exponenzielle Steigerung der kulturspezifischen Symbolisierungen in einer
europäischen Wirklichkeit. Im vereinten Europa schwinden nicht nur die
territorialen Grenzen, sondern auch die kulturellen zwischen einem Eigenen und
Fremden. Das was entsteht ist eine Welt von Zwischenschaftlern54, die auch für
die rumäniendeutsche Literatur nach 1990 symptomatisch ist.
Die eigentliche Fremde liegt nicht (mehr) in der räumlichen Ferne; sie liegt
>dazwischen<, direkt nebenan, am Rande der Asphaltpisten.55
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TIME, MEMORY AND NARRATION
IN W. G. SEBALD’S AUSTERLITZ
JUDIT PIELDNER∗
The present paper investigates the possibility of reconstructing the personal and collective
past related to the Holocaust trauma of European history. W. G. Sebald’s Austerlitz asserts the
ethical responsibility of remembering, but profoundly questions the accessibility of the past due to
the act of mediation inherent in it. Besides the temporal references implied by Austerlitz’s journey
in search for his “own” self, and besides the epistemological uncertainty arising from the
indexicality of photographs inserted into the text, the paper focuses on Austerlitz’s strategies of
manipulating his own perception of time, experiencing the relativity of time, the epiphanic
moments of simultaneity, juxtaposing past and present in a palimpsest-like manner and perceiving
time in spatial configurations. The paper examines the narrative and discursive features of
Sebald’s text, focusing on the tropes of reading which turn the trauma of discontinuity of the self
into the pleasure of the text.
Keywords: memory, trauma, simultaneity, discontinuity, indexicality.
1. W. G. Sebald, the Emigrant – W. G. Sebald’s Emigrants
I wish to start the present investigation with a time reference: the year
2001 indicates, drastically and unchangeably, the birth of W. G. Sebald’s fourth
novel, entitled Austerlitz, and the death of the author, unfortunately not merely
in the Barthesian sense, but actually, in a road accident. The preoccupation of
the novel itself with the complex interconnectedness between life and writing,
the huge amount of “life” accumulated on the pages of the novel call the
biographical data back from the exile of contemporary literary theory, and mark
the author’s death as a significant moment of literary history and literary
criticism, when Winfried Georg Sebald (1944–2001), author of the novels
entitled Vertigo (1990), The Emigrants (1992), The Rings of Saturn (1995) and
finally Austerlitz (2001), emigrates once and for all from contemporary
literature to the realm of the classics.
Prior to this moment of “emigration”, W. G. Sebald used to be an
emigrant of German literature: he was born in Wertach, Germany; he worked as
a secondary school teacher in Switzerland, then he moved to Norwich, East
∗
University lecturer, Sapientia University, Miercurea Ciuc, Romania; e-mail: [email protected]
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England, where he became member of the university staff. His significant works,
both in the field of belles lettres and that of literary criticism, became known
after 1990. Thus, for Sebald emigration is both a personal experience and a
literary preoccupation, what is more, the boundary between the personal and the
literary can never be localized with exactness. It may be due to the “migrant”
character of his oeuvre – both in terms of authorial biography and textual
reference – that W. G. Sebald’s prose seems to have had a greater echo in Great
Britain and in the United States than in Germany. As Mark Richard McCulloh
states: “Ironically, despite numerous literary prizes in his homeland, he seems to
have struck a chord with English-speaking readers to a greater extent than with
his fellow Germans. Part of the reason for this is precisely his ‘Europeanness’ in
the minds of English-speaking readers; his idiosyncratic prose has a distinctly
exotic appeal” (McCulloh 2003: 25).
The predominant feature of his novels is the oscillation between fact and
fiction, between memoir-like documentation and imagination, between private
memories and the interpersonal heritage of cultural memory. The map of
emigration of Sebald’s protagonists is in fact the map of Europe, modelling a
geo-cultural terrain determined by the continuous confrontation between the self
and the other, the private and the collective, the familiar and the foreign.
Sebald’s heroes seem to be lost on the map of Europe and on the map of their
own identity: they desperately try to find themselves and their roots in this
territory, which is but a land of foreignness, a land of incurable, open wounds
that remind of past traumas. Sebald is preoccupied with the relationship
between the collective experience called history and the dramas inherent in
personal fates: the events that have become part of the collective consciousness,
speak of – or more often, repress into deep silence – the dramas of individual
bodies and personal relations. Similarly, public places allude to the individual
atoms that they are composed of.
Thus, what survives past traumas undergoes a “sea change” and becomes,
in the best case, a place of cult, a place of obligatory memory. Austerlitz, the
spatial reference of the eponymous hero of Sebald’s last novel, is such a place:
the scene of the Battle of Austerlitz, also known as the Battle of the Three
Emperors (1805), one of Napoleon’s greatest victories, bears the burden of a
huge number of dead soldiers, horses and local people; now it is a place of
annual feasts, reviving the past in the annual reenactment of the Battle of
Austerlitz, but at the same time, definitely blurring the former faces and voices
and pushing them back into a never again namable past. Besides, the fact that
Sebald gives the name of a place to his protagonist reveals his concept
according to which there is a profound interconnectedness between the self and
its spatial determination: the space, the unfolded map becomes the living body
of memory, the only possibility, in fact, for us to preserve memories and to pass
on memories that are not even our own.
TIME, MEMORY AND NARRATION IN W. G. SEBALD’S AUSTERLITZ
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Besides the above outlined predominant feature that W. G. Sebald’s
novels share, further common thematic, narrative and stylistic features can be
enumerated, without risking a too long list: the novels resort to first-person-narration,
the (primary) narrator being/resembling the author’s figure, Sebald himself,
being on the road, all’estero, that is, abroad. Thus, the texts conform to the
generic requirements of memoirs and travel journals, and employ a flowing,
sophisticated, essay-like style, which moves his works towards the boundary
between fiction and non-fiction. And, maybe the most interesting feature of the
Sebaldian prose is that textual references are completed, counterpointed by
illustrations, photos, paintings, drawings, maps, various reproductions that are
systematically inserted into the body of the texts.
These common features however also make possible certain shifts in emphasis.
For instance, in Sebald’s prose works preceding Austerlitz blurring the boundary
between memoir and fiction is not so emphatic as in his last novel, where this
epistemological uncertainty is even reinforced by the insertion of the photos,
which contribute, on their own, to further blurring the silhouettes of fact and fiction.
2. Access to Memories: the Mediated Self in Austerlitz
The author of Austerlitz, more precisely, its narrator, even more precisely,
its (primary and secondary) narrators seem to be most profoundly preoccupied
with the transmittedness, the mediated character of storytelling. The storyline
unfolds in accordance with the meeting occasions, in various scenes in Europe,
of Sebald’s primary narrator and Jacques Austerlitz, the secondary narrator,
who conveys his “own” story, often quoting other implied people – further
implied narrators – for the primary narrator to write it down with the implicit
purpose of further tramsmitting it to the reader.
Obviously, multiple narration is not a contemporary invention (a similar
narrative procedure can be witnessed already in Emily Brontë’s Wuthering
Heights), however, with Austerlitz, the reader may have the impression of some
kind of novelty and unprecedentedness as concerns the employed narrative
technique, as here multiple narration does not serve the introduction of a
subjective filter that makes the reader reflect upon the mediated nature, the
inaccessibility of reality; here this filter is inserted between the secondary
narrator, Austerlitz and his own self, his own past, and the reader is invited to
share this experience of inaccessibility. At every turn, at every corner of the text
the reader is reminded of the manyfold mediatedness of narration by such
formulae as “said Austerlitz, said Věra”. These embedded narratorial voices
further mediate something that is becoming ever closer and ever more distant at
the same time, resulting in the dizziness of confusion. Austerlitz desperately
tries to find the traces of his own lost past, and as he gets closer, in parallel he
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also gets convinced that the deprivation of memories cannot be cured by a
simple act of refilling the tanks of memory.
The meeting occasions between the first-person narrator and the third-person
Austerlitz transform the repetitive attempts of transmitting Austerlitz’s story
into a ritual, thus, the act of storytelling acquires a surplus, it becomes a self-imposed
rite of preservation, also involving the impression that the ultimate, total
conveyance is doomed to failure from the start. Close to the ending of the book,
we can read the following sentence: “I took the book Austerlitz had given me on
our first meeting in Paris out of my rucksack” (Sebald 2002: 412). It is not the
book that can be regarded here as the sign of transmission, though this could be
taken for granted, but rather the rucksack: on one of the earlier pages of the
book the reader can see a photo of Austerlitz’s rucksack, similar to the one
Wittgenstein used to wear; the similitude of the rucksacks alludes to the fact that
those wearing them are soulmates, and the Sebald-like primary narrator also
joins their spiritual community by taking over the ethical task of remembering
and of conveying, writing down Austerlitz’s “own” story: “Austerlitz also
reminds us that the ethics of memory requires the necessity not of the silence
Wittgenstein invokes at the end of the Tractatus (…), but of an ongoing
journeying into new literary genres” (Straus 2009: 43).
The “own” proves to be the most problematic issue for Austerlitz. The
absence of memories related to his roots and early childhood urges him to start a
private investigation and to explore his past. In the period immediately
following World War II he is raised by a couple called Elias in Wales, in a dark
and pressing environment that is inexplicably foreign to him. At the deathbed of
his step-father he finds out that his real name is not Dafydd Elias but Jacques
Austerlitz, however, he gets back nothing else but his name, sounding utterly
foreign to him, from his obscure, effaced past. The ambitious adolescent finds
out that his name coincides with a placename from Moravia, a battle scene from
the early nineteenth century. The adolescent boy turns into a young scholar,
who dedicates himself to research, pursued both as a profession and as a
personal urge having the ultimate goal of finding himself. His confessions to the
Sebald-narrator display the episodes of this quest for the self.
However, his previous stage of life, when he lived his life being separated
from the memories of his origins and early childhood, cannot simply be
replaced by another stage that directly leads to the happy ending of finding
oneself. In other words, finding oneself is losing thousands of other possibilities
of being other selves. Finding oneself is another trauma: the found identity
brings along the burden of collective memories, of the traumatic past of an
ethnic community. The act of remembering creates, on the one hand, the
illusion of the accessibility of the past, but on the other, due to the very act of
mediation, the past remains foreign and, in the last instance, inaccessible. The
reader gradually realizes, together with Austerlitz, that closeness and distance,
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familiarity and foreignness, the self and the other are not opposing poles but
different terms that label the same issue, the same phenomenon.
3. Archiving the Past: the Spatio-Temporality of Memory
Austerlitz, the young scholar doing research into architecture, barricades
himself from the mnemic void – a black hole – that splits him from his origins.
Psychoanalytically speaking, he represses his wish to reveal the truth about his
origins. He applies a twofold strategy: on the one hand, he accounts for history
as if it had come to an end at the end of the nineteenth century, leaving – half
willing, half unaware – the pages of his knowledge about the twentieth century
empty; on the other hand, he constructs a huge building of knowledge in himself, as
if reviving the scholarly ideals and practice of nineteenth-century positivism,
led by the conviction that archiving as much knowledge as possible about the
past constitutes the only way that guarrantees the possibility of reconstructing
the past. Austerlitz confesses the following to the primary narrator:
As far as I was concerned, the world ended in the late nineteenth century. I dared
go no further than that, although in fact the whole history of the architecture and
civilization of the bourgeois age, the subject of my research, pointed in the direction of the
catastrophic events already casting their shadow before them at the time. I did not read
newspapers because, as I now know, I feared unwelcome revelations, I turned on the radio
only at certain hours of the day, I was always refining my defensive reactions, creating a
kind of quarantine or immune system which, as I maintained my existence in a smaller
and smaller space, protected me from anything that could be connected in any way,
however distant, with my own early history. Moreover, I had constantly been preoccupied
by that accumulation of knowledge which I had pursued for decades, and which served as
a substitute or compensatory memory. (Sebald 2001: 201)
Thus, Austerlitz’s immense effort of archiving in the manner of a
positivist scholar, meant to collect knowledge referring to the past in order to
provide the desired access to history, turns out to be a “substitute” or
“compensatory” activity that is meant to protect him from being confronted
with the true knowledge of his own self. In this way, the “archive fever”
(Derrida 1995) proves to be but an artificial substitute of memory, a means of
continuous postponement of the moment of completion, in the Derridean sense
of the infinite regress of the ultimate signified. J. J. Long defines Austerlitz’s
personality as embodying the “archival subject”:
The archive is both a symptom of Austerlitz’s lack of memory and, at the moment
of discovery that constitutes the provisional telos of the narrative, the resource of the cure.
There is thus no escape: Austerlitz seems to represent an extreme example of a subject
constituted entirely by the archive. (Long 2007: 20)
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In terms of knowledge, Austerlitz is led by opposing forces; he
accumulates knowledge just to keep another set of knowledge apart, however, it
is only later on that he realizes his own drives and motivations. He wishes to
reestablish his connections with the real dimensions of the burdened European
collective consciousness; however, this means leaving the artificially created
“quarantine” behind and risking a profoundly personal confrontation.
The gap that has been formed between Austerlitz’s present consciousness
and his absent past, the split that separates him from his own past (and) self,
push the question of time – the temporality of existence as well as the
perception of time – to the forefront. In the building of the Centraal Station
from Antwerp – the scene of the first meeting of Austerlitz and the Sebaldnarrator –, Austerlitz points at the symbols displaying the values of the
nineteenth century. Among all, time occupies the highest position:
The movements of all travellers could be surveyed from the central position
occupied by the clock in Antwerp Station, and conversely all travellers had to look up at
the clock and were obliged to adjust their activities to its demands. In fact, said Austerlitz,
until the railway timetables were synchronized the clocks of Lille and Liège did not keep
the same time as the clocks of Ghent and Antwerp, and not until they were all standardized
around the middle of the nineteenth century did time truly reign supreme. It was only by
following the course time prescribed that we could hasten through the gigantic spaces
separating us from each other. (Sebald 2001: 14)
The building of the Centraal Station stands as a memento of the
nineteenth century, inserted into the present. For Austerlitz – not only for the
scholar, but also for the individual, if the two can ever be separated – buildings
bear a special relevance, as they remind us of the past, of a past about which we
do not dispose of personal memories; it is the very role of these buildings to
convey the spirit of the past for us, and in this way, past becomes part of our
own presence, past becomes our own. Besides, buildings also remind us of the
functioning of memory, which is not only temporal, but maybe even more
significantly, also spatial: we can recollect memories par excellence through
moving to and fro in space, through collecting scenes, spectacles, voices and
smells, and in this way a – Proustian – repeated, re-generated spatial and
sensory experience will serve as the basis of memories.
The railroad stations are highly preferred by Austerlitz (the closure of the
novel will reveal the real reason for this preference), they connect space and
time, being chronotopes themselves. Austerlitz formulates the idea that time and
space share the same nature, which can be experienced on the occasion of a
journey: “And indeed, said Austerlitz after a while, to this day there is
something illusionistic and illusory about the relationship of time and space as
we experience it in traveling, which is why whenever we come home from
elsewhere we never feel quite sure if we have really been abroad” (Sebald 2002: 14).
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At the same time, buildings constitute the upper, visible layer in the actual
structure of a city; the previous states are in part revealed, in part concealed, in
other words, architecture stands the closest to the logic of memory, sharing its
palimpsest-like configuration. This also implies an ethical dimension: what is
that should be revealed for the coming generations to remember, and what is to
be concealed, as it is a shameful and painful memento of the past? Austerlitz
makes reference to the National Library from Paris: it is a building with
inhuman proportions, disregarding the real necessities of the visiting reader. As
a result of Austerlitz’s research into the history of the building, it turns out that
prior to the building of today’s library, there used to be a huge storehouse in its
place. By the end of World War II the Germans used that storehouse to store the
possessions expropriated from the Jews. The monumentality and inhumanity of
the actual building becomes a way of expression, a possible attitude to the past:
repression, ignorance, indifference.
Thus, Austerlitz’s interest in architecture is nourished by this wish to
uncover, to bring to the surface the invisible layers, the unconscious contents.
This is the source of his later interest in arcaeology, manifesting itself in his
curiosity towards the layered structures of cities to the same extent as in his
outbreaking wish to explore his private pre-history. As a real tour de force,
Austerlitz’s denial of the past turns into a feverish self-archaeology.
4. Perception of Time and Sensing Identity
As a strategy of accessing the past (at least apparently in the beginning),
Austerlitz manipulates his own time perception, expressing his preference for a
non-linear temporal experience. His spiritual, scholarly attitude denying the
authenticity of linear time experience can be explained by his above-mentioned
archiving effort, by his wish to store every moment of time in a huge storehouse
of archived knowledge.
It does not seem to me, Austerlitz added, that we understand the laws governing
the return of the past, but I feel more and more as if time did not exist at all, only various
spaces interlocking according to the rules of a higher form of stereometry, between which
the living and the dead can move back and forth as they like, and the longer I think about
it the more it seems to me that we who are still alive are unreal in the eyes of the dead, that
only occasionally, in certain lights and atmospheric conditions, do we appear in their field
of vision. (Sebald 2002: 261)
According to Austerlitz’s perception of time, past and present, what is more,
life and death are not some kind of stations successively occurring during a train
journey; they should rather be conceived, again, in a spatial, palimpsest-like
structure, similarly to buildings constructed one upon the other, in which the
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earlier stage is both effaced and preserved. Austerlitz sharply criticizes the way
of life that subdues itself to the power of linear, objective, measurable time, and
elaborates the principle of simultaneity, which seems to be, for yet unexplicable
reasons, much easier for him to follow:
(…) if Newton really thought that time was a river like the Thames, then where is its
source and into what sea does it finally flow? Every river, as we know, must have banks
on both sides, so where, seen in those terms, where are the banks of time? (...) Could we
not claim, said Austerlitz, that time itself has been non-concurrent over the centuries
and the millennia? It is not so long ago, after all, that it began spreading out over
everything. And is not human life in many parts of the earth governed to this day less by time
than by weather, and thus by an unquantifiable dimension which disregards linear regularity,
does not progress constantly forward but moves in eddies, is marked by episodes of
congestion and irruption, recurs in ever-changing form, and evolves in no one knows
what direction? Even in a metropolis ruled by time like London, said Austerlitz, it is
still possible to be outside time, a state of affairs which until recently was almost as
common in backward and forgotten areas of our own country as it used to be in the
undiscovered continents overseas. The dead are outside time, the dying and all the sick
at home or in hospitals, and they are not the only ones, for a certain degree of personal
misfortune is enough to cut off from the past and the future. (Sebald 2002: 142-143)
The principle of simultaneity determining subjective time perception does
not leave the wheel of history untouched either. From this perspective, history
as such, the historical sense of Western thinking becomes utterly questionable.
In his wish to perceive the true nature of time, Austerlitz expresses his hope that
(…) time will not pass away, has not passed away, that I can turn back and go behind it,
and there I shall find everything as it once was, or more precisely I shall find that all
moments of time have co-existed simultaneously, in which case none of what history tells
us would be true, past events have not yet occured but are waiting to do so at the moment
when we think of them, although that, of course, opens up the bleak prospect of ever-lasting
misery and never-ending anguish. (Sebald 2002: 144)
Austerlitz’s perception of time radically opposing the linear perception of
time betrays something essential about identity. Perceiving time from the inside,
accounting for it not in terms of duration but in terms of content, the concept of
time indicated by the action or event, is basically the specificity of the Hebrew
time conception (see “a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a
time to pluck up that which is planted” – Ecclesiastes 3.2), whereas the linear
time conception is a Greek-Roman invention. The way Austerlitz perceives and
experiences time indicates the fact that his time perception takes place in
accordance with the Hebrew time conception before he knows about himself
that he is Jewish. It can be concluded thus that identity construction is much
more profound and much more elemental that the knowledge pertaining to it.
The relativity which overwrites the linear concept of time is revealed in
strange moments of revelation, when the sense of simultaneity breaks into the
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realm of everyday experiences. It is such a moment when in the waiting-room in
Liverpool Street, London Austerlitz suddenly discovers “himself” as a little boy,
with a rucksack, sitting on the bench.
(…) in the gloomy light of the waiting-room, I also saw two middle-aged people dressed
in the style of the thirties, a woman in a light gabardine coat with a hat at an angle on her
head, and a thin man beside her wearing a dark suit and a dog-collar. And I not only saw
the minister and his wife, said Austerlitz, I also saw the boy they had come to meet. He
was sitting by himself on a bench over to one side. His legs, in white knee-length socks,
did not reach the floor, and but for the small rucksack he was holding on his lap I don’t
think I would have known him, said Austerlitz. As it was, I recognised him by that rucksack of
his, and for the first time in as far back as I can remember I recollected myself as a small
child, at the moment when I realised that it must have been to this same waiting-room I
had come on my arrival in England over half a century ago. (Sebald 2002: 193)
This is a special moment of epiphany in the novel, a manifestation of the
Freudian uncanny, when under the accumulated pressure the wall of
discontinuity of the self seems to suddenly collapse, and Austerlitz senses, for
the first time in his life, a distant scent, a mild taste of his own past. This
moment of simultaneity, bringing the past and the present selves into reachable
proximity, marks a new start in Austerlitz’s life. Austerlitz has often expressed
his impression of “living the wrong life” (“falsche Welt”, “falsches Leben” in
the original), experiencing a perplexing inauthenticity which, as J. J. Long states,
“is produced by a specific historical or personal caesura which, once identified,
can be overcome in a return to the status quo ante” (Long 2007: 158).
What has been covered, concealed for Austerlitz, drifts his “own” story
close to the Holocaust trauma of European history, more precisely, to a Central
European scene, namely the Prague of World War II, from where Austerlitz is
rescued by a train transporting Jewish children to Britain. However, the parents
remain in the lethal environment; after finding out about his Central European
roots, Austerlitz goes back to Prague along the track of the effaced traces of his
lost childhood. His memories seem to be revived, among others, by the patterns
of the floor tile of a dwelling-house from Prague; he finds Věra, his nursemaid,
and the traces of his mother, Agáta lead towards the ghetto from Theresienstadt,
where they are definitely lost, whereas he will lose trace of his father,
Maximilian in Paris.
At the end of the novel, when Austerlitz, brooding over the façade of the
Gare d’Austerlitz from Paris, from where his father had probably left Paris in
the direction one of the Jewish lagers, Austerlitz recalls his earlier memories
when he felt as if he had been on the premises of an unretaliated crime. In this
moment of simultaneous reflection and recollection the personal name (Austerlitz),
also consonant with the sounding of the word Auschwitz, and the placename
(Gare d’Austerlitz) become metaleptically interchangeable, Austerlitz’s private
history will stand for Europe’s collective history. Thus, Gare d’Austerlitz, the
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living wound on the body of Europe, will stand as a memento, as the place of
memory, not in the sense of cultic, ceremonial recollection, but in that of profound
personal involvement and awareness of the ethical responsibility of remembering.
5. Fiction Documented by Photographs: the Temporality of Images
J. J. Long considers that Austerlitz is more conventional than Sebald’s
earlier prose works, as it does not render problematic the relationship between
memoir and fiction (cf. Long 2007: 149). However, in terms of the relationship
between the text and the photos embedded into it, Austerlitz does become more
problematic than Sebald’s earlier works, as it conforms to the non-existent,
impossible genre of “fiction documented by photographs”.
In accordance with the narratorial intention of the novel, the photographs
that accompany the text – which is otherwise a textual procedure much favoured
by Sebald – have been taken by Austerlitz himself. However, while the photos
have extratextual referents, indexically pointing at elements of reality,
Austerlitz, the protagonist does not have any referent outside the text; he is an
utterly fictitious character. In order that the images might really “fit” into the
text, without any ontological break, the reader should either regard the novel as
a document of events that took place in reality indeed, or s/he should ignore the
indexical function of photographs. Obviously, neither of the two versions is
possible as a reading strategy. The only viable possibility is for us to maintain
the impossible connection between the verbal and the visual, to accept the
Moebius strip of the reading experience offered by Sebald.
The photos do not serve as mere illustrations. They do not serve to reveal
the ultimate signified – the face of the mother, for instance. On the contrary, the
idea of deferment is even reinforced by the photographs, which contribute to
further obscuring the final referent(s) of Austerlitz’s quest. Even when Austerlitz
seems to have found his mother’s photo, which should mean the ultimate goal
of his quest, even when the photo brings an evidence of the mother’s having
been there – in the Barthesian sense of “That-has-been”1 –, Austerlitz cannot
experience the euphoria of his full access to the past. An enigmatic pair of eyes,
a mysterious look, a deadly silence retains all the answers.
Thus, the photographs inserted into the text result in an epistemological
uncertainty; their past reference is overwritten by the non-referenciality of
1
In Camera Lucida. Reflections on Photography (1980) Roland Barthes expounds his views on
the simultaneous presence, the superimposition of reality and past on the photograph. The photograph
reveals the trace of reality, the photograph serves as a present evidence of a past moment, as what
stands in front of the camera lens is never metaphorical, but necessarily real, the photograph attains the
quality of testifying the past existence of the represented reality. Photographs carry an indexical
relationship to their referents, stating that the thing has been there (Barthes 1981).
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fiction. Photos, such as memories, stand for an act of mediation, in this way
representation necessarily turns into covering, overlaying, blocking the access
to the past instead of rendering it possible.
6. Archive and Narration: the Sebaldian Enigma
In drawing a map of the stylistic routes that Sebald’s prose perambulates,
Mark Richard McCulloh’s epitomization can be of our help: “Sebald may be
described as a writer who draws on his knowledge of several literatures and
literary periods to create a new kind of documentary fiction that owes much to
the expansive unconventionality of Borges, the diction and mood of Kafka, the
deliberate narrative density of Bernhard, and the autobiographical sweep of
Nabokov and Stendhal” (McCulloh 2003: 25). It should be added however that
Sebaldian prose is, still, unprecedented in exploring the caves and mines of the
imagery of private and collective consciousness, in providing whirls and
enigmas that absorb the reader without ever letting him/her away.
The Sebaldian enigma pertains to narration, to the so-called “authoritative
unreliability” that manifests itself in a systematic network of coincidences,
analogies and interrelated events without being accompanied by any authorial
explanation (cf. McCulloh 2003: 22). In this way, not only time, but language,
or else, the text itself becomes a spatial construction built in line with an
elaborated architectural plan. As Megan Jane Cawood states:
Sebald’s text itself is a form of landscape: his narrative technique, with its
emphasis on the visual in conjunction with the verbal, presents its readers with a textual
landscape (or text-scape) to be perceived. Where architecture works as the mnemonic
space in which Austerlitz discovers many of his own memories, the photographs in
Austerlitz, and the text which surrounds them, become the space in which these memories
are preserved (Cawood 2011)
Austerlitz’s archiving efforts are reflected by the archiving character of
the Sebaldian narration itself. Austerlitz obsessively collects a vast amount of
knowledge in his ambivalent endeavour of erasure/recollection; similarly,
Sebald’s book itself becomes an archive of a vast knowledge, with endless
details of episodes related by Austelitz, with flashes of past images, butterflies,
layers of urban architecture, illustrations, enigmatic snapshots, analogous
connections among patterns of childhood scenes and those of adult impressions,
while certainty, the chance of gaining access to ultimate answers is continuously
deferred for the reader to the same extent as for Sebald’s narrator, who listens to
and conveys Austerlitz’s confessions.
J. J. Long remarks about the ending of the novel: “At the end of the text,
Austerlitz sets off in search of his father, following traces that he finds in a
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Parisian archive. The epistemological promise of the archive is never fulfilled,
which is why it leaves the end of this particular text open and the subjectivity of
Austerlitz in a permanent state of incompletion” (Long 2007: 20). However, the
open ending invites the reader to experience simultaneity, not in terms of
temporality but at a distinct, narrative level: deferment and completion – of
ultimate meanings in the text – become mutually dependent and complementary.
As in the case of every open text – opera aperta –, the promise of completion
will unavoidably take place in the reader’s involvement and self-understanding.
What is more, the chance of completion always remains floating in front
of the reader’s eyes, as a desire which transforms us into passionate readers of a
passionate text, and which makes possible for us to experience the loss of
individual and collective identity, the unprocessable trauma of discontinuity in
form of the pleasure of the text, in the Barthesian sense of the term.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Barthes, Roland (1981), Camera Lucida. Reflections on Photography, trans. Richard Howard.
Hill and Wang, New York.
Cawood, Megan Jane (2011), Sites of Pain: Trauma, Landscape and Architecture in W. G. Sebald’s
Austerlitz, http://www.inter-disciplinary.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/mcawoodepaper.pdf
Derrida, Jacques (1995), Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, trans. Eric Prenowitz. University of
Chicago Press, Chicago, IL.
Long, J. J. (2007), W. G. Sebald – Image, Archive, Modernity. Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh.
McCulloh, Mark Richard (2003), Understanding W. G. Sebald, University of South Carolina Press,
Columbia, South Carolina.
Sebald, Winfried Georg (2002), Austerlitz, trans. Anthea Bell. Penguin Books, London.
Straus, Nina Pelikan (2009), “Sebald, Wittgenstein and the Ethics of Memory”, in Comparative
Literature, vol. 61, no. 1, pp. 43-53.
LE TEMPS MIS SOUS RATURE DANS LA METAFICTION
MIHAELA CHAPELAN∗
THE TIME PUT UNDER ERASURE IN METAFICTION
The article aims to analyse the triple temporality configuration met in a large category of
modern literary texts, the metafictions: the temporality of telling, of writing and of reading, and
the way they contradict the premises of French narratology. To achieve this goal, we chose
Diderot’s novel Jacques le Fataliste et son maître, which is a real anthology of metafictional
techniques. Space-time indeterminacy is a characteristic feature of Diderot’s writing, but it is not
enough to acknowledge it. Our article demonstrates the important role of this type of temporality
within the anticonformism reading pact proposed by Diderot.
Keywords: narratology, metafiction, temporality configuration, Diderot, time indeterminacy,
reading pact.
1. Un postulat narratologique problématique
Presque tous les théoriciens et les critiques littéraires sont d’accord sur
l’importance de la temporalité dans une œuvre littéraire, le jeu de l’écrivain
avec le temps constituant l’une des ressources majeures du renouvellement de la
technique romanesque. Si la critique traditionnelle s’intéressait surtout à la
temporalité de l’histoire, la critique moderne et notamment la narratologie, à
laquelle nous devons la plupart des études sur la temporalité de l’oeuvre de
fiction, découvre que celle-ci tire sa substance surtout du rapport qui s’établit
entre le temps de la diégèse et le temps de la narration. Déjà en 1968, Christian
Metz affirmait dans un article sur les distinctions entre la temporalité du récit
cinématographique et celle du récit littéraire que le récit est une séquence deux
fois temporelle : il y a le temps de la chose racontée et le temps du récit (temps
du signifié et temps du signifiant). Cette dualité n’est pas seulement ce qui rend
possibles toutes les distorsions temporelles mais, plus fondamentalement, elle
nous invite à constater que l’une des fonctions du récit est de monnayer un
temps dans un autre temps.
∗
Maître de conférences, Université Spiru Haret, Bucarest, Roumanie, [email protected]
134
MIHAELA CHAPELAN
Une année plus tard, Gérard Genette signalait lui-aussi cette double
temporalité et procédait à toute une série d’études d’approfondissement:
Par une dissymétrie [...] qui est inscrite dans les structures mêmes de la langue – nous
pouvons fort bien raconter une histoire sans préciser le lieu où elle se passe et si ce lieu est plus
ou moins éloigné du lieu d’où nous la racontons, tandis qu’il nous est presque impossible de ne
pas la situer dans le temps par rapport à notre acte narratif, puisque nous devons nécessairement
la raconter à un temps du présent, du passé ou du futur. Genette (1969 : 228)
Si l’on veut analyser de nos jours la temporalité d’une œuvre littéraire on ne
peut plus se passer de la terminologie et de la perspective narratologiques, mais
nous considérons qu’une approche purement narratologique ne saurait rendre
compte de toute la complexité des aspects qu’elle peut revêtir. Malgré l’intérêt
indéniable de ses études, la narratologie semble n’avoir abordé le problème de la
configuration temporelle dans le récit de fiction qu’à partir d’un postulat
inébranlable: la présupposition d’une histoire préalable au discours qui la rapporte.
Dans la préface de la traduction française de la Logique des genres littéraires de
Käte Hamburger, Gérard Genette posait fermement ce postulat de l’attitude
narratologique qui implique que le lecteur, comme d’ailleurs le critique littéraire,
accepte ou feint d’accepter l’existence d’une histoire à raconter en amont du récit:
« Le travail de la narratologie fictionnelle… suppose que l’on prenne au sérieux,
provisoirement et par décision de méthode, la prétention non sérieuse de la fiction à
raconter une histoire qui aurait effectivement eu lieu ». Hamburger (1986 : 13)
C’est pour cela que l’attention du narratologue se dirige surtout vers les
discordances entre les traits temporels des événements de la diégèse et les traits
correspondants du récit, les trois déterminations essentielles étant: l’ordre
(présences des anachronies temporelles: analepses ou prolepses); la durée
(distorsions de la durée: ampleur ou lenteur du texte, les pauses descriptives, les
ellipses); la fréquence (récit itératif / récit singulatif).
On se rend bien compte que ce postulat condamne la narratologie à
occulter un grand nombre de récits qui font barrage à la représentation d’une
histoire préalable à l’acte de sa narration. C’est bien le cas de ce qui a été
nommé, métafiction. Le terme de métafiction, construit sur le modèle de celui
de métalangage, a été inventé par le critique américain William H. Gass, qui
l’utilise dans son essai de 1970, Philosophie et forme de fiction, pour désigner la
nouvelle vague de romanciers américains qui s’étaient illustrés dans les années
soixante, tels Kurt Vonnegut, Robert Coover, Donald Barthelme, John Barth etc.
Un autre critique américain, Linda Hutcheon l’associe elle aussi au courant du
post-modernisme et met en évidence, comme trait caractéristique de ce type de
textes, l’auto-réflexivité ou l’auto-référentialité. Depuis, toute une série d’études
critiques affinent cette catégorie littéraire ou les écrivains eux-mêmes inventent
d’autres termes avoisinés, comme par exemple Raymond Federman, qui lance
dans les débats le terme de surfiction, qui n’est pas très loin d’une autre
catégorie, la métafiction vide. Les termes sont nouveaux, mais la réalité littéraire
qu’ils couvrent est ancienne, à commencer par les Mille et une nuits, en passant
par Shakespeare, Cervantès, Diderot, Sterne et beaucoup d’autres.
135
Nous ne nous proposons pas d’entrer dans une analyse des différences
entre les conceptions de la métafiction selon les époques ou les diverses
approches des critiques. On retient de toutes les définitions qui lui ont été
données ce qui nous intéresse plus particulièrement, à savoir son autoréférentialité
déclarée et la façon dont cette caractéristique généralement reconnue complique
à l’extrême les rapports temporels de l’œuvre, qui se nouent dans un véritable
écheveau, le plus souvent impossible à démêler.
Dans tous ces récits métafictionels, le narrateur s’exhibe délibérément en
tant qu’auteur, ce qui a comme conséquence directe le fait qu’il arrache son
récit à la chronologie extra textuelle, décrédibilisant toute esthétique mimétique.
Dans son ouvrage « Une poétique du post-modernisme », Linda Hutcheon se
demandait à juste titre si un tel pari est-il possible et si le langage et la littérature
peuvent devenir totalement anti-mimétiques et non-référentiels et rester,
cependant, compréhensibles et lisibles. En fait, en littérature, la réponse était
déjà donnée, car la plupart des écrivains métafictionnels faisaient preuve d’une
double postulation : d’un côté ils produisaient un discours littéraire qui brisait
l’illusion romanesque, et de l’autre, ils tentaient de ménager quelques effets de
réels qui réussissaient par endroits à rétablir l’illusion mimétique.
Normalement, si les écrivains étaient conséquents avec leur propre
démarche, toute métafiction devrait être une narration simultanée et se situer
uniquement dans le présent de l’écriture. Pourtant, en usant de divers artifices
qu’ils ne craignent pas de dénoncer comme tels, ces écrivains réussissent à
instaurer des temporalités hétérogènes, polyrythmiques, divergentes, même si
elles restent plutôt « spectrales », dans le sens donné par Derrida à cette épithète
dans l’étude intitulée Spectres de Marx, c’est-à-dire quelque chose qui ne peut
se donner comme présence pleine, ce qui est pénétré par le vide et l’absence.
Effectivement, lorsqu’après avoir raconté sur des dizaines de pages une
histoire qui, par suspension d’incrédulité, le lecteur aurait pu prendre comme
vraie, l’écrivain fait irruption et rappelle au lecteur que rien de tel ne s’est
réellement passé comment pourrait-on encore parler de repères spatiaux ou
temporels ? Même si le langage lui-même avait instauré une forme de passé, il
s’agit d’un passé qui, tôt ou tard, sera mis sous rature1, annulé.
Pour illustré d’une manière plus précise comment se compose et se
décompose cet incroyable enchevêtrement temporel auquel nous nous
confrontons dans les métafictions, nous avons choisi le roman de Diderot,
Jacques le Fataliste et son maître, car il représente à lui seul une véritable
anthologie de formules romanesques métafictionnelles.
2. La triple série temporelle : de l’histoire, de l’écriture et de la lecture
Jacques le Fataliste... est construit à plusieurs niveaux de fictionalité: un dialogue
entre l’auteur et le lecteur; ce dialogue sert de cadre au récit du voyage de Jacques
1
Nous utilisons ce terme dans le sens qui lui est donné par la critique génétique.
136
MIHAELA CHAPELAN
et de son maître dans lequel sont emboîtées les histoires d’amour de Jacques et de
son maître ou d’autres histoires racontées par des personnages rencontrés en route.
A ces niveaux secondaires, le postulat narratologique fonctionne et la
temporalité peut être envisagée en fonction des trois déterminations essentielles
dont parle la narratologie. Ainsi, en ce qui concerne l’ordre de succession des
événements dans la diégèse et l’ordre de leur disposition dans le récit, il présente
des anachronies assez marquées, presque tous les récits assumés par Jacques étant
des analepses2 (ex.: l’histoire de ses amours, celle de son capitaine et de son ami,
l’évocation des années passées dans la maison de son grand-père qui lui faisait
porter le bâillon etc.). Il en va de même du récit de la vengeance de Mme de La
Pommeraye, assumé par l’hôtesse de l’auberge du Grand Cerf, de celui des amours
du maître pour Agathe, ou des aventures de Richard, le secrétaire du marquis des
Arcis. Quel que soit le narrataire qui assume ces narrations ultérieures, elles sont
désignées en tant que telles non seulement d’une manière implicite, par les temps
verbaux utilisés par l’instance narrative (passé simple et imparfait ou présent
narratif), mais aussi d’une manière explicite, par la conscience qu’ont narrateurs et
narrataires d’évoquer des événements passés, situés dans un temps distinct de celui,
supposé présent, dans lequel ils vivent et racontent.
Jusqu’ici il n’y a rien d’inhabituel, la majeure partie des romans présente
cette double configuration temporelle. Ce qu’il y a de différent dans le roman de
Diderot sont les rapports entre ces deux temps distincts. Dans le roman
psychologique, par exemple, le présent plonge ses racines dans le passé et ne
peut qu’en résulter. Le temps dans Manon Lescaut, affirmait Jacques Schérer,
« est émouvant parce que Des Grieux pleure aujourd’hui en évoquant ses
malheurs ou ses bonheurs passés. » Schérer (1972 : 181)
Mais dans Jacques le Fataliste... il y a extériorité absolue entre les deux
temps. Celui où Jacques et son maître cheminent n’est en rien influencé par les
événements passés, qui alimentent leur bavardage. Le capitaine de Jacques ne
ressuscitera pas, ils ne rencontreront ni l’abbé Hudson, ni Agathe ou Denise, ni
aucun des personnages dont ils parlent. A défaut de rencontre physique, il aurait
pu y avoir un contact sentimental avec le passé, mais celui-ci ne se produit pas
non plus. Cette distinction radicale des deux temps est facteur d’irréalisation, pour
le passé aussi bien que pour le présent. Un monde où aujourd’hui ne dépend pas
d’hier, où passé et présent ne parviennent pas à se joindre n’est pas un monde réel.
Vers le même sens converge une autre particularité de l’écriture diderotienne,
à savoir le refus de l’épaisseur et de la longueur du temps. « Il n’y a pas chez lui,
remarquait R. Kempf, de ces obstacles habités par la durée, de ces intermédiaires
temporels », Kempf (1976 :137). Les exemples suivants le prouvent suffisamment :
« Voilà l’hôtesse descendue, remontée et reprenant son récit », ou lorsque
madame de La Pommeraye propose au marquis des Arcis une promenade, tout
le voyage tient en une phrase: « Les voilà partis, les voilà arrivés... »
2
Cf. à Genette, l’analepse est définie comme toute évocation après coup d’un événement
antérieur au point de l’histoire où l’on se trouve.
