Praxis Makes Perfect

Theory as (Virtual) Experience in Videogames

“Cosmic and human praxis has only ever been a question of machines.”

— Félix Guattari, The Three Ecologies

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[NB: This is the prospectus for my thesis, a work in progress]

When we boot up a videogame, we find ourselves glimpsing, within a wholly artificial space, the merest flicker of the real. Participation in digital narratives provides a momentary look beyond the hyperreal slurry of our shared imaginary to the bedrock axioms upon which our postmodern world is built. Literary theory is one point of access to the real, supplying hermeneutics that teach us to distinguish real from simulacrum. Videogames take theory a step further, exposing players to theoretical concepts that can be emotionally experienced and felt in the body. Though videogames are often overlooked as literature, the act of participating in a narrative gives players a unique sense of game/player co-authorship. My thesis examines four videogames that demonstrate this phenomenon by concretizing a specific critical-theoretical frame, including postcolonial theory, psychoanalytic theory, and deconstruction: Through an exploration of these games, I hope to show how the medium, with its multiple rhetorical strata, rhizomatic structure, and ergodic characteristics, has the power to weave theory into a kind of praxis.

For the purposes of this thesis, I will define videogames as participatory, artificial dramas that occur in virtual space within some permutation of iterative time. As such, videogames suspend players in a liminal zone that straddles fiction and action, where the fiction is tied to player decision-making and physical input. This liminality means that games are transhuman experiences wherein our bodies and minds temporarily enter into a collaboration with technology for the purpose of bringing about specific results in virtual spaces. The zone between fiction and action is a fundamentally allegorical space, existing in two realms at once, meaning two things at once, and players are primed to interpret allegorical messaging while absorbed in the spatiotemporal complexities of a game. According to Maureen Quilligan, allegories ask us to read a text across multiple axes, and, while playing, we assume the position of both fictional interpreters and mechanical operators, developing, of necessity, “A sensitivity to the polysemy in words” which is “the basic component of the genre of allegory” (Quilligan 33). “[B]oth readers and characters,” she claims, “must learn to read the horizontal connections between words, not merely to make vertical translation of image into theme” (Quilligan 36). For players, the horizontal connections are multiform, for they not only interpret the relationships of word to word, but also to sounds, dynamic images, mechanical feedback, and contextual and environmental storytelling cues.

Often, the multimodal messaging of videogames creates conceptual paradoxes that challenge our interpretive prowess. Players put work into interpreting videogame allegories that is often quite extensive, such as with the games I investigate as part of this thesis: In Ubisoft’s Assassin’s Creed: Freedom Cry, players arbitrate the relationship between cultural memory and historical atrocity; Upper One Games’ Never Alone casts players as both themselves and the player character (PC), embodying Nuna but separate from her, learning about and from her culture; in Housemarque’s Returnal, an alien landscape transforms uncannily into an allegory for a disturbed human mind; and the haunted workplace in Remedy Entertainment’s Control grows into an allegory for late-capitalist alienation, forcing players to renegotiate their relationships to work, workplaces, and the structures of corporate power that contemporary capitalism reifies and lionizes.

Games, as legible allegories, forge the raw data of the phenomenological world into experiences that acclimate us anew to that world. They are like other media in this regard, but because they are undergirded by additional rhetorical layers, players experience them differently. As in other media, plot, character, setting, and dialogue are fed to players, augmented by musical scores, cinematic cut scenes, and environmental dynamics. But the narrative layer is merely the “skin” of the game, adorned with audiovisual set dressing. In Persuasive Games, Ian Bogost defines his coinage, “procedural rhetoric,” referring to videogame substrata, as “the art of persuasion through rule-based representations and interactions”: It is comprised of the interactive layers of mechanical and haptic feedback that occur beneath the narrative (ix). This substrate is continuously making its own little subliminal arguments that mesh with, complicate, or contradict the story layer. Games’ additional rhetorical frameworks mean that they can access a wider range of the human affective spectrum than traditional media. In How Games Move Us, Katherine Isbister notes that, “Because players make their own choices and experience their consequences, game designers have unique powers to evoke emotions—such as guilt and pride—that typically cannot be accessed with other media” (56). Videogames are thus perfect testing grounds to explore and experience—not just to read about—our cultural allegories as phenomenological events that occur in both real world and game-world; real time and game-time. This is due to their unique textual configurations.

Videogames are built upon rhizomatic structures, often organized around liminal nodes that players navigate with an emergent sense of agency, such as a hub, lobby, or in-game pocket dimension. Such nodes literalize the Deleuzeguattarian contention that rhizomes are where “semiotic chains of every nature are connected to very diverse modes of coding… that bring into play not only different regimes of signs but also states of things of differing status” (A Thousand Plateaus 7). Rhizomatic structures democratize frameworks that are otherwise built on hierarchies, inviting players to participate in and, in a sense, to coauthor videogame narratives. In traditional fiction, one author owns the words and gets final say on how the work is used and, to a lesser extent, how it is received. Videogame companies, of course, are built on hierarchical org charts, like most human organizations, but game structures are almost always built on rhizomatic templates that invite experimentation and emergent strategy, even when their stories are linear—or, if I may, “arborescent.” Game maps and level design schematics are both rhizomatic, for instance, and many games allow players to traverse their stories, temporalities, and spaces in bespoke ways that cut across logic and authorial intent, choosing when and on what terms they will experience and interact with the story. The “metagame,” moreover, as imagined by Stephanie Boluk and Patrick LeMieux’s Metagaming, is inextricable from game narratives, and further democratize the medium: This refers to the discourse that surrounds games, the emergent, rhizomatic communities that animate games through online walkthroughs, lore speculation, speedruns, game modding, and streaming. Players make choices based on the metagame, and their in-game choices are interpreted by the servers of game developers: This metadata is then used in the creation of patches, expansion packs, and future franchise releases. Few other media have such a responsive feedback loop between creation and consumption.

Traversing games is often hard work, and this work is not always undertaken for pleasure. In Cybertexts, Espen Aarseth refers to videogames as “ergodic” texts whose narratives require “non-trivial effort to traverse” (2). Ergodic literature is interactive, depending on reader/player participation or enaction, embodying a tension that is “a struggle not merely for interpretative insight but also for narrative control” (Aarseth 4). Indeed, many gamers discuss actively disliking much of play—especially the tedium and frustration of repeated failure, which is an in-built component of gaming—but enjoying the sense of slow mastery over digital patterns and systems. There might be a profound reason games are so ubiquitous at this cultural moment having to do with the way our reality is increasingly mediated by machines. In Image Objects, Jacob Gaboury argues that in the contemporary world, computer images are fusing with physical objects in our minds such that they are no longer quite separate (think of the way we conflate the iWatch with the pixels on its screen; or a physical desktop with a virtual one). Games might be a way to negotiate this slippage, the “collapsing of the space between the digital and physical, that embody the and/both quality of our world” (195). This ontological slippage is an allegory for the postmodern condition.

Alexander Galloway’s Gaming and MacKenzie Wark’s Gamer Theory argue that part of the satisfaction of play is mastering ludic patterns, and then learning to turn this ergodic effort back on the wider world. They argue that the work we do playing videogames helps us navigate a reality that is increasingly gamified—A neoliberal, technology-infused wasteland in which we are both product and consumer—which enmeshes us such that there is no “outside.” Wark terms this wasteland “gamespace.” Galloway and Wark argue that our allegories and our reality are, in a sense, merging, united within the digital systems that increasingly steer and monitor our lives. Galloway calls the reciprocity between allegory and algorithm the “allegorithm” (89). In Western civilization’s key allegory, we mistake shadows on the wall for reality. We might see videogames as performing a system upgrade on Plato’s cave, transforming it into the “allegorithm,” which asks us to toggle between ontological systems. But not to escape: There is no escape. Just to learn to tell the difference. All the war sims on the market, for instance, highlight how war and war reporting are increasingly indistinguishable from games; the graspable rules and scripted fair play of games alerts us to their lack in the “real” world; and we feel the possibility of authentic forms in neither the ludic algorithm nor in life, but in the gap between them. Galloway argues that,

The gamer is… learning, internalizing, and becoming intimate with a massive, multipart, global algorithm. To play the game means to play the code of the game. To win means to know the system. And thus to interpret a game means to interpret its algorithm (to discover its parallel “allegorithm”) (Galloway 90-1).

These allegorithms are all around us in the ludic ways we are asked to navigate our lives. Wark begins her book with the provocative question, “Ever get the feeling you’re playing some vast and useless game whose goal you don’t know and whose rules you can’t remember?... Welcome to Gamespace” (1). Siri makes hands-free phone calls; Alexa orders goods for us; our cars are beginning to drive themselves; a wrist computer tells us how many steps we’ve taken in a given day; my son’s school uses software that doles out rewards and punishments using sounds and visuals from a casino; an app soothes us to sleep at night. Games are built atop mechanical systems with which the player collaborates, exerting agency that might awaken a thirst for agency outside of the game. Wark thinks we need games to show us what agency we would like to have in the wider world.

This is the game studies bedrock upon which I build this thesis. Though I employ discrete literary theoretical lenses in each chapter and hew closely to their hermeneutics, my larger goal involves the function of games in the current textual ecology, and to demonstrate their crucial role in this strange cultural moment. Games, I argue, make theory physically and emotionally legible, and they can be used accordingly. My first objects of study, to which I apply a postcolonial (and, to a lesser extent, eco-critical) lens, are Assassin’s Creed: Freedom Cry and Never Alone. The former takes on the legacy of the transatlantic slave trade and features a formerly-enslaved black man in the 18th Century Caribbean who frees other enslaved persons from sugar plantations, prisons, and auction blocks, and orchestrates a slave revolt. While the game’s narrative and mechanical systems hint at the potential of the medium for anti-colonial resistance, it is nevertheless a game created by and for the global North, and embedded within much of its anti-slavery rhetoric is the incongruous neocapitalism that enriches its game developers. The autoethnographic game Never Alone, meanwhile, created by the Cook Inlet Tribal Council, is a kind of apotheosis of the postcolonial (and autoethnographic) videogame project. Through its procedures, it endeavors to express distress about cultural and environmental degradation and to model Iñupiaq survivance in a world that has grown environmentally and culturally out of balance. Both games make us feel: The anguish of slavery on the one hand and the world-changing benefit of cooperating with the natural world on the other. Crucially, both use mechanical arguments to force players to confront toxic human systems and suggest paths of remediation. Freedom Cry offers players a power fantasy of confronting a particularly savage period of history, initially encouraging players to answer violence with violence but ultimately demonstrating the futility of violence. Never Alone likewise eschews violence, but it does so by denying players the mechanic in the first place. Its systems, moreover, offer an alternative to Western paradigms of domination. In order to win, players learn to interpret and respond to nature’s patterns, conceiving of themselves as part of an interconnected network of natural systems, each with its own soul, mood, and personality. The game mechanics require players to collaborate with the natural world to bring it back into balance.

My second object of study, to which I apply a psychoanalytic literary lens, also suggests paths toward remediation after creating intense discomfort in players, this time on the level of individual psychology. Housemarque Studio’s roguelike shooter Returnal deploys the generic tropes of science fiction and horror to force players to experience the fear and isolation of psychosis. The game plays with our double-vision as players, making a gameplay virtue of the way our brains split into two—and often more—discrete selves while playing. Most often, players are unconscious of the doubling of their bodies and identities, but Returnal, by rendering the doubling explicit (and explicitly uncanny), smuggles very sophisticated psychoanalytic literary theory into the grammar and topoi of the traditional third-person shooter. Returnal repurposes gaming tropes not merely in the service of generic convention, but, more significantly, to express the therapeutic concepts of defense mechanisms and repetition compulsions; the tripartite formulation of self as comprised of ego, id, and superego; and the role of a therapist in helping an ego strengthen itself. For 15-20 hours of gameplay, players understand themselves to be helping the player avatar escape a hostile alien planet, only to realize that the environment is Selene’s own mind and that the automated sentries and hostile fauna on the surface of the planet are defense mechanisms and the monstrous vestiges of trauma that she has externalized. The player feels her role within the game shifting from that of PC proxy to a sort of therapist, helping Selene decode her memories and strengthen her ego against monstrous internalized manifestations of her past, her guilt, and her self-poisoned narrative, until she can rewrite it on her own terms. The game is a concretization of psychoanalytic theory, for even the protagonist knows, by game’s end, where she is and what she needs to do to get better.

Finally, I examine Control, a game that is informed by and infused with postmodern deconstruction. It offers players a power fantasy of cleansing the specters of late-capitalist alienation from a modern workplace. Rather than Freud’s psychological unheimlich, we find ourselves in a site of sociological unheimlich. The game echoes its crowdsourced origins, a Creative Commons group storytelling venture called the “SCP Foundation,” which is charged with “securing, containing, protecting” paranormal phenomena. I employ Derrida’s “ellipses” and “hauntology”; Deleuze’s “rhizome theory”; Baudrillard’s “hyperreality”; and Vidler’s “architectural uncanny” to decode the authorial cacophony at the heart of the game. This Finnish game is a searing critique of American capitalist priorities, hierarchies, and systems. In “The Precession of Simulacra,” Jean Baudrillard calls our attention to “the primitive (mise en) scène of capital: its instantaneous cruelty, its incomprehensible ferocity, its fundamental immorality” (463). Control literalizes such mise en scènes by imagining the workspace as haunted by cruel and incomprehensible manifestations of corporate greed and expressions of power. The player avatar, Jesse Faden, traverses a frightening Brutalist workspace that has been infected by an entity that warps spaces and infects office workers so that they become zombies that chant, in unison, corporate buzzwords and surreal Dadaist phrases like “A copy of a copy of a copy / the picture is you holding the picture / leave your insides by the door.” Jesse’s “bosses” are otherworldly entities from another dimension, known only as “The Board,” who control her from out of a huge, inverted pyramid. They speak in muffled voices with inscrutable, inexact translations on the screen below, in speech that conflates cosmic horror and corporate double-speak, saying such things as “you will never work/exist in this Torn/Cosmic Reality again” and referring to the office building as “the House/Prison you occupy.” Players are never sure if these entities are Jesse’s pawns or her Svengali. The game is a visual metaphor of Baudrillard’s “hyperreality,” which he conceives as “the infinity of capital folded back on its own surface” into a kind of Möbius strip (465). In The Architectural Uncanny, Anthony Vidler maintains that the “alienation of the individual” is expressed in the scale differences between skyscrapers—expressions of capitalist domination—and the anonymous workers who are automatons within and around them. This difference would not be so acute without “the real economic and social estrangements experienced by the majority of [a city’s] inhabitants” (Vidler 4). Control renders corporate spaces as full of hidden hazards, including inscrutable power structures; the dehumanizing insatiability of capitalist logics; and the way modern workspaces tend to become “pathological.”

I conclude with a few other lenses I hope to use for future projects, ideally when I continue this work at the doctoral level, such as queer theory, with which I hope to explore player embodiment and the implicitly queer game metaphor of adopting different skins and trying on different subjectivities; affect theory and the way games engage more emotional layers than other media—especially exploring their potential role in pro-social endeavors; and feminist theory as applied to both the misogyny in metagaming contexts and the way female subjectivity is explored in game spaces in new and exciting ways. I hope to demonstrate the ways in which videogames are a critical subject for academic inquiry, for the alchemical way they can turn theory into praxis, and, through simulation, reveal what is most real—or at least reveal the reality that is lacking in the world around us. Such practice is critical at our current moment, when the increasing gamification of the real world—in our work, our media, even our wars—are transforming into videogames all around us.

Works Cited

• Aarseth, Espen. Cybertexts: Perspectives on Ergodic Literature. Johns Hopkins U. P., 1997.

• Baudrillard, Jean. “The Precession of Simulacra.” Simulacra and Simulation, Translated by Sheila Faria Glaser. U. of Michigan P., 1994, pp. 453–81.

• Bogost, Ian. Persuasive Games: The Expressive Power of Videogames. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology Press, 2010.

• Boluk, Stephanie and Patrick LeMieux. Metagaming. U. of Minnesota P., 2017.

• Deleuze, Gilles, and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus. Translated by Brian Massumi, U. of Minnesota P., 1987.

• Galloway, Alexander. Gaming: Essays On Algorithmic Culture. U. of Minnesota P., 2006.

• Guattari, Felix. The Three Ecologies. Translated by Ian Pindar and Paul Sutton. Continuum, 2000.

• Housemarque Studios. Returnal. Playstation 5 Version, Housemarque, Climax Studios, Distributed by Sony Interactive Entertainment, 30 Apr 2021.

• Isbister, Katherine. How Games Move Us: Emotion by Design. The MIT Press, 2017.

• Quilligan, Maureen. The Language of Allegory. Cornell U. P., 1979.

• Remedy Entertainment. Control. PS5 Edition, Distributed by 505 Games, 2019.

• SCP Foundation. “Main” by The SCP Foundation Wiki, Source: https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/main. Licensed under CC-BY-SA. Accessed 29 Nov 2022.

• Ubisoft Montréal. Assassin’s Creed: Freedom Cry. PS4 Version, Ubisoft, Inc., 2014.

• Upper One Games. Never Alone (Kisima Inŋitchuŋa). Version 4.3.7, Upper One Games, E-Line Media, iOS Platform, 2014.

• Vidler, Anthony. The Architectural Uncanny: Essays in the Modern Unhomely. MIT Press, 1999.

• Wark, McKenzie. Gamer Theory. Harvard U. P., 2007.

Playing Human

Psychological and Sociological Transhumanism in Videogames

Videogames are transhuman experiences. Our bodies and minds temporarily enter into a collaboration with technology for the purpose of bringing about specific results in virtual spaces. Two recent games explore transhumanism explicitly, removing us entirely from a human context in order to force a confrontation with what it means to be human. 2021’s Returnal and 2022’s Stray smuggle very sophisticated literary theory into the grammar and topoi of traditional third-person shooters and puzzle platformers respectively. Though videogames are often overlooked as literature, the act of participating in a narrative gives players a different orientation to the content, due to the combination of poetics and procedural rhetoric, that actually leads to a transhuman sense of game-player co-authorship.

The term “procedural rhetoric” was coined by Ian Bogost to refer to the interactive game processes that encourage certain behaviors over others; a semiotics of gameplay. Like other media, games have a narrative layer that is unidirectional: Plot, character, setting, and dialogue are fed to players and amplified by musical scores, cinematic cut scenes, and environmental dynamics. Players receive this layer passively. But, as Jesper Juul contends, we cannot understand the persuasive power of videogames unless we analyze their narratives in tandem with their rules. “The player navigates… two levels,” he says, “playing video games in the half-real zone between the fiction and the rules. (Juul 202)

Rules are communicated via the mechanical and haptic feedback that occurs beneath the narrative in a process which Bogost defines as “the art of persuasion through rule-based representations and interactions” (ix). The reciprocal relationship between action and consequence leads to an emergent sense of collaboration that is unique to the medium. Unless developers pay close attention to the synergy between the procedural and narrative rhetorics, conflicts can arise between them, causing what game developer Clint Hocking terms “ludonarrative dissonance.” If the narrative of the game insists that pacifism is a moral good, for instance, but the game’s mechanical systems make virtual murder pleasurable or rewarding in goods and XP, the player experiences a disconnect between the two rhetorical overlays.

Sometimes games leverage this dissonance. I’ll give just a brief overview of how Returnal and Stray use procedural rhetoric to generate dissonance. These games use disorientation to jolt players to experience, to “play,” psychoanalytic and Marxist theory respectively. Returnal is a shooter about an “Astroscout” who crash lands on an alien planet. The alien civilization is long gone, but Selene must fight her way through the automated defenses that remain while making an upward journey through different biomes to find a means of escape. These are all very recognizable—one might even say cliché—gaming tropes. The dissonance occurs after about 15 hours of gameplay when events lead players to realize suddenly that the alien landscape through which they have been fighting takes place entirely within the protagonist’s psyche, and this genre switch reorients them to their role in the story. We are not on an alien planet at all, and all events and characters map seamlessly onto ideas drawn from Freudian literary theory, wherein the game tropes of fighting swarms of enemies become a metaphor for battling inner demons; the three main characters become analogs of Freud’s tripartite self; and the respawning after in-game death becomes an example of the repetition compulsion.

Like Returnal, Stray is a journey upward, but it examines the sociological remnants humanity leaves behind. The game takes place in a far future after humanity has wiped itself out. The player embodies a cat that must ascend through the levels of a subterranean city, helping robot denizens who, in the absence of humans, have become self-aware and now simulate human culture, for good and ill. The game becomes a sort of escape from Plato’s cave, with revelations accompanying each level from the bottommost slum of the city to its sleek neon markets above. Interestingly, the robots in the slums are philosophers and artists, having formed strong kinship bonds and community, while the market tier demonstrates the perils of capitalism, representing the robots as mindlessly working to no end: Barbershops and clothing stores open each day even though the robots have no hair or need for clothes; each night they dance identical dances at the nightclub. They betray each other and hoard valueless wealth. The dissonance is produced by  players’ identification with hollowness of the human structures, an identification that is not shared by the cat avatar. Players realize, all at once, that they are enmeshed in a critique rather than a game and experience a similar reorientation to the content. It lays bare and savagely critiques the logic of capitalism, which we feel more acutely because it is divorced from its human context.

Returnal and Stray are very recent, and signal a potential watershed in videogame criticism, wherein the transhuman act of playing can help us not just read about but experience theory. Katherine Isbister discusses how players of videogames forge “an identification grounded in observation as well as action and experience.” So games are a form of praxis. By deploying these older critical frames in the service of speculative, posthuman works, we update these tired theories into a contemporary context. These games hint at the near limitless potential of the genre to explore and experience both theory and praxis.

The God of the Gaps

Ellipsis as the Unnamable in Thi Bui and Carmen Maria Machado

In “Memory and Narrative of Traumatic Events,” María Crespo and Violeta Fernández-Lansac explain the way trauma creates two discrete systems of memory that operate independently of and in parallel to one another. The first “comprises voluntary memories that are integrated with other autobiographical memories,” while the second contains “nonverbal information without a temporal context, whose access is automatic” (149). One system employs language and the other—received, involuntary, immediate—is silent. So how do memoir authors express aspects of trauma that are beyond speech? Thi Bui and Carmen Maria Machado, two unconventional memoirists who chronicle deeply scarring and politically-charged traumas, intentionally combine semiotic systems to give voice to memory’s silences. By weaving gaps and non-verbal expressions into their prose, they experientially represent the silence of second-tier traumatic memory. Bui combines textual and visual rhetoric in her graphic memoir The Best We Could Do, with spreads that let the gaps between the two semiotic systems express the hopes, fears, and uncertainties of immediate and involuntarily-experienced pain. Similarly, Machado’s In the Dream House layers its rhetorical structures: While the cracks in her text are marginally visual—in the form of experimentation with typography and form—her rhetorical breaks are primarily expressed in vertiginous genre shifts that recreate the instability of an abusive relationship. Both authors use narrative fracture, redoubling, and omission in the service of communicating the unnamable, and through these ellipses, they experientially render the unnamable disquiet of trauma.

Bui’s graphic memoir chronicles her family’s traumatic journey from war-torn Viêt Nam to the United States, and the consequent hauntings of postmemory that affect two generations of Vietnamese immigrants. She blends words with panels of black and white line drawings, unified by a single-color wash in brick-red that places readers within the inexact, sepia-tones of memory. The words can be understood as Crespo and Fernández-Lansac’s first-order processed memories, while the images become the fragmentary memories of the second order. The red wash flows freely between words, images, and panels in a way that unifies disparate aspects of the same psyche. For example, in one spread Bui draws herself at a writing desk, beginning the project, enclosed in a panel. Behind her are ocean waves in the red-wash of memory, flowing into the page below. Beneath the panel is a young girl, her back turned to us, her hair blowing in the wind. She disappears off the bottom of the page in a full bleed, without a bounding box. On her back, a black tattoo of Viêt Nam, echoed by a mirror image of Viêt Nam in the wash in front of her. The words, in boxes, say “if I could see Viêt Nam as a real place, and not a symbol of something lost… I would see my parents as real people… and learn to love them better” (Bui 36). Through apposition, ellipses, and visual metaphor, the book places readers in the swell of traumatic memory: In the literal swell of memory, as the swells of the sea that transported her family on a tiny boat out of war-torn Viêt Nam are a recurring motif that expresses vulnerability, migration, and the tidal forces of women’s bodies.

In Understanding Comics, Scott McCloud provides valuable insights about the multiple semiotic overlays that activate graphic literature. The gaps between panels, for instance, are known in comics scholarship as “the gutter”—the space where the action and events of the story are implied or suggested, but not fully shown or explained, and where readers are forced to commit “closure” (McCloud 63). Closure refers to the brain’s tendency to craft conceptual links between elements in apposition, even in instances where such links are not explicated by authors. As such, closure is necessarily experiential, asking the reader to, in a sense, co-author the story. It is the space where readers’ imaginations are activated, and where the significance and implications of the story are constructed. In the spread mentioned above, readers apprehend the images instantaneously: We see a writing woman bounded in a panel, which is linked, through closure and the red background unifying them, to a young girl with her home country written, in the form of a map, on her body. These images—which aren’t connected through reason but through emotion—slowly combine with words that explicitly link the pain of the country with the ongoing pain of the family until emotion, for the reader, squares with logic. The gutter plays a crucial role in mediating between sign systems in Bui’s text. McCloud discusses the way images are instantaneously “received” while words are “perceived,” a process that takes time, specialized knowledge, and the ability to de- and recode signs (49). The lag between reception and perception causes emotion and logic to harmonize at different registers. As such, the combination of word and image is perfect for rendering both first- and second-tier traumatic memories—the verbal and the scotomized or unnamable. By leaving space for the reader's imagination to fill in the gaps, Bui harnesses closure, the gutter, and the lag between reception and perception to weave a rich and complex narrative that is both conceptually coherent and emotionally wrenching.

Machado’s In the Dream House, too, forces readers to commit closure, though her methods are more conceptual than visual, including dizzying shifts in genre that occur each chapter. Her memoir chronicles same-sex intimate partner abuse, which readers co-experience in the narrative’s constant destabilizations, diversions, and repetitions. Machado writes sudden queasy shifts, violent mood swings, and pregnant ellipses into the text, subversions of narrative expectations that mirror the gaslighting, unpredictability, and cruelty of the relationship in question. While she does not exploit the split between received images and perceived text, she does manipulate our expectations of genre: Our anticipation of generic tropes, after all, precede cognition of the complex plot. Machado names her past abusive relationship “The Dream House,” and the unnamed girlfriend as “the Woman in the Dream House.” The narrative literally takes place in a small home in Bloomington Indiana in which the two lived during the author’s early twenties; but it figuratively takes place in an increasingly isolated and atemporal dreamscape that rollercoasters from erotic heights to horror-movie lows. We can read these different narrative layers as parallel to Bui’s overlay of words and images; and both authors use these unconventional techniques to layer Crespo and Fernández-Lansac’s first- and second-order memories. Machado employs second-person narration throughout. Readers come to understand that the author is the “I” at the time of writing, apostrophizing her former self, the one trapped in time, repeatedly and eternally undergoing abuse. Each chapter resituates the Dream House in a new genre, almost like switching the channels on a television, and the chapter titles, like “Dream House as Bildungsroman”; “Dream House as Haunted Mansion”; “Dream House as Cosmic Horror,” remain the only formal constant. Many of the chapters are short and impressionistic, sometimes as short as a single sentence, with connections to the narrative that are often oblique, tenuous, associative. Thus, much of the text is blank space. The interstices between Machado’s vignettes thereby function as “gutters” of sorts, that force readers to supply the connective tissue, like they must between the panels of Bui’s graphic memoir.

