Showing posts with label feminism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feminism. Show all posts

Thursday, May 05, 2005

women: good fundamentals, bad show(man)ship

It seems that women's rights are becoming more of an issue internationally. In a nod to the Christian fundamentalism that is sweeping the United States like a Manitoba brush fire, Japan seems poised to introduce legislation which would restrict a woman's right over her own reproductive capacity. The neat thing is that in order to accomplish this, the Japanese constitution has to be changed to get around that whole human equality thing that plagues every good fascist. Now that sounds a little familiar, doesn't it? Unlike the US however, in this case there's no religious dogmatism, but rather nationalistic pride. A good woman is a good country, they say.

Are certain men in power really that scared of the genetic information that is missing on the Y-chromosome? I know it doesn't produce like the X does, but should we really be scared of two little Xs cohabiting the same body? [Christians who learn a bit of dimestore science quickly point out that XX is really really close to XXX, while XY cannot be turned into anything so rude]

Maybe that Jim O'Rourke song was more prophetic than once I thought. "Women of the world, take over. Cuz if you don't the world will come to an end. And it won't take long."

Forget Middle-Eastern oil dependency, the true battleground of the 21st century will be internal. The "seed of creation" (such a scary scary place for fundies...) will be Ground Zero.



It doesn't help the cause that so many otherwise progressive women's research and health groups appeal either to frilly, soft, Victorian symbolism of purity and innocence like this:


"Women's Wellness Program" @ the Stanford School of Medicine

or Hellenic stoicism (good women are supposed to silently bear the burdens of their sex)

"Defining Women's Health" @ Harvard University, 2002

or the flakey, Earth-Goddess imagery made popular in the 1960s

"The Everychick"

I myself prefer a more militant approach, and maybe we should all co-opt a Herstory logo to demonstrate to these scared bigots that women do not actually go quietly into the night.

Print the .jpeg below and put it on a t-shirt, then punch a dude in the face. Or better yet, hit him where he's hitting you, right in the junkpile.

Friday, April 25, 2003

A Constellation of the Self: The Body Productive

Elle était fort déshabillée
Et de grands arbres indiscrets
Aux vitres jetaient leur feuillée
Malinement, tout près, tout près.

_
Toutes les femmes qui l’avaient connu furent assassinées.
Quel saccage du jardin de la beauté!
– Rimbaud

_
I want to be a good woman
And
I want for you to be a good man;
That is why I am leaving.
– Cat Power

Everything is a body producing other bodies. We should begin by theorizing the body as a social and psychological construct within historical terms. Quite quickly we can notice the inquiry being transformed into one concerning reality and fictions, or perhaps more precisely a constellation of meta-realities which act in narrative terms. There has always been a fictionalized corpus of literature surrounding the body, and indeed one can soon agree with many feminist critics who position the body as a site of performance for various socio-political narratives. As a sociological construction, a distinction between body as physical entity and body as image or construction should be made, and thus the capitalized Body will be used throughout this paper in reference to the latter. (I wish to view the body as a performance of power within the discourse of a dislocalized power in Foucauldian terms) I also wish to further confuse my epistemological aim by incorporating a particular notion of the Real, which is required for any discussion of aesthetic expression, and indeed representation in a more broad sense. What I wish to posit as the Real is the narrative constructed by the Self in order to provide an ontological basis for conceptions of time and space by which the Self may operate in pragmatic terms. The Real is a fiction necessary for the localization of the Self within subjective terms, or rather to negotiate subjective experience of everything which is ‘not-I’ in relation to that which is understood as the Self. By definition (within Derridian terms), identity is created specifically by the intersection of Self and Other, and in this regard the Body can be seen to be a product of and an existence within the public sphere. More precisely, the Real provides a means for self-actualization, for the application and understanding of meaning and purpose to the Body and consciousness. Fundamentally the Real is related to the ego within Freudian and Lacanian conceptualizations, and consequently is dependent on the intersection of nature and culture. For the latter, the ego functions akin to what I am positing as the Body, namely the projection of an imagined corporeality into public discourse.

It is here that I wish to make the rather bold statement that for the purpose of cultural aesthetics and production, there was no Real for female subjects until the feminist struggle for agency and self-determination in the latter half of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Of course this is intended only as a broad generalization limited to the histories of Europe and the Americas. Individual examples of female subjects who could transcend the limitations of a patriarchal construction of their identity are numerous, yet pale in comparison to the influence of male circumscription of female agency and identity. The Real was defined within an essentially masculine ontology. Woman was the categorical Other, a difference from an essential normative (male) Body; in this capacity, woman is the first foreign body. As such, the female Body functions as the locus for the Real for both sexes, and more precisely in the sense of negation for the male psyche. This is true in spite of the fact that the female body, in particular during pregnancy, itself represents the intersection of nature and culture. My desire to confound (or perhaps even misunderstand) the theoretical tangents associated with the discourse on the body is an (enfeebled?) attempt to understand the body as a field of heteroglossiac readings and misreadings which when performed reify identity within public space. The corpus of imagery that I wish to invoke is intended to act as a collected structure in the vein of Kurt Schwitters’s Merzbau project (see below), and consequently should not reflect any gestural attempt to totalize and unify into a cohesive and monolithic theorization concerning the body. There are innumerable bodies and, to borrow a phrase from Julia Kristeva, innumerable body-Selves, and consequently there can never be a generalization of the Body as a single conceptual entity. The Body is a function of social and cultural discourse and is fundamentally a historical and geographic construction, and as such is privy to structural and ontological transmutation just as other socio-historical constructs. Most importantly for the aims of this paper, the Body should be regarded as a site for the production of knowledge, and therefore relates to a larger structural concern as to the exercise and performance of knowledge / power in the Foucauldian sense. It is within these terms that I wish to examine the work of several female modern artists, in particular Frida Kahlo and Mina Loy.

I

The history of western philosophy and social discourse (a generalized term, to be sure, and yet one whose tendencies and commonalities admit some degree of utility in this context) demonstrates a rather clear differentiation between the mind and the body, reflecting an ancient Platonic instinct for the transcendence of consciousness. The body was conceived as the least important aspect of human existence, a distant echo of an eternal and authentic whole usually associated with the divine. The body is the locus for disorder, destruction, irrationality, and bondage, and serves in many respects to hinder the capacity of the mind to develop. The mind, lacking a physical manifestation and yet able to alter physicality (within certain parameters, of course) to adhere to its will, is by virtue of its rather ephemeral nature posited as more authentically human. And yet even Plato could properly situate the mind, despite its transcendent nature, as having some germinal root in the body. The Symposium, for example, outlines a healthy consciousness emerging from the cultivation of the senses; love in Plato becomes the reification of subjective experience. (In the discourse of contemporary neural science, the fact that sense-information processed by the mind is mediated and given a certain immateriality (becoming neural information) through bodily experience is demonstrative of the filter which is consciousness; the conscious mind can be seen as an aperture limiting information passed to it from the body.) The change that came with the medieval period was a moralizing of this binary construction, with the mind given a sort of preternatural existence within the realm of goodness (godliness), and the body became associated with the degradation and transience of temporal existence. There can be no legitimate attempt to map the Real in the terms which I have outlined above, for all of temporal existence was fictionalized against the (hyper) reality of divinity and the afterlife. (In this sense the Real and the fictive unite, mirroring the unification of body and mind.) Key to this construction is the understanding that all materiality is a priori in a state of suffering, as all material and corporeal forms seek a kind of divine annihilation (a gesture to merge with the godhead). I will return to the annihilation of the Real as a historical concept with a discussion of modernity proper below, and in particular with a discussion of several of the works of Frida Kahlo.

It is important for the progression of modernity to chart the influence of certain artefacts of Christian dogmaticism concerning the body. Christian ideology had – through many of the Church ‘fathers’ such as Ambrose, Tertullian, and Augustine – associated the body, and in particular the female body, twice removed from the divine as it was created from Adam’s own body, as the site of evil and corruption. The feminine form was more thoroughly theorized as the entry for evil into the world in both philosophical and pragmatic discourse; as the fifth-century bishop of Constantinople John Chrysostom wrote, “the whole of her body is nothing less than phlegm, blood, bile, rheum and the fluid of digested food ... If you consider what is stored up behind those lovely eyes, the angle of the nose, the mouth and the cheeks you will agree that the well-proportioned body is only a whitened sepulchre." It should be viewed as one of the great ironies of history that irrationality was inscribed upon women’s bodies in such an obviously irrational manner, reflecting contemporary superstition rather than the triumph of the rational(ly male) mind.

Perhaps the most damning castigation of female bodies emerged with a (deliberate?) misreading of one of the books of Genesis. Tradition posits that original sin was a bodily experience precipitated by the inability of a woman to curb her instincts against a sensory pleasure leading to transcendent knowledge. In this capacity, the Fall serves as a metaphor for the importance and conscripted bondage of the male body to pre-industrial society, which in turn figures as the locus for economic production. There were no bodies as such in Eden, or more precisely there were no Real bodies, but rather humans existed in a form of divine pre-cognate beatitude in a non-civilized state of existence. It was the body of woman who tied man to a fate of suffering as it was she who introduced not temptation, but the succumbing to temptation, and consequently the pleasures associated with the female body were themselves transformed into a form of suffering. The female body is figured as the means by which evil and suffering are given materiality. Yet there was a degree of a unified binary in the medieval period concerning the body, as both body and consciousness remained within the conceptual realm of nature as the living soul. It is the non-living soul, or the essence of identity stripped of corporeality, which is transcendent. Achieving the Real requires the annihilation of the body and consciousness through sacrifice (love, in the Christian sense): “the obliteration of the body and of the Body’s image are nevertheless hypostatized in Christ, and this leads to the abolition of the Self (of the body-Self)” (Kristeva 1987: 145). In the sense the Real is associated with a proper moral existence; in other words, the Real becomes the performance of morality through the body itself. Morality is, of course, a social construction, which consequently reflects a certain engendering of the performance of power. (I would not agree with some critics who posit the reproductive process as constitutive of gender, with social structures revolving around this biological function; performance is more fundamental to gender than function, biological or otherwise. This construction of gender seems to remain in line with a patriarchal socio-historical depiction of femininity as essentially a biological trope, and thus the female is limited against the more transcendent and adaptable masculinity. Frida Kahlo was to struggle with such notions of biological determinism in her art; see below.) As such, one must mediate temporal (bodily) experience by a strict and dogmatic morality in order to keep the mind, and hence the soul, pure. The female body was made a priori immoral as the site of desire, temptation, and corruption.