137
Diderot abrège ou exorcise la durée. Il l’abolit dans les choses de l’amour
aussi, où les instances de temporisation : pudeur, retenue, bienséance, apparaissent
non seulement comme pénibles, mais aussi incongrues. Ce qui se découvre à
travers tant de raccourcis est un monde en proie au mouvement, une poésie de
l’agitation des corps. Mais aussi, et cela a autrement plus d’importance, cette
terrible accélération du récit imposée par Diderot (comme Flaubert plus tard
dans le célèbre final de l’Education sentimentale), cette excessive disproportion
entre une durée certaine de l’action et une durée textuelle abolie, même pas
signalée par les habituelles formules narratives: après ...ans, heures etc., tend à
faire apparaître l’écriture elle-même. Avec cette rupture radicale du parallélisme
des deux axes temporels, si lâche et embrouillé fût-il, l’alibi de l’anecdote se
trouve abandonné, l’axe de la narration étant valorisé aux dépens de celui de
l’histoire et de la sorte le roman indique qu’il « cesse d’être l’écriture d’une
histoire pour devenir l’histoire d’une écriture ». Ricardou (1967 :166)
Cette modalité subtile de saper ce qui pouvait être pris, l’illusion aidant,
pour un présent réel et qui s’avère n’être qu’un présent de papier où vivent et
parlent des êtres de papier, est renforcée par une autre, plus explicite. Pour le
récit du voyage de Jacques et de son maître, Diderot adopte les procédés
narratifs traditionnels: récit impersonnel, troisième personne, temps du passé
spécifiques au récit. Un texte ainsi rédigé forme un système bloqué qui ne tolère
la première personne et le présent que dans le dialogue des personnages ou dans
des confessions intercalées. Il est vrai que dans le roman de Diderot, le passé
simple et l’imparfait, temps du récit, alternent avec le présent lorsque la
situation devient d’un plus grand intérêt dramatique et le rythme narratif
s’accélère, comme dans le passage suivant :
Cette espèce de rapt ne se fit pas sans donner des soupçons aux parents et à l’époux.
Ils lui rendirent visite. Hudson les reçut avec un air consterné. Comme ses bons gens
étaient en train de lui exposer leur chagrin, la cloche sonne; c’était à six heures du soir;
Hudson leur impose silence, ôte son chapeau, se lève, fait un grand signe de croix et dit
d’un ton affectueux et pénétré: Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae… Et voilà le père de la
confiseuse et ses frères honteux de leur soupçon qui disaient en descendant l’escalier à
l’époux: Mon fils, vous êtes un sot. Diderot (1981: 205)
Mais dans tous ces cas, il s’agit d’un pseudo-présent, le présent narratif,
et aucun lecteur, aussi peu avisé soit-il, ne risque de s’y méprendre et de se
sentir désorienté lorsqu’il doit le placer sur un axe temporel.
Ce qui plonge par contre le lecteur dans un vrai labyrinthe temporel se sont
les intrusions du narrateur extradiégétique situé au premier niveau. Et cela se passe
fréquemment, car chez Diderot le discours menace continuellement la pureté du
récit. Ainsi, il suffira que le narrateur extradiégétique (qui est une figure d’auteur et
se déclare tel quel) prenne la parole en nom propre pour qu’un nouveau présent, celui
de l’écriture, s’insère dans le récit et le sape. Ce passage brusque du récit au discours,
de l’impersonnel au personnel, est aussi le passage d’une esthétique de l’illusion, qui
supprimait l’auteur, à une esthétique où l’auteur, intervenant, supprime l’illusion.
MIHAELA CHAPELAN
138
Comme dans un jeu de miroirs, ce présent de l’écriture renvoie à une autre
série temporelle, celle de la lecture, qui, logiquement, devrait être spécifiée comme
postérieure et étrangère et au temps de l’histoire et à celui de l’écriture.
3. Les métalepses
Mais dans Jacques le Fataliste et son maître les niveaux de fictionalité
ne sont pas indépendants. Ils se chevauchent constamment et les métalepses
(définies par Genette comme des interférences entre des niveaux qui ne
devraient pas pouvoir communiquer) sont fréquentes. Il ne s’agit pas d’une
simple interruption par le passage d’un niveau de fictionalité à un autre, mais
d’une coïncidence spatiale et temporelle qui s’établit parfois entre les niveaux et
gomme les frontières logiques qui les séparent.
A certains moments, il s’agit d’une simple interprétation, d’ailleurs
fautive, qui rapproche Jacques et le lecteur:
Ils entendirent à quelque distance derrière eux du bruit et des cris [...]. Vous allez
croire que c’étaient les gens de l’auberge, leurs valets et les brigands dont nous avons
parlé [...] Jacques le crut. Diderot (1981: 205)
D’autres fois il s’agit de la présence inexplicable du narrateur extradiégétique
dans l’univers de la diégèse, signalée par la transgression subite de la technique
de la narration impersonnelle, à la troisième personne, à la narration personnelle,
marquée linguistiquement par le pronom déictique je:
Jacques et son maître avaient atteint le gîte où ils avaient à passer la nuit. Il était
tard; la porte de la ville était fermée et ils avaient été obligés à s’arrêter dans le faubourg.
Là, j’entends un vacarme...Ibid. (36)
Le lecteur fictif proteste vivement contre cette intrusion et oblige le
narrateur à se reprendre, du moins apparemment, et à se retrancher derrière
un « on » impersonnel: « – Vous entendez! Vous n’y étiez pas; il ne s’agit pas
de vous! – Il est vrai! Eh, bien,... on entend un bruit.»
Ainsi Diderot renverse les plans narratifs et déconstruit la convention
littéraire de l’utilisation du «on » impersonnel, en dévoilant qui se trouve en fait
derrière ce pronom-caméléon qui peut recouvrir tant d’identités différentes : à
savoir le couple auteur – lecteur. Après cela, il peut se permettre de le réutiliser,
car l’utilisation d’une convention déjà dénoncée en tant que telle ne peut plus
rétablir avec la même force l’illusion romanesque et ainsi, la percée hors de
l’horizon d’attente du lecteur est opérée.
Mais il existe dans Jacques le Fataliste... des interférences temporelles
encore plus poussées. Ainsi, lorsque le narrateur dit plaisamment : « Tandis que
139
je disserte, le maître de Jacques ronfle comme s’il m’avait écouté. » (Ibid :187).
Certes, la cause du ronflement du maître est dénoncé ici de manière ironique,
par l’introducteur hypothétique comme si, mais la coïncidence temporelle qu’établit
tandis que n’est pas contestée. Dans d’autres exemples, la superposition s’établit
d’une façon encore plus nette entre les trois séries temporelles: le temps de
l’histoire, le temps de l’écriture et le temps de la lecture:
Lecteur, tandis que ces bonnes gens dorment, j’aurais une petite question à vous
proposer et à discuter avec vous: c’est ce qu’aurait été l’enfant né de l’abbé Hudson et de
la dame de la Pommeraye [...] vous me direz cela demain matin [...]. Ce matin, le voilà
venu, et nos voyageurs séparés… Ibid (219)
Le roman de Diderot, comme toute métafiction, interrompt la représentation
d’une temporalité extra-linguistique au sein de laquelle se produiraient les
évolutions d’une histoire préexistante, pour créer une temporalité autotélique,
propre au texte et à sa seule partition, à l’image du « Grand Rouleau » auquel
Jacques ne cesse de se référer tout le long du roman. Sur ce « Grand Rouleau »,
les événements ne sont pas inscrits dans l’irréversibilité syntagmatique de la
succession des séquences chronologiques, mais dans une étonnante simultanéité
et enchevêtrement du temps de l’écriture, de l’histoire et de la lecture.
« Tout a été écrit à la fois », dit à plusieurs reprises Jacques et, en
reprenant l’heureuse expression de Paul Ricoeur, on pourrait dire que c’est cela
même qui constitue l’enjeu du jeu de Diderot avec le temps.
BIBLIOGRAPHIE
Genette, Gérard (1969), Figures II, Seuil, Paris.
Hamburger, Kate (1986), Logique des genres littéraires, Seuil, Paris.
Hutcheon, Linda (1997), A Poetics of Postmodernisme.
Kempf, Roger (1976), Diderot et le roman, Seuil, Paris.
Metz, Christian (1968), Essai sur la signification du cinéma, Klincsieck, Paris.
Scherer, Jacques (1972), Le Cardinal et l’orang-outan, SEDES, Paris.
Ridarcou, Jean (1967 ), Problèmes du nouveau roman, Seuil, Paris.
TEXTE DE RÉFÉRENCE
Diderot, Denis (1981), Jacques le Fataliste et son maître, édition critique et annotée, présentée
par Jacques Proust et Jack Undank, Hermann, Paris.
THE READER’S PERCEPTION OF TIME
IN VIRGINIA WOOLF’S NOVELS
IRINA-ANA DROBOT∗
The aim of this paper is to offer a narratological perspective on Joanna Russ’ claim that
“nothing happens” in Virginia Woolf’s novels. Pauses, slow-downs where focus is not on action but on
descriptions or characters’ reflections or non-narrative comments may explain this feeling. What is
more, Mieke Bal believes that the reader can arrange the events in chronological order even if they are
not presented in such an order at the level of the fabula: “Ordering the events in chronological sequence,
one forms an impression of the difference between fabula and story.” What is the effect of identifying
the order of events in time? Does this influence the reader’s perception of time in these novels? Is
chronological order always clear? If chronological order is not clear, we deal with achrony.
Keywords: events, chronology, non-narrative comments, fabula, story.
Motivation. Lyric vs Narrative Mode
Joanna Russ defines the lyric mode by contrasting it with the narrative
mode. According to her, lack of chronology is one of the lyric mode’s
distinctive features. There is also no causation, as the lyric mode relies on
associations as far as its “principle of connection” is concerned. To Russ, lyric
mode means various elements (such as “images, events, scenes, passages,
words”) organized “around an unspoken thematic or emotional center”. Russ
also claims that Woolf is a lyric novelist. Lyricism leads to the feeling that
‘nothing happens’ in her novels.
Readers have the feeling that ‘nothing happens’ in Woolf’s novels because of
her way of writing. Whether her novels are written in an almost traditional way
(such as The Voyage Out, Night and Day, Orlando, The Years, Flush) or whether
she uses her stream of consciousness technique more (To the Lighthouse,
Mrs Dalloway, The Waves, Jacob’s Room, Between the Acts), she makes use
not only of action or events alone.
It seems that Russ’ claim that ‘nothing happens’ in Woolf’s novels refers
to events in her novels. However, events are not the only elements making up a
narrative text. A narrative text also consists of opinions, descriptions, “or a
disclosure on the part of the narrator which is not directly connected with the
events […]” (Bal 1997:8), all situated outside the fabula.
∗
Junior teaching assistant (English), Technical University of Civil Engineering Bucharest,
Department of Foreign Languages and Communication; e-mail: [email protected]
IRINA-ANA DROBOT
142
The modern novel focuses on poetical aspects rather than on narrative
aspects. However, one does not exclude the other. Woolf’s novels belong to this
category. She even states her intention to use prose poetically in her diary entry
from 1927. Bradbury (1973) is a critic who points out to the “new novel” which
appeared with writers such as “Henry James, Joseph Conrad, Ford Madox Ford,
D. H. Lawrence, James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, and E. M. Forster”, a novel which
was justified “by analogy with the poem, to stress fiction’s poem-like as opposed
to its narrative character” (Bradbury 1973: 5). Freedman (1963: 185) sees Modern
lyrical fiction as a blending of poetry and prose.
The mixture of poetry and prose in the lyrical novel may be reflected in
the combination of narrative and lyric mode.
The “alternation between narration and non-narrative comments”
(Bal 1997: 31) may also account for the mixture of poetry and prose in the
Modernist novel. Such an alternation is common in any novel, yet the
non-narrative comments are different when it comes to the lyrical novel.
The focus is on the inner world of characters, meaning that characters’
perception of events, other characters, situations, or their reflections are given
more attention than action, than events. Whereas in all novels there are, as Bal
claims, passages focusing on reflections, descriptions, opinions, in Woolf’s
novels such passages usually contain poetic language.
Woolf’s focus on non-narrative aspects is underlined by means of rhythm,
in particular by slow-downs and pauses. Action does not occur at a fast pace, as
Woolf spends more time on characters’ thoughts and perception. Slow-downs
and pauses are part of deviations in sequential ordering.
The following narratological theories may be relevant for the study of the
reader’s perception of time in Virginia Woolf:
a) Theories of action or fabula, which “focus on the study of events,
action sequences and schemes, functions, actants, characters, settings
and the internal laws of narrated worlds” (Onega 27);
b) Theories of story and narration, which “devise modes of analysis of
the time structure of the story (order of events, temporal distortions
such as flashbacks or flashforwards, duration and selection of scenes,
narrative rhythm, etc.)” (Onega 1996: 29);
c) Theories of reception, which focus on “a communicative speech act, a
message transacted between a sender and a receiver” (Onega 1996: 29).
Fabula, Story, Plot
Joanna Russ presents only a kind of reading of Woolf’s novels. That
“nothing happens” in her novels is only one way of perceiving her novels, only
one level of interpretation. A novel, a narrative has several levels of analysis,
three according to Onega: fabula, story and plot.
THE READER’S PERCEPTION OF TIME IN VIRGINIA WOOLF’S NOVELS
143
Bal considers the fabula “a bare scheme of narrative events” (Onega 1996: 7).
A description of the fabula (or action) would omit any temporal or perspectival
distortions: there are no flashbacks or variations in point of view at this level of
analysis.” (Onega 7) Plot means, in this case, according to Onega, “a scheme
consisting of the structures of action and perception which shape the story”
(1996: 7). According to Onega, “A story is a fabula which has been given a
presentational shape: a specific point of view and temporal scheme have been
introduced” (1996: 8).
This is similar to what Onega states about the structure of a narrative,
which may be analyzed as follows: according to the series of events that
compose it (the level of events) and according to the structure of the
representation (Onega 1996: 5-6).
Culler makes a main distinction between plot and presentation, or story
and discourse, his version of narrative levels (Onega) among other versions of
such pairs. Presentation means the way the story is presented (or told).
Presentation includes, according to him, variables having to do with identifying
the narrator (and his point of view), the narratee, the time when the narrator tells
his story, the way a narrator speaks (his language) or the narrator’s authority
(reliability or unreliablity).
The Reader’s Perception and Interpretation
Leaving Bal’s levels of analysis aside, there are several levels of interpreting
Woolf’s novels, by taking into account the way they were written and the way
they can be interpreted. One of the levels of Woolf’s novels is represented by
the way she writes her novels, another one by the way the reader perceives them
at first sight, and another one by the way the readers rearrange the events, make
connections between them, understand the characters’ personality and motivations.
The readers judge her novels while reading them, by paying attention to her
version of the story, but also by interpreting them in their own way, by trying to
make sense of the story and by identifying her distinctive style as a writer.
In their turn, readers may focus on certain aspects in her novels, to which
she may or may not offer a long time. Critics themselves may focus and insist
on certain aspects of her novels; in this respect, we may say that critics behave
like readers, as they offer their own reading of Woolf’s novels.
It is only at first sight that the reader has the feeling that there is not much
action or no action at all in Woolf’s novels. The difference between story and
fabula can help clarify what goes on in the process of the reader’s first
impressions and his later reconstruction of what happens in Woolf’s novels.
According to this view, it seems that what Joanna Russ said about nothing
happening in Woolf’s novels could be related to fabula as an action-scheme.
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Even so, there may be little action in a novel, yet when the readers think of what
happened and try to find connection between the events, there is in fact an
action-scheme (a fabula).
The reader recomposes the story after reading it as a fabula, as a scheme
of events, leaving aside flashbacks and also the focus on characters’ perception.
However, in his attempt to have a better understanding of the story, the reader
not only orders the events (which are arranged in the fabula in an order which is
not a chronological one) but also forms an image of the characters based on their
inner world. What is more, as Culler claims, events are not enough to say that we
have a story. “There must be an end relating back to the beginning-according to
some theorists, an end that indicates what has happened to the desire that led to
the events the story narrates.” (Culler) The reader must thus find all necessary
connections between events and characters’ motivations. Slow-downs on various
instances of perception may become summaries in the reader’s mind as he
remembers the story he read.
Narratological theory, however, claims that insignificant events (which do
not influence the course of the fabula) are usually summarized (Bal 1997: 104).
Sometimes, routine events may be presented extensively, not summarized
in order to underline “boredom, the emptiness of a person’s existence” in a
fabula (Bal 1997: 105).
The reader’s summary, however, does not reflect the importance or
unimportance of those passage, but only a simplification in order to have a full
view on what goes on in Woolf’s novels. Otherwise, in Woolf’s novels, events
which may not be significant are not usually insisted upon by means of her
characters’ perception. Insignificant events may be seen as parts of moments of
non-being, as Woolf called those routine events, which are not lived
consciously. The events which are significant for characters are, usually, part of
what she calls moments of being or moments of vision. Characters experience
moments of insight, which are expressed poetically.
Culler identified two ways of thinking about the plot: as events being
shaped into a story by readers or writers or as being shaped by narrative into a story.
In trying to understand what goes on in Woolf’s novels, the reader may be
regarded as creating his vision of the plot by shaping the events into a story.
The reader tries to understand the fabula, the scheme of events, yet this is not
enough. In order to understand a novel, the reader forms in his mind another
presentation of the fabula, a presentation which is different from the one made
by the writer. It is not enough to say that Woolf in her novels presents events;
what matters is also how she presents those events.
According to Culler, both readers and writers will try to offer a
presentation of the story in a novel, by shaping events into a plot.
It is true that readers have their own contribution in putting events
together to fill in the story in most of Woolf’s novels. The writer, of course,
145
creates the story from various points of view, and there is also the narrator’s
style that matters. Culler’s view of plot is similar to Onega’s view of plot as a
story-scheme and thus supports her view.
Action vs Static Aspects
According to Onega, Tomashevski “opposes static to dynamic motifs.
Descriptions, for instance, or unimportant actions, are static, while significant
actions are dynamic” (Onega 1996: 27). In this sense, Woolf’s novels contain more
static than dynamic motifs. These terms account for the apparent lack of action in
Woolf’s novels. The events (regarded as what happens in the novel) are given less
attention than descriptions. Woolf views characters’ perception as important.
Because of the focus on her characters’ reflections, on descriptions, the action lacks
dynamism. It is only after the reader finishes the novel that he can think back about
the events that have occurred. Action “exists prior to any narrative presentation and
could be presented in other ways” (Onega 1996: 94-95), in Culler’s view.
Deviations in Sequential Ordering
Deviations in sequential ordering are a common aspect of the majority of
Woolf’s novels. Deviations in sequential ordering are defined by Bal as “the
relations […] which hold between the order of events in the story and their
chronological sequence in the fabula” (Bal 1997: 80). That is, the non-linear
chronology presented by the authors which is rearranged in the reader’s mind to
make sense of the story in the novels.
The inner world of characters is underlined by means of rhythm, in
particular by slow-downs and pauses. According to Bal, the slow-down may
“work like a magnifying glass” (1997: 107), in order to lead to “the exciting
discovery of what is hardly perceptible” (1997: 108). Important moments of
reflection or perception belong to the category of slow-downs.
Bal views description as “a privileged site of focalization” which “has
great impact on the ideological and aesthetic effect of the text” (Bal 1997: 36).
This is because it becomes an act of subjective perception, the reader having
access to a character’s view.
Pauses include “all narrative sections in which no movement of the
fabula-time is implied. A great deal of attention is paid to one element, and in
the meantime the fabula remains stationary. When it is again continued later on,
no time has passed” (Bal 1997: 108).
Bal mentions that the pause occurs in modernist narratives such as those of
Virginia Woolf. According to Bal, many of her novels “alternate the presentation of
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slow, unimportant events with lengthy descriptive passage. The difference between
the presentation of events and the description of objects is often hard to make
out, so that the entire story moves on like a long descriptive flow” (Bal 1997: 109).
Pauses may thus offer insight with respect to the apparent lack of action in
Woolf’s novels. The action at the level of the fabula leaves its place to perception.
It is no longer action that retains the focus of the reader, but an act of perception.
Pauses and slow-downs are aspects of rhythm and are part of deviations
in sequential ordering as far as Woolf’s novels are concerned. Another aspect of
rhythm is summary, which is concerned with less important events or details in
a novel. Frequency is also an aspect of rhythm. As far as repetition is concerned,
Bal argues that two events can never be the same. This is because they are
always told, viewed or interpreted in a different way. Such an example consists
in the way other characters view Septimus and Rezia and how each of them
perceives reality at the time in the park or in the streets. The event is not the
same with all the characters; each of them thinks, feels and perceives reality in a
different way.
According to Bal, anachrony (chronological deviation) may occur even in
“emphatically chronological” (Bal 1997: 83) novels. Bal states that the beginning
in medias res is a convention which allows the reader to be guided from the
middle of the fabula into the past, “and from then on the story carries on more
or less chronologically through to the end” (1997: 83-84).
Most of Woolf’s and Swift’s novels begin in medias res. With the
exception of Flush and Orlando, which Woolf calls biographies, and which start
with the beginning, her other novels begin in medias res. In Mrs Dalloway, the
story does not go on according to a linear chronology. Characters go back in
time in order to remember and so the reader will try to put the events in a
chronological order in order to understand the story. According to Meir
Sternberg, “[...] the temporal distortion of the chronological order of events is
an indication of artistic purpose” (Onega 1996: 103). Sternberg’s claim about
the artistic role of lack of chronological order may account for the purpose of
lack of linear chronology in the lyrical novel.
“Unreal” Anachrony
Bal claims that sometimes anachronies involve those taking place in the
consciousness of a character, when he/she remembers doing something, which is
different from the actual doing – an altogether different event. She calls this type of
anachrony “unreal” and then points out that it is used “almost exclusively” in the “so-called
« stream-of-consciousness » literature” (1997: 87). Bal introduces the term “subjective
anachrony” which, unlike “objective anachrony”, “is an anachrony which can be
regarded as such if the « contents of consciousness » lie in the past or the future;
not the past of being « conscious », the moment of thinking itself” (1997: 87).
147
This is the case of the movement in time in Mrs Dalloway. The story is
formed of associations which lead the characters to move backwards in time, to
remember and reflect on their choices of the past.
The reader will try to understand the whole story, to make it whole from
what he is told about the characters in the present and from their memories from
the past. What is more, the characters themselves go through a similar process.
Another situation where there is no real anachrony is represented by
retroversion of anticipation – particularly when it is in the form of direct discourse.
“The moment of speech is simply part of the (chronological) story; only in the
contents are past or future mentioned” (Bal 1997: 87). This is not found in Woolf.
Direction
From the point of view of direction, the anachrony may be situated in the
past or in the future, judging by the moment of the beginning of the fabula and
the appearance of the anachrony (Bal 1997: 84). In the case of Woolf’s novels,
there is only anachrony that lies in the past. We are presented with action at the
present time and with action in the past, as recalled by characters. In some cases
there are predictions (such as Peter predicting Clarissa’s future as a perfect
hostess or her marriage to Richard Dalloway).
Achrony
Sometimes, the direction, the distance and the span of a deviation in chronology
cannot be determined, due to the absence of enough information. In this case,
we deal with an achrony. The reader gets to understand, approximately, where
events in the past fit in in order to make up the story whole in Mrs Dalloway. A
precise time is not necessary, as the succession of events becomes clear. What
led to the present situation is clearly understood.
Time
Ricoeur analyzes Genette’s theories of the time of narrating and narrated
time and he adds to these two categories the time of life. The time of life is connected to
tempo and rhythm, which brings forth opportunities to new views on aspects of
chronology: “We move even further away from a strict comparison between lengths
of time when, to flashbacks, are added the time of remembering, the time of dreaming,
and the time of the reported dialogue, as in Virginia Woolf.” (Onega 1996: 132-133)
Sternberg believes that there is a time-norm to be found in any narrative.
If an element is given a large amount of time, it means it is truly aesthetically
relevant (Onega 1996: 103). Thus, if certain thoughts, scenes, various descriptions
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in Woolf occupy quite some time then this may say something about their
aesthetic relevance, and of course about their importance.
The Narrator. Point of View. Focalization
Bal sees the narrator as telling a story, while the focalizor represents an
aspect of the story he tells, bringing about a certain perception of events. The
focalizor may be the same as one of the characters. Stanzel noticed a difference
between “who sees” and “who tells”, which was theorized later by Genette and
Bal (focalizor) (Onega 1996: 161-162).
Focalization, “[…] the relation between « who perceives » and what is
perceived, « colours » the story with subjectivity” (Bal 1997: 8). According to Bal,
events are always presented from a certain perspective. Bal underlines the difficulty
of objectivity, considering that perception always depends on the one who perceives.
Age, knowledge, familiarity with a certain object interfere with the perception.
Bal claims that, in terms of focalization, a first-person narrative does not
differ from a third person narrative. This is because “When we try to reflect
someone else’s point of view, we can only do so in so far as we know and
understand that point of view.” (Bal 1997: 158)
According to Bal, perspective is a means of manipulation, in the sense
that “The point of view from which the elements of the fabula are being
presented is often of decisive importance for the meaning the reader will assign
to the fabula” (1997: 79). The reader is influenced by certain ways of presenting
events or characters in a narrative.
The passage of time may be thus understood in a subjective way. Characters
assign significance to events that may not be given much attention by others.
However, in doing so, they focus their attention on certain things for a longer
time and they take the reader with them, into sharing their perception.
Events
Events, as elements of the fabula, are defined by Bal (1997: 182) as processes
(“changes that occur in, with, through, and among objects”). “The transition from
one state to another state” is “caused or experienced by actors” (Bal 1997: 182).
In this sense, the evolution of characters, their changes in time in Woolf’s novels
may be regarded as events, even if they are not events in the sense of action.
Humphrey wonders about the nature of the plot in novels where inner
thoughts replace external action: “With motive and external action replaced by
psychic being and functioning, what is to unify the fiction? What is to replace
conventional plot?” (Humphrey 1954: 84). Humphrey points out to the
possibility of viewing the character’s mind as a setting, the character’s
memories and thoughts as the time range, places where a character’s mind goes
149
as the place of action and what characters remember, perceive or imagine as
action. However, this is just one level of interpretation. This can be seen as the
reader’s first view of Woolf’s. This is how Woolf presents her story. The
equivalent of action in traditional narratives is the characters’ mind wandering.
However, a plot similar to the traditional one can be reconstructed by the reader.
Plot in the Modernist Novels
Brooks reflects on the plot of Modernist novels and on the plot itself as
something different from a fixed structure. He thinks of plot as “a structuring
operation peculiar to those messages that are developed through temporal
succession, the instrumental logic of a specific mode of human understanding”.
(Onega 1996: 253-254) Brooks’ view is similar to Humphrey’s view on the
stream of consciousness novel’s plot. Bradbury sees the novel as not having a
fixed form, a conventional structure. Novels may be of different kinds. In this sense,
the lyrical novel is a type of novel that combines narrative and lyrical features.
According to Ronald Walker, modernist novels show a different representation
of time, character, causation. He gives the example of Clarissa’s walk which
“did not readily conform […] to the conventions of the « represented action »
schematized by the Neo-Aristotelian critics”.
Modernism usually means a different view on reality. It means self-consciousness
and non-representationalism. It is also associated with sophistication, introversion,
self-scepticism (Bradbury and McFarlane 1991: 26). Stevenson underlines Woolf’s
different view of the novel as compared to the Edwardian novelists: her focus
on subjective perception (Stevenson 1986: 12) With Modernism, the novels
move away from linear chronology, from a unitary plot, towards a new vision
on reality as fragmentary (Bradbury and McFarlane 1991: 393). The focus is on
the inner workings of the mind. The traditional novel was focused on story,
setting and character, while the modernist novel is concerned with writing and
composition. Bradbury underlines the focus on “[…] the demotion of the traditional
poetics of « plot », « character », and « moral sentiment », and decided unease
in the presence of the moral issues that fiction, by its lifelikeness, raises”
(Bradbury 1973: 8) in modernist novels. Modern texts move away from story, narrative
and require an active reader, according to Graff (McHale 2001: 221). Henry James
proposes a different view on the novel. He believes that psychology is significant in
a novel, in order to better understand characters. Unity of plot is ensured by a
perceiving character (a reflector, or a focalizer). With the lyrical novel, as Woolf
suggested, fiction should concentrate on poetic features, leaving plot and
character into the background, and bringing inner life into the foreground.
With modernism, traditional novels did not totally disappear (Stevenson 1986: 26).
In fact, Woolf’s novels are close to traditional ones, leaving the focus on non-narrative
and their lyrical quality aside. With respect to the novel in the 1920s, Bradbury
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states that not all novels and novelists were touched by Modernism. However,
many traditional aspects of the novel were generally questioned with the
beginning of Modernism.
According to Brooker (1992), Woolf did not actually contribute to a
general Modernist trend with her theories and her novels. This, however,
supports the idea that Modernism may be different with every author. There are
no fixed features to be respected by all novelists.
Traditional chronological time, the logic of the story, the coherence of the
plot which are disregarded in the Modernist novel move the novel towards
lyricism. As Joanna Russ defined the lyric mode, as having no chronology or
causation, Woolf’s manner of presenting her stories is close to the lyric not to
the narrative mode. Subjectivity is also a feature of the lyric mode.
Stream of Consciousness
Stream of consciousness is used to describe the inner experience. However,
there had been introspective novels before the stream of consciousness. Novels
focusing on inner experience bring about the reader’s sympathy for characters
due to the amount of information the reader is given about the characters and
due to the way this information is presented. (Lodge 1992) Thus, the stream of
consciousness contributes to the reader’s sympathizing with the characters, with
the reader’s manipulation of vision on the characters. The reader himself can’t
be objective. He is drawn into sharing the characters’ perception on time and into
giving more time to understand characters’ perception on various situations, on
other characters, to their inner world.
With respect to consciousness, time is not linear. There is movement back
and forth in time. According to Daiches, consciousness may move in time while
the subject does not move or spatial elements change while time is fixed.
Presence of the author is characteristic of Woolf’s stream of consciousness.
The novel of consciousness is mainly placed within categories of
internal focalization (Genette) or figural narrative (reflector-mode) (Stanzel)
(Fludernik 2009: 79).
Conclusions
Lyricism lies at the level of the presentation of the story. At the level of
the fabula, which readers may understand and compose later, there are no such
details. The readers perceive lyricism but they can also think of another
presentation of the story after they read the novel, reconstructing all the logical
links and coherence of the story in a close to traditional way.
151
Woolf’s novels contain certain aspects of traditional narrative, but mostly
their novels belong to the lyric mode. With the disregard of linear narrative,
logical causation, coherence of plot in Modernism, the reader is offered a
subjective view on events and characters and he is also manipulated into
judging characters in a subjective way, into sympathizing with them.
Subjectivity is part of the lyrical experience. Non-linear chronology is part of
the inner wanderings of the mind. The authors don’t focus on action, dynamism
lacks in their novels. The rhythm of the story is slow, as descriptions, comments
or reflections are given more time than the action itself. Non-narrative aspects
are given more importance than narrative aspects.
The reader has the feeling that nothing or not much is happening in
Woolf’s novels while he reads them due to the slow, detailed presentation of
perception. Descriptions of the way characters perceive what is around them,
other characters, various situations are given lots of attention by Woolf. The
focus is on the inner world of characters, due to which the story progresses
usually in a very slow rhythm. Only after the novel is finished can the reader
rethink of the whole story and put the events in the right order (Mrs Dalloway)
and view the story as a succession of events, while also understanding the
characters’ view of life and inner world by means of their perception.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Bal, Mieke (1997), Narratology. Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, University of Toronto Press.
Bertens, Hans (1996), The Idea of the Postmodern. A History, Routledge, London and New York.
Bradbury, Malcolm (1973), Possibilities. Essays on the State of the Novel, Oxford University
Press, London, Oxford, New York.
Bradbury, Malcolm, James McFarlane ed. (1991), Modernism. A Guide to European Literature
1890-1930, Penguin Books, England.
Brooker, Peter ed. (199), Modernism/ Postmodernism, Longman, London and New York.
Culler, Jonathan (2000), Literary Theory. A very Short Introduction, Oxford University Press, Oxford.
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Fludernik, Monika (2009), An Introduction to Narratology, Routledge, New York.
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Friedman, Melvin (1955), Stream of Consciousness: A Study in Literary Method, Yale University
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Genette, Gérard (1980), Narrative Discourse. An Essay in Method, Ithaca, Cornell University
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Humphrey, Robert (1954), Stream of Consciousness in the Modern Novel. A Study of James Joyce,
Virginia Woolf, Dorothy Richardson, William Faulkner and Others, University of
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ELEMENTS OF CULTURE SHOCK IN THEIR DYNAMICS
IN NEIL BISSOONDATH’S THE INNOCENCE OF AGE
AND THE SHORT STORIES
MONICA COLŢ∗
It is common knowledge that the phenomenon of migration in the contemporary world
brings along the effect of culture shock due to the incongruence of the forms of expression of
cultural values. Bissoondath’s fiction raises problems concerning identity and belonging especially
for the visible minorities, whose adjustment to a new culture is a process of negotiation with the
host culture, based on the idea that culture is about “shared meanings” (Hall 1). Bissoondath
approaches belonging in relation to the characters’ cultural memories, feelings and attitudes
challenged by the diasporic circumstances of Canadian multicultural society. The process of
negotiation is imbalanced and both in the short stories and the novel The Innocence of Age there
are characters of mixed cultural Indo-Caribbean-Canadian experience who express feelings of
marginalization and homelessness characteristic of the traumatic experience of displacement in
the postmodern world. Bissoondath also deconstructs race and ethnicity as concepts of difference
in the multicultural framework, perceived as encouraging isolation and stereotyping of the
cultural groups, whereas focusing on superficial differences at the expense of human similarities.
Keywords: representation, multiculturalism, family as cultural value, difference, ethnicity.
1. An Upsurge in Interest Concerning the Study of Values
1.1. Dimensionalist Theories of Values
The main directions in the study of values have been established by Geert
Hofstede who proposed the theory of the five dimensions of culture, Shalom
Schwartz with an inventory of social values which provides national
comparisons between cultures to assess the ways of thinking and acting in
different countries and last but not least Ronald Inglehart and Christian Welzel
with the revised theory of modernization and postmodernization based on a
comparative sociological study on eighty societies.
In the recent decades there have been extensive comparative studies of
values as for instance European Values Survey and World Values Survey,
relevant for the change of societies towards postmodernity. These thorough
analyses explain the process of social change from modernity to postmodernity
based on cultural arguments. The process of change should be understood in a
∗
Drd., University of Bucharest, “Literary and Cultural Studies”, e-mail: [email protected]
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MONICA COLŢ
larger frame of analysis which takes into consideration the phenomenon of
globalisation and the intensification of migrations South-North, East-West. It is
important to mention that it has been developed a new connection between the
local and the global in relation to culture. The integration or assimilation of migrants
require understanding and mutual acceptance of shared values. Values are
explicit or implicit conceptions about what is desirable. They are not directly
observable, involving cognitive, evaluative and affective elements; they are relatively
stable over time and determine behaviour and attitudes; they determine and are
determined by other values as they do not exist alone, but in systems of values,
an aspect which characterizes both the society and the individual. Thus, values
influence people’s behaviour and the characteristics of social environment.
There are three major sets of theories of values in the contemporary study
of values. The analysis is based on cross-cultural dimensions of values and identifies
common values to enable the comparison of cultures regardless of the historical
moment of comparison: Geert Hofstede’s Theory of the Five Dimensions of
Culture; Shalom Schwartz’s Inventory of Social Values which provides national
comparisons between cultures to assess the modes of thinking and acting in different
countries; Ronald Inglehart and Christian Welzel's Theories of Modernization
and Postmodernization, as a comparative explanation on eighty societies.
The main question is why values are so important for both individuals and
cultures. Values are ideas about what is important in life and they guide the rest
of culture. Geert Hofstede defines values as “a broad tendency to prefer certain
states of affairs over others” (2000: 4). Hofstede, Schwartz, and Inglehart & Welzel
have established dimensionalist models of value interpretation based on cross-cultural
studies. Thus, the study of values emphasize that they are situated at the core of
these models as they are the landmark of a culture. The theorists’ research is
based on large segments of population from different cultures and draw
attention to certain overlaps between the value dimensions.
Inglehart and Welzel (2005) identify two dimensions of cultural variation
which cover 85% of the world’s population: the first dimension emphasizes the
shift from traditional values to secular rational values in industrial societies and
the second dimension focuses on the shift from survival values to self-expression
values in post-industrial societies. These dimensions correspond to cultural
zones which reflect a persistent historical heritage. The majority of the former
postcolonial countries are now democratic societies or aspiring to democracy.
The development of the social emancipative forces and self-expression values
are the most important factors of pressure in democracy. However, in these
countries slow economic development determines stagnation at the level of
basic human needs, according to Abraham Maslaw’s pyramid of needs. Their
aspirations for freedom are hindered or are not given top priority in the social
hierarchy of values. Historical factors as for instance the colonial histories of
some countries determine “cultural clusters” (38) of countries whose cultures
ELEMENTS OF CULTURE SHOCK IN THEIR DYNAMICS IN NEIL
BISSOONDATH’S THE INNOCENCE OF AGE AND THE SHORT STORIES
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present certain common aspects. Any change of values takes time and the
theorists bring as argument the theory of intergenerational value change based
on two hypotheses. The scarcity hypothesis supports the idea that people’s
priorities depend on their socio-economic conditions and in conditions of
scarcity people give top priority to materialistic goals. The second hypothesis
called the socialization hypothesis focuses on the time interval required for
intergenerational replacement: “Moreover, the older generations in each society
tend to transmit their values to their children; this cultural heritage is not easily
dispelled, but if it is inconsistent with one’s first hand experience, it can
gradually erode” (98). The theorists underline the necessity of interpreting
scarcity hypothesis in connection with socialization hypothesis, as a person’s
feeling of security depends on the social context and also on the social welfare
institutions, which bring in discussion the fact that richer countries tend to feel
more secure than poor countries. The aspect of value change also relates to the
issue of tradition, how much is transmitted and if the content of this heritage
remains unchanged. Tradition, as the wisdom of generations, which provides
past beliefs, norms, and values for the present time, can be ambivalent. From
the same perspective Inglehart and Welzel relate tradition to socialization, as the
main instrument in transmitting cultural traditions. They argue that “this process
does not necessarily reproduce a given value system unchanged. Fundamental
value change takes place gradually; for the most part, it occurs as younger
generation replaces an older one in adult population of society” (99). This
theory also explains why modernization process and development in many
former postcolonial countries require a few decades for consistent effects.
1.2. Geert Hofstede’s Onion Diagram Depicts the Visible Manifestations
of Culture at Different Levels of Depth
Based on these models of interpretation, it is relevant to start the approach
of Canadian multiculturalism from the “onion diagram” (10) designed by Hofstede
to depict the visible manifestations of culture at different levels of depth. The value
model of a society consists of fundamental values, as the hard core element of culture,
and then the level of practices (whose meaning lies in the interpretation of the
cultural insiders): rituals, heroes, and symbols pictured as the layers of an onion.
The core values are values validated uniquely by the community throughout a
shared history, therefore not easily changeable. The stability of a national
cultural model, according to Hofstede, is given by the societal norms as systems
of values shared by the groups of a certain culture, which also lead to a
structuring of institutions. Hofstede’s model implies that the cultural differences
among countries cannot be understood outside the study of the historical context
and that change takes place at the exterior layers of the onion diagram.
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Clifford Geerts proposes a reformulation of the concept of culture which
does not emphasize the patterns of behaviour depending on place and time, but
it focuses on the mechanisms that shape human behaviour: rules, instructions, or
recipes. He proposes a “’control-mechanism’ view on culture” (45) in which the
act of thinking is both individual and public as it uses significant symbols,
words, gestures, even real objects to give meaning to the experience or the
events lived in a community. Without these cultural patterns, which are
organized systems of significant symbols, man’s behaviour would be virtually
shapeless (48). “Our ideas, our values, our acts, even our emotions, are like our
nervous systems cultural products” (50) they are manufactured culturally while
there are of course tendencies, capacities, dispositions which we are born with.
At this point it is necessary to relate the study of values to the definition of
culture from Hofstede’s perspective: “Culture as mental programming is also
the crystallization of history in the minds, hearts and hands of present
generation. The origins of cultural differences, if explainable at all, presume a
comparative study of history” (2000: 12).
The paradigm of value change traces cultures along certain vectors or dimensions.
G. Hofstede introduces the concept of “dimensions of culture” (15) based on an
inquiry about the philosophical opposition between the specific, the general, the
different and the similar in the framework of the comparative study of many societies.
He analyzes societies along five dimensions: power distance, uncertainty avoidance,
individualism, masculinity, and long-term orientation. Power distance is approached
in relation to the problem of human inequality; uncertainty avoidance is correlated
to the way societies deal with an unknown future; individualism relates to human
rights, political democracy and market capitalism, while collectivism is concerned
with group interests; masculinity refers to a society’s focus on economic growth
and competition, versus femininity which relates to supporting the needy in the
country (welfare state) and in the world (development cooperation) and also
preservation of the global environment; long-term orientation of cultures
expresses pragmatism in politics versus short-term orientation which deals with
principles and rights. The relevance of his study to this paper is the aspect that
the different cultural profile of different countries can lead for instance to a
difficult integration of the newcomers in terms of migration.
2. Cultural Diversity: Intercultural, Multicultural or Transcultural
2.1. Mary Peepre-Bordessa – Canadian Literature: “a Major Cultural
Transformation” (53)
Not only Canadian society but also Canadian literature as a whole reflects
an increasing awareness of cultural diversity, difference and adaptations. It is
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what Peepre-Bordessa calls “a major cultural transformation” (53). The Canadian
writer, as a sensitive voice who comes from a visible minority, can express both
here and there simultaneously, in writings which try “to internalize and come to
terms with the dual cultural worlds from which it derives” (52). In doing so the
writer goes beyond the cultural barriers, he/she transcends limitations, either
national, ethnic, or racial expressing a new kind of pluralistic world-view as
well as a fragmented reality which characterizes the postmodern actuality of
Canada today (52).
