Documente Academic
Documente Profesional
Documente Cultură
Self/Same/Other
edited by
Heather Walton & Andrew W. Hass
Sheffield
Academic Press
Contents
List of Contributors
Parti
Introduction
Re-visioning the Subject in Literature and Theology
Heather Walton
10
Part II
Re-visioning Self and Other
REMEMBER ME! Traces of the Self as Other in Seventeenth-Century
English Devotional Poetry
Helen Wilcox
20
34
45
Part III
Re-visioning Subjectivity
The Psychospiritual in the Literary Analysis of
Modernist Texts
Sandra Chait
54
70
83
SELF/SAME/OTHER
97
Part IV
Re-visioning Gender
Writing on Exiles and Excess: Toward a New Form of Subjectivity
Pamela Sue Anderson
106
125
Ethical Alterities?
Philip Leonard
137
PartV
Re-visioning the Sacred Text
Jacob, Esau and the Strife of Meanings
Christopher Burdon
160
175
183
194
Index of References
Index of Authors
209
211
List of Contributors
Pamela Sue Anderson is Reader in Philosophy of Religion, University
ofSunderland, UK.
Amy Benson Brown was formerly visiting Professor at the State
University of West Georgia and is now a freelance writer in Atlanta, USA.
Christopher Burdon is Adult Education Officer in the Diocese of
Chelmsford (Church of England), and the author of 'Stumbling on God'
and The Apocalypse in England'.
Sandra Chait is Lecturer in African Literature and Academic Counsellor for the Program on Africa in the Department of Undergraduate
Education at the University of Washington, Seattle, Washington, USA.
Maaike de Haardt is Catharina Halkes Professor in Feminism and
Christianity at the Catholic University Nijmegen and is Senior Lecturer in
Women's Studies in Theology at Tilburg Faculty of Theology, both in the
Netherlands.
Andrew Hass is Lecturer in Literature and Religious Studies at The
Honors College, University of Houston, Houston, Texas, USA.
Philip Leonard is Lecturer in English in the Department of English
and Media Studies at The Nottingham Trent University, UK.
Hugh S. Pyper is Senior Lecturer in Biblical Studies at the Department
of Theology and Religious Studies, University of Leeds, UK.
Frederick J. Ruf is Associate Professor within the Theology Department of Georgetown University, Washington, DC, USA.
Kitty Secular Datta was formerly Professor of English at Jadavour
University, Calcutta. She was Fowler Hamilton Visiting Fellow at Christ
Church, Oxford, 1988-89 and is now a Researcher Fellow in the Department of Theology and Religious Studies at Westminster College, Oxford,
UK.
SELF/SAME/OTHER
Parti
Introduction
Heather Walton
Re-visioning the Subject in Literature and Theology
In her series of war-time poems, 'Trilogy',1 the poet H.D. locates herself
amid the blitzed ruins of a passing civilization. Inhabiting this place she
declares that among the broken debris she has experienced an uncanny
intuition of the return of a sacred presence. She makes explicit the link
between this haunting and the poetic vision that is being reborn within
her own wounded subjectivity. While fully acknowledging the mundane
violence of her times, H.D. performs the revisionist work of marking the
death of old forms and refiguring the fragments into strange new patterns. This creative task is simultaneously a political act and also a reconstruction of her psyche, for the foundations of both interior and exterior
worlds lie in pieces.
Several decades later the poet Adrienne Rich envisages a similar forensic task for the poet who would inspire re-vision. In her famous poem
'Diving into the Wreck', she presents a ghastly picture of patriarchal culture as a sunken vessel which has become a burial ship for those who
perished within it. The 'diver' descends to retrace the contours of the
wreck, to view the damage that was done and the 'treasures that prevail'.2 Rich's poet-diver becomes transformed from human agent to an
underwater creature in order to provoke a cultural sea-change.
Both H.D. and Rich are commonly referred to as revisionist poets and
their work interpreted as an attempt to create something rich and
strange out of a symbolic order that has become deathly.3 However,
there is a sense in which the function of literature is always to provoke
re-vision. Poesis works to make unfamiliar established and conventional
meanings, and the metaphor transforms that to which it also refers. Such
perspectives on the work of writing are not new and have been
1. H.D., 'Trilogy' in The Collected Poems: 1912-1944 (New York: New Direction
Books, 1983), pp. 505-612.
2. Adrienne Rich, 'Diving into the Wreck', in Diving into the Wreck: Poems
1971-1972 (New York: W.W. Norton, 1973), p. 23. See also her famous essay 'When
We Dead Awaken', in On Lies, Secrets and Silences: Selected Prose 1966-1978 (New
York: W.W. Norton, 1978).