In “Exploring Same-Sex Female Intimate Partner Abuse Through Literary Tropes,” Sinéad Spelman notes that Machado endeavors to “bring to light invisible, and often taboo, areas of experience through stylistic experimentation,” in which the “the autobiographical first-person interrupt[s] dynamics of erasure and silencing” (45). Like Bui, Machado paradoxically uses silence to restore her own authority over a narrative that has been hijacked. Machado must walk a fine line to tell a story that has been commandeered both by the Woman in the Dream House on the one hand and by forces that are hostile to or essentializing of LGBTQ+ experiences on the other. The textual pauses between vignettes do a lot of work, forcing readers to participate in the text by committing closure where she leaves blank spaces. Take, for instance, the gap between “Dream House as Idiom” and “Dream House as Warning”: The final lines of the former contend that “Instead of a shared structure providing shelter, [‘safe as houses’] means that the person in charge is secure; everyone else should be afraid,” which yields immediately to “A few months before your girlfriend became the Woman in the Dream House, a young… undergrad went missing in Bloomington” (Machado 78-9). While the observation about the idiom “safe as houses” and the young missing girl are literally unrelated, they are figuratively tied together, and readers cannot help but link them through closure. Thus, as happens in the ellipses between all of the vignettes—indeed one could almost take any two contiguous vignettes to make the same point—the two ideas grow together, such that even the joy of moving in with a lover becomes tinged with threat. The author is not “safe as houses” in the Dream House, since she is implicitly not the one in charge, and then she becomes the missing girl, who, it is implied, has been disappeared by a perpetrator. This perpetrator, our brains tell us, illogically, is the Woman in the Dream House.

Both authors aestheticize eloquent silences. Jacques Derrida offers insights about the deep resonances of silence. In “Ellipsis,” he notes that what is left out of texts, the absences or “ellipses,” “redouble and consecrate” the words that remain (296). Pauses pepper Bui’s and Machado’s texts, stylistically and rhetorically, and Derrida’s conception of the ellipsis helps to ground their semiotically unstable methods. Textual blind spots, he argues, contain a “fabric of traces” for readers to decode, for “all meaning is altered by this lack” (Derrida 296). By “pronouncing non-closure,” Derrida maintains, the gaps are both “infinitely open and infinitely reflecting on [themselves]” in a Möbius strip that “redoubles” meaning. Redoubling, to Derrida, disrupts the traditional hierarchy of language, highlighting its inherent instability and ambiguity (Derrida 298). Bui and Machado use negative space as a kind of redoubling, creating the outlines of trauma such that the shape of its impact is clear, even if it cannot be looked at directly. Since they are both women whose identities are already marginalized by factors other than their trauma, they use gaps to forestall the external suppression of the traumatic experiences that further marginalize them. In an interview with Aaron Burkhalter, Bui discusses cultural silence: “my people speak in pregnant silences and don't argue. So I had to figure out how to do that in comics. It turns out that comics are actually good at showing silences.” McCloud discusses the emotional impact of silence in comics; the way silences push content into eternal and unchanging spaces, remarking,

the content of a silent panel… can produce a sense of timelessness. Because of its unresolved nature, such a panel may linger in the readers’ mind… When ‘bleeds’ are used, time is no longer contained, but instead hemorrhages and escapes into timeless space. (102)

We might look once more at Bui’s older version of herself sitting inside the panel, imagining the full-bleed image of her younger self below. The self below is trapped in timeless space, even as the author ages. This, according to Crespo and Fernández-Lansac, is how second-tier trauma memories work: “Triggered by perceptual cues,” they are “dominated by vivid sensorial details” that fragment and arrest time (149). These involuntary memories return the afflicted person against and again back to the site and conditions of the trauma. In an interview with Madi Haslam, Machado, too, discusses her aesthetic choice to use second person as a negotiation between her older self and the younger self who is doomed, when triggered by external stimuli, to repeat the traumatic memory:

I talk about this first-person Carmen—that's me—and the second-person Carmen—that's like this past version of myself that can't access any of the knowledge that I have… she is constantly turning on this hamster wheel of pain, trapped in the past… She’s stuck there forever and there's nothing I can do about it, so [using second person is] sort of honoring that wall.

Thi Bui

By taking control, visiting the scenes of trauma on their own terms, these authors perform a kind of healing scriptotherapy, which Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson, in Reading Autobiography, refer to as “the process of speaking or writing about trauma in order to find words to give voice to previously repressed memories” (29). Both Bui and Machado create, gaze at, and empathize with these remembered selves who cannot speak, who are immobile within the amber of their distress. Both authors use silence to sanctify their timeless, full-bleed suffering.

Derrida conceives of the ellipsis as a tool to draw readers’ attention to what is missing in a text, suggesting there is always more to be said or thought in these textual gaps. Ellipses, being circular and recursive in nature, as well as pregnant with potential energy, challenge a linear philosophical telos. They open new, more rhizomatic structures of thought around familiar ideas as a part of Derrida’s broader project of deconstruction, which seeks to expose the hidden assumptions and biases that buttress Western epistemology. Both Bui and Machado are women of color with a specific positionality within mainstream culture, and thus their narratives are triply adulterated by the strains of dominant discourse: They are women on one hand; they are women of color on another; and finally, Bui is an immigrant and Machado is from the LGBTQ+ community. While everyone suffering unnamable trauma works within some form of narrative mediation that they must navigate and, if necessary, dismantle, immigrants and queer women of color must kick against tremendous undercurrents to be heard at all. Moreover, they are burdened with representing not only themselves but an entire category of people, balancing personal truth with the need to protect their group from harmful stereotypes. Ellipses can help, strategic silences that speak a language that is different from but complementary to the narrative. Through the differences between word and image for Bui and between a first-person narrator and a second-person self in Machado, these two women navigate memories that do not square with, or that fit uncomfortably among, existing narratives about immigrants and queer people.

The Viêt Nam war, for instance, has deeply entrenched narratives in the United States, and part of Bui’s project is redressing the “stereotypes and terrible cliches about Vietnamese people from bad Vietnam War movies” (Burkhalter). And so she must fight against calcified history in writing her historically-specific trauma. As Stella Oh observes in “Birthing a Graphic Archive of Memory: Re-Viewing the Refugee Experience in Thi Bui’s The Best We Could Do,”

Rather than dehistoricizing trauma, Bui positions trauma and the material conditions of war firmly and literally on the back of the character and engages in a political project of recuperative narrativization. The graphic novel serves as a form of cartography, mapping our ways of perceiving Vietnam and the Vietnamese War in spatial and recursive modes that intervene in dominant tropes of Vietnam and representations of the war. (81)

Carmen Maria Machado

Like Bui, Machado expresses frustration that the legal and social narratives about queer people make her leery of representing the Woman in the Dream House as “the specter of the lunatic lesbian” (126), but she is compelled to write her experience because “the nature of archival silence is that certain people’s narratives and their nuances are swallowed by history” (138). Being in the double-bind of trauma on the one hand and cultural invisibility on the other compels both women to aestheticize silence, if only to keep their narratives out of the greedy grasp of pre-existing and limiting white Western heteronormative thought. God, as the old saying goes, can be glimpsed right there in the gaps.

In sum, ellipses run like electrical currents through both authors’ prose, and their texts use ellipses to explore trauma by mixing semiotic systems, in ways that correspond to Crespo and Fernández-Lansac’s two tiers of traumatic memory. Machado and Bui employ writerly techniques that, through silence, become powerful archives of traumatic memory and postmemory. Kelly Hurley’s “Trauma and Horror” argues that traditional modes of narration such as realism are inadequate for the abreaction of trauma, because it isn’t possible to render

a “true” representation of traumatic events, given that the very experience of trauma involves the derangement, even the shattering, of the subjective apparatus designed to process it. Traumatic events can only be understood belatedly and imperfectly; they give rise to repetitive dreams and uncontrollable flashbacks and generate this-is-what-happened stories characterized by disjunction and distortion. (2)

Bui and Machado’s grapplings thereby provide models of healing that acknowledge and honor breakages and fractures, sanctifying the gap between what can be spoken and what exists beyond words. Their fractured narratives, rather than smoothing over the jagged edges of trauma, choose to aestheticize the breakages as a way to honor their experiences and experientially convey them to readers. Both of them are doing something that becomes a source of empowerment for those who find their experiences outside of accepted reality: They queer the pitch, semiotically, a tactic that strikes me as a kind of écriture féminine, since women, when it comes to trauma, often have to fight tooth and claw to wrest their stories back from a dehumanizing hegemony that would prefer to smooth out, simplify, or simply erase their story from the archive.

Works Cited

Burkhalter, Aaron. “Thi Bui Brings Her Graphic Novel Memoir to Seattle for Four Days of Appearances.” The South Seattle Emerald, 8 April 2019.

Crespo, María and Violeta Fernández-Lansac. “Memory and Narrative of Traumatic Events: A Literature Review.” Psychological Trauma: Theory, Research, Practice, and Policy, 2016, Vol. 8, No. 2, pp. 149–156.

Derrida, Jacques. “Ellipsis.” Writing and Difference. Translated by Alan Bass, U. of Chicago P., 1978, pp. 294-300.

Haslam, Madi. “The House is a Space of Living Metaphor: An Interview with Carmen Maria Machado.” MaisonNeuve, 20 Dec. 2019, Accessed 10 Dec 2022.

Hurley, Kelly. “Trauma and Horror: Anguish and Transfiguration.” English language Notes, Vol. 59, No. 2, Oct. 2021, pp. 2-8.

McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. HarperCollins Publishing, 1993.

Oh, Stella. “Birthing a Graphic Archive of Memory: Re-Viewing the Refugee Experience in Thi Bui’s The Best We Could Do.” Melus, Vol 25, No. 4, Winter 2020, pp. 72-90.

Smith, Sidonie and Julia Watson. Reading Autobiography: A Guide for Interpreting Life Narratives, Second Edition. U. of Minnesota P., 2010.

Spelman, Sinéad. “Carmen Maria Machado's Memoir In The Dream House: Exploring Same-Sex Female Intimate Partner Abuse Through Literary Tropes.” Journal of Gender, Globalisation and Rights, No. 3, 2022.

Of Carpets and Shrouds

The Family and the Polis in Aeschylus’ Oresteia

In Aeschylus’ Oresteia, marriage is war. In a literal rather than a metaphorical sense: The perversion of the marriages of Atreus, Menelaus, and Agamemnon form a chain of iniquity that leads directly to the Trojan War and its tragical aftermath, and the text links the failure of blood ties to the failure of the state. But the sacrifice of young unmarried women in the play—whom the text renders as especially tragic—is what delays and complicates the carrying out of justice. Or, rather, it sets one paradigm of divine justice against another, equally important one. Cassandra is one such Parthenos, and her fruitless prophesizing transforms her into a crucial audience surrogate: Like us, she is armed with foreknowledge about how the play’s action will transpire but (like us) she is unable to use her knowledge to change events and is doomed to watch them unfold with the same combination of pity and terror that the audience experiences. A figure of impossible duality, she is at once nubile and doubly-wed; at once princess and slave; and, most crucially, at once herself and an echo of another Parthenos, the unjustly sacrificed Iphigenia. She cannot be suffered to survive this duality, but without such recursion in Cassandra’s body, the story cannot be suffered to survive. In her, the plays’ warring energies collide: Cold, rational Apollo, overseer of masculine order, and the hot, feminine temper of the Furies. It takes a divine arbiter in the form of Athena to settle the dispute between the justice of the Polis and the justice of the home, and to restore equilibrium to the chaos created by the drama’s many perversions of marriage.

Cassandra personifies the state that has captured her. Like the ruling family of Argos, her life is defined—and defiled—by a curse. The curse on the house of Atreus, Aeschylus makes clear, was initiated when Atreus’ brother Thyestes seduced his wife in a prior generation. In revenge, Atreus fed Thyestes his own children. Cassandra, the play’s truth-teller, renders this curse legible for the audience when she characterizes her new home as “A house that hates the gods, a houses in  / on the wicked murder of its own, of itself, a house full of nooses” and she gets more explicit when she references “the babies wailing over the sacrifice, / and the roasted meat on which their father was fed” (Ag. 1090-1, 1096-7). This initial horror—the first mutilation of marriage and child-rearing bonds—has, by the time of the action, rippled out to subsequent generations such that the curse dooms the entire culture to violent instability. Menelaus drags his allies into the protracted Trojan war because of the abduction of his wife by her lover, Paris; Agamemnon sacrifices his daughter Iphigenia in exchange for favorable sailing winds. In “The Marriage of Cassandra and the Oresteia,” Robin Mitchell-Boyask notes that “the color of Iphigenia's robes, ‘saffron-dyed’… suggests the appearance of the Greek bridal veil,” and thus we see that she, thinking she would be wed, was sacrificed instead (283). In turn, Agamemnon’s wife, Clytemnestra, takes ferocious revenge for Iphigenia’s murder upon her husband’s return from the Trojan War, killing him in the bath. From there, their son, Orestes, must obey Apollo by murdering his own mother in retribution for the regicide. Though that is the last human death, Orestes is so hounded by the Furies—the fierce, ancient deities who preside over kinship bonds—that he is driven mad, unable to ascend to his father’s throne. No human recourse can interrupt the endless cycle of bloodshed and suffering ensured by the curse.

In parallel to the curse on the house of Atreus, Cassandra suffers under her own curse. Apollo, at some point in the past, gave her the wooing gift of foresight, but when she spurned him, he cursed her by ensuring her prophecies would never be believed. When we meet her, she is a war prize bequeathed to Agamemnon by his army, a former princess of the conquered Troy, now a slave. A Parthenos, Cassandra must follow Agamemnon into his home in a caricature of Greek marriage rites, which, as Mitchell-Boyask notes, “cast the bride’s departure from her house as an abduction and then death” (276). By tradition, a bride is delivered by chariot from her mother’s to her mother-in-law’s household, an act that is “strongly associated with the Persephone myth that this drama evokes” (Mitchell-Boyask 276). So marriage—a girl’s forced obeisance to a new lord—is framed as a kind of death. When Cassandra arrives in Argos as war booty, the play’s staging casts her as his bride, alighting from a chariot while he marches on foot, and his wife, Clytemnestra, becomes a stand-in for her mother-in-law, greeting her at the door. The bride imagery, however, is redoubled by her entreaties to Apollo, whose bride, we learn, she should also be. The saffron of Iphigenia’s robes is reiterated in the text by the chorus, who liken the chill her words have on their blood as “the color of men who have fallen / in battle and lie in the rays of their life as it sets” (Ag. 1121-3). Though Mary Lefkowitz’ translation alludes to Apollo in evoking the color of sunbeams—he is after all the god of sunlight and patron of young ephebes in the military—Mitchell-Boyask translates the line as “saffron-dyed blood” (283). This textual echo strikes me as critical in generating a resonance between the plays’ two Parthenoi. Doubly a bride, Cassandra is no bride at all. She laments, “No father’s altar waits there, but a block— / scarlet and warm when I’m the sacrifice,” strengthening her link to Iphigenia (Ag. 1277-8). Death is her last resort, and the only way to consummate the aborted wedding to Apollo. Mitchell-Boyask notes the way Cassandra’s lot becomes metonymy for the state:

By presenting Cassandra as Apollo's bride the dramatist looks forward and prepares his audience for important aspects of the next two parts of the trilogy, including the role of Orestes as a maturing ephebe claiming his patrimony under Apollo's guidance and Apollo's extremely problematic… conduct during Orestes's trial. (271)

Through Cassandra, the play intimates that intuition cannot comfortably mate with rationality: There is no perfect union possible between rational and intuitive justice. A balance must be struck between the ancient Furies and the younger gods of the Polis if there is to be any dramatic resolution. Once inside the home, Cassandra removes her veil with the words “I’ll prophesy no longer like a new bride / timidly peering out beneath her veil” (Ag. 1178-9). Mitchell-Boyask asserts that “Her progress into clarity here, lifting the veil, stands for her as the consummation of her marriage as it accompanies her accession to death as a Bride of Apollo” (278). Cassandra can fulfill her obligation to Apollo only through death, and thus serves as a recursion of the fatal conflict between sign systems that the culture suffers: It takes a balance of the feminine and masculine principles, embodied by Athena, to provide a resolution, albeit an imperfect one.

When Apollo tells Orestes to travel to Athens to be tried by the courts, he informs us that the city’s patron goddess, Athena, will adjudicate the proceedings. This represents a yielding of ancient custom—clan justice with its cycles of never-ending carnage—to the urbane laws of the Polis. No human character in the trilogy is wise to condemn of defy Apollo, but Aeschylus does not present him as just or trustworthy either. His system of marshal justice, too, is proven insufficient, and the play demonstrates that Athens’ civic legal code is equipped to recognize and contend with such insufficiencies. Apollo serves, in the trial, as the god for the defense, and he begins inauspiciously by insulting the Furies, who are serving as the jury. He arrogantly demands that they leave the Areopagus, saying: “You should share a cave / with a blood-guzzling lion, and not wipe / your dirt on others at this oracle. / You strays, you feral goats, move off!” (Eu. 193-6). Athena, though she rules in favor of Apollo and Orestes, serves as diplomat, calming, negotiating with, and expressing reverence for the Furies so that all sides are more or less satisfied with the outcome. As a goddess begotten of Zeus’ forehead, she represents both male and female principles, announcing herself as mediator between their interests with these words:

There is no mother who gave birth to me.
With all my heart, I hold with what is male—
except through marriage. I am all my father’s,
no partisan of any woman killed
for murdering her husband, her home’s watchman. (Eu. 736-40)

The Furies are angered by Apollo, but Athena turns to them with the words “let me persuade you” (Eu. 793). She promotes them, promising them the privilege and worship due to goddesses, for “No household here could thrive apart from you” (Eu. 896). It takes a woman (Athena) to reconcile the fierceness of a lioness protecting a cub (Clytemnestra) with the impartial justice of the state (Apollo). Thus, the trilogy’s conclusion makes plain the theme of incompatible systems of justice, models a resolution to the incompatibility, and delivers Cassandra and Iphigenia vengeance, paltry but satisfactory.

Cassandra and her antecedent are keystones that communicate the trilogy’s gendered orientation to justice. The drama subtly suggests that an all-male justice schema will catch too many innocents in its crossfire. Feminine interests in the drama are represented by fabrics, as exemplified by Iphigenia’s saffron robe; Cassandra’s bridal/prophetic veil; and, as yet unmentioned, the tapestries spread out by Clytemnestra upon Agamemnon’s return. Clytemnestra welcomes him home by spreading sumptuous textiles beneath his feet. They are dyed with precious murex, too fine to be walked on, and she does it as a kind of test. Agamemnon at first demurs, saying only gods should trample such fabrics, but his ego eventually cannot hold up to the temptation, and he treads on them. This act of male hubris signals that Agamemnon has failed his wife’s test. But he also fails ours: Even after sacrificing countless soldiers in a long and bloody war, he is still willing to tread on something fine to serve himself, the way he tread on his daughter by sacrificing her to his own glory. Apollo oversees and adjudges young ephebes, and as such he is a god with a connection to the justice of war—a god whose sister demanded Iphigenia’s blood sacrifice. But he is also himself without a consort, and is thus a threat to young parthenoi, as much as human ephebes are, which we learn from his menacing of Cassandra; and from the Furies, toward whom his behavior is unforgivable. The justice of women, however, based on rage and instinct, while understandable, is also insufficient to run the state, as we see in the curse that the Furies have unleashed on the house of Atreus. Setting aside the gendered aspect of the systems of justice, the metaphor of Cassandra is as useful today as it presumably was in the time of Aeschylus. We still do not have a perfect system of justice; and we still struggle for grace and balance under the law. These plays go deeply and psychomachically into the psychology of ethics, wherein one aspect of human experience doesn’t “play nice” with other aspects. Many if not all, at times, experience the pride and hubris of Agamemnon; the rage and vengeance of Clytemnestra; the impossible choices and hounding conscience of Orestes. Many of us struggle, at the personal, familial, and state levels, to restore order and equilibrium to a kingdom that is perpetually torn asunder.

Works Cited

Aeschylus. “The Oresteia.” The Greek Plays: Sixteen Plays by Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, Translated by Mary Lefkowitz and James Romm, Modern Library, 2017, pp. 51-177.

Mitchell-Boyask, Robin. “The Marriage of Cassandra and the ‘Oresteia’: Text, Image, Performance.” The American Philological Association, Vol. 136, No. 2, Autumn 2006, pp. 269-97.

Losing Control

A Dialogic Game Derived from the Crowdsourced Imaginary

“The buildings of capitalism, hives of killer bees, honey for the few.
He served there. But in a dark tunnel, when no one watched,
he unfolded his wings and flew. He had to live his life”

— Tomas Tranströmer, “Epigram”

Fan fiction traditionally follows a radial trajectory: Beginning with a locus—an author or text—it projects outward to a loose confederacy of fans who create and compile work that orbits and extends the original. But the videogame Control reverses this trajectory, taking its inspiration from a fanbase dedicated to collective storytelling—a Creative Commons fictional universe called the “SCP Foundation” to which anyone is welcome to contribute. Both properties are haunted houses of a sort, conceived as shadowy government agencies charged with “Securing, Containing, Protecting” (SCP) paranormal phenomena. The Federal Bureau of Control, Control’s in-game analog to the SCP’s “Foundation,” is literally haunted by the phenomena contained therein, but group storytelling and universal ownership queer our expectations of the haunted house paradigm: While traditional, single-author hauntings are often centered around one idea that the author controls and which the fanbase then complicates, the hauntings in Control are networked, variegated, and compounding. The narrative, in consequence, often feels tonally chaotic, but each element is a recognizable fragment in a shared imaginary, severed from its context. Control is, compellingly, a junk drawer of free ranging, psychologically-charged symbols which deliberately shift from definitive to ambiguated authorship: The game’s diffuse provenance, centerless networks, and hauntings from the collective unconscious offer players a quixotic power fantasy of literally cleansing the specters of late-capitalist alienation from a modern workspace.

Control’s set is a chilling workplace dystopia, where players are charged with containing various phenomena, usually consumer products that have come to life due to a quorum of the population imbuing them with longing or terror. They range from mischievous to neutral—haunted jukeboxes, arcade games, and lawn flamingos—but the game’s true villain is a malignant entity called only “The Hiss,” which infects people and spaces. The player avatar is Jesse Faden, a drifter who spent her life working low-wage subsistence jobs, a fact that is relevant to the project. The game begins with Jesse, in search of her brother, inside a brutalist government building in Manhattan, a building that is seemingly empty save for the electrical hum of fluorescent lights, the whisper of shuffling paper somewhere nearby, and the clanking of distant machinery. Jesse eventually finds herself in the office of the Bureau Director where he is lying dead on the floor. Upon picking up his sidearm she becomes the new Director of the FBC. All the photographs of the former Director on the walls, the player notices with alarm, have been replaced with her face, and the few office workers that remain alive greet her as the Director without surprise when they encounter her. Jesse finds she must fight The Hiss through the various departments of the Bureau, learning on the job to cleanse nodes of its influence, and shepherd uncorrupted office workers to safety. From beginning to end we aren’t sure if she is sane or hallucinating; if she is struggling underclass or apex predator; if the mysterious janitor haunting the corridors is man, god, monster, or ghost; or if the mysterious Board, a group of enigmatic entities who advise Jesse from out of a huge, inverted pyramid, are her pawns or her Svengali.

These inversions contribute to the game’s uncanny power and offer a searing critique of capitalist priorities. In “The Precession of Simulacra,” Jean Baudrillard calls our attention to “the primitive (mise en) scène of capital: its instantaneous cruelty, its incomprehensible ferocity, its fundamental immorality” (463). Control literalizes such mise en scènes by imagining the workspace as haunted by cruel and incomprehensible manifestations of corporate greed and expressions of power. The Hiss infection warps the building—the walls and corridors and furniture—in disturbing, unpredictable ways, mixing senseless architectural recursion with what feel like severed body parts. The game is a visual metaphor of Baudrillard’s “hyperreality,” which he conceives as “the infinity of capital folded back on its own surface” into a kind of Möbius strip (465). In The Architectural Uncanny, Anthony Vidler maintains that the “alienation of the individual” is expressed in the scale differences between skyscrapers—expressions of capitalist domination—and the anonymous workers who are automatons within and around them. This difference would not be so acute without “the real economic and social estrangements experienced by the majority of [a city’s] inhabitants” (Vidler 4). In Control, where there is Hiss infection, hapless office workers hang suspended in midair. These suspended figures murmur a steady chant in unison as the player gets close to Hiss-infected areas. The words of the chant occasionally come into focus with bizarrely juxtaposed Dadaist non-sequiturs like “A copy of a copy of a copy / Leave your insides by the door / The picture is you holding the picture.” They wear office attire—the uniforms of executives, scientists, secretaries, custodians, and security guards, all rendered equal in thralldom. They are liable at any moment to drop from the ceiling and attack Jesse, for the Hiss is a malevolent hive-mind that takes over bodies and spaces for some unspecified purpose that Jesse, without understanding how or why, must stop.

The gameplay involves fighting through rooms representing “the infinity of capital folded back on its own surface.” Different Bureau divisions have their own character and commentary on the class implications of corporate structure: In “Research” the player faces the experiments-gone-wrong unleashed by scientists playing god; “Maintenance” requires players to clear toxic waste and sentient fungal infestations; and in “Executive,” players discover increasingly unhinged recordings, evidence of upper management’s insanity, in their luxurious office suites. We are Quixotic flâneurs in a crowdsourced space, and the hauntings we find here are multiform and interconnected in what Neal Kirk calls “Networked Spectrality,” a particular kind of contemporary, high-tech haunted house that is collective and rhizomatic in structure, and through which our emergent fears and longings hunt and terrorize us, the more frightening because they are “unseen technological protocols” that can “structure and use human behavior” (Kirk 64). Rather than Freud’s psychological unheimlich, we find ourselves in a site of sociological unheimlich, a contemporary workspace that is also a prison, as the mysterious Board lets slip during a weapon tutorial, saying, “The Service Weapon has many Forms, like the House/Prison you occupy.” Like its real-world analogs, the Board inhabits a space wholly separate from the Bureau, and its inscrutable language—often a hodgepodge of cosmic horror and corporate buzzwords—obfuscates and bullies. Toward game’s end, Jesse teams up with another entity, which angers the Board. It says to her, “We Apologize/Deny All Knowledge. [The Former] builds a Competition/Not Us… If you [side with it] you will be Sorry/Dead. And you will never work/exist in this Torn/Cosmic Reality again.” There is no escape from Jesse’s fate—or ours, as Baudrillard would have it—but cleansing the nodes of each sector of Hiss influence comes close. Mastering these spaces of terror—watching the walls retract into smooth, gray, innocent symmetry; watching the eerie red give way to regular fluorescent lighting, hearing the blessed cessation of the chanting—is accompanied by a heady feeling of power and release.

Because no game about hyperreality would be complete without an instance of life imitating art, I’ll leave off with a real-life story: In 2015, Russian oligarch Andrey Duskin joined the SCP Foundation as a writer and began selling art based on its logo and stories, a project that was warmly encouraged by SCP—at first. But then, after copyrighting his work, he tried to wrest control of the IP away from them, using a loophole in the Creative Commons licensing. The lawsuit failed outside of Russia—for now—but it is ongoing, and he now owns all the rights to the property, including the work he did not create, inside Russia. As I was doing research for this project, Duskin became the Hiss for me, a corrupting force that consumes everything of cultural emergence only to package it back up and sell it to its creators. For this is one of the insatiable hungers of capitalism: The endless appropriation of the communicative arts, the packaging of it into bite-sized consumables, so that even our own creations are no longer ours, but part of the Möbius strip of capital, folding back on its own surface. But playing Control, on my couch in front of my PS5, at the threshold between real world and game world I felt myself momentarily free of that. For a moment, embodying a working-class hero who fell into a position of authority, I could ask myself “Who has Control?” and think, just maybe, it could be me.

Works Cited

Jean Baudrillard, “The Precession of Simulacra.” Simulacra and Simulation, Translated by Sheila Faria Glaser. U. of Michigan P., 1994, pp. 453–81.

Control. PS5 Edition, Remedy Entertainment, Distributed by 505 Games, 2019.

Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus, Translated by Brian Massumi, U. of Minnesota P., 1987.

Freud, Sigmund. “The Uncanny.” Art and Literature, Translated by James Strachey, Penguin, 1990, pp. 336-75.

Joy, Reagan. “The Tragedy of the Creative Commons: An Analysis of How Overlapping Intellectual Property Rights Undermine the Use of Permissive Licensing.” Case Western Law Review, Vol. 72, Is. 4, 2022, pp. 977-1012.

Kirk, Neal. “Networked Spectrality: In Memorium, Pulse, and Beyond.” Digital Horror: Haunted Technologies, Network Panic, and the Found Footage Phenomenon, Edited by Xavier Aldana Reyes, I.B. Tauris and Company, 2015.

Tranströmer, Tomas. “Epigram.” Inspired Notes: The Poems of Tomas Tranströmer, translated by John F. Deane, 2011.

Vidler, Anthony. The Architectural Uncanny: Essays in the Modern Unhomely. MIT Press, 1999.

Parsing a Secret History

Ann Cvetkovich’s “Drawing the Archive in Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home”

Ann Cvetkovich situates Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home among extant criticism of other graphic memoirs—namely Art Spiegelman’s Maus and Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis—in the way they all concern the relationship between historical and personal trauma. Like Spiegelman, Bechdel’s text concerns a kind of family archeology, in her case undertaken by a queer child attempting to trace her queerness back to her closeted father; like Satrapi, Bechdel was an actual witness to events, and is not merely responding to the “postmemory” experienced by the next generation (Cvetkovich 113). But Cvetkovich distinguishes Bechdel’s memoir from the others for its intimate scope and emphasis on queer concerns and problematics. Where Spiegelman and Satrapi pursue precision, Bechdel generates ambiguity; where Spiegelman and Satrapi situate their stories in moments of violent political rupture, Bechdel’s family drama feels deceptively small—one might even call it claustrophobic. All three texts dramatize the difference in scale between the individual caught within the machine of vast global events and the cultural memory that occludes the personal in such events. Bechdel’s cultural rupture is an invisible one, the very violence of which is in its suppression and secrecy. She seeks to be “the sympathetic witness who can make available the rich and contradictory story of [her father’s] life so that he is something more than a pedophile, suicide, or tragic homosexual” (Cvetkovich 113). Bechdel undertakes this task for the good of the queer community, excavating the violence to self and others that comes from living a closeted life: Such suppression, the text argues, is as silently dangerous as louder, more visible cataclysms.

Cvetkovich grounds her observations in a queer theoretical frame, linking queer theory to scholars of historical trauma like Marianne Hirsch, who coined the term “postmemory” to refer to the aftereffects that haunt the children of parents who have lived through trauma. Much of Cvetkovich’s evidence is built on the interplay between image and text: She observes that the combination of words and images in all three graphic novels demonstrate “the effects of growing up in the vicinity of powerful combinations of violence and secrecy, including forms of secrecy that in the interest of protecting children’s innocence seem only to harm them” (Cvetkovich 113). For Bechdel’s text especially, the images create a “visual archive” of what only existed in secret or as symptom—the way her father’s obsession with restoration is a symptom; or his fastidiousness about appearance that he projects onto his daughter in a way that violates her autonomy. Through recreating documents and photographs in a more detailed, photorealistic sketch style than the rest of the illustrations, Bechdel “draws the evidence” in a way that both concedes a subjective read of events—the drawings are not photographs or digital reproductions of documents like they are in Spiegelman—and rhetorically separates them from the rest of the art. Bechdel uses the art to “both enhance and trouble acts of witness” (Cvetkovich 114).

Cvetkovich takes as her prime exemplar the memoir’s “centerfold,” an image of the family babysitter taken during a trip the children took with their father. Bechdel painstakingly reproduces the photograph in detailed crosshatching, but also includes her cartoony style in the form of the narrator Alison’s hands holding the photograph. This produces overlays of reality that complicate rather than simplifying. The more realistic sketch gives the artifact a greater tie to the “real world” than the personal story of Alison’s interiority, while also nodding to her father’s more baroque artistic tastes in contrast to her simple line-art. But, as Cvetkovich notes, the fact that it is hand-drawn concedes that we are not seeing an “unmediated form of vision” (114). She bathes the photograph—which may have been innocent—in an erotic glow, trying to visually imagine her father’s desire when he took the photograph of the almost naked teen lying on the bed, in the hotel room next to his children. The drawn photograph’s “visual elements—its style, composition, layout, and sequencing—underscore its emotional significance” rather than its historical veracity (Cvetkovich 115). Indeed, Cvetkovich contends that the original photograph and the hand-drawn replica tell different stories, each critical to our understanding of a complex and secret history: “Despite their differences—the photograph instantaneous, the drawing laborious; the photograph apparently truthful, the drawing achieving other kinds of verisimilitude—both serve as technologies of memory” (118). This overlay of semantic systems is central to Bechdel’s project of cultural memory’s intersection with personal experience.

Bechdel’s archive interrupts the narrative of queerness in the United States. Her combination of images and text refuses to succumb to dominant trends in “queer witnessing” that idealize and simplify. The trauma of Bechdel’s illustrated world is repressed and compacted, cramped within her father’s need to sublimate and deny, and Bechdel “airs out” the family trauma by outing a parent for whom concealment was a way of life. The graphic form is appropriate to this project, comprising an “insurgent genre” that documents events in ways that hew closer to emotional than historical truth (Cvetkovich 112).  As Cvetkovich notes:

Fun Home's queer witnessing deserves to be part of its highly successful and well-deserved reception, since it provides such a compelling challenge to celebratory queer histories that threaten to erase more disturbing and unassimilable inheritances. (126)

Cvetkovich calls this challenge to the status quo a bold move. She notes that the current state of LGBTQ  rhetoric, at least in the mainstream, is “quite willing to disavow stigmatized identities that might disrupt the clean wholesome image of gay people who just want to get married and have families” (125). Queer theory itself pushes back on this recourse to normativity.

Cvetkovich draws interesting parallels and makes compelling points about Bechdel’s archive of memory and its relationship to the inherited trauma of the closet. Having read Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics, however, I can’t help but think she might have deepened her argument through an engagement with semiotics: Bechdel deliberately activates different sign systems in her visual and conceptual overlays. McCloud notes how variance along the continuum of realism/abstraction in comics affects reader’s experience of meaning in predictable ways:

By de-emphasizing the appearance of the physical world in favor of the idea of form, the cartoon places itself in the world of concepts. Through traditional realism, the comics artist can portray the world without… and through the cartoon the world within. (41)

This insight deepens Cvetkovich’s observations about the Bechdel’s assorted “technologies of memory,” and could be fruitfully applied to her “centerfold,” which shows Alison’s hands (the world within) holding a photorealistic drawing of a photograph (the world without). McCloud notes that comics offer what other media can’t, in that the reader becomes, in a sense, a collaborator. He introduces the concept of the “gutter”—the space between the panels of a cartoon—as a space at once empty and pregnant with meaning. The gutter is the interstice where readers commit “closure”: “Comics panels fracture both time and space,” he says, “offering a jagged, staccato rhythm of unconnected moments. But closure allows us to connect these moments and mentally construct a continuous, unified reality” (McCloud 67). Bechdel’s medium of choice forces readers to collaborate with its author, closing the gaps in memory, both cultural and personal, that have no closure in the real world.

Works Cited

Bechdel, Alison. Fun Home. First Mariner Books, 2007.

Cvetkovich, Ann. “Drawing the Archive in Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home.” Women’s Studies Quarterly. Vol. 36, No. ½, Spring/Summer 2008, pp. 111-128.

Hirsch, Marianne. “Postmemory.” https://postmemory.net/, N.D., Accessed 20 Oct 2022.

McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. 1993.

John Milton's God Problem

I remember my first reading of Paradise Lost when I was too young to “get it” but old enough to fall in love with Satan. Now that I’m older I’m less enamored of Satan (maybe of bad boys in general) but I find myself quite taken with the complex eschatology Milton outlines; with the work he makes his readers do unpacking a thesis nestled deep within the onion-layers of the text. He threads a precise needle: By throwing his ventriloquist’s voice into the mouths of various characters, who are all persuasive and argue viable philosophical schemata, he forces readers to work through conflicting worldviews. It is wonderfully disorienting to one moment be convinced by Satan’s slick, libertarian rhetoric (with its encoded hypocrisy), and the next by Raphael’s gentler but equally unstable and contradictory cosmology-lessons. The reader (this reader, anyway) struggles with these rhetorical contradictions until it becomes clear that the Socratic process itself is the point. An internal dialectic seems to be Milton's ethos. And while I’m not smart enough to truly “get” everything he lays down there is something that bothers me. I keep hitting my head against the same limitation in his theology. After finishing Book XII, the limitation is intensified rather than resolved: I think Milton has a God problem.

Pardon me for saying, but his God is awful. I do not mean to disrespect the Judeo-Christian God: I am gently agnostic in practice. But Milton’s God just—sucks. No matter how I look at it, I see a bully and a petty tyrant whose legalistic attitude about the behavior of his creations does not fit with his generous acts of creation. Nor am I the first to suggest such a thing. In “A Defense of Poetry,” from 1821, Percy Bysshe Shelley writes my feelings more eloquently than I can (without once using “sucks” as a verb):

Milton’s Devil as a moral being is as far superior to his God as one who perseveres in some purpose which he has conceived to be excellent in spite of adversity and torture is to one who in the cold security of undoubted triumph inflicts the most horrible revenge upon his enemy, not from any mistaken notion of inducing him to repent of a perseverance in enmity, but with the alleged design of exasperating him to deserve new torments (57).

It doesn’t stop there. A cursory search in Google Scholar yields the iconoclastic words of William Empson, who, in Milton’s God, likens the deity to Joseph Stalin (89). (Imagine how controversial, writing that at the height of the cold war when religion was supposed to be a bulwark against communism). God gives free will but also requires blind loyalty and His idea of loyalty feels arbitrary. I am concerned about the world Milton creates: His God seems to need the fall; else he is afraid he has created an immense puppet show. After the poem’s events, I’m not convinced he hasn’t.

I can’t stop thinking about this as I read. I haven’t cracked the case yet. I think it might come down to this: Milton is too intelligent for his scriptural sources. The Christian God is just not the same character as the Old Testament God, and Milton runs into issues when he superimposes the one on top of the other. The Old Testament God is bespoke for a specific set of people whose loyalty He must vie for with other gods. He requires sacrifices, admits to mistakes, has preferences for certain times of the day to come to earth, and frequently changes his mind. He is a very powerful but human entity. His people can negotiate their covenants with Him (I’m reminded of my mother’s friend, a man who became a rabbi late in life because he missed the “manipulative” relationship he had with God as a child). The Old Testament God is intimate with His creations. Christianity, on the other hand, imagines this deity as perfectly remote, a force of nature, a tesseract that human beings can apprehend only partially, an embodiment of the inscrutability of the universe we live in. Both ideas of God make sense to me in their contexts. What does not make sense to me is the “rational” God that Milton imagines as a fusion of the two. Milton is too smart and learned: I imagine him as like Giordano Bruno before him, telling the church, “Your God is too small!” (until they killed him for heresy). God here is, in every sense, too small. He has no subjective life outside the life of His creations. Because of this He seems to amuse himself with senseless games of chess with their lives and happiness.

The distant, unknowable Christian God is mitigated in scripture by Jesus, a semi-divine ambassador who advocates for more lenient sentencing for those who pray to Him. So far so good, and one could argue the muse is Milton’s Holy Spirit, rounding out the trinity. But The Son here is too much like God; His pre-arranged sacrifice is so meaningless as to not feel like a sacrifice at all. A God who knows what is going to happen in a world of his own creation is cruel if he doesn’t understand that the life of obedience he offers feels, to some anyway, like slavery. It’s difficult not to side with Satan, who rages and suffers and prefers evil to slavery, over a God who creates the world, the rules, the punishments for disobedience—and who bears no responsibility for His own actions.

God is not complex enough maybe. Milton's cosmology and ethics are so wonderful and nuanced and I can't stop thinking about them in my spare time. Everything here is perfect—except for this big clumsy lumbering God crashing the party.

Works Cited

Empson, William. Milton’s God. New Directions, 1961.

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. A Defense of Poetry and Other Essays. Biblioteca Virtual Universal, 2008, pg. 57.

The Bent Arrow

Heteronormativity, Negative Space, and the Color of Selfhood in Giovanni’s Room

“Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.”

— James Baldwin, "The Fire Next Time"

“So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.”

— Langston Hughes, “Theme for English B”

What is particularly instructive about James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room is what is left out: Baldwin is a queer black American adopting (persuasively) the voice and stance of David, a white, queer, self-hating ex-pat suffering—and making others suffer—under the conflicting pressures to live an authentic life and to hide under the mask of his privileged position within white American masculinity. The effect of the novel is therefore essentially metatextual, signifying what a black man notices about white behavior and motives, and therefore expressing what a white subject has difficulty seeing in himself and his lived experience. In this way, the novel might actually be about a black queer experience through its use of negative space: The specter of black identity haunts its pages like a film negative, springing up in David at his most vulnerable, at times a sort of shadow-self. Baldwin’s novel thereby renders, with excruciating intimacy, a reversal of the white gaze. For he has a perceptional superpower: He is a black subject who, unlike white subjects, has access to both the rhetoric of white, postwar, heterosexual normativity—since the culture is saturated with it—and black double-consciousness, inflected by the coequal marginality of mid-century queer identity.

In Baldwin’s novel, blackness is conflated with queerness, and through it we are invited into the crisis of American postwar anxiety, where the borders of race and other signifiers of alterity—poverty, foreignness, gender, etc.—are vigilantly policed. This novel is evidence for the imbrication of blackness and queerness, as Baldwin states plainly in “Go the Way Your Heart Beats”: “The sexual question and the racial question,” he avers, “have always been entwined” (178). In my argument I will amend Loredana Bercuci’s contentions that by leveraging the “troubled psyche” of a white character to call out “the post-war consensus on ideals of white masculinity,” Baldwin is actually expressing a black experience (191). He accomplishes this through metaphors: By peopling the text with shadows that “darken” the metanarrative David depends on for his identity, we see how reified blackness and whiteness operate and are dependent on one another. As such, the text is involved in “undoing whiteness,” an argument proposed by Aliyyah Abur-Rahman in “Simply a Menaced Boy.” Moreover, the text literalizes Edward Said’s theory that the West’s black and brown “Others” are really shadow-selves of its own desires and terrors. When David endeavors to project his fears and desires “outside” so he, a white man, can occupy the rarified status of “inside,” it costs him his happiness—and, in many ways, his soul. Blackness is expressed in shadows that frighten David, but the blackness, by the end, gestures the way to his liberation as well, as Emilio Amedeo suggested in Queer Tidalectics: He argues that the text’s shadows become paired with water imagery, emblematic of movement and authentic self-expression, antidotes to joyless and brittle American manhood. This metaphorical qualities of blackness—shadows and tides—corroborate Josep M. Armengol’s contention that the novel “smuggles” blackness into places we “least expect them” (674). It foregrounds white characters, but the text wears, in Mae Henderson words, a kind of “racial drag”—a costume assumed deliberately to launch a critique of the machinations of power in postwar America (298). Indeed, I argue that far from making the text a “white life” novel, this racial drag is central to the text’s project of dismantling whiteness, a sine qua non that draws an outline of black queerness in crisper lines than it can draw white heteronormativity, the boundaries of which the novel blurs beyond recognition.

Racial Drag: Contamination Fears, Cramped Spaces, and Surrogate Selves

The beginning of the novel is its end, after the lines have already been blurred. Giovanni’s Room opens on David, standing before a window inside a house as the day dies. We watch him watching himself. His white reflection is framed in increasing blackness as the sun slowly sets on the eve of a terrible day of reckoning for the actions that are about to be chronicled in flashback. Thus a metaphor of darkness and lightness—specifically the way the category “white” requires “black” to reify it in the same way light requires dark for its definition—sets the stage for the novel’s complication of racial and sexual identity. Baldwin embeds the metaphor in a moment of narcissistic contemplation. There is no ambiguity as to David’s race: The author foregrounds both the visuals that mark him as white and the complicated history of white colonialism that whiteness is dependent on for its signification:

I stand at the window of this great house in the south of France as the night falls… I watch my reflection in the darkening gleam of the windowpane. My reflection is tall, perhaps rather like an arrow, my blond hair gleams. My face is a face you have seen many times. My ancestors conquered a continent, pushing across death-laden plains, until they came to an ocean which faced away from Europe into a darker past (Baldwin 3).

Thus we understand, however obliquely, that the story will be concerned with race and its relationship to circumscribed boundaries. Indeed, the novel goes on to explore the boundaries between many things: the genders, youth and age, heterosexual and homosexual, American and European, and predator and prey. These boundaries are being constantly, anxiously, drawn and redrawn, even as they are transgressed. The narrator seeks constantly to reassert them, but his own desires—his very personhood—keeps asserting itself, causing boundaries to bleed into one another. David sees himself everywhere, in everything. The “darkening gleam” is distinct from the gleam of his blond hair—but the same word describes both in successive sentences, conceptually linking the two. He is “darkening” metaphorically. He says he is “rather like an arrow” (as in “straight as an arrow,” perhaps) because the qualifier “rather” suggests that he isn’t. His face is a face “you have seen many times”—the historical White Man, not an individual with what Eve Sedgwick, in Epistemology of the Closet, calls a “nonce taxonomy” (23), a set of one with a uniqueness all his own. The blackness of his “darker past” dogs him so that he can’t see his reflection without the intrusion of its ghostly remains. It is difficult to read this passage and assume that the book is merely a “white life” novel: The ghosts of blackness curtail the white character’s movements, relationships, and selfhood from the book’s first image; they paralyze him and turn love and pleasure into ashes in his mouth. David is, in many ways, a slave to blackness, reliant on blackness to prop him up, give his life meaning, shape his identity. David asserts his dominance over the queer characters around him, the novel’s proxies for black characters. Without queerness/blackness as a point of contrast with his own normativity—once he can’t separate himself from the rest of le Milieu—he is left starting into the face of his own inner darkness. Such a confrontation with inner darkness, Baldwin suggests, is a component of growing up, of maturity—a way out of American innocence.

In Bercuci’s “James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room as a Transgressive White-Life Novel,” we get the definition of a genre that has fallen out of favor: White-life novels “refer to works written by African-American writers which primarily center upon white characters,” a genre later denounced for “pandering to a white readership” (192). She notes, however, that “While most white-life novels slid into oblivion… this is not true in the case of Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room” (193). We do not need to delve deep to discover why: The novel tells a white story, but it reveals more about the operations of reified “whiteness” on whites and non-whites alike than it panders to it. It exposes the corrosive power of that meaningless dividing line, shored up by fantasy and prior conquest and literary and cultural dominance. Whiteness comes at a price that is far too high for David, and by extension for all of the white Western world. It is not just the soul of the antihero at the gallows, it is his sense of joy and meaning and love, not to mention the life of his non-white Other who literally pays, in the text, for David’s sins.

 Black and queer: These describe the author, but the author’s creation, David, uses these categories to set himself against his “Others.” In Orientalism, Edward Said frames how, where there exists an asymmetry of power, the powerful group shapes and manipulates a definition of an “Other” against which to define itself. He traces how European colonial powers created a stereotyped “Other” deliberately “as a sort of surrogate and even underground self,” depending for its strategy on the “flexible positional superiority” of the colonizer but embedding its fears and desires and fetishes into the flesh and soul of the Other (7). He notes how “The nexus of knowledge and power” (a tool of white supremacy) creates sciences that establish white and black in diametric opposition to one another (Said 27). Baldwin does this with metaphor. Bercuci calls the novel’s play of light and dark a “narrative chiaroscuro effect, wherein light is associated with the status quo and darkness with marginality and otherness, but also liberation” (198). The light/dark dichotomy establishes a hierarchy of power that is conveniently visual, but we watch these binaries leach the humanity from both sides. Liberation exists only in the spaces where they bleed together. As Sedgwick notes, “A tiny number of inconceivably coarse axes of categorization have been painstakingly inscribed in current critical and political thought: Gender, race, class, nationality, sexual orientation are pretty much the available distinctions” (22). These categories are too cramped for comfort, and as tools they are ill-equipped for successful navigation of a complex world. While whiteness affords David a kind of shelter-in-the-open, allowing him to sneer at his fellow man from the vantage of privilege, his soul is cramped within its confines; queerness/darkness free his soul, but the sanctuary they offer is the cramped shelter of the closet. As soon as David is tempted with liberation, he grows uncomfortable in its cramped space—literalized here in the dark, dirty room in which he lives with Giovanni—and retreats back to the safety of normativity. But the power to trade these spaces for one another (a power that David has but Baldwin, being black, does not) comes at a terrible price. This is certainly the case for David in the story, but it is also the case in Baldwin’s America, and the price of normativity is what Baldwin endeavors to explicate. The novel explores the violence done to self and Others in the performance of white heteronormativity, written at a point in U.S. history where the template for the American man was at a crisis point.

The Bible, the Post-War Identity Crisis, and the Threat of Alterity

In midcentury America, Otherness of all stripes was condemned, and the fear of reprisal caused many white people to scuttle to the refuge of white heteronormativity, because alterity became associated, in the McCarthy era, with communism. The white, Christian, American family, whose structure and behavior was defined and reinforced as communism’s opposite by political rhetoric, media, and the education system, not only bought white Americans a good amount of belonging and safety—if they could but conform—but was also considered an unshirkable patriotic duty. Bercuci notes that by the midcentury, “Homosexuality became entwined with the threat of communist infiltration during the Cold War” (197), and Mae G. Henderson discusses the oppressive normativity of the Cold War era in “James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room: Expatriation, ‘Racial Drag,’ and Homosexual Panic”—how tinged it was with paranoia. She notes how difference was seen as infiltration, creeping in to contaminate American purity and innocence. Any flirtation with difference increased Americans’ collective vulnerability to the Red Menace:

sexual deviance or “perversion” was linked to “subversion,” and the job of the government was, in the words of the Reverend Billy Graham, to expose “the pinks, the lavenders, and the reds who have sought refuge beneath the wings of the American eagle.” In other words, to be a “good American” meant to be “a real man”… Baldwin’s literary performance of racial passing provides for the author a position that allowed him both to explore his own sexual variance or “difference” and to critique the dominant national construction of masculinity (299-300).

And according to Stephan Whitfield’s The Culture of the Cold War, the era “prescribed that men were men and women were housewives” and “the overriding fear of the American parent… was that a son would become a ‘sissy’” (qtd. in Henderson 299). In Bercuci’s words, it was a time when “sociological theories were being developed that attempted to uphold the heteronormative ideal of the white American family” (195). We feel David grappling with the monolith of American normativity throughout the novel. I seek to extend Henderson’s claim that this novel is an act of “racial passing.” Indeed, I argue that Baldwin embeds American blackness within his white character—blackness in general as both a sort of creeping menace and promise of salvation, and American queer blackness as the outer edges of alterity and the moment of ultimate freedom and selfhood—against which David’s white body can only hold out for so long—though he does not reach it within the pages of the book, there is an implication that Giovanni’s death might have caused enough internal change for him to eventually get to a space where he can give up black/white and live in full color.

The frame story is concerned with reflection. At the opening and closing of the novel, David sees himself reflected in windows and mirrors, and he reflections metaphorically as well. His reflection complicates the lie of his whiteness again and again. Before finally going to bed at the narrative’s close, he stands “watching, in the windowpane, my reflection, which steadily becomes more faint. I seem to be fading away before my eyes” (Baldwin 166). Whiteness has become ghostly, a lie, increasingly replaced by a more bespoke palimpsest of selves. His final reflections (physical and mental) are linked to increased maturity. He flees the window to sleep but the bedroom mirror once again accosts him, where his disembodied whiteness rears again, this time shot through with something else:

The body in the mirror forces me to turn and face it. And I look at my body which is under sentence of death. It is lean, hard, and cold, the incarnation of a mystery. And I do not know what moves in this body, what this body is searching. It is trapped in my mirror as it is trapped in time and it hurries toward revelation (Baldwin 168).

Giovanni has hitherto been a proxy for the text’s black body, sacrificed to white American masculinity, but we see in this passage that it is David, as well as Giovanni, who is “under sentence of death.” He now perceives the conflict between “white” and another thing that “moves” through him, as water moves. He has been resisting “revelation” but here we see it will haunt his life until he is ready to accept it. The word is no accident, revelation: David looks to a surprising source to make sense of his human complexity (the thing that “moves” in the body despite his desire to keep it “lean, hard, and cold”). The Bible, the text Americans like Billy Graham hide behind when they define normativity, becomes for David a lens through which to see his potential maturity and liberation. He quotes Corinthians 1 to himself, and the Biblical allusion becomes a subtle dig at the lie of American innocence: “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: But when I became a man, I put away childish things” (KJB 1Cor. 13:11). In this, he frames a desire to grow up—to leave American “innocence” behind. “I long to make this prophecy come true,” David opines. “I long to crack that mirror and be free. I look at my sex, my troubling sex, and wonder how it can be redeemed… the key to my salvation… is hidden in my flesh” (David 168). Revelation, salvation—Biblical concepts made crucial here as a way out of the trap of American manhood.

The Bible is likewise invoked in the names of the two protagonists, David and Giovanni (King David adored his friend Jonathan, the Italian form of which is “Giovanni”). In Samuel 1, “Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul… Then said Jonathan unto David, Whatsoever thy soul desireth, I will even do it for thee” (18:3, 20:4) and in Samuel 2, after Jonathan’s death, King David laments, “very pleasant hast thou been unto me: Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women” (1:26). Thus Baldwin weaponizes the Bible, the text that is most often deployed to bludgeon those who threaten, by their very existence, American normativity. Similarly, he weaponizes David’s whiteness to show not only the damage its reification does on the non-normative characters in the book, but on white men themselves. Baldwin showcases what Bercuci refers to as

the notion of American manhood in the 1950s and its damaging role when it comes to me achieving full humanity as it places [white men] in an impossible relation both to women and to other men… American culture clung to a notion of innocence, which would recognize the complexity of human beings—a complexity which would include homosexuality” (196).

So in this respect, Henderson is correct in her assertion that the author’s project “necessitates a male protagonist… defined in terms of racialized whiteness” (298). But the necessity of a white protagonist does not, as Henderson argues, mean the text is “passing.” I argue that Baldwin embeds blackness everywhere as David’s shadow—as the alterity in queer desire, as literal darkness and dirt—that both generates the whiteness that is his birthright and also contaminates it and renders it unsafe.

Seeing Double: Blackness as the Long Shadow of American Identity

The shadow hounds David with threats of contamination and peril as powerfully as it lures him with the freshness of selfhood and joy. We see the first indication of this threat early in the novel, when he watches the sleeping body of the “quick and dark” Joey—Giovanni’s antecedent—after their sexual encounter (Baldwin 6). He wakes and looks at his new lover: “I awoke while Joey was still sleeping, curled like a baby on his side, toward me… Joey’s body was brown, was sweaty, the most beautiful creation I had ever seen till then” (Baldwin 8). But the intrusion of white masculine performativity sours the joy: “my own body suddenly seemed gross and crushing,” David says, “and the desire which was rising in me seemed monstrous” (Baldwin 9). It is whiteness that is monstrous here. Joey’s brown body is still beautiful. But that changes when Joey’s body

suddenly seemed the black opening of a cavern in which I would be tortured till madness came, in which I would lose my manhood… A cavern opened in my mind, black, full of rumor, suggestion, of half-heard, half-forgotten, half-understood stories, full of dirty words. I thought I saw my future in the cavern. I was afraid (9).