For objective reasons Peepre-Bordessa classifies or identifies the so-called
“narratives of interaction” (52) which depict the effects of the encounters
between majority and minority cultures within Canada, and Bissoondath’s novel
The Innocence of Age and the short stories belong to this type of writing. The
characters’ various cultural interactions contribute to shaping their identities
through the crossing of barriers which influence the original cultural heritage. In
the novel, the characters’ identities are the result of “a constitutive process, but
(that) this process itself must be seen as a permanent hybridization and nomadization”
(Mouffe110). The characters’ identity is built in various interactions and its
elements are interdependent, developing in a cultural space the borders of which
are rather porous. Thus identity manifests openness towards the exterior. As any
theory about identity relates to other, it is relevant to illustrate the aspect with
Chantal Mouffe’s and Wolfgang Welsch’s arguments. Chantal Mouffe considers
that identity is always a relation with the other based on conflict. On the other
hand, Sarup Madan’s arguments on the crossing of borders involve conflict and
mutual understanding, inclusion and exclusion at the same time. She defines the
migrant as “a person who crosses the border” (Sarup 94) whose identity is
somehow tied to the concept of home, too: “the story we tell of ourselves and
which is also the story others tell of us” (95).
2.2. Wolfgang Welsch’s Conceptualization of Cultures
Cultural encounters in today’s world are also approached by the philosopher
Wolfgang Welsch. He discusses the concepts of interculturality and multiculturality
in opposition to the traditional concept of “cultures as spheres” (3). Welsch
ranks these concepts and he posits transculturality as a more appropriate term to
describe the changes that different cultures undergo nowadays. According to
Welsch, interculturality suffers of “a structural inability to communicate between
cultures,” (3) while multiculturality is surprisingly similar to it, except that it
addresses to cultures “living together within one society” (3). To depict the complex
dynamics of today’s cultures, which are internally interconnected and emerge
from one another, Welsch describes the phenomenon based on the concept of
transculturality which passes through the classical cultural boundaries of
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homogenizing cultures. Welsch’s conceptualization of cultures is also related to
the aspect of hybridization of cultures which are seen as a network of cultures,
or cultures with an “altered cultural constitution” (4). Transculturality is a
different way of understanding cultural diversity, which applies both to the
macro and micro level. The individual’s cultural identity (understood as
detached from the civic identity) has become hybrid in the process of cultural
formation, enriched by various influences in a process of unification and
differentiation, thus transcultural. This way of interpreting the relations between
or among cultures regards identity not as a fixed entity, but as a process leading
to the integration of components of different cultural origin.
3. Culture Shock and the Dynamics of Hybrid Canadian Immigrant Identity
3.1. Geert Hofstede’s Acculturation Curve: Stages of Adjustment to a New
Culture in Terms of Migration
The acculturation curve proposed by Geert Hofstede explores the stages
of adjustment to a new culture in terms of migration. The first phase of the
process of adjustment to a different culture is characterized by the immigrant’s
feeling of euphoria of seeing new places. Then the second phase is actually the
culture shock. In the third phase which is the acculturation phase, the immigrant
has adjusted to a new environment and integrated in a new social network. The
fourth phase corresponds to the stable state of mind, which may remain negative
compared to that in the home country, for example if the immigrant continues
feeling a foreigner and discriminated against. It may be as good as before, in
which case the immigrant can be considered to be biculturally adapted, or it
may be better. In the last case the immigrant has gone native – he or she has
become “more Roman than the Romans” (426).
It is common knowledge that the phenomenon of migration in the
contemporary world brings along the effect of culture shock, as “a newcomer will
judge the new culture by the old values and find it lacking” (424). Bissoondath’s
fiction raises problems concerning identity and belonging especially for the
immigrants who belong to the so-called visible minorities, whose adjustment to
a new culture is a process of negotiation which should take into consideration
the reaction of the host culture, based on the idea that culture is about “shared
meanings” (Hall 1). Bissoondath is interested not so much of “where does one
belong but how does one belong” (Jain 10) and the aspect is also approached in
relation to the cultural memories, feelings and attitudes challenged by the
diasporic circumstances of a multicultural society.
Such a process of negotiation is imbalanced and both in the short stories
and the novel The Innocence of Age there are a few characters of mixed
Indo-Caribbean-Canadian cultural experience who express feelings of marginalization
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and homelessness characteristic of “the trauma of displacement” (Mishra 58) in
the postmodern world. The Innocence of Age can also be read as an allegory of
multiculturalism, in which the metaphor of house is depicted in a dynamic from
home to homelessness. In the novel Bissoondath deconstructs race and ethnicity
as concepts of difference in a multicultural framework, perceived as
encouraging isolation and stereotyping of the cultural groups, whereas focusing
on superficial differences at the expense of human similarities.
3.2. Migration, Cultural Change from the Value Perspective and the Effect
of Culture Shock in Neil Bissoondath’s The Innocence of Age
The Innocence of Age is a title which reflects a paradox: the age of
innocence is actually the age of maturity which characterizes protagonists like
Pasco, the middle aged Canadian whose real name is Gilbert Taggart, or his
friend Montgomery Bird, a man in his fifties who left Grenada, his home
country to emigrate to Canada sixteen years before. In opposition to this aspect,
the second generation, Charlene Bird or Daniel Taggart, who are in their youth,
seem to have lost their innocence early in life, for different reasons. Such
positioning among the members of a family can easily lead to strained relations
between generations. Thus family conflict increases in complexity and intensity
throughout the narration as emphasized by Pasco, a character-bound narrator,
who belongs to the Canadian mainstream.
The story is set in Toronto in the 1970s and 1980s, with flashbacks both
in time and space, which offer an insight upon the characters’ contrasting
feelings and identity construction. The fact that not all characters are Canadian
born stands for Bissoondath’s upsurge in interest in the Indo-Caribbean culture,
despite his frequent claim that his fiction is Canadian. Throughout the novel, the
evolution of the secondary characters like Sita, an Indo-Caribbean economic
migrant , whose country of origin is not directly mentioned by the author,
Montgomery Bird and his family coming from Grenada, or Viv and Deanna, a
West Indian immigrant couple reflect certain feelings which are expressed in
their behaviour as evidence of cultural shock: “classic features of IndoCaribbean experience such as feelings of exile, marginalization, homelessness,
impermanence and transience” (Jain 2005: 28).
Montgomery Bird comes to Canada attracted not by the land in itself, but
by the perspective of a good job “the work and the money, not the place” (9). At
the beginning of his life in Toronto, Montgomery sees his mailman life as “a
kind of success” (Bissoondath 1992: 15), as he confesses to Pasco during one of
their friendly talks at the “Greasy Spoon,” the restaurant Pasco owns.
Montgomery talks about his way of understanding of family as a cultural value
with a close friend, also a member of Canadian mainstream. It is an emotional
scene in which Pasco explains success in terms of family responsibility as a thorough
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value in life: “You provide for your family. I’d say that’s success” (16).
Montgomery understands not only his family life but also his work and social
relations based on his culture of origin, referring to the inhabitants of Grenada
as “my people” (8). At the same time he hopes that his children will not be
narrowly circumscribed by race and class barriers, and an instance concerning
this aspect is Montgomery’s intention to name his first child Doctor:
’I ever tell you I wanted to name him Doctor?’ ‘Name him what?’ ‘You hearin me
right. I figure that way he was goin’ to be Doctor Bird all his life, and there ain’t nothin’
like a title to bring respect.’ (14)
In other words Montgomery hopes that by copying or applying a successful
matrix or shortcut to a respectful status, the fundamental value will be automatically
incorporated. His children and family relations outline are seen by Montgomery
in the original family paradigm. He often refers to his family as “the Paradise”:
“Where I come from, Pasco, it ain’t hard to know what a man is – He patted the
bulge of his wallet in his back pocket. ‘A man is food and a house. And a
man’…is children” (212). Montgomery is defined by his role of a loving father
and devoted husband and he bears no emotional attachment to Canadian land. It
is a principle that guides his life according to a familiar, patriarchal pattern of
understanding family as a cultural value: discipline, and good education are the
ingredients of success, they can help Montgomery’s children make a good life
in the world, and be respected by the others. Family as a cultural value is certainly
positive as “values (being ‘cultural ideals’) are always positive“ (Ester 8), but
the practical outcomes in Montgomery’s case involve mainly negative effects.
Difference in terms of values understanding begins at home and one of
Montgomery’s children does not share her father’s view on life. His younger
child, Charlene, her father’s Nutmeg, “Just like the nutmeg spice back home” (15)
deeply disappoints Montgomery who cannot influence or really communicate to
her anymore. The sixteen-year-old Canadian-born girl is nicknamed by her
brother ”Liberty Bell” as she keeps talking of freedom to do whatever she
chooses to, despite her parents’ advice. Charlene is exposed to different cultural
influences in her private and public life, but her system of values is shaped
mainly by Canadian culture where she develops in the pre-adult years. The
teenager’s behaviour also reflects the cultural shift of Canadian society towards
postmodernity. A number of observers of contemporary cultural change point to
the fact that this shift has oriented towards individualization. This orientation
means “personal growth, self-expression, creativity, equality, democracy,
personal freedom, gender concerns” (Ester 9). For Charlene culture shock takes
place in the family life due to the pressure between two conflicting values
systems which regard the same reality. Her reaction is to adhere to different
values and lifestyles than her parents’ or she has a different understanding of the
same cultural value. Consequently the family bonds do not act as adaptive tools
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anymore, as they are not subject to change and negotiation in the cultural
process but remain inflexible. In contrast to his sister Charlene, who is exposed
mainly to Canadian culture and feels different from the other members of her
family, Montgomery’s son has a different trajectory in Canada, mainly due to
the fact that he has known the initial cultural system, before the family’s
emigration. Nutmeg Charlene places herself at a certain distance from the
source culture, and in an attempt to confirm her value she denies her roots,
ending up a promiscuous woman, rejected by both worlds. Compared to the
other rootless characters of the novel, she does not feel the “phantom ache in an
amputated limb” (Sarup 96), although she experiences its social effects. Under
these circumstances the characters alienate from one another and the cultural
clash of the values leads to tense family relations which weaken the family
cohesion and prevents a successful social integration in Canadian multicultural society.
Montgomery does not have the adequate instruments to solve the conflicting
situations he is faced with: despite the fact that he directly experiences Canadian
culture that encompasses a multitude of life styles, he fails to internalize the
meaning system of the host culture. Actually Montgomery applies the old cultural
codes of understanding the world to Canadian context, which basically remains
puzzling to him, both as the laws and social code of conduct. In one of his dialogues
with Pasco he admits that his parental skills are limited and cannot hope for
success in his children’s education: “Sometimes I does think that the trick to
being a parent is jus’ learning how to survive” (Bissoondath 1992:16). The character
appears enriched by his diverse life experience in Canada, which is characterized by
different cultural determinants, but paradoxically he is unable to perform “the
integration of components of differing cultural origin” (Welsch 198).
In the process of adjustment to Canadian culture Montgomery performs a
mental repositioning accompanied by a feeling of inadequacy as culture shock
is a result of the lived or direct experience, actually of the way he perceives the
changes in the social conditions. The fact that Montgomery does not easily
accommodate to the new culture affects all the aspects of his life and he gets to
be charged with assault by his union representative, after drinking a couple of
beers at lunchtime at work. Montgomery’s failure to adjust to authority in its
different forms and such resistance in a new context, due to the patriarchal way
of thinking is reflected by other aspects of life as for example Montgomery’s
work environment. An instance which illustrates this inability can be found at
the beginning of Montgomery’s Canadian journey, when he also fails to identify
and interpret well-known Canadian symbols like the CN Tower which he calls
“The Seein’ Tower” (Bissoondath 1992: 124). Gradually, he becomes aware of
his inability of connecting properly to the realities of a different society and
culture and usually shares his frustration with close friends:
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Oh, I see the letters awright, but the idea was a’ready in my head. The Seein’
Tower. Everythin’ was so new, man, I jus’ didn’t connec the two. When you adjustin’ to a
new country, it have a lot of things you doesn’t connect. (124)
Once in Canada, Montgomery lives by a model he has designed back
home which is the projection of his desires and hopes for a better life for his
family. Actually this aspect overlaps with the main characteristic of culture
shock: these projections are based on the original culture and cannot match
Canadian reality. During the initial steps of the intercultural encounters
Montgomery operates at the level of “the superficial manifestations of culture:
symbols, heroes and rituals” (Hofstede 424). The fact that he does not recognize
the CN Tower proves that he lacks basic knowledge and understanding of
Canadian culture, but also that mere accumulation of knowledge, without a
change of attitude and adjustment of the value system does not contribute to a
successful integration in Canadian society.
Another symptom of culture shock is also the perception of current events
based on stereotypes, which applies both to the immigrant individuals or groups
and the host society. For instance Pasco associates Montgomery with Harry
Belafonte, simply based on the colour of his skin, but he gradually becomes
aware of certain differences: “But Montgomerry also had knobbier features, a
less glaring grin, a stockier build” (Bissoondath 1992: 13). Pasco, as a Canadian
born person, has forced his perception into a stereotypical image of the people
pf colour, but a positive image connected to a hero of colour he has acquired in
time. As Pasco seeks constructive interaction, the stereotype does not prevent
communication, and it works as its starting point. Pasco becomes aware that he
“hadn’t been able to look past the forest to see the individuality of the tree” (13).
Paradoxically, not only Montgomery misinterprets the local gestures, but
it appears that in turn his gestures are mistakenly interpreted by the
representatives of the host society who blame him of mental disorder
manifested both at work and at home. Montgomery dies tragically and
unexpectedly, along the corridor of his building, shot by Kurt, a young
policeman prone to violence, who claims self-defence. The incident escalates in
a media event which involves the city officials and anti-racist political activists.
Consequently, Montgomery’s individuality is dissipated, marked as “a cause by
the agendas of others” (285). Thus Montgomery stands for universal values and
Bissoondath depicts him as a character that does not see the world based on the
colour of his skin, as his son highlights by the end of the novel:
These people, they won’t leave us alone. They see a racist under every bed. One
of’em even told my sister that having white skin automatically means you’re a racist.
Guilty until proven innocent. (306)
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Ironically enough, Toronto, the city of tolerance and multiculturalism
spreads racism and pain, which can be interpreted not only as Montgomery’s
failure to connect to Canadian culture but the reverse also applies, as “the act of
belonging…is also a social act. It entails acceptance by the other” (Jain 10).
Montgomery’s dream of successful immigration ends tragically and the
message of the novel goes beyond the individual’s destiny to a critique of the
Canadian society which treats its newcomers as the Other:
There had been a time when no strangers wandered the streets, for newcomers
were quickly absorbed, became familiar. Now people came and went with casual
regularity, identities tightly guarded. (Bissoondath 1992: 120)
Montgomery is perceived by Canadian people as a stranger, a process
which is accompanied by the cultural exclusion or construction of the
unfamiliar as a permanent Other. Thus, Taylor has emphasized that recognition
influences self-perception whereas misrecognition can lead to a complex of
inferiority and a distorted image of the self, the feelings of inadequacy,
discrimination, oppression or inauthenticity which apply to groups and
individuals equally (1994: 38 ).
The deep meanings of the process are depicted by Sarup Madan who
refers to this state of being physically close while remaining culturally remote in
an attempt of blurring cultural lines (101-102).
This is an aspect of multiculturalism, subtly criticized by Bissoondath,
and illustrated by the evolution of the immigrant characters both in the novel
and the short stories. The deep problems of multiculturalism as “the political
accommodation of minorities” (Modood 2008: 110) are symbolically expressed
by the metaphor of the house, which reveals various forms of the disintegration
of the social ties. Sita, an economic migrant from the Caribbean lives illegally
in a house situated in a poor area of Toronto, in which marginalized people can
afford paying rent for a temporary shelter, maybe the last before their death.
Bissoondath depicts this aspect, instrumented by the metaphor of the house as
shelter, to give voice to the problems people encounter in a multicultural society:
isolation, lack of communication and understanding, as here, human interaction
is built in a mechanical way and does not lead to cohesion. Once inside the
house the characters experience the darkness of a claustrophobic space which
has bare cell rooms and narrow corridors. Similar to the public places the
corridor is destined to illicit or anonymous communication, where tenants
finally dare to express their anger and lack of hope in vulgar ways. However
there is one room whose walls are scribbled with existential issues, a room in
which the tenant, a thinker so-called Mr. Bell, always dressed up in a suit, as
Sita explains to Daniel Taggart, expresses his frustrations in a different register.
It is a silent voice which pierces the sterility of a house characterized by
“profound absence of life: he’d felt it – for it was felt, not seen – only from his
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mother’s corpse” (Bissoondath 1992: 132). Coincidentally, Mr. Bell is one of the
street people that Pasco Taggart happens to offer meals in his greasy spoon, an
interesting character that can pay one dollar for a meal and also leave one dollar tip,
without saying a word. These characters’ maladjustment to Canadian society is
also an effect of culture shock at its extreme forms, such as violence. Mr. Bell’s
dignified and humane behaviour turns into a determined reaction against violence
through violence, emphasized by an incident in which Pasco is threatened by Emile, a
member of a local gang. Mr. Bell or Sklewy, as Pasco calls him, becomes a symbol
of humanity and loyalty which people who belong together show to one another.
It is part of Bissoondath’s message that humanity is a universal value which
brings people together, transcending fixed categories of race, class or gender.
This is the place where Daniel Taggart, asked to rebuild the house, overhears
a scene in which Sita is physically abused by Mr. Simmons, the owner who keeps
her in the house against her will, refusing to return the passport and other travelling
documents. Thus Sita is subject to commodity trafficking, and this is indicative of
multiculturalism weaknesses. Bissondath’s message is that multiculturalism, identified
with the structure of the house, needs reconstruction so that to ensure equal treatment
to all citizens, irrespective of class, gender, or race. Sita’s discreet presence in Mr.
Simmons’ house is the presence of a marginalized individual in search of a voice of
her own, timidly asking for her rights, basically in an attempt of recovering her
civic and cultural identity. Not only Simmons but for a while even Danny locates
Sita as the Other. Such a deformed perception of the other is explained by Hofstede
as a tendency of members of host cultures receiving foreign visitors, sojourners, or
migrants to show psychological reactions that mirror those of the foreigners: “They
usually start with curiosity – the foreigner as a rare zoo animal” (424).
The recognition of her cultural difference is not beneficial to Sita, on the
contrary, it prevents her from becoming an integral part of Canadian society.
Sita belongs to the diasporic community of Caribbean immigrants and she experiences
oppression in the country which promises the immigrants’ integration in terms
of respect and equality. Meanwhile Sita writes home fantasizing about life in the
Canadian haven (Mishra 23). Her behaviour is typical in terms of the expectations
of the immigrants and their families: “Caribbean immigrants in Canada must
keep up pretence of enjoying the fruits of the promised land in Canada,
regardless of whatever poverty, exploitation, discrimination or alienation they
might actually suffer” (Jain 2005: 88). Towards the end of the novel Sita seeks
revenge against Simmons and through violence she sets herself free.
3.3. Elements of culture shock in Bissoondath’s short stories
The same topic of culture shock regarding immigrants’ adjustment to a
multicultural society can be traced in many of Bissoondath’s short stories.
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Security and Insecurity are two short stories which deal with Caribbean
immigrants in Canada, too. Actually Security which appears in the volume
entitled On the Eve of Uncertain Tomorrows (1990) is a sequel to Insecurity
from Bissoondath’s first volume Digging up the Mountains (1985) in which
Alistair Ramgoolam makes plans for immigrating to Canada. Security is a story
of cultural adjustment to different circumstances in which uncertainties, distrust,
disappointment and loneliness reflect the individual struggle for a place in
Canadian society, in which, paradoxically, material security leads to the
imbalance of the value system which induces a feeling of insecurity:
The more insecure he saw his island becoming, the more secure he himself felt.
From this secure insecurity a new attitude, one of which he had never before been aware,
arose in him. The island of his birth, on which he had grown up and he had made his
fortune, was transformed by a process of mind into a kind of temporary home.
(Bissoondath 1985: 72)
Alistair Ramgoolam experiences disorientation due to culture shock from the
moment he sets foot in Toronto. For him Canada is a foreign land which estranged him
from his sons, and later on his wife and even from his deep self. All the intercultural
encounters show Alistair repeatedly that Canada can not be perceived as his home, as
home means for him “a point of reference from which they could reassure themselves
of their place in the world” (93), but most of all home is familiarity and a certain
way of doing things. As a solution to insecurity, Mr. Ramgoolam attempts at
reinforcing tradition to give meaning to his life in Toronto or fill in the cultural gaps
as he is not perceived as the bread winner and the head of the family anymore:
He was single-handedly fighting a war of domestic skirmishes to uphold traditions
which, he acknowledged, had meant little to him before but which suddenly, inexplicably,
loomed in importance. Challenged by his sons, he could not explain their new value; could
not when confronted by his wife’s weary hesitation, justify his renewed reliance on them;
just knew that in this alien land, far from all that had created him, far from all that he had
created, they were vital. (Bissoondath 1990: 107)
Actually he perceives Canada through the prism of what it is not the same
as on the Caribbean island or in other words Ramgoolam locates symbolically,
not geographically, Toronto and Canada at the other pole of the Caribbean. His
identity, as the conceptual framework within which he develops commitments
and identifications (Taylor 1989: 40), emphasizes Ramgoolam’s ethnocentric
position towards the Canadians who are the pagans, from his point of view, while
the culture on the Caribbean island is superior as practices and perspective on life.
For instance, Ramgoolam is not so much afraid of death, but that his soul will
not be properly taken care of; he fears assimilation more than death and this can
be also interpreted as a step further in his “diasporic consciousness” (Jain 67).
166
MONICA COLŢ
It was from this loneliness, this sense of abandonment, that emerged Mr. Ramgoolam’s
deepest worry: would his sons do for him after his death all that he had done for his
parents after theirs? Would they – and, beyond this, could they, in this country – fulfil
their cremation duties, feed his hungry and wandering soul, have themselves ritually
shaved beside a river, dispatch his soul to wherever with the final farewell ceremony?
(Bissoondath 1990: 108)
His cultural lens prevents Alistair, and also Montgomery, from perceiving
things as they are, of a different value which comes from this difference in itself.
Alistair’s and Montgomery’s systems of values prove to be inflexible and they
cannot build points of connection with the new culture. Therefore their
identities are no longer negotiable or “domains of difference” (Bhabha 2) but
essentialist categories.
A story of adjustment to a different culture and coming to terms to the
character’s own culture is depicted by Bissoondath in the short story The Cage
from the same volume, Digging up the Mountains. Michi is a Japanese woman
in search of her identity who comes to experience Canadian culture on her own
choice but in an attempt to escape the family’s confinement: “Tradition designed
my cage. My father built it. Keisuke locked it” (Bissoondath 1985: 68). The
themes of displacement and dislocation explain her journey to the North-American
continent, which is a place completely alien to Miki. She is portrayed in clear
opposition to her mother who has completely surrendered to the cultural
tradition and the rigors of a patriarchal society: “I am, in the end, tangible proof
of my mother’s failure as a woman” (41). The relationship father-daughter is a
power relation in favour of the former who makes efforts “to transplant the
cultural values in her” (Prasad 281). She does not share affinities with any relative:
“Accepting my father’s values would make life easier for me. But I cannot do
this automatically. I am not a clock” (Bissoondath 1985: 68). As soon as she
arrives in Toronto, Michi feels free from the restrictive bondage of the Japanese
culture and attempts to find her place in the world. Her look on this different
world bears the traces of the home culture as she feels foreign on a foreign land.
Actually, her first contact with the wide world has been mediated by a
children’s book, a gift from her father:
My father in giving me the book had stressed the obvious: the ugliness of the
foreigners, the beauty of the Samurai. But my mind was gripped by the roughness, the
apparent unpredictability of the foreigners. The Samurai were of a cold beauty: you knew
what to expect of them, and in this my father saw virtue. For me, the foreigners were
creatures who could have exploded with a suddenness that was like charm. Looking at
them I wondered about their houses, their food, their families. I wanted to know what they
thought and how they felt. (42)
In Canada Michi gradually becomes aware of the cultural differences and
of the fact that she is perceived as a foreigner. While learning English with a
167
tutor she listens to his ideas which are a proof of the stereotypical way the
western people perceive the Asians: “He insisted that I, being a Japanese person,
never eat bread, only rice and vegetables and raw fish and nothing else. He
would not believe that I had tasted my first mac in Tokyo” (94). Michi chooses
to return to tradition and her identity is permanently reinvented, as much as
tradition, to match her changing tendencies. Michi discovers that her
grandmother from her father’s side, whose name she bears, used to be like her,
not submissive to authority in any form, and this connection gives Michi a
different understanding of the family value and she chooses to come back home.
Thus she comes to terms with the initial the initial value system which is
enriched with different meanings and completes and confirms her identity:
I am a woman, I am a Japanese woman – I still look to the east when I take a
medicine – and the ties of tradition still bind me the way they bind Miki. To understand
oneself is insufficient. (67)
No man is an island. (66)
Conclusions
The paper identifies elements of culture shock in their dynamics in a
multicultural society under the influence of globalization in Bissoondath’s novel
The Innocence of Age and short stories. As it is illustrated in the methodological
part of the paper I have approached the concept of culture shock in relation to
culture and values, as culture components which help the characters give
meaning to their lived experiences. The discussion of the characters’ cultural
identity and the process of adjustment to Canadian society are related to the
concepts of interculturalism and transculturalism which reflect the dynamic of
the world which changes. The immigrant characters in The Innocence of Age are
economic migrants from the Caribbean, although Bissondath does not openly
reveal the country of origin. The presence of Caribbean immigrants in Canadian
social fabric has become significant beginning with the years 1960s when
Canada gradually turned its attention toward non-traditional sources of
immigration. By the beginning of the 21st century, the proportion of people
with British, French, and/or Canadian ethnic origins (the term was first
introduced in the 1996 census) had dropped to below one-half of the total
population (46%). This increased diversity was evident in the 2001 census, in
which more than 200 different ethnic origins were reported. This aspect of
Canadian social reality emphasizes the relevance of my analysis of culture
shock, because visible ethnic and racial minorities have become a significant
part of Canadian reality. Bissoondath’s novel and the short stories reflect
aspects of the years 1970s when Canada’s approach of multiculturalism has
168
MONICA COLŢ
often been described using metaphors such as the cultural mosaic or the
harmonious interaction between communities. The metaphor refers to the focus
of Canadian multiculturalism on accommodating the changing needs of an
increasingly diverse Canadian society. Practice or people’s direct perception of
multiculturalism reflects serious problems. Most immigrants from developing
countries have found in Canada a better life, economically speaking, but they
have faced culture shock. One of the reasons is that they come with a different
cultural heritage than that of Canadian mainstream. Adjustment takes time until
every newcomer finds his/her own way in the “existing network of social
relations” (Geerts 145). The characters’ main motivation to immigrate to
Canada is not the country in itself but the job perspectives, the opportunities of
material safety. The paradigm of Montgomery’s existence for example is not
flexible as it is dominated by a patriarchal way of understanding not only his
family life but also work. He bears a wrong perception of reality which prevents
him from adjusting to Canadian society and culture. Such a perspective on life
is not the only source of culture shock: a different understanding of the same
cultural value can lead to frustration and a feeling of inadequacy. The aspect can
be observed both at people from different and the same culture, which belong to
different generations as it is the case of Montgomery Bird and his daughter Charlene.
The dream of successful immigration or high expectations which often fail to be
accomplished due to cultural exclusion or the treatment of a newcomer as other
amplify culture shock, especially for the first generation of immigrants. This
aspect is illustrated in Bissoondath’s works, reflecting the route from culture
shock to the necessity of a modified behaviour. This puts pressure on the individual’s
values system which gives meaning and coherence in the interpretation of
reality. Members of Canadian society perceive the immigrants as strangers or
foreigners and this treatment of difference leads to the latter’s isolation.
The action of the novel and the short stories is set in the city. Living in
metropolitan areas corresponds to a tendency of these minorities to join communities
of people from the same culture. Canadian cities have gradually become more
cosmopolitan but more important is the cosmopolitan attitude of culturally and
ethnically diverse people who interact in Canadian multicultural society.
Anthony Kwame Appiah supports a position of “partial cosmopolitanism”
(Appiah xvii) which aims at “creating habits of coexistence” (Appiah xix) by
developing a culture of conversation which does not seek total agreement or
consensus but cultural exchange in a transcultural conversation. This crossing of
borders unites the members of diverse cultures on the level of discursive exchange.
Appiah stresses the role of universal values as patterns of interaction or basis of
a common humanity (11). They guide people who engage in a constructive
conversation which welcome differences and overcome culture shock.
169
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Appiah, Kwame Anthony (2007), Cosmopolitanism: Ethics in a World of Strangers, Norton, New York.
Abramson, Paul R., Ronald Inglehart (1995), Value Change in Global Perspective, University of
Michigan Press, Michigan.
Bhabha, Homi (1994, 2007), The Location of Culture, Routledge, London and New York.
Bissoondath, Neil (1985), Digging up the Mountains, MacMillan, Toronto.
Bissoondath, Neil (1992), The Innocence of Age, Alfred A. Knopf Canada, Toronto.
Geerts, Clifford (1973), The Interpretation of Cultures, Basic Books, New York.
Ester, Peter, Michael Brown et al. (2006), Globalization, Value Change, and Generations A
Cross-National Perspective European Values Studies, Brill, Leiden.
Hall, Stuart (1997, 2003), “Representation: Cultural Representations and Signifying Practices”, in
Stuart Hall (ed.), The Work of Representation, Sage Publications, London, pp. 1-75.
Hofstede, Geert (2000), Culture’s Consequences: Comparing Values, Behaviour, Institutions and
Organizations across Nations, Sage Publications, London.
Inglehart, Ronald, Christian Welzel (2005), Modernization, Cultural Change, and Democracy:
the Human Development Sequence, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.
Jain, Jasbir (2005), Indo-Caribbean-Canadian Diaspora, Rawat Publications, New Delhi.
Modood, Tariq (2008), “Multiculturalism, Citizenship and National Identity”, in Bryan Turrner,
Eugen Isin et al. (eds.), Investigating Citizenship: Between Past and Future, Routledge,
2008, pp.109-129.
Mishra, Vijay (2007), The Literature of the Indian Diaspora: Theorizing the Diasporic Imaginary,
Routledge, London.
Peepre-Bordessa, Mari (1994), “Transcultural Travels: Essays in Canadian Literature and Society”,
in Mari Peepre-Bordessa (ed.), Beyond Multiculture: Canadian Literature in Transition,
The Nordic Association of Canadian Studies, Lund, pp. 47-59.
Prasad, Amar Nath Amar (2002), Indian Writing in English: Critical Explorations, Sarup and
Sons, New Delhi.
Mouffe, Chantal (1994), “For a Politics of Nomadic Identity”, in George Robertson (ed.),
Travellers’ Tales: Narratives of Home and Displacement, Routledge, London, pp. 105-114.
Sarup, Madan (1994), “Home and Identity”, in George Robertson (ed.), Travellers’ Tales:
Narratives of Home and Displacement, Routledge, London, pp. 93-105.
Taylor, Charles (1989), Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity, Cambridge
University Press, Cambridge.
Taylor, Charles (1994), “The Politics of Recognition”, in Multiculturalism: Examining the Politics of
Recognition, Amy Gutmann (ed.), Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey, pp. 25-73.
CHRISTIAN TIME AS PERCEIVED BY MARGERY KEMPE
MONICA OANCĂ∗
Margery Kempe is considered to be one of the late medieval mystic writers, although her
work was very unconventional, as was her life, which was recorded in her work, making The
Book of Margery Kempe the first autobiography in English. In the medieval period, time was
closely related to the religious calendar and perceived both as circular, following the liturgy, and
linear, as the time of an on-going history, but beyond these two dimensions, Christian time also
had a teleological dimension, as Christians valued their spiritual salvation more than their
material prosperity. I have shown that The Book of Margery Kempe can convey to us unknown
insights regarding the way a medieval middle-class mystic woman perceived time and how a
medieval illiterate female-author spatially organised her material to produce her own meanings.
The lack of linearity in the text invites the reader to search through the book and to recreate time
and his or her personal and spiritual understanding of it.
Keywords: medieval, mystic writer, autobiography, pilgrimage, hagiography.
Margery Kempe is often considered to be one of the late medieval mystic
writers, although her Book was very unconventional, and did not conform to the
established genre of mystical works, and therefore it resists characterisation. As
Margery Kempe’s existence in King’s Lynn (at the time Bishop’s Lynn) is
proven by the documents in the archives, and it seems that the Book partly
records her life, it is considered an “autobiography”; on the other hand there are
arguments that it can be interpreted as a “treatise”1 to help other people deal
with their divine visions. Lynn Staley is somewhat radical in separating the
author, “Kempe”, from the protagonist “Margery, the subject”, discussing The
Book as a piece of fiction, an approach which I partially follow.
In the medieval period, time was closely supervised by the Church, and
was given a sacramental dimension, as everything else in nature. The linear time
of an on-going history was centred on the Incarnation and Resurrection of
Christ and, thus, human history was given an axis and a reference point. But this
horizontal aspect was constantly doubled by a circular feature, which was
related to the religious annual calendar and equally to the weekly (or daily)
∗
Assistant, Faculty of Orthodox Theology, e-mail: [email protected].
The term “treatyse” is used several times to characterise the Book: in the proem, in the
preface, and in the eighty-ninth chapter of the first part of the Book and in the last (tenth chapter
of the second part).
1
172
MONICA OANCĂ
liturgy, which re-enacted Christ’s life, Passion and Resurrection. The third and
perhaps the most spiritual dimension of Christian time is its soteriological
significance. A Christian’s life was regarded as a temporary state in which he
had to prepare himself for salvation, a purpose which offered believers a
teleological component of time.
All these interpretations of time, from a Christian perspective can be
identified in The Book of Margery Kempe, and I intend to show that this work
goes beyond this rigid categorisation, that belongs to Jacques Le Goff, and can
be found in his study Time, Work and Culture in the Middle Ages, as well as in
Dictionnaire raisonné de l’Occident Médiéval (Le Goff, Schmitt), which has
been translated into Romanian (Dicţionarul tematic al Evului Mediu occidental).
1. Time in a Religious Community – Margery Kempe’s World
One of the most clearly felt ways in which the Church was present in
Christians’ lives was the call to the regular religious services in church. The
daily services and the Sunday mass were the bases for communal life and being
part of a community meant integrating in its life of worship. Jacques Le Goff
mentions the importance of belfry bells, which chimed the hours for everyone to
hear (1980: 35), thus urging believers to go to church or sometimes announcing
the time so that people could guide their daily activities accordingly.
Margery was a woman of her time, assuming her identity as a housewife,
and participating in the liturgy and other services in church, yet she was constantly
negotiating her place in society, trying actively to elude her “predestined” static
position and create a new situation for herself. She was aware of the mystical
tradition, yet she did not contemplate in silence; on the other hand she did not
live the equally silent life of a housewife. She was neither an active merchant
nor a business woman, although she tried the latter and she failed.
She went on pilgrimages and constantly spoke loudly about God and wept
and cried loudly, while suffering the rebukes of those who disliked her as a
penance. Hence, she had a liminal identity, “at the threshold of different social
and religious positions” (Oancă, 2009: 121-123). She was a mystic, well known
and sometimes infamous2, in her native Lynn, a constant participant at Mass
(ch. 61, Kempe 190) and received Holy Communion frequently, sometimes
weekly (ch. 57 Kempe 178).
There was only one parish in Lynn, St. Margaret’s Church, and besides it
there was a priory and Margery usually went to attend mass at the chapel of the
2
The priest who wrote her Book initially refused to have anything to do with her and her work,
because of her bad reputation, yet through divine intervention he experienced a state of grace in which
he cried excessively and he read in several treatises about similar manifestations of piety. These
incidents made him change his mind and he agreed to write her Book (ch. 62-63 Kempe 192-193).
173
priory, but when she was denied the Holy Communion there, she went to the
parish church where she was accepted (ch. 57 Kempe 178). She had a close
relationship with her confessor (an anchorite, who constantly encouraged her,
ch. 16 and ch. 19 Kempe 73, 82), and, when he died, she cried bitterly and
repeatedly at his grave (ch. 60, Kempe 186). She chose another confessor
(Master Robert Spryngolde), who also supported her when almost everyone
rejected her (ch. 63 Kempe 194). Her close relationship with her confessor as
well as her dialogue with several acknowledged holy people, like two anchoresses
(Dame Julian, in Norwich and an anchoress in York, ch. 50 Kempe 157), show
the fact that her revelations were considered authentic. Other priests, besides her
confessor, gave credence to her words and supported her (the vicar of St. Stephen’s
Church in Norwich, ch. 17 Kempe 76; the priest who read her many religious
books for seven or eight years, ch. 58 Kempe 182; and a White Friar from Norwich,
William Southfield, “a good man with a holy life”, ch. 18 Kempe 76-77).
There are many instances in her narrative that show Margery’s attempt to
conform to the precepts of the Church, and also her effort to integrate into the
daily life and the religious feasts celebrated in her community. 3 When she
records her participation into such important feasts, she also mentions her
spiritual visions, which re-enact biblical episodes, emphasising the circular
pattern of Christian feasts and time, a circularity which is not only dogmatically
correct, but also central to Christian worship.
Another orthodox behaviour was going on pilgrimage, which she did extensively,
travelling to Jerusalem, Rome, and Santiago. During her trips inside the country
she was accompanied by her husband, and thus she was not only physically
protected by him (against robbers or other dangers of the journey), but her travels
were in a way legitimized by the presence of her husband, since in a patriarchal
society, as late medieval English society was, a woman needed her husband’s
approval if she wanted to travel. As her husband was “always a good and easygoing man with her” (ch. 15 Kempe 68), she valued his company4, although sometimes,
when she was rebuked by people for her unusual clothes and preaching, he
abandoned her. Because of her constant wish to talk to and about God, a desire
that sometimes set her apart from the other Christians, she did not want to live a
life of lonely contemplation, but rather, she wanted to live together with other
people and to share her experiences with them. Writing her “memories” was
also an attempt to explain herself and establish a relationship with other believers.5
3
For many years she participated in the Palm Sunday processions with other parishioners
(ch.78, Kempe 224), in the celebration of Purification Day (ch. 82 Kempe 239), etc.
4
When her children are mentioned, which is very rarely, they appear only as a hindrance,
and although her prayers prove that she prayed for them daily, they do not emerge as characters in
her memories, with the exception of her eldest son, who might have been her first scribe.
5
When the Bishop of Lincoln advised her to write down her feelings, she was very
determined in saying that they should not be written “so soon”, but immediately pointed out that
they would be written some twenty years later.
MONICA OANCĂ
174
This wish to be part of the living Church in this life is further supported
by the way she repeatedly defended herself against accusations of being a
Lollard.6 She was accepted by many bishops; one of the first to approve of her
behaviour was the bishop of Lincoln. On the other hand, he was reluctant to let
her wear white clothes or the mantle and the ring as signs of chastity, although
her husband was there and professed his agreement to her wish. It was the
Archbishop of Canterbury who gave her a letter to recommend her and to
testify to her orthodoxy, in spite of her unusual practices (ch. 16, ch. 55 and
ch. 57 Kempe 71-71, 175, 178).
Margery’s most extraordinary habit was weeping excessively and crying
out loud, expressing thus her passionate and profound devotion to God. Yet
such a manifestation was contrary to the approved and ordinary manner of
conduct, and therefore it proclaimed her as an outcast. It was because of this
apparently uncontrolled howling that she was often abandoned by her
companions during her pilgrimages or by her fellow townsmen at home.
Analysing Margery Kempe’s life as part of the Christian community she
belonged to, the reader draws the conclusion that although she was sometimes
rejected, she succeeded in creating a place for herself in her native town
(ch. 61 Kempe190) and she was accepted as a holy woman by the religious
people who got to know her.
2. Transcending the Linear Time of History
Another interpretation of Christian time considers historic time, with a linear
course that observes natural chronology, yet gives it a new centre, namely the
birth of Christ. “The appearance of Christ, the fulfilment of the promise, the Incarnation
give time a historic dimension or, better still, a centre” (Le Goff, 1980: 31).
Margery’s life was centred on Christ and her frequent dialogues with Him,
which are recorded in her Book. The first chapter records her first dialogue with
our Saviour, following the birth of her first child, an experience which was
traumatic and disruptive, in such a way that only Jesus’ presence and speech
brought her back to her senses.
1.1. Margery as a Prophet
Margery’s mystical visions create a reordering of reality in The Book, as
she records her encounters with Jesus Christ and her revelations, during which
6
She also defended herself against accusations of Lollardy in front of the Bishop of Worcester
(ch. 45 Kempe 146), the Abbot of Leicester, and the Dean of Leicester (ch. 48-49 Kempe 152-155), as
well as the Bishop of York (ch. 52 Kempe 162-166).
175
she witnessed several feasts: the Birth of Virgin Mary, the Visitation, as well as
the Nativity of our Lord (ch. 6 Kempe 52-54) and the Crucifixion and Resurrection
(ch. 80-81 Kempe 231-238). Although many physical events are recorded such
as her trips and her dialogues with real persons, the accent in her episodically told
life is on the spiritual dialogues with Jesus Christ, His mother and other saints.