Any such notions of subjectivity were put aside, however, as the binary of mind and body entered its most absolutist phase with the Enlightenment period. Descartes’s cogito posits the conscious subject as transcendent to, and thus autonomous from, nature, and thus the split between mind and body reaches its most logical extreme. The Self is itself made transcendent as the I of Descartes’s most famous formulation. The mind becomes a preternatural construction, hierarchized above nature and the body. In this capacity the mind-body split is extended to the origin of knowledge, or (as I will later elaborate in a rather subtextual and implied manner,) Foucault’s sense of knowledge/power. After Descartes the mind became an operation for reflection upon space, bodies, and time, and thus the locus for the Real. Cogito ergo sum was the monolithic phallus reflecting a cultural sense of masculine identity as self-contained, sovereign, and transcendent. (The path has been opened for Nietzsche to deny the legitimacy of a ‘godhead’ and for the twentieth century to emerge as a particularly important historical distinction, as the Will to Power was the first salvo fired against the decadence of non-subjective or autonomous experience, and served as the key to opening the portal for the modern subject to emerge.)

So what might this rather lengthy exposition have to do with the project of modernism? It is my belief that the modern period inaugurated an aesthetic of absolute subjectivity in which the Bodies involved in art production and reception are brought to the fore, frequently to the point of displacing the importance of the given subject represented by an art piece. The subject may indeed be the Bodies of the artist and/or audience, functioning as the logical extreme of self-reflexivity. Kurt Schwitter’s Merzbau (The Cathedral of Erotic Misery) project (1920?-36), for example, is highly evocative of the subjective space between the art-object and the participants: using a massive archive of cultural detritus that Schwitters had collected, a new living space was created which questioned the lives and spaces of art producers – Mondrian and Hoch had grottoes dedicated to them, or more precisely using them: hair, urine, sketches, house keys, etc – in relation to other ‘cultural’ producers – murderers, sex criminals, businessmen, etc. It also served to question the new ‘space’ created by the relationship between the consumption and production of art and cultural information. Fundamentally, Schwitters’s life project demonstrated that the intersection of Self and Other (culture, other people, etc) can be localized as the internalization of desire, memory, violence, and regret within the realm of the Real. (There is no outside of the Self in this sense.) Merzbau is Schwitters’s own house, and yet perhaps more accurately it is a exterior manifestation of his own subjective experience.

Like memory, Merzbau functions by heteroglossia, with older works obscured or even obliterated by new ones. Most importantly, older schools of art production such as the dadaist works of the teens and twenties were glossed over by newer (post-1925) sculptures and architecture which diverged or even critiqued the older aesthetics. Seen in this light, the Merzbau stands as a physical manifestation of the organization of consciousness as mediated by bodily experience: space is consciousness in terms of subjective experience. The project’s most totalizing conceptual gesture is the removal of the viewing subject from conventional space in order to place them into a construction formed by their own cultural impact. Artefacts of the ‘real’ world are given new conceptualizations, thus a bus ticket or a soup advertisement can be used to obscure a jar of faecal matter or one of van der Rohe’s drawings, for example. The medieval cathedral was a unification of all the arts of the period, and likewise Schwitters attempted to refigure all of his contemporary culture into one localized space. This space flows and connects like the interior of a body, and yet it is clear that the ‘lifeblood’ of the building is composed of dead cultural artefacts given a life separate from their original function. The dislocation of Schwitters’s own body into the work – hair in a corner, nail cuttings along a wall, urine scattered throughout – suggests an organic being stretched beyond its capacity for self-containment. And yet this is precisely what the work is: a body, with passages and limbs and processes, and an almost organic predilection toward continual internal restructuring. The work is thoroughly modern in terms of a gesture to transcendence, namely the imposition of inorganic over organic space as a means to impose an order onto chaos (and thus it is in an ontological sense an echo of Cartesianism). Simultaneous to this gesture is the reification of a life (and its consequent body) into a physical space, reflecting Walter Benjamin’s thoughts in One Way Street: “autobiography has to do with time, with sequence and with what makes up the continuous flow of life. Here, I am talking of a space, of moments and discontinuities”. The modern Body represents itself by means of these discontinuities and fractures, and indeed the many fractured aesthetic forms that emerged in the period – Expressionism, Fauvism, and Cubism in painting; Serialism and Musique Concrète in music; Imagism and Expressionism in literature; Montage in cinema – can all be related with the Freud’s conception of the projection of the ego into public space, which Lacan, Kristeva, and others have redefined in terms of the ego being constructed in the public sphere. Hence the Real in terms of Modernism can be seen as the Body fractured and reconstructed within a specifically localized context: one body entering into the public sphere.

Interlude: an excuse to purge

There can be no real (Real) escape from immanence. It is a degree of tangentiality to the intersection of body and consciousness which has no parallel. There can only be a destruction of time and space at this instant, for they are merely narrative categories.

The body has a memory while the Body does not. Memory is a trace, a mark, a jouissance produced by an archon performing its function. In individual terms the archon is the unconscious process; in structural (social) terms the archon is a socio-economic construction, and thus deeply historical. Scar tissue is the manifestation of the pleasure of inscription. Inscription cannot occur within the public sphere without acknowledging that there is nothing other than inscription and re-inscription. There is no true memory within a culture as there are no scars.

Pregnancy – or more precisely the female form during pregnancy, as pregnancy can carry a wide symbolic association that can elude gender positions – becomes the manifestation of this ontological gesture. It is a roundness which bridges culture and nature, indeed it is the chasm or rupture between the two, a suture. No other possibility can occur at the moment of birth other than a complete and wholesale subordination to the subjective moment between mother and child.

Technology is itself the birthing of a tabula rasa; technology is frequently depicted as clean and antiseptic by the Moderns. Simultaneously, technology represents a rupture, a means by which humanity faces its ontological nature by losing a sense of itself to an Other which initially seems antithetical to the Self. The centrality of the body in representation stands in opposition to the displacement of the subject by technological means or aesthetics (Cubism as relative to cinema). Homo sapiens has become homo technica by exteriorizing technology from the Self; not a wise move.

Bodies matter and produce and subsume and burn up; there is only intensity.

II

One area which presents itself as an obvious construction of the Body as public space is the smaller locus of the domestic. The field of the home is eroticized by many modern writers, for the same reason that all parts of the body itself have been eroticised over the centuries. It is a narcissistic gesture required for the proper creation of the Self; bodies of the Other are fetishized in order to affirm the importance of the Self. Perhaps the most (in)famous text to represent the eroticisation of the domestic is Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons (1911-14). (Standing as a Barthesian punctum for my reading of her text is ‘A New Cup and Saucer’, with a degree of immanence caught in language, reflecting de Sade’s eroticised self-reflexive violence of subject positions in Justine and 120 days of Sodom: “Enthusiastically hurting a clouded yellow bud and saucer, enthusiastically so is the bite in the ribbon”. The reader is pained by a relocation within this immanent subjectivity.) Yet I do not wish to spend a great deal of time on this particular well-travelled text. That women have traditionally been tied to the domestic sphere allows a rather obvious language and Body to emerge. As Mina Loy stated: “My conceptions of life evolved while ... stirring baby food on spirit lamps – and my best drawings behind a stove to the accompaniment of a line of children’s cloths hanging round it to dry” (Last Lunar Baedeker, lxvi). This is reflected in the blatant eroticism of several of her visual works, such as Snails (1903) and Moons I and II (both 1902), which are ostensibly tentative relocations of the Body as anthropomorphized objects. I have chosen Loy’s work as emblematic for literature in the context of this paper precisely because she began her career as a visual artist, becoming the star protege of Angelo Jank in Munich during her late adolescence. In addition to the prominence of the Body within her work, the autobiographical detail of the altering of her name from Lowy to Loy, as well as the continual use of pseudonyms within her poetry itself, represents a unique conflation of Kristeva’s conception of the semiotic, in particular the position of marginalised literature, as located within the subversion of the Law of the Father elaborated in Desire in Language, as feminine writing (again, in this context it is the performance of gender which is more important than the substance of sex). This gesture itself figures as a means by which an incorrect Real as applied to the female Body by a patriarchal heritage is cast away in order to recreate the Self in a self-sufficient manner.

Throughout many of her poems, Loy seems enraptured by membranes and transmission. It is possible to interpret this fascination as a recognition of the interplay between Body and society. Frequently this liminal space is allegorized as skin, as in ‘The Dead’:

We have flowed out of ourselves
Beginning on the outside
That shrivable skin
Where you leave off
...
In one impalpable
Omniprevalent Dimension
We are turned inside out

Skin marks the passage between culture (Body) and body, between Self and Other, and functions as the most delicate and eroticised organ of the body (it serves tangentially as a vaginal membrane between Self and Other in terms of Kristeva’s birth process; see Tales of Love, bold text, pp. 253-6). Similarly in ‘Parturition’:

I am the centre
Of a circle of pain
Exceeding its boundaries in every direction
...
Locate an irritation without
It is within
Within
It is without.

This passage is also playing with the notion of a lack within the female Body, such being a cultural production of femininity which obviates a denial of female essence within the Real. It is a form of question answering itself a few lines later: “Why? / The irresponsibility of the male / Leaves woman her superior Inferiority”. This poem seems to be interrogating the particular historicity which has circumscribed the feminine Real as a heritage of Christian (patriarchal) indoctrination. Woman is made to deny her body in order to replicate the most transcendent of denials, the sacrifice enacted by Mary (her sexuality) in order to give corporeal form to the divine: “Mother I am / Identical / With infinite Maternity”. In this context, by metonymic inversion, Loy is describing man as positioning himself as the saviour for civilization, as indeed the universalized saviour figured in Christ, by positing all women as Madonnas “Wearing a halo / A ludicrous little halo / Of which she is sublimely unaware”.