A cavern is a black opening, the inverted shadow-self in which he had just experienced “great thirsty heat, and trembling, and tenderness so painful I thought my heart would burst” and from which “came joy; we gave each other joy that night. It seemed, then, that a lifetime would not be long enough for me to act with Joey the act of love” (Baldwin 8). The depth of his passion is not allowed by his American alter ego, which endeavors to keep him cold, rational, unemotional. The white alter ego prompts men to adhere to the duty of wife and procreation, but not to seek, even there, the “thirsty heat” which, for the narrator, is the purview of queer love. The settings for queer love link, in Henderson’s words, “homosexuality with the alien, exotic, or outlandish,” but these spaces are also the spaces of greatest happiness and authenticity (299). After David abandons the heat he shares with Giovanni, leaving his Italian lover to the guillotine, he describes himself thus: “my body is dull and white and dry” (168). How anathema to the authentic passions that moved through him like water, animating him and pointing the way to his salvation.

David resists Giovanni at first. We are unsurprised: He has spoken with sneering heteronormativity about the queer Parisians with whom he spends his time: He remarks that the denizens of le Milieu, the gay bar in which Giovanni works, “looked like a peacock garden and sounded like a barnyard… a man who wanted a woman would certainly have rather had a real one and a man who wanted a man would certainly not want one of them” (Baldwin 27). He is a mouthpiece for normativity here. He compares marginalized people to beasts the way American racism deploys animal imagery to describe black people. He depicts a transgender blond in the bar (using the male pronoun and the masculine form of one of the only adjectives in English that declines by gender, “blond/blonde”): “his utter grotesqueness made me uneasy; perhaps in the same way that the sight of monkeys eating their own excrement turns some people’s stomachs. They might not mind so much if monkeys did not—so grotesquely—resemble human beings” (Baldwin 27). Such judgments make him feel superior, but we understand he is merely externalizing his own self-disgust. He is among them, after all. His dehumanizing metaphors are expressions of the same monstrousness he felt with Joey, not accurate portrayals of the vulnerable inhabitants of the bar. Later, David describes Guillaume and Jacques in terms that evoke both blackness and contamination, as “dirty old men” whose “filthy” thoughts “bubbled upward out of them like fountain of black water”—though his assessment might, in this case, be apt (Baldwin 45). And while walking along the quay, David describes the mist as “clinging like a curse to the men who slept beneath the bridges—one of whom flashed by beneath us, very black and lone” (Baldwin 45). The curse is within: He is “very black and lone.” In “In the Dark Room: Homosexuality and/as Blackness in James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room,” Josep M. Armengol  notes that “David tried to affirm his heterosexuality by projecting his own repressed homosexuality onto the homosexual demimonde of Paris, which he sees as dirty and dark” (682). The novel dramatizes how the performance of whiteness sterilizes heat and passion, winnowing David down into something “dull and white and dry.” Blackness defines him, haunts him, and tempts him..

In “‘Simply a Menaced Boy’: Analogizing Color, Undoing Dominance in James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room,” Aliyyah I. Abur-Rahman decries that the “label ‘homosexual novel’ and the critical obsession with the novel’s white characters have obscured many of the novel’s underlying critiques of the machinations of power” (Abur-Rahman 478), noting that in the novel’s “superficially all-white context,” Baldwin embeds the same racial signifiers that can be found elsewhere in his writing:

It was Baldwin who gave African Americans the word “unlivable” and “unspeakable” and “unanswerable” as the terms that most approximate … the experience of being a black person in the U.S. at any point in history… [because] the African American, the woman, and the (so called) sexual deviant are doomed symbols of the U. S. cultural imagination, where the fears, fetishes, and fantasies of the straight, white bourgeois mainstream are deposited (477).

She goes on to remark that Giovanni, until the end, is a stand-in black character: “In the text, Giovanni, David’s darker, poorer, abused, and finally executed Italian lover, undergoes the classic experiences of the degraded figure of both the African American and the homosexual” (Abur-Rahman 482). The door to Giovanni’s execution, after all, is described as “the gateway he has sought so long out of this dirty world, this dirty body” (Baldwin 168). The revelation David seeks never quite comes, but at the novel’s close, we see he is getting closer to it. In describing the older man, Jacques, he remarks in passing, “I understand now that the contempt I felt for him involved my self-contempt,” a moment of rare self-awareness (Baldwin 23); and another time he notes that everyone “goes down the same dark road—and the road has a trick of being most dark, most treacherous, when it seems most bright” (25). Blackness haunts David in the story—as shadows, impulses, tricks of light, and in the novel’s tragic denouement. By the end Giovanni is a kind of Christ figure here, dying so that David can understand his nonce taxonomy. In this final Biblical allusion, David has to potential to be a sort of Longinus, implicated in Giovanni’s death—but, if strong enough, able to learn from it.

Conclusion: Crushing Whiteness, Fluid Blackness, Full Color Life

Though there are no black characters, Giovanni’s Room is not a “white-life” novel. Instead, it shines an unflatteringly harsh light on the dominant—though ultimately suicidal—project that is midcentury white American whiteness. Normativity functions as a kind of straitjacket that keeps David suspended, unable to mature. The few character strokes he is allowed (“manly,” “Teutonic,” “cold”) must be meticulously performed and maintained with a singular vigilance that is close to self-harm. Baldwin demonstrates how the project of whiteness is a parasite that kills its host as well as its “Others.” The narrative shows him beating back each dark, errant desire that rises in him in an exhausting game of whack-a-mole, until not one but three lives lie in tatters. His love can’t survive the parasite of white masculinity. In seeking the safety of normativity, David spreads the parasite to everyone he touches. The narrator’s disavowal of alterity costs him his happiness, humanity, and lover and, by the end of the story, has paid few perceivable dividends. Blackness is smuggled into the text in the form of darkness and filth, but all along there are other metaphors for alterity, in water and cleanses and flows, signifying the potential for metamorphosis, adaptation, mature love, and liberation. David’s humanity and capacity to love are here part of the project of blackness.

Whiteness and all it represents (intensified by a Cold War “Us/Them” mentality) is the novel’s villain. The specter of blackness that haunts the book’s pages signifies, in its blank outlines, the way white Americans create and maintain the binary of white/black, throwing all kinds of other alterity on top of blackness (including queerness), such that the room for individual personhood shrinks and finally disappears. Paris is neither represented as the utopia for black and gay Americans that many of Baldwin’s contemporaries regarded it to be, nor is expatriation sufficient to cure him of the disease of normativity reinforced by family and country. His character is weak and cruel, but Baldwin evinces empathy for him, drawing a parallel between a white man’s experience of being queer and a black man’s experience of being American. The white man must occupy an impossible space—rational, asexual, strong, masculine, superior—and he needs blackness as a point of contrast; but at the same time he must continuously annihilate the blackness within as a dangerous contaminant. We get the sense, reading Giovanni’s Room, that black men like Baldwin, who have no possibility of achieving American normativity due to a physically obvious marker of alterity, are both free of the crushing pressure to conform and also menaced by that same conformity, as impoverished, foreign-born Giovanni is. Giovanni’s Room is a black book. A book without black characters can still instruct white readers about the experiences of their Others: David, in brief, “dark” moments, learns what blackness feels like—and what it could feel like—if he (if we) could only mature into it.

Works Cited

Abur-Rahman, Aliyyah I. “‘Simply a Menaced Boy’: Analogizing Color, Undoing Dominance in James Baldwin's Giovanni's Room.” African American Review, Vol. 41, No. 3, Fall 2007, pp. 477-86.

Amideo, Emilio. “The Sub(merged) Text in James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room.” Queer Tidalectics, Northwestern U. P. 2021.

Armengal, Josep M. “In the Dark Room: Homosexuality and/as Blackness in James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room.” Signs, Vol. 37, No. 3 Spring 2012, pp. 671-93.

Baldwin, James. The Fire Next Time. First Vintage International, 2013.

——————. Giovanni’s Room. First Vintage International, 2013.

——————. “Go the Way Your Heart Beats.” Interview by Richard Goldstein, in James Baldwin: The Legacy, Simon & Schuster, 1989, pp. 173-85.

Bercuci, Loredana. “James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room as a Transgressive White-Life Novel.” Philologia, Vol. 66, No. 1, 2021, pp. 191-204.

Henderson, Mae G. “James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room: Expatriation, ‘Racial Drag,’ and Homosexual Panic.” Black Queer Studies, Duke U.P., 2005, pp. 298-322.

Hughes, Langston. “Theme for English B.” Poetry Foundation, Accessed May 14 2022, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47880/theme-for-english-b.

King James Bible. “1 Samuel.” University of Michigan Online, Accessed 16 May 2022.

——————. “1 Corinthians.” University of Michigan Online, Accessed 16 May 2022.

Said, Edward. “Introduction.” Orientalism, Pantheon, 1978, pp. 1-28.

Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. Epistemology of the Closet. University of California Press, 2008.

Circles of Sorrow

Considering Claude Pruitt’s “Circling Meaning in Toni Morrison’s Sula”

Claude Pruitt’s “Circling Meaning in Toni Morrison’s Sula” argues that the author organizes her novel as a concentric series of physical, temporal, and narrative circles, which radiate out from the book’s emotional core like the ripples that float out from Chicken Little’s disappeared body. These circles mirror (or are palimpsests that contain traces of) first a psychoanalytic concept advanced by Jacque Lacan in which he envisions the unconscious as three interlocking circles comprised of the “symbolic,” the “imaginary,” and the “real;’” next, the philosophical essay “Circles” by Ralph Waldo Emerson, which imagines time as rippling circles representing a universe in flux, with individuals buffeted at their center; and finally, Ralph Ellison’s The Invisible Man, which engages directly with Emerson’s “Circles,” thrusting his narrator into the downward spiral of the midcentury black American experience. Sula is intertextual with these, but in placing black American women at the novel’s heart, she repositions the focus to a group that has been routinely scrubbed from both linear accounts of history and from earlier African American literature that, while likewise circular, have been written primarily by and about men.

The friendship between Nel and Sula is the beating heart of the novel, spatially, temporally, and conceptually. But the account of their friendship is embedded within and inextricable from other narrative circles. Physically, the story takes place in the “Bottom,” a high ground that surrounds the fecund farmland below (at least until white people covet the Bottom’s views). The friendship takes place in the central 100 pages of the book, “1922” through “1940,” and it occurs within the circular narratives of the town’s other inhabitants (Pruitt 117). Shadrack circumnavigates the text, the town, and the seasons as a kind of modern-day prophet or shaman, a symbol of both chaos and order, as exemplified by his disorganized mind and hyper-organized home. The men in town are trapped within the circles of their despair, all “grotesque embodiments of masculinity… distracted by the only group for whom they are not completely emasculated… the women of the Bottom” (Pruitt 118). The center of the girls’ story is their sexual awakening while digging and filling holes by the river, followed immediately by what becomes an unspeakable secret: Their complicity in the death of Chicken Little. The awakening and the death, tangled together, cause a rift in narrative and psyche, seeming to split the girls’ souls. Nel’s adult identity is characterized by lack: She affects a “motherly martyrdom,” and her misery is “righteous but empty” (Pruitt 115-6). Sula, meanwhile, creates a life of sensual overabundance, and she is described on more than one occasion alongside an attendant image of “overripe green things” (Morrison 108, 174). The final image of the book—Nel finally mourning Sula—reinforces the theme of circularity: Her cry “had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow” (Morrison 174). To Pruitt, this ending is the beginning of Nel’s self-actualization, suggesting that she is ready to face her own unspeakable center, to heal her split soul (121).

Pruitt contends that the circles surrounding an “unspeakable center” in the novel are explorations of Lacan’s tripartite unconscious. He explains Lacan’s “theory of mind,” where

the symbolic is the area in which language functions, the imaginary is the realm of images, and the real is that which cannot be symbolized or imagined at a particular time, the impossible or unspeakable… Healing can occur when trauma is spoken about, even indirectly: Trauma is made more clearly “symbol” and less “real” as its symptoms are explored in language (120).

The memory of Chicken Little’s death, then, is the novel’s “real,” the unutterable trauma that unites them. Nel’s healing begins only when she can acknowledge it, albeit obliquely. Part of the tragedy is that Sula tries to discuss it on her deathbed, but Nel forestalls the catharsis until many years after Nel’s death. Before their acknowledgement of the “real,” the secret takes the form, in Lacan’s words, of symptom, “for Sula as promiscuity, for Nel as first subservient wifehood and then repressed sexuality” (Pruitt 120-1). In keeping with the novel’s other circles, the end of the book is the beginning of Nel’s life.

Concentric to this Lacanian referent are the multiple evocations of Emerson’s “Circles” and Ellison’s grappling with and dramatization of Emersonian philosophy. Ellison places his unnamed narrator into the path of the “boomerang of history,” each interaction with which “moves him lower in his descent (‘and under every deep, another deep opens,’ Emerson writes in ‘Circles.’)” (Pruitt 125). Both men, however, write a world without women, and especially black women, who are already omitted from so much history and literature. Ellison is reconciled to Emerson, Pruitt contends,

through a dialectical engagement that begins with displacement, leads to confinement in a womb of historical significance for black men, minimizes the role and historical importance of black women, and replaces their generative function with a faith in modernity and technology” (125).

Emerson urges us to abandon the past for progress: “History,” he says, “the past from which we as individuals and cultures move, [are] worthless… rags and relics” (qt. in Pruitt 126) and Pruitt remarks that Emerson “takes as axiomatic the idea of self-determination” (Pruitt 126). Morrison gives Emerson and Ellison respect through references and symbols but pushes back against progress and individualism. The “joke” of the Bottom—a white man’s joke about it being the “bottom of heaven”—evokes the grandfather’s joke in Ellison; her “plague of robins” is a reference to Ellison’s folk tune, “O well they picked poor Robin clean” (qt. in Pruitt 124); her “circles and circles of sorrow” evoke Emerson’s insistence that “under every deep, another deep opens.” But her entire endeavor highlights women, community, and the unearthing of the past’s “rags and relics,” not the burying of them. Morrison wants to resurrect and mourn a vanished community. After all, “In that place, where they tore the nightshade and blackberry patches from their roots to make room for the Medallion City Golf Course, there was once a neighborhood” (3). The land itself is a palimpsest of untold stories: She wants to speak the unutterable.

I appreciate Pruitt’s read of Morrison’s warm, difficult, perplexing novel. If I find his views difficult to summarize, it is because he structures his essay in a circular mimesis of Morrison’s project, which reads like an act of grace and admiration. While I value his read of Sula, he did skip over an alternative read that I wish he had synthesized within his own frame instead. He mentions and then discards the argument of Vashti Crutcher Lewis, who sees trickster characters from African mythology in Sula and Shadrack. In this folkloric interpretation, Sula is a water spirit, and Nel’s eventual acceptance of their bond is a reconnection with the gods of her ancestors. Pruitt dismisses Lewis because Morrison is embedded “firmly in the European psychoanalytic tradition” (119), but is there a reason it cannot be both? Most of Pruitt’s observations see the text, like the former neighborhood, as a palimpsest, and he credits Morrison for layering semiotic systems so that they resonate together. Along with folklore, it might be beneficial to note that a circular narrative can be considered counter-hegemonic: It offers an alternative to the linear structures preferred by the West.

Works Cited

Morrison, Toni. Sula. Vintage International, 2004.

Pruitt, Claude. “Circling Meaning in Toni Morrison’s Sula.” African American Review. Vol. 44, No. ½, Spring/Summer 2011, pp. 115-129.

A Literary Conflagration

Inquisition as Critique in Don Quixote 

Chapter VI of Don Quixote involves a priest and a barber in the protagonist’s library, assessing his collection of books, and deciding which must be burned for the hero’s health. Miguel de Cervantes could have summarized the chapter thus: “The two men burned the books according to those they thought had infected the hero with delusions of chivalry,” but instead it goes on for five pages of careful critical assessment of several volumes. What might we make of this prolix chapter? The two ersatz literary critics, Dr. Pero Perez, a priest, and the local barber, Master Nicholas, spend the chapter delightedly condemning and pardoning various books from the collection. The chapter dramatizes the novel's relationship with both texts themselves and with the mania for chivalry that is nearly universal in its world. Chivalric romance is a genre at once lionized and reviled in the text, often at the same time. This profound ambivalence threads through the story, popping up now and again when Don Quixote’s fantasies clash too forcefully with “reality” (whatever that is). But since what befalls Don Quixote is alternately humorous, violent, and transcendent, ambivalence about the effects of literature itself forms a sort of gordian knot at the novel’s center. Far from condemning chivalric fantasy as heretical, like the priest and barber try (and perhaps fail) to do, Cervantes renders the real world as absurd and unstable—the ideal, the realist, and the “real” compete for viability in Don Quixote.

The book trial is an early example of this struggle for viability. It is staged as an inquisitional hearing, wherein the books are potential heretics, with Don Quixote’s housekeeper and niece the loudest voices for the prosecution, preferring to burn all the books as equal offenders. The niece, in fact, brings holy water and hyssop—a plant used in cleansing rituals in the Old Testament—to defang the books before destroying them, but the priest and barber insist on going through the motions of trial. Over the course of the chapter it becomes clear that their judgements are less religious than literary—for it turns out that they are as vulnerable to the lure of chivalric romance as the other characters. When the priest wants to burn the Four Books of Amadìs for being the original chivalric romance in Spanish, the barber protests that “‘it is the best of all the books of this kind ever written, and as a unique example of the art, it should be pardoned’” (Cervantes 46). Books of lesser fame and quality are criminalized. The priest sentences Felixmarte of Hyrcania to the fire not for its heretical qualities but because of “‘the harshness and dryness of his style,’” and later remarks that The Knight of the Cross should be condemned: “‘Because of the holy name this book bears,” says the priest, “one might pardon its stupidity, but as the saying goes, “The devil can hide behind the cross.” Into the fire’” (Cervantes 47). The final book saved by the priest is one whose author “had great success translating some fables by Ovid” (Cervantes 52). Far from presiding over a Christian inquisition, this priest saves and condemns books on their literary merits alone. These texts are real texts, not literary inventions. Readers are invited to laugh as Cervantes, through these men, engages in a droll send-up of others in his literary milieu, since many of these authors were contemporary to his time.  In “Don Quixote and the Neuroscience of Metafiction,” Norman Holland defines metatextuality as when “the physical medium of the story becomes part of the story” (73). Metafiction lulls us into passive reading only to jolt us aware by slipping from the hypothetical to the real. In this scene we are trapped (pleasantly, I would argue) between text and metatext—just as the novel’s characters are trapped between romance and reality.

Toward the end, Cervantes intrudes indisputably into the scene, destabilizing our suspended disbelief: One of the books they hesitantly save (though they banish it, pending further assessment) is La Galatea, Cervantes’ first work, a pastoral romance. Moreover, Cervantes is apparently friends with Dr. Pero Perez. The priest thinks little of his writing but argues for quarantine rather than immolation because its author has suffered, and “‘is better versed in misfortune than verses’” (51). The layers of artifice keep building and stripping away, leaving us, the readers (bastions of the final “real”) on unstable ground. The book’s “reality” (which is really just literary realism) competes with the chivalric fantasy that infects all the characters to a greater or lesser degree. But flourishes like Cervantes being both author and a character in the book forces artistic realism to compete with our reality. Readers are caught in the cross-fire of these competing sign systems. Book-lust infects everyone in the equation: Goatherds, innkeepers, prostitutes, the priest, Cervantes, we the readers, all are presumably enchanted by the tropes of romance, and many seem to be heroes in their own chivalric tales, especially when in proximity to Don Quixote, who lends gravitas to their fancies. When he isn’t being beaten for his mania, he becomes a kind of spiritual mediator for the force of romantic idealism. The collective fantasy (on our part as well as the characters’), is a source of both tension and humor. As Steven Jaeger notes in “Book Burning at Don Quixote’s,” a narrative trick of the book’s many layers of art, idealism, realism, and the real comprise “a consistent narrative dynamic in which the highest flights of fantasy are answered by the most humiliating and physically damaging of events, not because the latter are real, but because they thwart the ideal to comic effect” (Jaeger 213). The text is often hilarious, it’s true. But humor is far from its end goal.

Holland calls Don Quixote “perhaps the greatest of metafictions, because it not only uses, but ultimately transcends, the very brain mechanisms of metafiction” (86). Don Quixote does not just create a magical sphere around himself with the power to transform innkeepers into kings, prostitutes into chaste ladies, and windmills into giants—through metafiction, he rewires the very neural networks in his readers’ brains. Jaeger notes that though Don Quixote “is not really a chivalric knight, he is the epitome of the enchanted reader, transformed by the higher world of fiction and able in particular cases to transmit its force to the world of experience” (215). Don Quixote’s magic ushers us courteously into his world; at the same time he crosses the boundary, provisionally, into ours.

His enchantment is contagious.

Works Cited

Cervantes, Miguel de. Don Quixote. Translated by Edith Grossman, Ecco Harper Collins, 2003.

Holland, Norman. “Don Quixote and the Neuroscience of Metafiction.” Cognitive Literary Studies: Current Themes and New Directions, U. of Texas P., 2012, pp. 73-88.

Jaeger, C. Stephen. “Book Burning at Don Quixote’s.” Enchantment, U. of Pennsylvania P., 2012, pp. 204–24, https://doi.org/10.9783/9780812206524.204.

Memento Mori

In Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure, It Tolls for Thee 

If a muse were invoked to call Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure into being, the muse might look a little like the gargoyle on the side of a gothic church: Ugly, ignoble, goofy, bespoke, something that mirrors the grim, grinning irony that runs through the text like a vein of ore in ordinary rock. The variegated novel, like a Medieval church’s grotesquerie, is a mashup of unlike genres, forms, allusions, and styles, and it perversely harnesses the devilish to celebrate the sacred—or perhaps reminds us, in a forbidding memento mori, that these are one and the same. Neither Jude’s noble characteristics nor his coarse ones—neither the world’s abundant beauty nor its innate cruelty—fully steer the ship of the novel or really even warrant our evaluation. They just are. They are natural phenomena as inexorable as a sunset or a famine (or an act of compassion; or a child’s murder-suicide), and critics who drove Hardy from novel-writing after its publication with their cry of Smut! (I’m looking at you, Ms. Oliphant) miss the novel’s nuanced read of a life’s meaning and consequence. But this is unsurprising, given the way the novel’s syntax is ever at odds with its semantics. Hardy uses sleight of hand to pull the rug out from beneath unsuspecting readers, and the book will alienate those who are affronted by such manipulation. Masks slip across the novel’s face, revealing new layers: Is it modernist realism? Classical melodrama? Bildungsroman? Religious allegory? Medieval morality theater? Biting satire? The answer is “yes/and”: Jude the Obscure fuses genres to speak not to its characters but directly to its readers, generating a sort of connective tissue between past and future, in the manner of Gothic cathedrals—structures that took hundreds of years and generations of artisans to build.

Jude changes nothing. His every ambition is thwarted. He is not a holy man or a political martyr or a leader of men. He is hardly even a husband or father. Like the narrative itself, Hardy’s characters have trouble deciding what they are. Jude works with his hands but longs to work with his mind—by the time of his death the books in his collection are as pieces of masonry, “roughened with stone dust where he had been in the habit of catching them up for a few minutes between his labours” (Hardy 332); his love interest, Sue Bridehead, vacillates between dynamic individuality and staid cultural normativity, perversely refusing to marry the man she loves but marrying a man whom she finds physically repellant not once but twice; and looking down on this pair from an ironical position is the diminutive but grotesquely powerful figure of Jude-the-Younger, aptly nicknamed “Little Father Time” (a bit on the nose, that), a child who is not really a child but a changeling that rips their lives asunder with an act so senselessly violent—to characters and readers alike—that, after the lavish set-piece of its enactment, it causes the entire novel to veer off the tracks of realism into the more ambiguous realm of fairy tale, allegory, or psychomachic morality play, so that the characters begin to feel more like symbols (or perhaps hieroglyphs) festooning a building’s edifice than human beings. The entire structure of the story begins to feel… architectural.

The conflict of the genres, I argue, is undertaken with intent. Hardy’s methodology is prescient, anticipating high modernity and linking ancient modes to modern ones. Like Medieval theater, modernism turns its focus on the flawed, overlooked, “obscure” Everyman. Jude the Obscure crafts a deliberate through-line between distant past and literary future, building them into a kind of Gothic cathedral of language. Hardy does not seem to see the past as a unilinear bridge between then and now, orchestrated by “Great Men” toward some idea of progress, but as an aggregate of individuals, all of them lost to obscurity, who built that past stone by stone, themselves only present now in the crumbling material vestiges of their labor. In Jude and Sue, he builds a kind of temple to the Everyman, giving life, longing, frustration, and dimension to those whom history obscures, bypassing the acts and philosophies of Great Men. More blasphemous still, the dogma that undergirds Hardy’s rhetoric is larger, wilder, more emergent, more nihilistic than religion or liberal nationalism (both of which are blasphemously dry and petty in the story—causes of sorrow and social ostracism but devoid of wisdom or even coherence). God and country are the purview of Great Men, and here they are rendered hollow and ridiculous. No wonder the Victorians took issue with the novel. But Jude’s small and insignificant life is memorialized as synecdoche for all the forgotten men who, the novel argues, are history’s true architects. The story seems to look beyond its characters to wink at future readers, the Everymen of our time and beyond.

A Cathedral of Words: Generic Semantics and Syntax

In “Magical Narratives: On the Dialectical Use of Genre Criticism,” Frederic Jameson proposes two approaches to genre: a “semantic” read of genre concerns the essence, or core, of that genre, which proposes to reconstruct an “imaginary entity—the ‘spirit’ of comedy or tragedy, the melodramatic epic or ‘worldview,’ the pastoral ‘sensibility’ or the satiric ‘vision’—which is something like the generalized existential experience behind the individual texts” (Jameson 168). A novel, in this schema, is identifiable as tragic because it feels tragic. Alternatively, a “syntactic” read of genre concerns the surface trappings, the bells and whistles that signal to readers what kind of orientation we should have to the story we are reading, conventions to which we are highly, if unconsciously, attuned. Syntactic genre asks us to “analyze the mechanisms and structure of a genre… and to determine its laws and limits” (169). A novel is tragic because it’s hero dies. Hardy’s prose creates confusion between the text’s semantics and its syntax. His prose is sometimes funny and bijou; sometimes philosophically speculative; sometimes realist almost to the point of Marxist; sometimes deeply, heartrendingly tragic; and yet other times melodramatic to the point of maudlin. To examine the continuum of tone in the novel, we might contrast the humor in the moment Arabella seduces Jude by throwing “the characteristic part of a barrow-pig” (its penis) at him with the moment Jude finds the dead bodies of his infant children at the hands of Little Father Time, along with a note that reads, in a fierce critique of Malthusian rhetoric, “Done because we are too menny” (Hardy 34, 272). They hardly seem to belong to the same story. The reader experiences a true shock at the turn of the book’s core philosophy, a shock that these wildly different syntactic tones exist in the same text—or the same universe.

But a precedent might be found in earlier generic forms, which correspond to Hardy’s interest in Gothic architecture. In “Theory and Genres of Medieval Literature,” an exploration of Medieval generic tropes—many of which feel foreign and inscrutable today—Hans Robert Jauss notes that genre blending and genre slippage occur throughout the centuries of Medieval texts. We might also note a parallel with the public reaction to Hardy’s text and a corresponding Medieval anxiety that with each instance of slippage, profane writing would borrow and semantically pervert the syntax of sacred writing. Jauss contends that when a work is “ripped out of the context of the given literary system and transposed into another one [it] receives another coloring, clothes itself with other characteristics, enters into another genre, loses its genre; in other words, its function is shifted,” and the shift in function was often met with public alarm (Jauss 141). Moreover, when we examine Medieval work we begin to see the seismic shifts that occur as the cultural role of literature evolves. Hardy was writing at a time of paradigm shift in literature that accompanied paradigm shifts in science and technology. At key inflection points in Jude, Hardy’s text flees the scientific/technological, borrowing Medieval syntax. By the end of the book, it feels semantically Medieval as well, albeit retroactively. It is easy to imagine Little Father Time as a kind of memento mori in the corner of a medieval woodcut, a grinning skeleton holding the hourglass—just like his sobriquet. In the same woodcut, we could imagine Jude, fossilized on his deathbed (while, if you’ll indulge the visual fancy, in another room Sue gazes at a mirror, enthralled by her fatal indecision). At the moment of Jude’s death, Hardy renders the scene like a work of visual art or a theatrical tableau or masque; Jude’s body and books, in their respective death and obsolescence, have become stone:

there seemed to be a smile of some sort upon the marble features of Jude; while the old, superseded, Delphin editions of Virgil and Horace, and the dog-eared Greek Testament on the neigbouring shelf, and the few other volumes of the sort that he had not parted with, roughened with stone-dust… seemed to pale to a sickly cast… The bells struck out joyously; and their reverberations travelled around the bedroom (Hardy 331-2).