These discussions with Him move her reality to a different level, at which
time becomes transparent, since the future is visible. There are many instances
when she knows whether a person (or persons) will be saved, but besides these
soteriological questions, there are also moments when she is straightforwardly
told by Jesus Christ whether it is better to sail on a different ship (ch. 28 Kempe 103),
or if a sick person will get well (ch. 60 Kempe 185-186), etc. There are also
hints, in her visions, about events that are about to happen in the future.7
The reader witnesses thus not only a chronological reordering of reality,
but also a transgressing of historical reality, by having mystical encounters and
dialogues interspersed with events taking place in the physical reality. Since
Jesus Christ is an active character in her Book, in order to follow it, one needs
not only patience or curiosity, but also faith. Time in the Book does not depend
so much on the narrator’s memory of events, but rather on her wish to turn physical
reality into mystical reality, transgressing, thus, ordinary, physical time. The Birth
of Christ, which took place in history and thus created a horizontal temporal
axis, does not create, in The Book of Margery Kempe, a certain direction or a
point of reference. Although it is placed at the beginning of the Book (ch. 6
Kempe 53), it does not mark an opening or a point of reference, but rather a
continuation of Margery’s visions in the same way as the Crucifixion.
1.2. Kempe – Chronological Fragmentation of Narrative
I want to discuss the fragmentation of the text in the light of Lynn
Staley’s perspective, that the author Kempe is a different agent from mystical
Margery (Staley, 1994: 3). Thus we can comment on fictional time in the Book
treating the work as a piece of creative writing and giving to the mystical
visions a different understanding, that of supernatural occurrences that raise the
expectations of the reader in the context of the narrative. This is possible
because in The Book the phrase “this creature” is used to refer to Margery, who
therefore does not straightforwardly assume the role of the author, or that of the
narrator. Furthermore the recording of her disparate memories was probably influenced
by other similar works, as there is plenty evidence that the writer was well aware of
many religious books (mystical, hagiographical and collections of sermons).
7
Hints about her journey to Jerusalem appear long before it was actually organised.
176
MONICA OANCĂ
Readers are told in the Proem that The Book was actually written by
several scribes: an English person, who lived for a time in Germany
(presumably her older son), whose handwriting was difficult to understand and
also another priest who had read letters sent by her son, but still could only read
the manuscript through a divine miracle. Therefore the work was written
through the mediation of, at least, one other agent, an agent who had some sort
of influence on her since he tested her and she felt compelled to answer his
questions, in order to make sure she had his cooperation in writing the Book
(ch. 24, Kempe 90-91). Consequently, the relationship between Kempe and her
scribe was not simple, but rather complex.
I will discuss the fragmentation of the narrative pattern, which definitely
marks the continuity of the narrative. Most of her chapters start with the phrase
“another time” “another day” or “and on one occasion” showing thus the lack of
direct continuity with the previous chapter, and moreover suggesting the
randomness of the way the events are recorded. Sometimes even in the same
chapter there are separate events that are narrated successively, without any
apparent connection between them.
The chronological order is sometimes implied, but there is no certainty in
it; not even the succession of the chapters is certain, as can be seen since at the
ending of the sixteenth chapter the scribe writes: “Read first the twenty-first
chapter and then this chapter after that” (ch. 16 Kempe 73). In the following
chapters several events are recorded, some in the past and one talking about a
prediction she made regarding the future (she predicted an earthquake, because
she saw the sacrament moving during the celebration of mass, ch. 20 Kempe 81).
Thus it can be said without any doubt that although chronology is implied in
The Book, and there are several important events which are told in a certain
order (her pilgrimages and her meetings with several bishops), there is no strict
timeline and the order of separate events is sometimes reversed.8
The way the events from Margery’s life are recorded clearly points to a
lack of insistence on chronological order, yet this does not seem to be an
artificial artistic device, but rather it is due to the fact that Kempe’s perception
of chronology is sometimes distorted by her emotional reaction to events from
Christ’s life. When after crying in front of a pieta she is told: “Woman, Jesus is
long since dead” she replies (when she can stop crying), “His death is as fresh to
me as if he had died this same day” (ch. 60, Kempe 187). For Margery, Christ’s
life and especially His Passion was not a thing of the past, a centre on an axis,
but a continuous present, which intervenes unceasingly in her present life.
8
In ch. 39 Margery visits the chapel of St. Bridget in Rome, on the 7th of October, but a few
chapters above in ch. 35 it was already 9th of November and her mystical marriage to the Godhead
in the Apostles’ Church was recorded. This mystical marriage is a more important event and thus
it was given priority in the text.
177
The Book of Margery Kempe transcends natural chronology in two ways,
firstly because the sequence in which separate events are recorded does not
follow their chronological order and secondly, because the narration of natural
events is interrupted by her mystical visions and spiritual dialogues, and these
interferences shift the centre of the narrative from ordinary time to
transcendental experience.
3. The Soteriological Dimension of Christian Time – The Book of
Margery Kempe as a Hagiographical Work
The most important significance of time according to Christian teaching is
its soteriological role. Christian life was perceived as a path towards redemption,
and salvation was achieved through suffering and hardship, as penance for sins.
Margery always regarded the heavy accusations she received and the slanderous words
that hurt her as means of redeeming herself (ch. 13 Kempe 63, ch. 14 Kempe 65,
ch. 52 Kempe 161, and ch.55 Kempe 175).
Reading Margery’s story one can witness the contrasting events that show
how on the one hand she is rebuked and despised and on the other hand she is
asked for advice, about the way Christians should live their lives (ch. 23 Kempe 89),
or she is asked questions about whether or not certain Christians will be saved
after death (ch. 55 Kempe174-175). In other instances because of her prayers people
are helped by God (especially those who travel with her during her pilgrimages,
ch. 30, Kempe 111), and other times, because of talking to her, people become better
Christians and change their wicked lives. Such an example is Thomas Marchale,
who was “utterly moved” by her words and after repenting for his sins, “he blessed
the time when he knew this creature” (ch. 45 Kempe143). All these instances give
the impression that the author might have intended to present Margery as a saint.
Margery was several times compared to Saint Bridget of Sweden9, whose
cell in Rome she visited and whose servant she talked to (ch.39 Kempe 132). In
some instances Jesus told her that her visions were more powerful than those of
St. Bridget (ch. 20 Kempe 83). Saint Jerome is also mentioned as he asserts:
“Blessed are you, daughter, in the weeping that you weep for people’s sins, for
many shall be saved thereby” (ch. 41, Kempe 136).10 There arises, therefore, the
9
St. Bridget (1303-1373) had left Sweden and spent more than 20 years in Rome. She had
been married, had eight children and one of her daughters, St. Cathetine of Sweden, joined her.
She had visions, too, and she recorded them in her “Revelationes coelestes” (“Celestial revelations”).
She was canonized in the year 1391 by Pope Boniface IX, which was confirmed by the Council of
Constance in 1415, during the period when Margery was in Rome. Mary of Oignies, who had the
gift of uncontrollable tears, is mentioned as supporting Margery’s weeping as a sign of authentic devotion.
10
Other saints also came and talked to her: “Sometimes St. Peter, or Saint Paul, sometimes
Saint Mary Magdaleme, S. Katherine, St. Margaret, or whichever saint in heaven that she could
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MONICA OANCĂ
possibility of considering The Book of Margery Kempe as hagiographical
writing. Towards the end of the first book, the author mentions the devotion and
the faith people had in her, and the fact that her presence strengthened their faith
in God (ch. 83 Kempe 241).11 Her association with Dame Julian of Norwich in
those days could also be considered an argument for the validation of her
visions and implicitly her position as a saintly figure.
Her loud crying was related to her relationship with Jesus Christ, and
images of His crucifixion drove her to desperate tears. Her close connection
with Jesus Christ brings about her excessive and discordant weeping, even
during the celebration of mass or during the sermon. “And she received
communion there every Sunday with plentiful tears and violent sobbings, with
loud crying and shrill shriekings” (ch. 44, Kempe 144). She also cried for her
sins and for other believers’ sins, asking God for mercy. Her prayers on behalf
of other Christians did not remain unanswered and there are many instances
when she feels and hears Jesus’ reply (ch. 23 Kempe). A miracle was also
connected with her (ch. 67 Kempe 203), when, because of her fervent prayers
and tears, a fire was stopped by a snowstorm and the church did not burn down.
There is sometimes an almost conceited confidence in her relationship
with God,12 namely when she threatens people with damnation for preventing
her from following her calling. 13 Going on pilgrimage was one of her most
constant preoccupations, and she went to all the important places of
pilgrimage.14 The desire to go on these pilgrimages appeared in her heart long
before she could accomplish such difficult and expensive voyages, a sign that it
was God’s will for her to go. Thus when someone opposes her, she answers
with determination: “Sir, if you put me out of the ship, my Lord Jesus shall put
you out of heaven” (ch. 45, Kempe 146).
The concept of time is not enlarged upon throughout the Book, but she
does mention it once in her prayers at the end of the Book. Time has, in her
prayers, the meaning of present time, which clearly shows that her visions did
not deprive Margery of a sense of reality. Yet her priorities in life could differ
think of, through the will and sufferance of God, spoke to the understanding of her soul, and
informed her how she should love God...” (ch. 87 Kempe 256).
11
“...especially to those who do not doubt or mistrust in their asking, her crying greatly
profited to the increase of merit and of virtue…”, and “until she was, through the mercy of our
Lord Jesus Christ, compelled to believe steadfastly, without any doubting, that it was God who
spoke in her, and would be magnified in her for his own goodness and her profit, and the profit of
many others” (ch. 83 Kempe 242).
12
”... our Lord said to her, « Daughter, if he be a priest that despises you, well knowing why
you weep and cry, then he is accursed »” (ch. 63 Kempe 194). Eternal damnation is thus the
punishment for deriding or spurning her.
13
Margery’s entrance into Jerusalem, riding on a donkey, together with her fellow pilgrims,
with whom she had just made peace, resembles Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem (ch. 28 Kempe 103).
14
In the second book she is chastised by her confessor for leaving on such a journey without
asking for his consent or blessing. Such an instance shows her personal inclination for travelling.
179
from other persons’. She considered that salvation, hers and other people’s, was
the ultimate aim in everybody’s life and thus every activity or action should be
governed by God’s commandments. Her prayer is that God would “speed them
in all that they go about to do to your [God’s] worship;” (ch. 10 Kempe 294).
Conclusions
The Book of Margery Kempe transcends time in more ways than one. Firstly
there is a disregard for strict chronology, both because of the fragmentation of
the narrative, which is often made up of separate events, and because of the order
in which some events are recounted, an order which does not follow a linear
rule. On the other hand the general plot of The Book does have a chronology
that covers the last years of her life; roughly 20-25 years of memories.
Secondly the interest of the author is focussed on her religious development
and less on her daily existence and the ordinary details related to it. Her daily
participation in the religious life of her parish and her constant struggle to talk
and be told about God take precedence over her involvement with her family.
Yet, her involvement in the daily religious services brings distress and anxiety
among other parishioners and disrupts, because of her excessive weeping, the
regular communal prayers. This is again another way in which her understanding
of her existence rises above any categorisation, since she perceives her time as a
gift from God, and as a consequence she spends the time given to her in her life
looking for a confirmation and consolidation of her relationship with Him, so
much so that she often overlooks others’ opinions.
Thirdly the most important of her concerns and the purpose of her existence
is achieving salvation and time loses its earthly meaning because she spends it
talking to Jesus Christ and Saints. The whole Book can be read as an attempt to
bring the eternal presence of God into her limited earthly existence. Because of her
visions spiritual time intrudes into her physical time, which is, thus, given a vertical
divine dimension. The author wants to show that Margery’s existence in time is a
proof of God’s love for His people, and The Book accomplishes her expectations.
After analysing the acknowledged significance of time in the Late Middle
Ages, according to Le Goff’s categorization, the researcher can draw the
conclusion that all these aspects of time are mentioned in The Book of Margery
Kempe. Studying the structure and organization of The Book it becomes obvious
that it does not remain within the bounds of the traditionally known
connotations of time, but transcends any taxonomy and tries to create a unique
reality at the threshold between eternal time and daily matters.
MONICA OANCĂ
180
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Arnold, John, Katherine J. Lewis (2004), A Companion to The Book of Margery Kempe,
D. S. Brewer, Cambridge.
Dickens, Andrea Janelle (2009), The Female Mystic. Great Women Thinkers of the Middle Ages,
I. B. Tauris & Co, London.
Goodman, Anthony (2002), Margery Kempe and Her World. Pearson Education Limited, London.
Kempe, Margery (2004), The Book of, Penguin Books, London.
Krugg, Rebecca (2009), “Margery Kempe”, in Larry Scanlon (ed.) Medieval English Literature
1100-1500, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, pp. 217-228.
Le Goff, Jacques, Jean-Claude Schmitt (2002), Dicţionar tematic al Evului Mediu Occidental,
Polirom, Bucureşti.
Le Goff, Jacques (1980). Time, Work and Culture in the Middle Ages. University of Chicago
Press. Chicago.
Oancă, Monica (2009), “The Construction of the Mystic Self: the Book of Margery Kempe”, in
Writing the Self, Modes of Self-Portrayal in the Cultural Text. University of Bucharest Review.
A Journal of Literary and Cultural Studies, Vol. X, No.2/2008, Editura Universităţii din
Bucureşti, p.117-124.
Staley, Lynn (1994), Margery Kempe’s Dissenting Fictions, Pennsylvania State University
Press, Pennsylvania.
Windeatt, Barry (1994). English Mystics of the Middle Ages, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.
THE END OF THE WORLD AS THEY KNEW IT?
A VISION OF THE APOCALYPSE
IN SHIRLEY JACKSON’S THE SUNDIAL
RALUCA ANDREESCU∗
Some say the world would end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
(ROBERT FROST, 1920)
Take twelve people who cannot stand each other, but lead their lives together, in total isolation.
Add an old, crooked and unwelcoming villa to accommodate them. Season with two mysterious
murders, several unexplainable phenomena meant to shatter the small community’s illusions about
domesticity and with an imminent end of the world announced by a ghost. This is the recipe of Shirley
Jackson’s novel The Sundial (1958), which this paper approaches in terms of a fragmented and comical
image of a post-apocalyptic world. I explore the 1950s paranoia of alien invasions, the fascination with
outer space and the UFO craze, the visions of utopian futures and nuclear threats, particularly as they
mix with the themes of domesticity and failed relationships. The small community which, on a ghost’s
account, believes its members will be the sole survivors of the forthcoming cataclysm, represents a
small-scale reproduction of the entire world, allowing the writer to sketch a critique of the American
society in the Tranquilized Fifties. I will argue that Jackson resorts to the founding myths of the
American people (the American Adam, the chosen people, the city / house on a hill) and to a
presupposed imminent threat of world destruction to satirize the paranoia of Soviet intrusion, to
question many Americans’ beliefs, to point to the dissolution of family and moral values, and
ultimately to expose the absurdity of a society ruled by the media and television.
Keywords: post-apocalyptic world, ghosts, the chosen people, UFO craze, America’s
founding myths.
1. “The Only Thing to Fear Is Fear Itself – Nameless, Unreasoning…”
The mid-twentieth-century United States was one of the wealthiest
nations in the world, on the verge of taking position as leader of the new world
∗
University of Bucharest, e-mail : [email protected]
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order. It was also confronted with a prevalent feeling of insecurity and paranoia
due to the realization that what happened in remote corners of the world posed a
serious threat to the American national borders. After two cataclysmic wars and
a series of scientific discoveries that created conditions for unprecedented
technological and societal change, American society was not only dominated by
the terror of a Soviet nuclear attack, but was also eroded from the inside by the
fear of a communist invasion. Together with the looming threat of the atomic
bomb, the Red Scare led in the 1950s to mass hysteria, paranoia, and an
unparalleled fear of foreignness at home which distorted severely the image of
the Other. The threat coming from outside national borders and the scientific
achievements which made the nuclear bomb possible and even promised to send
man in space led to the development of scenarios which depicted invasions of
the American land by different kinds of aliens: communists, immigrants or, in the
more extreme versions, extraterrestrials, zombies, lab monsters, and mutated creatures.1
The dread of nuclear attacks and the lurking threats from the outer space
contributed to the ignition of theories of the end of the world. Seemingly, after
the Second World War the visions about the end of days became increasingly
pessimistic, stressing the imminence of a cataclysmic disaster as much as
previous millenarian visions capitalized on the pending arrival of a redemptive
new era. In his study on apocalyptic imagery in the United States, Daniel
Wojcik contends that “the romantic, millennial vision of America as a
redemptive paradise or pristine wilderness has been challenged and altered
during the latter half of the twentieth century, becoming more bleak and
apocalyptic in nature.” (Wojcik 1997: 98) The public’s appetite for apocalyptic
prophesies amplified in mid-twentieth century, not only because the nuclear
threat made planetary destruction credible to a much wider audience, but also
due to the fact that the apocalyptic messages of preachers were popularized via
television, radio and movies (Neal 1998: 7). Church historian Ray C. Petty
noted that “[T]he emergence of the atomic threat… has posed anew the problem
of man’s future and his end. …[A] number of religious enthusiasts now find
sudden and unprecedented support for their most frenzied contentions. More
than one person not of their persuasion asks whether these wildest predictions
may not shortly be translated from the realm of shadowy aberration into the
blaze of stark actuality” (quoted in Neal 1998: 7).
Although apocalyptic images have been traditionally associated with
religious eschatologies, the American secular culture has similarly contributed
to the stock of expectations about the end of the world. The main difference
between the religious and the secular day of doom resides in the redemptive
1
The Hollywood industry profited greatly from the public’s fascination with outer space
and fear of foreign intrusion, which led to a major boom of the science fiction genre with notable
movies such as The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), The Thing from Another World (1951),
Invaders from Mars (1953), It Came from Outer Space (1953), Them! (1954), Invasion of the
Body Snatchers (1956), Earth versus the Flying Saucers (1956), The Forbidden Planet (1956),
The Blob (1958), Monster (1959).
THE END OF THE WORLD AS THEY KNEW IT? A VISION OF THE APOCALYPSE
183
possibilities in the aftermath. As Wojcik claims, “[i]nstead of faith in a
redemptive new realm to be established after the present world is annihilated,
secular doomsday visions are usually characterized by a sense of pessimism,
absurdity, and nihilism” (Wojcik 1997: 97) .
Another possible explanation for the outburst of apocalyptic scenarios in
the 1950s stems from the very definition of the apocalypse as a mythic narrative
about power and authority, which mainly voices the affirmation of a supreme
power over the “idolatrous claims of state authority”, with an emphasis on the
question of why “the wicked are allowed to rule and how believers may resist
their power” (Neal 1998: 56). Thus, political authority is depicted in demonic
terms and it instigates to uprisings. The teenage horror movies of the period
(The Blob, 1958 or The Giant Gila Monster, 1959, for example), which featured
creatures of doom and alien invasions, are envisioned as responses to the political,
social and familial authority directed toward the American youth in that age of
containment and paranoia. Apocalyptic predictions and end-of-the-world set-ups
could be used not only to subvert, but also to legitimate political authority. For
instance, by constantly playing on the imminent threat of Soviet nuclear attack or
Soviet infiltration in the American society, the government justified stricter
measures of control in society. Nonetheless, the rhetoric of doom was accompanied
by one of optimism and by an urge to lay the basis for a new beginning.
Because of the internal crisis, the true American values had to be
reinforced in order to preserve the American way of life. The Cold War brought
about a new need for rediscovering and redefining the American character, and
rekindled the discussion about the uniqueness of the American people and the
nation’s exceptionalism (Mihăilă 1994: 81). In opposition to Russia and Eastern
Europe, which in the rhetoric of the times were depicted as lands of darkness
and of unknown threats, America ostracized and was ready to abandon the past,
driven by a desire for rebirth which confirmed the American belief in newness
as the essence of national identity. And end of the world scenarios were giving
Americans just that: the possibility to confirm their exceptionalism through
survival and the prospect of starting anew.
2. “What is This World?”: The End of Days in Shirley Jackson’s The Sundial
Shirley Jackson was one of the most prominent writers of the 1950s.
Some argue that she is a “quintessential writer of the 1950s whose work
dramatizes the concerns and fears of that decade in ways that are not always
immediately obvious” (Hague 2005: 74) and that “the 1950s became the decade
of Jackson” (Murphy 2005: 3). Even though the female author is mostly famous
for her disturbing story “The Lottery” (1948) and for her horror novel The
Haunting of Hill House (1959), for her focus on the female characters’ isolation,
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loneliness, fragmenting identities, mental illnesses and inability to relate
adequately to the exterior world, Shirley Jackson’s scrutiny of the fifties is not
limited to exposing the condition of women. Her “apocalyptic consciousness,
sinister children and scathing portraits of nuclear families and their suburban
environments, her depiction of a quotidian and predictable world that can
suddenly metamorphose into the terrifying and the bizarre” (Hague 2005: 74)
reflect a larger preoccupation with the culture of repression, paranoia and
containment which dominated the era.
Despite its arguable lack of popularity among Jackson’s critics, The
Sundial (1958) explores the age of fear of Soviet intrusion and nuclear threat
comically, denouncing the tensions inherent in the American postwar society
and the erosion of moral, community values. Depicted as a “fantasy of the end
of the world, which parodies the apocalyptic imagination while portraying it”
(Parks 1978: 74-5) or regarded as an “absurdist, satiric, horrific treatment of the
domestic” (Egan 1989: 18), the novel can be interpreted both as a parody of the
American suburban culture’s most terrifying nightmare – that of foreign
intrusion –, and as a comical representation of the bomb shelter culture of the
1950s (Hague 2005: 86).
When Aunt Fanny, the member of a rather large household comprising
three generations of the Halloran family, together with servants and friends, is
announced by the ghost of her long time dead father that the world will be soon
coming to an end, and that only the Halloran house will remain standing
because “the father will guard the children” (TS2 35), the people in the house
start gathering provisions and barricading the mansion. They are convinced that
after the final cataclysm they will be the only ones to survive it and emerge into
the new world as the sole inhabitants of the earth, responsible for repopulating
and restoring it. Although highly reluctant at the beginning, the members of the
Halloran estate eventually decide to join Aunt Fanny in her belief that “[f]rom
the sky and from the ground and from the sea there is danger… There will be
black fire and red water and the earth turning and screaming” (TS 34). They
start concocting plans as to what to do and how to wait for the world to end, and
how to make sure that their entrance into the new world is as triumphant as
possible. Mrs. Halloran, for instance, decides she has to wear a crown on the
eve of the apocalypse, so that everyone is sure of her position in the new, postcataclysmic world order.
How the world is to end is never mentioned exactly, and the novel ends
with the characters waiting for the final blasting event to occur. However, the
people in the house have their own visions of the end and their own
explanations for it. For instance, Aunt Fanny strongly believes that “there will
be a night of horror, a night of terror… a night of murder and a night of
2
All references to The Sundial are marked as TS followed by the page number.
185
bloodshed” (TS 116-7) because “[h]umanity, as an experiment, has failed” and
that “evil, and jealousy and fear, are all going to be removed from us” (TS 45).
Maryjane joins in, claiming that “[i]t has been a bad and wicked and selfish
place, and the beings who created it have decided that it will never get any
better. So they are going to burn it, the way you might burn a toy full of disease
germs… [T]his is what they are going to do with this diseased, filthy old world.
Right in the incinerator” (TS 46). And even though the ten-year old Fancy
insistently asks “Who is « they »?”, neither her mother, nor the others provide an answer,
nor does the author mention that the Russians are coming (Hague 2005: 87).
While discussing the imminent end of days, the people in the old mansion
live with the conviction that as long as they remain indoors, no harm is to be
cast on them, with the dead Mr. Halloran watching over his children. Moreover,
they fantasize that they will be the sole survivors and that they had been
entrusted with the future of humanity:
Those few people gathered in Mrs. Halloran’s house… would be safe. The house
would be guarded during the night of destruction and at its end they would emerge safe
and pure. They were charged with the future of humanity; when they came forth from the
house it would be into a world clean and silent, their inheritance. “And breed a new race
of mankind”, Aunt Fanny said with sweetness. (TS 44)
What the group fail to consider is that actually the Halloran family has
deeper problems than an imminent destruction of the planet announced by a
ghost through the voice of a disturbed Aunt Fanny craving for attention. As the
narrator implies, it seems that Mrs. Halloran has in fact murdered her only son,
by pushing him down the stairs, in order to take over the house. Moreover, her
own death in the end of the novel seems to have been caused by young Fancy,
the daughter of Mrs. Halloran’s son.
Depicted as a child who “not a servant, or an animal, or any child in the
village near the house, would willingly go near” (TS 42), and constantly
wondering whether she should push her grandmother “like she pushed my
daddy” (TS 5), Fancy is one of the uncanny children Jackson uses to undermine
the traditional domestic outlook of the 1950s household (Hague 2005: 87). Tom
Engelhardt considers that the parents of the 1950s were becoming aware that the
household was threatened from the outside, but also from within, and that “the
children of the suburban dream were coming to seem both threatened and
threatening” (quoted in Hague 2005: 87). In a sense, this realization illustrated
the convictions and propaganda of the time, namely claims that the Communists
were infiltrated everywhere and that the most serious threat was coming from
the inside, and not from without. According to Engelhardt, although most often
identified as Communism, the enemy of post-war US was actually “everywhere
and nowhere, inside and out”, serving to “mock all national boundaries and
stories” (quoted in Hague 2005: 90). Even though sinister and allegedly capable
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of murder, young Fancy is thus the only one mature enough to signal that if the
new world was to be inhabited by the same unhappy, disappointed, selfish,
superficial, failed people, the apocalypse would not bring rejuvenation and a
purified earth, but a new old world, which, as she claims, would not even be
more real than the present:
…when I think about it this new world is going to have Aunt Fanny and my grandmother
and you and Essex and the rest of these crazy people and my mother and what makes
anyone think you’re going to be more happy or peaceful just because you’re the only ones
left?… [Y]ou all want the whole world to be changed so that you will be different. But I
don’t suppose people get changed any by just a new world. And anyway, that world isn’t
any more real than this one. (TS 171)
The question of real and reality is invoked several times throughout the
novel, and it can also be approached in relation to the general climate of the epoch
dominated by contradiction and confusion. Much like Baudrillard’s Disneyland,
which is a “panegyric of American values” and an “idealized transposition of a
contradictory reality” (Baudrillard 1994: 12) which masks the fact that it exists
in order to hide that it is actually “the real country”, the micro-community in the
Halloran house, a small-scale representation of the United States, is at times
presented as imaginary, ridiculous and, towards the end of the novel, even
aberrant and grotesque. Its unreality seems to serve in making postwar
Americans believe that their controlled existences are, by contrast, real.
Yet Jackson is out to complicate the question of reality. In quipping that
“that world isn’t any more real than this one”, young Fancy, whose name
mockingly entitles her to be an authority on the question of the real, evidently
throws the reality of the present rather than the future world into doubt. The
matter of what is and what is not real is raised on several other occasions inside
the Halloran mansion, and the most comprehensive approach is arguably
offered by seventeen-year old Gloria, herself an “alien” who infiltrated the
house at some point and never left. Her musings are illustrative for the general
climate of the age, exposing the fact that people did not know who to trust and
considered that outside their homes the peril loomed large. She thus indirectly
denounces both the intoxication of propaganda and the mixed messages
Americans were getting from the government, and the culture of conformity
which dominated the decade. Last but not least, she hints at the condition of
teenagers, brought up in isolation and fully controlled both by their families and
by the state:
…that world out there, Fancy, that world which is all around on the other side of the wall,
it isn’t real. It’s real inside here, we’re real, but what is outside is like it’s made of
cardboard, or plastic, or something. Nothing out there is real. Everything is made out of
something else, and everything is made to look like something else, and it all comes apart
in your hands. The people aren’t real, they’re nothing but endless copies of each other, all
187
looking just alike, like paper dolls, and they live in houses full of artificial things and eat
imitation food… [Y]ou talk about dances and parties – I can tell you there’s no heart to
anything anymore; when you dance with a boy he’s only looking over your shoulder at
some other boy, and the only real people left any more are the shadows on the television
screens. (TS 191-2)
It seems therefore that in her critique of the postwar society Shirley
Jackson could not ignore the dreadful impact of media on the American way of
life. Television, radio and movies were means of government propaganda,
Hollywood brainwashing and meaningless entertainment for a generation that
needed a reinforcement of American values. This is why the novel comically
alludes to the effects of acute media proliferation, which, together with unusual
natural phenomena – more common in apocalyptic scenarios –, is seen as a
“sign of the times” announcing the end of the world:
…freak snow storms, hurricanes, hail from a clear sky. …there were cases of death from
heat and death from drowning and death from wind in each morning’s paper, along with
statements that the earth’s surface was being lowered into the ocean at the rate of two
inches a century; a volcano which had been dormant for five hundred years erupted,
blasted its surrounding countryside, and fell asleep again forever. A woman in Chicago
was arrested for leading a polar bear clipped like a French poodle into a large downtown
department store. A man in Texas won a divorce from his wife because she tore out the
last chapter of every mystery story he borrowed from the library. A television set in Florida
refused to let itself be turned off; until its owners took an axe to it, it continued, on or off,
presenting inferior music and stale movies and endless, maddening advertising, and even
under the axe, with its last sigh, it died with the praise of a hair tonic on its lips. (TS 207-8)
Given the huge impact of the media and the movies, the American society
in the 1950s was also confronted with an UFO craze. The belief that aliens from
outer space were trying to contact people on earth led to the rise of the so-called
contactee movement and to the establishment of over 150 contactee clubs. The
members of these clubs strongly believed that the world was coming to an end
and that only aliens could save them.3 Keen on denouncing the absurdities of
the postwar era, Shirley Jackson could not have missed the opportunity of
mocking the UFO rage of the fifties and she included in the novel a comical
episode in which the Hallorans are visited by a group of alien supporters. The
True Believers, as they recommend themselves, are convinced that the world is
coming to an end and that the only chance they have is to wait for and embark
on a flying spaceship that is to come in due time to rescue them before the final
blast. The members of the Society had been receiving messages for some time
3
One of the best known accounts of the relationship between people on earth and beings
from other planets is George Adamski’s Inside the Spaceships (New York: Abelard-Schuman, 1955),
in which the author-contactee claims that aliens’ most important mission is to prevent the atomic war,
not only because the bomb threatens life on earth and could trigger the annihilation of mankind,
but also because its effects permeate the atmosphere and cause damage to the aliens themselves.
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and they knew all there was to know about their leaving the earth safely. They
had been announced by alien voices that they needed to give up eating meat,
drinking and wearing metal in order to be accepted on the spaceship which
would be bound to take them to Saturn, where they would be “translated into a
higher state of being” (TS 108). However, the Hallorans and the True Believers
do not get along and the major clash between their beliefs concerning the end of
days and who will survive the apocalypse finally leads to conflict. Determined to
put up signs announcing that “NO LANDING OF INTERSTELLAR AIRCRAFT
PERMITTED HERE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES” (TS 110, capitals in
the original) and that, if spaceships disregarded her warning, she would offer the
aliens Aunt Fanny and Miss Ogilvie, Mrs. Halloran dismisses the Society and
any other attempts of foreign intrusion on the estate.
Ever since they were warned by Aunt Fanny that the world would end
soon, the group in the Halloran mansion worked toward isolating themselves
from the others and making sure that the new world finds them prepared and
ready to start anew, exhibiting the fallout shelter frenzy which took over
postwar America. It appears that they never considered making the rest of the
people aware of the forthcoming cataclysm, nor housing as many as possible,
since their mansion was according to the prophecy the only one to remain
standing after the event. Wojcik notes that during the era individual initiative
and personal survival in the event of nuclear attack were stressed rather than the
survival of the larger community and moral debates arose concerning the
“ethics of sharing one’s shelter with negligent neighbors who had not bothered
to build one for themselves, and whether gunning them down if they attempted
to break into the family shelter was okay.” (Wojcik 1997: 104-5) Therefore, in
keeping with the rhetoric of the day, the Hallorans barricade the old house, for
fear that the people’s crying outside might affect them: “We must cover the
windows and doors lest the screams of the dying reach our ears and touch us
with compassion; or the sight of the horror send us running mad into its midst.
Wrong is wrong and right is right and Father knows best.” (TS 119)
On the one hand, Aunt Fanny’s intervention mockingly makes reference
to a TV series popular in the second half of the 1950s – Father Knows Best –, which
celebrated patriarchy in a society that was arguably dominated by images of
(fulfilling) motherhood. On the other hand, her statement reflects how cruel,
egotistical and cold the people in the mansion are, not only to the world outside,
but also to each other. In this way, the self-isolated group is nothing more than
the Riesmanian “lonely crowd” of individuals that came to be emblematic for
the mid-twentieth century United States.
Nevertheless, the assembly are convinced that they were chosen to
survive the catastrophe and emerge in the new world as the sole rulers. This
enables Jackson to reconsider the American founding myths, reactivated in the
Cold War era to reinforce patriotism and justify political decisions. Jackson
189
takes a group of people united by chance and kept together by a common,
ambitious, but superficial and highly selfish goal and uses them to debunk and
parody the Puritan myths of America as the new world, the chosen people, the
city / house on a hill, and the American Adam.4 Firstly, not coincidentally, the
Halloran mansion is located on a hill, overseeing the neighboring village,
nowhere other than in Massachusetts, New England. Secondly, the family and
friends believe that they will be extremely fortunate to survive the upcoming
horrific event and be in charge with the future of humankind, while the rest of
the world is going to perish. As Aunt Fanny suggests at one point, “[t]hose who
survive the catastrophe… will be free of pain and hurt. They will be… a kind of
chosen people, as it were”. To which Maryjane answers mockingly “The Jews?
Weren’t they chosen the last time?” (TS 46-7), thus humorously sanctioning the
biblical roots of the Puritan errand.
The myths of America as a garden and that of the American Adam – that
“individual emancipated from history, happily bereft of ancestry, untouched and
undefiled by the usual inheritance of family and race, an individual standing
alone, self-reliant and self-propelling, ready to confront whatever awaited him
with the aid of his own unique and inherent resources” (Lewis 1955: 5) – are
made obvious in the fragmentary images of the new world seen by young Gloria
in a mirror. When one of the female members of the group decides to use a virgin
to get glimpses of the new world in an oiled mirror, the rest join her absurd idea
and Gloria starts offering them brief accounts of “the other side” (TS 77):
I see a country. A nice country… Trees, and grass, and flowers. Blue sky. Nice birds.
No people. No houses. No fences or roads or television aerials or wires or billboards. No people.
There’s a hill, with trees on it, and… it’s like a meadow. Soft… Nothing like walls or fences, just
soft green countryside going off in all directions. Perhaps that’s a river over there. (TS 132)
Gloria’s vision of the new world is made complete by the fully embodied
image of the American Adam taking his inheritance into possession. This
hilarious episode both amplifies the parodying of the founding myths and
suggests that the young girl sees in the mirror what the others urge her to see:
“Wait… I can see someone coming, over the hill; Essex, it looks like you, only you
aren’t dressed… you haven’t got any…” Gloria turned scarlet and put her hands against
her cheeks, but she did not sit back.
“Go ahead, dear”, Mrs. Willow said. “We’re not squeamish.”
“You might try to get me into a lion skin or a pair of bathing trunks”, Essex
said. “I probably don’t know there are peeping toms around.”
4
Richard Pascal (2000: 109) discusses the legitimacy of applying to The Sundial Sacvan
Bercovitch’s notion of the “anti-jeremiad” (the oppositional sub-category of the American
jeremiad). Starting from Bercovitch’s definition of the term, Pascal claims that the novel can be
read as a discourse which implies “the denunciation of all ideals, sacred and secular, on the
grounds that America is a lie”.
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RALUCA ANDREESCU
“You are… could you be hunting?”
“Hunting for what, in God’s name?” said Mrs. Halloran.
“Almost certainly for a pair of bathing trunks”, Essex said. “Couldn’t I, please,
stand behind a bush?” (TS 132)
Whether their expectations have been reached or not is difficult to tell, as
the novel closes with the characters gathered around in the house, behind
barricaded doors, expecting that “[i]t’s going to be a long wait” (TS 253). By
this time, the twelve self-elected apostolic survivors are down to eleven, after
matriarch Mrs. Halloran is killed and her body taken outside, in the storm, and
placed on the large sundial on the estate. Her crown has already been passed to
young Fancy, the sinister little girl the narrator implies has killed her
grandmother. Waiting for the end of the world, some of them play bridge, others
discuss movies, and others show signs of boredom or anxiety. By the end of the
novel, it appears that what started with the musings of an obviously deranged
woman, craving for attention and in open competition with her sister-in-law,
finally transformed into a grotesque spectacle.
It is arguably because of this dim, ludicrous vision of humanity that The
Sundial has been highlighted for its misanthropy. There are critics who claim
that although Shirley Jackson is “an intelligent and clever writer, there rises
from her pages the cold fishy gleam of a calculated and carefully expressed
contempt for the human race.” (Joshi 2001: 43) Undeniably, the novel features
no admirable or even slightly likeable character, and indeed there are no redeeming
circumstances for the Hallorans. Mrs. Orianna Halloran is a manipulative matriarch
obsessed with controlling and organizing the lives of the others, who apparently
killed her only son; her old, weak-willed husband is but a mere shadow of what
he used to be; Maryjane, her daughter-in-law, is equally driven by a thirst for
power; her grand-daughter is not as innocent a child as she is believed to be,
because she seemingly murders her grandmother; Augusta Willow is the image
of a matron only interested in marrying her two plain daughters; Essex is a
servile, toady individual who constantly flatters Mrs. Halloran in the pursuit of
his well-being; and, finally, Aunt Fanny appears as an unstable and confused,
unpredictable character, who at times challenges Orianna’s authority.
The incredible ease with which everyone in the mansion seems to believe
Aunt Fanny’s speculations about the impending end of days testifies for the
novel having been regarded as a “testament to human stupidity” (Joshi 2001: 44).
In response to Jackson’s being accused of unjustified misanthropy, Joshi argues
that “her work made it obvious that she had little patience for the stupid, the
arrogant, the pompous, the complacently bourgeois, the narrow-minded, and the
spiteful – in other words, she hated all those people whom there is every good
reason to hate” (Joshi 2001: 43). The critic argues that for her derisive scrutiny
and mistrust of humankind, Jackson should be seen as a twentieth century
Ambrose Bierce, who was mostly known for his nihilistic misanthropy and his
191
bleak vision of the world. In this respect, it seems that a famous remark about
Bierce can easily be used in relation to Jackson: “One is almost tempted to
believe that one day he decided to instill fear into his contemporaries by hatred,
to gain revenge on them” (Lévy 1988: 14, emphasis in the original). Joshi
remarks that Shirley Jackson’s “pitiless and sardonic exposing of human
weakness make her a horrific satirist who does not require the supernatural to
arouse fear and horror. Her icy prose, clinical detachment, and uttering
refreshing glee at the exhibition of human greed, misery and evil ought to give
her a high rank in general literature.” (Joshi 2001: 49)
3. Conclusions
Ostensibly threatened by extinction and promised salvation by a ghost,
the community in The Sundial represents a small-scale replica of the postwar
American society shaken by insecurity and fear of invisible, silent enemies and
dominated by the dispersion of apocalyptic scenarios and prophets of doom.
The group’s hopes and ardent desire for a new beginning and their yearning for
purification stand in sharp contrast with their erosion of standards and ideals,
and with the hatred they are about to take with them into the new world. In the
absence of any other plans with their lives, these alienated and purposeless
human beings consider themselves in charge with the future of mankind,
although their values have been so corrupted that they are only driven by the
idea that the rest of the world is bound to perish.
The prophecy is not fulfilled by the end of the novel and yet a sense of
doom lingers beyond the possibility that the end of days might actually occur
for the Hallorans. Isolated in the mansion upon the hill, they already started
killing each other for supremacy. In a critique of the American society during
her era, Shirley Jackson demonstrates that, although arguably helpful in case of
real nuclear attacks and other cataclysmic occurrences, a shelter does not offer
protection against the corrosion working from the inside.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Baudrillard, Jean (1994 [1981]), Simulacra and Simulation, University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor.
Egan, James (1989), “Sanctuary: Shirley Jackson’s Domestic and Fantastic Parables”, in Studies
in Weird Fiction, 1989, pp. 5-24.
Hague, Angela (2005), “« A Faithful Anatomy of Our Times »: Reassessing Shirley Jackson”, in
Frontiers – A Journal of Women’s Studies, 26, 2, pp. 73-96.
Jackson, Shirley (1958), The Sundial, Popular Library, New York.
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RALUCA ANDREESCU
Joshi, S. T (2001), The Modern Weird Tale: A Critique of Horror Fiction, McFarland, Jefferson
and London.
Lévy, Maurice (1988), Lovecraft: A Study in the Fantastic, trans. by S. T. Joshi, Wayne State
University Press, Michigan.
Lewis, R. W. B (1955), The American Adam: Innocence, Tragedy and Tradition in the Nineteenth
Century, University of Chicago Press, Chicago.
Mihăilă, Rodica (1994), The American Challenge, Bucharest University Press, Bucharest.
Murphy, Bernice M (2005), “Introduction: « Do You Know Who I Am? » Reconsidering Shirley
Jackson”, in Bernice M. Murphy (ed.), Shirley Jackson: Essays on the Literary Legacy,
McFarland, Jefferson, NC, pp. 1-21.