3. See, for example, Alicia Ostriker, 'The Thieves of Language: Women Poets and
Revisionist Mythmaking', in E. Showalter (ed.), The New Feminist Criticism: Essays
on Women, Literature and Theory (London: Virago, 1986), pp. 314-38.
11
rehearsed in many different forms over the centuries as the essays in this
volume make clear. They re-emerge with particular intensity in the light
of this century's holocausts. The question can poetry be written after
Auschwitz stands in painful contrast to what Helene Cixous describes as
the imperative to locate the metaphor in the place of suffering; this
becomes the literary compulsion to transform unspeakable things into
poetry. This work is necessary to ensure both that the awful smoking
silence retains its sacred place and that what is strangely alive can be
recovered from destruction.4 When literature is viewed in this frame it is
seen, not as the support of cultural order, but as its perpetual undoing
and remaking. Emphasis shifts away from what is communicated in the
text towards the unutterable loss it amplifies, and literature assumes the
mystical task of making readable a silence. In recent years critical theory,
transformed by poststructuralist thinking, has made an accompanying
turn in a similar direction.
Commenting upon the revelation of Paul de Man's record of complicity with fascism, the Jewish scholar Shoshona Felman asserts that his
ferocious embrace of deconstruction should not be interpreted as an
evasion of personal and historical responsibility. She reads it rather as an
acceptance that we face the impossibility of making interpretive sense
of an 'unredeemable scandal of injustice and injury'5 in which we are
unavoidably implicated. Felman suggests that, alongside other poststructuralists, de Man is pointing to the necessity to locate the work of reading among the ruins. While a 'flight to theory' can certainly become an
effective means of retreating from political responsibility it is also the
case that poststructuralism represents a profound challenge to humanist
values and enlightenment rationality. These are identified as having
formed the ideological medium in which the violence of modern times
is deeply rooted.6 Modernism's tragedy is judged to be a direct consequence of the repression of alterity, and poststructuralists have insisted
that attention to what has been lost, silenced or repressed offers the best
hope of regeneration. This assertion has provoked fundamental rethinking of the nature of the critical task and the ethical responsibilities of
critics. Similarly theology is being challenged to revisit the catacombs
4. Cixous's reflections on this subject are discussed in Catherine MacGillivray,
'Introduction: The Political Is (and the) Poetical', in H. Cixous, Manna to the Mandelstams to the Mandelas (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994), pp. vii-ix.
5. Shoshona Felman, 'After the Apocalypse: Paul de Man and the Fall to Silence',
in S. Felman and D. Laub, Testimony: Crises of Witnessing in Literature, Psychoanalysis and History (Condon: Routledge, 1992), p. 164.
6. See Annelies van Heijst, Longing for the Fall (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1995),
p. 218.
12
SELF/SAME/OTHER
and begin its work again from the place of the dead.7
This collection of essays originated in papers given at the eighth
international conference on literature and theology, The Trace of the
Other,8 which addressed the increasing emphasis upon alterity in the
cross-disciplinary study of literature and theology. They are arranged in
four sections corresponding to four key arenas of contemporary debate.
The boundaries between each section are themselves fluid and open to
'deconstruction'. Distinctions are made in order to demonstrate the
wide scope of the re-visioning that is currently taking place.
13
return. These images of encounter with an alien God stand in stark contrast to the continuum between God, man and brother imagined in liberal religious thinking. The essays in this section of the text all explore
the notion that the self is constituted through a mysterious meeting with
what lies beyond its bounds. This 'Other' inspires both desire and the
fear of self-annihilation.
Helen Wilcox presents an analysis of the impulse towards self-memorialization in seventeenth-century poetry. She demonstrates how, in
devotional writing in this genre, the self looks towards the divine Other
to constitute the passageway through death by conferring a new identity
upon the subject; 'a redeemed or other self, which nonetheless keeps
her temporal identity stored within'.
Andrew Hass reflects upon W.H. Auden's loss of faith in clear solutions to cultural crises and his move towards a liminal threshold of withdrawal where the self becomes vulnerable to the approach of the Other.
Was his move an act of cowardice or does the post-holocaust world
need to seek out the same purgatorial space as an open threshold to an
uncertain future?
In Amy Benson Brown's essay the audacity of constructing identity
from encounter with the other is explored in relation to Sylvia Plath's
decision to write 'as a Jew' and employ the Bible as intertextual other.
While Plath achieved a remarkable power through this process its
ambivalence is recognized. Brown speculates that the poet who acts as
'medium' of the other may herself be brought to silence.