In this passage, the “joyous” auditory intrudes upon the grisly visual in a way that is disconcerting—full of a noisy energy that is downright menacing. We really feel those bells careening around Jude’s beatific body. We feel, in this final moment, that they ring for us. Jude, after all, cannot hear them, being dead. Beyond that, even, there is something metatextual in those intruding bells that exposes the story’s artificiality, rendering Jude a character, a creation. The sound is paradiegetic: It intrudes upon the scene from the outside, making us uncomfortably aware of our status as voyeurs. The reader (this reader anyway) feels suddenly that she is looking into the little tableau inside a snow globe: An arrangement of material objects that is significant enough to warrant a concluding mise-en-scène. In “The Idea of a Person in Medieval Morality Plays,” Natalie Crohn Schmitt comments on the tropes of morality plays: “the events which occur in the course of a morality play,” she says, are “not mimetic representations of life, but analogical demonstrations of what life is about” (24). Because we cannot see what life is about, she goes on to say, we must rely on artistic analogy to make “manifest the otherwise invisible and only reality of God” (Schmitt 24). Jude, in our final moments with his smiling corpse, feels like an analogy of this sort, but Hardy’s “invisible reality” is entirely decoupled from God’s mysterious logic. The sacred geometry of this story is the cold, indifferent, inscrutable pattern of Darwinian/Malthusian nature. The irony is so thick it tips toward funny.

In similar ways, Medieval conceptions of life and death bound the macabre, the ironic, and the playful together in the same sackcloth. The focus of Medieval morality plays was the Everyman, like Jude, who lives out his days in the glare of an anonymous death that could strike at any moment from any direction. But the dead were chatty in Medieval literature and art, and not without a certain severe humor, evidenced by the common grave-carving reminding passers-by that “ego quondam fui quod es, eris quod sum” (“what I am, so will you be; what you are, so I once was”), or the delighted/horrified reel of the Rota Fortunae, elevating men or casting them low on the wheel of the capricious (pagan) goddess Fortuna according to her unseen logic. Medieval genres, according to Jauss, lay bare the “elementary structure in which the socially formative and communicative power of literature has manifested itself”; and this power is evident in the building blocks of current forms (144). In Jude, Hardy exposes the inner scaffold that buttresses his literary edifice, revealing them as part of a literary (and architectural) continuum. His text urges us to search among the ruins… not for life but for what life is about. Originally an architect by trade, he advocated as well for the preservation—not the mechanical restoration—of Gothic buildings, according to Benjamin Cannon’s “The True Meaning of the Word Restoration,” which remarks that the books surroundings Jude’s body at the novel’s closing scene

materially embody the central irony of Jude’s life, being both the objects of his desire and the means of his infinitely deferred escape from work in stone. Yet here they are… finally reduced to material objects that can be marked by this same labor, their covers ‘roughened with stone dust’ (220).

Thus Hardy shores up his prose with the symbolic masonry of the previous genres in a process that preserves, not restores. To restore a building—one of Jude’s jobs in the book and a subject about which Hardy wrote extensively—is to mechanically systematize a process that, in its original construction, was collaborative, haphazard, and emergent. Over the course of sometimes three centuries, anonymous artisans added their unique flavor to the stones they hand-carved and set. Buildings restored using machine-tooling might look the same, but they do not mean the same. To preserve a building is to repair its original stonework, letting it age out of respect for the past—honoring the nameless artisans who built it. Similarly, Cannon argues, Hardy does with words what he argues we should do with buildings: In the final scene, he “inverts [the] rhetoric” of the printing press (another mechanically systematized process), “imagining printed text as a surface whose real significance lies not in the letterpress but on and around it, in the marks of stone dust and lard that damage and dirty the material text” (221). Ultimately his project suggests Jude’s books—and by extension, Jude the Obscure itself—are “material objects to which Hardy accords a status preservationist theory reserves for historical buildings” (221). Engaging varied genres to build this word-cathedral serves as a template for his preservationist philosophy. Hardy invokes the ancient as a kind of fortification against a dehumanizing future that, in his time, was already underway. He does what his modernist descendant, T. S. Eliot, explicitly says in “The Waste Land”: “These fragments I have shored against my ruins.”

New Wine in Old Bottles: A Text Both Dated and Premature

Peggy Blin-Cordon attributes Hardy’s genre-hopping to his preoccupation with the social space he occupied: In “Hardy and Generic Liminality,” she notes that he was ever “wavering between two worlds, between the would-be image of the respectable author and the oft-categorized regionalist” and that “during most of his career as a novelist his way of exploring the centre was to remain the master, first of all, of its periphery” (44). He is definitely preoccupied with the periphery of culture, with characters who must curtail their expansive ambitions and dynamic minds to fit the demands of their social and material realities. Early in the novel, Jude expresses a sentiment similar to the one Blin-Cordon attributes to his creator:

As you got older, and felt yourself to be at the centre of your time, and not at a point in its circumference, as you had felt when you were little, you were seized with a sort of shuddering, he perceived. All around you there seemed to be something glaring, garish, rattling, and the noises and glares hit upon the little cell called your life, and shook it, and warped it. If he would only prevent himself growing up! He did not want to be a man (Hardy 17).

The boy is out of step with his context, and therein lies his sorrow. He is born into the wrong family, circumstances, time, and vocation. He is a sensitive soul in a boorish world—literally boorish, given what wooing gesture will be hurled at him a few pages later—as evidenced from the beginning of the narrative, when he refuses to step on earthworms, and feeds the crows he is paid to chase away from a field. Like the novel, and maybe Hardy himself, Jude is an anachronism. Sue is likewise preoccupied with the tension between her soul’s yearning and her circumstances. In a telling metaphor, she refers to the intellectual life at Christminster, the Medieval university town in Hardy’s Wessex (modelled, of course, on Oxford), as “new wine in old bottles,” later commenting that the “new wine” at Christminster “is pushing one way, and religion the other; and so they stand stock-still, like two rams butting each other” (124-5). We never know if she is correct in her assessment of Christminster, but she would certainly be correct if she were describing herself, for Sue cannot make up her mind, and in her muddled character, the reader is never sure which is new, which old—the vessel or the essence.

Sue’s intellect pushes her toward her own passions—one of which is fulfillment with Jude and the family they’ve made—while her impulse to conformity pushes her in the opposite direction. After her children die, she foregoes happiness entirely and re-marries her first husband in a kind of mortification of the flesh, a “re-enactment by the ghosts of their former selves of the similar scene which had taken place… years before” (Hardy 300). By this time all the characters are ghosts, circling the drain of their own obsolescence, waiting to shuffle off the mortal coil. Sue began the novel as a wild and spirited pagan, but, In Cannon’s words, her “religious conversion after the death of her children transforms her from a rebellious freethinker to an orthodox High Church Anglican” (213). Hardy does not, by any means, intend Sue’s religious conversion to signal her spiritual growth or for us to detect in it a moral to the story. While we might recognize the syntax of the religious bildungsroman in her final flight to the Church, we see the irony with which this generic nod is infused. Jude, too, evokes the genre in his scholarly ambitions and autodidactic impulses, which ultimately come to nothing. Frank R. Giordano Jr., in “Jude the Obscure and the Bildungsroman,” observes that these characters are archetypes of Victorian unrest for whom the Church offers few insights and the meagerest solace, victims “unable to find comfort and support in the medieval Church and equally powerless to discover outside [themselves] or create a personal, existential authority for [their] moral being” (585). In Jude, religion is not the opportunity for personal growth and fulfillment it might once have been for the population of England. If we expand “religion” to encompass all the stifling pressures of Victorian mores—their mechanizing, dehumanizing processes and compulsions—the same could be said of the novel in toto: Its harsh geometry is as a ram butting against the organic shapes of the characters in beautiful, heartbreaking cacophony—and nothing fits together neatly or even fully legibly.

The novel itself is a kind of new wine in old bottles. Blin-Cordon notes that the narrative displays “an original generic pattern, essentially based on the cohabitation of tragedy and the Sensation Novel” but also on “the unusual association of the Gothic with the realist genre” (45). Thus Jude is a kind of palimpsest, though the pits and grooves beneath the surface of the text are deliberate: We are meant to read different messages, forms, purposes, and takeaways from the faint traces of what came before. Cannon puts it best when he observes that “Instead of restoration, Jude may be understood as being guided by an aesthetic of preservation that approaches both history and story as material processes, the significance of which lies in their essential unrepeatability” (Cannon 203). The Medieval morality play was often performed, gratis, on the steps of cathedrals, to an assemblage of locals. They provided templates for life that spoke directly to citizens that were common, unknown, yet still a crucial part of God’s design. By bestowing the honor of heroism on Jude and Sue, Hardy plucks the Everyman from this earlier form and gives him pride of place within our shared literary patrimony. While in many ways the novel resembles a bildungsroman, the text doesn’t quite reveal the shape that salvation takes after the death of God. Science and technology are no substitute. Though a revelation feels close at hand at the novel’s denouement, its outlines remain half-hidden. It is a tesseract, an object with dimension that the culture does not yet have the ability to see. I submit that Jude’s spiritual brethren—those that will come after him in the procession of modernist antiheroes—may aid in the archeology (perhaps Prufrock will measure out the insights with coffee spoons). I suspect, too, that Jude has more interred revelations for future generations to exhume.

It Tolls for Thee: Little Father Time and the Beauty in Ugliness

The most brutal scene in the book is also the most ravishing. Circumstances are dire for Jude and Sue. The scandal of their unmarried status means Jude cannot find work. Sue cannot find lodging for the same reason. They have three children. They are brought low by their choices. In the tiny rooming house that they will be forced to vacate in the morning, Jude stands cooking until “a shriek from Sue suddenly caused him to start round.” He pushes into the room to find a scene of senseless death, precipitated by a misunderstanding on the part of Little Father Time. Sue has collapsed. He does not see his children:

He looked in bewilderment around the room. At the back of the door were two hooks for hanging garments, and from these the forms of the two youngest children were suspended, by a piece of box-cord round each of their necks, while from a nail a few yards off the body of little Jude was hanging in a similar manner. An overturned chair was near the elder boy, and his glazed eyes were slanted into the room; but those of the girl and the baby boy were closed (Hardy 272).

Like the tableau of Jude in stony death the novel has in store, this “triplet of little corpses” as they are called, is rendered artistically, like a woodcut or a still-life. Their bodies have become forms. But Little Father Time’s note left at the scene, “Done because we are too menny,” contrasts syntactically with the artful array of aesthetic elements. His reasoning is not pretty: Religion no longer celebrates the value of “the meek” based on their proximity to God’s love. Little Father Time echoes the newer religion of the sciences, in this case Thomas Robert Malthus’ hypothesis of overpopulation. In An Essay on the Theory of Population, Malthus argues that charity to the poor will “diminish both the power and the will to save among the common people, and thus to weaken one of the strongest incentives to sobriety and industry…” He goes even further, framing altruism as a waste of resources “that would otherwise belong to more industrious and more wealthy members” (Malthus). His argument had been taken up in Hardy’s day by social Darwinists who argued, like Malthus, that charity worsens social problems once population exceeds food supply. Hardy seems to be making a point about the replacement of religion with this kind of science: Religion might traumatize a child, sure, but no one will ever convince a child that “evolution loves you.” There is no succor in such theories. In “Hardy’s Unnecessary Lives: The Novel as Surplus,” Emily Steinlight speaks to the barbarity that his note reveals about the context in which these characters suffer: In Little Father Time’s note, she sees a “subjectless passive construction (‘done because’)” which “offers a chillingly dull syntax of a logical predicate of cause and effect: The risk of population exceeding its means of subsistence and the sacrifice of life to check this threat of scarcity” (Steinlight 224). The act is barbarous, but, within Malthusian logic, it is a selfless act of sacrifice. The irony of this—the way it is both a horrific crime and an act of generosity, depending on the vantage—dramatizes the novel’s various “butting” philosophies (the mechanical against the organic, for instance), exposing the rhetoric of the machine as incompatible with the lived experience of human beings.

Suzanne Edwards meditates on the murderous son in “A Shadow from the Past: Little Father Time in Jude the Obscure,” casting him as a symbol, a corporeal manifestation of Jude’s mistakes. She notes that the similarities between father and son are “physical, situational, and psychological,” remarking that “In his essential loneliness and isolation, his hyper-sensitivity, his pessimistic outlook, and his suicidal bent, Father Time is clearly Jude Fawley’s child” (Edwards 32). The “glaring, garish, rattling” noises from Jude’s childhood that “hit upon the little cell called… life” cause in his son even greater chaos. Little Father Time is the apotheosis of Jude’s ironic habit of making decisions that will make him miserable because he doesn’t want others to suffer (not even earthworms or pigs he must slaughter). “Little Father Time sacrifices himself and his siblings,” says Steinlight, “thinking he can thereby alleviate the sufferings of his parents” (36). His gesture is like the other occurrences of sacrifice, self-denial, and adherence to social mores that make things worse over the course of the narrative. Like the others, Father Time’s  attempt to alleviate suffering ensures that the suffering will never end. But this brutal death and Hardy’s skeptical stance on the Church doesn’t mean he sees nothing of value in seeking wisdom from ancient religious art forms. Little Father Time reads like a psychomachic character from a morality play, a little imp that represents an aspect of human experience, reminding the Everyman that death comes for us all. The death of the children is shocking—and, especially shocking, is the very real Malthusian pretext the boy gives for his actions. But mercifully, after the deaths, the novel begins to read more like allegory than realism. Schmitt discusses the didactic function of morality plays, the way they suggest that the purpose of life is to search for paradise, but, if we do not look for paradise within ourselves, we will not find it (31). She notes that a spiritual paradise is “every place where the soul is in a state of well-being or grace,” the capacity for which exists in all people of all epochs. In Everyman, for instance, the titular character, on his deathbed, undergoes “progressive abandonment by money, friend, and kinsmen—and then by beauty, strength, discretion, and five wits.” This, she says, “is a natural progression inward…” for “change can be not only developmental but transformational” (Schmitt 31). If we see the events of the novel in this light, then the smile on Jude’s face might take on a different hue. Hardy has created for us a different kind of bildungsroman. As the bells toll joyously through his room there is the merest hint, in that smile, that he might have followed the internal spiral toward salvation, finding, in the winnowing down, a small fragment of “well-being or grace.”

Of course in this grace there is also a tinge of the melodramatic. Richard Nemesvari discusses the way Hardy weaponizes genres, both the serious and the amusing, by fusing them. He is especially attuned to the weaponization of melodrama for rhetorical effect rather than sensationalism in Thomas Hardy, Sensationalism, and the Melodramatic Mode. He notes that Jude’s is a narrative that includes all the hallmarks of melodrama, “fornication, adultery, bigamy, divorce, child abandonment, two murders, two divorces, religious hysteria, and masochistic sexual self-immolation… [events that] might be expected to produce strong reactions” (Nemesvari 180). To him, the murder-suicide is “the culmination of a pattern crucial to Hardy’s rhetorical purpose, and not an incongruity,” one that speaks directly to the reader and is designed to produce an actionable response in her (Nemesvari 181). It needs must serve “as a searing commentary on the failed ethics of the Victorian world that surrounds [Jude]” (Nemesvari 207). The novel thus serves as a potent critique of Victorian social ills, and a call to action to change them. Nemesvari contends that in the murder-suicide, Hardy engages in a “relentless assault on the reader’s affective responses,” using the contrast between it and the rest of the novel to prompt readers to compassion and social reform. “The goal,” he says,

is not an abstract catharsis, but rather a very specific pity and fear laced with anger and a sense of waste, producing a desire to change the materialist structures that the novel presents as destructively oppressive, [for Little Father Time’s] act of horrific annihilation [is] an excessive response to a system in which, as the novel’s epigraph declares, “The letter killeth” (182).

Overall, I argue that the set piece of the murder-suicide forces the novel in a new direction, as the rest of its generic restlessness does. The novel’s ending, moreover, speaks directly to the reader, likening the reader to Jude and serving as a kind of memento mori that speaks both of our collective responsibility for the suffering of others and need to look for salvation not in our institutions but inside ourselves and the ones we love. Hardy does not tell us how to perform this “looking,” but he invites us to consider a new mode of seeing.

An Obscure Object; an Object of Obscurity

In one sense it is no wonder that readers were offended by Jude. The skeletal hand that, like Fortuna, metes out a random, indifferent kind of cosmic retribution for invisible or nonexistent crimes points its bony finger, ultimately, at us. It is difficult to be in the hot seat. The novel denies us the meaning for which we often go to literature, the neat and tidy wrap-up that suspends the characters forever in their denouement, and in so doing suggests the possibility of a kind of immortality. The skull and empty eye sockets that grin and gape at Jude’s obscurity, Sue’s paralysis, are manifest in our own lives. Had Jude and Sue been born into the sorrow of modernism a few decades later, rather than the sorrow of Victorianism’s last gasp, the 20th century might have invited him in to rest his weary bones next to his spiritual brethren, all the defeated Everymen of our century’s literary antiheroes. Now we feel that, in Beckett’s words, “We give birth astride the grave”; and there is no sweet hereafter in a universe of staggering size and emptiness, within which we are mere floating specks. But Hardy’s novel can also be seen as strangely uplifting: By showing us his hand—combining multiple literary modes, built in the way Gothic cathedrals were once built—he lets us see our small lives as part of a sublime patchwork whose meaning none of us will ever know. He connects us to a past that is over but not gone, and a future which is certain, but obscured.

Works Cited

Blin-Cordon, Peggy. “Hardy and Generic Liminality: The Case of The Mayor of Casterbridge and Jude the Obscure.” The Hardy Review, Vol. 15, No. 1, Spring 2013, pp. 44-52.

Cannon, Benjamin. “The True Meaning of the Word Restoration.” Victorian Studies, Vol.56, No. 2, Winter 2014, pp. 201-24.

Edwards, Suzanne. “A Shadow from the Past: Little Father Time in Jude the Obscure.” Colby Quarterly, Vol. 23, No. 1, Mar 1987, pp. 23-38.

Eliot, T. S. “The Waste Land.” Poetry Foundation, Accessed May 20 2022, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47311/the-waste-land.

Hardy, Thomas. Jude the Obscure, Third Norton Critical Edition. W. W. Norton Company, 2016.

Jameson, Frederick. “Magical Narratives: On the Dialectical Use of Genre Criticism.” Modern Genre Theory, Pearson Education Limited, 2000, pp. 167-93.

Jauss, Hans Robert. “Theory of Genres and Medieval Literature.” Modern Genre Theory, Pearson Education Limited, 2000, pp. 127-66.

Malthus, Thomas Robert, 1798. An Essay on the Principle of Population, Vol. 1. 6th Edition, John Murray, 1826, https://www.gutenberg.org/files/4239/4239-h/4239-h.htm.

Nemesvari, Richard. Thomas Hardy, Sensationalism, and the Melodramatic Mode. Palgrave MacMillan, 2011, pp. 179-211.

Schmitt, Natalie Crohn. “The Idea of a Person in Medieval Morality Plays.” Comparative Drama, Vol. 12, No. 1, Spring 1978, pp. 23-34.

Steinlight, Emily. “Hardy’s Unnecessary Lives: The Novel as Surplus.” Novel: A Forum on Fiction, Vol. 47, No. 2, Summer 2014, pp. 224-41.

The Transitive Property

Women’s Spaces, Lateral Violence, and Zero-Sum Approaches to Privilege

I met J— in a focus group. My community college had secured a grant to hire students to identify equity gaps in its operations and facilities and ideate solutions. The focus group participants were culled deliberately from the school’s most marginalized populations: Undocumented students, homeless students, students in the foster care system, DSPS students, and the like. J— had shoulder-length hair and dark skin with cool olive undertones; she had an attractively crooked smile and her winning sense of humor made her popular among her cohort. She was a good decade older than the rest of the recruits, in the early childhood development program with a plan to advocate for the rights of transgender children. Though she was not exactly passing as a woman, she nevertheless exuded an inborn sense of herself that brooked no argument; she seemed at ease in her skin and her identity. Which made the shock I experienced on the second week, when we made formal introductions, the more acute: When asked why she was in school, as all of the students were asked, she responded, without a hint of bitterness, “I don’t like school. But for people like me, it’s either school or prostitution.”

People like me. Her words, I admit, shook me. It’s not as though I’d considered our lived experiences to be the same. But the gulf between them was much wider than I’d considered. I became aware of an internal reorientation to privilege and alterity. My instincts and moral compass tend to nudge me toward radical acceptance of those who suffer marginalization, but I am as guilty as anyone of failing to register marginality when it is right in front of me (part of the tacit training of being white and middle class in America is learning to unsee the injustice on which privilege is built). I have, on occasion, had to fight the urge to defend the territory carved out for women: Space to breathe, free from the male voices that threaten or drown us out in public spaces. I recall an argument in the Women’s Studies Department at my school (now renamed, I am happy to say, “Women’s and Gender Studies”): In a meeting, two older feminists complained that transgender women assume male privilege in women’s spaces without realizing it, and that being with them was essentially being with men. At the time I remained agnostic, launching a lukewarm defense of trans rights without fully committing to—or even understanding—the tenets of trans discourse. J— crystalized the issue for me, indicating that I need to keep learning to see. Women (white women) have societal value, even if we don’t control the terms of our valuation: We are in every sense a protected class. Transgender folks enjoy no such protections: They are the semantic “Others” that, through contrast, define the norm. To say nothing of the intersection of trans identity and other factors like race, class, ablism. When white women like me cling to our privilege at the expense of those with less cultural capital, we replicate the systems that trap us, committing a form of lateral violence: We must seek to elevate and understand, not silence and erase, the voices and experiences of the most vulnerable in the system, else we cling to the letter of feminism at the expense of its spirit.

Setting aside the question of feminism’s spirit, can we even define the letter? No one seems to have landed on a satisfactorily static denotation for gender. In “The Ontological Woman: A History of Deauthentication, Dehumanization, and Violence,” trans-activist Cristan Williams outlines the problem of lateral violence toward trans women perpetrated by feminists, noting that “the move to root feminism in an inherent biological, psychological, or reified ontology was to endorse the very essentialism upon which patriarchy was built” (Williams 719). She observes that trans-exclusive feminists replicate patriarchal structures when they see privilege as a limited, zero-sum resource that must be horded, describing such behavior as an “enfeebled attempt to grasp at empowerment through… an animus directed against one’s peers rather than one’s oppressors” (Williams 720). What makes lateral violence so tempting is its effortlessness: It is easy to project our legitimate grievances onto those weaker than us instead of uniting all marginalized groups against the powerful—an enterprise that involves effort, risk, and the potential loss of privileges we currently enjoy. Trans-exclusive feminists squabble over taxonomy, endeavoring to delimit what constitutes “woman” to some innate biological or psychological feature. But we need only look at the circus of Justice Ketanji Jackson Brown’s recent confirmation hearing of to see the toxic, patriarchal provenance of the delimiting effort. We witnessed a room of white republican men, daring a black woman to define “woman,” and then being unable to satisfactorily do so themselves without lame recourse to wombs, vaginas, births, and chromosomes, none of which are fixed or absolute (what of women with hysterectomies; fertility problems; anatomical injury or malformation; intersex traits?). We want our categories to have clear delineations, but variation and uncertainty creep back in our despite: All definitions are semi-permeable. Besides, almost none of us are perfect specimens of femininity or masculinity to begin with, at least not in our resting state. Most of us change our bodies, behaviors, and dress, in order to construct the gender with which we identify, a fact not lost on Williams, who observes:

Most cisgender people… undertake body modifications to better embody their sexed persona and emulate what is, we are told, a natural sexed body binary. Billions are spent each year on hair care, removal, and maintenance; cosmetic surgeries; workouts; exogenous chemicals; and ‘health’ and ‘lifestyle’ products… trans feminists are… questioning systems predicated upon discrete, natural, and unconstructed body binaries. Such ontological questions threaten the moral landscape that sex essentialists depend on (720).

I might also ask just which benefits “sex essentialists” gain from denying “broken” or “unnatural” women access to women’s spaces—let alone to women’s rights and protections? J— will never need to, say, change her tampon in a women’s bathroom, it’s true. But in a few years, nor will I—menopause is on my horizon. Do I, at that point, cease to be a woman? According to the GOP senators at Justice Brown’s hearing, perhaps I do. When I reach menopause, maybe J— and I can have our own bathroom, and we can prevent menstruating women from using it—a directive as arbitrary as preventing trans women from using bathrooms now. What truly threatens the senators—what they are responding to when they ask a black woman to define “woman” on the national stage—is a profound cultural watershed occurring as I write this in regard to gender formation and trans visibility. The currents beneath the surface of American discourse are changing direction whether we like it or not.

The watershed of the current moment should not, however, obscure a 20th century full of transgender experimentation, on children no less, as Jules Gill-Peterson discusses in Histories of the Transgender Child. She acknowledges that the “seismic shift” in our contemporary understanding of trans experiences is real but cautions us not to think of trans children as a recent phenomenon. Rather, she traces the long, complex history of transgender children in the United States and the way their experiences have shaped our medical understanding of gender. She describes the book’s project as rewriting “the historical and political basis for the supposed newness of today’s generation of trans kids by uncovering more than a century of what came before” (Gill-Peterson 3). Indeed, Gill-Peterson documents decades of medical procedures on children with “ambiguous” sex organs who were “medicalized and experimented upon by doctors who sought in their unfinished, developing bodies a material foothold for altering and, eventually, changing human sex as it grew” (3). The gendering decisions were undertaken by doctors, often before the children were old enough to speak let alone give consent and were predicated on the “plasticity” of gender in early human life. But this plasticity, Gill-Peterson argues, far from being “a progressive vector of malleability or change” that allowed individual agency in asserting, defining, and living self-knowledge, instead grew into one offshoot of the “modernizing violence of medicine,” often dismissing black and trans of color as “not plastic enough for the category of transsexuality” (4). Trans of color were men and women whose self-knowledge was written off as “delusional or homosexuality” (Gill-Peterson 4). Indeed, the 20th century exemplars of trans identity are overwhelmingly white. Gill-Peterson notes that compared to white patients “Black trans and trans of color patients were much rarer because they were by design not welcome within that discourse” (27). Especially vulnerable to erasure, she argues, are transgender children of color, who have existed all through the 20th century but who are sidelined by the historical record. White transness, while often pathologized, is nevertheless visible, indicative of the body’s plasticity—its potential for metamorphosis and evolution. Black trans and trans of color, on the other hand, were perceived as degenerate, the body devolving into something less human. The plastic body, the basis on which transgender identity is medically understood, was “abstractedly racialized by medical science as a synonym for whiteness” (Gill-Peterson 27). So J—’s trans identity is not the only component of her being that winnows her future down to the stark choice of school or sex work: Her blackness has a nonlinear impact on her transness (or vice versa), and her trans identity is thus framed by the medical community in what Gill-Peterson refers to as “atavistic” terms (27).