Neal, Arthur G. (1998), National Trauma and Collective Memory: Major Events in the American
Century, M. E. Sharpe, New York.
Parks, John G. (1978), “Waiting for the End: Shirley Jackson’s The Sundial”, in Critique, 19, 3, pp. 74-88.
Pascal, Richard (2000), “New World Miniatures: Shirley Jackson’s The Sundial and Postwar
American Society”, in Journal of American Culture, 23, 3, pp. 99-111.
Wojcik, Daniel (1997), The End of the World as We Know It: Faith, Fatalism and Apocalypse in
America, New York University Press, New York and London.
A POETOLOGY OF MODERNISM: APPROACHES TO WALLACE
STEVENS’ THE IDEA OF ORDER AT KEY WEST
THOMAS SCHARES1
In Wallace Stevens’ The Idea of Order at Key West the concept of poetic unity is touched,
a poetic unity which, as will be described, renders this poem one of the foremost and thorough
statements of Modernism. By examining contents, connections to literary traditions, and not least
allusions of the intertwined art forms of music and painting – by visualizing and auralizing the
poem, ways of reading this poem as an art program for Modernism and as an attempt to
apotheosis of poetological poetry, the outstanding position of this poem in the register and canon
of literary American Modernism will be highlighted. By outlining a synaestetical form of
intertextuality, the originality produced by auto- and poly-referentiality in order to create a new
artistic credo of Modernism in the fashion of Wallace Stevens will be stated. Epiphany as a
central artistic – or poetic – concept is described and explored in this poem to an extreme point,
the poem energizes several centers, around which the possible meanings and interpretations of it
orbit. Moreover, the role of the poet in society is also at stake in this poem, one of numerous
aspects usually neglected in its scholarly exploration.
The paper’s as well as the poet’s turning point can be found in the concept of imagination
as a driving force for the humane in human beings – which, transferred into poetry, gains a
constitutive power, that can be found laid down poetologically in the poem discussed .
Keywords: Wallace Stevens, ideas of order, poetological poetry, literary modernism,
synaestesia, artistic imagination.
1. Introduction
It is possible that Wallace Stevens’ poem The Idea of Order at Key West
is one of the most heavily commented and most thoroughly analyzed American
poems, its critical fame reaches near, if not close to T.S. Eliot’s Waste Land. It
should be rather obvious to ask then, what more could be said about such a
poem, since every thinkable aspect of it has been mentioned, commented upon
and scrutinized. It is a central notion in the collected criticism about The Idea of
Order at Key West, that critics and commentators tend to stress upon one
possible reading of the poem, and pursue and emphasize one way of reading and
understanding it, by this neutralizing each other and their diverse approaches.
1
Lector universitar (DAAD-Lector) dr., University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign
Languages and Literatures; [email protected]
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THOMAS SCHARES
Some see it as a synaesthesia of the arts, some see it as a poem about the
solitariness of the artist, some see it as a poem about literary criticism, some see
it as an intertextual struggle with romanticism, some others rather stress the poem
as a poetological poem and others again point out its autobiographical aspects.
This poem is a most powerful and outstanding specimen of its species; that
is proved alone by the ongoing criticism about it, and the anthology-attractiveness
of it. It is an undisputed and prominent part of the Great American Poetry Book.
My argument shall be, that, apart from solitary readings and possible
levels or instances of interpretation and analysis, Stevens’ poem is no more and
no less than a program of literary Modernism, that it is, simultaneously, a
theoretical account and a practical execution of Modernist aesthetics.
In my paper, I will present a number of central aspects of analysis of the
poem, which will sum up to an understanding of it as a constitutive approach to
aesthetical theory of (American or Stevensian) Modernism.
To take separate looks at form and contents of a poem may serve well to
gain a first-glance understanding of the examined object, but it will not
necessarily elucidate the position of the poem as a well-working or genuine
piece of art. Good poetry endeavors to prop the matching form upon the chosen
topic, or it endeavors to find the proper contents for a formal pattern which the
poet attempts to master. But in ideal poetry, form and contents constitute a unity.
Neither form nor contents will serve as a contribution to each other. No
deficiency on either side will be perceivable.
That Wallace Stevens' The Idea of Order at Key West is such an ideal
poem, I shall attempt to demonstrate in the following pages, but I have no
intention of thereby stating the obvious. I would rather contextualize this
perfectness with its poetic function, in the case of the discussed poem its role as
a poetological program. Therefore, in the following chapters, aspects of form or
content will seldom be dealt with separately: The dense unity of form and
contents of the poem to be discussed asks for an inclusive view upon these
aspects of poetic analysis. Light will be thrown upon the poem from several
points of view in order to underline the multi-faceted character of it.
Although the poem consists of a more or less clearly detectable plot, and
the used motifs mingle to form a poetic unity, there are also tensions to be
discovered, e. g. the employed traditional motif of the sea: Stevens questions
and removes the traditional implications to give this motif a new position in the
modernist poetic universe. The tension between traditional and modernist points
of view is felt throughout the whole poem. The Idea of Order at Key West is not
only a poem of unity but also a poem of disunity. It is a complete and integrate
poem written in a time of radical changes in literature, reflecting and preserving
them, thus illustrating a reorganization of poetic values.
Finally, the major importance of the poem is not embedded in its plot
solely: It does not only illustrate a mere epiphany of the poet (which would be
195
eclectic romanticism), but it also employs and displays a poetological program.
This double dimension of the poem (as only one of numerous equally important
aspects or readings of it) is the centre of learned discussion and analysis, but
will not be the only hub of the following pages. The poem consists of several
centers around which the meanings of it orbit. My perspective of reading and
understanding the poem intents to open up a broader view by including aspects
of literary heritage and newness, other arts, as music and painting, and discuss
minor aspects usually neglected, as e.g. the role of the poet's companion in the
poem, Ramon Fernandez.
No coherent interpretation of the poem2 will be generated by this method,
but the method employed here, not linear, disjunctive, sometimes even
contradictory, but always focusing on the central theme, the poet in his mundo,
hopefully suits the poem in its ambiguous but still uniform outline better.3
2. The Female Singer, Her Song, the Sea and a Strange Companion:
What The Idea of Order at Key West Is About
The idea, and the impetus to write The Idea of Order at Key West is
rooted obviously in the biography of its author.4 Stevens’ affection to Key West
as his holiday site, as a place of recreation (here in the meaning of the word:
Stevens re-creates the world through his poem) presupposes a personal
experience probably underlying the poem. But it will be difficult to detect direct
connections to a concrete incident in the life of Stevens and the incident of the
poem. We will not become acquainted with the speaking poet5 personally or the
2
C.f. Holmes (1990), 75: „‘Ideas of Order‘ [sic] ... comprises more than one point of view“.
C.f. Tymieniecka (1985), “The theme: Poetics of the Elements in the Human Condition”,
in: Tymieniecka (1985), xi-xiii, xi: “As a consequence of the extreme intellectual refinement of
our analytic powers, which have come to dominate understanding and criticism, the authentic
significance of literature and fine art has been diffused into innumerable interpretative methods
and ultimately lost from sight. Its essential message of relevance for human life is either
disintegrated into artificial distinctions or distorted by the intellect’s destructurizing and
inadequately reshaping manipulations. It is an irreplaceable loss; man’s creative endeavor brings
in the significant guideposts for the specifically human business with life: Man’s selfinterpretation in existence. ” [Author’s highlighting].
4
The assertion of a „biographical fallacy“ (Crowder/Chappell [1987], 40) cannot be
maintained, because Stevens does give a number of biographical hints, that may be sparse and
obscure but are hard to be ignored.
5
By claiming that the speaker of the poem is a poet and not a mere role I disagree with
Crowder/Chappell (1987); I do not adopt their idea that “… Stevens makes clear that the woman
singer, not the speaker, takes on the role of the poet …” (40), since Stevens as the author of the
poem claims the role of the poet at the first instance. The process of word-ordering through the
song, the vista of the sea and the artist’s imagination (the core of the poem), obviously happens to
occur in the speaker’s mind, who, therefore, cannot be located outside of his own poem. The
first-person-narrator of the poem offers his reader a comparable effect, as the woman-singer
3
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THOMAS SCHARES
singing girl and Ramon, the two personae appearing in the poem along with the
first-person-narrator (or, the Lyrisches Ich). We will witness no utterance of
either of the two (except the woman’s song). We will only witness some strangers
being at the seaside, and doing or experiencing something. In reading the poem,
we do not get a report by Wallace Stevens about a deep moment in the life of
Wallace Stevens. The autobiographical background – thin enough – serves as a
mere surface to a universal experience reported by a poet. Autobiography has a
paradox function in this text: Although it presumably has the important function
of giving the basis of the poem to the poet, he reduces and obscures 6 the
autobiographical element: We actually don't have to know anything about
Stevens to understand the poem and its message.
The poem has a simple plot which is divided into two sections, which can
be subdivided into a scheme of six stanzas of varying length (7-7-6-23-8-5):7 In
the first section (stanza 1-4), the poet and his companion watch a girl taking a
walk by the sea and singing a song. In the second section (stanza 5-6), the poet
and his companion, inspired by the girl's song, walk home in the evening and
talk about their experience. They have a momentarily altered view of the world
surrounding them, the sensation of sea and song has affected their thinking and
their perception of the world. They experience a “... union of the imagination
and external reality...” (Miller 1987: 473).
But there is much more to the poem than the telling of this rather simple
story. One central point is, how the poet and his companion acquire their
changed view of the world. An important factor determining and initiating this
process is the singing girl – the first word of the poem is she, and she is
mentioned 21 times throughout the text – the word with the highest frequency in
the text. She has a statistical prevalence which signifies the importance of its
signifiée. But even though she is mentioned so many times, the reader scarcely
gets to know something about her. The only attributes she has, are that she sings
and that she is a maker. It is always in connection with one of these two attributes
that she is mentioned. She is in fact not separable from the song she sang (15):
The Combination she sang appears eight times (1, 10, 11, 15, 20, 38, 38, 43)
and it is the phrase repeated most often throughout the poem. The combinations
her voice (29, 34) and her song (40) also emphasize the relevancy of this
junction. We hardly find more information about her, except that she sings and
offered him and Ramon Fernandez. He is a poet as much as she is, because he does not only have a
moment of great insight, but also composes a poem about it. And he indeed has also some resemblance
to Wallace Stevens, since, at least, he uses techniques which W.S. himself proposes for poetry.
6
Also in his occasional remarks about the identity of Ramon Fernandez, c.f. below for the
discussion of the role and identity of Ramon Fernandez.
7
An ordering principle underlying the poem suggested here will be based on the
musical sonata-form, c.f. 3.b; other possibilities of textual division are given e.g. by Holmes
(1990): 7-7-6-13-10-8-5; here, the poem is divided into seven stanzas, taking the caesura in
vv. 33-34 as a stanzaic division, which I do not adopt into my reading of the poem.
197
that she is the maker of her song. She was striding there alone (41) while
singing, a vague solitary figure in the distance, barely recognizable. Not her
qualities as an individual or a character attract the poet perceiving her, her role
in the poem is a more general one: The poet is interested in her quality as a poet,
he perceives her making a song that mingles with the rolling of the sea, the
world that surrounds them, he perceives her perceiving their world; – for her as
a poet there never was a world for her/Except the one she sang and, singing,
made. (42-43) She is no distinguishable character, she is a prototype poet and
her song an original poem. She personifies imagination 8 ; for Stevens,
imagination is the central impetus of poetry. To the poet of The Idea of Order at
Key West she is even more, since, through her song, she inspires him to write
his poem. She becomes his muse.
Her song is set against the ...meaningless plungings of water and wind,... (30).
While she sings she is not anywhere else but by the sea, and the words of her
song mingle with the ocean sounds. It is in this setting, where the poet and his
companion first behold her. Her song makes such a strong impression on them,
because it is embedded in the shore scene. The poet and his companion perceive
two different sounds: The first is the song of the girl and the second the sound
of the sea. And it is the difference between these two sounds that focuses their
attention and their musings. The whole first section (1-43) of the poem is one
large descriptive and meandering passage comparing the meaningful human
voice with the empty one of the sea. The poet's literary treatment of the sea here
is not traditional, to him the sea is a mere physical appearance, it never ...formed
to mind or voice (2). Yet, the sea is another major element of the poem. The
word sea appears nine times (1, 8, 14, 16, 21, 33, 38, 49), ocean once (7) and water
five times (2, 9, 13, 24, 30) . The sea is no way personified, it is always depicted
as a mere physical appearance. Nevertheless, the poet's depiction of the sea is
ambiguous, if not paradox: In lines 3-4 he mock-personifies the sea, paraphrasing it
as a mindless creature: Like a body wholly body, fluttering/ its empty sleeves. Although
inhuman, the sea is capable of producing a cry (5). The poet also employs theatrical
metaphors to characterize the sea. Neither the sea, nor the girl, are a mask (8) (as the
masks used by the players in classical Greek theater), the sea is also tragic-gestured (16),
although ...merely a place by which ... [the girl] walked... (17), only a setting here... The
shore atmosphere is composed of theatrical distances (31). To the poet, the panorama
of the ocean in itself has something of a mere background in a stage-play. The
shore-scene is only comprehensible and meaningful for the poet and his companion via
the conveying function of the girl's song. The importance of sea and song, again, can never
be separated from each other. Meaning is not to be found in the sea alone, meaning is
constituted by the interrelation and interaction between the girl's song and the surf of the sea:
8
C.f. Weber (1974: 302).
THOMAS SCHARES
198
... And when she sang, the sea,
whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. (38-40)
Thus, the act of giving meaning to the world is subject to the girl and her
song. The world alone is not meaning. Man, through imagination, gives
meaning to the world he dwells in:
It may be that in all her phrases stirred,
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But is was she and not the sea we heard, (12-14)
Even though the world of the people crowding the poem is somewhat in
disorder9, the poet does not fail to implement a formal order already in the first
stanza. The sound and movement of the sea are described in verses abounding
with alliterations (bold) and internal rhymes (underscored), along with
repetition. By alliteration, the lines are also connected in enjambment:
“Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,” (3-5)
By the key-words she and sea the first and the second stanza are woven
together in a cross-structure pattern. The underlying structure would be:
stanza 1
1
6
_
stanza 2
She
-----------
sea.
(we)
___________________________________________
8
sea
-----------
she,
14
she
----------sea
(we)
____________________________________________
Fig. 1
Added the third word we, which also rhymes with sea and she, a triadic
structure of references going back and forth is set up. The poet approaches his
9
The world the poet perceives is not orderly without imagination added to it – nature is not
God’s orderly creation any more, it takes man to attach his own idea of order; c.f. Gelpi (1987: 54):
“…without God or the Oversoul, how could mind and nature come into relation?”
199
topics by what could be called musical variation (c.f. ch. 4): All major motifs
are introduced in the first stanza she, sang (for her song), sea in verse one and
we in verse six. The first stanza, however, is chiefly devoted to the sea-scene
and its movements in the almost onomatopoeically sounding alliterative passage
given above. In the second stanza, the girl and her song predominate. Her
distinct voice is set against the blurred sound of the sea from the first stanza:
Since what she sang was uttered word by word (11).
The observations of the first and second stanzas – and the observers – are
being elaborated in the third stanza. Girl's song and sea stand in clear opposition,
in an unmistakable statement the girl is the maker of the song she sang (15) and
the sea merely a place she walked to sing (17). In the second half of the third
stanza the we-element predominates. Introduced as all chief elements of the
poem in stanza 1, the we believe that the sound of the ocean (that is not theirs)
has no human quality. Only mentioned once in the second stanza – they hear her
song (14) – the we now have a more prominent role in having to ask for the
spirit of what they perceive. The listeners – thus far not yet defined as the poet
and his companion – have a faint moment of epiphany, they realize that what
they experience is of the spirit we sought (19), but they cannot further explain it.
They witness a superior moment in their life but they don't understand what it
comprises of. They haven't yet discerned the order of what they perceive. The
notion of in all her phrases stirred/The grinding water and the gasping wind
(12-13) is not yet explicable.
The first set of variations is complete after the third stanza: The first
stanza is dominated by the sea, the second with the singing girl, both are
brought together in the first half of the third stanza, and in the second half of it,
a first résumé is given by the we:
1 = sea; 2 = she; 3 = she/sea – we
In the fourth stanza, the second part (the first set of movements as
exposition complete with stanzas one to three) of the poem begins. The fourth
stanza mirrors the first stanza. The topos of the sea is taken up again. The poet
doesn't seem to be content with the idea of the sea as a mere place to walk by. In
conjunctive form (If...only [21, 23]) the poet paints an impressionist picture of a
sea landscape with pure nature-sounds. Surprisingly the picture is – except the
bronze shadows (31) – completely colorless.10 The waves that color the voice of
the sea (21) are more accurately understood as the accompaniment to a melody
than strokes of a brush. To adopt the poet's paradox rhetoric here: He paints the
sea-sound. The poet, by imagining the sea without the girl's song, finds an
endless (without end [27]) and meaningless (30) sound. Yet the picture of the
10
Compare T.S. Eliot’s The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, v.128: “When the wind blows
the water white and black.”
THOMAS SCHARES
200
sea painted here is very impressionist and the idea of an endless summer (27),
an eternal element inherent in nature, underlines the grave presence the sea has
in the mind of the poet. He struggles to grasp this challenging insight: In taking
up the issue proposed in the question of the third stanza (Whose spirit is this?
[18]), the poet understands that the girl delivers the necessary element through
her song, and thereby creates more than sound alone (28):
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing. (34-35)
It is the presence of her song which makes the break of dusk more intense.
The/This world only becomes the world through her: She was the single
artificer of the world/In which she sang. (37). This apotheosizing (or better:
demiurgical) formula points directly towards Stevens’ poetology. The girl as a
creator becomes a demiurge.11 The poem as an act of imagination is the one true
idea of reality man is capable of putting forth.
As stanza four reflects the first one, stanza five reflects the second one.
The effect of the girl's song is further mapped: By the song, the sea is
transformed into something orderly, which then only exists in the song itself:
...And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker... (38-40)
As the maker of the song, even the girl becomes an integrated part of this
ordered world:
...there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing made. (42-43)12
The parallel outline of stanzas 1, 2 and 4, 5 is also preserved in the
connection between stanza 3 and six. The correspondency of the stanzas is
illustrated in Fig. 2.
11
For the presence of Plato in the poem c.f. footnote 17.
In these lines we also have a clear example of social criticism which helps to “correct [the]
misapprehension … about Stevens … that [he] … was indifferent to social criticism…” (Vendler 1988: 78):
The girl has to create an imaginary world by singing, because in the real world there is no place
for her, she sings herself into her own world where no material goods are needed, c.f. also Weber
(1974, footnote 22).
12
1: sea
2: she/song
3: (she/sea) we
201
4: sea
5: she/song
6: we
Fig. 2
In the fifth stanza, the perspective has changed to the poet and his
companion; – the third "movement" or the recapitulation of the poem begins. In
solving the enigma of the we, it focuses on the poet and his companion, who
were, thus far, in a hardly discernible background. The poet has watched the
singing girl and the sea together with his companion named Ramon Fernandez.
Granted that the poet speaking in The Idea of Order at Key West is Stevens
himself, it seems too reasonable to take Ramon as a historical person, too. A
person named Ramon Fernandez exists in fact, he is a French literary critic with
a dubious political background (which of course only manifested long after the
poem had been written)13 and Stevens certainly knew him. Nevertheless Stevens
has denied any coincidence in slight and contradictory remarks that rather
obscure the discussion:
Ramon Fernandez was not intended to be anyone at all. I chose two everyday
Spanish names. I knew of Ramon Fernandez, the critic, and had read some of his
criticisms but I did not have him in mind.14
I used two everyday names. As I might have expected they turned out to be an
actual name.15
Again, the question where autobiography starts and ends is raised. The
given name is of no vital importance although for the poem's progression, this
intention is supported by Stevens’ own remarks. In the poetic plot it functions
as a mere addressee for the questions the poet poses. But he never grants an
answer, and an answer cannot be expected because it cannot be given. The
ordering of reality is not understandable, it is only imaginable. Nevertheless, the
name, which Stevens calls an “everyday name”, standing there remains
disturbing. Is it really that common? Did Stevens choose it for its sound
13
In spite of Stevens’ denial, Gelpi (1987: 64) adopts the version of Ramon Fernandez, the
“aesthetician”; also Holmes (1990: 67): “in spite of Stevens’ stubborn denial, the reference is to
formalist critic Ramon Fernandez”; for a further discussion on the topic Ramon Fernandez, the
politically aberrant to-be fascist, and the possible implications (including the visionary tone read
into Stevens’ poem) see Kaplan (2010).
14
Quoted from Ryan (1982: 31).
15
Quoted from Weber (1974: 295).
202
THOMAS SCHARES
qualities?16 It may be a reason to choose it, but not an explanation. The name
still has qualities beyond mere sound. The reader unaware of the literary critic
may have the picture of an imaginary person of Spanish or Hispano-American
origin (not unusual for the setting Key West close to the Caribbean). He might
be imagined as a youthful companion to the poet, maybe his apprentice, who
grows pale (52) while facing the demiurgical powers of poetry. Mute Ramon
seems to be deeply impressed by the lesson his master teaches him.17 It is finally
up to the reader to constitute his own version of Ramon Fernandez, who could
belong to any world, no matter if imagined or real. – The world we live in and
the world of the poem, at this point, are mixed up to a high degree. 18
Nevertheless, there has been an ongoing discussion in the criticism about this
literary persona and his counterpart in real life. As has been stated in more
recent criticism, R. Fernandez was involved in politics in Vichy-France and has,
as many of his contemporaries made a “progression” from left-communist to
right-pro-Nazi attitude. He was a supporter of the Germans in occupied France.
Some have taken this to read a prophetic insight into the poem –Stevens asking
his companion a politically revealing question (Kaplan 2010). But in the end, in
the text Ramon is the one being asked a question that needs and will have no
answers. The answers have to be felt in ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds
(56), which hardly allows for any political interpretation.
Stanzas six and seven are a résumé of the conversation of the two,
following their experience. While turning toward the town, they repeat the
question of the third stanza. They already had a talk while watching the girl and
the sea (More even than her voice, and ours [29]) and now they approach their
epiphany, which has been prepared in vv. 19-20. Catalyzed by the girl's song,
they have an insight into the world ordered by imagination: in their eyes The
lights in the fishing boats ... Mastered the night and portioned out the sea (47-49).
Nature no longer is incomprehensive, chaotic reality to them. For a moment, through
the poet's Blessed rage for order (52), the furor poeticus (Weber 1974: 302), the
world as they see it is arranged, deepened, enchanted (c. f. v. 51). The girl's
song has Mastered the night (49), order[ed] words of the sea (53). The mystery
of the genius of the sea (1), usually incomprehensible to man, becomes clear
while being an integrate part of the world of imagination, of poetry. The words
of the poem/song recur to man and his place in the world, They give an archaic,
deeper understanding of ourselves and of our origins (55). The world of man is
enlarged through poetry In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds (56).
16
As suggested by Ryan (1982: 31): “Stevens’s choice of the name for the pure sound an
flavor of it…”
17
The idea of a Platonic friendship might not be too far-fetched, considering the otherwise
evident presence of Plato in the text which promotes the idea of the demiurge “the artificer of the
world”, see also footnote 11.
18
C.f. Weber (1974: 295): “… Fiktionalisierung und imaginative Erweiterung erlebter Wirklichkeit…”
203
Stanzas four and six contain descriptive passages that powerfully describe
the beauties of the sea and the harbor: In the fourth stanza the poet listens to the
sounds of the sea and the wind, listens to the dark voice of the sea (21), to the
heaving speech of air (26); the auditory channel dominates, whereas visual
impressions are recorded in the sixth stanza: The lights of the boats in the
harbor portion out the opaqueness of the darkness (46-51). The two pictures
painted (one of them rather an auditory picture) illustrate the primeval power of
the sea, i.e. reality. The seascape, the shore side contain a merely existing force,
that can be detected through man's imagination only and be comprised in the
words of a song/poem:
Most of Stevens's poems are based upon images which somehow participate in this
primal force of being, and it is the existence of the force in then that he is concerned to
demonstrate. (Ellmann 1957: 103)
Imagination in the poem is represented by the girl’s song. It is an
immediate effusion of her poetic imagination, it is the center of Stevensian
order-making. But how and why this imagination has an effect on reality, how it
temporarily opens up an aperture to deeper understanding – that in the end is no
question of concern. The last stanza makes clear that an answer to the questions
raised cannot be given, it can merely be felt, can only be poetically described.
We will never know what the contents of the girl’s song were, we only learn to
know what the girl’s song was:
The maker’s rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds. (53-56)
The Idea of Order at Key West is a poetological poem in the stricter sense,
since it basically is one long description of how poetic imagination works. The
reader witnesses, how the two protagonists experience an epiphany by listening to
a song-poem; and the reader, by reading the poem, again experiences a moment of
epiphany.19 The poem produces this double effect, it is felt by the poetic personae as
well as the reader, and it manifests itself on the poetic level as well as on the level
of reader-reality, or, reception. An order in the realm of poesy has affected maker
and reader, singer and listener – by art, „in „’The Idea of Order at Key West’
life has ceased to be a matter of chance.” (W. Stevens, Letters, Nov. 15, 1935)
19
Over-emphasizing the role of the writer of the poem – Stevens – and thereby neglecting
the evident fact of the double creation of order happening in the poem might lead to the
conclusion of Stevens maintaining a statement of masculinity: “Stevens places himself in a
textual and hierarchical order above nature, above friend, and above the muse as artificer,
inscribing himself as the author/authority of the world in which he sings. Here logo- and
phallocentric assumptions of order coincide, forming a textual crux that glosses over the apparent
exposure of the fictionality of the poetic word.” (Vaught Brogan 1993: 181)
THOMAS SCHARES
204
3. Ideas of Poetry: The Idea of Order at Key West and Literary Tradition
The Idea of Order at Key West does not stand isolated in the canon of
American and English poetry. It has explicit literary predecessors. The central
motifs of the poem, the singing girl and the sea are both frequently used.
Critical accounts like Andrews Johnston (1991), Tymieniecka (1985) or Bourke
(1954) suggest the shore as a common setting for poetry, and the essential
function of the sea as an outstanding exponent of nature for literature in general.
The genius loci of the shore serves poets as an aesthetic stimulus, which they
attempt to preserve in poetry. Here Stevens' poem is a part of the tradition since
his aim in The Idea of Order at Key West is to understand or feel, and to express
the magic of the place he has highlighted in the title of his poem: the shore at
Key West. Although, at first instance the sea as a place to Stevens meaningless (30),
he tends to personalize it in the poem. In the first stanza he employs the
scarecrow-image: Like a body wholly body, fluttering/Its empty sleeves" (3-4).
Throughout the poem he employs theatrical attributes: At first rejecting the idea
(The sea was not a mask [8]), Stevens nevertheless picks it up again (The ever-hooded,
tragic-gestured sea [16]; Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped [31]).
The theatrical images never dominate the poem, but under the surface they
appear as a hint to the old theatrum-mundi-topos (Weber 1974: 301). Here,
Stevens refers to literary tradition.
Stevens’ sea is chaotic but not an archaic threat 20 like, e. g., in Walt
Whitman's On the Beach at Night:
“From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.”21
To the poet of The Idea of Order at Key West the sea is not premonitory, he
savors the meaningless plungings of water and the wind (30) like a stage-performance
of nature. To him the sea is bare of any implication not recurring to itself. Here
Stevens leaves the tracks of tradition. As a Modernist poet, he cannot regard
phenomena of the world surrounding him as analogies of human life. The sea
does not remind him of any incident in human life, it cannot serve as a symbol.
The genius of the sea (1) is of a different quality. Foremost, the sea in the poem
is the sea, and does not stand for anything else. The poem rather concentrates on
the question, what makes the existence of the sea different from human life,
why it is so difficult for the human mind to understand the sea. The poet's
20
C.f. Müller-Schwefe (1969: 33): “…wird das Faktum des bedrohlichen Meeres immer
wieder zur begrifflichen Verdeutlichung der Lebenssituation, des Lebens der einzelnen
Menschen… verwendet.”
21
Walt Whitman: Leaves of Grass. Ed. by Scully Bradley and Harold Blodgett, New York:
Norton 1973, 259, vv.11-13.
205
rationalist view of the sea first persuades to regard it as meaningless (30), but
simultaneously he suspects that it is more than sound alone (28). There is more
about the sea than its chaotic appearance. The element characterizing the sea
here is the moment of (meaningless) eternity (27). The sound of the sea is like a
sound repeated endlessly. And it is a positive sound, because it sounds like
summer, – like an endless vacation (26-28). This static quality stands in
opposition to the dynamic coming and going, beginning and ending, of the girl's
song. By establishing this opposition, the sea can be defined. It is the contrast of
the timelessness of the sea and the transitory quality of the song what makes its
perception such a vivid one. It is probably the recognition of this contradiction
which enables the poet to apply his idea of order to the scene he has witnessed.22
William Wordsworth's The Solitary Reaper is regarded as a direct literary
predecessor to Wallace Stevens’ The Idea of Order at Key West. By comparing
both poems, the distance between the Modernist poem and the Romantic poem
becomes evident. The only thing both poems do have in common is the singing
girl. No triangular relationship as in The Idea of Order at Key West is evident.
The song the girl sings is at the center of The Solitary Reaper: The “melancholy
strain” (6) triggers the empathy of the bypassing stranger. In the whole second
and third stanza (half of the poem!) we find musings about the beauty, the
nature and the contents of the song. The girl and her surroundings are
marginalia. There is no specific relationship between the girl and her
environment, she simply belongs to it, is an integrate part of an ordered world.
For the poet this constellation is indisputable. The song he beholds simply
moves him, appeals to his emotions, but it does not have a conveying or
mediating function between poet and world. His world does not have to be
unpuzzled, since the Romantic poet communicates more or less directly with the
world he dwells in. The central focus of The Solitary Reaper is – as the title
suggests – on the girl and, especially, her song. Both poems share the motive of
the solitary singing girl and also share the esteem of the beauty of a song.
Otherwise, they do not have much in common.23 The resemblance to another
poem – William Butler Yeats’ A Crazed Girl – has hitherto not been so widely
noticed, but Holmes (1990: 65) outlines its position in between Wordsworth and
Stevens, and „that it also recalls the Wordsworthian prototype.”
Stevens uses the traditional patterns of meter and rhyme, but does not use
them in a traditional way. He seldom uses end-rhyme: The first stanza only has
one end-rhyme: motion (4) and ocean (7). In the second stanza the half-rhymes
heard (10), word (11), stirred (12) and again heard (14) appear. The third
stanza is framed by the word sang (15 and 20) – here a central word of the
poem serves as a rhyme. In the fourth stanza sea (38) and we (40) – again
22
The poem is full of contradictory phrases like: That was not ours although we understood
(8), vv. 12-14 etc.
23
For the paragraph discussing The Solitary Reaper c.f. also: Weber (1974: 302-303).
206
THOMAS SCHARES
important words for the poem – and made (34 and 43)24 serve as end-rhymes. The
sixth stanza has two end-rhymes: lights (46), night (51) and there (47), air (48)
No strophic rhyme-scheme is attachable to this sparse yield of end-rhymes.
Rhyme is not used in an ordinary or traditional way to serve as a chief formal
pattern to structure a poem. Stevens uses rhyme to accentuate. Often rhyme and
repetition correspond with each other as prosodic devices: Stevens knits a dense
web of internal rhymes. The three most important words of the poem she, sea
and we rhyme and appear in a high frequency throughout the poem (repetition) are, in fact, the words repeated most often.
Another formal issue of The Idea of Order at Key West to be discussed, is
the proposal of its dramatic form. The poem
...contain[s] all of the standard components of the dramatic monologue: one speaker, a
silent listener, and a specific place at which the dramatic action occurs. ... – the speaker is
communicating his thoughts to the listener at a moment of intense insight or crisis."
(Crowder/Chappell 1987: 38-39)
Stevens’ usage of the blank verse as metrical structure indeed suggests the
allusion to theatrical speech. The theatrical images occasionally applied add to
that. But the interpretation of the poem as a “...unusual yet authentic dramatic
monologue...” (Crowder/Chappell 1987: 39) should not be over-emphasized. It
is not the only function of the poem to report that “The speaker has gained
lasting insight into the ability of a poet-singer to shape order out of chaos by
stimulating him and Ramon to look more deeply into their own minds,...”
(Crowder/Chappell 1987: 42). The interaction between she, sea and we in the
poem is not that linear and far more complex, as has been shown. It is not the
ability of the one to stimulate the other, but the ability has to be a quality
contributed simultaneously by all its participants. 25 It would thus be an
underpricing of the poem to regard it as a mere report. And, Stevens' poetology
applied, the poem itself should also serve as a stimulus to the reader to make
use of his own imagination.
Stevens obviously and firmly roots in tradition, but traditional elements
never dominate his poetry. He uses traditional material rather to demonstrate the
differences between him and his predecessors, but, on the other hand, is never
forgetful about what tradition contributes to his poetry:
A real tradition is not the relic of a past that is irretrievably gone; it is a living force
that animates and informs the present. ...Far from implying the repetition of what has been,
tradition presupposes the reality of what endures. It appears as an heirloom, a heritage that
24
This rhyme not detected by Weber (1974: 300)
C.f. Porter (1962: 47): “The female persona …, the narrator, and Ramon Fernandez do not
have individual versions of the beach experience; they all share the same experience by the sea
and, consequently, the same idea of order. The girl’s song provides the common ground.”
25
207
one receives on condition of making it bear fruit before passing it on to one's descendants.
(Igor Stravinsky, Poetics of Music, quoted from Cavanaugh (1974, xv.))
To Stevens, prosody never is the application of empty formalism. He
functionalizes traditional elements.26 His use of the blank verse corresponds to
the monological form, the chief rhymes are the key-words of the poem. The
structure of the motifs is also chosen appropriately, nothing only contributes,
everything is an inevitable part, form and contents – in fact – constitute a unity.
But, finally, in The Idea of Order at Key West contradiction is an equally important
factor of composition. The meaning of the employed traditional images is
fractured and distorted, before they are being refurbished into a new order.
Contradiction is also a rhetorical device in the argumentative flow of the poem.
4. A Song Within a Song: The Idea of Order at Key West, and Music
(and Painting)
The Idea of Order at Key West has strong connection to music, issued by
its form as well as its contents. This fact has been pointed out above, but will be
elaborated upon in the following. Critical studies by e.g. Holmes (1990) and
Heller (1986) stress upon the presence of musical issues, and the issue of
painting in the poem, it is obvious that the neighboring arts are so prominently
present in the poem that they might lead to critical analyses based upon these
connections. Regarding the structure of the poem as it has been discussed in
chapter 2, I would like to suggest the application of the sonata scheme for an
analysis of the poems architecture. An elaboration of the parallel structure inherent
in the poem (as given in Fig. 2) results in a sonata scheme as given in Fig. 3.
I.
Exposition
1 first movement:
2 second movement:
3 third movement:
II. Development:
III. Recapitulation:
IV. Coda:
stanza
stanza
stanza
stanza
stanza
stanza
1
2
3
4
5
6
Fig. 3
26
C.f. Heller (1986: 149): “Die Befreiung der Imagination von festen Vorstellungsmustern
bedeutet für den Künstler nicht nur die freie Verfügbarkeit historisch gewachsener Stilformen und
Darstellungsmittel, auf die er als Bausteine zu einer neuen Ordnung zurückgreifen kann, sondern
darüber hinaus auch eine Befreiung vom traditionellen Begriff der Wahrheit als Korrespondenz
zugunsten einer kritischen Verwendung eines biozentrischen Wahrheitsbegriffs, der als anarchischer,
egozentrischer Individualismus der ästhetischen Weltgestaltung bei Stevens sichtbar wird…”
208
THOMAS SCHARES
The thematic outline of the poem fits this scheme nicely, as well as the
varying length of the stanzas does correspond with the organizational tenets of a
sonata, the long fourth stanza very well serves the idea of a development of the
themes, concerning quantity as well as quality. Also, the extensive length of the
exposition must not surprise – the “inherent element of contrast” (Encyc. Brit. 20,
[1968], 905) attested to the sonata form does also add to the justification of the
application of a musical form to the poem. The variation form, attested by
Northrop Frye (1976: 276ff.) as generic to Stevens’ poems, is also a chief
principle of composition in The Idea of Order at Key West, as it is constitutive
for the sonata form. The central themes she, we and sea are introduced in the
first stanza, are going through the first iteration in the second and third stanza
(exposition), are labored over in the large fourth stanza (development). The
thematic development here also includes the prevalence of one theme, or the
other one (c.f. fig. 2). The recapitulation of the fifth stanza delivers a re-evaluation
of the variations given in the exposition and the development, and, finally,
stanza six serves as the coda: a final comment on the themes and variations. The
musical pattern of the sonata form is of course only one of several formal
patterns suitable, but it is very deeply rooted in form and contents of the poem,
and far from being a superficial mirror image of it.
Above all, Stevens’ use of variation is a dominant characteristic of his
poetry, and
… takes us deep into Stevens’s central notion of poetry as the result of a struggle, or
balance, or compromise, or tension, between the two forces that he calls imagination and
reality. We notice that in the musical theme with variations, the theme is frequently a
composition by someone else or comes from a different musical context. Similarly the
poet works with imagination, which is what he has, and reality, which is given him. So
from Stevens’s point of view, poems could be described as the variations that imagination
makes on the theme of reality. (Frye 1976: 277)
Musical allusion in The Idea of Order in Key West go even further than
that. The nucleus of the poem is the girl’s song. It seems to be crucial here, that
the girl does not simply recite a poem, but sings a song. Whereas it is never
revealed, whether she sings an original song, or if she recites one. Her
appearance as a poet, and this is what counts here, is, more correctly, the
appearance of a poet-singer. This alludes to the origins of art in myth here being
represented by the archetype of the Orphic singer, referring to a time, when
poetry used to be reproduced and perpetuated orally, and poetry was sung to an
audience (c.f. Holmes 1990: 66). The scope of reference here reaches from
ancient myth to the romantic idea of the unity of arts. The magic of music,
beyond the plain uttering of words, mingles with the words of the girl’s poemsong. This marriage of the arts, as it may be called, is what appeals to the two
listeners. It is the power beyond plain words, a touch of the unspeakable – the
musical element of the song – which sets free the energies of imagination.
209
The poem is not an attempt to replace27 the girl’s song, not an experiment
trying to copy the musical structure of the song into the poem. But the musical
structure of the sonata form evident in the poem might be understood as a
symphonic approach to a song, like Romantic classical composers, who often
took up folk themes and turned them into symphonic variations (two famous
examples being Brahms’ Ungarische Tänze, and Chatschaturjan’s Sabre Dance).
Not very much about the musical and verbal qualities of the girl’s song are
revealed in the poem itself. The poets only concern is the song’s effect, which in
the end is being described by a poem; a poem-song through a poem with a
musical structure. The song is re-created
… so daß die betreffende Stelle in seinem Werk soweit wie möglich die gleiche Wirkung
auf einen Leser anstrebt wie die Wirkung der Komposition auf einen Hörer. Nachahmung
mag Analyse oder Deutung einschließen, aber nur, um ihr eigenes Ziel zu fördern,
welches nicht Verständnis der Musik, sondern ihr Erlebnis durch die Vermittlung der
Literatur ist. (Brown 1984: 35-36)
Through this transposition d’art, Stevens shares his experience of the
creative powers of music and words combined in a song-poem (although the words
here seem secondary, since we never get to know them), by re-ordering this folk-art
like song structure into a symphonic poetical structure; the connections between
music and poetry being constitutive for every step along the way of this process.
Although, in my reading of the poem, the recourse on music is much stronger
than the presence of other art forms, the affinities apparent to painting should
also be taken into account: Descriptive passages of the poem remind many critics of
painting, and the different impressions in the poem painted with words remind
of different styles of painting: E.g. Burney (1962: 15-17) identifies a “Cezanne
like paragraph”, “Monet-like impressionism” and “Klee-like art”. He asserts that
Stevens uses art history, shifting his painting images from romantic to impressionist
to post-impressionist to neo-romantic, as a way of rendering his rejection, first, of the
rather melodramatic integrity of romanticism (‘the genius of the sea’), and then the merely
mimetic theatricality of impressionism (‘meaningless plungings’). (Burney 1962: 16)
Concluding, Burney compares Stevens’ search for a synthesis of art and
reality with concepts of painting by Cezanne.
The rich texture of The Idea of Order at Key West invites for approximations
to its meaning by applying most heterogeneous tools; above all, the aspects of
synaesthesia and poetology seem to be the two recurring forces determining the
poems analytical scope. This observation can only lead to the conclusion, that
this poem is no less than a poetological program of modernism, as seen through
the Stevensian lens.
27
C.f. Brown (1984: 33): “Im engeren Sinne scheinen die Verbindungen zwischen Musik
und Literatur auf vier grundlegende Möglichkeiten beschränkt zu sein: Kombination,
‚Ersetzen‘[replacement], Einfluß, Parallele oder Analogie.”