Re-visioning Subjectivity
Psychoanalysis has functioned as one of the most serious challenges to
the concept of the rational, unitary and stable self from which all else in
humanist thinking gains its bearings. In its Lacanian form the subject is
seen as constituted by a primordial loss as a result of a necessary separation from the body of the mother. Having relinquished the plenitude of
the maternal sphere and entered into the world of speech the subject
nevertheless remains vulnerable to the incursion of the repressed other;
a fearful chaotic power from beyond language that perpetually haunts
human existence.
Woman theorists such as Julia Kristeva10 and Helene Cixous11 have
further elaborated upon the repression of maternal alterity upon which
10. Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection (trans. Leon Roudiez;
New York: Colombia University Press, 1988).
11. Helene Cixous, Souffles (Paris: des femmes, 1975).
14
SELF/SAME/OTHER
Re-visioning Gender
Luce Irigaray, echoing Heidegger, has asserted that if every epoch has a
central question, then sexual difference is the defining concern of our
12. See her early works: Julia Kristeva, Revolution in Poetic Language (trans. M.
Waller; New York: Colombia University Press, 1984) and Julia Kristeva, Desire in Language (trans. Leon Roudiez; Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1980).
15
age. She goes on to argue further that 'sexual difference is probably the
issue in our time which could be our salvation if we thought it
through'.13 What she is pointing to here is more than the facts that
women's rights are being powerfully articulated and that female identity
is being reconceived. It is also the case that 'the feminine' has assumed a
key place in contemporary debate. In the work of Lacan, Derrida and
Lyotard it has come to signify the last unconquered territory outside
philosophical regulation from which it is possible to speak a new
word.14 The feminine is ripe for discursive exploration, something
greatly desired in the barren exhaustion at the end of the modern age.
Many feminists have protested against the annexing of this rhetorical
space by male theorists.15 Others have celebrated the creative potential
represented by this feminization of theory.16 Kristeva powerfully
employs the image of woman's cultural exile to comment upon fissures
and crises in the symbolic order.17 Irigaray herself sees in the turn to the
feminine a challenge to construct a new symbolic order in which difference is celebrated rather than obscured. She elaborates upon Levinas'
early use of the feminine as the most important signifier of alterity and
insists that sexual difference is the best guarantee of heterogeneity that
can be imagined.18 It inscribes eradicable difference at the centre of our
understanding of what it means to be human. It also becomes, for
Irigaray, the mysterious pathway through which the divine can enter
and transform human life. For her the new advent of 'woman' is also the
advent of a divine who is not foreign to the female flesh. She discerns
the approach of a 'sensible transcendental' and declares that the present
moment offers a remarkable opportunity for the 'remaking of immanence and transcendence through this threshold which has not been
examined as such: the female sex'.19
13. Luce Irigaray, An Ethics of Sexual Difference (trans. C. Burke and G. Gill;
London: The Athlone Press, 1993), p. 5.
14. For a full discussion of this use of the feminine by male poststructuralist thinkers see Alice Jardine, Gynesis: Configurations of Women and Modernity (Ithaca, NY:
Cornell University Press, 1985).
15. See for example, Teresa de Lauretis, Technologies of Gender: Essays on Theory, Film and Fiction (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1987), p. 33.
16. This is the position taken by Judith Butler in Bodies that Matter: The Discursive Limits of Sex (London: Routledge, 1993), p. 23.
17. For an interesting discussion of this recurring theme in Kristeva's work see
Anna Smith, Julia Kristeva: Readings of Exile and Estrangement (Bristol: J.W. Arrowsmith, 1996).
18. Luce Irigaray, 'Questions to Emmanuel Levinas', in Margaret Whitford (ed.),
The Irigaray Reader (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1991), pp. 178-89.
19. Irigaray, An Ethics of Sexual Difference, p. 18.
16
SELF/SAME/OTHER
The essays in this section explore the impact of Kristeva and Irigaray's
re-visioning of gender difference. Pamela Sue Anderson shows how Kristeva, as a novelist, presents an image of the female intellectual as a perpetual outsider. In so doing Kristeva makes the symbolic order work to
reveal its own violence and absences and uses literature as a site of personal and social lament.
Kitty Scoular Datta and Phil Leonard follow Irigaray in exploring
sexual difference as a signifier for alterity. Datta shows how within the
mystical tradition the adoption of gender positions in contradiction to
those culturally assigned becomes a vehicle for reflecting upon the
'abyss of the inexpressible'. Leonard follows Irigaray's rereading of Levinas and explores the manner in which she challenges the assumed correspondence between divinity and masculinitymaking possible new
horizons for theological thinking.