It is precisely at this moment that Loy wishes to insert the eroticised female body into culture; a proper construction of Body acknowledges that only through the flesh is the ‘spirit’ (the transcendent gesture) legitimated. This gesture is reified by the eroticisation of objects touched by the Body, as in ‘Love Songs to Joannes’:

Licking the Arno
The little rosy
Tongue of Dawn
Interferes with our eyelashes

We twiddle to it
Round and round
Faster
And turn into machines

Till the sun
Subsides in shining
Melts some of us
Into abysmal pigeon-holes
Passion has bored
In warmth

The erotic body (and indeed orgasm, or jouissance to invoke a Derridean association) is here linking natural generative processes, signified by the sun (the primal source of organic life), and technology, with the Body serving as the suture between such ostensibly disparate domains. The erotic has conditioned and constitutes the Real in this capacity, and as such it serves as a transmissive medium, or perhaps more appropriately a translational medium, between object and subject, between perception and understanding. This generative capacity allegorized through the erotic can also be observed in ‘Brancusi’s Golden Bird’, itself a reflection on another modern art piece:

As if
some patient peasant God
had rubbed and rubbed
the Alpha and Omega
of Form
into a lump of metal

The procreative act has relocated the Real within the realm of materiality in the form of a body, further elaborated as ostensibly female by a later line describing the act of art production as “this breast of revelation”. The breast is allegorized as the locus for the Real, which functions – again to use Kristeva’s diction – as an intersection “turning nature into culture and the ‘speaking subject’ into biology”. Furthermore, “even though orality – threshold of infantile regression – is displayed in the area of the breast, while the spasm at the slipping away of eroticism is translated into tears, this should not conceal what milk and tears have in common: they are the metaphors of nonspeech, of a “semiotics” that linguistic communication does not account for” (Kristeva 1987: 249). The conception of the female breast as a source of knowledge production and transmission has a parallel in Frida Kahlo’s Nana (1937) (see below). In ‘Virgins Plus Curtains Minus Dots’, Loy is critical of a social creation of the Real along patriarchal lines:

Men’s eyes look into things
Our eyes look out

A great deal of ourselves
We offer to the mirror

Here she is implicitly citing the female gaze as both an interior and an exterior, with the construction of the Body performed as both a social and personal exercise. The theme of the poem as a whole is the consumerism of female bodies, and in particular the repression of female sexuality (virginity as a sacrifice to be revealed to its one true God, a self-reflexive worship of the phallus).

Some questions emerge: Can the Self be located outside of subjective experience? Can the Self be realized outside of social experience? Can there be a localization of a body without reference to the social construct Body? Painting by its very nature differs from literature in terms of its entrance into public space. While literature is indeed a product within the public sphere, its exhibition falls under the visual rubric of book-object, which necessarily differs from its linguistic content. The visual arts on the other hand integrate the physical and the semiotic – body and expression – into one ontological gesture. (Seen in this light, painting is a more immediate expression of the Real.) In this regard, painting is the simultaneous exhibition of the Self and subjectivity.

Through many of her works, Frida Kahlo can be seen to be interrogating the essential characteristics, and indeed the ontology, of the female body and its position within social discourse. Almost universally throughout her paintings, Kahlo places herself as the subject in question, usually within the guise of an autobiographical sketch that questions the role of technology, social practise, and gender performance within patriarchal society. While her body does not enter into the art pieces themselves in the manner in which Schwitters reifies his own autobiographical sketch – the blood of many of her ‘hospital’ pieces is not actually hers but a representation, for example – the totality of her art is a transfiguration of her body into public space in a similar manner as the Merzbau. I will not go into too much biographical detail, yet the accident which forced Kahlo into continually submitting to the medical system in order to alleviate her suffering and continue to allow her a degree of mobility figures as an essential historical trace within her art. Masculine and feminine identity come to the fore in her oeuvre, the former usually representing an operation of patriarchal control over the latter. This frequently manifests itself as an association between masculinity and technological processes, and femininity with transcendent generative processes. In all of her self depictions, Kahlo gazes in an intense yet simultaneously detached manner at the viewers of her work. This gesture invites the viewing subject to relocate themselves into her own subject position within the thematic topography of the painting. Her body is made to figure for the social creation of Body, and the viewer is meant to position themselves simultaneously as a body (Kahlo’s female body) and as the creator of Body in a larger cultural sense. Somewhat hesitatingly, I interpret her self-portraits with monkeys, from 1938 and 1940, as an ironic gesture to the origin of bodies within an evolutionary context, and thus consequently Body enters into scientific discourse and becomes satirized as such. Simultaneous to this is the rather pessimistic irony involved in Kahlo’s usually blatant self-deprecation, as she did not find herself to be representational of female beauty. In this sense, these portraits act to doubly question patriarchal forms of knowledge and understanding.

The Body presented as Kahlo’s is transfigured into a figure of divine reproductive capability in Nana (1937) (although one has to figure Kahlo herself as inheriting this position from the masked woman who is suckling her; that the woman’s right breast is ‘heteroglossed’ as a tree emerging from the infant Kahlo’s mouth suggests this), Roots (1943), and most prominently in The Love Embrace of the Universe, the Earth (Mexico), Me, and Senor Xolotl (1949). Roots posits the female form as inhabiting the only generative space in an otherwise desolate landscape, and indeed in this guise Kahlo figures herself as the landscape itself. Metonymically it traces all of mankind to the female form, in an obvious gesture to transcend racial categorization. Her mid-section, from which the titular roots and leaf structures (found in many of her paintings) spring, is left bare, as though Kahlo is suggesting that viewed solely as a generative essence woman is without substance. Such would be a reductionist and problematic interpretation however, as the very existence of the painting suggests a re-mediation of the generative process into artistic production (and by extension language itself, avant la lettre in Kristeva’s formulation). Woman is indeed the entry point for life into materiality, and as stated above pregnancy in particular can be seen as the suture between nature and consciousness. Another biographical note must be made here, as Kahlo’s accident in her youth prevented her from having any children, despite a profound desire to procreate. Consequently, the traditional form of feminine identity was not available to her, and thus her conceptualization of Self and Body required a negotiation of the Real within these terms. That Kahlo positioned herself so prominently within her paintings to a degree denies the pessimism which she felt concerning her own reproductive capacity. Art provided Kahlo with a means to negotiate her identity within a society (or language itself in Lacanian terms) requiring the female Other to be bound by pregnancy.

The Love Embrace of the Universe is even less evasive about its gesture to the transcendence of female sexuality. While the universe itself remains an asexual ghost enveloping the remaining subjects, (light/dark) the Earth which represents material life is clearly female. The male (Diego Rivera) figures for the search for knowledge and truth, as signified by the mark of knowledge on his forehead – the third eye, of ancient cultural origin – and the flaming object which he holds in his hands. With this painting, Kahlo has located knowledge as springing from the female generative power, and thus she implies that truths can only reveal itself as such if the Real is distanced from the uniquely masculine perspective in which it is currently located. In order to understand this particular formulation, I wish to invoke the artist’s Self-Portrait Between the Borderline of Mexico and the United States (1932) in order to examine another view of the engendering of technological process and the production of knowledge. In this painting, the artist stands at the suture between an ancient symbolic topology of her native country and the modern technologies of the United States. The former is associated with the natural powers of the elements (the sun, moon, and lightning in the sky) and the productive capacity of the earth (the flowers at the bottom left), while the latter is associated with destructive or otherwise lifeless powers (the smoke billowing into the sky from a Ford plant, the chemical processing plant in the middle foreground) and the production of (existentially useless) technical devices. In both paintings, the allegorized woman stands at the borderline between nature and civilization, and between the production and destruction of knowledge.

By positioning herself as this suture, Kahlo is envisioning her function as artist (as body and as Body) as in a sense an oracle or shaman of the Real for the viewing subject. While Loy sees “a comic dissonance between machine and self” (Armstrong 1998: 116), in several of her paintings Kahlo seems to suggest that the machine is the self, although in a work such as Broken Column (1944) this is certainly not a joyful realization or a celebration of technology in the vein of the earlier Futurists. Human technology might indeed function as contrary to nature, yet it is still ontologically in the realm of the human body (and Body). There is no difference between technological civilization and motherhood when medical science is required to bring life into the world. That technology is fundamentally a natural element of human existence is evident by the importance of the use of medical equipment to situate the subject Technology incorporated into the Self anticipates both the pain and pleasure of existence. Technology is consequential for the Real in this sense. When read through the rubric of a Real engendered as masculine, both Henry Ford Hospital (1932) and Tree of Hope (1946) suggest the brutal dictatorship of scientific practise – and masculine interrogation through reason and cultural discourse – which inherently must destroy in order to understand. ****** Several of her paintings such as A Few Small Nips (1935) and Self-portrait with the Portrait of Doctor Farill (1951) depict the female subject as regulated and circumscribed by the male gaze; The Little Deer (1946) acts in a related manner, positioning Kahlo as the symbolic target for the gaze of the viewing subject, with a subject position relocated within the realm (or more precisely for this particular piece, the arc) of the phallus. The male actor in this first painting seems to be emotionally detached from his subject, and one is led to question whether the woman is a victim in a narrative as well as thematic sense. Self-Portrait with the Portrait of Doctor Farill is particularly potent in terms of its interrogation of the extent to which the female body is made a disempowered Other by a patriarchal system which essentializes the Real within masculine terms. The portrait of the doctor, in the genre of traditional ‘respectable’ portraiture (in other words, the subject is depicted with an aura of authority and dignity suitable to his social position and function), is aligned in such a manner that he stares dispassionately towards Kahlo’s own face, and she in turn stares directly at the viewer of the painting. By this triangulation of subjectivities, Kahlo is allowing the viewer to subject the original male gaze itself to a discourse of power relations: one questions where authority might be located, for the doctor has not fulfilled his intended function as Kahlo has not been healed despite her repeated surgeries. The doctor’s patient, which should be the locus and legitimizing function for his performance of power, is denied any sense of Self by the rationalized quantification of her body as the object of his performance of authority. It is for this reason that he has been denied a sense of the Real within the topography of the painting. Kahlo has rescued herself from the subjection to his false domination by relocating the doctor to the hyper-reality of the portrait within the portrait. As disembodied Other, the doctor is made to be an end product of Kahlo’s re-mediated generative capacity. She uses his own objectifying gaze to achieve these ends; this appropriation is made literal by the depiction of a heart as the paint on the palette used to create his portrait. In a very real sense, the medium of transmission and understanding, in artistic or broader terms, is blood.