210
THOMAS SCHARES
5. Conclusion: A Poem about Poetry – The Idea of Order at Key West
as a Poetology of Modernism
What makes Stevens’ poetry „difficult” to many readers is the strict
devotion to his poetical principles; the theoretical „Überbau” of Stevens’ poetry
overshadows each of his poems. „Wallace Stevens was a poet for whom the
theory and practice of poetry were inseparable” (Frye 1963: 161) By writing
poetry, Stevens considered himself bound to the universal task of the poet to
create a „surpreme fiction”; – this has to take place in single and separate poems,
of course; but each of these poems is entangled in the poet’s ultimate work of to
create his own epistemological poetic version of reality conceived by
imagination.28 The „paradox of reality and imagination” (Frye 1976: 294), the
necessary aporia of composition through decomposition (in Stevens already
something genuinely modernist)29 stand for Stevens’ Modernist, or, as he would
rather call it, New Romantic approach to writing poetry. To Stevens
Poetry has to do with reality in that concrete and individual aspect of it which the
mind can never tackle altogether on its own terms, with matter that is foreign and alien in
a way in which abstract systems, ideas in which we detect an inherent pattern, a structure
that belongs to the ideas themselves, can never be. (W. Stevens 1957: 236)
The Idea of Order at Key West – „bearing a massive weight of thought
and feeling that cannot be separated from each other” (Beckett 1977: 100) – is
an outstanding illustration of Stevens’ poetology (Doggett 1959: 370): At first
glance it is, indeed, a poem about poetry, about the methods, aims, and effects of
poetry. “[I]n Stevens, a reflexive intelligence that cannot evade the knowledge of
its own processes is always present.” (Vendler 1988: 77). The poem describes
the purpose of a poem by giving both cause and effect of one (and, at the same
time, of course being itself a poem). To Stevens, reception of and understanding
of the world/reality depend on the method of the mental processing of it.
The living creature and its environment, imagination and reality, the mind and the
world, this is the simplest and most elementary of all philosophical ideas, as old as subject
and object. Here is the fundamental idea of Stevens’ poetry – this duality of mind and
world – and it permeates most of his writing. (Doggett 1966: 368)
Imagination enables man, and especially the artist as the chosen one, “to
bring the mind closer to the thing it perceives” (Doggett 1959: 372). Imagination,
28
Weak imagination either surrenders to reality (= realism) or runs away from it (= solipsism);
imagination has to “fight back” with a “subjective violence corresponding to the objective violence
of external pressure” c.f. and cit. Frye (1976), 277-278.
29
“… the artist’s need to dismantle ‘reality’ before rearranging it … in art.” Vendler (1988: 77),
c.f. also Frye (1976: 287) and Holmes (1990: 74).
211
becoming visible through poetry, is the most valuable faculty of man to Stevens,
the Modernist poet. Being of a generation in desperate need and search for values, a
generation facing more than a mere loss of values30, he finds more than consolation
in poetry. His „surpreme fiction” is the artistic center of a Modernist recognition
and re-evaluation of reality which endeavors to lead out of the threatening
emptiness of a 20th century world. The Idea of Order at Key West comprises no
less than the whole of this artistic program, Stevens’ „sense of the poem as
enacted mental process rather than a statement or narrative” (Vendler 1988: 78),
rendering the whole thought contained in the poem, along with all of its possible
critical readings, into what we rightfully might call a Poetology of Modernism.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Adorno, Theodor W. (1945), “Theses Upon Art and Religion Today”, in The Kenyon Review 7:4, 677-682
(cited from T.W.A., Noten zur Literatur. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp 41989, 647-653).
Andrews Johnston, Sara (1991): ‘Life’s a Beach’: The Shore-Lyric from Arnold to Ammons.
Chapel Hill: North Carolina UP 1991.
Brown, Calvin S. (1984), Theoretische Grundlagen zum Studium der Wechselverhältnisse
zwischen Literatur und Musik (German Translation of: Music and Literature – A
Comparison of the Arts), Athens: Georgia UP 1948.
Cavanaugh, William C. (1974), Introduction to Poetry, Dubuque/Iowa: Brown.
Crowder, Ashby Bland, Charles Chappell (1987), "The Dramatic Form of 'The Idea of Order at
Key West' and 'Peter Quince at the Clavier'", in College Literature 14:1, 38-47.
Doggett, Frank (1966), Stevens’ Poetry of Thought, Baltimore: John Hopkins Press.
Ellmann, Richard (1957), "Wallace Stevens' Ice-Cream", in The Kenyon Review 19, 89-105.
Frye, Northrop (1963), “The Realistic Oriole: A Study of Wallace Stevens”, in Marie Boroff (ed),
Wallace Stevens: A Collection of Critical Essays, Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 161-176.
Frye, Northrop (1976), “Wallace Stevens and the Variation Form”, in N.F., Spiritus mundi:
Essays on Literature, Myth, and Society. Bloomington: Indiana UP.
Gelpi, Albert (1987), A Coherent Splendor: The American Poetic Renaissance, 1910-1950.
Cambridge and others: Cambridge UP.
Heller, Jürgen (1986), William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens und die Moderne Malerei:
Ästhetische Entwürfe, Verfahren der Komposition, Frankfurt/M. et.al., Peter Lang.
Holmes, Barbara (1990), “The Decomposer's Art: Ideas of Music in the Poetry of Wallace Stevens”,
New York and others: Peter Lang (New Connections: Studies in Interdisciplinarity 1).
Kaplan, Alice (2010): “Ghostly Demarcations: on Ramon Fernandez”, in The Nation, feb. 15, 2010
(online: http://www.thenation.com/article/ghostly-demarcations-ramon-fernandez).
Miller, Joseph (1987), "Wallace Stevens", in DLB [= Dictionary of Literary Biography] 54, 471-505.
30
“The individual might still be capable of having religious experiences. But positive
religion has lost its character of objective, all-comprising validity, its supra-individual binding
force. It is no longer an unproblematic, a priori medium within which each person exists without
questioning. Hence the desire for a reconstruction of that much praised unity amounts to wishful
thinking, even if it be deeply rooted in the sincere desire for something which gives ‘sense’ to a
culture threatened by emptiness and universal alienation.” Adorno (1945: 647).
212
THOMAS SCHARES
Müller-Schwefe, Gerhard (1969), Einführung in die Gedichtinterpretation: Schlüssel zur
englischen Lyrik, Dortmund: Lensing.
Porter, James E. (1962), „Stevens’ ‚The Idea of Order at Key West’”, in The Explicator XX, 47-48.
Ryan, Michael (1982), “Disclosures of Poetry: On Wallace Stevens and 'The Idea of Order at Key
West'”, in The American Poetry Review, 11:5, Sept./Oct. 1982, 29-34.
Tymieniecka, Anna-Teresa (ed.), “Poetics of the Elements in the Human Condition: The Sea.
from Elemental Stirrings to Symbolic Inspiration, Language, and Life-Significance in
Literary Interpretation and Theory”, Dordrecht and others: D. Reidel 1985 [= Tymieniecka,
Anna-Teresa (ed.), Analectica Husserliana. The Yearbook of Phenomenological
Research, vol. 19.]
Vaught Brogan, Jaqueline (1993), “Elizabeth Bishop: Perversity as Voice”, in Marilyn May
Lombardi (ed), Elizabeth Bishop, The Geography of Gender, The University Press of
Virginia, 175-195.
Vendler, Helen (1988), The Music of What Happens, Cambridge/Mass., Harvard UP 1988.
Wallace Stevens, Ideas of Order, 1936.
Wallace Stevens, The Necessary Angel, 1951.
Wallace Stevens, Opus posthumous, 1957.
Wallace Stevens, Letters (ed. Holly Stevens), 1966.
Weber, Alfred (1974): „Wallace Stevens: 'The Idea of Order at Key West'“, in Klaus Lubbers (ed),
Die amerikanische Lyrik: Von der Kolonialzeit bis zur Gegenwart, Düsseldorf: Bagel
1974, 292-305.
L’ENFANCE – LE PASSÉ QUI NE PASSE PAS DANS
LES ROMANS DE PASCAL QUIGNARD
ANDREEA DIACONESCU∗
CHILDHOOD – THE PAST DOES NEVER PASS IN THE NOVELS
OF PASCAL QUIGNARD
The childhood – remaining between the time’s borders – shows a certain relationship to
the temporality that contributes to the originality of Pascal Quignard’s approach. Quignard’s
characters cannot completely get rid of this fantastical moment where temporality blocks in a
present time of a happy or unhappy fullness, as appropriate. The emotional intensity is in
counterpoint with the vectorized time acting ruthlessly on the adult who feels the violence in a
painful way. At Quignard, the characters have different views on their childhood, according to
two basic affects that have marked them: the happiness and the unhappiness. At the poles there
are: Charles Chenogne from ‘Salon du Wurtemberg’ (“The Salon in Wurtemberg”) – who interrupts
very often the well-ordered recall of the period 1963-1986 to dive obsessively in the memories of
the childhood spent in Wurtemberg – and A. from ‘Carus’ who is running away from the
childhood memories, even if they persist to disturb his memory. Other characters revolve around
these poles with some variations: Quoeun from ‘Carus’ and Ann Hidden have a disillusioned attitude
towards the unhappy childhood, while Edouard Furfooz from ‘Escaliers de Chambord’ unconsciously
seeks refuge in the manipulation of toys to forget the trauma of childhood. On the other hand, the
protagonists of ‘L’Occupation américaine’ (“The American Occupation”) represent a special case
due to their premature decision to abandon the French childhood. The oversized temporality of
the childhood remains constant in these situations that we intend to analyze.
Keywords: childhood, the past, oversized temporality, happiness, unhappiness.
En faisant le bilan des choses longues et des choses peu durables dans le
fragment CXXXII de son journal, Apronenia Avitia du roman Les Tablettes de
buis d’Apronenia Avitia note : « Parmi les choses qui sont très longues j’ajouterai
l’enfance.» (Quignard, 2006 : 116). Charles Chenogne, le protagoniste du Salon
du Wurtemberg, a une observation similaire : « Quand je retourne à Bergheim, je
crois rejoindre le site le plus vieux du monde. C’était l’enfance, c’était la mâchoire
de Heidelberg. […] C’était la grotte de Schuhrloch.» (Quignard, 1995 : 397). En
effet, si dans le paradis la temporalité est exclue et que le rêve en brouille les
limites, l’enfance – en restant entre les frontières chronologiques – démontre un
∗
Docteur en philologie à l’Université de Bucarest, [email protected]
214
ANDREEA DIACONESCU
certain rapport à la temporalité qui contribue à l’originalité de la démarche
quignardienne. Les réflexions explicites sur la façon particulière de l’enfant de
concevoir sa relation avec le temps sont moins marquées dans les romans,
tandis qu’elles parsèment les essais. Un exemple parlant c’est la réflexion qui
clôt le premier chapitre de La Leçon de musique :
Si j’oublie un instant la mue masculine, l’attente, telle est la seule expérience que
le temps nous donne de lui-même. La durée est une résistance. Le temps est ce qui dure,
ce qu’on endure. […] L’enfant – qui sait la vérité […] – ne sait pas endurer le délai.
(Quignard, 1998 : 55-57)
L’enfance est donc cet âge magnifique, perdu presqu’en entier et qui rappelle
le chaos originaire par le fait qu’elle ne connaît pas la tyrannie du temps. Le moraliste
Jean de La Bruyère le soulignait dès le XVIIe siècle : « Les enfants n’ont ni passé,
ni avenir et, ce qui ne nous arrive guère, ils jouissent du présent.».1 Effectivement,
l’enfant vit sans conscience du passé (qui se dilue dans un hier qui comprend
tout ce qu’il a déjà vécu) et sans se rapporter à un futur explicite. Son parcours
existentiel se déploie dans un présent perpétuel, un présent de jouissance entière
que la chronologie du passé et de l’avenir ne vient pas troubler. « Source d’une
indéfectible nostalgie », selon l’expression de Quignard lui-même, l’enfance
revient dans la mémoire de l’adulte par éclats ou par éclairs.2
Les personnages de Quignard ne peuvent pas se défaire complètement de
ce moment fantasmatique où la temporalité se bloque à un présent de plénitude
heureuse ou malheureuse, selon le cas. L’intensité émotionnelle est en contrepoint
avec le temps vectorisé agissant impitoyablement sur l’adulte qui en ressent de
manière douloureuse la violence. Par la suite, le temps transforme le présent
dans un moment fugace qui se décompose instantanément en ce qui a été et ce
qui sera. Sorti de l’enfance, l’homme appartient irrémédiablement au temps,
mais il peut en court-circuiter la linéarité par le souvenir mélancolique qui surgit
à son insu, en brisant parfois la démarche ordonnée de remémoration.3 L’abolition
du temps, propre à l’enfance, se maintient dans le souvenir qu’on en conserve.
En effet, si la mémoire intervient pour modifier les souvenirs de toutes les autres
étapes de la vie, elle reste fidèle et immuable pour les souvenirs d’enfance qu’on
revoit toujours de la même façon : heureux ou malheureux, confiant ou effrayé,
optimiste ou désespéré.4
Chez Quignard, les personnages envisagent l’enfance de manière différente
en fonction de deux affects essentiels qui l’ont marquée : bonheur ou malheur.
Aux pôles se situent Charles Chenogne – qui interrompt souvent la remémoration
1
La Bruyère Jean de, Les caractères, Paris, Bookking International, 1993, p. 251.
Lapeyre-Desmaison Chantal-Andrée, Pascal Quignard le solitaire – rencontre avec Chantal
Lapeyre-Desmaison, Paris, Flohic, 2001, p. 129.
3
Rabaté Dominique, Pascal Quignard – étude de l’oeuvre, Paris, Bordas, 2008, p. 106-107.
4
Tadié Jean-Yves et Marc, Le sens de la mémoire, Paris, Gallimard, coll. « Essais », 1999, p. 300.
2
L’ENFANCE – LE PASSÉ QUI NE PASSE PAS DANS LES ROMANS DE PASCAL QUIGNARD
215
ordonnée de la période 1963-1986 pour plonger obsessionnellement dans les
souvenirs de l’enfance wurtembergeoise – et A. de Carus qui fuit les souvenirs
d’enfance, même si ceux-ci s’obstinent de troubler sa mémoire. D’autres
personnages gravitent autour de ces pôles avec certaines variations : Quoeun et
Ann Hidden ont une attitude désabusée envers l’enfance malheureuse, tandis
qu’Edouard Furfooz se réfugie inconsciemment dans la manipulation des jouets
pour oublier le traumatisme de l’enfance. En revanche, les protagonistes de
L’Occupation américaine constituent un cas particulier à cause de leur décision
précoce d’abandonner l’enfance française. La temporalité surdimensionnée de
l’enfance reste constante dans les cas que nous analyserons ci-dessous.
Charles Chenogne profite de la moindre occasion pour évoquer divers
aspects de son enfance passée au domaine familial de Bergheim, dans le
Wurtemberg. Les souvenirs le hèlent et il essaie de s’arracher à leur fascination
en saisissant tout prétexte pour les confier au papier et s’en libérer. Quoiqu’il ait
passé sa petite enfance à Paris, Charles dit : « Curieusement, je n’ai pas gardé le
plus petit souvenir de deux premières années de ma vie à la fin de la guerre, à
Paris.» (Quignard, 1995 : 263). En réalité, il est naturel de se cogner au vide
mémoriel, étant donné que l’amnésie infantile ne permet pas que les souvenirs
les plus anciens ne remontent pas au-delà de l’âge de trois ans. Selon Freud cité
par les frères Tadié, les souvenirs des trois premières années, loin de disparaître
sans trace, exercent « une influence déterminante pour toutes les époques postérieures ».
Mais ce que Freud définit comme refoulement, d’autres attribuent au développement
insuffisant du langage ou au fonctionnement de la mémoire qui a encore des
carences.5 Dans ce contexte, l’affirmation tranchante de Charles : « Tous mes
souvenirs sont wurtembergeois.» (Quignard, 1995 : 263), assigne à l’enfance une
place stable à Bergheim. Les enfants Chenogne ne migrent qu’en été quand ils passent
les vacances à Regnéville ou à Coutances. Charles adulte évoque nostalgiquement
une scène d’enfance de Coutances qui n’a rien de spectaculaire, mais qui est
importante parce qu’elle a contribué à le rendre conscient de son identité. C’est
une brique dans le processus de création de sa personnalité et cela justifie sa
conservation immuable à la longue, malgré le banal qui la caractérise. Envoyé
par sa mère chez le pharmacien pour acheter certains produits, le petit Charles
est heureux de la mission que sa mère lui a confiée et fier en même temps en
entendant le pharmacien l’appeler « Monsieur Chenogne ! » de manière cérémonieuse.
Fils unique et le cadet de quatre sœurs, Charles sent qu’à l’exception de
sa mère, toute sa famille comme les domestiques de la maison de Bergheim ont
eu de la tendresse pour lui, enfant. D’ailleurs, dans le premier souvenir d’enfance
qu’il évoque, Hiltrud, une femme de chambre allemande qu’il craignait et aimait
à la fois, détient le rôle principal :
5
Ibid., p. 297.
216
ANDREEA DIACONESCU
La moindre circonstance, et la plus fortuite, était comme le grain de levain dans
la pâte qui reposait, à Bergheim, au-dessus du poêle de fonte bleue – et devant lequel
Hiltrud nous demandait de ne pas parler français de crainte que la pâte ne s’affaissât.
(Quignard, 1995 : 35).
Charles réaffirme plusieurs fois son attachement à Hiltrud, qui substitue
Yvonne Chenogne après le divorce : « Comme je l’avais aimée, comme elle me
faisait peur !» (Quignard, 1995 : 240). Une raison importante pour laquelle Charles
rachète Bergheim et s’y installe, c’est le salut de son enfance allemande patronnée
par la figure de Hiltrud qu’enfant il appelait mutti. « O mutti, mutti ! ai-je envie
de crier » (Quignard, 1995 : 398), pense-t-il en gagnant Bergheim pour vérifier
l’état des travaux de rénovation. Hiltrud renvoie à l’image de la gouvernante de
Pascal Quignard qui l’a arraché à la crise autiste qu’il avait traversée à l’âge
d’un an. Bergheim est le lieu où a vécu cette femme qui l’a élevé enfant.
L’image heureuse de l’enfance est liée à Hiltrud, à Fräulein Jutta et à ses
sœurs qui l’impliquaient dans leurs jeux et dans leurs activités. Charles dévoile
la contribution de Luise, la puînée, dans la découverte de la musique : « C’est à
Luise que je dois d’aimer la musique.» (Quignard, 1995 : 50). Pourtant sa sœur
préférée, c’est Marga, un peu plus âgée que lui, qui lui reste proche aussi
pendant la maturité.
Néanmoins, nous constatons une particularité qui domine l’évocation de
l’enfance heureuse de Bergheim : Charles paraît attaché plutôt au lieu et aux
objets qui ornent la maison des Chenogne. Parc, orgue, salon de musique trop
jaune, gravures de Cozens, de Girtin ou de Wieland, tous l’attirent par leur
immobilité qui lui donne l’impression que rien n’a changé depuis son enfance.
En y étant de retour, il s’imagine en Orphée qui retrouve son Eurydice après un
long et difficile voyage dans les Enfers. Cette fois-ci, Eurydice n’est pas une
femme, mais la maison aux brise-bise, comme Marga l’appelle. Charles parvient
à la réaménager à l’ancienne dans l’effort de retrouver son éclat d’autrefois. En
décidant de s’y installer définitivement, il répond à l’appel de l’enfance : « J’ai
trop souhaité de m’opposer à ce que je suis, aux sons de mon enfance !»
(Quignard, 1995 : 396). Cette phrase résume la particularité identitaire de
Charles qui a été obligé dès petit de déceler entre l’identité allemande et celle
française. En effet, même si en général les souvenirs qu’il évoque ne sont pas
datés, l’enfance de Charles subit l’intervention brutale de la temporalité qui la
coupe en deux périodes distinctes : avant et après l’abandon de la mère. Le
profond attachement aux objets est donc explicable : ceux-ci ne s’enfuient pas,
ils ne trahissent pas.
En revanche, Edouard Furfooz arrive à la conclusion contraire : « Il avait
été le jouet de ses jouets mêmes.» (Quignard, 2002 : 383). Les jouets l’ont trahi
en le faisant s’enliser dans un passé générique. Giorgio Agamben souligne cet
aspect par la précision que le jouet, en démembrant et en altérant le passé, ou
bien en miniaturisant le présent, c’est-à-dire en jouant tant sur la diachronie que
217
sur la synchronie, rend présente et tangible la temporalité humaine en soi.6 Dans
le cas d’Edouard les jouets ont un statut ambigu : ils couvrent un manque en
protégeant contre le malheur et contre la solitude, mais en même temps ils
empêchent le personnage d’en devenir conscient. Les « jouets sans enfants »
(Quignard, 2002 : 25), objets qui n’appartiennent pas à l’usage, perdent leur
pouvoir après la découverte de la petite barrette que le protagoniste ne peut
encadrer dans aucune catégorie. À partir de ce moment-là, des failles
apparaissent dans son passé, ce qui permet à Edouard de récupérer le souvenir
de l’enfance à Paris. Le malheur qu’il ressent en retrouvant le souvenir de la
mort de la petite fille le plonge de nouveau dans la chronologie. C’est pourquoi
il fait le geste symbolique de renvoyer à Anvers le groupe de petits musiciens
qui jouaient dans le silence. La raison d’existence des jouets disparaît avec la
récupération complète de la mémoire.
Si Edouard renonce à l’enfance à quarante-cinq ans, Patrick et Marie-José
à dix ans s’empressent de rejeter la leur par l’enterrement des jouets français dès
qu’ils découvrent les poubelles du camp américain. Mais tant qu’ils n’ont pas
d’accès direct à l’intérieur de la base, ils ne quittent pas l’enfance en entier. Les
recherches dans les poubelles les maintiennent dans un temps uniforme, orienté
uniquement vers le futur proche vu qu’ils attendent impatiemment que la nuit
tombe pour les recommencer : « Les deux enfants se prirent de passion pour leurs
allées et venues nocturnes. Ils rôdaient. Ils maraudaient.» (Quignard, 2009 : 23).
Dès que le sergent Will Caberra l’introduit dans la maison des Wadd, Patrick
devient conscient du fait que le temps désormais fractionné s’écoule irréversiblement :
Il la vit. Ce fut soudain. Soudain, il fut surpris d’avoir quitté l’enfance. Ce fut une
découverte qui le prit de court : l’enfance était partie ; tous les liens s’étaient dénoués ; la
fusion s’en était décomposée. Le temps s’était mis en marche sans qu’il s’en fût rendu
compte. Toutes choses s’appauvrirent dans un instant. Tout devint conscient. Tout devint
distant. Tout devint langage. Tout devint mémoire. (Quignard, 2009 : 46)
Patrick associe l’enfance à une fusion temporelle qui la place hors du
temps chronologique et hors de la mémoire. Dans ses pensées se mêlent deux
conceptions opposées de la temporalité : la circularité antique versus l’horizontalité
chrétienne. La représentation antique du temps comme cercle se restreint dans le
cas de Patrick à la période de l’enfance perçue comme un continuum ponctuel,
infini et quantifié, tandis que la ligne droite caractérise la maturité que le jeune
homme est en train de toucher. 7 Il y a une coupure nette entre les deux
séquences de sa vie. Désormais prisonnier du temps chronologique, le jeune
homme ne peut plus revenir à l’état d’innocence et l’exil est la seule modalité de
couper court au harcèlement de l’enfance.
6
Agamben Giorgio, Enfance et histoire, traduit de l'italien par Yves Hersant, Paris, Editions
Payot et Rivages, 2002, p. 132.
7
Ibid., p. 164-167.
218
ANDREEA DIACONESCU
Ann Hidden de Villa Amalia se trouve à mi-chemin en ce qui concerne la
perception de l’enfance. La relation difficile avec sa mère cache une enfance
solitaire et malheureuse, marquée par l’abandon du père et par la mort de son
frère. L’écoulement du temps et l’exil volontaire à Paris n’effacent pas
l’impression d’être engloutie par le tourbillon des souvenirs désagréables de
l’enfance à chaque fois qu’elle revient en Bretagne visiter sa mère :
Au bout de quelques heures aux côtés de sa mère toute la petite enfance revenait.
Toute la frustration, la dépendance, l’éducation, les obsessions maniaques, la
détresse, la haine réafleuraient.
Toute l’atmosphère se tendait de nouveau comme une corde de violon sur la
touche. (Quignard, 2006 : 48).
Partageant le même espace, mais pas le même temps, Ann et sa mère sont
des prisonnières : l’une de l’enfance, l’autre de l’attente. Si Ann réussit à s’en
défaire, sa mère y reste dans l’espoir du retour de son époux. Cette situation
dure depuis longtemps parce qu’elle est connue par les anciens amis d’Ann.
Aux retrouvailles avec Georges, cette particularité de la vie de Marthe
Hidelstein figure parmi les questions de raccommodement :
– Et ta mère… vit toujours ?
– Oui. […] Maman vit toujours là-bas.
– Et elle… attend toujours ?
– Oui, toujours dans la même maison. Tous les jours. Toujours. Elle attend toujours.
(Quignard, 2006 : 22)
Avec Georges, Ann partage l’enfance écolière qui s’écoule doucement,
sans laisser de traces profondes dans sa mémoire. De toute façon, comme elle
n’est pas trop convaincue de la vérité des affirmations de Georges, celui-ci lui
montre un cadre où « il y avait les six photos des classes de l’enfance »
(Quignard, 2006 : 21). Elle s’en souvient en entier en contemplant pour un
instant une photo où « elle était assise sur un banc à côté de sœur Marguerite.»
(ibid.). Un rang plus haut, Georges, qu’elle reconnaît enfin. Sa mémoire a besoin du
support solide de la photo pour recouvrer des souvenirs apparemment oubliés.
En même temps, Ann se trouve en contrepoint avec son ancien collègue qui ne
peut pas se défaire complètement de l’emprise de son image enfantine : « Aux
yeux de Georges c’était une petite fille fière, un peu hostile, toujours sur ses gardes,
bouleversée par un rien, fragile, inquiète, mystérieuse.» (Quignard, 2006 : 222).
En revanche, Ann ne doit plus faire appel à aucun support extérieur pour
garder en mémoire l’image vive de la petite Léna. Avec celle-ci elle « partage
l’enfance absolue », selon l’affirmation de Midori Ogawa.8 Paradoxalement, en
8
Ogawa Midori, « Le solstice d’hiver » dans Roman 20-50, (Revue d'étude du roman du
XX siècle), sous la direction de François Berquin, no. 44, décembre 2007, p. 101.
e
219
étant mère d’emprunt pour Magdalena Radnitzky, Ann réussit à vivre une
nouvelle enfance remplie de bonheur aux côtés de la petite qui s’attache d’un
coup à la villa et à celle qui, comme un chamane, apaise toutes ses peurs :
« Naissait en elles une incroyable énergie dès qu’elles se voyaient. On pouvait
presque dire qu’elles s’aimaient. On ne pouvait estimer, de l’une et de l’autre,
qui aimait le plus.» (Quignard, 2006 : 181). La maison et Magdalena sont les
composantes de son paradis dans lequel le temps même lui donne l’illusion
d’avoir fait un arrêt. La mort de Léna le remet brutalement en marche. Selon
Giorgio Agamben, la mort brise l’opposition signifiante entre la synchronie et la
diachronie, entre le monde des morts et le monde des vivants.9
La disparition de la petite transforme la villa dans un espace de cauchemar
qu’Ann abandonne pour ne garder dans sa mémoire que le souvenir du bonheur. Chaque
fois qu’elle s’en souvient, c’est toujours la même image qui apparaît dans son esprit :
apaisante, douce, récurrente en permettant à Ann l’abandon temporaire de la
chronologie au profit d’un évanouissement temporel :
[L]e soir, elles prenaient leur bain avant le dîner.
Elles étaient si belles […] autour de la table, devant leur assiette, toutes propres, toutes
roses, leurs cheveux mouillés, les vestes de pyjama toutes propres. (Quignard, 2006 : 236)
Si Ann Hidden se réconcilie avec sa propre enfance malheureuse parce
qu’elle a l’occasion de vivre en joie une autre enfance aux côtés de Magdalena,
Quoeun de Carus garde le souvenir d’une enfance triste, humiliante et humiliée,
où la temporalité excède. Il confesse :
J’ai le souvenir de l’enfance, comme d’un long, un interminable séjour très triste,
et sans cesse offensé, et qui ne peut que se mépriser des limites, des maladresses, et des
fautes dont on ne cesse de lui crier aux oreilles l’existence. La mémoire est un lancinant
rappel, en nous, de cet état, et qui contraint à le renouveler… (Quignard, 2002 : 198)
C’est le seul moment où ce personnage mystérieux évoque son propre
passé. Il démantèle l’image générale de l’enfance qui serait normalement pleine
de joie et de liberté. Par contre, Quoeun ne se souvient que des contraintes et
des interdictions qu’on lui infligeait, de son impuissance de protester et du désir
de s’en affranchir. C’est pourquoi il caractérise l’enfance par l’épithète
interminable.
On se rappelle que chaque jour Quoeun honore la mémoire d’une
personnalité célèbre, mais il offre très peu de détails sur sa vie privée. À la
lumière de cette confession, nous pouvons affirmer que le culte des morts assure
au personnage une sorte de protection contre l’envahissement des souvenirs du
malheur de l’enfance. En plus, plonger dans le temps ancien, rigoureusement
encadré dans le calendrier sert à ne plus percevoir le lancinant rappel d’un passé
9
Agamben Giorgio, op. cit., p. 152.
220
ANDREEA DIACONESCU
individuel contraignant. Enfin, la confession surprenante de Quoeun s’inscrit
dans « une longue discussion touffue » (Quignard, 2002 : 195) sur la notion
d’enfance où tous les participants se mettent d’accord sur l’état de dépendance
et de faiblesse qui s’y rattache. Le temps qui s’y dilate démesurément accentue
l’angoisse enfantine que les personnages retrouvent de façon involontaire à
travers les cauchemars.
Malgré tous ses efforts, A. ne réussit pas à s’arracher à la domination de
l’image de l’océan de l’enfance qui le hante en tant que « [s]ouvenirs ou
fragments de cauchemars, ou de rêves » (Quignard, 2002 : 180). Ce qui
l’épouvante, c’est l’immobilité du temps par rapport au mouvement de l’eau qui
pressent l’orage.
La petite Lena de Villa Amalia apprend à aimer les orages grâce à l’intervention
apaisante d’Ann, tandis qu’A. de Carus ne parvient pas à vaincre l’angoisse
provoquée par l’immensité de la nature déchaînée. L’angoisse se transfère
imperceptiblement vers le présent du personnage dépressif, ce qui le fait voir
uniquement du vide autour et à l’intérieur de lui. Le lent processus de guérison
comprend l’adoucissement des souvenirs angoissants par le récit. Bref, A. se rend
compte que fuir les souvenirs nauséabonds accentue le vide puisqu’il ne trouve
rien qui les remplace. Alors, la solution, c’est de les exorciser en les ramenant à la
surface de la conscience pour les décrire minutieusement. A. suit son propre conseil :
– Se souvenir des morts, se souvenir de ceux qui ne sont plus – reprit A.
lentement – c’est-à-dire se souvenir de ceux qui ont été et qui tout à coup ne sont pas,
c’est inventer de toutes pièces des petites images, c’est se protéger de leur vrai souvenir,
car ce qui « souvient » d’eux après leur mort, vers nous, ce n’est pas eux vivants, mais
eux morts. (Quignard, 2002 : 157).
Par la suite, A. réussit à tempérer sa peur et à revenir entre les frontières
temporelles chronologiques. Il est même capable de disserter sur l’enfance au
banquet organisé par Karl le 1er mai. En essayant de la définir, il emploie le mot
fantasme qui renvoie discrètement à la hantise qu’elle peut exercer sur la
mémoire d’un adulte. L’enfance est « plus que fantasme » (Quignard, 2002 : 196)
qu’on peut vaincre grâce au dynamisme mnésique. C’est avec un optimisme
modéré qu’A. conçoit désormais l’enfance, en sachant que les souvenirs
désagréables ne disparaissent jamais en entier. Enfin, il faut remarquer que,
pour Quignard, l’enfance est vécue et conçue en général comme l’expérience
tragique par excellence : la peur originelle et sans âge qui fait le fond de
l’enfance de tous ses personnages est aussi poignante qu’insensée ; mieux, elle
est si bouleversante parce qu’elle est absurde, absolument irréductible à toute
rationalité. Là encore, il faut choisir son camp, dit Stéphane Chaudier.10
10
Chaudier Stéphane, « Les narrats de Quignard » dans Frontières de la nouvelle de langue
française – Europe et Amérique du Nord (1945-2005) sous la direction de Catherine Douzou et
Lise Gauvin, Dijon, Editions Universitaires de Dijon, 2006.
221
BIBLIOGRAPHIE
1. Agamben, Giorgio (2002), Enfance et histoire, traduit de l'italien par Yves Hersant,
Editions Payot et Rivages, Paris.
2. Chaudier, Stephane (2006), « Les narrats de Quignard » in Frontières de la nouvelle
de langue française – Europe et Amérique du Nord (1945-2005), sous la direction
de Catherine Douzou et Lise Gauvin, Editions Universitaires de Dijon, Dijon.
3. La Bruyère, Jean de (1993), Les Caractères, Bookking International, Paris.
4. Lapeyre-Desmaison, Chantal (2001), Pascal Quignard le solitaire – rencontre avec
Chantal Lapeyre-Desmaison, Flohic, Paris.
5. Ogawa, Midori (2007), « Le solstice d’hiver », in Roman 20-50 (Revue d'étude du
roman du XXe siècle), sous la direction de François Berquin, no. 44, Paris.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
(a) Quignard, Pascal (2002), Carus, Gallimard, coll. « Folio », Paris.
(b) Quignard, Pascal (2002), Les Escaliers de Chambord, Gallimard, coll. « Folio », Paris.
Quignard, Pascal (1998), La Leçon de musique, Hachette Littératures, Paris.
Quignard, Pascal (2009), L’Occupation américaine, Seuil, coll. « Points », Paris.
Quignard, Pascal (1995), Le Salon du Wurtemberg, Gallimard, coll. « Folio », Paris.
(a) Quignard, Pascal (2006), Les Tablettes de buis d’Apronenia Avitia, Gallimard, coll.
« L’imaginaire », Paris.
12. (b) Quignard, Pascal (2006), Villa Amalia, Gallimard, coll. « Folio », Paris.
13. Rabaté, Dominique (2008), Pascal Quignard – étude de l’oeuvre, Bordas, Paris.
14. Tadié, Jean-Yves, Marc Tadié (1999), Le sens de la mémoire, Gallimard,
coll. « Essais », Paris.
INTERNAL AND EXTERNAL TIME IN CARIBBEAN
BRITISH WOMEN’S POETRY
MONICA MANOLACHI∗
This essay deals with the poetry of Grace Nichols, Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze and Dorothea
Smartt, three British poets of Caribbean origin. Starting from several philosophical conceptions of
time, it attempts to map the temporal expressions in several poems specific to the feminine
postcolonial diasporic experience and their meanings for a multicultural society. First, the essay
takes into consideration I. Kant’s conception of time as a form of intuition, G. W. F. Hegel’s view
that history is nothing else but the manifestation of the spirit in time, M. Heidegger’s notion of
being in time and explores how these women poets coming from the domain of the Other imagine
temporality in a postcolonial context. Second, the essay discusses L. Blaga’s perspective on
temporal horizons that may determine a cultural style and M. Eliade’s distinction between the
profane time and the sacred time, to prove to what extent the universality of their perspectives can
fit other geographical cultural zones. Third, it reveals the tight connection between the theoretical
conception of time, elaborated by feminists such as J. Kristeva and C. T. Mohanty, to show the
context in which Caribbean women poets published their work in Great Britain.Through close
reading, the essay delineates the stylistic modes in which history turns into personal memory and
how personal memory turns into history through poetry and literary texts in general.
Keywords: postcolonial literature, Caribbean British women poets, diaspora, philosophy
of time, personal memory.
In an essay from 1974 entitled The Muse of History, Nobel Prize winner
Derek Walcott draws attention to a fruitless attitude towards history on behalf of
some of his contemporary Caribbean authors. In the context of the postcolonial
cultural turn, valorized rather as a critical framework than as a historicist
construct over the last decades, he writes:
In the New World, servitude to the muse of history has produced a literature of recrimination
and despair, a literature of revenge written by the descendants of slaves or a literature of remorse
written by the descendants of masters. [...] The truly tough aesthetics of the New World neither
explains nor forgives history. It refuses to recognize it as a creative or culpable force. (37)
Walcott’s observation is symptomatic for the reasons why the perception
of time in the Caribbean experienced a twist in the second half of the twentieth
century. Instead of a passive attitude towards the literature of the colonizer,
instead of a focus on simply consuming what the West had produced, the
∗
English language teaching assistant, University of Bucharest, e-mail: [email protected]
MONICA MANOLACHI
224
postcolonial writers decided to allow time for writing their own versions of
history. They often departed from merely imitating the values imposed by the
colonial rule, searched forms of expression that left behind mere revengeful
attitudes and strived to variously differentiate themselves in terms of style,
which resulted in a third space where meaning serves both the West and the
Caribbean. This focus on modality has been noticed by many critics. For the
purpose of the present study, it is worth mentioning Keya Ganguly’s synthesis
(2004) on the relationship between temporality and postcolonial critique:
“Temporality has been explored rather more fruitfully in postcolonial studies by
approaches that regard the postcolonial not as an epoch or age but as a
particular mode of historical emergence.” (162) That the tension between
history and artistic creativity is a central aspect in Derek Walcott’s work is
reflected in his poetry as well. For instance, in the volume entitled The StarApple Kingdom (1980), he imagines a dialogue between a European visitor of
the islands and a local man, in which history takes center stage:
Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
In that grey vault. The sea. The sea
Has locked them up. The sea is History. (123)
As a leader of his Caribbean generation of poets, Walcott had the
intuition to represent history in a way that avoids easy nationalist or regionalist
conceptions of time. In line with the Hegelian view that the “world history
represents the development of the spirit’s consciousness of its own freedom and
of the consequent realization of that freedom”1, Walcott, as well as some other
Caribbean poets of the subsequent generations, has built a type of highly
reflexive attitude towards history, based on a balanced perspective on the
rapport between culture and nature, be it natural environment or human nature,
rather than on aspects of objective time. This tendency of focusing on
subjectivity in relation to the temporal dimension has significantly oriented the
focus of the creative expression towards different personal views of the world,
which is one of the reasons why the Caribbean has produced a great number of
writers in the West in the second part of the twentieth century.
The Caribbean ethos and the Caribbean British experience of migration
have been the source of a specific corpus of transgressive literature, which has
had effects on how the temporal dimension has been tackled. The contact zone
between the Caribbean and the British cultures has been a site of a continuous
negotiation regarding a type of hybrid subjectivity, where the poets have
become active postcolonial agents of cultural transformation. As a “place of
memory”, to use French historian Pierre Nora’s phrase, the history of the
1
Nisbet, p. 138.
INTERNAL AND EXTERNAL TIME IN CARIBBEAN BRITISH WOMEN’S POETRY
225
Caribbean has been void of monuments and historical archives for a long period
of time. In contrast with the case of France, where the places of memory mean
celebration based on man-made material heritage to a great extent, the absence
of material memory in the West Indies has determined many Caribbean British
poets to reinvent the past, especially the long history of loss specific to the slave
trade era. In this process, language (Standard or Creole) probably plays the most
important role and is a living proof of historical transformation. At textual level,
these authors construct characters with very powerful voices, the poetic “I” is
usually omnipresent, they rewrite forgotten stories by doing research in the
archives of British and other European libraries, use rhythms that suit the
tropical lifestyle, dwell extensively on the specificity of the Creole English and
even propose new vocabulary for things that might have existed several
centuries ago. The reinvention of the past in this sense is then an intuitive act
that makes possible the recuperation of presumed psychological phenomena that
the blacks and the mulattos might have felt in the past. In an anthropological
fashion, they propose that the Kantian idea of the “raw man”, which the
Western philosophy theorized during the Enlightenment, should be reread from
new perspectives that are more suitable to the present and can open new
horizons for the future. In this way, the external reality has been processed
internally and the resulting postcolonial literature confirms that there is a
specific form of postcolonial temporality, at least in the fact that, in a sense,
temporality has become more subjective because writers have become more
aware of their own role in time. The development of internet technology over
the past decades can be viewed as being determined, at least partially, by the
fact that the former centers of power cannot locate their Other in the former
colonies anymore, because the Other has already learned the Western lessons.
Similar stances can be found in the works by the three Caribbean British
women poets selected for this article. They are Grace Nichols from Guyana,
Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze from Jamaica and Dorothea Smartt from Barbados. While
the first two migrated from the Caribbean to Britain when they were already
adults, the third is born and bred in England and belongs to the second generation
of immigrants. What follows is a close reading and a cultural contextualization
of several poems, taking into account several conceptions of time developed by
Western philosophers, (postcolonial) feminists and Romanian thinkers. It is a
transcultural exploration of how these perspectives are reflected in the poems,
which aims at distinguishing significant particularities of approaching time,
specific to the Caribbean history and geography. As it will be shown, the
specificity of postcolonial time is a debatable aspect even among the critics who
study postcolonial culture.