“The Mothers of Gynecology” Monument by Michelle Browder, Mongomery, Alabama

If white transness is visible because it proves the “plasticity” of white bodies, black bodies are characterized by their “fungibility,” as C. Riley Snorton proposes in Black on Both Sides: A Racial History of Trans Identity. He traces the medical profession’s reliance on black chattel—a replaceable, mutually interchangeable resource—in the 19th and 20th century development of medical technologies and methodologies. Early gynecologists “borrowed” sick and injured slaves from their masters in order to investigate various maladies, and the conclusions they drew about black bodies were used to either explain or contrast with white ones (Snorton 18). Their bodies could be used for the development and practice of medical procedures that could then be safely performed upon “important” (white) bodies; or they could be used as evidence of white superiority. Or both. According to Snorton, the pelvis was “a critical site for producing racial hierarchies among nineteenth century anatomists and sexologists intent on finding bodily ‘proof’ of black inferiority” (19). Snorton proposes that black fungibility functions as part of “a rubric that situates blackness and transness within the order of things that produce and maintain an androcentric European ethnoclass of Man as the pinnacle of being” (6). While plasticity signifies choice and individuality, fungibility signals the foreclosure of individuality. Further complicating black physical fungibility are instances in which black slaves cross-dressed and/or pretended to be white in their attempted escapes from slavery. These gender and race deceptions speak to slaves’ status as fungible goods whose identities mattered little to and were strategically unseen by their oppressors. Slaves found they could exploit such studied unseeing on the part of white masters (Snorton 79). Black people, at times, managed to survive abuse by playing a kind of musical chairs with their own racial and gender identities, using their own erasure as human beings to fool their oppressors.

J— exists at the nexus of the historical phenomena I incompletely chronicle above, and many more besides that I don’t yet perceive. It is no wonder her future feels narrow, precarious, circumscribed by white, heteronormative, cisgender hegemony. J— is a reminder, to this feminist at least, that having some small sense what systemic alterity feels like compels us to see when we push others to the outside. Given the systematic erasure, abuse, and degradation of fungible black bodies at the hands of white authorities (including the medical establishment), there is no excuse for feminists to pile on more of the same. We claim to care about marginality but we give the marginalized very little space to maneuver. As crusaders for equal rights—feminism’s arguable charter, its “spirit” if you will—it is paramount that we fight trans-exclusion in feminist discourse. “As with any identarian movement based upon rooting out impurity of form,” Williams cautions, “instead of interrogating their ideology, they attack that which questions it” (720). Exclusionary logic always feels like watching a kind of fable play out: A disenfranchised group organizes, acquires power, and then begins to attack “impurity of form” as represented by a weaker group in a pantomime of the systems that oppressed them. It is almost as though we care more about preventing others from acquiring our privilege than expanding and universalizing access to privilege—our putative goal. There should be a transitive property to privilege: If the strong enjoy a right, it should transfer automatically to those less strong within the same system. We are not betraying feminism by welcoming trans folks into our ranks. But we are betraying our most fundamental ethos if we continue to exclude them.

Works Cited

Gill-Peterson, Julian. Histories of the Transgender Child. University of Minnesota Press, 2018.

Snorton, C. Riley. Black on Both Sides: A Racial History of Trans Identity, University of Minnesota Press., 2017, pp. 17-53.

Williams, Cristan. “The Ontological Woman: A History of Deauthentication, Dehumanization, and Violence.” The Sociological Review Monographs, Vol. 26, No. 4, 2020, pp. 718-34.

War of the Roses

Artifice, Naturalism, and Symbolism in the Flowers of North and South

Elizabeth Gaskell’s novel North and South is garlanded with flora, literal and figurative, gaudy and sublime, scientific and aesthetic. The prose itself contains clauses that grow, vegetally, like an English garden—a space created to dramatize the struggle between nature’s wildness and the human desire to impose order. In this fecund cosmology, women grow naturally and the products of their labor evince instinct, accident, artisanry, and emergence. The text casts men, on the other hand, as purveyors of order, and the growth that emanates from their industry is mechanical, characterized by repeated patterns and artificial reduplication. The novel’s title suggests that it is preoccupied with binaries, and to be sure the binary of nature and man—and of man and woman—threads through the text. But we might look to its various floral metaphors to illuminate the text’s complication of the simple thesis/antithesis of Southern agrarian beauty and Northern industrial blight; of women’s domestic sphere and men’s industrial one; and of the modern world’s ambivalent new relationship with science and nature. Gaskell’s potent floral metaphors are rarely coded “female” or “romantic,” as readers of Victorian literature might expect. Rather, they explore the imbrication of the feminine and the masculine; the industrial and the natural; the scientific and the aesthetic. Flowers, in North and South, speak a language more nuanced than romance, exerting their own logic on the text, and appearing to call for the synthesis of binaries—the marriage of metaphorical North and South.

Flowers introduce us to a central tension early in the novel when Margaret Hale and her father tour the Northern town of Milton—where they are forced to move after a decline in their circumstances—to look at potential homes. The house that interests them has a drawback: The floral wallpaper offends their delicate sensibilities: More than that, Margaret makes the claim that its pattern is in fact dangerous, expected to contribute to the ill-health of Margaret’s mother, like the bad air of the factory town, should she be forced to reside within its influence (the reader might note the analogue to Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s madness-inducing wallpaper from a few decades later, which draws a similar parallel between a woman’s environment and her health; or, for that matter, the reputed final words of Oscar Wilde). An entire chapter is gravitationally centered on the pattern: Margaret predicates their acceptance of the home upon the removal of the wallpaper, with its “‘atrocious blue and pink’” roses (Gaskell 56). She steels her mother against its effects: “‘you must prepare yourself for our drawing-room paper. Pink and blue roses, with yellow leaves!’” (Gaskell 60). She approves of the home’s other attributes, to say nothing of the fact that it is the only fitting one the Hales can afford. Her father laments that the landlord is unlikely to remove the wallpaper, and when he seeks the man out, he shares Margaret’s concern about it enough to remark, “I hope I shall be able to get new papers” (Gaskell 57). The text assumes the reader’s agreement about this objective fact: That color combination, those awful flowers, constitute a hazardous vulgarity that is in some way unhealthy.

The view from the room with the wallpaper, on the other hand, is a selling-point of the home, and establishes a core binary in the novel concerning taste. The window in the room with the wallpaper frames a “‘pretty view over the plain’” (Gaskell 56). Margaret’s use of the word “plain” is interesting here, for the same word comes to mean—and thus link—three discrete concepts over the course of the chapter. The first is literal and geographical, referring to the flat topography of Northern England in the view out the window. It contrasts with the wallpaper’s baroque design. But “plain” also prefigures the assertion, a few paragraphs later, that Margaret “had never come fairly in contact with the taste that loves ornament, however bad, more than the plainness and simplicity which are of themselves the framework of elegance,” which is meant to indicate Margaret’s comparably high-class upbringing and her consequent ability to identify elegance (Gaskell 57). Her class status is contrasted, in the same chapter, to that of her future love interest, Mr. Thornton. He is the factory-owning industrialist, a self-made man who is uneducated in the “framework of elegance.” At first he seems a human extension of the wallpaper. But Margaret does note that the paper’s “vulgarity and commonness’” are not to be found in his face, which she describes as “neither plain, nor yet handsome” (not yet). Here “plain” is an antonym of “handsome.” Margaret observes that with Mr. Thornton’s “expression of resolution, no face, however plain, could be either vulgar or common” (Gaskell 60). Gaskel’s use of the slippery word, “plain,” threads an interesting needle within the narrative: it is an emblem of nature (in contrast to the wallpaper); an emblem of moral character; and can signify both elegance and unattractiveness, but not vulgarity. In the world of the novel, plainness signals honesty, good breeding, and good taste. The jury is out on Mr. Thornton’s morality at this point (he is neither plain nor handsome), but readers see in Margaret’s careful assessment of his looks which way the plot is headed. Indeed, Mr. Thornton’s character is established in the final lines of the chapter when readers realize that he has influenced the landlord to remove the offending wallpaper.

We might see Margaret’s décor-proviso as an act of agency on the part of a female protagonist. Women, after all, are meant to have their power limited to the domestic sphere. But we see in this chapter how critical that sphere is, how thoroughly it ripples out into the world of men from within, and how it influences life and death (indeed Margaret’s mother does not survive their relocation). We see through contrast that the flowers skulking up the walls of the sitting room are not real or honest or plain. They, like the goods produced in Mr. Thornton’s textile mill, are the products of industry, part of the generative male world that defines the North: They exist without nature’s stochasticity, forcing inhabitants to live inside their repeat. “Living inside their repeat” also describes the repetitive motions of the town’s working-class factory employees, who are forced to repeat the same actions all day, like machines, in order to produce patterns like the vulgar wallpaper—patterns that might be simulacra of nature but are without nature’s “plain” and healthful properties. The actions of workers in the agrarian South, on the other hand, involve nature directly, or involve direct and artisanal manipulation of natural elements on the part of individuals, as in, for instance, traditional modes of spinning, weaving, and decorating fabric (or paper). Both locations involve man’s intervention in nature, but the North utterly decouples the natural (read: female) from the lives of its inhabitants, factory owners and factory workers alike: It is located squarely and exclusively in the masculinist ethos of the industrial. This is the unbalanced world into which the Hales move, a world of smoking chimneys and “the ceaseless roar and mighty beat and dizzying whirl of machinery… Senseless and purposeless [the] wood and iron and steam in their endless labours” (Gaskell 379). Gaskell presents this world as one in sore need of synthesis with the natural—and, via the transitive property, with the female. Good thing Margaret and her keen eye for the healthful and plain are about to change the town’s wallpaper, so to speak, and the heart of one of its pivotal industrialists.

Roses feature once again in the novel’s final pages, this time as evidence of the change that Margaret has wrought, representing the synthesis of so many of the novel’s binaries. Mr. Thornton and Margaret have changed one another. He is softened—she wiser. Both have learned humility. Margaret has just saved his factory from financial ruin and they both apprehend for the first time the mutual love that has been maturing, as slowly and steadily as vegetation, over the course of the plot. In the book’s final action, Mr. Thornton shows Margaret the roses he picked in her Southern hometown, and dried to keep. She recognizes their unique patterns: “‘They are from Helstone, are they not?’” she says. “‘I know the deep indentation round the leaves,’” To which he replies, “‘I wanted to see the place where Margaret grew to what she is” (Gaskell 395). The flowers are symbolic, but of much more than romance: Mr. Thornton is acknowledging Margaret’s uniqueness, her “growth” in Helstone mirroring the growth of the flowers. The blossoms, deciduous to Helstone, are likewise unique, having their own rivets and corrugations.

The admission of the roses’ distinctiveness demonstrates Mr. Thornton’s moral conversion: In the early days of the text, Mr. Thornton saw his male and female employees as those blue and pink roses in the ugly wallpaper: Identical, featureless, utterly fungible. Now he sees them as individual human beings. His appreciation has become both naturalistic and aesthetic. He finally deserves Margaret, and their union satisfies a narrative arc that argues for synthesis. The novel is bookended with roses, conceptually at war with each other. The English garden is a metaphor for the its thesis and an apotheosis and extension of its logic: Nature’s wildness is anarchy without man’s intervention; but man’s rationality without nature’s/women’s emergence, individuality, and chance is dehumanizing. Women and men are only “plain” and healthy when they collaborate—when they find the middle way. The pressed flowers at the end have been pressed by human hands, and that weds industry and nature with another preoccupation of the Victorian era: That of scientific naturalism, a curiosity about the world of nature and nature’s relationship to man.

Works Cited

Gaskell, Elizabeth. North and South. W. W. Norton and Company, 2005.

Goat-Leaf/Goat-Song

In my colleague’s immensely intimate and exciting “Beowulf to Milton” class of early literature in English, I found myself reading the first written English definitively authored by a woman (that we know of anyway—most previous authors wrote anonymously). After the hyper-masculine ethos of Beowulf, I read Marie de France’s lay “Chevrefoil” with delight. I was perhaps most enchanted with what I see as a particularly feminine art: The imbrication of concepts, objects, locales, and stanzas, in a “woven” pattern, the apotheosis of which is the plants that twine around one another. The honeysuckle and the hazel enmesh in a fatal embrace, as the lovers Tristram and The Queen are enmeshed in a fatal love. Feeling such femininity throughout was a balm after the hard edges of the previous text—with its strict adherence to community values and abstract concepts and heroes who must sacrifice all for the good of the community. In an almost cinematic flourish, the lay zooms in on two forbidden lovers without judgement about the love affair’s effect on the body politic. I enjoyed rollicking in this far softer and more personalized worldview, as I can imagine myself inhabiting this world (much as I love it, Beowulf feels foreign and at times overly grim). Again and again, de France’s poem connects the lovers across physical, temporal, and social barriers, representing it as a force of nature in which the lovers have no choice but to love. Nature weaves the “goat-leaf” with the hazel in the same way she weaves the lovers together: Love here is not a force that can (or should) be resisted, but one that, as any natural event, must be endured, though it can also be aesthetically enjoyed and celebrated in song.

The poem also seems to stylistically echo the organizing metaphor of plants snaking around each other: Each grouping of six- or eight-line clusters changes character, location, topic, or narrative style, as R. N. Illingworth notes in “Structural Interlace in the ‘Lai’ of ‘Chevrefoil:’” The poem “is composed in two discrete, interwoven strata, each with its own distinctive rhythm, style, and subject matter” (248), and that moreover, these sizains and huitains toggle between an archaic and a contemporary diction, suggesting that the author is engaging with earlier source material in an intertextual way (Illingworth 255). Thus, the theme of weaving pervades every aspect of the poem, its themes, style, narrative, and organizing metaphor all include imbrication that, to this reader, is even more suggestive of the interconnectedness of culture than a text like Beowulf that is so evidently anxious about maintaining social interconnection. I am wondering if Marie de France achieves this woven world through the poem’s insistence that nature calls the shots:

The two of them were similar
to honeysuckle, which must find
a hazel, and around it bind;
when it enlaces it all round,
both in each other are all wound.
Together they will surely thrive,
But split asunder, they’ll not live.
Quick is the hazel tree’s demise;
quickly the honeysuckle dies.

Where Beowulf needs to continuously guard against contaminating “Otherness” in the form of monsters, “Chevrefoil” allows the world to grow freely and greedily, even if that growth is deadly. The former is an Eden in which Adam has total dominion, and the latter is an Eden in which Eve assumes non-judgmental equality between living things. Love, like vegetation, grows where it will, and we can write about it, but we cannot (and should not) endeavor to control it: Only live with its consequences.

I am struck by the title’s translation, “goat-leaf,” and its evocation of Greek tragedy, a word that means “goat-song.” There is something delightfully absurd in linking darkness, tragedy, and fatal love with goats. Goats are sublimely ridiculous. Even the word in English is absurd, lacking the gravity of the Greek “tragos” and the French “chevre.” The poem, while tragic in its content, is nevertheless playful and joyous in its delivery, a “goat song” in every aspect of its Anglo-Saxon etymology (descended from Dutch geet and Old Saxon gēt), a romp through the ecstatic infidelity of an ancient Queen and her lover, whose threat to the social fabric is never the lay’s focus. No: The honeysuckle must find a holly, in this world. To deny it would be unnatural.

Works Cited

De France, Marie. “Chevrefoil.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Vol. 1: Tenth Edition, W. W. Norton & Company, 2019, pp. 131-4.

Illingworth, R. N. “Structural Interlace in the ‘Lai’ of ‘Chevrefoil.’” Medium Ævum, Vol. 54, No. 2, 1985, pp. 248-58.

Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart

The Monomyth as Interior Quest and External Reckoning in Toni Morrison’s Home 

“We can train ourselves to respect our feelings and to transpose them into a language so they can be shared. And where that language does not yet exist, it is our poetry which helps to fashion it.”

— Audre Lorde, "Poetry Is Not a Luxury"

“Now that my ladder’s gone, I must lie down where all the ladders start In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.”

— William Butler Yeats, “The Circus Animal’s Desertion”

In multiform ways, Toni Morrison’s Home parallels The Odyssey. After a pointless, protracted Trojan war, the battle-weary Odysseus ranges across the Aegean on his way home. He is beset by enemies and evils and, as in most quest tales, the hero must use his wiles to negotiate perils, overcome trials, and fight monsters to return home, a changed man. Home’s Frank Money quests through a segregated country after his own psychic fracturing as a black soldier in the “forgotten” war with Korea. Like Odysseus, he longs for hearth and home and his quest involves the rescue of a woman, in Frank’s case his fragile sister Cee, and the reintegration of his damaged heart and mind. The novel is structured, like many of Morrison’s novels (and like Joseph Campbell’s monomyth itself), as a circular hero’s journey. But Morrison’s story is shaped more like a spiral or gyre than a circle, for the physical journey across a hostile American landscape is accompanied by an inward journey from an “outside” characterized by the jagged, broken fragments of the hero’s life to the painful center of his psyche—the space where he can finally incorporate outer and inner.

The home Frank seeks is less a physical space than a psychological one. Morrison employs and complicates the structure of the ancient epic in order to challenge the linear storytelling, linear history, linear ideas of progress, and other discourses of linearity so prevalent in the white Western world (and so suppressive of other epistemological modes)—forms it has used to commit atrocities against its cultural “others.” Living black in a racist country that obfuscates its racism with fraudulent national narratives, she implies, prevents healing for the black American. In this spiralized hero’s journey, “home” is a space of self-definition, a reconnection with earlier modes of healing (such as ritual) and a space where witnesses help reclaim a hijacked personal narrative. In a sense, Morrison’s novel is metafictional in that it models how stories themselves are a form of healing, especially when they act as crosscurrents to damaging dominant narratives that contribute to ongoing trauma.

Home as a Hero’s Journey

In The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell explores the archetype of the “hero’s Journey,” and the way epics such as The Odyssey engage similar themes of transformation and arrival all over the world. He envisions this monomyth as a shared human patrimony, a vast subterranean river of human experience, from which all creativity is drawn, and “through which the inexhaustible energies of the cosmos pour into the human cultural manifestation.” Indeed, he believes that all mythology is “the same, beneath its variety of costume.” The first stage of Campbell’s circular hero’s journey is the “call to adventure” (Campbell 1-2, 28). Home begins with Frank Money, rambling at loose ends a year after his discharge from the army where he fought the United States’ war with Korea. He suffers PTSD. He is tortured by flashbacks and hallucinations and is consequently prone to alcohol abuse, to quiet the noise of the war, and his blackouts get him into trouble. One such event has landed him in hospital, drugged and chained to a bed, and that is how we find him at the opening of the novel’s events. A savvy reader might note that Odysseus, too, is imprisoned and in thrall on Kalypso’s island at the commencement of The Odyssey. Morrison has deliberately placed Frank in a mythopoetic space. The narrative reveals that he has just received what could be thought of as “the call to adventure:” A letter from a stranger, simply saying, “Come fast. She be dead if you tarry” (Morrison 8). We don’t know who “she” could be nor whom the note is from, but it spurs our hero to action, urging him to escape the hospital, as a visit from a messenger god might do in an ancient epic.

Nor do the resonances between Home and Homer’s epic stop there. The Odyssey’s capricious gods are in Morrison’s novel represented by the “tyrant-monsters” of American racism and capitalism: Frank must journey across a hostile land full of random police violence, murderous racists, the ever-present need for money to travel and keep oneself alive, and the demons in his own soul. The second thread to Homer’s epic is Penelope, the woman who has been left behind to keep the household, and she has an analogue in Morrison’s tale too. Ycidra (“Cee”) is still rather close to their hometown of Lotus, Georgia (a town Frank joined the army to escape, for the “fifty or so houses and two churches” do not feel like home for him), where she waits. When we first meet her, she is bemoaning her abandonment on multiple fronts, by a faithless husband, a villainous grandmother, and a brother too damaged to return. Cee is naïve and fragile in her own estimation, and we see that even she knows that Frank’s rescue might not be in her own interests, for she tells herself that “where her brother had been, she had no defense. That’s the other side, she thought, of having a smart, tough brother close at hand to take care of and protect you—you are slow to develop your own brain muscle” (Morrison 48). Her life is marked by waiting, just as Frank’s is marked by his inward/outward journey. Like it does with Odysseus and Penelope, the narrative nudges them toward one another. But it is not until Cee undergoes a harrowing trauma at the hands of a doctor whose evil smacks of Josef Mengele that the hero is finally jolted out of his self-involved stupor to initiate the quest. This, we discover, is the letter that calls him to action.  

In “Flying Home: A Mode of Conversion in the African American Context,” Jay-Paul Hinds discusses the introduction of African folklore to a literature rife with Eurocentric epic traditions, and its specific emphasis on African and African-American journeys being necessarily roundtrip. Joseph Campbell writes of universal themes, and these are not contradicted but rather refined or made more specific by Hinds. He writes of the “canon of latent folktales that modern writers are attempting to bring back to African American consciousness,” in which the hero escapes his suffering by flying away, and then, struck by conscience, returns home armed with supernatural aid to help those still suffering. Home is full of this kind of circle, albeit metaphorical rather than supernatural—a desire to escape, followed by a wrestling with virtue and a final resolve to return to help those still in need. As Hinds notes, “flying is a mode of religious conversion… that has enabled African Americans to come in touch with supernatural resources during times of sociopolitical, communal, and personal sorrow” (383). Morrison engages the European epic but inflects it strongly with African folkloric modes in order to model a hybrid form of healing that black Americans can use to repair themselves and one another after centuries of systemic sociopolitical damage. Frank has been to war, and war is traumatic, but his return to a racist country after serving in an integrated army means he is cut off from the healing resources available to other veterans; Cee is traumatized by an act of purposeless violence to her body, but the fact the violence is perpetrated by an authority figure whose job it is to care for the vulnerable renders her voiceless. It is no wonder that the European hero’s journey is here leavened with African storytelling tropes: Dominant narratives do not provide language enough for these heroes to give voice to their sorrows.

Maxine L. Montgomery discusses the trauma caused to black soldiers in the “forgotten war” between the United States and Korea in “Re-Membering the Forgotten War: Memory, History, and the Body in Toni Morrison’s Home.” She focuses in particular on the way it was compounded for black soldiers when they were forced to reintegrate into a hostile, racist America after the war—a different America from the one encountered by white soldiers. At the outset of the novel, Frank is grappling with his PTSD alone. He, and other black soldiers, are doubly traumatized by the hostility of a country that is happy to use them to fight abroad but leaves them alone to suffer appalling racism at home, often at the hands of those in power. According to Montgomery, their experiences with racism after the war made recovery from the trauma of it well-nigh impossible. Further, she argues that Home endeavors to expose the fraudulent narratives of the whole decade: “Morrison's comments about the need to ‘rip the scab off’ of the 1950s,” says Montgomery, “suggest the authorial effort to excavate obscure moments in our national history, reconstructing them from the vantage point of the marginalized subjects who witnessed those events firsthand” (322). Frank suffers alone; Cee, protected her whole life by her brother, does not know how to resist the white doctor who acts as though he has her best interests at heart, and then secretly sterilizes her while she is under his employ. Morrison’s heroes do not really have a home in America to return to: Their job, we learn, is to create one in their hearts and for each other.

So, Morrison complicates her European epic by chronicling experiences that are largely erased by a Western literary canon—a canon that rejects texts that don’t support its metanarratives. Her hero’s journey demonstrates the horror of being an American “Other,” having at every turn to negotiate with an American superstructure whose foundations have racism holding its masonry together (if I’m not overtaxing the metaphor). Campbell conceives of the traditional hero’s journey as circular in shape. Morrison uses this template but subverts a Eurocentric schema with characteristic narrative virtuosity: By making the journey a spiral that leads inward at the same time it moves across/around, she demonstrates how to access and speak the “unspeakable.”

The Hero’s Journey of the Heart: Healing as Inward Spiral

Morrison’s “excavations” (to borrow Montgomery’s word), especially as regards speaking the unspeakable, correspond to Judith Herman’s thesis in Trauma and Recovery; the tripartite model of the subconscious as conceptualized by Jacque Lacan; and, at the macro-level, Jean-Francois Lyotard’s theories of postmodernism, in particular his “incredulity toward metanarratives” and the concept of greater truth embodied in petit récits. Herman’s work on trauma elucidates the project of Morrison’s novel, and perhaps informs it (if only by osmosis). One of its foci is the behavior of the world surrounding the victim. Herman argues that bystanders faced with another’s trauma do whatever they can to avoid identifying with it, especially if they suspect their own complicity in its cause. The America in Morrison’s novel violently rejects the harm it has caused black people. “When the traumatic events are of human design…” writes Herman, it becomes “very tempting to take the side of the perpetrator” (7). Frank must overcome American narratives with as much vigor as he must overcome American violence. And the narrative Frank encounters most often is that despite America’s conception of itself as being a bastion of human rights—for such was its pretext for war in the 20th century—he is unwelcome and homeless in the land of his birth and nationality, despite his sacrifice overseas.  These narrative inconsistencies are compounded, moreover, by the fact that his role in the army was a reversal of his role as a citizen: In Korea he was a powerful aggressor, even a colonizer, while stateside he is an abject victim. Montgomery notes that the novel’s structure—a structure that includes a framing metaphor, resolved at the end; an inward journey that parallels the outward one; and testimonials from multiple interested parties, including two from different aspects of Frank’s psyche—is “designed to correct the troubling omissions in extant historical record” (326). Before the book’s events, there is the sketchy, impressionistic account of white men burying a black man alive, witnessed by Frank and Cee. We do not discover its significance until the end of the book, when the two are finally ready to confront and, literally, exhume the past. During his journey to find Cee after his discharge, Frank encounters black trauma and black coping strategies wherever he travels, and his psyche accumulates these strategies over time. Unlike Odysseus, Frank is not the exemplar of his culture but a stranger in his own land, accepting help from a kind of underground railroad of other marginalized Americans, and taking healing where he can get it, but persecuted at every turn and prone to violent fits of rage. Cee, too, has to negotiate a hostile world. When she is hired to clean the kindly Dr. Beauregard Scott’s office, she laments that she cannot understand the books on his bookshelf, but Morrison makes sure the reader can: “How small, how useless was her schooling, she thought, and promised herself she would find time to read about and understand ‘eugenics.’ This was a good, safe place” (65). We feel the horror of Cee’s innocence and we know before she does that the kindly doctor has evil designs. But there is no national narrative that informs about the forced sterilizations and other horrendous medical experiments of the era conducted on the bodies of black Americans without their knowledge or consent. Herman notes the difference in available narratives between the trauma of those with cultural capital as compared with those without:

Soldiers in every war, even those who have been regarded as heroes, complain bitterly that no one wants to know the real truth about war. When the victim is already devalued (a woman, a child), she may find that the most traumatic events of her life take place outside the realm of socially validated reality. Her experiences become unspeakable (8).

The white American narrative renders Frank and Cee’s experiences and trauma unspeakable, and this compounds the damage, forcing them to create their own spaces for healing through community, ritual, and the ritual reframing of their own stories. That they find a way to heal themselves in a hostile world of murderous and dehumanizing racism offers a corrective to older epic modes: This, contemporary readers note, is the definition of true heroism.

In “Symbol and Language,” Lacan’s theories of the unconscious provide a helpful visual frame for Herman’s concept of trauma. He imagines the unconscious as composed of three interlocking circles, representing the “symbolic,” the realm of language, the “imaginary,” the world of dreams and images, and the “real,” which is the unspeakable heart of us, where interior pain without a narrative can be expressed only as symptom (Lacan 171-2). Herman asserts that the biggest obstacle to healing is the refusal of others to bear witness to an individual’s trauma, for it’s so scary to be confronted with a chaotic world and/or to be implicated in another’s pain that it is often easier to identify with the perpetrator than the victim, which is anathema to the victim’s healing. This builds off Lacan’s contention that healing is the transfer of the “real” (the unspeakable) to the “imaginary” and the “symbolic.” In an early episode in Home, Frank is speaking to the Reverend John Locke, who is the first in the novel to put words to an unspeakable reality: “‘You go fight, come back, they treat you like dogs. Change that. They treat dogs better’” (Morrison 18). This is the novel’s first transference of the real to the symbolic. In a later episode in the book, Frank stops in a jazz club and witnesses a kind of “speaking the unspeakable” through music: “After Hiroshima, the musicians understood as early as anyone that Truman’s bomb changed everything and only scat and bebop could say how” (Morrison 108). This encounter can be seen as a transfer of the unspeakable into the imaginary space of music. Frank’s drinking and violence and nightmares, meanwhile, are the symptoms that do not heal him. He survives on the scraps of healing he encounters until he has enough inner resources to face himself. Cee’s naivete and credulousness are symptoms, while her friendship with the Scott’s maid, Sarah—who, it is later revealed, sends the note to Frank that is the novel’s precipitating event—is her first inkling of her own value, a first step in the process of self-reclamation through the imaginary that must continue later in the book. Sarah’s willingness to stand up to the doctor so that Frank can carry a critically damaged Cee out of his office demonstrates the indispensability of allies who see and recognize unspeakable trauma. Morrison’s novel forces Frank and Cee face-to-face with their pain so they can move their unspeakable “real” into the realm of the symbolic through language and a narrative (as in Frank’s case); and into the realm of the imaginary through ritual and self-reliance (as in Cee’s case).