20. See Helene Cixous, 'The Laugh of the Medusa', in D. q (ed.), Literature in the
Modern World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), pp. 318-26.
21. Katherine Stockton describes this as 'real body mysticism'. See her account of
this phenomenon in poststructuralist writing in God Between Their Lips: Desire
Between Women in Irigaray, Bronte and Eliot (Stanford, CA: Stanford University
Press, 1994).
17
amongst bodies as worship'.22 The phrase 'on the body' is a prepositional pun. It points to marks, usually violently inflicted, upon human
bodies that function as inscriptions. It also refers to literary texts that
carry the narratives of those markings. When reading these 'sacred texts'
renewed attention is paid to the marks of the body in the text and to
which bodies are rendered silent or incoherent in the narrative. The
trace of the divine in Scripture is sought in those material points of ambiguity, ecstasy and pain to which the text bears witness. There has also
been a renewed interest in the way in which the inscription of moral
and religious codes upon human bodies can result in the deformation
and destruction of the living flesh.23 Finally, there has lately been an
emerging interest in the body subject to death as both the guarantor and
confounder of meaning.24
In this final section of the book, Chris Burden disputes interpretive
efforts to make a reconciliation between Jacob and his brother Esau the
focus of the disparate narratives of conflict and betrayal in the Genesis
stories. He further argues that the image of a bodily night-time struggle
which is not resolved has been neglected as an important symbol of
human encounter with the divine. Jan Tarlin makes creative links between the dead bodies in the text of Ezekiel and the funeral rites practised by women who are denied other 'religious' work. Catherine Lanone
shows how Thomas Hardy makes manifest in the figure of Tess the human body as a palimpsest of social and religious power. The final essay
by Maaike de Haardt calls for an abandonment of the romantic fiction
through which dying is viewed as a benign natural process. She calls for
renewed theological attention to literature that closely follows the
unravelling and disintegration of a human body.
Sea Changes
It would be foolish to attempt to draw definitive pointers towards future
trends in the study of literature and theology from the diverse essays in
this collection. What they reveal is both the wide variety of ways in
which the exploration of alterity is being pursued and the extent of the
re-visioning currently underway in literature and theology.
22. Robert Detweiler, Breaking the Fall: Religious Readings of Contemporary
Fiction (London: Macmillan, 1989), p. 46.
23. See, for example Elizabeth Bronfen, Over Her Dead Body: Death, Femininity
and the Aesthetic (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1992).
24. Jacques Derrida's The Gift of Death (trans. David Wills; Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1995) represents a major challenge for theological thinking on this
topic.
18
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Part II
Re-visioning Self and Other
Helen Wilcox
REMEMBER ME! Traces of the Self as Other in
Seventeenth-Century English Devotional Poetry
1.
At the end of Henry Purcell's opera Dido and Aeneas (1689), the abandoned queen Dido sings one of the most famous laments in English
musical history, 'When I am laid in earth'. The haunting setting of Nahum
Tate's text rises over a chromatically descending ground-bass and reaches
its passionately simple climax in the declamation of the words 'Remember me' to a single note, insistently repeated. Even as Dido's bodythe
harmony impliesis lowered for burial, and her 'fate'as the text goes
on to suggestis forgotten, yet the memory of Dido as a person is poignantly but triumphantly asserted in the melody with its echoing phrase
'Remember me'. The dramatic effect is stunning; there is no more to be
said. The phenomenon of the memorialized self is unequivocally the
closing focus of the opera.
Dido's cry of 'Remember me' is one of the most concise and vivid
expressions of a desire to be remembered which may be widely discerned in English culture of the late sixteenth and the seventeenth century. The very same words which Nahum Tate gave to Purcell's Dido
had been given by Shakespeare to Old Hamlet's ghost almost a century
earlier: 'Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me' (Hamlet, I.v.91).2 This terse
command ends a richly rhetorical speech by Hamlet's troubled father's
ghost, but it is precisely and only these simple words, with their overtones in this context of an avenging duty, to which Hamlet himself has
1. Henry Purcell and Nahum Tate, Dido and Aeneas (ed. Margaret Laurie and
Thurston Dart; Borough Green: Novello, 1974), pp. 70-71.
2. William Shakespeare, The Riverside Shakespeare (ed. G. Blackmore Evans et
al\ Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1974). All other quotations from Shakespeare are taken
from this volume.
21
22
SELF/SAME/OTHER
The 'living stone' of his verse is Herrick's 'Memorial', which will outdo
'envious Time', and his insurance against the oblivion of forgotten
vaults; poetry, he suggests, is the great pyramid which will ensure that
he is remembered in the featureless landscape which his contemporary
Marvell called the 'Deserts of vast Eternity'.8 The almost symmetrical
syntax of Herrick's line 'I rear for me' encapsulates the poem's selfmemorializing action: the first person subject begins the phrase, while
the self as object, 'me', closes it.