The appeal to a somewhat dated trajectory of philosophical discourse which began this present examination is an intended problematic, for while the theories, derived from Nietzsche through Foucault, which I wish to utilize concerning the performance of identity (which by extension is a performance of a certain discourse of power, relative to the subject in question) gesture toward a rejection of antiquated philosophical percepts such as binaries and transcendence, at the same time the past and the present are ontologically unified as mutual disruptions which reflect each other. This problematic is intended to reflect a rupture necessary in modernism, which Jameson has in numerous instances posited as the period of the post-modern and which anticipates a true high modernism that signals a renouncement of ties to a formal school descended from antiquity. Arguably modernism is itself an incomplete project, and the continued bondage of the body to detrimental social constructs is one of the artefacts of this failure (or more precisely, its incompleteness, which suggests a lack of time rather than of motivation or direction). That the female form continues to be the locus of sexual (and consequently political, economic, and cultural) identity and for the feminine to remain a degree of categorizational rather than subjective discourse presents the modern individual with a creation of the body which remains tied to essentialist philosophical principles. The body brought to its most extreme subjectivity is the Body of the modern. It is the fractured body meant to ontologically unite the aesthetic with the transient, with the art piece’s own deconstruction through criticism.



Bibliography

Armstrong, Tim. Modernism, technology and the body. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998.
Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble. London: Routledge, 1990.

Connell, R.W. ‘Gender as a Structure of Social Practice’. Space, Gender, Knowledge. Ed.
McDowell and Sharp. London: Arnold, 1997. 44-52.

Freud, Sigmund. Civilization and its Discontents. Trans. J. Strachey. New York: Norton, 1962.

Gambrell, Alice. Women intellectuals, modernism, and difference. Cambridge: Cambridge UP,
1997.

Grosz, Elizabeth. Volatile Bodies. Indianapolis: Indiana UP, 1994.

Kristeva, Julia. Strangers to Ourselves. Trans. L. Roudiez. New York: Columbia UP, 1991.

––– Tales of Love. Trans. L. Roudiez. New York: Columbia UP, 1987.

Loy, Mina. The Last Lunar Baedeker. Charlotte, North Carolina: The Jargon Society, 1982.

New, Caroline. ‘Man Bad, Woman Good? Essentialisms and Ecofeminisms’. Space, Gender,
Knowledge. Ed. McDowell and Sharp. London: Arnold, 1997. 177-92.

Stein, Gertrude. ‘Tender Buttons.’ Writings and Lectures 1911-1945. Ed. Meyerowitz. London: Peter Owen, 1967. 158-99.

Warner, Marina. Alone of all her Sex. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1976.

Friday, March 24, 2000

Speaking: The Silent History of Coetzee and Rushdie

When looking at civilization, or indeed any notion of humanity whether collective or individual, one naturally presupposes language to be fundamental to its structure and development. Such assumptions are not without validity, as communication does principally create civilization on its many levels. Arguably, culture is itself the superstructure above this act of communication within a society. Within this context it is possible to observe how culture and language are determined by the social structures within a society; those that are in positions of power regulate both the medium and the content of culture. Throughout Foe, J. M. Coetzee consistently demonstrates the implications of power structures on language and the ability to communicate. The protagonist herself struggles to convey her story despite cultural limitations, as she begins to understand that though she cannot tell her own story, using another author removes her voice. Foe consequently uses his cultural dominance to dictate the constituency of a proper story, yet throughout the text Susan pursues her own narrative, and indeed the nature of her own position within that story. Most prominent however is the portrayal of the mute slave Friday, whose subservience is so thorough that he can barely understand or respond to others. Susan herself attempts to engage in a dialogue with him, but he remains mute to her. One cannot disavow Friday an element of his own agency however, as Susan’s pursuit of his story, despite his silence, largely precipitates the story that Coetzee presents to the reader. Indeed, taken as a whole the premise of Foe is that of the agency of the subservient. It is when the repressed characters become aware of their mutual relationship with authoritative voices and subsequently engage with them that a measure of independence and freedom is gained. In Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie presents such a character in Saleem Sinai, who is able to find his voice over the course of the novel. Saleem’s struggle with identity emerges most prominently in the textual realm; his autobiography is the means by which he realizes his authority. Principally, it is the loss of his telepathic abilities which precipitates Saleem to find his ‘true’ voice, namely the creation of both the story itself and a child of his own. Rushdie’s text consequently seems to imply that the process of emancipation is itself both a creative and a living process, existing as both problem and solution. Harkening to the Lacanian concept of the infinite origins of mimicry and double articulation, Saleem struggles throughout Midnight’s Children to create the text which is ultimately to become Rushdie’s novel. Both Rushdie and Coetzee are aware of their fundamental mimicry and usurpation of power from colonial authorities; it is in this manner that their principle characters can themselves become authors.

The first section of Foe is a direct narrative of Susan’s life on Crusoe’s island told from her own perspective. As such it must of course be analysed in light of the narrator’s biases – in particular, that Susan does not have access to the ‘truth’ behind the events of their stay on the island as either Crusoe or Friday perceive it – yet that is precisely one of the main themes of the novel as a whole. Upon her return to England, she attempts to bring her experiences into a cohesive narrative to be shared with the reading public and endeavours to remain as ‘factual’ as possible. It is important for the narrative to be her own, and she commences in a similar manner as other tales of maritime adventure. The beginnings of both the first section and her story-within-a-story description of events to Crusoe are routine for such narratives: “At last I could row no further” (Coetzee, p. 5); and then speaking, like the famous Ishmael, to Crusoe, “My name is Susan Barton ... I was cast adrift by the crew of the ship yonder” (p. 9). Each instance stresses the importance of Susan as an individual within the narrative, and there is no doubt that this is her story. Yet such conventions originate in masculine adventure narratives, and Susan quickly learns that she cannot incorporate all the elements that she wants into this framework. Her desire to include accounts from both Crusoe and Friday to complete her narrative is frustrated when she discovers that she cannot do so. There is no possibility of Friday revealing his story to her, neither can the recently dead Crusoe, for “who but Crusoe, who is no more, could truly tell you Crusoe’s story?” (p. 51). While she does attempt to engage Friday in order to reveal his story, which will be further discussed below, it becomes apparent that regardless of its validity, his story – or indeed that of any of the characters from the island – is largely irrelevant to readers. Such becomes manifest during her supposed collaboration with Foe, who subsumes Susan’s account into his own narrative. She felt that she could not write the text herself, for she cannot truly find her own voice within the silence of both Friday and Crusoe. She does not feel that it is her right to speak for them, although others, namely Foe himself, do not hesitate to speak for her until she rejects his authorial methods, upon which he withdraws into silence.

Susan believes that she requires Foe for precisely the reason that she struggles to find her own voice. As a man involved with British culture, and indeed one of it’s most articulate exponents, Foe represents the dominant culture from which Susan as a woman is largely excluded. Susan doubts her ability to produce a cohesive narrative within the confines of the patriarchal culture. Literary society – which in the eighteenth century largely restrained women as marginal figures – required a focus for texts, a point to be reached, and one which Susan could not provide: “my stories always have more applications than I intend, so that I must go back and laboriously extract the right application and apologize for the wrong ones and efface them. Some people are born story tellers; I, it would seem, am not” (p. 81). Susan is here fighting with the knowledge that history does not emerge from a single narrative, instead it is much more subjective. The very existence of the text of Foe proves the disparity that Susan feels between what she should say according to social convention and what she believes needs to be said. It is this struggle which provides thematic and narrative continuity to Coetzee’s text and proves, to modern readers at least, that Susan would indeed have been an able storyteller. She believes that storytelling is a live medium better suited to oral transmission since “a liveliness is lost in the writing down which must be supplied by art” (p. 40), and therefore any story will contain more of the soul of the author than elements of truth. Stories are living entities informed by the teller, they are products of a creative process akin to eroticism, and therefore requires the participation of the author within the narrative. Susan continually refers to physical love as the basis for narratives, saying that the “tongue is like the heart” (p. 85) and that “without desire how is it possible to make a story?” (p. 88). Certainly there was some level of desire on the island, foremost was obviously Susan’s desire to escape back to England, but also her sexual feelings shared with Crusoe were important. Regardless, such themes would be ill-suited to the phallocentric British society, which would inscribe its own voice on her narrative for “he has the last word who disposes over the greatest force” (p. 124), which of course if not necessarily Susan herself.

Perhaps most important to finding her own voice is Susan’s desire to engage others in a dialogue to conjoin her own narrative. It is in this sense that a sense of ‘truth’ would emerge from a multiplicity of voices. Yet such simultaneous narration is deemed too divided by the contemporary literary culture, as personified by Foe in the text. Susan wants the truth of the events that occurred on the island to liberate her, in a fashion, from the dominance of others. Her story would demonstrate that a woman is just as independent a creature as a man. Symbolically and practically the island was her freedom, as it was there that she was agent to her own emancipation. Yet upon her return to England, she finds that she cannot convey her story as she lacks both the publishing credentials of someone like Foe and the ability to write as a woman within British culture of the time. It is because of the internalization of cultural norms which exclude her that Susan feels that she must apologize for her “wrong applications”. She therefore denies the validity of her own voice and instead believes herself to be as a Muse to Foe while he writes her story. However, she quickly learns that she will not achieve freedom by his pen. Foe’s writing is not any real account of her life on the island but instead a more elaborate account which she ultimately rejects: “You know how dull our life was, in truth. We faced no perils, no ravenous beasts, not even serpents. Food was plentiful, the sun was mild. No pirates landed on our shores, no freebooters, no cannibals” (p. 81). Susan does not gain the liberation of free communication through Foe, quite contrarily his writing literally imprisons Susan and Friday within his house. Foe wants Susan to be secondary to his narrative, and indeed his writing leads to the creation of a second Susan, a character who believes she in fact is Susan Barton. He begins to contradict her, and attempts to convince her to accept this second Susan and presuppose a narrative which she is trying to reject:

Foe smiled. ‘Tell me more of Bahia,’ he said.
‘There is much to be said of Bahia. Bahia is a world in itself. But why? Bahia
is not the island. Bahia was but a stepping stone on my way.’
‘That may not be so,’ replied Foe cautiously. ‘Rehearse your story and you will see.”
(p. 116)

Foe then proceeds to create his own narrative, effectively removing Susan from her own story; to him a sequential narrative is more important. Only one hero is required for Foe, and other narratives – namely those of Friday, Crusoe, and in effect Susan herself – would only be distracting and more importantly it would be outside of the literary tradition. Despite being aided by numerous assistants, Odysseus, Jason of the Argonauts, Aeneas, and Crusoe in Defoe’s original text – all effectively stood alone during their travels. Foe in fact creates her story as if it were his own, as though he had himself been a castaway, and more importantly it becomes a story which adheres perfectly with the patriarchal society in which they live, with “five parts in all ... it is thus that we make up a book” (p. 117).