Lyotard is notoriously difficult to parse, but instructive in revealing the larger superstructural conditions that give rise to the trauma of marginalized citizens. Morrison engages some of his theories of postmodernism, which, in The Postmodern Condition, Lyotard defines as a studied “incredulity toward metanarratives” (8). Where Herman and Lacan form the basis of an individual’s healing, Lyotard is concerned with the relationship between power and reality, and he examines these phenomena on the national and cultural scale. He argues that metanarratives or “grand narratives” always, by definition, serve the interests of the powerful at the expense of the marginalized. Herman discusses the consequences of this, for “The more powerful the perpetrator, the greater is his prerogative to name and define reality, and the more completely his arguments will prevail,” and so, in her estimation,

The systematic study of psychological trauma… depends on the support of a political movement… The study of war trauma becomes legitimate only in a context that challenges the sacrifice of young men in war. The study of trauma in sexual and domestic life becomes legitimate only in a context that challenges the subordination of women and children (8-9).

To promote the dismantling of grand narratives, Lyotard proposes the aggregation of “petit récits,” or “little narratives,” in which all stakeholders in history add their story, even (or especially) if it contradicts the grand- or metanarrative of the nation or culture, or if it emanates from those with limited power within the system. The more limited the subject’s power, Lyotard argues, the more we should aim to amplify her story. He proposes wresting the story from the “authorities” in order to refine “our sensitivity to differences and [reinforce] our ability to tolerate the incommensurable. Its principle is not the expert’s homology, but the inventor’s paralogy.” (Lyotard 37-8). I argue that Morrison’s project is exactly this kind of petit récit: She is an inventor extraordinaire, modeling a paralogical method of healing in the face of a rigid, self-perpetuating “reality-logic” crafted, maintained, and jealously guarded by the dominant culture.

Donald E. Pease explicates the specific paradoxes of the 1950s American narrative in his article “The Uncanny Return of Settler-Colonial Capitalism in Toni Morrison’s Home,” in which the contradictory messaging of postwar rhetoric is made doubly unheimlich for the black returning soldiers who are forced to occupy the no-man’s-land between rhetoric and reality. Pease discusses Morrison’s omissions of Cold War philosophy, and the way her omission highlights the contrast between propaganda and fact:

Morrison confronts readers with a comparably uncanny experience when she deletes from the narrative any trace of the Cold War ideology whose structures of feeling, epistemologies, and military architecture the Korean War was putatively fought to establish… After the newly formed Department of Defense described the United States as an anti-racist state charged with safeguarding liberal humanity from “Communist slavery,” racial desegregation emerged as an essential component of the U.S. effort to win the hearts and minds of populations in Korea and across the decolonizing world (Pease 50).

But of course the reality of American racism in the 1950s belies this propaganda in uncanny ways, and black veterans must navigate the wide gap between them as yet another obstacle to overcome. Morrison’s decision to elide the “polarizing dichotomies sedimented within the Cold War frame” shines paradoxical light on them while also “disintersecting race from other articulations of power” and shuttering “the white supremacist gaze that would have employed these perspectives to place Frank under the control of the carceral state” (Pease 53). Morrison’s choices are self-conscious, as she makes plain in an interview for Interview magazine:

Was that what [the 1950s] was really like?… it tends to be seen in this Doris Day or Mad Men-type of haze… Somebody was hiding something—and by somebody, I mean the narrative of the country, which was so aggressively happy… And I kept thinking, This kind of insistence, there’s something fake about it (qtd. in Pease 50).

So, contending with national lies and interior disquiet, Frank’s journey leads him from Seattle to Georgia on a rescue mission, but it also leads him closer and closer to a truth that is central to him and his unspeakable “real.” For Frank, too, is “hiding something.” It is the voiceless lacuna at the center of the spiral into his psyche, and it drives his rescue mission, his drunk blackouts, the fights he gets into, and everything else, until he can finally admits it to himself.

The narrative takes its time zeroing into this central truth. Morrison structures his narrative in two strata: A third-person omniscient narrator tells the story of Frank that the world sees, but a parallel first-person, present tense, stream-of-consciousness monologue occasionally intrudes on the third person narrative, sometimes chastising or contradicting it:

Korea.
You can’t imagine it because you weren’t there. You can’t describe the bleak landscape because you never saw it. First let me tell you about the cold. I mean cold. More than freezing, Korea cold hurts, clings like a kind of glue you can’t peel off (93).

Slowly this narrative corrects the other, more rehearsed one, in the psychomachic manner of a man debating himself. In this space, Frank tells us of the little Korean girl who foraged for garbage to eat left behind by the soldiers. As she forages one day and Frank observes a soldier confronting her as she holds a rotten orange. She “reaches for the soldier’s crotch, touches it. It surprises him. Yum-yum? As soon as I look away from her hand to her face, see the two missing teeth, the fall of black hair above eager eyes, he blows her away” (Morrison 95). This revelation comes three quarters of the way through the novel and coincides with a lessening of nightmares and hallucinations for Frank: His ability to put words to the trauma begin to move his experiences and guilt from the realm of the real to the realm of the symbolic.

The Round-Trip Flight: Metafictional Collectivity

Frank and Cee go to Lotus, the final stop in their odyssey. What happens there comprises the “home” of the novel’s title, but it is also operating on a metafictional level, modeling a way to approach trauma and recovery for marginalized people whose stories might be outside of officially-sanctioned reality. When they arrive it is not yet clear whether Cee will survive the experimental surgery performed on her by Dr. Scott. But the town closes around brother and sister in ways they were not expecting and comes to represent the community that traumatized people need to heal. Cee is whisked away to recover while Frank does odd jobs here and there to keep himself busy. Contrary to his memories of it, the town has grown benevolent in his estimation:

It was so bright, brighter than he remembered. The sun, having sucked away the blue from the sky, loitered there in a white heaven, menacing Lotus, torturing its landscape, but failing, failing, constantly failing to silence it: children still laughed, ran, shouted their games; women sang in their backyards while pinning wet sheets on clotheslines; occasionally a soprano was joined by a neighboring alto or tenor just passing by (Morrison 117).

We see contemporary trauma therapy at work in Frank’s recounting of trauma throughout the novel, the apotheosis of which occurs in Lotus. And we see it in the healing rituals practiced by the women who aid in Cee’s recovery, for a group of local women take immediate, unsentimental control of Cee’s healing, and every woman in the neighborhood bands together to prevent Frank from seeing his sister for two months. When they allow him entry, “Two months surrounded by country women who loved mean had changed her. The women handled sickness as though it were an affront, an illegal, invading braggart who needed whipping” (Morrison 121). They express scorn toward the patient and handle her ungently. They force her to engage in “sun-smacking,” which meant “spending at least one hour a day with her legs spread open to the blazing sun. Each woman agreed that that embrace would rid her of any remaining womb sickness” (125). She is skeptical of the ritual, but she recovers, and after she recovers, the women grow gentle. One of them tells her, “‘Nothing and nobody is obliged to save you but you… Don’t let… no devil doctor decide who you are. That’s slavery. Somewhere inside you is that free person I’m talking about. Locate her and let her do some good in the world” to which Cee replies, “I ain’t going nowhere… this is where I belong” (Morrison 126). According to Herman, a community willing to bear witness but also to allow the survivor to wend her own way toward recovery is key to healing trauma. Since “the core experiences of psychological trauma are disempowerment and disconnection from others,” then the survivor needs to establish new connections, and then needs to find her own story: Indeed, “The first principle of recovery is the empowerment of the survivor. She must be the author and arbiter of her own recovery” (Herman 133). Frank wants to save her like he always has, so the women drive him away and teach her self-reliance. Ultimately, it is Cee, with the scales of naivete fallen from her eyes and a new, fledgling sense of herself as the agent of her own saving, who rescues him, though she never knows it.

For Cee has come to understand something about her relationship with Frank: “While his devotion shielded her, it did not strengthen her… she wanted to be the one who rescued her own self.” When she openly weeps in front of him, she then refuses the “don’t cry” he always gives her when she is suffering, answering, “I can be miserable if I want to… I’m not going to hide from what’s true just because it hurts” (Morrison 129-131). Her resolve, and her grief, and her bravery in facing the child she can never have who haunts her dreams, inspire him to finally face the black hole within him. For he, too, is haunted by a child. He confesses to himself, or to his chronicler, in the italics reserved for his interstitial corrections:

I have to say something to you right now… I lied to you and I lied to me…
I shot the Korean girl in the face.
I am the one she touched.
I am the one who saw her smile.
I am the one she said “Yum-yum” to.
I am the one she aroused (Morrison 133).

Frank has been experiencing a dissociation from events common to combat veterans. Herman notes that in combat it is

not merely the exposure to death but rather the participation in meaningless acts of malicious destruction that rendered men most vulnerable to lasting psychological damage… [many soldiers] admit to committing atrocities that haunt them, with which they bludgeon themselves, and which prevent their recovery, since recovery requires forgiveness. These soldiers often do not want to forgive themselves (54).

After admitting the unspeakable to himself, Frank and Cee can begin to live. They are home, physically and spiritually, despite a country that endeavors to dispossess black Americans at every turn. In the final pages of the book the siblings disinter the black man they saw being buried, and they uncover the mystery of what happened to him: It was a kidnapped black father and son, forced to fight to the death, wherein the father sacrificed himself so the son could survive. He wasn’t dead yet when the white men who arranged the battle royale buried him. Morrison dramatizes the personal search for modes of healing, but the final revelation places the story in a larger context of racialized violence, and she clearly intends her novel to be read metatextually as well. Irene Vissar observes how Home is structured as a metatextual argument in “Entanglements of Trauma: Relationality and Toni Morrison’s Home.” Specifically, she notes that the theme of psychologically confronting trauma “is foregrounded in the novel by the structural device of the frame narrative: Frank, the traumatized war veteran, relates his personal story to a listener, who is the (nameless and faceless) author of his written text” (8). But when he takes back the story, he reclaims his own narrative as though it has been kidnapped (which indeed it has). The testimonial, according to Vissar and Herman, is what is used now to reconstruct and address collective trauma, like the trauma suffered by black Americans from many hundreds of years of oppression and metanarrative obfuscation. Morrison demonstrates the need for community and solidarity in recovery as well as a silent witness, and she emphasizes the crucial role of stories in the rebuilding of damaged psyches. Frank’s interstitial first-person accounts that correct for the omniscient narrator’s incorrect assumptions read like oral reclamation of written untruths, and, according to Visser, “orality and rituals function as catalysts in processes of mourning and grieving in the aftermath of traumatic events” (3). When we leave Frank and Cee, they are facing the world as agents of change themselves, committed to correcting ancient wrongs and fully responsible for themselves and those around them. They have made a roundtrip journey back to Lotus, and unlike the denizens of the land of lotus-eaters in The Odyssey, Lotus is the town where they doff their enforced forgetting and embrace their warts-and-all truths.

In “Dystopia, Utopia, and ‘Home’ in Toni Morrison’s Home,” Mark A. Tabone, like Pease, is concerned with how Morrison exposes the 1950s American utopia (still popular among American conservatives) as a dystopia: Her novel presents a “demythologizing dystopian portrayal of 1950s America,” and in her rendering “she rejects nostalgia and escap­ism to posit utopia not as an ideal or blueprint, or primarily as a space, but instead as concrete, and ‘endless,’ ethical practice” (Tabone 292). He connects the testimony of Frank and Cee—a process that contributes to their personal healing—with the demythologizing force of such testimony,

in which mutually exclusive versions of history are implicitly placed in confrontation in order to stress the fact that the past is not a set of established truths in which all further developments originate, but rather a contested site of cultural codes, each designed to preserve (or efface) a particular version of cultural and national identity (Tabone 297).

In other words, their petit récits fly in the face of America’s national narrative about its own history and purity. The novel is a potential model for other Americans similarly damaged by racism, marginality, violence, and trauma to help themselves and one another. Herman and Lacan are psychologists, but their theories of recovery engage aspects of narratology: Trauma therapy integrates aspects of storytelling—or rather of story reclamation. Morrison is a storyteller, but her novel integrates many aspects of psychology, so much so that the book itself becomes a kind of survival manual for dealing with systemic problems and a political and economic landscape that has virtually no interest in personal psychological health. By setting her story at once in a specific place and time in American history but also engaging aspects of Campbell’s monomyth, she universalizes a method of building identity and course-correcting an off-the-rails life in a world beset by angry, capricious, and unjust gods, even if those gods are your own country’s government, citizens, propaganda, and its greedy, ravenous capitalism. 

Flying (and Sailing) Home

When I read Toni Morrison, I often find myself haunted by the opening lines of William Butler Yeats’ “Second Coming,” a poem written early in his career: “Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer,” and the final lines from a poem he wrote at the end of his career, “The Circus Animal’s Desertion:” “Now that my ladder’s gone, / I must lie down where all the ladders start / In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.” Even European poets have long evoked the gyre in mystical ways that fly (so to speak) in the face of rational history and linear time. Writing this, I find my mind again and again touch the lines from these European antecedents. But I’m also breathless about Morrison’s deployment of these rich symbols through their fusion with non-European forms, such as the African legend of “flying home.” Perhaps it is the rich ringed veins of poetry that travel around and unite the world, correcting for the dark grand narratives of history. Or maybe Audre Lorde put it best in “Poetry is Not a Luxury,” when she avers that

within structures defined by profit, by linear power, by institutional dehumanization, our feelings were not meant to survive. Kept around as unavoidable adjuncts or pleasant pastimes, feelings were meant to kneel to thought as [women] were meant to kneel to men. But women have survived. As poets… we have hidden [our pain and] our power. They lie in our dreams, and it is our dreams that point the way to freedom. They are made realizable through our poems that give us the strength and courage to see, to feel, to speak (37).

In my mind, Morrison’s novels are birds, circling in disquieted loops around the imperfect, ecstatic, guilty, loving, damaged human heart. They reject cant. They orbit a problem, a moment of rupture, and their circles avoid and then finally confront that rupture. Rather than a widening gyre, her gyres lead inward toward an exhumation of buried tragedy so that tragedy can be sun-smacked. Odysseus had Ithaka to which he could sail home and lay claim. Frank and Cee, denied that kind of homecoming, create their own internal home. Morrison pairs trauma theory with the traditional hero’s journey—and African mythologies as explored by Hinds specifically within Campbell’s template—to model a hybrid form of healing that runs against the grain of the American metanarrative. The Korean war backdrop dramatizes the double-trauma experienced by black soldiers in an integrated army who must return to a segregated America. And the structure of the novel is, in many ways, its primary argument: In using the frame of the testimonial, Morrison models a theory of trauma and recovery for all black Americans who live in a country that has mechanized the systematic erasure of their stories. 

Works Cited

Campbell, Joseph. “The Monomyth” & “The Adventure of the Hero.” The Hero with a Thousand Faces, 3rd Edition, New World Library, 2008, pp. 1-74.

Herman, Judith Lewis. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence from Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. Perseus Books Group, 1997.

Hinds, Jay-Paul. “Flying Home: A Mode of Conversion in the African American Context.” Pastoral Psychology, Vol. 69, Issue 4, Aug 2020, pp. 383-404.

Lacan, Jacques. “Symbol and Language.” The Language of the Self. The Johns Hopkins U. Press, 1956.

Lorde, Audre. “Poetry is Not a Luxury.” Sister Outsider, The Crossing Press, 1993, pp. 36-9.

Lyotard, Jean-Francois. The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. U. of Minnesota Press, 1979.

Montgomery, Maxine L. “Re-Membering the Forgotten War: Memory, History, and the Body in Toni Morrison’s Home.” CLA Journal, Vol. 55, No. 4, Jun 2012, pp. 320-334.

Morrison, Toni. Home. Vintage International, 2012.

Pease, Donald E. “The Uncanny Return of Settler-Colonial Capitalism in Toni Morrison’s Home.” Boundary 2, Vol 47, No. 2, 2020, pp. 49-70.

Tabone, Mark A. “Dystopia, Utopia, and ‘Home’ in Toni Morrison’s Home.” Utopian Studies, Vol. 29, No. 3, 2018, pp. 291-308.

Vissar, Irene. “Entanglements of Trauma: Relationality and Toni Morrison’s Home.” Postcolonial Text, Vol. 9, No. 2, 2014, pp. 1-21.

Yeats, William Butler. “The Second Coming” and “The Circus Animal’s Desertion.” The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats, pp. 187, 346.

Traduttore, Traditore

(or "Scarfed in Sun-Dazzle"): Beowulf and Translation Theory

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It’s difficult to read Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf without thinking about translation theory. In particular, the way translation must honor both the source text and the target language, despite Vladimir Nabokov’s insistence that the source alone is sacred. Translation should welcome readers into the ethos and music of the original text (the “spirit” as it were), even if it comes at the cost of the letter. Nabokov hated the idea: The job of the translator is an ethical one, he insisted, and its tenets require faithful replication with a minimum of “betrayal” to the original. I place the word “betrayal” in scare quotes as it evokes to me the Medieval Italian insistence that “traduttore, traditore” (“translator, traitor”) a doctrine that Nabokov would likely applaud. In “Problems of Translation: Onegin in English,” Nabokov insists that “the clumsiest literal translation is a thousand times more useful than the prettiest paraphrase” (71). But this begs the question: How does one measure the utility of literature? “Useful” as it might be, Nabokov’s own translation of Onegin remains unreadable, and is perhaps better used as an object lesson against this “faith doctrine.”

Depending on context—students of Old English, for instance, might prefer translations that hew closer to the original—current translation theory sides more with Petrarch, who believed we should translate “as the bees make honey, not keeping the flowers but turning them into a sweetness of our own” (Petrarca 291). Heaney’s translation has all the sweetness of his Nobel-awarded poetry, thank God (or the gods, as the case may be). Though his detractors call his text “Heaneywulf” in disapproval, Heaney’s translation honors the inscrutable sounds and conventions of the original without sacrificing his poet’s sensibilities, producing a text that balances the letter of the original’s cocksure oratory with the spirit of its more existential aftertaste.

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In his review “Beowulf and Heaneywulf,” fellow Beowulf translator Howell Chickering commends Heaney’s labor of love. He calls previous 20th and 21st Century efforts, including his own, “honorable failures, since Modern English poetry simply cannot match the clangorous magnificence of the Old English” (162). He does not think all of Heaney’s choices are perfect, but all in all he calls it “one of the better poetic paraphrases of the original” (Chickering 177). Especially successful, in Chickering’s view, are the speeches, which he calls “freshly faithful to the point of ventriloquism” (162). I would like to zoom in on one of Beowulf’s speeches, largely because I am equally enamored of the poetry in it and the way it leans into the source material’s enigmatic foreignness. Beowulf’s speech reinforces and complicates his rhetoric. Soon after his arrival in Hrothgar’s beleaguered kingdom, our hero delivers a stinging retort to Hrothgar’s retainer, Unferth, who has sourly called him out for losing a race. Unferth remarks that if he could not outswim his friend, then neither can he survive Grendel. Beowulf responds:

[Grendel] knows he can trample down you Danes
to his heart’s content, humiliate and murder
without fear of reprisal. But he will find me different.
I will show him how Geats shape to kill
in the heat of battle. Then whoever wants to
may go bravely to mead, when morning light,
scarfed in sun-dazzle, shines forth from the south
and brings another daybreak to the world (599-606).

There is both music and layers of sense-making in this passage. Beowulf threatens those who cross him (Unferth wouldn’t want to set himself against this Geat “heat”); his sentences about Danes are rife with cliché (“heart’s content,” “fear of reprisal”); he sneers that for the Danes going to mead is a “brave act”; and he concludes with a gorgeous kenning in the final lines, “sun-dazzle,” a light which will be draped over the Danes like a womanly garment, a scarf. We can read Beowulf himself as the daybreak returning victorious from the south so the Danes can get back to the hard drinking and revelry that Grendel interrupted. Beowulf speaks with such muscular rhetoric, but pairs it with imagery so delicate it borders on fussy. The speech has the desired effect: The king is pleased, and the party starts. Heaney’s choices here capture, to my mind, some of the poem’s contradictions. These boasts sound profoundly undiplomatic to modern ears, but they have the desired effect. Heaney threads a needle here between mystery and clarity, poetry and meaning, grace and bombast.

Our tastes in translation come down to what we accept as collateral damage: The spirit or the letter of the original. To my mind, Petrarch was right, that the translator takes the flowers and makes honey. Or perhaps I’ll draw from Jorge Luis Borges’ essay “The Translators of the Thousand and One Nights,” when he advocates for translation with “happy and creative infidelity” to the original (45). Too faithful and we are the staid, spineless Danes in the quotation above. But if we apply our own “sun-dazzle” to the act of translation, our creative faithlessness moves translation from a flat transfer between semiotic systems to a dynamic medium of exchange that shines daylight on the past while enriching the present.

Works Cited

Borges, Jorge Luis. “The Translators of the Thousand and One Nights.” Translation Studies Reader, edited by L. Venuti, Routledge 1999, pp. 34-48.

Chickering, Howell. “Beowulf and ‘Heaneywulf.’” The Kenyon Review, Winter, 2002, Vol. 24, No. 1, pp. 160-178.

Nabokov, Vladimir. “Problems of Translation: Onegin in English.” Translation Studies Reader. Edited by L. Venuti, Routledge, 1999. 71-83.

Petrarca, Francesco. Petrarch: The First Modern Scholar and Man of Letters. Edited and translated by James Harvey Robinson, G.P. Putnam, 1898.

Heaney, Seamus. “Beowulf.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Vol 1: Tenth Edition, edited by Steven Greenblatt, W. W. Norton & Company, 2019, pp. 42-109.

The Great Equivocator

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Of all of Shakespeare’s plays, I am singularly intimate with Macbeth. It is strange to academically study a play that I’ve acted in. The two forms of intimacy with the characters and language—close-reading and performing—are so different. There was something personally transformative about inhabiting Lady Macbeth at the age at which I inhabited her. Her power, drive, and determination were intoxicating, her greed and agency strangely admirable, at least for a woman of the time (Shakespeare’s time and my own). I remember looking forward to stepping into her skin at each rehearsal, because where I was an insecure teenager who frequently felt powerless, unsure what I wanted from life or what kind of respect the world owed me, she knew exactly what she wanted and had no compunctions in pursuing it. I really felt that power flowing through me when I hooked the metal clasp of the scarlet robe I wore, stood taller than I ever would, and allowed her words to come out of my mouth.

But now I’m a middle-aged reader. Lady Macbeth’s agency, ambition, and stop-at-nothing greed are more familiar, and certainly less aspirational, as both literary trope and real-life mindset. I will always love her, but she is less personally compelling to me because I have been her at times, in many small ways (short of murder of course). I am more struck by the equivocator himself, Macbeth, and the way the play sets up contrasts and then inverts them, as in the play’s famous refrain, “Fair is foul” (I.i.10), in order to trip him up. I read Macbeth now struck by an uneasy tension: Shakespeare forces us to feel for Macbeth at almost every step of the plot (until the final act, Lady Macbeth can take care of herself). Even if we disapprove of his decisions, we see the chain of circumstances that lead him to the inevitable de casibus conclusion. This empathy makes us complicit. A psychologically rich strategy on Shakespeare’s part, to show a descent into evil as something to which we could all fall prey, given the right external stimuli. Though he deliberately chooses evil, Macbeth is acutely aware of—and able to articulate—the evil he at first rejects. In the introduction to The Arden Shakespeare, Kenneth Muir notes the intimacy we feel with Macbeth and his decisions: “Shakespeare wished to get under the skin of a murderer, and to show that the Poet for the Defense, through extenuating nothing, can make us feel our kinship with his client, can make us recognize that if we had been so tempted, we too might have fallen” (xliii).

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Because for my birthday I bought myself a subscription to the Oxford English Dictionary, I thought I’d cash in on the purchase and comb the language of Macbeth’s pivotal dagger scene for interpretable, equivocating language, because the “correct” interpretation of signs is a central preoccupation of the play. A phantom dagger appears to Macbeth, and we watch him struggle to interpret it. It could be a warning (“fair”) or a temptation (“foul”). The Oxford English Dictionary defines “equivocation” as “the expression of a virtual falsehood in the form of a proposition which (in order to satisfy the speaker's conscience) is verbally true.” Macbeth’s conscience is never hidden from us: We feel it acutely:

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? (II.i.34-39).

Macbeth’s words betray his hesitance about the moral validity of the dagger. Created either by an external, malignant force, it could as easily originate from his own already-guilty mind. Macbeth refers to the vision as “fatal,” which can mean either “allotted or decreed by fate” or “producing or resulting in death” (OED). On the one hand, the dagger might be a prophetic device showing him the way to glory; on the other, a warning from his own soul against future action (indeed, the subsequent murder seals Macbeth’s fate as much as the king’s). Such equivocation is manifest in subsequent lines as well: “Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going / And such an instrument I was to use” (II.i.42-43). The verb “to marshal” has two meanings: “to place in proper rank” or “to conceal a defect” (OED). Thus, the dagger might be “marshaling” Macbeth to his proper place as king or obfuscating the immorality of becoming king. The noun “instrument” is a morally neutral word. He uses “Instrument” instead of “weapon,” “knife,” or even “implement” (which would retain the meter), ethically distancing himself from the deed. Macbeth continues:

I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing.
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes (2.1.44-49).

“Business,” another morally neutral word, corresponds to “instrument.” The dagger was the equivocator. Now Macbeth is, with his careful choice of morally neutral language. At the line “There’s no such thing,” Macbeth ceases to speak to the dagger and begins to speak to himself.  These terse words represent a turning point in the soliloquy: he begins to take responsibility for a crime he hasn’t yet committed. 

Lady Macbeth will always be my girl, but at my age, from my vantage, watching Macbeth struggle and eventually choose evil is more frightening—a more potent warning about the confusing complexities of evil, and of good.

Works Cited

“Equivocation.” Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford University Press, 2019, oed.com/view/Entry/70179?redirectedFrom=equivocation#eid. Accessed 3 Feb 2021.

“Fatal.” Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford University Press, 2019, oed.com/view/Entry/70179?redirectedFrom=fatal#eid. Accessed 4 Feb 2021.

“Marshall.” Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford University Press, 2019, oed.com/view/Entry/70179?redirectedFrom=marshall#eid. Accessed 4 Feb 2021.

Shakespeare, William. The Tragedy of Macbeth.  Kenneth Muir, Editor, Penguin Group, 1963.

The Mystery in Clarity

Storytelling as Metaphysics in Margaret Atwood and Amy Hempel

This late night city bus is the perfect place to dig into Margaret Atwood’s tongue-in-cheek story/user-manual “Happy Endings” and Amy Hempel’s coy, spiralized “What Were the White Things?” Not only does the average bus ride take about as long as it takes to reach the “end” of said texts, the experience of the ride replicates the existential crisis inherent therein, what with its jostling, unpredictable movements; its cranky, taciturn driver who could be taking me home or to hell; its host of ever-changing apparition-riders that hover somewhere between real and unreal; and the circularity of bus routes that, if riders ride long enough, will take them back to their beginnings. Atwood’s deeply ironic choose-your-own-love-story draws readers again and again to the true “ending” of everything: Inexorable death and decay. Hempel’s carefully-crafted lacunae—literally the “white things” of the story—do everything they can not to indicate death and decay, thereby highlighting them like redacted text in a classified document. In the former, the thesis is explicit; in the latter, coquettishly implicit. But the messaging in both, while rhetorically distinct, is clear: Death and decay await us all, and despite all our attempts to circumvent the inevitable, there is no mystery in them. The true mystery lies in our lives, the “now” between birth and death. The muddle in the middle is where the story is. Thus, these two metafictional texts expose some of the pitfalls of storytelling; and these storytelling pitfalls are the same pitfalls of a life lived without a “how” or a “why.”