A few years before the publication of Herrick's 'Pillar', the devotional
poet George Herbert had also included a monument in verse in his collection of lyrics entitled The Temple (1633). Herbert's The Altar' was,
by contrast, intended as a means of ensuring that God, rather than his
own self, would be perpetually remembered:
7. Robert Herrick, Cavalier Poets: Robert Herrick, Thomas Carew, Sir John
Suckling and Richard Lovelace (ed. Thomas Clayton; Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1978), pp. 57-58.
8. Andrew Marvell, Complete Poetry (ed. George deF. Lord; London: Dent, 1984),
p. 24.
23
The material from which this poetic edifice is made is, as in Herrick's
'Pillar', 'living stone'. However, in Herbert's verse this matter is identified as the metaphorical 'stones' of the individual heart, hardened with
sin. Although the poet 'reares' this altar (using the same verb as Herrick
does to describe their poetic act of building) and cements it with his
tears of repentance, the creative 'pow'r' is unequivocally shown to be
God's, while the speaker's aim is to 'hold [his] peace'. Whereas Herrick's pillar is inscribed with his own name, Herbert's altar makes possible the repeated resounding of God's.
Although the memorialized individual may be one of the obsessions of
the early modern period, the contrast between Herrick's and Herbert's
poems suggests that the instinct to remember the self was perhaps a predominantly secular one. Unlike Dido or Old Hamlet or Herrick, the religious writer on the whole seeks to remember God rather than the
speaker's own self. The focus of devotional poetry, we would expect, is
on God, the divine other, while the human self, holding its 'peace', is
silenced. Is there, then, no place for the cry of 'Remember me!' in English devotional writing of the early modern period?
2.
The logic of Christian devotion would seem to encourage the denial and
even the letting go of the self. Is it really the case, however, that the individual 'soule in silence'10 is the ironic prerequisite for devotional writ9. George Herbert, The English Poems of George Herbert (ed. C.A. Patrides;
London: Dent, 1974), p. 47.
10. Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke, and Sir Philip Sidney, The Psalms of Sir
24
SELF/SAME/OTHER
ing, as Mary Sidney implied in her translation of Psalm 62? Do the words
of prayers, poems, meditations and sermons from the early seventeenth
century paradoxically embody an absence or forgetfulness of the self? If
we take a closer look at some of the devotional writing from this periodwhich was, after all, the era of protestant self-discovery with an
associated flourishing of devotional poetry and prose from all denominational groupswe may discover a considerable amount of self-memorializing. Herbert himself, for example, recommended in his handbook for
country parsons, The Priest to the Temple (1652), that when 'preaching
to others' the parson 'forgets not himself, but is first a Sermon to himself, and then to others'.11 Herbert goes out of his way to point out to
the parson that he is his own first object and first congregation; the self
is to be remembered and used, not ignored and forgotten. Interestingly,
the context for this active remembering of self is not posthumous, but in
the midst of life; furthermore, the person doing the remembering is not
the listener, family or friends, but the parson himself. 'Remember me' is
transformed, in this context, from a command for others in the future
into a duty for the self in the present. The individual is being turned into
an object lesson for that same personor, to put it another way, the self
is providing its own otherness.
In religious patterns of thought, the relationship of self and other is
profound and complex, as this entire volume bears witness. The individual self operates in the sphere of the overarching otherness of the
divine; in daily devotional experience, however, individual identity is
multiple, so that the speaking self encounters the fallen, or perhaps
redeemed, self as a more immediate other. In his poem 'Miserie', Herbert complains about the follies and errors of human beings, analysing
them and their obstacles to holiness, but only in the last line does he
express the realization: 'My God, I mean my self.12 The speaker cries
out to his God with startling immediacy that this other, this typical human about whom he is railing, is in fact himself, stumbled upon, as it
were, by accident. The inability to escape from this self is one of the
many meanings of the poem's title, 'Miserie'; remembering the self can
be a source of despair, even as it is part of the process of salvation. Here
we begin to see a difference of motivation, too, between secular and devotional rememberings. The urge to be remembered in the secular context implies, as Heirick made painfully clear, the overcoming of time
Philip Sidney and the Countess of Pembroke (ed. J.C.A. Rathmell; New York: Anchor
Books, 1963), p. 142.
11. George Herbert, The Works of George Herbert (ed. F.E. Hutchinson; Oxford
Clarendon Press, 1941), p. 255.