Susan does not allow Foe to be sole narrator of the text, however. Initially she counters Foe’s authoring of a palatable story for the English masses by rejecting his attempts to subserve her life to that narrative as well as the inscriptions that he places upon her:
if I were a mere receptacle ready to accommodate whatever story is
stuffed in me, surely you would dismiss me, surely you would say to your-
self, “This is no woman but a house of words, hollow, without substance”?
‘I am not a story, Mr. Foe.
(pp. 130-1)

Despite what Foe is trying to do to her, Susan firmly believes that she is greater than the story, and indeed, there is more to the character than is presented by Coetzee; her life does not begin with the first paragraph of part I. She learns from her isolation with Friday in Foe’s house that she must more actively involve herself in the story’s creation. To this end she attempts to engage both Friday and Foe himself into the narrative. Susan intends to become a subject for Foe in both senses of the word. His repressive acts do remove her identity to a great extent, yet not to the extreme of her entirely doubting herself or her voice. She never displays any uncertainty concerning the second Susan but remains adamant that she herself is the real Susan, despite Foe’s intentions. Simultaneously however, in many instances she does demonstrate her own agency: when she has a sexual encounter with Foe; the letters of Part II, originally meant for Foe but much more of her own narrative voice to be read by others.

More informative are the initiatives taken with Friday in order to allow his story to emerge. It is from these instances that a voice emerges for Susan. At the same time however, these passages demonstrate the extent to which Friday has himself become a subject to both the colonial power and the narrative itself. He had of course once been a slave, and to the British he will always remain so. Susan’s efforts to ‘free’ him from servitude do not in fact liberate him from colonial rule; indeed, that she inscribes her own values and an identity upon him is made quite evident when she fashions for him a ‘freedom sack’, containing his manumission papers, to be worn around his neck. Many times she mimics Foe in inscribing her own words upon Friday in place of his own voice: “I say he is a cannibal, he becomes a cannibal; I say he is a laundryman and he becomes a laundryman ... what he is to the world is what I make of him” (pp. 121-2). More telling are her attempts to probe Friday for his story, despite his inability to communicate in any but the most basic manner. It is this probing that allows Coetzee’s narrative a continuity and indeed remains the locus for the text. Susan senses something in Friday that she cannot truly fathom until the final part of the text. Throughout her interaction with Friday, there is an agency in his silence and indeed in his slavery on the island of which she becomes aware:

Why, during all those years alone with Crusoe, did you submit to his rule,
when you might easily have slain him, or blinded him and made him into
your slave in turn? Is there something in the condition of slavehood that
invades the heart and makes a slave a slave for life”
(p. 85)
Friday has to a certain degree internalized his own servitude, yet more importantly, he exists within a different medium than either Susan, Crusoe, or Foe, and one in which Susan herself longs to live. Friday is not confined to the slippery signification of identity with which all of the other characters remain burdened, continually exchanging positions of master-slave, self-other, and Subject-subject. Instead he remains outside of such a system; his existence is more pure and untainted by the identity construction which others inscribe upon him. To a great extent it is his lack of language which allows Friday to be free of such encumbrances of society. The final part of the text suggests that Susan herself has begun to understand the nature of his existence: “This is a place where bodies are their own signs. It is the home of Friday” (p. 137). It is within this context that one can more fully understand the association continually made between writing and sexual desire. By doing so, Susan is endeavouring to unite Friday’s pure world of ‘body-as-sign’ with the literary world of slippery signification, and consequently find a means of communication. Arguably, Susan cannot remove the social constructs which bind her from such a place, however much she longs to join Friday. She is far too much like Foe, and her dependency on language is far too great.

Rushdie’s text is very much a literal interpretation of this concept of ‘body-as-sign’; indeed, in many respects it is fundamental to his narrative. Certainly Saleem never lives in the pure state that Friday inhabits, as throughout most of his life he is defined by others, first as the miracle First-born of the newly liberated India, and later in much more insulting terms by his childhood peers. More significantly, Saleem never transcends language as Friday had. Coetzee’s slave is very much an outcast from society, and in this sense he achieves purity. Saleem’s (and as an extension, Rushdie’s) quest is not to reject society but rather to subvert its traditions. Language therefore becomes what he desires it to be, namely an Indian language spoken using English. Rushdie appropriates the narrative and stylistic traditions of the English canon to cohere into a new unified whole. The novel consequently becomes an apparatus by which Saleem-as-native-Indian becomes the dominant voice, and does not remain the mysterious Other of western convention. Throughout Midnight’s Children, Rushdie emphasizes the physicality of life, ostensibly as a counter to the idealizing process in which India had been previously defined. Consequently all of the references to traditional Indian culture are used to subvert the dominant language structure. Rushdie invents new words to describe his process, which can perhaps best be expressed by his equation of the text with cooking, and in particular with chutney. Rushdie uses this term as a signifier for this re-appropriation: his “chutnification” of the text is the process of claiming traditional elements of narrative construction and re-creating them within a new context, inflected with ‘Indian’ elements. It is this fundamental subversion of conventional narratives which allows Rushdie (and of course Saleem; the text is “autobiographical”) to extract himself from the hierarchy of language constructed by the west, critique it objectively, and ultimately to tell his narrative using his own voice.

Saleem himself exists in a world in which every part and function of the body is a representation of the body-politic of India. Every one of the midnight children is gifted in terms of bodily ability, Saleem and Shiva having inherited the most potent abilities as they were born most immediately after India’s independence. It could be argued that Rushdie is being quite blatant in his metaphor of the children of midnight. Certainly they represent the new hopes and desires felt by India upon achieving sovereignty, yet Rushdie quickly demonstrates the complexity of his allegory. The midnight children are uniquely Indian, at least in terms of western stereotypes derived from Moslem origins. In structural terms they are the spices which contribute to the “chutnification” of the text. Nearly all of them are copies of the djinn and mystics of the tales from the Thousand and One Nights, and this textual citation serves to hint at Rushdie’s intentions. Throughout British rule India was given an identity, inscribed by the western world and one to which it could not live up. Rushdie appropriates these images into his narrative to demonstrate the adversity India has to face in order to truly achieve independence. The children of midnight are not solely the hopes and dreams of a nation, they are the old baggage of colonial bondage which must be excised from India’s consciousness in order for the nation to become free. They must become not the special Thousand-and-One Others representing Indian fantasy to the Western world, but alternately they need to be sublimated as 0.00007 percent of the modern Indian population as Saleem states in the prison sequence. Ancient mysticism must be sublimated in turn to modern rationalism. Consequently the thousand-and-one are captured by the government; some are never to be released, some are castrated and some are killed. Saleem is doubly lucky, in a sense, as he is merely castrated, released and lives to construct his story. His castration ultimately does not hinder his procreative ability, as he adopts a child fathered by his Other, Shiva. The final chapters of the text concentrate on this child, upon whom he casts his own dreams and expectations for the future.

Saleem’s struggle for freedom in a very real (and Lacanian) sense becomes the liberation that he is seeking after; his efforts to achieve self-realization are in fact themselves the elements of that self-realization. Much like Susan he has to contend with desire as the basis for narrative expression, yet he never embraces physical love as she had. Throughout the text Padma acts as an agency for his desire, yet Saleem sublimates his feelings into the creation of the text itself, rather than realize them with her. True enough, his reticency is influenced by his inability to produce children, and especially in the early part of the text his ‘procreative’ concerns are very real and become manifest in terms of doubts towards his text as often he stops and begins writing again. He is once afflicted by writer’s block, but frequently doubts the validity of his text. Padma leads him to continue along his narrative, in fact her urges seem almost desperate at times: “You better get a move on or you’ll die before you get yourself born” (Rushdie, p. 38). By the end of the text it becomes quite clear that he has in fact been reborn, and part of this process involves the realization of his feelings for Padma. Consequently it is hardly surprising that they engage to be married in the final chapters. More to the point, this process of self-actualization through the text leads Saleem to the creation of his own history. There is little denying that history is itself a construction and not in any way a ‘fact’, therefore we can excuse Saleem – as he excuses himself – a few non-factual creations in his story:

I fell victim to the temptation of every autobiographer, to the
illusion that since the past exists only in one’s memories and
the words which strive vainly to encapsulate them, it is possible
to create past events simply by saying they occurred.
(p. 529)

Yet it is his history, in which he is his own agent; despite Rushdie’s allegorical implications for national representation, its immediate relevance is only to himself. More importantly it is a modern tale, and one of progress and self-actualization. Any sense a reader may have about Saleem’s oppression by the traditional history of India-as-repressed-nation is ultimately rejected by Rushdie’s use of fantastical elements. India will not be defined by its history or any other convention which have to a great extent been ascribed to it by western writers. In other words, India will become modern India by a re-appropriation of western stereotypes in order to write a history for itself. Saleem achieves his own independence in this manner, and in actuality from the very start of the text Rushdie hints that this will occur:

I was born in the city of Bombay ... once upon a time. No, that
won’t do, there’s no getting away from the date: I was born in
Doctor Narlikar’s Nursing Home on August 15th, 1947. And the
time? The time matters too.
(p. 1)

Saleem’s story will not begin like another fantastical tale from the Arabian Nights; he gives himself all the details which are important in the construction of his history. The fact that his birth is the birth of an independent India is of course part of Rushdie’s allegory, yet to Saleem it is important that this is his story, and not of India as a whole. It is for this reason that Saleem envies himself in his domestic position – as dwarf with no greater purpose – by the end of the text.