Grace Nichols has published seven books of poetry and several others for
children and has been celebrated by literary critics in numerous articles and thematic
studies. The poem “Holding My Beads” quoted below is taken from her first
MONICA MANOLACHI
226
volume entitled I Is a Long Memoried Woman (1983). The main poetic voice in
the whole book belongs to a feminine character that is several centuries old and
thus covers several historical periods, ranging from the beginning of life on
Earth up to the present. She addresses an implied audience that most probably
represents the Western world but not only. Her perception of time involves
time-space compression 2 and simultaneity, as expressions of postmodernity,
suggested by the comparison of the numerous lives evoked with beads on a string:
Unforgiving as the course of justice
Inerasable as my scars and fate
I am here
a woman …. with all my lives
strung out like beads
before me
It isn’t privilege or pity
that I seek
It isn’t reverence or safety
quick happiness or purity
but
the power to be what I am/a woman
charting my own futures/ a woman
holding my beads in my hand (86)
Nowadays, the poem is a typical example of asserting what feminist
theorists have formulated as “her story” in contrast with the unilateral History of
the West. Indeed, the 1980s was a decade when a few critical essays on
(postcolonial) feminism made a difference regarding other past formulations on
the relationship between history and gender. In Women’s Time (1981), Julia
Kristeva was drawing attention to the Nietzschean concepts of cursive, linear
and historical time versus the monumental, supranational and ahistorical time
and to how women experience them as repetition (cyclical rhythms, gestation etc.)
and as eternity (myths of resurrection). In Kristeva’s view, these conceptions of
time are connected with female subjectivity and maternity, but they are not
simply feminine, but closely interconnected with masculinity. The importance
of her intuition for the postcolonial world resides in the statement that: “the time
has perhaps come to emphasize the multiplicity of female expressions and
preoccupations so that from the intersection of these differences there might
2
David Harvey explored this idea in the contexts of modernity and postmodernity and their
relationship with capitalism. Caribbean poets’ response to this concept has been a form of
withdrawal, yet not a tragic one, but as search for new types of postmodern discourse that still
preserve strategically useful traits of modernity. Many poems delve into personal histories that
can restore the significance of forgotten times. While poets create forms of subjectivity that defy
time and space, they also manage to create both a sense of place in the Caribbean or in Britain as
well as to conceive a transnational form of bearable belonging. The shortcomings of immigration
take affirmative discursive articulations in Caribbean British women’s poetry.
227
arise […] the real fundamental difference between the two sexes […]
productive of surprises and of symbolic life” (863). Implicitly, Kristeva points
out a postmodern conception of gender and its relation with any other possible
category, as a condition for better understanding the complexity of our
contemporary world. Moreover, as Rosemary Marangoly George (2004) notes,
postcolonial feminist theory, emerged beginning with the 1980s, distinguishes
by a number of characteristics: “the fashioning of cautionary signposts, the
disclosure of absences, an insistence on what cannot be represented in elite texts,
an emphasis on the more than ‘purely literary,’ and the persistent embedding of
gendered difference in a larger understanding of race, nationality, class, and
caste”. It is not only a “condensed theory of decolonization” but “a
methodology especially invested in examining culture as an important site of
conflicts, collaborations, and struggles between those in power and those
subjected to power” (212). Although Marangoly George’s approach starts from
a historicist view on the postcolonial, the other dimensions she takes into
account imply a richer perspective on it involving location, language or nonliterary expression. In this context, because of their contestatory, ironic and
subversive, yet tenderly feminine tone, Grace Nichols’s first volumes are in line
with the ideas vehiculated in the essays that deal with the role of the women
writers coming from the former colonies to the West.
To take into account a Romanian theory of time, it is significant that
Nichols has a slightly different perspective on the past than what the
philosopher of culture Lucian Blaga formulated in his essay entitled Temporal
Horizons3 (1935), drawing on the fluid conception of time. The latter proposed
the metaphor time-waterfall to designate the past time that becomes less and
less inferior in relation to a heroic origin. In his view, only a ritual and the belief
in miracles can make sure that time will not stop. In contrast, Nichols has a less
pessimistic attitude. Instead of dwelling on a descending direction of time, she
invests each of her invented mythical past lives with the same monumental
value. Time is then a subjective routine that is not deteriorated by its passing
and its traumatic effects. In the poem quoted above, the beads represent a
metaphor of value in the context of the slave trade, because possessing them
involved gaining a certain social status. The poem acts as a declaration of
independence in relation to the literary critics who might expect a type of poetry
that prolongs an exotic specificity. As a metonymy of mnemonic religious
rituals, colonial trade and feminine beauty, the trope of the beads engenders a
hierophany of black feminine self-determination. The circularity of the bead
chain suggests that temporal reversibility is possible for the purpose of a higher
level of self-awareness. The condition that sustains such a view is a particular
form of will, courage and strength, which can also ensure continuity and, as the
3
L. Blaga’s notions are translated by the author of this essay.
MONICA MANOLACHI
228
poet writes, the power of “charting my own futures”. Her choice and its plural
character question the conception of temporality in its multiplicity. It is not only
the present that counts. Its value rests upon a matrix of connections with other
temporal forms, be they past or future, linear or circular, objective or subjective
or of any other type, and the awareness of this matrix.
In her fourth volume of poetry, entitled Startling the Flying Fish (2005),
Nichols addresses again the problematic of time, memory and the necessity of
remembering. After two other volumes in which she tackled two main stereotypes
regarding the black woman in general, being fat and being lazy, to a great extent
related to the immediate experience of immigration, the fourth volume presents
another several centuries old feminine character, named Cariwoma, who is
meant to celebrate the memory of the Carib and Arawak tribes, decimated by
the European conquerors in the first part of the fifteenth century. According to
this character, history is a matter of time compression that can be rewritten at
any moment: “Yes, I Cariwoma watched the history happen / like a two headed
Janus, / however far apart heads can be” (11). Because the omnipresent figure
of the dead is out of time and, therefore, it is not normally a being in the present
time, its exteriority allows her the necessary detachment and calm attitude
towards existence. The result is that we can talk about a Weltanschauung of
hope rather than about one of despair. With the mask of the atemporal bicephalous
Cariwoma, the poet addresses ancient Greek, African and Amerindian gods and
heroes and proposes a new cosmogony based on identifications that connect
various parts of the world. For instance, Zeus is evoked as though he is a
contemporary man, if one takes into consideration the Creole grammar at the
end of the following fragment:
And why shouldn’t I let myself
be possessed by the gods?
Why shouldn’t I open myself
to their amorous advances?
They who never think
that a woman is past it –
they for whom whiling
away some time with a mortal
is but a drop in eternity’s ocean
Zeus, Zeus,
whatever happen between us
is we business. (50)
Instead of wailing over a history of war and plunder, the poet proposes a
spirit who does not bear any grudges, but is able to transgress it, which eventually
creates a sense of belonging to a fruitful self. She calls it “Sea self” and it has a “Sea
memory”, which raises the possibility of adding another metaphor of time to
229
Blaga’s view on temporal horizons. According to his proposal, time-fountain
represents the future, time-waterfall the past and time-river the present and history
gains a more profound meaning according to the stress on the above possible
perspectives. In this context, time-sea or time-ocean represent perspectives that can
avoid temporal irreversibility and make possible the simultaneity of various
temporal dimensions. In other instances, Nichols connects the irreversibility and the
circularity of time to produce a hybrid conception that involves the whole universe:
The way the red sun surrenders
its wholeness to curving ocean
bit by bit. The way curving ocean
gives birth to the birth of stars
in the growing darkness,
wearing in its path
to cosmic smoothness.
The impulse of stones rolling
towards their own roundness.
The unexpected comets of flying fish. (73)
In plus, the comparison of the temporal flow with the cyclical character of
water provides a more complex view on the temporal dimension, which, up to a
point, is in line with the Nietzschean idea of the cyclicity of time, but transcends
it because it proposes a focus on the transformative nature of temporality itself.
The sun, often used as a metonymy of empire in postcolonial poetry, is here a
symbol of objective, cyclical time. Its surrender implies the imperial decline and
the subsequent historical change, which is followed by a new cosmic zone that
influences the life on earth, as the metaphor in the last line suggests. The “flying
fish” is specific to the Caribbean and stands for what Edouard Glissant called
the poetics of relation, relation between submerged memory and visible history,
earthly matters and cosmic possibilities.
Such transtemporal experiences are also depicted in the second volume by
Dorothea Smartt, entitled Ship Shape (2008). It tells the story of Samboo, a
black young man brought by sailors from Africa to Lancaster in the seventeenth
century. In reality, he died within days after his arrival and was buried in a local
cemetery. The poet reimagines his inner life, his feelings and hopes, his fears
and distress, while he travels from the African coast to Barbados and then to
England. In gender and postcolonial terms, it is significant that, in contrast with
the other two women poets selected here, Smartt writes in her second volume
much less about “her story” in contrast with History, but more about “his story”,
an attitude which differs from the general trend of postcolonial feminist
literature, centered on specific experiences of women. “Mama’s Bangles” is a
poem in which the personal memory of cultural trauma and its powerful effect
on the present count significantly more than the whole history of slavery:
MONICA MANOLACHI
230
Sounds like a bell –
Mama bangles pounding yam,
Timbuktu tinkling
in my Uncle, the young Imam, gift to she.
Bangles like nobody’s in the village,
bangles that ring out
where she is to clay-faced men
before they took me. Perhaps
she still living, still
at home looking fuh me?
Hol’ing out she palms to rub m’head,
An mek she bangles chime?
Perhaps she in Allah paradise
or she wid d’ole gone-before-people?
Lef’ t’one side fuh d’magic markings of Allah,
Were d’ole Gods angry, like our fathers said?
Did they send the clay-faces? Did they
Send me ’way from Mama to punish she,
me, we? I miss my mama,
but want she here with me to wuk de canes?
To tek d’lash?
To run wid she han’s all between she legs
From d’whiteman, to chime in wid d’night screams...?
NO! NO! That would be all wrong!
They woulda treat she like a beast.
No. I glad she not here wid me. Glad,
I cry at the sounds like a bell. (51)
Even though the memory of the mother sold into slavery is at the root of
the story, the poet traces several subsequent moments which mark an untold
chain history of submerged resistance: from the Bantu civilization in the
Western Africa (the history of Timbuktu) and the Oriental world (“Allah
paradise”), existing at the time of the European Renaissance; to the slavery era
in the Caribbean when (women) slaves experienced abuse; to the days when
black men like Samboo were brought to Europe; and eventually to the modern
days suggested by the frame of the first and the last lines, which include no sign
of Creole English. Although it reminds of a horrific past, it allows the main
character to eventually choose his present. It is a type of present perfect which
is not linguistically but culturally formulated. It can be called cultural present
perfect, because it displays the past as a tapestry of experiences, it evokes the
present and it is a fundament for a possibly better future. However, the author
shows that no matter how great Samboo’s will of survival might have been in
reality, his experience of migration to a land where people spoke another
language, the very different climate and his race, which was not really welcome,
could and still can have tragic consequences. The nostalgia of innocence that
Samboo represents is not an easily inhabitable chronotope in the context of the
slave trade. To creatively reconsider the meaning of an unexpectedly interrupted
life becomes then a mode of re-living an archetypal existence. To use the
231
distinction made by Mircea Eliade (1959), anxiety, sufferance and death in a
profane time gain new meanings in a sacred time. At this point, one could ask
what makes time sacred. Is it the simultaneity of tenses? Is it the capacity of
human mind to strike the balance between objective and subjective time? Is it
the capacity to process external time, that is History, to turn it into internal time,
into a visionary temporality, so that the future should be better graspable? In
any case, the search for an “other” time, as Ganguly (2004) terms it when trying
to clarify if there is a specific postcolonial time or not, the quest for another
dimension of it, be it cultural or technological or of any other type, seems to have
been a constant issue ever since man split time in categories. Smartt’s Samboo is
not simply an evocation of the real man who is buried in a cemetery in Sunderland,
England. Renamed Bilal, he represents both the past and the future, because his
fragile destiny stands for the cultural fragility that connects the West and the Orient
in the context of the contemporary multicultural Great Britain, Europe and world in
general, which needs permanent fine tune, support and clarification.
Another example that reflects the distinction between time-river and the
possibly wider time-sea is Jean Binta Breeze’s poem entitled “Mermaids”, a
short ballad in free verse from her volume Spring Cleaning (1992), in which a
feminine character meets “her rivers wide” and eventually “the river”, the latter
being a possible personification of time. The river is depicted as a dangerous
masculine creature who steals women’s lives:
now
on the edge
a woman cries
her rivers wide
cups a hand
and drinks
her sisters hairs
are in her throat
her sisters dreams
wake in her veins
in swift recoil
she curls the ground
around her
the river whispering
wash your hair
rushes over banks
caressing
o lover
do not ask one more
let her voice be wind
as it was before
do not bring down
her waters (29-30)
MONICA MANOLACHI
232
The fragment reveals that the relationship with the souls of the dead sisters
mirrored in the waters is meant to increase self-awareness and to equate the
Heideggerean philosophical notion of being in time with making right choices, a
recurrent theme present in the Jamaican writer’s work. The antagonism between the
river and the mermaids as creatures of the sea suggests that a linear perspective on
the world may be too constraining and could generate uneasiness, which may act
like an unsurpassable fate. Eventually, the personage is “slipping from / her lover’s
arms” and “chooses her own fruit”. In The Fifth Figure (2005), a work part
memoire, part poetry, part prose, the writer explores to a wider extent the sociocultural conditions that led to a break with the hubristic past of her family tree and
to a more positive vision upon what possibilities life can offer and how to enjoy
them to the full as an artist. To the histories of the past that constitute external
temporality, the author opposes her own perception of time, rooted in the present,
but not before dismembering the untold stories of her family tree.
The second poem by Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze selected here is entitled “I Poet”,
a typical example of “her story” in contrast with the History. In contrast with
the previous poem, the author chooses to use Creole English as a sign of
belonging to the Caribbean and as a mode of distinguishing her style form what
is usually considered the English or even the British canon. Differently than in
Nichols’s and Smartt’s poems, “I Poet” does not make any reference to a
mythical time or to a bright future. Instead, its simple style and the subtle use of
Creole spelling convey the effects of the present time on the poet’s personality:
ah was readin
readin all de time
fram book
fram play
fram t.v.
fram life
in odder words
fram yuh all
befo ah was writin
ah was readin
yuh all
neva did know who yuh all was but
ah was full a love
ah give it here
ah give it dere
neva see no harm
in a likkle share of
de warmes ting ah have
sista, bredda,
older, younger
neva matta
jus love
like evrybody was preachin
233
ah was readin
ah was lovin
befo ah was writin
ah read all yuh poems
ah read all yuh plays
ah read all tea leaf, palm,
anyting wid a good story
even if it didn’t always have
a happy endin
an evryting ah read, ah sey,
but how come I know dis story aready? or
I do dat yesterday
I see dat last night
I live troo dat
so I stap readin fi a while
stap lovin fi a while
jus befo I start writin
I stap evryting
jus fi a moment
an I sey, maybe, (I humble)
I sey, maybe
it was you readin me all de time
so doah I was well hurt inside
wen yuh all did sey
I wasn’t no poet
I never mind
cause I sey
I was poet all de time
so I start write
an I tankful
to madda an fadda
dat ah did read an love firs
fah I know
when I writin
I poem
is you all you (88)
As it is the case with other authors, the use of Creole English often allows
language games within what Bill Ashcroft (2009) has called the “metonymic
gap” 4 . For instance, if in the first part of the poem the pronoun in the first
person singular is spelled as “ah”, it becomes Standard English in the second
part, which subtly expresses the importance of the burden of language
difference. The final “I”, which replaces the indefinite article “a” at the end of
the poem, reveals the initial statute of the Caribbean poetry within the literary
4
Drawing on Barbadian poet Kamau Brathwaite’s poetry, Ashcroft introduces a new concept
into discussion11: “the language is metonymic of the culture, that is, linguistic variation stands for
cultural difference. This sets up what can be called ‘the metonymic gap’ – the cultural gap formed when
writers (in particular) transform English according to the needs of their source culture” (174).
234
MONICA MANOLACHI
canon and the tribulations of being recognized as a poet before the multicultural
turn of the 1980s. The monologue above stages a moment of high awareness
regarding the author’s position as a writer among other writers, which is
instrumented by tense and aspect play. The lines “ah was readin / readin all de
time” have an ambivalent meaning that mix an active and a passive attitude to
reading: “readin” can be taken as both a part of the past continuous form of the
verb and the passive form of the phrasal verb to read in. When the moment of
revelation comes and the poet writes “I stap evryting / jus fi a moment / an I sey,
maybe, (I humble) / I sey, maybe / it was you readin me all de time”, the
ambivalence of readin raises again the question of who is reading whom. The
contrast between “just fi a moment” and “all de time” shows how the subjective
time acts upon the objective time, whose representational value is often taken
for granted. The moment of self-reflection enables the comparison between
being “no poet” and being “poet all de time”, as well as a type of serenity,
wisdom and power to overcome misunderstandings. The theme of being and
time leads us once more to the Heideggerean discussion on subjectivity.
The main point Caribbean British women poets make when they tackle
the issue of time is to claim recognition, which is related to issues such as
dignity, consistency, originality, wisdom or a strong sense of hope. This process
involves thorough revisions of history, literary history, cultural history, history
of knowledge and contemporary conceptions of otherness. Their views often
differ from those of the Western feminists who initially, in the aftermath of the
1960s cultural change, were not able to place themselves in the shoes of the
black women or mulattas of what was called then the Third World. Immediately
after the 1980s, when multiculturalism became an issue in the academic world
and when Caribbean poetry gained momentum, Chandra Talpade Mohanty (1991)
mapped the feminisms of the third world women (black, mullatas, white), “with
divergent histories and social locations”, as an imagined community, drawing
on Benedict Anderson’s formula, and as “the way we think about race, class,
and gender – the political links we choose to make among and between
struggles” (4). One of the four ideas that is characteristic to the collection of
essays edited by Mohanty is “the significance of memory and writing in the
creation of oppositional agency” (10), which the poets discussed above were
very aware of at the time when they wrote their volumes. The focus on memory,
as a subjective expression of temporality, and on plurality and difference form
then one of the most powerful strategies of striking the balance between internal
and external temporal experience, between (trans)personal and (trans)cultural
identity. In the context of the postcolonial identity, it has challenged the
linearity of time and resulted in a performative perspective on it, based not only
on its cyclical but also on its derivative character.
235
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Ashcroft, Bill (2009), Caliban’s Voice. The Transformation of English in Post-Colonial Literatures,
Routledge, London and New York.
Blaga, Lucian (1994/1935), “Temporal Horizons”, in Horizon and Style, Humanitas, Bucharest.
Breeze, Jean ‘Binta’ (1992), Spring Cleaning, Virago Press, London.
*** (2005), The Fifth Figure, Bloodaxe Books, London and Northumberland.
Eliade, Mircea (1959), The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion, Willard R. Trask (trans.),
Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, New York.
Ganguly, Keya (2004), “Temporality and Postcolonial Critique”, in Neil Lazarus (ed.), The
Cambridge Companion to Postcolonial Literary Studies, Cambridge University Press,
Cambridge, pp. 162-179.
Harvey, David (1990), The Condition of Postmodernity: an Enquiry Into the Origins of Cultural
Change, Oxford University Press, Oxford.
Hegel, G. W. F. (1974), Lectures on the Philosophy of World History: Introduction, H. B. Nisbet (trans.),
Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.
Heidegger, Martin (2005/1962), Being and Time, Blackwell Publishing, Oxford.
Kristeva, Julia (1997/1981), “Women’s Time”, in Warhol, Robyn R. and Diane Price Herndl (eds.),
Feminisms – An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticism, Macmillan Press,
Houndmills, pp. 860-879.
Lawson Welsh, S. (2007), Grace Nichols, Northcote, Tavistok.
Marangoly George, Rosemary (2004), “Feminists Theorize Colonial/Postcolonial”, in Neil
Lazarus (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Postcolonial Literary Studies, Cambridge
University Press, Cambridge, pp. 211-231.
Mohanty, Chandra Talpade et al. (eds.) (1991), Third World Women and the Politics of Feminism,
Bloomington, Indiana University Press.
Nichols, Grace (1990/1983), I Is a Long Memoried Woman, Karnak House, London.
*** (2005), Startling the Flying Fish, Virago, London.
Smartt, Dorothea (2008), Ship Shape, Peepal Tree Press, Leeds.
Walcott, D. (1998/1974), “The Muse of History”, in What the Twilight Says. Essays, Faber and
Faber, London, pp. 36-64.
*** (2007), Selected Poems, Edward Baugh (ed.), Faber and Faber, London.
SPATIAL AND TEMPORAL STRUCTURE IN A CONTEMPORARY
HUNGARIAN NOVEL FROM ROMANIA
SUSANA MONICA TAPODI*
László Bogdán's 1400-page trilogy entitled Kintrekedtek [The Exluded] (Tatjana [Tatiana],
2008, A vörös körben [In the Red Circle] 2010, Két boldog fénygombolyag [Two Happy People] 2011)
is of a hybrid genre. Its magical realism is typical of Hungarian minority literatures, and its complicated
action refers to minority existence. However, at the same time it represents a transition between a travel,
adventure, picaresque, a sci-fi, fantasy and detective novel, with parts resembling pornography and
many transtextual games. We can find references to the present, to the era of Romania’s dictatorship
and transition period, suggestions to a small city from Transylvania (Saint George), to Bucharest, but
Tatiana’s memories are linked to Budapest and Moscow, and in gradually widening circles, we reach
together with the heroes Vienna, Venice, Ravenna, via the Adriatic islands we arrive in the U.S.A. The
heroes participat in a global anti-poverty programme of an “Italian millionaire philanthropist” named
Eduardo de Sica (reminiscent of George Soros). With the help of memories, dreams and parapsychological
experiments of the immortal hosts, the two week action, which takes place in the autumn of 2004,
expands in time and space to the age of Caesar and Ovid, the Middle Ages, old (Alatir, Nekrromikon)
and new myths (yeti, Star Wars) are referred to. Objective and subjective time, fantasy, fiction, and
specific Eastern European political and social problems (Chechen hostage-story, veterans of
Afghanistan, terrorism, the oppressive machinery of the dictatorship, the interception methods of the
Securitate, corruption, mafia, drug trafficking, poverty) are mixed in this exciting series of novels,
which has an international cast and dissects the multifold issues of identity.
Keywords: minority literature, objective and subjective time, space, transtextual games,
Eastern European political and social problems.
Long novels written today are perhaps a contradiction: the dimension of time has been
shattered, we cannot love or think except in fragments of time each of which goes off along its
own trajectory and immediately disappears. We can rediscover the continuity of time only in
the novels of that period when time no longer seemed stopped and did not yet seem to have
exploded, a period that lasted no more than a hundred years. (states Italo Calvino in 19791)
The spatial and temporal structure of László Bogdán’s 1400-page trilogy
A kintrekedtek/The Excluded (Tatjána avagy kifelé a férfikor nyarából/ Tatiana
or Leaving the Summer of the Era of Men, 2008, A vörös körben/ In the Red
Circle, 2010, A két boldog fénygombolyag/ Two Happy People, 2011) follows
* Sapientia University, Department of Humanities (email: [email protected]). The
study was created within the framework of the one-year group research programme entitled The
Narratology of Space, supported by the Institute of Reasearch Programmes of Sapientia University.
1
Calvino, Italo, Ha téli éjszakán egy utazó [If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler], Európa, Bp.
2011, 12.
238
SUSANA MONICA TAPODI
the course of fragments heading in different directions. The hybridity of the genre
strengthens the experience of being shattered. Its magical realism and complex
plot point at a certain minority existence which is typical of the Hungarian
minority literatures. At the same time it represents a transition between travel,
adventure, picaresque, sci-fi, fantasy and detective novels, with parts that touch
upon pornography, containing various transtextual games. The chronotopes
partly refer to the present, the Romania of the dictatorship and of the transition
years, to a small town in Transylvania (Saint George), to the capital Bucharest,
but Tatiana’s memories are also connected to Budapest and Moscow.
Space widens in gradually expanding circles, after Vienna, Venice and
Ravenna via the Adriatic islands the heroes arrive in the U.S.A. The heroes take
part in a global anti-poverty programme of Eduardo de Sica, an “Italian
millionaire philanthropist” who reminds us of George Soros; in the last volume
they are going to escape from him. With the help of memories, dreams and
parapsychological experiments of the immortal hosts, time and space of the two
week action, which takes place in the autumn of 2004, become expanded: the
age of Caesar and Ovid, the Middle Ages are mentioned, the old (Alatir,
Nekrromikon) and new myths (yeti, Star Wars) move the action towards the
realm of the fantastic. Not only the mythical and historical past receive their
place within the narration but also, due to the “immortals”, distance measured in
light-years and mythical future as well. Objective and subjective time, fantasy,
fiction, and specific Eastern European political and social problems (Chechen
hostage-story, veterans of Afghanistan, terrorism, the oppressive machinery of
the dictatorship, the interception methods of the Securitate, corruption, mafia,
drug trafficking, poverty) are mixed in this exciting series of novels, which has
an international cast and dissects the multifold issues of identity.
The main narrator, who bares certain traits of the author’s biography2, is
the lawyer János Asztalos; he is the one to tell the story in volumes I and III,
partly in first-person narrative, partly in the third person. He also lets Tatiana,
his new love, talk about her childhood in Moscow and university years in
Budapest. The main narrator of volume II is Attila Szabó, a Hungarian actor
from Transylvania, who, being a drug smuggler, together with his love, Anna,
seeks refuge from the mafia’s fury on Eduardo’s yacht. They are being
accompanied by Anna’s half-sister, the Romanian actress Laura ChelaruKellner and her Arabian art collector love Ahmed, who are also being chased by
the international mafia. Thus, the narration of the recent past events and the
unraveling of the present mysterious plot restarts.
The dreams and memories keep interrupting the story, thus it is not only
the plot that loses its linearity, but also personality becomes disrupted: identity
2
School years in Bucharest, talent in writing poetry, his love, Viola leaves Romania and
dies later on in a motorbike accident in Italy etc. see “Az én útvesztői” [“The Labyrinth of the
Self”] Lövétei Lázár László’s interview with László Bogdán in Székelyföld. 2011/9.
SPATIAL AND TEMPORAL STRUCTURE IN A CONTEMPORARY HUNGARIAN NOVEL FROM ROMANIA
239
will be a pile of divergent stories, conscious and unconscious desires, it is made
up of texts, just like in the case of Umberto Eco’s hero who tries to recreate his
own self by means of the texts read in his childhood. 3
The problem of identity turns into the key question of the trilogy: it is not
only the intellectuals, who having become guinea pigs, now have to face their
own and others’ past traumas hidden in the subconscious; they have to define
their individual goals and find the way out of the collective nightmares that
have been forced upon them, they have to discover who the „immortals”
playing with them are. The mysterious hosts do not know either who they
themselves really are. Only towards the end of volume III, A két boldog
fénygombolyag/Two Happy People, when Tatiana succeeds in organizing their
escape, do we discover that before having taken up their immortal earthly
bodies, Eduardo and the others had been the representatives of a civilization
from another planet who had lost in a cosmic battle. The „immortals” have only
been in possession of a memory since they overtook the body of a human being
killed with force. They themselves have to fight to find their own identities, just
like the people with whom, out of boredom or some hidden purpose, they
conduct their psychological experiments.
We are different, it is no fraud, no delusion, we are human, but not human at the
same time. By all means our genes do not resemble that of human beings, probably the
strangers who invaded us two thousand years ago, completed upon the genes of the
original specimen the mutations that made us immune and immortal. (…) If I had only for
a while succeeded to get somehow separated from the parasite, the way I called it, that
was leading and dominating me, I would have probably gone mad, my personality would
have been shattered since during those two thousand years not only had the former Roman
warrior’s memories faded, but also his personality had disappeared. – Eduardo complained
(Two Happy People 389).
Part of the chronotopes refers to the city of Saint George before the
change of regime and at the beginning of the 21st century: the Sugás garden, the
Kripta restaurant etc. The main character of and the first person narrator in
volume I, the lawyer János Asztalos studied in Bucharest but starts off from a
provincial town, hitchhiking in front of the Romanian liberating soldier’s statue
passing through Brasov, Szeged and Vienna on his way to Venice. There he
meets his love, Tatiana and joins Eduardo de Sica’s group, in order to go on a
voyage around the islands of the Mediterranean, this is also a journey into his
own and his Russian love’s inner, mental sea.
The main narrator of volume II, Attila Szabó, the actor who leaves his job
behind, also goes on his smuggler trips to Bucharest starting from within the
same small town. He often recalls his teacher who was driven to committing
3
Umberto Eco, Loana királynő titokzatos tüze [The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana],
Európa Könyvkiadó, Bp. 2007
240
suicide and whose character evokes the tragic-fated Árpád Visky from Saint
George driven into death by the Securitate. In volume II János tells us one of his
1984 memories when he was interrogated by a Securitate officer. (In Saint
George that year under the pretext of an exploding statue the secret police
badgered many Hungarian intellectuals with questions.) These places function
as narrative tropes, they are text parts which fulfill a narrative function that lets
us draw the picture, the map of the place itself.
In the first two novels the ironically depicted excerpts are being repeated,
on his journey to Bucharest the hero encounters the aggressive, nationalistic
disposition of his Romanian fellow passengers. E.g.:
We do not want autonomy based upon ethnical principles! a lady said. – We do not
want Hungarian conclaves… You mean perhaps enclaves – corrected her the strict soldier.
(Tatiana 14)
The Hungarians want to take Transylvania back. They have never given it up and
will never give it up.
Really now, my dear lady – and I get back lest the wildly gesticulating lady,
building up should accidentally prick my eye and then there will be one more single-eyed
Hungarian. – Transylvania is not like a nut at all that we can put in our pocket out of
lordly moodiness and leave with it. And where could we take it, tell me, where? (In the
Red Circle 44)
Next to the irony there is also self-irony, the single-eyed Hungarian could
refer to the writer András Sütő who in 1990’s black March was left without one
of his eyes by the enraged Romanian crowd.
The novel also offers us a realistic picture of the relations in Bucharest
and the whole of Romania before and after the regime change. Laura and Anna
take refuge from the mafia’s attack in the Intecontinental hotel. On his smuggler
trips Attila also stops at the hotel to hand over the suitcase he has been carrying.
In the 80’s the Securitate officer interrogates the intellectuals he watches in the
restaurant Capşa. The same colonel Badea appears now on Eduardo’s yacht as a
CIA agent and, paradoxically, it is his estate on the island of Lake Erie that the
protagonists flee to from the immortals at the end of part three.
The plot’s present events always point at further things as well. The CIA
and KGB agents’ questioning on the yacht – Tatiana knows the latter, Ferenc
Kondor from Budapest before the change of regime – sheds light on the fact that
Eduardo and his mates aim at world power. They conduct the psychological
experiments on their guests because they are analyzing how they could erase
humankind’s desire for power and possession in order to establish some sort of
a utopian society.
The intricate story’s principles at micro level can be extended and
extrapolated onto the macro level too. (In the past the heroines were either
SPATIAL AND TEMPORAL STRUCTURE IN A CONTEMPORARY HUNGARIAN NOVEL FROM ROMANIA
241
nearly or really raped, the first loves of the male heroes fled the communist
Romania or both died in an accident.) The open or hidden violence and the
resulting desire to escape, to flee are among the main motifs of the text.
Volume III renders us a detailed description of the methods of tapping
used during dictatorship in Romania, the fear the Securitate implemented on
individuals or the terror in schools. Not only do we get a picture of the
Ceauşescu and post communist Romania but also of the whole Central Eastern
Europe stumbling among the difficulties of transition (the sad situation of the
Afghan veterans, the issue of homelessness, beggars, drug smuggling, mafia,
corruption, poverty etc.).
The plot’s present is spelled out in the middle of the trilogy, more
precisely in volume II: the frame story takes place during 3 weeks in early
autumn of the year 2004 when the protagonists follow the broadcasting of the
Chechen hostage crisis. After a thousand pages and the shifting of different
spatial and temporal levels, in reality/”real time” there have only passed two weeks.
The specific means to extend the coordinates of time and space is
transtextuality: real time and space are permeated by the time and space of
fiction. Just like Umberto Eco when writing The Name of the Rose, László
Bogdán included many educational elements in the adventurous plot.
Interpretations of Shakespeare and translation critique, paraphrasing Petronius,
Kafka, Poe, Joyce, Dosztojevszkij, Bulgakov, Pessoa, Caragiale, Borges,
Cortázar, Vargas Llosa, García Márquez, Stanislav Lem, Umberto Eco, parodies,
quoted and interpreted Vogul bear songs, Homeric Hymns, quotes from Faríd
ad- Dín Attar, Baudelaire, Catullus, Ovidius, Petrarca, Puskin, Rilke, Dsida,
Mandelstam, Salamov, Ahmatova, the analysis of the Orphic tradition and of
the Dionysus cult, the interpretation of Monteverdi’s music, the Ravenna
mosaics, Canaletto or Francesco Guardi’s paintings, Lao Ce, Tao Te King or
Wittgenstein’s thoughts are all incorporated within the body text.
The quotes taken from Vaszilij Bogdanov and Ricardo Reis’ works,
reminding us of Eco’s postmodern games, create a labyrinth text. Vaszilij
Bogdanov, whose „poem translations” are being published by László Bogdán, is
a lyrical counterpart if we decode the name. In the volume Ricardo Reis on
Tahiti (2007) he continued to write the adventures of Pessoa’s heteronyms and
poems. The main characters of the trilogy The Excluded all dream about visiting
the Reis on Tahiti.
There is a certain stereotypy at work when choosing the heroes’
nationality: next to the Romanian nationalists and Hungarian resistance we
encounter gipsy burglars, Arabian art collectors doing suspicious business and
Armenian mafia. At the same time the Hungarians fit well into the picture: the
drug smuggler group is international but the unknown consigners write to the
actor-dealer in Hungarian. János, the lawyer wants to divorce his wife because it
turns out that while he was defending the political prisoners, his wife had
242
become an informer for the Securitate. Moreover, it was the idea of the
Securitate colonel tailing him that in 1988 the wife – also a spy – of his friend
who was being accused of high treason, asked him to defend the prisoners. At
the end of volume III the plot is interrupted by an exciting turn, it is precisely
the colonel’s house that represents a refuge to the protagonists.
Orthodoxy, one of the main elements of foreignness, which is the most
prevailing sign of cultural otherness in the works of contemporary
Transylvanian writers, does not play an important role here: the activity of the
“immortals” is endowed with the mystical aura of Eastern religions, Shamanism
and Buddhism included, using for example well-known sacred places (the
monastery in Suzdal) and characters taken from Russian literature like Father
Mitrofan, who had more than once been in the Siberian lagers and whom
Tatiana remembers of many times.
What we have here is a true piece of minority literature, in which the
discontinuity between place, language and the self is being rendered both
thematically and, due to the break in linearity, also formally – we encounter
dreams, nightmares and memories which disrupt the flow of the text. Thus, the
trilogy brings out the characteristics of a postcolonial existential situation. The
incorporated themes of the popular genres (sex, yeti, primordial beings
protruding through worm tubes, the rush) hide the trilogy’s ideological guiding
principle, which is the battle to maintain the integrity of one’s personality, of
one’s identity, the battle for freedom. This fact is very much consistent with the
traditional value system of Hungarian literature in Transylvania.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Bogdán, László (2008), Tatjána, avagy kifelé a férfikor nyarából [Tatiana or Leaving the Summer
of the Era of Men], Mentor, Marosvásárhely.
Bogdán, László (2010), A vörös körben [In the Red Circle], Mentor, Marosvásárhely.
Bogdán, László (2011), A két boldog fénygombolyag [Two Happy People], Mentor, Marosvásárhely.
Calvino, Italo (2011), Ha téli éjszakán egy utazó [If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler], Európa, Budapest.
Eco, Umberto (2007), Loana királynő titokzatos tüze [The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana],
Európa Könyvkiadó, Bp.
Lövétei Lázár, László (2011), “The Labyrinth of the Self”, interview with László Bogdán in
Székelyföld, 2011/9.
THE PLAIN IN THE SLOVAK LANGUAGE
LITERATURE IN ROMANIA
DAGMAR MARIA ANOCA∗
The author presents the image of the plain (as a Pannonic archetype in the vision of
Professor Michal Harpáň from the University of Novi Sad, Serbia) in the literary works (poetry,
prose) of the Slovak writers living in Romania (Ivan MiroslavAmbruš, Pavol Bujtár, Štefan
Dováľ, Pavel Husárik, Adam Suchanský, Peter Suchanský, Ondrej Štefanko).
Keywords: Slovak minority living in Romania, Slovak writers living in Romania, Michal
Harpáň, the image of the plain, the anthropologic significance.
The reflection regarding the Slovak language literary phenomenon has
begun at the moment when the anthology Variácie was published at the
Kriterion Publishing House in 1978 thanks to the efforts of Professor Corneliu
Barborică from the Bucharest University.
The Slovak language literature in Romania is a complex phenomenon and
may be studied from several points of view. 1 Culturologically and
ethnologically it may be considered as a cultural sub-system of the Slovak
culture in general. From the point of view of literary theory and comparatistics,
applying different criteria (geographic-political or state-related, national,
linguistic criterion, or the criterion concerning the aesthetics of literature, the
conscience of the creating ego 2 we may speak of an autochthonous context
which coexists in other literary contexts, respectively it is integrated in other,
more ample contexts. From the point of view of literary history, obviously, in
the run of the time, it presents more stages, sub-stages of development, which
we derive, according to the traditional methodology, from folkloric roots, but
∗
University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, e-mail: [email protected]
Obviously no matter what methodology might be applied, it, too, represents a deformation,
the adopting of a pressure and force from outside the researched object in a way a violation – which
could lead to a limitation in approach, the way some researchers question the justness,
justification and the possibility of application of any methodology in the literary sciences. But for
us these problems seam counterproductive, because our aim is to describe the topic, no matter
how relative, approximate or traditional it may be. Šveda (2008: 7-8).
2
The system of contexts was elaborated by the slovacist from Serbia, Michal Harpáň based
on the comparatistic theory of the Slovak comparatist researcher Dionýz Ďurišin from Slovakia.
1
244
DAGMAR MARIA ANOCA
also from the tradition of the cultivated creation – of literature in its larger
meaning. Using the historical and also thematic criterion, we consider that this
phenomenon has its beginning in 1853, the year when the first written book was
published in a place that is now in Romania, dealing with relations between
environments inhabited by the Slovaks. At that time the Slovaks constituted
communities formed by people displaced within the Hapsburg, respectively
Austrian-Hungarian Empire. To offer necessary work force in these areas, but
also to offer them living resources. Ever since 1918, passing through different
events, the Slovaks (the Slovak Diaspora living in Romania) represent one of
the national minorities in Romania.
The period that may be really considered as being the period of the Slovak
language literature in Romania is the one coming after 1918, when they created the
Romanian unitary national state, the kingdom of Greater Romania, including the
Slovak communities of the Western parts of the country (Satu Mare, Bihor, Sălaj,
Arad, Banat, Caraş-Severin counties). But the mid-war period is characterized by
discontinuity and modest conditions as for number and value, the phenomenon
gaining vigor only in the 8th decade, when the „Ivan Krasko” Literary Cercle was born
in Nădlac town, Arad county, which was to become the cradle of several vigorous
talents. Prose writers such as Pavol Bujtár, Štefan Dováľ, poets such as Ondrej
Štefanko, Ivan Miroslav Ambruš, later on Adam Suchanský and others constituted
and consolidated the autochthonous literary context and soon awaringly passed to
its integration into the Romanian national (state) context and also into the Slovak
one. Simultaneously the resuscitation of the Pannonic diaspora context begins
thanks to the affirmation of Slovak language writers in Hungary and the setting up
of cultural-literary links with the Slovak writers of the former Yugoslavia. After
1990 this approach amplifies, being sustained by changes in literary and cultural
thinking of that time, the Slovak spirituality becoming increasingly more open to
recognize all literary facts due to co-nationals or written in Slovak as organic part of
a single body of the Slovak national culture which includes, besides the literary
production of the mother country, all the cultural values created by the Slovak diaspora.
„Officially“, the Slovak language literary phenomenon in Romania was
recognized at the Conference of the Romanian Writers in 1981 (Tezele...; Raportul...).
Most Slovak language writers live in Nădlac, which led Florin Bănescu, a
writer from Arad, to speak of a „Nadlac phenomenon”, mentioning them several
times as „the Musketeers of the Western Plain” Bănescu (d). 3 Indeed, the
Western Plain of Romania is a permanent topic of their prose or poetry, as well
as in the works of the artist Maria Štefanko (1951), especially in her graphical
cycles „Eye of the Plain” and „Houses”.
3
Florin Bănescu made huge efforts to promote this phenomenon in the literary and nonliteraly press published in Western Romania in different languages: Orizont, Flacăra roşie, Vörös
Lobogó, Neue Banater Zeitung. Bănescu (a),b), c).
THE PLAIN IN THE SLOVAK LANGUAGE LITERATURE IN ROMANIA
245
As for the topic, i.e. the motif of the Plain in the context of the Slovak
diaspora of the Pannonic space,4 Professor Michal Harpáň from the Novi Sad
(Serbia) University elaborated a deep-digging essay, Básnické paradigmy
panónskeho archetypu (The Poetic Paradigm of the Pannonic Archetype;
Harpáň 2004: 62-93),5 by finding similarities between the poetry of the three
autochthonous contexts of Slovaks from the above mentioned space (i.e. the
Slovaks from Romania, Serbia and Hungary). Because the same elements,
archetypes and their attributes occur in the prose creations, as well, in this paper,
we shall extend the application of the premises of Prof. Harpaň to this field, too.