12. Herbert, The English Poems, p. 116.
25
13. Augustine, The Confessions of Saint Augustine (trans. E.B. Pusey; Edinburgh
and London: Thomas Nelson, n.d.), p. 228.
14. John Donne, Devotions upon Emergent Occasions (ed. Anthony Raspa; Montreal: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1975), p. 46.
15. See Helen Wilcox, ' "The birth day of my selfe": John Donne, Martha Moulsworth and the emergence of individual identity', in Amanda Piesse (ed.), The Making
of Sixteenth Century Identity (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999).
16. See R.C. Bald,/ofcw Donne: A Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970).
26
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One problem with consulting the ironically termed 'treasury'of the memory can be the nature of that which one discovers there; the speaker
here is physically and spiritually affected ('I am all ague') at finding mere
'shreds' of goodness among the 'quarries of pil'd vanities' stored away in
his memory. The remembered self is, to his great grief, little more than
an accumulation of sins. Herbert's poem offers a way out of this depressing cycle of rememberings, since it is also possible for the space of
memory to be filled by God himself:
Yet Lord restore thine image, heare my call:
And though my hard heart scarce to thee can grone,
Remember that thou once didst write in stone.22
27
3.
The cry of 'Remember me' is thus not simply the desperate last request
of the seventeenth-century individual in a secular context; nor is it only
the duty of the religious writer encountering the self as other in the process of devotion. The longing to be remembered is also the believer's
prayer to God. The very phrase 'Remember me' is biblical in origin:
Remember me, O my God, concerning this, and wipe not out my
good deeds that I have done for the house of my God;
Remember me, O my God, concerning this also, and spare me according to the greatness of thy mercy;
Remember me, O my God, for good.
(Neh. 13.14,22,31)
The third of these invocations to the divine memory is particularly interesting: 'remember me...for good'. The act of remembrance can have
undesirable results, so the outspoken request here is to be remembered
specifically 'for good', in several senses: the supplicant asks to be remembered for good deeds done, and for a good outcome, and for the
good of God, and out of the goodness of God, and, simply, for ever. The
richness of this passage highlights the complexity of the concept of
remembrance: its motivation, its purposes, its consequences, and, paradoxically, its own potential transience.
The range of meanings and intentions implied in the request that God
should remember is expressed throughout the Bible but particularly in
the Psalms, as in the following verses from the twenty-fifth Psalm:
Remember, O Lord, thy tender mercies and thy lovingkindnesses; for
they have been ever of old;
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SELF/SAME/OTHER
Remember not the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions: according to thy mercy remember thou me for thy goodness' sake,
O Lord.
(Ps. 25.6, 7)
This passage reveals that it is not only in the secular context that the
request to remember is contained within fixed limits. Purcell's Dido
urges, 'Remember me, but ah! forget my fate', but the divine memory,
too, is envisaged as selective. The Psalmist cries, 'Remember not the sins
of my youth', and among Purcell's most famous sacred anthems is a
setting of the words 'Remember not, Lord, our offences'.24 The focus of
Psalm 25 on God's rememberingor not rememberingmade it a
particularly popular psalm in the seventeenth century, and one of the
most interesting paraphrases of it may be found in the commonplace
book of Lady Anne Southwell (1626). The verses quoted above are translated in her manuscript as follows:
Thy loving kyndness lord
thy mercies manifold
recal to mind which thou di[d]st power
on mee in tymes of ould
fforgett my sines of youth
of faults no notice take
but lord in mercye think on me
even for thy goodness sake.25
24. Henry Purcell, A Purcell Anthology (ed. Bruce Wood; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), pp. 18-21.
25. Lady Anne Southwell, The Southwell-Sibthorpe Commonplace Book (ed. Jean
Klene, CSC; Tempe, AZ: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1997), p. 10.
29
30
SELF/SAME/OTHER
Into the praises of the King of Kings,
Soar thou above these low inferior things:
Try how the wings of faith will rise above
The towering Eagle, or the mounting Dove:
What? an heir and blest! Doth not this eccho ring,
Shall I do ill, and Heir to such a King?
O no, assist me, Lord, then I shall flie
Sins soiled ways, and to my self shall die;
But live to thee, in whom I'm Heir and blest,
28
Till thou transport me to thy eternal rest.
31
4.
There is an important sense in which memory in the context of devotion
is mutual. If the aim of the individual is to be remembered, then this can
just as well be achieved, Donne suggests, by remembering God. In his
description of memory in a 'Sermon of Valediction', Donne shows it as a
two-way process:
[Memory is] the Gallery of the soul, hang'd with so many, and so lively pictures of the goodness and mercies of thy God to thee... And as a well
made, and well plac'd picture, looks always upon him that looks upon it;
so shall thy God look upon thee, whose memory is thus contemplating
him, and shine upon thine understanding, and rectifie thy will too.