More importantly, Saleem’s connection to the other children allows him to use their voices to realize his own. At first he believes himself to be the voice of India, or more accurately the voices of all India. It is his telepathic abilities which allow the children of midnight to become a unified group, who would then ostensibly communicate to the world through him. Rushdie immediately undermines such romantic dreams by portraying the MCC as a group of bickering children who cannot truly be unified. Regardless, the children ultimately do not exist for such a purpose; their downfall is not the tragedy of the novel. Saleem cannot be the leader of India nor even of the MCC – despite his continual statements that his fate is the fate of all nations. Indeed, such turns out to be true, but not in the literal sense which he expects in the early sections of the novel. He will not be a leader by example, but rather a leader by allegorical representation. When he loses his telepathic ability, he realizes his fate is in fact true as he becomes a symbol not only for India, but for every nation as he so frequently says. Both colonial and imperial nations will achieve independence by using their national history as an informative text used to aid progress, not as a set of rules which need to be followed. Saleem cannot remain a djinn just as India cannot remain a colonial dependent viewed by the Western world as the mysterious Orient. He is consequently relieved when his powers are taken from him: “The young-old face of the dwarf in the mirror wore an expression of profound relief” (p. 534). India must exist as a living entity not oppressed by its history; it must be omnipresent in the wholly literal meaning of the term. In order for this state to be realized, any rigid definitions must be rejected, most notably those which are inscribed involuntarily. India will not be what it once was, it will not be what other nations prescribe it to be; India will define itself. The turmoil of the middle section of the novel demonstrates that this process is not a clean one, but rather it is violent and uncertain. Yet it is a process which India will undertake for itself. It is for this reason that Saleem feels that he achieves purity as the Indian bombs fall on Pakistan and his family is annihilated. Saleem’s story, at this point equated with the history of India, enters into a pure state in this sequence because the war is a demarcation of Indian self-governance and self-reliance. It is perhaps a bit problematic that Rushdie here implies that one cannot achieve independence until both life and death – and the ability to kill – are signifiers for liberation. Yet the war between India and Pakistan is to a great extent a purifying incident in the sense that it is the means by which the past becomes a mere narrative and not the sole influence for the future of the country. Neither will history – which of course had been created in both the narrative and the physical worlds by the west – be a defining influence on the present state of India. Rushdie’s implication remains: it is only in this context that nations as well as individuals can realize true freedom.

Many texts have examined the impact of social structure on language and communication, and a number of theoretical works have been advanced sharing similar views. The relationships between the dominant and subservient classes are not simple ‘give-and-take’, but instead form a complex of interdependency; each internalizes the supposed roles of the other. Within this context, Susan – a character repressed in many way by her society – must find a voice with which she can create her story. It is her struggle to find this voice, undertaken largely through the voices of others, that forms the locus of Coetzee’s narrative. The final section of the text seems to suggest that she has succeeded in finding such a voice by understanding Friday’s silence, and there is little evidence to doubt her newly discovered communicative freedom. For Rushdie the process of reclaiming authority over language is similar. Saleem uses the voices of others to find his own, yet more important is their silence. His loss of the gift he was given at birth is the means by which he unites the imperial voice with the silence of colonial dependency to create a new language, namely the “chutnification” of the old one. The process of self-liberation for both Susan and Saleem is a purifying one as each becomes aware of the importance of their authority. Fundamentally this rejection of foreign agency and identity construction is the goal of all post-colonial literatures.



Bibliography

Coetzee, J.M. Foe. London: Penguin Books, 1986.
Rushdie, Salman. Midnight’s Children. London: Penguin Books, 1991.

Wednesday, November 24, 1999

The Sounds of Silence: The Voice of the Other in Coetzee's Foe

When looking at civilization, or indeed any notion of humanity whether collective or individual, one naturally presupposes language to be fundamental to its structure and development. Such assumptions are not without validity, as communication does principally create civilization on its many levels. Arguably, culture is itself the superstructure above this act of communication within a society. Within this context it is possible to observe how culture and language are determined by the social structures within a society; those that are in positions of power regulate both the medium and the content of culture. Throughout Foe, J. M. Coetzee consistently demonstrates the implications of power structures on language and the ability to communicate. The protagonist herself struggles to convey her story despite cultural limitations, as she begins to understand that though she cannot tell her own story, using another author removes her voice. Foe consequently uses his cultural dominance to dictate the constituency of a proper story, yet throughout the text Susan pursues her own narrative, and indeed the nature of her own position within that story. Most prominent however is the portrayal of the mute slave Friday, whose subservience is so thorough that he can barely understand or respond to others. Susan herself attempts to engage in a dialogue with him, but he remains mute to her. One cannot disavow Friday an element of his own agency however, as Susan’s pursuit of his story despite his silence largely precipitates the story that Coetzee presents to the reader. Indeed, taken as a whole the premise of Foe is that of the agency of the subservient. It is when the repressed become aware of their mutual relationship with authoritative voices and subsequently engage with them that a measure of independence and freedom is gained.

The first section of Foe is a direct narrative of Susan’s life on Crusoe’s island told from her own perspective. As such it must of course be analysed in light of the narrator’s biases – in particular, that Susan does not have access to the ‘truth’ behind the events of their stay on the island as either Crusoe or Friday perceive it – yet that is precisely one of the main themes of the novel as a whole. Upon her return to England, she attempts to bring her experiences into a cohesive narrative to be shared with the reading public and endeavour to remain as ‘factual’ as possible. It is important for the narrative to be her own, and she commences in a similar manner as other tales of maritime adventure. The beginnings of both the first section and her story-within-a-story description of events to Crusoe are routine for such narratives: “At last I could row no further” (p. 5); and then speaking, like Ishmael, to Crusoe, “My name is Susan Barton ... I was cast adrift by the crew of the ship yonder” (p. 9). Each instance stresses the importance of Susan as an individual within the narrative, and there is no doubt that this is her story. Yet such conventions originate in masculine adventure narratives, and Susan quickly learns that she cannot incorporate all the elements that she wants into this framework. Her desire to include accounts from both Crusoe and Friday to complete her narrative is frustrated when she discovers that she cannot do so. There is no possibility of Friday revealing his story to her, neither can the recently dead Crusoe, for “who but Crusoe, who is no more, could truly tell you Crusoe’s story?” (p. 51). While she does attempt to engage Friday in order to reveal his story, which will be further discussed below, it becomes apparent that regardless of its validity, his story – or indeed that of any of the characters from the island – is largely irrelevant for readers. Such becomes manifest during her supposed collaboration with Foe, who subsumes Susan’s account into his own narrative. She felt that she could not write the text herself, for she cannot truly find her own voice within the silence of both Friday and Crusoe. She does not feel that it is her right to speak for them, although others, namely Foe himself, do not hesitate to speak for her.

Susan believes that she requires Foe for precisely the reason that she struggles to find her own voice. As a man involved with and indeed an articulate exponent of British culture, Foe represents the dominant culture from which Susan as a woman was largely excluded. Susan doubts her ability to produce a cohesive narrative within the confines of the patriarchal culture. Literary society – which in the eighteenth century largely restrained women as marginal figures – required a focus for texts, a point to be reached, and one which Susan could not provide: “my stories always have more applications than I intend, so that I must go back and laboriously extract the right application and apologize for the wrong ones and efface them. Some people are born story tellers; I, it would seem, am not” (p. 81). Susan is here fighting with the knowledge that history does not emerge from a single narrative, instead it is much more subjective. The very existence of the text of Foe proves the disparity that Susan feels between what she should say according to social convention and what she believes needs to be said. It is this struggle which provides thematic and narrative continuity to Coetzee’s text and proves, to modern readers at least, that Susan would indeed have been an able storyteller. She believes that storytelling is a live medium better suited to oral transmission since “a liveliness is lost in the writing down which must be supplied by art” (p. 40), and therefore any story will contain more of the soul of the author than elements of truth. Stories are living entities informed by the teller, they are products of a creative process akin to eroticism, and therefore requires the participation of the author within the narrative. Susan continually refers to physical love as the basis for narratives, saying that the “tongue is like the heart” (p. 85) and that “without desire how is it possible to make a story?” (p. 88). Certainly there was some level of desire on the island, foremost was obviously Susan’s desire to escape back to England, but also her sexual feelings shared with Crusoe were important. Regardless, such themes would be ill-suited to the phallocentric British society, which would inscribe its own voice on her narrative for “he has the last word who disposes over the greatest force” (p. 124), which of course if not necessarily Susan herself.

Perhaps most important to finding her own voice is Susan’s desire to engage others in a dialogue to conjoin her own narrative. It is in this sense that a sense of ‘truth’ would emerge from a multiplicity of voices. Yet such simultaneous narration is deemed too divided by contemporary literary culture, as personified by Foe in the text. Susan wants the truth of the events that occurred on the island to liberate her, in a fashion, from the dominance of others. Her story would demonstrate that a woman is just as independent a creature as a man. Thematically and practically the island was her freedom, as it was there that she was agent to her own emancipation. Yet upon her return to England she finds that she cannot convey her story as she lacks both the publishing credentials of someone like Foe and the ability to write as a woman within British culture of the time. It is because of her internalization of the cultural norms which exclude her that she feels that she must apologize for her “wrong applications”. She therefore denies the validity of her own voice and instead believes herself to be as a Muse to Foe while he writes her story. However, she quickly learns that she will not achieve freedom by his pen. Foe’s writing is not any real account of her life on the island but instead a more elaborate account which she ultimately rejects: “You know how dull our life was, in truth. We faced no perils, no ravenous beasts, not even serpents. Food was plentiful, the sun was mild. No pirates landed on our shores, no freebooters, no cannibals” (p. 81). Susan does not gain the liberation of free communication through Foe, quite contrarily his writing literally imprisons Susan and Friday within his house. Foe wants Susan to be secondary to his narrative, and indeed his writing leads to the creation of a second Susan, a character who believes she in fact is Susan Barton. He begins to contradict her, and attempts to convince her to accept this second Susan and presuppose a narrative which she is trying to reject:

Foe smiled. ‘Tell me more of Bahia,’ he said.
‘There is much to be said of Bahia. Bahia is a world in itself. But why? Bahia
is not the island. Bahia was but a stepping stone on my way.’
‘That may not be so,’ replied Foe cautiously. ‘Rehearse your story and you will see.”
(p. 116)

Foe then proceeds to create his own narrative, effectively removing Susan from her own story; to him a sequential narrative is more important. Only one hero is required for Foe, and other narratives – namely those of Friday, Crusoe, and in effect Susan herself – would only be distracting and more importantly it would be outside of the literary tradition. Despite being aided by numerous assistants, Odysseus, Jason of the Argonauts, Aeneas, and Crusoe in Defoe’s original text – all effectively stood alone during their travels. Foe in fact creates her story as if it were his own, as though he had himself been a castaway, and more importantly it becomes a story which adheres perfectly with the patriarchal society in which they live, with “five parts in all ... it is thus that we make up a book” (p. 117).