Obviously the focus of our research lies in the works of those writers who
constituted the autochthonous context for the first time and who are relevant of
it, as I have mentioned before: Pavol Bujtár, Štefan Dováľ, the poets Ondrej
Štefanko, Ivan Miroslav Ambruš, later on Adam Suchanský, Pavel Husárik.
According to the preface of Prof. Michal Harpáň:
The Pannonian peasant archetype may be followed in the framework of the poetry
from the Pannonian space through a rich row of topics and motives, but the fundament of
this paradigm is the soil, the Plain (NB: the word „earth“ – zem- in Slovak is of feminine
gender, DMA) and the man – the Peasant. They, in fact, constitute correlated archisems,
each of them generating its own system of coordination, as well as a reciprocal
connection. Both poles offer an unlimited number of concretizations corresponding to
each segment of individual experience that depends, in fact, on each creator‘s intentions.
Harpáň (2004 : 63-64).
He continues by showing that the two poles are in reality an ensemble of
components. Otherwise, the plain implies other manifestations, too, elements of
nature such as water, wind, fog, fire. Thus, the concrete space gets sometimes
mythical dimensions. Harpáň (2004: 64). On the other hand, the pole of the
plain represents the static, and the man-peasant pole stands for the dynamical.
This pole develops in two classes of functions, considering the division of
actions, operations, processes according to the male, respectively female, manwoman, father-mother, the plain/exterior space – courtyard/interior space
principles. The next two classes may be identified according to the sacred or
profane character of different actions/activities. Many times the profane facts
transform themselves into sacred at some authors, following their noetics. At
the same time, an archaizing tint is involved.
4
We prefer this term to the Low Lands, meaning Slovak communities from Serbia,
Romania’s Western Plain. For Hungary’s Eastern part / the Plain of the Tisza there is a space for
which the existing Slovak culture uses the term „Dolna zem”. i.e. the low land, low territory,
rooted in Romanian in the form of „Ţinuturile de Jos” – this equivalent being usual in documents
related to the Hapsburg, respectively Austro-Hungarian Monarchy period up to its end. In the
Slovak cultural space (as well as in the Hungarian one, too, the term Alföld) it continues to be
used without any negative connotation.
5
The work was first published as an appendix to the Slovak cultural magazine of the
Pannonic space, Dolnozemský Slovák.
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DAGMAR MARIA ANOCA
The topic, the motif of the plain manifests concretely, according to the
literary historian Harpáň under three classes of paradigms: the paradigm of
space, the anthropological paradigm and the ritualic paradigm. As for the space
paradigm, Harpáň finds that its first, initial step is the „taking into possession of
the space” – considering the migration of Slovaks from another area to their
present-day habitat. The second step is the motif of the house, of the building up
of the house, and especially their becoming aware of the search for a new home,
its setting up, their taking it into possession. The feeling of historicity is present
in the poem Naše dejiny (Our History) of Ondrej Štefanko from the volume
Stojím pred domom (I Stay in front of the House, 1980), cycle Rozjímanie v
domovine (Meditations at Birthplace), where we may see that „Our history is
like pincers/ of imagination...”, and the persistence of the migrants in the new
places is expressed by the attributes of the plain: „we persist like the dust of the
road.“ Harpáň (2004: 67)
Then, the exterior and interior attributes of the home are evoked as signs
of the plain. We agree with Harpáň when he states that the verses which explain
the essence of the relationship to the plain, house, home are „Core is my home/
not shell, not dry leaf“, sending a universalized message.
Very concrete aspects of this paradigm occur in Štefanko’s first volume,
but in the ulterior, modified editions everything refers to the spatial paradigm
with concrete elements and attributes of the plain space: the hamlet, the geraniums,
the toponyms of Nădlac surroundings. The anthropologic paradigm, as well, has
different forms and motifs, such as: enumeration of second names known and
emblematic for that space, or through characteristic activities, or through the
childhood spent outside in the hamlet. Anoca (2008 b)
In a similar way, the space paradigm and the others are to be found in the
descriptions and prose works of the Slovak writers. We find the most eloquent
examples in Pavol Bujtár’s works whose intention of offering a realistic, but also
emotional picture of this space is clearly obvious in his novel Pastierik – The
Little Shepherd (published in 1996, but the author’s date is 1960). Let us see
how the writer expresses the attributes of the plain, the biologic pulse related to
the weather, the annual cycle, vegetation, living creatures, forms of life intrinsic
to the plain:
As if the great heat of the last days rampaged on the plains. The crimson poppies
wilted very fast. The corn-cockles with their fat cheeks, their flowers the colour of light
lilac closed themselves and in their little bellies small black seeds were growing. In the
wheat fields quails were wheepling to their many broods to avert them. Bujtár (1996: 63).
In the following fragment we witness the evolvement of the anthropologic paradigm:
The torrid days of June installed themselves. During the day it was hot, sweat was
flowing even in the shade. It was mostly people from the neighbouring fields that came to
247
the hamlet to take fresh water in their earthenware jugs. In the afternoon those who could
afford it would look for some shade totake a winkle of sleep. But there were hardly any
who would be so lucky, because those who came to the fields to work straight from the
village were in a haste to finish as fast as they could. (Bujtár 1996: 58)
The elements of nature, the forces, water, and wind appear in the introductory
passages of the chapters, according to the traditional prose model:
At the end of May, the temperature grew higher. During the nights it would often
rain, at daytime it was warm, thus, the vegetation grew fast. In the fields the playful winds
were turning pin-wheels over the enormous wheat-fields... The long rows of young corn
rustled gaily in the breeze and the pleasant green caressed someone’s look. The acacias
growing around the hamlets were gloriously blossoming.
The sweet dizzying smell of the myriads of flowers bestrewed all over the area and
there was no person who acknowledged but once in their lifetime that a thing like that, such a
perfume and beauty is rarely found in the world. Thousands of bees and other insects
became victim of the temptation of the sweetness of the blossoming trees. Bujtár (1996: 45).
But even in poetry the aquatic (the Mureş River, the well, mud, rain,
tempest) is definitory for the plain. It occurs in the poem Nelada (a title alluding
to some fabulous space, a kind of „Atlantis”) of Ivan Miroslav Ambruš from the
volume Za cenu žitia (With a Life’s Price, 1981): „Your senses will be pointed
like a tempest/ in the rustling of the leaves/ just like the Mures (in Slovak with
female gender – Maruša- my note, DMA)/ that feeds the earth.”
The spatial paradigm allows allegoric-mythical images (as Harpáň calls
them) such as the delivering plain (Štefanko: „The Deliverer is groaning under
the hooves of the horse/, she quakes with the iron in her flesh”), an ancient
image, that is also found in the poetry of Slovaks living in Romania. We find its
variant in the young virgin’s motif of the prose writers. Thus, in the 20th
century-like expressionist tonalities Peter Suchanský (Nădlac, 1897-Bratislava,
1979) tries to translate into myths the Western Plain, generally known as Dolná
zem (Lowlands), in his work Obraz z detstva – Picture from Childhood (from
the volume Tri snúbenice – Three Brides, 1934), introducing in the text an
interesting opposition between cultural vs. wild (Apollonian vs. Dionisiac;
Harpáň 2004: 71):
You lie like a book from which birds learn their dear songs bringing joy in sad
hearts, and loss of anxiety in the joyful ones. You are open like a noble soul in which
everybody may look and enjoy the pure immaculateness. He who sees your spaces bathing
in the bright sunshine has to sing with a vibrating heart and to save God the Creator for
His great work. In summer you are like a noble virgin in love making her up with flowers
to please her lover more. In winter like an angry knight breaking spears like straws, you
boil of fury and there is no power to stop your untamable, bellicose anger when you take
impetus on the open space, you are like a young horse after the long penitence of winter
left first time free under the large, blue wheel of spring. Snow is flying in big flakes and in
the sky the clouds descended rush and struggle on life and death. Oh yes, this is quite a
248
DAGMAR MARIA ANOCA
struggle, indeed! It is not like clouds, but living beings thinking with human mind and
having human feelings are approaching each other with a mortal decision. Howsoever
times I assisted to such a duel, I always had in mind the ancient Roman gladiator, as I
would see them in front of the Caesar’s tribune. Suchanský (1999: 9)
The anthropologic paradigm, presented horizontally – synchronically, or
vertically, in the diachronic time, may represent steps from the very
representations of activities (first of all in Bujtár’s prose, but also in that of
Štefan Dováľ, Žofine trápenia – Sophie’s Nuisances), till the mythic and sacral
(as it is in the poem on the work in the fields with the help of the horse – a solar
hero, in Ondrej Štefanko in the volume Dva hlasy – Two Voices II. (1987). In
the volume I Stay in front of the House the cycle of Reconciliation he presents
the evolution in time of his community, but he also expresses the concept of
time as a cyclical flow, characteristic of agrarian civilizations, which is found in
the book of the prose writer Štefan Dováľ, as well: Sophie’s Nuisances. The
events are ordered according to the seasons and are related to the house. One of
the dominating motifs of the space paradigm - but by the stress placed on it, and
by its frequency in all authors, it is a characteristic one, we may say.
In his work Harpáň mentions the fact that the anthropologic paradigm
from the Pannonic poetry is also characterized by the „cult of poverty”, as a
consequence of the life of these communities until recent times.
Doubtlessly the anthropologic paradigm is closely related to the motif of
the ancestors (mother, father, grandparents, and grandmother), one of its most
expressive realization being in Ambruš’ work, where, in one of his poems, the
author presents his grandfather as an eternal entity in his simplicity, in the mere
cyclicality of the peasant’s life:
My grandpa knew nothing of the Titanic/ He woke up at four in the morning/ He
cut a piece of bacon/ A slice of bread/ Also filled the jug with water/ Harnessed the horses
to the chariot/And went to plow// In the evening when he returned home tired/ He sat on
the doorstep of the house/Lit a cigarette/ My grandpa/ Had heard nothing of the Titanic.
Ambruš (1981: 76)
The ritualic paradigm in which we may follow ethnographic elements,
customs etc. are present in the poetry and prose of the Slovaks from Romania to
a limited extent and in many cases with altered function. First of all, the poet
Husárik uses these motifs to deprive them of the mythical dimension, to
deconstruct some ingrained stereotypes which are today out of place. An
embroidered fur coat, an object we expected the poet to praise, to appreciate,
thus participating in the mythification of the national rituals is an occasion to
taunt the love for antiquities, the peculiar attitudes of contemporaries. Contrary
to him, Adam Suchanský transforms the funeral into a magic communion with
Mother Earth (in the ballad without a title There Are Moments...), In fact, in this
poet’s work, we witness one of the most essentialized statements regarding the
249
Slovak mentality and their own image in the poem Acacia Wood Fiddle and
Maplewood coffin. Anoca (2008 a).
The plain as an existential element, environment of life, a synthesis of
space and anthropologic paradigm may represent, from a formal point of view,
the base of some artistic procedures and means, such as: the counterpoint, i.e.
the following of the same idea, respectively its resumption in different registers.
Thus, the natural phenomena, constituting the attribute of the plain – like plants,
animals, among them evidently the flight of a butterfly - send us to another plan,
that of the human beings, they express the experiences and desires of the child
in the next example more persuasively:
A middle-aged woman was walking on the serpentine path along the irrigation
channel. She was pushing a bicycle with two sacks with corn and pumpkins. Near her, a
ten year old boy was bouncing on the autumn field following colorful butterflies. From
time to time he reached the channel, purposely dragging his old sandals on the half-dry
grass, to his delight, dozens of locusts jumped scared. Reaching the channel he stopped then
returned running to the edge of the cornfield, whispering in the breeze, as if approving the
mischief of the boy. Suddenly he notices a small butterfly dressed in many colors lingering
to enjoy the afternoon sun’s rays, lazily moving its wings from time to time as it would
whisper, in silence, half dreaming: Leave me alone! Leave me alone! The boy approached
him carefully with his open hands, stopping here and there and oops! The butterfly was
trapped. Feeling the struggle of the little wings the boy turned towards the pathway.
– Mommy, mommy! Look what a beautiful butterfly I’ve got!
The woman stopped the bicycle; she supported it with her right leg and tied her
scarf. The few wrinkles on her forehead relaxed.
– Milanko dear, you have plenty of butterflies.
– But none like this. It’s beautiful, colorful, like that from Jarka’s textbook.
– And what do you want to do with it?
The boy stood for moment thinking.
– I let it go, to be free.
At the same moment he opened his palms and the colorful butterfly flew away, first
up, towards the sun, then it turned to the copper-yellow field until it got lost.
– If only they released my daddy out of prison, like it...
After saying these words he remained embarrassed as if he had said some indecent,
forbidden word. The smile went away from the face of the woman, the wrinkles returned to
her forehead and all her face was covered by an invisible shadow. She started suddenly,
followed by the silent boy. Dováľ (2008: 22).
The plain with its paradigms and attributes will be the support of some
meditations definitory for a way of thinking and of living, and first of all in case
of a writer, but also in case of a simple man, belonging to an ethnic minority,
what, in a noetic plan, still exceeds the limits of the ethnic:
Each time when I stay in front of the immaculate sheet of paper, when I look
around me or when I meditate on anything, I am visited by the genius loci, the spirit of this
place, of this space where I grew up and reached my maturity, he surely is close by and
whispers to me who I am, my facts, the effusions of my mind, the way I look and listen; he
introduces me in the pathways, always the same, traced by me and by those I live with,
DAGMAR MARIA ANOCA
250
pathways cut not just in the earth on which I rely, but also in what defines me, every time
when I praise myself and the others I stop to be myself and I become the executant of the
commands of the genius loci no matter how I might oppose it, no matter how much I might
protest, I remain his slave, I am unable to act any other way. As if all is given to me,
subconsciously, of things and events done in this plain, in this settlement, in these people,
all what happened in the past, and today, and yesterday and surely will happen tomorrow,
because I may not detach me of myself, of my roots and escape beyond the horizon where
sky unifies with earth, that feeling of the infinite which is caused by the look on the plain is
incomparable to nothing else, even if unto my death I do not stop shouting, though I
always swore, I will not agree with the stifling futility, it does not allow me to breathe,
however I humiliate myself again and again in front of the smallest and most senseless
gesture, of the psychical process present in all those who live here, the apricot and the
little peach survive and will be left behind, a print almost imperishable surviving the
apricot-tree and the peach- tree and the nut-tree, they will survive and there will be
always traces, traces almost imperishable of their earthy nature... [...] people step next to
me, people who met this place, this space, they shaped it, they left here their traces in all
what they did and anything they would have done, a richer and richer crop, better and
better tools and goods, unsatisfied with what became stale, pushing forward on and on,
and the traces and footprints of these people and of this place pervaded me and persist in
me because I am convinced that indeed here our genius loci met the universal spirit,
indeed here, in our place, and in myself both of them found their home thus creating
culture, our culture, the unforgettable, the non-repeating and eternal which was
transformed long ago into a trace, we and I just deepen it in this place, in this space, in
the world… Štefanko (1997: 124-127)
The plain, its image, its artistic transformation becomes a reference, a
human spot, a pure metaphysical presence.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Ambruš, Ivan Miroslav (1981), Za cenu žitia, Kriterion, Bucureşti.
Anoca, Dagmar Mária (2008), a) „Pietna spomienka na Básnika a na segment spoločného času
stráveného vo sférickom priestore”, in Naše snahy plus, V, 3-4, pp. 65-69; b) „Cercul
refăcut”, in Arca, 1-2-3(214-215-216), pp. 161-167.
Bănescu, Florin, a) „O reuşită antologie literară”, in Flacăra Roşie, XXXIX, 11332, pp. 2 ; b)
„Arad und Autoren”, in Neue Banater Zetung, XXX, 7472, pp. 4; c) „Arader Kurier”,
1986, 398; d) „În Cîmpia de Vest”, in Orizont, 34, 12, pp. 4.
Bujtár, Pavol (1996), Pastierik, Vydavateľstvo Kultúrnej a Vedeckej Spoločnosti Ivana Krasku,
Nadlak, Nadlak.
Dováĺ, Štefan (2008), „Prípad Jara Konôpku”, in Tu a inde, Vydavateľstvo Ivan Krasko, Nadlak, pp. 22.
Harpáň, Michal (2004), Texty a kontexty, Bratislava.
*** „Raportul Consiliului Uniunii Scriitorilor”, in România Literară, XIV, 27, pp. 6-7.
Suchanský, Peter (1999), Obrazy z Dolnej zeme a zo sveta, VKVSIK, Nadlak.
Štefanko, Ondrej (1997), Zo zápisníka kacíra nadlackého, VKVSIK, Nadlak.
Šveda, Ján (2008), „Koniec literárnej histórie?”, in Nový život, 7-8, pp. 26-28.
*** „Tezele conferinţei naţionale a scriitorilor”, in România Literară, XIV, 19, pp. 11-13.
RECENZII
Alexandra Vrânceanu y Angelo Pagliardini (eds.), “Migrazione e
patologie dell’humanitas nella letteratura europea contemporanea”, Frankfurt am
Main-Berlin-Bern-Bruxelles-New York-Oxford-Wien, Ed. Peter Lang, 2012, 265 p.
El tomo concebido por Alexandra Vrânceanu y Angelo Pagliardini a raíz de un congreso
organizado por los mismos en Roma, en el 2010, recoge trabajos que, desde una generosa
perspectiva interdisciplinaria, establecen diversas conexiones entre migración y discurso,
entendido en un sentido amplio, desde la literatura y el cine, hasta los relatos de la experiencia
traumática, en el caso de los refugiados políticos, y las prácticas culinarias como comunicación
identitaria. Un planteamiento de este tipo podría resultar especialmente interesante y motivador
para el mundo académico rumano, debido a la escasez, en nuestro país, de los estudios dedicados
a la literatura migrante. Cabe señalar, asimismo, la participación en la antología de dos profesoras
de la Universidad de Bucarest, Monica Spiridon y Alexandra Vrânceanu, la meritoria iniciadora
del proyecto. Y, por último, el peculiar interés de este volumen para el campo cultural rumano y
sus contactos con otros campos culturales se debe a la presencia, entre los escritores y artistas
comentados, de Paul Celan, Elie Wiesel, Mircea Eliade, Constantin Brâncuşi, Panait Istrati, Ana
Novac, Aglaja Veteranyi, Dumitru Ţepeneag, Dinu Flămând y Hertha Müller. De hecho, la
mayoría de los estudios vienen dedicados a escritores rumanos e italianos.
A diferencia de cómo ocurre en la mayoría de las introducciones, los dos coordinadores (y, al
mismo tiempo, autores de sendos estudios presentes en el tomo) no se limitan a resumir el enfoque o la
temática de los trabajos, siguiendo simplemente la sucesión de estos en la antología, sino que ofrecen
una presentación tipológica y racionalizada del material, vertebrada por criterios como la metodología,
el contenido y la problemática teórica o la pertenencia lingüística y nacional de los autores estudiados.
A primera vista, el último criterio taxonómico mencionado resultaría inadecuado especialmente en una
recopilación como ésta, dedicada a unos escritores y a una literatura que destacan precisamente por la
trasgresión de las barreras lingüísticas, étnicas o nacionales. Sin embargo, la razón de uso de la variable
en cuestión reside en que solo tiene sentido tematizar y poner en tela de juicio lo que sigue vigente, a
pesar de su inadecuación − o sea conceptos como “literatura nacional” o “monolingüismo −, puesto que,
en una auténtica e ideal “república mundial de las letras”, categorías como “literatura rumana” o
“literatura migrante” serían igual de poco funcionales.
La presente reseña se ha redactado tomando como punto de partida y guía precisamente el
estudio introductorio, muy elaborado y coherente. De hecho, estas mismas cualidades caracterizan
la antología en su conjunto, lo cual es más digno de aprecio todavía si tenemos en cuenta el perfil
interdisciplinario, que abarca enfoques procedentes de la literatura comparada, la historia de la
literatura, la traductología, la historia de la lengua, la filmología, la sociología, la antropología
(mediación intercultural), la psicopatología, etc.
En el volumen se mencionan conceptos vehiculados en las últimas décadas en el campo
investigado − “literatura del exilio”, “literatura migrante”, “literatura transnacional”, “literatura-mundo”,
“república de las letras” −, cuyos significados, solapados muchas veces, están todavía en
construcción. Al fin y al cabo, la hibridez identitaria, cultural, discursiva o meramente lingüística
es el rasgo definitorio de la literatura escrita por los migrantes, un rasgo comentado en sus textos
por Alexandra Vrânceanu, Monica Spiridon, Francis Claudon, Sebastiano Martelli, Gisèle
252
RECENZII
Vanhese, Pietro Trifone o Angelo Pagliardini. Todos estos autores instrumentalizan metáforas
territoriales, símbolos y mitos de la circulación y de la multiplicidad (Ulíses, Eneas, Jano, Babel),
al abordar temas diversos, como los posicionamientos de Dumitru Ţepeneag con respecto a los
cánones literarios rumano y francés, la representación literaria del retorno del emigrante italiano y
la formación del “territorio cultural europeo”, de la “literatura del sur” o de una transfronteriza y
cosmopolita “república de las letras”. Las figuras y las figuraciones de la territorialidad, la
circulación y la multiplicidad (no olvidemos que, etimológicamente, “metáfora” significa
“transporte”) se relacionan con una propuesta reivindicativa, de “abrir fronteras”, de romper
categorías limitativas como la de “literatura nacional”, o de “viajar” entre conceptos polarizados,
provocando interferencias y mestizaje. Esta necesidad de mezcla, ruptura, transformación y
movilidad de los clichés conceptuales −incentivada por unos estudiosos que asumen también el
papel de agentes dentro del campo cultural− constituye, en realidad, un legítimo intento de
adecuar el discurso teórico al proceso existencial vivido y reflejado por el migrante. Se trata a
menudo de una vivencia dolorosa que deriva en una verdadera patología específica, tanto en
sentido metafórico-literario, como metafórico-psicoanalítico: el “complejo de Jano”, definido por
Jung e identificado por Danilo De Salazar en la literatura de Aglaja Veteranyi, la personalidad
múltiple, heteronímica, percibida por Alexandra Vrânceanu en el caso de Dumitru Ţepeneag o la
literatura “histérica” de Hertha Müller, comentada por Ileana Alexandra Orlich. No obstante, la
literatura es, a la vez que representación del trauma, cura. Este valor terapéutico viene señalado
por Maria Cristina Tumiati, Maria Concetta Segneri y Adela Ida Gutierrez, desde una perspectiva
sociológica, en los relatos de los refugiados que solicitan asilo político. Por otro lado, la función
curativa del discurso se relaciona a menudo con la autobiografía o, en literatura, con la
autoficción, un género híbrido, típicamente postmoderno e, igual que toda manifestación
comunicativa migrante, transcategorial.
El género discursivo de las contribuciones recogidas en el volumen es, asimismo, variado,
abarcando desde ensayos que abren prometedoras vías de investigación (como los de Francis
Claudon o Monica Spiridon) y elocuentes panoramas o cartografías del tratamiento teórico o
analítico recibido en la literatura por un tema en concreto (Sebastiano Martelli, Angelo
Pagliardini), hasta reveladores y perspicaces estudios de caso, que, al mismo tiempo, cruzan con
provecho diversas perspectivas teóricas (Alexandra Vranceanu).
Considero que lo observado anteriormente es suficiente para justificar la necesidad de la
traducción de este tomo al rumano o, por lo menos, de su amplia difusión en nuestro ámbito
académico. Pero quisiera añadir un argumento más a favor de la utilidad de la visión propuesta
por el libro que constituye el objeto de esta reseña: la “literatura migrante” no es, como podría
parecer a primera vista, un tema periférico, o de nicho, que se refiera únicamente a la actividad
literaria de una minoría. La circulación de los tópicos, los modelos y las formas de expresión (lo
que Itamar Even-Zohar denominaba “repertorio”) de un campo cultural a otro o entre estratos
distintos del mismo campo ha constituido siempre el fundamento de cualquier corriente estética o
ideológica, invariablemente mestiza y cambiante, a pesar de su uniformizante y estática
radiografía, consignada en los manuales de literatura. El estudio de la comunicación migrante no
hace más que traer a colación unas fórmulas de representación que “histerizan” y problematizan la
hibridez y la movilidad inherentes de toda literatura. Además, la identificación, realizada por los
formalistas rusos en las primeras décadas del siglo XX, entre literariedad y “extrañamiento” cobra
un significado renovado en los estudios sobre migración y literatura, que se ocupan, al fin y al
cabo, de distintas hipóstasis de la enajenación, de la percepción de lo ajeno, desde lo propio, y de
lo propio, desde lo ajeno. Como afirmaba Julia Kristeva, citada por Ileana Alexandra Orlich,
“Writing is impossible without some kind of exile”.
MIHAI IACOB∗
∗
University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, [email protected]
RECENZII
253
Renata Bojničanová, Los bandoleros y su reflejo en la tradición oral – La
prosa popular. Comparación catalano-eslováca, Bucureşti, Editura Universităţii
din Bucureşti, 2011, 325 p.
Renata Bojničanova es una hispanista y eslovaquista eslovaca que después de doctorarse
en la Universidad Complutense de Madrid, está desarrollando su vocación pedagógica en la
Universidad Comenius de Bratislava. Con este libro, la autora vuelve al tema que había tratado en
su tesis doctoral, la imagen del bandido en la tradición eslovaca y catalana, en la literatura oral y
culta. Esta vez, sin embargo, el análisis se centra exclusivamente en la prosa popular pero
mantiene la perspectiva pirenaico-carpática. Tal como observa la folclorista Viera Gašparíková,
que firma el prólogo del libro, esta misma apertura a la comparación carpático-balcánica hacia el
Mediterráneo Occidental es el elemento de novedad que convierte el trabajo de Renata
Bojničanova en una contribución original que viene a completar el mosaico de la imagen del
bandido en el folclore europeo.
El libro se compone de dos partes complementarias: el trabajo teórico-aplicativo en que se
compara el material folklórico sobre los bandoleros eslovacos y catalanes con el fin de demostrar
el paralelismo que existe entre los dos espacios culturales y una recopilación de los textos que
sirven como base para esta comparación y que están agrupados en unas Antologías comentadas de
leyendas sobre bandoleros eslovacos y catalanes.
En la introducción del trabajo teórico, la autora expresa el deseo de “analizar la imagen del
bandolero en la tradición catalana y eslovaca y compararlas, demostrando que en las dos tradiciones
dicha imagen se ha sometido a parecidos procesos de trasformación”. Se trata de aquel proceso
mediante el cual la imagen del bandido criminal ha logrado convertirse en la de un héroe idealizado,
generoso que quita a los ricos para dar a los pobres. Para llevar a cabo tal análisis, la autora parte en el
primer capítulo de la comparación histórica del bandolerismo en Cataluña y en Eslovaquia, fenómenos
que se identifican con los términos del “bandolerismo mediterráneo o pirenaico” y el “carpático”, sigue
con una reflexión acerca de la figura del bandido en la prosa popular eslovaca y catalana en el segundo
capítulo en el que se analiza la presencia de la figura del bandido en diferentes géneros de la prosa
popular, para luego dedicarse en el tercer capítulo – el más extenso – a la comparación de las diferentes
figuras de bandidos que aparecen en las leyendas populares.
Especial atención se les concede en este capítulo a los dos grandes ciclos de leyendas
sobre los bandidos representativos, Jánošik y Serrallonga, sobre los cuales existe mayor cantidad
de leyendas. La autora trata de demostrar que las dos imágenes se rigen según las mismas pautas
de la biografía histórica, ya que las leyendas existentes configuran en los dos casos una biografía
marcada por los mismos momentos esenciales: 1. la infancia y la juventud (en el caso de
Serrallonga se trata más bien de un período anterior al bandidaje, ya que las leyendas sobre su
juventud son muy escasas); 2. la época del bandidaje; 3. la persecución del bandido; 4. la muerte
del bandido; 5. el legado del bandido. Este paralelismo entre las dos tradiciones viene matizado
por varios detalles particulares de las dos biografías (por ejemplo, se menciona que en las
leyendas sobre Jánošik hay más elementos fantásticos que en las sobre Serralonga o que este tiene
más rasgos de un héroe urbano que aquel), pero también viene completado por las figuras de otros
bandoleros eslovacos y catalanes presentados al final del tercer capítulo.
En el cuarto capítulo, dedicado a las conclusiones, la autora expresa su convicción de que
las semejanzas que acaba de presentar no se deben a una influencia directa entre las dos zonas,
que son bastante apartadas entre sí, sino son de carácter tipológico. Las llama “coincidencias
tipológicas” y las define con las palabras de Viera Gašparíková: “Coincidencias tipológicas son
aquellas que surgieron ‹‹de lo parecido de la condición humana, de las circunstancias vitales
parecidas, de una situación vital parecida y de la similitud de los destinos humanos››”. La autora
explica que en este caso, lo “parecido” se traduce en los prolongados conflictos bélicos y la
consecuente inestabilidad de los dos espacios comparados que fueron causa de la crisis económica,
254
RECENZII
de la pobreza generalizada y del desorden social, lo que creó un ambiente favorable para el
desarrollo de diferentes formas de bandolerismo en Eslovaquia y Cataluña y que solo el progreso
económico y la mejora de las condiciones de la vida que se produjeron de manera más palpable
desde el siglo XIX, han llevado a la desaparición del bandolerismo (la autora tiene sus reservas
con respecto a este tema y en la introducción del libro hace breves referencias a ciertas formas
modernas de bandolerismo como las mafias o la piratería en la red). No obstante, el paralelismo
general de las tradiciones eslovaca y catalana es contrarrestado por una diferencia esencial
observada por la autora: en las leyendas eslovacas prevalece el contenido social (la imagen del
bandolero cuya misión es de contrapesar la injusticia del sistema social quitando a los ricos y
dando a los pobres), mientras que en las leyendas catalanas es más importante el contenido
aventurero (una imagen del bandolero que se parece más a los héroes de novelas de caballería).
También hace parte del capítulo cuarto una lista de motivos comunes o parecidos en las
leyendas eslovacas y catalanas sobre bandidos. Para captar objetivamente estos motivos la autora
se sirve del Catálogo de la literatura oral en prosa (Katalóg prozaických podaní) de Viera
Gašparíková, en el cual se resumen y denominan los motivos conocidos en relación con los
bandoleros carpáticos. Además, y esto es el segundo elemento novedoso del libro, Renata
Bojničanova propone una serie de nuevos motivos interétnicos que podrían completar el catálogo.
Así pues, al tratar el tema del bandolerismo, que es él mismo interesante, y al plantearlo
desde la perspectiva de la comparación pirenaico–carpática, pero también por proponer una
ampliación del catálogo de motivos folclóricos, el trabajo de Renata Bojničanova se convierte en
un punto de referencia y lectura necesaria para quien se interesa por el folclore europeo en general
o por el tema del bandolerismo en particular. Además, la publicación del libro en el editorial de la
Universidad de Bucarest podría funcionar como un impulso para los especialistas rumanos a
quienes la autora lanza un llamamiento para contribuir a completar la imagen del bandido en el
folclore europeo con trabajos similares que incluyan un análisis del espacio cultural de las
regiones históricas rumanas. En efecto, al leer la recopilación de leyendas que acompaña al
trabajo teórico el lector rumano encontrará motivos que le son muy familiares ya que aparecen en
las los cuentos y las leyendas rumanas también, como el motivo de la hierba mágica que abre
cualquier puerta o candado (iarba fiarelor) – o la prueba de lanzar la maza para demostrar la
fuerza y muchos otros. De este modo, la lectura de las antologías de textos sobre bandoleros que
forma la segunda parte del libro puede resultar para algunos todavía más interesante que la lectura
del material teórico mismo. El único defecto que tiene esta parte es el hecho de que los textos
catalanes no vienen acompañados por la traducción española tal como ocurre en el caso de las
leyendas eslovacas lo que se debe posiblemente a la presuposición de la autora de que el texto
catalán es suficientemente inteligible para los lectores de castellano.
Finalmente, el conjunto formado por el trabajo teórico y las antologías de leyendas de
Renata Bojničanova es una lectura agradable. Especialistas en el folclore o simplemente
aficionados a los cuentos y leyendas populares, los que leerán su libro (re-)descubrirán el placer
de adentrarse en el fascinante mundo de los bandoleros.
PAUL BUZILĂ∗
∗
University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, [email protected]
ANALELE UNIVERSITĂŢII BUCUREŞTI (AUB)
ÎN ATENŢIA COLABORATORILOR
Pentru o cooperare eficientă între editori, autori şi casa editorială, autorii de articole şi de
recenzii sunt rugaţi să respecte următoarele norme:
Articolele pot fi trimise în engleză, franceză, italiană, spaniolă, germană, rusă.
Articolele trebuie să fie trimise pe suport electronic (e-mail sau CD) în format WORD
(.doc or .rtf).
Articolele trimise trebuie să conţină numele şi afilierea instituţională a autorilor, ca şi
adresa de e-mail. Articolele trebuie să conţină o scurtă prezentare bio-bibliografică a autorilor
într-o notă de subsol (cca. 10 rânduri).
Articolele trebuie să fie însoţite de un rezumat (10-15 rânduri) în engleză, urmat
de 5-7 cuvinte-cheie (font Times New Roman, corp 9, la un rand, în engleză).
Toate articolele şi recenziile vor fi redactate cu diacritice; dacă sunt folosite fonturi
speciale (Fonetic, ArborWin etc.), se va trimite şi tipul de font folosit.
Formatul documentului: pagină A4 (nu Letter, Executive, A5 etc.).
Marginile paginii: sus – 5,75 cm; jos – 5 cm; stânga şi dreapta – 4,25 cm;
antet – 4,75 cm; subsol – 1,25 cm.
Articolele trimise trebuie tehno-redactate cu font Times New Roman, corp 11, la un rând.
Titlul articolului trebuie să fie centrat, cu majuscule aldine (font Times New Roman, corp 11).
Numele (cu majuscule aldine) trebuie să fie centrat, sub titlu (font Times New Roman, corp 9).
Rezumatul (însoţit de titlul articolului tradus, dacă articolul este în altă limbă decât engleza)
precedă textul articolului (font Times New Roman, corp 9, la un rând); cuvintele-cheie (Times New
Roman, corp 9, italic) urmează rezumatului şi sunt precedate de cuvântul Keywords (italic şi bold).
Notele trebuie să apară în josul paginii (cu font Times New Roman, 9, la un rând).
Trimiterile bibliografice, indicarea sursei pentru citate – se vor indica în text, după
următoarea convenţie: (Autor an:(spaţiu)pagină) − (Pop 2001: 32); (Pop/Ionescu 2001: 32).
Se pot utiliza în text abrevieri, sigle (RRL, tome L, nos 3-4, p. 216) care vor fi întregite la
bibliografia finală, după cum urmează:
RRL – Revue Roumaine de Linguistique, tome L, nos 3-4, 2005.
Bibliografia va fi indicată după următorul model:
(1) Pentru cărţi, volume, monografii se indică numele, prenumele autorului, anul apariţiei,
titlul cu italic, oraşul, editura (eventual volumul sau numărul de volume). În cazul în care
una dintre componentele trimiterii bibliografice lipseşte, se vor folosi normele
consacrate − [s.l.], [s.a.]. La volumele colective se va indica îndrumătorul/coordonatorul/editorul
256
prin (coord.) sau (ed.)/(eds.) după nume şi prenume. În cazul în care există mai mulţi
autori/coordonatori/editori, doar primul nume va fi inversat (Zafiu, R., C. Stan...).
Kleiber, Georges, 2001, L’anaphore associative, Paris, Presses Universitaires de France.
Zafiu, R., C. Stan, Al. Nicolae (eds.), 2007, Studii lingvistice. Omagiu profesoarei
Gabriela Pană Dindelegan, la aniversare, Bucureşti, Editura Universităţii
din Bucureşti.
(2) Pentru articole din volume colective:
Rand Hoare, Michael, 2009, “Scientific and Technical Dictionnaries”, in A. P. Cowie (ed.),
The Oxford History of English Lexicography, Oxford, Oxford University
Press, pp. 47-94.
(3) Pentru articole din reviste se indică numele autorului, prenumele autorului, anul, titlul
articolului între ghilimele, urmat de in + numele revistei cu italic (neabreviat),
volumul/tomul, numărul, pagini. În cazul în care există mai mulţi autori, doar primul
nume va fi inversat.
Fischer, I., 1968, « Remarques sur le traitement de la diphtongue au en latin vulgaire »,
in Revue Roumaine de Linguistique, XIII, nr. 5, pp. 417-420.
Cornea, P., 1994, „Noţiunea de autor: statut şi mod de folosinţă”, în Limbă şi literatură,
vol. III-IV, pp. 27-35.
Toate referinţele bibliografice din text trebuie să apară în bibliografia finală.
Articolele trimise vor fi discutate de o comisie de specialişti în domeniile filologice: lingvistică,
literatură, studii culturale şi de traductologie.
Articolele trebuie trimise la următoarea adresă de e-mail: [email protected]
THE ANNALS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF BUCHAREST
FOREIGN LANGUAGES AND LITERATURES
NOTES FOR CONTRIBUTORS
The authors of the articles and book reviews are requested to observe the following
publication guidelines:
The articles can be edited in English, French, Italian, Spanish, German, Russian.
The articles should be submitted electronically (by e-mail or CD) in a WORD format
(formats .doc or .rtf).
The articles should contain the author’s full name and affiliation, along with
the author’s e-mail address. The authors are requested to supply an auto-bio-bibliography
(approximately 10 lines), in a footnote.
The articles should contain an abstract (10-15 lines), followed by 5-7 Keywords
(Times New Roman, 9, single spaced).
All the articles and book reviews must be edited using diacritical marks; if there are
special Fonts, these should also be sent.
The page format: paper A4 (no Letter, Executive, A5 etc.);
The page margins: top – 5,75 cm; bottom – 5 cm; left and right – 4,25 cm;
header – 4,75 cm; footer – 1,25 cm.
The articles submitted for publication must be typed single spaced, in Times New
Roman, 11.
The title of the article should be centered, bold, all capitals (Times New Roman, 11)
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The abstract (with the translated title, if the article is written in other language than
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New Roman 9, bold) follow the abstract and they are preceded by the word Keywords (in italics, bold).
The notes should be indicated by superscript numbers in the text and typed at the
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The references or the quotations sources should be indicated in the text, following
the format: (Author year:(space)page) − (Pop 2001: 32); (Pop/Ionescu 2001: 32).
The abbreviations or abbreviated titles (RRL, tome L, nos 3-4, p. 216) can be used in the
papers; they will be included completely in the listed references at the end of the article, as it follows:
RRL – Revue Roumaine de Linguistique, tome L, nos 3-4, 2005.
The references should observe the following styles:
1. Books Basic Format: Author, A. (, B. B. Author, C. C. Author), Year of publication,
Title of Work, Location, Publisher.
Kleiber, Georges, 2001, L’anaphore associative, Paris, Presses Universitaires de France.
258
2. Edited Books Basic Format: Author, A. A. (, B. B. Author, C. C. Author)(ed./eds.), Year
of publication, Title of Work, Location, Publisher (only the name of the first editor inverted).
Zafiu, R., C. Stan, Al. Nicolae (eds.), 2007, Studii lingvistice. Omagiu profesoarei Gabriela
Pană Dindelegan, la aniversare, Bucureşti, Editura Universităţii din Bucureşti.
3. Articles or Chapters in Edited Book Basic Format:
Rand Hoare, Michael, 2009, “Scientific and Technical Dictionnaries”, in A. P. Cowie (ed.),
The Oxford History of English Lexicography, Oxford, Oxford University
Press, pp. 47-94.
4. Articles in Journals Basic Format: Author, A. A. (, B. B. Author), Year of publication,
“Title of the article”, in Title of Periodical, volume number (issue number), pages.
Fischer, I., 1968, « Remarques sur le traitement de la diphtongue au en latin vulgaire »,
in Revue Roumaine de Linguistique, XIII, nr. 5, pp. 417-420.
All the bibliographical references should appear in the final bibliography.
All the papers will be peer-reviewed by a committee of specialists in different philological
fields: linguistics, literature, cultural studies, translation studies.
The first version of the articles should be submitted to the e-mail address: [email protected]
Tiparul s-a executat sub c-da nr. …../2012 la
Tipografia Editurii Universităţii din Bucureşti
COLEGIUL DE REDACŢIE
Redactor responsabil:
Membri:
Secretari de redacţie:
Prof. dr. Andrei A. Avram
Prof. dr. Mihaela Voicu
Prof. dr. Alexandra Cornilescu
Prof. dr. Constantin Geambaşu
Prof. dr. George Guţu
Prof. dr. Yves D’Hulst (Universitatea din Osnabrück)
Prof. dr. Sanda Reinheimer-Rîpeanu
Prof. h.c. dr. Stefan Sienerth (Universitatea din München)
Prof. dr. Radu Toma
Lect. dr. Sabina Popârlan
Lect. dr. Ruxandra Vişan
Redactor: Irina Hriţcu
Tehnoredactor: Emeline-Daniela Avram
Redacţia ANALELE UNIVERSITĂŢII
Şos. Panduri nr. 90-92,
050663 Bucureşti
ROMÂNIA
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ANALELE
UNIVERSITĂŢII
BUCUREŞTI
EXTRAS
ANUL LXI – 2012, nr. 2

Anala Lb.Straine 2012 nr. 2 - Universitatea din București

Transcription

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