Donne first persuades his listeners that God should be actively remembered by the believer, especially bearing in mind that the memory is
already full of signs of the providential acts of God which can be beneficially contemplated like pictures in a gallery. The memory is an enormous resource for devotion, as Donne suggests with the metaphor of a
gallery or museum and as St Augustine celebrated with his metaphors of
the 'great receptacle of my mind' and 'the fields and spacious palaces of
my memory'.31 As the Psalmist insisted, the use of the memory is a
crucial part of praise: 'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his
benefits' (Ps. 103.2). Secondly, Donne depicts in his imaginary gallery of
the memory a scene of mutual contemplation: 'so shall thy God look
upon thee, whose memory is thus contemplating him'. As the human
individual is busy remembering God, so God is remembering, and in the
process, improving, the individual.
What is it that God is being asked to remember when he remembers
the individual believer? As the biblical passages have made clear, God is
rarely asked to remember wickedness, or the transitory elements of life;
it is always, in fact, the potentially redeemable other within the believer
which it is hoped that God will harbour in the divine memory. Above all,
the speakers in devotional writings tend to remind God of the presence
of Christ in them, in an attempt to ensure that what is remembered is
not the flawed human but the divine image in which they were created.
As Donne daringly argues in another of his sermons, the realization that
the self is taken over by God is 'a true Transubstantiation.../ is not I
that live, not I that do any thing, but Christ in me'?2 By his choice of
30. Donne, The Sermons, II, p. 248.
31. Augustine, The Confessions, pp. 226, 228.
32. Donne, The Sermons, VI, p. 209.
32
SELF/SAME/OTHER
the word 'transubstantiation', Donne fearlessly confronts the most controversial of all Reformation debateswhether the Eucharist is a sacrifice or a memorial.33 Uniting the two main strands of active rememberingin space and in timeDonne implies that the Christ within him
is made present as well as memorialized. Quoting St Paul (Gal. 2.20: 'Yet
not I, but Christ liveth in me'), Donne reminds his congregation that
behind and within the T, grammatically as well as spiritually, is 'Christ
in me'. Deftly relocating the transforming power of God from the altar of
the sacrament to the altar of the self (recalling Herbert's desire to unite
self and Christ in his poem 'The Altar'), Donne asserts that the real miracle of 'transubstantiation' has nothing to do with bread and wine but
everything to do with the human soul.
The prayer 'Remember me', therefore, may be seen as a request for
the self not only to be held dearly in the divine memory, but also to be
re-membered as, and in, Christ: 'for we are members of his body, of his
flesh, and his bones' (Eph. 5.30). The actions of memory thus form a full
circle since, while the human believer wishes to be remembered by
God, at the same time God, as Christ, is remembered in the individual
human. In one of his early sermons, Donne very appropriately uses the
metaphor of a carved memorial in describing the presence of God's
image in human form:
So then the children of God, are the Marble, and the Ivory, upon which
he workes; In them his purpose is, to re-engrave, and restore his Image.
The 'children of God' are God's engraved memorials, walking monuments to his creation and preservation of humanity. The link between
image, memory and inscription echoes the closing lines of Herbert's
lyric 'The Sinner', quoted earlier, in which he asks God to 'restore' the
divine image and in doing so to 'remember that thou once didst write in
stone'.35 In Herbert's case, the request to be re-membered in God's
image is made in a spirit of penitence, recalling that plain stonerather
than marble or ivoryis also the matter of a hard human heart.
It could be argued, in conclusion, that just as stone is an essential prerequisite for the process of carving a memorial, so the conscious calling
to memory of the self is a necessary preliminary stage in devotion and
redemption. Herbert's 'Altar' may not be a pillar to himself (in contrast
to Herrick's 'Pillar'), but it is undoubtedly a pillar of himself in that the
33. Stephen Greenblatt, 'Remnants of the Sacred in Early Modern England', in
Subject and Object in Renaissance Culture (ed. Margreta de Grazia, Maureen Quilligan and Peter Stallybrass; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 337-45.