Susan does not allow Foe to be sole narrator of the text, however. Initially she counters Foe’s authoring of a palatable story for the English masses by rejecting his attempts to subserve her life to that narrative as well as the inscriptions that he places upon her:

if I were a mere receptacle ready to accommodate whatever story is
stuffed in me, surely you would dismiss me, surely you would say to your-
self, “This is no woman but a house of words, hollow, without substance”?
‘I am not a story, Mr. Foe.
(pp. 130-1)

Despite what Foe is trying to do to her, Susan firmly believes that she is greater than the story, and indeed, there is more to the character than is presented by Coetzee; her life does not begin with the first paragraph of part I. She learns from her isolation with Friday in Foe’s house that she must more actively involve herself in the story’s creation. To this end she attempts to engage both Friday and Foe himself into the narrative. Susan intends to become a subject for Foe in both senses of the word. His repressive acts do remove her identity to a great extent, yet not to the extreme of her entirely doubting herself or her voice. She never displays any uncertainty concerning the second Susan but remains adamant that she herself is the real Susan, despite Foe’s intentions. Simultaneously however, in many instances she does demonstrate her own agency: when she has a sexual encounter with Foe; the letters of Part II, originally meant for Foe but much more of her own narrative voice to be read by others.

More informative are the initiatives taken with Friday in order to allow his story to emerge. It is from these instances that a voice emerges for Susan. At the same time however, these passages demonstrate the extent to which Friday has himself become a subject to both the colonial power and the narrative itself. He had of course once been a slave, and to the British he will always remain so. Susan’s efforts to ‘free’ him from servitude do not in fact liberate him from colonial rule; indeed, that she inscribes her own values and an identity upon him is made quite evident when she fashions for him a ‘freedom sack’, containing his manumission papers, to be worn around his neck. Many times she mimics Foe in inscribing her own words upon Friday in place of his own voice: “I say he is a cannibal, he becomes a cannibal; I say he is a laundryman and he becomes a laundryman ... what he is to the world is what I make of him” (pp. 121-2). More telling are her attempts to probe Friday for his story, despite his inability to communicate in any but the most basic manner. It is this probing that allows Coetzee’s narrative a continuity and indeed remains the locus for the text. Susan senses something in Friday that she cannot truly fathom until the final part of the text. Throughout her interaction with Friday, there is an agency in his silence and indeed in his slavery on the island of which she becomes aware:

Why, during all those years alone with Crusoe, did you submit to his rule,
when you might easily have slain him, or blinded him and made him into
your slave in turn? Is there something in the condition of slavehood that
invades the heart and makes a slave a slave for life”
(p. 85)

Friday has to a certain degree internalized his own servitude, yet more importantly, he exists within a different medium than either Susan, Crusoe, or Foe, and one in which Susan herself longs to live. Friday is not confined to the slippery signification of identity with which all of the other characters remain burdened, continually exchanging positions of master-slave, self-other, and Subject-subject. Instead he remains outside of such a system; his existence is more pure and untainted by the identity construction which would others inscribe upon him. To a great extent it is his lack of language which allows Friday to be free of such encumbrances of society. The final part of the text suggests that Susan herself has begun to understand the nature of his existence: “This is a place where bodies are their own signs. It is the home of Friday” (p. 137). It is within this context that one can more fully understand the association continually made between writing and sexual desire. By doing so, Susan is endeavouring to unite Friday’s pure world of ‘body-as-sign’ with the literary world of slippery signification, and consequently find a means of communication. Arguably, Susan cannot remove the social constructs which bind her from such a place, however much she longs to join Friday. She is far too much like Foe, and her dependency on language is far too great.

Many texts have examined the impact of social structure on language and communication, and a number of theoretical works have been advanced sharing similar views. The relationships between the dominant and subservient classes are not simple ‘give-and-take’, but instead form a complex of interdependency; each internalizes the supposed roles of the other. Within this context, Susan – a character repressed in many way by her society – must find a voice with which she can create her story. It is her struggle to find this voice, undertaken largely through the voices of others, that forms the locus of Coetzee’s narrative. The final section of the text seems to suggest that she has succeeded in finding such a voice by understanding Friday’s silence, and there is little evidence to doubt her newly discovered communicative freedom.

Bibliography

Coetzee, J.M. Foe. London: Penguin Books, 1986.

Friday, April 09, 1999

The Discourse of the Other in The Prowler

There has been a great deal of discussion concerning the real-world applicability of critical theory. Despite ostentatiously basing their works on tangible examples in literature and society, theorists have often been accused of merely exchanging ideologies amongst their own elite academic society with no acknowledgement to those outside their ‘interpretive community’. There are however many artistic works which do not allow for an interpretation unaided by critical discourse. Certainly the most popular critical model used to interpret art in the twentieth century has been psychoanalysis. It has been praised for its universality, although it is just as frequently been over-emphasized as an effective tool of evaluation. Other models have been proposed which can be applied just as universally, arguably the most important of which have proven to be the deconstructivist ideas of Derrida and Foucault. In establishing mutually-dependant binaries – such as Self and Other – deconstructionism has proven to be a productive supplement to literary studies, explicating relations between characters for example. Furthermore, other critical movements have emerged from deconstruction theory which have also been of great influence. Perhaps the most currently debated critical movements are feminism and post-colonialism, which are similar in that each acts as periphery to the central masculine-imperial ideology. They endeavour to subvert this dominant cultural ideology and displace it with their own. Adapting these theoretical models to analyse Kristjana Gunnars’s text The Prowler demonstrates their usefulness to literary study, as indeed the work is pregnant with theoretical meaning. Gunnars continually emphasizes the Other, which is mainly the various representations of the prowler as individual, and in fact the Other can almost be viewed as the Althusserian problematic of the text. The Other is also signified in the author’s implicit post-colonial discourse, which posits her native Iceland as occupied country under the authority of several other nations. Additionally, feminism informs not only the subject matter of the novel, but its structure as well. Indeed, the form of the text – regarded somewhat loosely as a novel by Gunnars herself (or the publisher) – is difficult to interpret without regarding feminist discourse.

        Emerging from Saussurian and Lacanian ideas of slippery signification, deconstructivist theory analyses the relationships between dominant and marginal entities. Derrida’s work – and also in the ideas of Bakhtin – suggests that the two are not mutually exclusive, but alternately are intimately intertwined ontologically. The definition of one depends on the existence of the other. It is within this context that the concept of the Other can be applied to literature. In The Prowler, the Other is not one entity to the narrator, but indeed there are a variety of Others. Gunnars is in fact subtextually referring to the structuralist ideology of slippery signification in this regard, for while the meaning of the term itself remains the same, that which it signifies changes dramatically through the text. The prowler is variously a thief, the reader, the narrator, a man onboard the Gullfoss, the author, and finally the text itself. Indeed, it is the prowler-as-reader which provides the greatest disclosure of Gunnars’s application of slippery signification. Every aspect of the prowler – as thief, as author, as narrator – are all contained within the position of reader: “There are prowlers everywhere. They prowl about, looking for dialogue” (Gunnars, 74). The author and narrator become the reader as well as the thief in order to understand their story, for it is the “reader [who] ... steal[s] from the text”(Gunnars, 59) and is therefore able to take its meaning. The exchange of roles in this manner is implied by her statement that “the answer is also contained in the question” (Gunnars, 24), that the very act of questioning is its own answer. By destroying the boundaries between the various prowlers, between author and reader, the author / narrator is “free to steal from [herself]” (Gunnars, 59), and consequently learn from her writing. This is made most evident when the narrator and the prowler-as-Other cooperate in reconstructing a puzzle on board the Gullfoss. Furthermore, there are several instances in the novel where Gunnars posits herself as Other to the text itself: “It is not my story. The author is unknown. I am the reader.” (Gunnars, 119). The Self is identified by the Other; Gunnars logic therefore is to become the Other in order to realize the Self. The narrator herself endeavours to become the Other, first describing herself as the prowler of the school library, but also more importantly when she begins to learn other languages. Throughout the text she refers to the almost mythological purity and value of other cultures, that “anything that came from far away was good. Life elsewhere was magical. The further away it was, the more magical” (Gunnars, 21). There is no purity in the Self, it is diseased and needs to be cured by the Other. Such a belief emerges when the narrator is brought to a doctor who tells her “if you live in the Middle East, ... you can maybe go to the Red Sea and wash in it. That will no doubt cure you”, as “up here in the North there is no hope” (Gunnars, 37). Indeed, the self-doubt of the narrator is blatantly expressed when she states that “material for stories came from magical places so far away that people there had never heard of us” (Gunnars, 83).