Both works are concerned with concealing and revealing, and one of the ways they reveal is by allowing readers a look behind the curtain (perhaps “prison bars” is a more appropriate metaphor here) at the process of writing itself. Metafictional texts—texts that self-consciously signal their status as texts—often parody the tropes and expectations of traditional literature. Atwood’s tale is “inside-out,” in that a despotic and ironical narrator takes us through a series of bulleted writing clichés. It begins:

John and Mary meet.
What happens next?
If you want a happy ending, try A. (Atwood 724).

Readers then “try A”—the first bullet in a series. They are taken through the bland lifespans of the pair; “They both have worthwhile and remunerative jobs which they find stimulating and challenging,” a home, children, a “stimulating and challenging sex life” (Atwood 724). And then, after a long and happy life, they die. The reader is invited here to consider Tolstoy’s posited analysis of storytelling that “All happy families are alike” and thus not worth our time. Though technically a “happy ending,” the fact that Mary and John’s life stories bore the reader, and that the story leads to the death of its subjects does not feel happy—its semantic meaning conflicts with its syntactic meaning. What is revealed is the plot; what is concealed is the meaning. Plot without meaning, Atwood suggests (or “life without meaningful narrative”), is less than meaningless, as she illustrates with bullets B through E, which contain less happy variants of the story, each ending with “and everything continues as in A.”

Hempel, too, betrays her preoccupation with the relationship between concealing and revealing, plot and meaning. She exposes her story’s obsession even as she seeks to conceal it. In fact, the act of concealing is itself, in a metafictional flourish, the agent of revelation. Her unnamed narrator, if we bother to disentangle the story’s confused events into a timeline, walks into an art exhibit at a church while “on my way to someplace else, an appointment with a doctor my doctor had arranged” (Hempel 343). That buried sentence is our first clue. What follows is the artist—whose exhibit is significantly titled “Finding the Mystery in Clarity”—explaining the empty spaces in his otherwise detailed canvases: The lacunae that are the first of the story’s “white things,” objects that are outlined but stubbornly featureless inside. Next, the narrator recounts the death of her mother, and how, in a rage right before, her mother gave everything away: “She told me to put a sticker on anything I wanted to keep,” says the narrator, but her mother gives all of the items to other people. “The things I wanted to keep were all white,” says goes on. “But what were the white things?” (Hempel 344). This is our second definition—a definitive link between the story’s metaphor and the emotional pain it conceals. Finally the narrator is in the radiologist’s office, having the spots on a scan explained:

The doctor told me the meaning of what we looked at on the film. He asked me if I understood what he said. I said yes. I said yes, and that I wanted to ask one more question: What were the white things?

The doctor said he would explain it to me again, and proceeded to tell me a second time. He asked me if this time I understood what he told me. Yes, I said. Yes, but what were the white things? (Hempel 245).

Like the elephant in the room, the narrator, through the story, is thinking of nothing but her own death. But everything until the final scene is concerned with not thinking about it, and the words “death,” “disease,” “decay” are never mentioned. The plot of the story (of a life) is meaningless unless one can “find the mystery in clarity.” Thus the extended (but highly unstable) metaphor that organizes the story concerns the “how” and “why,” not the “what.” The white things are not blind spots, family objects, or cancerous tumors—they are the meaning we give the events and emotions that befall our characters and ourselves. The how and why are what a plot must address if it is to have any meaning for its readers—and what we must address if we are to find meaning in our lives.

The two stories reach the same conclusion about the relationship between plot and meaning. The point of contrast between them is in the behavior and motives of their respective narrators. In Atwood’s bullet F, the final one in the series, she asks, sarcastically, “If you think this is all too bourgeois, make John a revolutionary and Mary a counterespionage agent and see how far that gets you” (726). Many of her sentences are dares, and she scatters her prose with imperatives and wry asides. The control she exerts over the text is downright tyrannical. “The only authentic ending is the one provided here,” she says: “John and Mary die. John and Mary die. John and Mary die,” and the bulleted examples that came before, we see, bear that thesis out. The final line of the story softens her messaging and makes transparent the real exigence of the story (of both stories): “That’s about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what and a what and a what. Now try How and Why” (Atwood 726). The story’s crusty narrator, so highly attuned to irony, is crusty and ironical for rhetorical effect, to make the final statement contrast with the iterated bullets. Hempel, meanwhile, has a narrator who conceals her thesis even from herself. The rhetorical question—the one that is the story’s title and that peppers the narrative—is the driving force behind its unstable messaging. Hempel begins her tale with a self-correction:

These pieces of crockery are a repertory company, playing roles in each dream. No, that’s not the way it started. He said the pieces of crockery played roles in each painting. The artist clicked through slides of still lifes he had painted over thirty years (343).

Margaret Atwood

This narrator is cagy, not trusting the neutrality of anything she says. She aims for precision as a means of concealment. Far from Atwood’s superciliously certain, autocratic narrator, Hempel’s is grasping for control while spinning out of control, and this sense of chaos contaminates the narrative as she tells it to herself. She wants to be an autocrat, but the wild feelings roiling beneath the story’s surface prevent it. She is John or Mary, in denial about her own eventual death and decay. Dramatized as they are in distinct ways, the two stories nevertheless lead us to the same conclusion: It is the mysteries that we must explore, not the certainties.

The stories are both metafictional in that the pulse points in each—the plot beats to which readers are attuned from centuries of literary tradition—are here red herrings. In both stories, the semantic read fails to line up with the syntactical one. In “Semiology and Rhetoric,” Paul de Man describes the postmodern critical frame that informs metafictional literature. He first describes mid-20th century’s critical inversion of the relevance of form and content:

When form is considered to be the external trappings of literary meaning or content, it seems superficial and expendable. The development of intrinsic, formalist criticism in the 20th century has changed this model: form is now a solipsistic category or self-reflection and the referential meaning is said to be extrinsic… internal meaning has become outside reference and the outer form has become the intrinsic structure (de Man 27-8).

Amy Hempel

He notes, ironically, that “Formalism… is an all-absorbing and tyrannical muse” (de Man 27) (Atwood takes this contention to absurd lengths). What the postmodern field of semiotics has done to subvert the poles of form and content is to make explicit that in any text, the relationship between syntax and semantics—de Man uses “grammar” and “rhetoric”—is unstable and often contains multiple, equally viable meanings. “Semiology…” he says, “does not ask what words mean but how they mean” (de Man 29). Atwood and Hempel, in order to force readers to explore how the stories mean rather than what they mean, create unstable frames that reveal their meaning interstitially. The meaning is there, can just be glimpsed between the bars of narrative. Readers must toggle between incompatible syntactic and semantic structures of meaning until they finally see between them. The poles of these stories—life/death, acceptance/denial, beginnings/endings—are thus revealed to be false dichotomies. The stories replicate in the reader the need to make meaning between the beats of our own plots—to examine not the what, but the why and the how. For metafiction, ostensibly about storytelling, is really about life. Atwood’s story, an instruction manual about storytelling, concerns a life well-lived. Hempel’s story forces readers to find their own definitions for the blank spaces that the story leaves out—that we all leave out in acts of denial—emphasizing that individual choices are what imbue a life with meaning.

Enough of that. I fold up the stories, put them away. The late night bus I’m riding reaches my stop. Its hydraulics whine as it lowers itself to disgorge its sleepy cargo into a surreal San Francisco night. Unseasonable warmth, Halloween decorations lighting up the block, the susurration of cars on the boulevard. One of my fellow passengers hums nervously. Another yawns. A third has eyes glued to a cell phone. Each is the narrator of his own story. I am one of the apparitions, hardly real to myself. I head toward the familiar lights of my front porch while my head un-queers itself from the reading and the bus ride. Here is my muddle of a middle, ahead of me; hearth and home, “a worthwhile and remunerative job that challenges and stimulates,” a child and pets, a constellation of friends and family, and all the messy, extravagant minutiae of a middle class American life. It is up to me to imbue this life with meaning, to light it up with decorations, to create, in de Man’s words, a “reconciliation of form and meaning” (28). It is up to me to find my own how and why.

Works Cited

Atwood, Margaret. "Happy Endings." Literature: Reading Fiction, Poetry and Drama, 6th Ed. Edited by Robert Di Yanna. McGraw Hill, 2008. 724-26.

Hempel, Amy. "What Were the White Things?" The Collected Stories. Scribner, 2007.

De Man, Paul. “Semiology and Rhetoric.” Diacritics, Vol. 3, No. 3, Autumn 1973, pp. 27-33.

Shake the Frame

Racial Crosscurrents in Popular Culture

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When we talk about race, the locus of our discourse matters. Not just who is doing the analysis or consuming it, but also its genre and exigence; not just what is being said, but what its invisible warrants and aftereffects are. Late-stage capitalism—a political and economic system designed to subsume emergent popular culture, repackage it, and sell it for profit—makes identifying the locus of political protest that much murkier. We must always cynically ask: is this political resistance or commercialism at play? As consumers of pop cultural discourses about race, we often find ourselves face to face with this cynicism; Che Guevara would likely be horrified that we make capitalists rich when we wear his steely-eyed countenance on T-shirts, to name just one example. But there are pop cultural genres that penetrate the mainstream, become subsumed by capitalism, and manage to continue on as symbols of resistance to dominant paradigms and hierarchies. While the film industry has in large part been hijacked by interests whose quest for profit make its content safe and unchallenging, there are still financially successful films that interrogate race in interesting ways, like 2017’s Get Out. Hip hop, too, is commercial, but is nevertheless still almost synonymous with resistance, being taken up by minority cultures the world over as a way to speak back to empire. “This is America” by Donald Glover’s alter ego, “Childish Gambino,” is a contemporary example of resistance music that manages, through sleight of hand, to be both commercial and subversive; meanwhile, Clint Eastwood’s film Gran Torino, is a metonymy for a kind of racial crosscurrent that appears to challenge the status quo while actually reinforcing it.

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In the video for his hip hop opus, Glover’s character sings, dances, smokes a joint, and shoots guns, integrating several musical genres including rap, blues, South African protest music, and gospel into a mash-up with several narrative and musical threads. The track vies with fast-changing images that sometimes correspond with the singing and sometimes compete with it to accomplish two things: on the one hand to launch a searing critique of the commodification of and violence toward black bodies and, on the other, to entertain. Many of its messages are encoded, making the balance of these, as in Get Out, defy America’s racial status quo by pretending to conform to it. The apparent conformity is what gives the song its universal appeal, but, like the pearl in the oyster shell, the critique contained therein is its true exigence, and what might make the song endure well past a musical “sell-by” date. The video, set in a subterranean garage, superimposes dancing African Americans, many of them schoolchildren in uniform, against a backdrop of police violence, gun-toting vigilantes, blown out cars, prison yards, and a horseman of the apocalypse. The dancers’ faces vacillate between vapid grins and contorted rictuses that evoke Jim Crow-era minstrel art. Childish Gambino, presiding over the chaos, is sometimes victim, sometimes performing buffoon, sometimes detached observer, and sometimes aggressor. He shoots a man in cold blood in the video’s opening vignette (a man who had been playing a South African protest song on acoustic guitar), and later guns down an all-black church choir, a brief but obvious reference to the Charleston church shooting. The quickness of the video’s cuts, the way order and chaos vie across the scene, and the way the video is broken into vignettes, makes the meaning continuously slip between race violence and race commodification. In “Why the Dancing Makes ‘This Is America’ So Uncomfortable to Watch,” The Atlantic’s Aida Amoako calls Glover’s mugging, “a denunciation of the distractions that keep many Americans from noticing how the world around them is falling apart.” This analysis, she goes on to say, is “complicated” by the video’s multiple references to racial trauma, so the contrasts between representation and lived experience is where the video’s focus lies. An attentive viewer sees all this, but the catchy tune and surreal imagery also entertain enough so that a music lover of any political persuasion can tap their toes.

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Contrast also saves the video from coming off as preachy or becoming too easy to interpret. Most enduring art endures because it is interpretable, and critics have read various messages into the minutest details of the track. The garage is America. Glover is America. A “Celly” as he mentions in the lines “This a celly (ha) / That's a tool (yeah) / On my Kodak (woo, Black)” accompanies a pan of what looks like a prison cell-block (a politically resonant sense of “celly”); but the prisoners are schoolchildren with the cameras running on their cellphones (an equally relevant suggestion that the only way African Americans might get justice in the face of police violence is if they have a camera). And then there is the dancing itself. As The New Yorker’s Doreen St. Félix notes in “The Carnage and Chaos of Childish Gambino’s ‘This Is America,’” Glover manages to,

contort his body in a manner that induces memories of the grotesque theatre of jigging and cake-walking. Sometimes the movements and how they activate his muscles make him look sexy, at other times crazed. His manic elation erupts into violence at a speed that matches something of the media consumer’s daily experience.

Blink and you might miss it. Inherent in the song are the multiple personalities of the news and pop cultural cycles. Hip hop, with its collaborative sense (its creative framework fashions something new out of extant music samples and often includes dialogic elements), is particularly suited for this schizophrenia. All Americans live within our crazed news cycle, but the video suggests that the way African Americans inhabit it is unique to their experience and asks the dominant culture to live, for a few minutes, inside it. In “Close-Up: Hip Hop Cinema,” Regina N. Bradley comments on the way hip hop serves “as a mouthpiece for exploring the marginalized experiences of black and brown people in the United States and abroad” (141), for hip hop has spread throughout the world as symbolic of minority protest, and has proven remarkably robust in the face of commercial interests. In fact, its commercial appeal is in large part why its messages can be so widely disseminated, and why it tends to become a musical subgenre in parts of the world plagued by oppression. In “Arabic Hip Hop: Claims of Authenticity and Identity of a New Genre,” for instance, Usama Kahf notes hip hop’s power to mobilize marginalized groups:

Hip hop is a unique form of expression that has crossed social, cultural, and  national boundaries in the last couple of decades, from Europe and South America to Africa and the Middle East… While it was brought to life by the African-American community in the United States, hip hop's ruptures into different cultures around the world were not driven by any of the homogenizing… forces of western culture that usually seek to take over local and indigenous heritages… Instead, hip hop continues to locate its narrative space in the margins of each society (Kahf 359).

“This is America” deliberately leverages Glover’s fame and the burgeoning hip hop market (for as a genre it is by no means limited to African American consumers) to educate, illuminate, and enflame, and it does the deadly serious in a fun and pleasurable way. The song stands alone as a song, but combined with the video it becomes a tour de force. In “‘Reading’ Hip Hop Discourse in the Twenty-First Century,” Candace M. Jenkins notes that hip hop criticism is often logocentric, but that the genre’s power is its ability to create a connection between mind and body. The rapper implicates “his or her speaking body, but also quite possibly the body of the listener, which takes the artist’s voice in, often repeats it, and is (at least temporarily) transformed by that participatory performance” (Jenkins 4). Viewers live inside the frantic, violent, terrifying world of the video for a moment, singing along, feeling the pull to dance and join in, and that moment of empathy is where the song unifies commercialism and protest.

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If “This is America” is a serious message packaged in a shiny wrapper, Clint Eastwood’s Gran Torino is its fraternal inverse. It is a pill that slides down like a suppository while reassuring white people that they are OK and challenging nothing. In essence, Gran Torino is an exemplar of race exploration that reinforces the status quo while espousing to confront it. Unlike “This is America,” Eastwood’s ostensibly anti-racist film keeps tight (one could say “colonial”) control over its own racial narrative, effectively cauterizing any challenge to the white male privilege that is the beating heart at its center. Eastwood changes the focus from those who are oppressed to the ability of oppressors to “change their ways” without really changing. In fact, the Character Eastwood plays in the film, Walt Kowalski, has his racist utterances mildly critiqued, but the ultimate message appears to be “racist is as racist does,” denying that hate-speech is damaging to those at the other end of it. Only hate-acts, the film suggests, are truly hateful. Moreover, the film borrows the tired tropes of the “white savior” and the “model minority” as the basis of the story, undermining its anti-racist message. Kowalski, a Korean war veteran and retired Detroit autoworker, must overcome his racism toward Asians to help a Hmong family save their effeminate son from learning the “wrong” kind of masculinity from a Vietnamese street gang. Thao, the boy, attempts to steal Kowalski’s vintage Gran Torino, and the plot unfolds from there, privileging Eastwood’s rather myopic (and at this point outdated) view of masculinity, of which the car is emblematic. Kowalski manages, by film’s end, to assimilate the recalcitrant Thao into American culture by turning him into the same “dying breed” that he embodies. He leaves his car, at the final scene, to the boy, writing his even more effeminate children out of his will.

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In “Gran Torino, white masculinity, and Racism,” Jessie Adia critiques some of the film’s warrants:

Setting the film in the context of the auto industry is not coincidental, and the fate of Kowalski’s character and his dying (or, at the very least, seriously troubled) industry are intertwined. Both appear to be on their way out, but the cherry perfect condition of the Gran Torino speaks of a past, muscular glory. Along with the car, Kowalski’s house stands out in the neighborhood, and his meticulous tending of his small, tidy lawn serves as a marker of his class (and moral) values.

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The film assumes a rightness to Kowalski’s worldview and social mores—in fact, the film at times seems to critique political correctness more than racism. Meanwhile, the Hmong characters are bisected into two groups: the perversely masculine criminals, and the meek and vulnerable victims. “As such,” Adia comments, “the Hmong are represented in ways that are consistent with stereotypical images… passive, docile, and acquiescent, the ‘model minority,’ or dangerous criminals who constitute… a ‘yellow peril.’” In a similar vein, Louise Shein and Va-Megn Thoi, in “Gran Torino’s Boys and Men with Guns,” interrogate the film’s complicity with a national schizophrenia about the Hmong. At the same time, they became allies during the Vietnam war, and thus “synonymous with the anti-communist fight” but then, after a notorious case of Hmong violence in the United states, synonymous “with fighting in general” (Shein and Va-Megn). Thus the film’s view of its racial minority doesn’t take into account the plurality that always exists in any community, minority or not. Rather, it relies on preexisting Hmong stereotypes and layers general Asian stereotypes on top of them, for plurality “cannot make it into visibility under [an] American gaze so durably focused on the utility of Hmong to its war” (Shein and Va-Megn). While the film isn’t particularly regressive—Eastwood employed and consulted with Hmong-Americans for the film—neither is it truly advocating for tolerance and empathy of our cultural “others” in the way Childish Gambino is. It hardly asks us to reframe our thinking about race. It seems instead to ask why we condemn the racist. After all, he might decide to save the helpless minorities who are plagued not by racism but by other minorities. And directors like Eastwood might decide, in their beneficence, to represent a people who, the film suggests, cannot represent themselves. To many Hmong interviewed by Shein and Va-Megn, the film was an improvement over the invisibility and unidimensional cultural stereotyping that existed before it, but what if a Hmong had directed the film and located its heartbeat in the chest of a Hmong character? What if Eastwood had taken himself out of the film, leaving only Hmong characters? Both would be less commercially successful, I’d guess, but would have more to say about race.

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 “This is America” reframes the disparate, contradictory national narratives of the black experience, wresting representation away from the dominant culture. The video literally employs the imperative: “Dance and shake the frame.” Gran Torino tries to pull our frame of reference back to a more conservative past, asking us to reframe the way we see aging racists. Since provenance is important when we examine the space where art that represents the dominant narratives meet the counternarratives generated from the margins, I can only imagine that a film made by a Hmong film director might look a little bit like Glover’s video—it might challenge and complicate rather than reassure. It would be a better film. I do not mean to suggest that strong messaging about race must emanate from minorities—it is possible to tell a challenging racial story about a group not one’s own—but it must also respect difference, and be willing to acknowledge privilege. The white person might need to step aside now and then and acknowledge his or her complicity in the racial trauma of others. Traditionally, art that supports commonly-held beliefs about race in dominant culture gets wider distribution and scrutiny since it comforts those in power and reinforces the “rightness” of that power. But conversely, pop cultural genres that get traction in the dominant culture, such as hip hop, can be leveraged to “reverse” the subject of scrutiny to the dominant culture, interrogating white attitudes toward and narratives about race in American culture. I can only imagine what would happen if Glover and his Japanese director Hiro Murai would have come up with if they took on the film Gran Torino (or indeed how Eastwood might have written and staged the video for “This is America”). For any work of art endeavoring to take on race in our fractious nation, we might ask ourselves three questions: does the work of art move us toward greater empathy and understanding, or does it in some way serve to oppress and justify oppression? Does this artwork reveal anything about minority identities or does it focus on and assume the normativity of a white protagonist who isn’t asked to change? And does it ask us to reframe our national narratives or reassert them? As a nation we need to get better at looking beyond comfort and commercialism to the art that challenges as much as it entertains.

Works Cited

Adia, Jessie. “‘Gran Torino,’ White Masculinity, and Racism.” Racism Review: Scholarship and Activism Toward Racial Justice, 17 Jan, 2009.

Amoako, Aida. “Why the Dancing Makes 'This Is America' So Uncomfortable to Watch.” The Atlantic Online, 8 May 2018.

Bradley, Regina N. “hip hop Cinema as a Lens of Contemporary Black Realities.” Black Camera, Vol. 8, No. 2, Spring 2017, pp. 141-5.

Eastwood, Clint. Gran Torino. Warner Brothers Pictures, 2008.

Glover, Donald. “This Is America by Childish Gambino.” Directed by Hiro Murai, Sony Music Entertainment for YouTube, 5 May 2018. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ddJqNY__9U8

Jenkins, Candace M. “‘Reading’ hip hop Discourse in the Twenty-First Century.” African American Review, Vol. 46, Vol. 1, Spring 2013, pp. 1-8.

Kahf, Usama. “Arabichip hop: Claims of Authenticity and Identity of a New Genre.” Journal of Popular Music Studies, 2007, pp. 359-385.

Maus, Derek C. and James J. Donahue. “Post-Soul Sartre: Black Identity after Civil Rights.” African American Review, Vol. 48, No. 2, Summer 2015, pp. 220-222.

Schein, Louisa and Va-Megn Thoi. “Gran Torino’s Boys and Men with Guns: Hmong Perspectives.” Hmong Studies Online, Vol. 1, 1 Jan 2009.

St. Félix, Doreen. “The Carnage and Chaos of Childish Gambino’s ‘This Is America.’” The New Yorker Online, 7 May 2018.

Apologia for the Interpretable

Gender and Masculine Violence in Fight Club

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I was recently asked what film would make for fruitful discussions about masculinity in a film and literature course. I submit that Fight Club is a perfect vehicle for analysis. First, unlike the usual gender-theory suspects, whose stances and problematics tend toward the polemical or obvious, David Fincher’s 1999 classic about disaffected capitalist ennui and the neutering of male energy is nuanced, self-conscious, and sufficiently complex to warrant an in-depth analysis as a class and individually. Its main benefit is its resistance to easy answers, and the slippery way the text weaves in and out of parody, making its thesis into a moving target. Viewers can see it as a vindication of violence; a condemnation of male violence; a vicious critique of capitalism; a commentary on prosperity; and a bewailing of our increasingly “feminized” American culture. Often the art that endures is art that invites multiple—even opposite—interpretations, and while more sententious works don’t require much penetration to understand (while certainly deserving their place in classroom discussion) the true meat of the discourse lies where are no easy answers.

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The film’s messaging dances around a central question; what is masculinity; what are the consequences of repressing it; and how do we express it responsibly? The two central characters (the film ultimately reveals that they are the same character) are the multi-named/unnamed narrator and his alter ego Tyler Durden, and together they dance around various definitions of masculinity over the course of the film. The narrator, played by Ed Norton, is feminized and circumspect, emotionally dead, a cubicle-slave who travels for work and finds meaning going to various self-help groups for diseases he doesn’t have just to feel something (albeit something falsely “feminine”). By contrast, Durden, played by Brad Pitt, is a trickster figure of great masculine prowess who is, through most of the film, a “chaotic neutral” agent of disruption. He is amoral, a creature of instinct, a sower of anarchy, who, along with the narrator, starts a fight club where men beat the shit out of each other night after night in senseless acts of performative violence, thereby reclaiming their sense of selves as men. A straightforward-enough sounding plot summary—one that would trouble the most skeptical interrogator of gender theory, but the devil is in the film’s details. Just when the viewer gets a handle on a message, Fincher throws in a confounding factor. In “Fight Club: Historicizing the Rhetoric of Masculinity, Violence, and Sentimentality,” Suzanne Clark notes that one of the confounding factors of the film is that the viewer never quite knows whether the fight club itself is “the problem or the cure” (412). Is Fight Club a warning against male castration in contemporary culture? Is it rather a representation of a fascist group that gives reclaims its masculinity through ritualized violence? It appears as if the answer to both questions is, paradoxically, yes. This strange “yes” is what makes the film work so well for a film and lit class. As a feminist viewer, I can see the film as a condemnation of toxic masculinity, as a celebration of reclaimed agency, as a skewering of consumer culture, as a heady and fizzy romp through the reductio ad absurdam feminization of urban men, and the contradictions don’t rankle. I can disapprove of Durden’s antics and still find him attractive as a character; and I can condemn violence and still revel in the final scene when the buildings fall as the lovers clasp hands as a glorious expression of, at last, self-definition.

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Helena Bonham-Carter’s character, Marla Singer, is what continually subverts the film’s otherwise single-minded goal. She is both an embodiment of the feminine and, in many ways, the embodiment of the ideal masculine. She is the film’s only truth-teller (not less so because she lies), and she is the only one who sees events and characters clearly. In one scene, Norton’s character is asked to find a “spirit animal,” and his is a penguin, a silly, feminine animal “dressed” like a servant, who nevertheless advises him to “slide” down an ice chute, with all the imperative’s associations of “letting things slide” and of freedom and deliverance, of liminality. The penguin later becomes Singer, who gives him the same imperative. Singer shares more traits with (and is the lover of) Tyler Durden, so in many ways she is the female counterpart of Durden’s chaos, the one to carry his message forward in a more tempered way. While the final scene is one of violence (especially in a post 9/11 world), the viewer sees it as a fusion, finally, of Durden’s manic agency and the narrator’s servile passivity, and it is Marla’s hand he takes, fusing the halves of his identity into a man who, the viewer has the sense, is finally made whole. Thus the film doesn’t advocate for either side of its binary. In a Hegelian flourish, it takes the masculine/feminine dialectic and offers a strange, ironic, and highly symbolic synthesis in its place. It appears, to this viewer, to advocate for finding the “middle way.”

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In sum, the film is the perfect object of examination for questions about gender. There are few questions posed by the theoretical frame that can’t be interestingly answered in discussion, and these can be answered quite differently depending on the student. Such films and texts, I argue, are close to perfect for group analysis. It is the texts that challenge and provoke, ultimately—and the ones that refuse easy interpretation—that endure, and that can teach us most about ourselves, our priorities, and our world. As Clark notes, the film teaches us that one antidote to the “pleasures of illicit fighting” and toxic masculinity are the other kind of fight: the “more intellectual pleasures of rhetoric through critical argument” (419). That, I posit, is what a “Film and Literature” course is all about.

Works Cited

Clark, Suzanne. “Fight Club: Historicizing the Rhetoric of Masculinity, Violence, and Sentimentality.” JAC, Vol. 21, No. 2, Spring 2001, pp. 411-420.

Fincher, David. Fight Club. Performed by Brad Pitt, Edward Norton, and Helena Bonham-Carter, 20th Century Fox, 1999.