        She does in fact come to a very distinct conclusion about her existence within the Self-Other binary however. Like Derrida, Gunnars states her preference for the ambiguity – of the freeplay – between the definitions of Self and Other caused by their mutual dependence. By identifying with the text itself, Gunnars is able to observe all of these different borders and abuse their definitions, for “all that a story is ... is a way of looking at things” (Gunnars, 90). She is well aware that any definition given to an entity is not a strict and complete measure of its existence, but instead that “everything ... depends on vantage point” (Gunnars, 90). There are many references to the uncertainty and arbitrariness of socially defined borders which express the author’s desire for freeplay. Iceland itself, while having the definite physical borders of being an island, does not have any ethnic or cultural ones. There is no sense that nations are defined by natural reasons, and consequently the narrator questions the rigidity of national boundaries, whether one can “know when there was a border? Can borders be felt? Is there perhaps a change of air, a different climate, when you go from one country to another?” (Gunnars, 60). At several times Gunnars mentions the classless system upon which Icelandic society is built; everybody is a “white Inuit” at relatively the same socio-economic level. The narrator is often confused when confronted with distinctions in class, as when she lived with her great-aunt and her housemaids. The encounters that she has with other cultural groups also hint at the ambiguity of boundaries. She initially defines Americans as abusers, as men who would prey on teenage Icelandic girls. When she goes to school in America however, she learns that Americans are not in fact different from her own countrymen. The author also makes reference to the lack of a perimeter in modern electronic communication, which can indeed be seen to define much of modern world culture: everyone has access to American radio and television broadcasts. It is within such regions of ambiguity that the author / narrator does indeed find solace. Outside of boundaries she defines herself, free of self-judgement and free of judgement by the Other. It is for this reason that she likes sailing, where she is between boundaries and can feel “entirely at home (Gunnars, 134) as “the text is relieved that there are no borders” (Gunnars, 164).
There are certain limitations placed upon such a lack of ‘natural’ borders however, as it is human nature to delineate the natural world for political and economic reasons. Consequently, those Icelanders who did in fact listen to American radio were accused of betrayal: “Rolls of invisible barbed wire circled the American as across the airwaves” (Gunnars, 71). Additionally, while the narrator herself is above all ethnic classification and is able to function among all the various groups at school, nevertheless there were many who had been rigidly inscribed within a set class definition. These socially described exactitudes can be seen to emerge quite directly from Iceland’s status as an occupied country. Following Bhabha’s discourse of mimicry, it could be argued that the Icelanders’ adapting of class distinctions is a mimicry of the authority imposed upon them by their quasi-imperial occupiers. In other words, the occupying peoples – such as the Danes – attempt to recreate the stratified conditions in their home country, and in doing so they cause the Icelanders to internalize colonial authority and displace their own identity. Gunnars makes the resultant alienation quite apparent when she speaks of their culinary habits, which are different from those of other peoples because of necessity: “we are the white Inuit. We eat fish. And in summers we graze like sheep among the mountain grasses” (Gunnars, 7) because Iceland “was a country where people died of starvation” (Gunnars, 39). The reader is brought to sympathize with these white Inuit not because of the relatively poor food selection, but rather due to the estrangement and self-effacement that results from their cultural differences. A more obviously colonial alienation occurs as a result of the extensive leprosy found in Iceland, lepers which had been expelled to Iceland by other countries because “they did not think the people on this remote island counted” (Gunnars, 41). Gunnars is implicitly asking why it is that Iceland is not to be respected, and why it has little respect for itself. According to Bhabha such is the nature of colonial discourse, as the authority of the occupying nation – signified by its denigration of Iceland – is mimicked by the colonized. Gunnars herself predates Bhabha’s work, yet she does signal his ideology; another interpretation of “The answer is also contained in the question” is the mimicry of colonial discourse.

        The author / narrator’s self-doubt can also be explained in terms of post-colonial theory. It is the desire of the colonizer to define the colonized; they are the Self which defines the Other. When she doubts the authenticity of her text – “I do not feel clever. If I laugh at myself, it is because I have nothing to say and I am full of love. Because nothing I say says anything. There will be mere words.” (Gunnars, 4) – it is precisely because she questions her right to assume for herself a voice. Much like her relationship with her parents – Iceland “was not a country where children spoke to adults. Only the adults spoke to the children” (Gunnars, 10) – the narrator struggles to claim for herself a discourse within the colonial system. Obliquely referring to Said’s Orientalism, the narrator presupposes the authority of imperialist texts when she describes Malraux’s text on the Chinese Revolution as “something worth writing ... a true story” (Gunnars, 86). Her own text is something to be doubted: “it is not writing. Not poetry, not prose. I am not a writer” (Gunnars, 1). The voice that does emerge however is not expressed in her own Icelandic language as Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o suggests is necessary, ostensibly because she has internalized so many languages as her own. She even forwards the notion that language is not the defining characteristic of an individual, that “there can be nothing extraordinary ... in a language” (Gunnars, 5). Iceland itself remains under colonial authority and does not express itself in any meaningful cultural way: there are, for example, “no Icelandic dances” (Gunnars, 44). But ultimately the text is given life by the author / narrator, it does stand independent as a worthy story.

       Indeed, by claiming the text for herself – not as a story or a poem, but just as a means of expression – Gunnars not only escapes from the trap of a post-colonial mentality of silence, but also from the trap of a masculine ideology which similarly imposes a silence upon her. It the “relief just to be writing” (Gunnars, 3) that confirms her independence. The very act of writing itself rejects patriarchy, for “writing ... contain[s] a note of defiance. To confront its opposite, to stare it down” (Gunnars, 105). This rejection of masculine-imposed silence is completely within the ideologies of Helen Cixous, who explicitly calls for women to write. The traditional masculine views of women, that they are far too influenced by their emotions to have meaningful discourse, must be rejected if women are allowed to speak. Gunnars posits that it is not emotion itself which impedes discourse, but rather it is “conflicting emotions [which] are silencing” (Gunnars, 36). Certainly she had internalized masculine oppression, of not owning her own identity as her name was not her own but belonged to a man: “I was certain I was my father’s property” (Gunnars, 94). This identity is quickly rejected however as she continues to write and identify with the text. From one author emerges two voices, one which remains repressed by a patriarchal society and another which merely intends to write in her own voice. The latter censors the intended writing of the former, it is the other author, “behind the official author, who censors the official text as it appears. The other author writes: that is not what you intended to say. I think of a book which has left in the censor’s words.”
(Gunnars, 63).

       This multiplicity of expression again finds a correlation in the ideologies of Cixous. Women must acknowledge their bodies in their writing, as indeed this is the basis for expression for both genders. Consequently female writing will be informed by the multiplicity of their sexual experience; no single approach will suffice, but instead the multi-orgasmic, multi-sensuous woman will speak with multiple voices. Certainly Gunnars makes several references to the importance of the female body to her expression: the anorexia experienced by the narrator’s sister is directly associated with her silence. More importantly however, the very structure of the text is informed by Cixous’s ideology of multiplicity. It does not have a linear focus, but instead approaches the narrative and thematic strands in a variety of ways; the ending itself is self-described as arbitrary. Neither time nor the narrative are contiguous, but are broken up and placed seemingly randomly in the text, picked up at certain moments and subsequently dropped until late. The structure of the text is not a ‘rising action leading to climax followed by denouement’, but rather “an unfolding of layers” (Gunnars, 25). Conversely, male authors need a distinct purpose which is to be followed directly and linearly: “The male line. The masculine story. That men have to be going somewhere. Men are always shooting something somewhere” (Gunnars, 25). Accordingly, the novels written by Icelandic men have a particular motive, which was to slander women accused of having American lovers. Such works have one centre which is pursued. Alternately, The Prowler is an attempt “to watch the egg hatch” (Gunnars, 28); it has no specific centre but is composed, like the jigsaw puzzle that the narrator and the prowler collaborate on, of numerous centres. While in her text “there are figurative prowlers looking for something” (Gunnars, 110), Gunnars-as-prowler has already found the numerous centres with which she has constructed her identity.

        Certainly when one has been informed by some measure of critical theory The Prowler aids in its own interpretation. Gunnars does not bury the Althusserian problematic of the text too deeply, but rather seems to delight in periodically exposing it for critique. Indeed, such is perhaps her point, as it conforms with the theme of the text. The Prowler is a meditation upon the gradual cognizance of self-identity, an identity which emerges in multiple fashions. Gunnar’s Self is not informed and defined by any single Other, but rather it is a centre for numerous Others. Consequently, identity could be extended to represent the transitional area between an almost infinite number of centre-periphery relationships. By the end of the text, Gunnars suggests that it takes a long time to come to this necessary realization.



Bibliography

Althusser, L. “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses”, Modern Critical Theory. Ed. D. Coleman. Hamilton, Canada: McMaster University Bookstore, 1998.

Bakhtin, M. “ From Discourse in the Novel”, Modern Critical Theory. Ed. D. Coleman. Hamilton, Canada: McMaster University Bookstore, 1998.

Bhabha, H.K. “Of Mimicry and Man; The Ambivilance of Colonial Discourse”, Modern
Critical Theory. Ed. D. Coleman. Hamilton, Canada: McMaster University Bookstore, 1998.

Cixous, H. “The Laugh of the Medusa”, Modern Critical Theory. Ed. D. Coleman. Hamilton, Canada: McMaster University Bookstore, 1998.

Derrida, J. “Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences”, Modern
Critical Theory. Ed. D. Coleman. Hamilton, Canada: McMaster University Bookstore, 1998.

De Saussure, F. “The Object of Study”, Modern Critical Theory. Ed. D. Coleman. Hamilton, Canada: McMaster University Bookstore, 1998.

Foucault, M. “From the History of Sexuality”, Modern Critical Theory. Ed. D. Coleman. Hamilton, Canada: McMaster University Bookstore, 1998.

Gunnars, Kristjana. The Prowler. Red Deer, Canada: Red Deer College Press, 1996.

Lacan, J. “The Agency of the Letter in the Unconscious or Reason since Freud”, Modern
Critical Theory. Ed. D. Coleman. Hamilton, Canada: McMaster University Bookstore, 1998.

Ngugi wa Thiong’o. “The Language of African Literature”, Modern Critical Theory.
Ed. D. Coleman. Hamilton, Canada: McMaster University Bookstore, 1998.

Said, E. “From the Introdustion to “Orientalism”“, Modern Critical Theory. Ed. D. Coleman. Hamilton, Canada: McMaster University Bookstore, 1998.