34. Donne, The Sermons, III, p. 193.
35. Herbert, The English Poems, p. 59.
33
stones from which it is constructed are those of his own heart. The
memorialization of self as otherwhether as an object of personal contemplation, or as envisaged as remembered by God, or as transformed by
and into the image of Christis a recurring strain in early modern English devotional texts. It is, we might suggest, the religious counterpart to
the fascination with remembrance, which is repeatedly inscribed in secular texts from the period. The strategies for devotional remembrance
are also similar to those with a more worldy aim; Herbert's altar is,
ironically, more of an T-shaped pillar than Herrick's secular equivalent,
and the anagram of Elizabeth Major's name draws attention to her
earthly self even as it celebrates the discovery of another, eternal, identity. However, what is clearly different about the devotional texts is the
mutuality of remembrance in the Christian context. Making God 'present' to the memory by meditation36 ensures that the meditator is present in the divine memory. This mutual remembrance ultimately breaks
down the distinctions between self and other (the remembering, and the
remembered self) and between self and the divine other into which it is
transformed. The memorialwhether a textual or a spiritual 'transubstantiation'represents a merging of the self, the self as immediate
other, and the all-inclusive divine other, into one whole.
The Bible speaks of redemption as mutual knowledge: 'then shall I
know even as also I am known' (1 Cor. 13.12). On the evidence of the
early modern texts considered here, a parallel may be claimed: the devotional self remembers even as it is remembered, and is thereby in the
fullest sense re-membered. The thief who cried out from the cross
'Remember me' was given by the dying Christ, according to the Gospel,
a confident reassurance of bliss: 'Today shalt thou be with me in paradise' (Lk. 23.43). The very act of asking to be remembered gives access
to eternity.
Note:
With thanks to members of my seminar at the Religion and Literature
conference (Westminster College, Oxford, 1996) and colleagues in the
Groningen Cultural/Historical Circle (1998) for their constructive comments on earlier versions of this paper.
Andrew W. Hass
The Nostalgia of Adieux
1. Charles Osborne, W.H. Auden: The Life of a Poet (New York: M. Evans and
Company, 1979), p. 178.
35
am doing',2 referring to William Blake's great work from which the title
is drawn. He did not mean he was writing his own Christian heresy, by
which to reformulate the traditional theology of the Church. He meant
rather he was situating himself within that theology's frame, but at the
precise and necessary frame of the threshold. In the actual work he
wrote:
Paradise is a state of harmony of understanding. We are always entering
paradise but only for a moment, for in the instant of achieving a harmony
we become aware that the whole which had previously seemed the limit
of our consciousness is in its turn part of a larger whole and that there is a
new disharmony to be reconciled.
This awareness that paradise must be continually lost, that if we try to
remain in it Paradise will turn into Hell, is the pain of Purgatory, La nostalgic des adieux.
In Blake, the prolific creator, the Poetic Genius, also creates Heaven and
Hell. Unrestrained Imagination, as opposed to constraining, devouring
Reason, is behind all the creative force and energy of existence, including the realm of the gods. But, says Blake: 'Some will say: 'Is not God
2. Edward Mendelson, 'Preface' to W.H. Auden, The Prolific and the Devourer
(Hopewell, New Jersey: Ecco, 1976), p. vii.
3. W.H. Auden, The Prolific and the Devourer (Hopewell, NJ: Ecco, 1976), pp.
37-38.
4. Auden, Prolific, p. 3.
36
SELF/SAME/OTHER
alone the Prolific?' I answer: 'God only Acts & Is, in existing beings or
Men'.5 This apparently blatant anthropomorphism of the Divine, or conversely, divinization of human imagination, serves only to outline in bold
the creative acting spirit, which, in always creating in its own image, cannot help but create the contrarieties existent within itself, contrarieties
that, in Blake's understanding of things, are necessary for any progression. As much as imagination and reason stand opposed to one another
in any one being, so do the prolific and the devourer, so too Heaven and
Hell, and so too, ultimately, the human and the divine. Whoever tries to
reconcile these two opposing sides, as religion does, 'seeks to destroy
existence', Blake claims.
But with great irony, that is precisely what Blake the poet does: he
marries Heaven and Hell, he marries the human and the divine. Satan
becomes the Messiah, and the Messiah Satangood and evil trade
places. And thus Milton, a true Poetic Genius, wrote at liberty only when
he was writing of the Devil, and not of God, Christ, or the realm of heavenly angels, since in seeking to reconcile the ways of God to humanity,
he destroys or devours the very Christian God he intends to justify by
out-creating God in God's contrary. Satan steals the show. This for Blake
can be summed up in that theologically troubling question of the famous
'Tyger' poem in Songs of Experience, posed to the tyger itself: 'Did he
who made the Lamb make thee?'
Although Auden never espouses such a radical theology of creation,
he does at least see that Paradise is always in some sense lost if we remain in it, that we must say goodbye to Heaven to keep it from becoming Hell. Thus we enter a purgatorial threshold, where we pain at the
nostalgia for what has been lost, yet move forward in a hope of regaining it. This insight Auden transfers to many different levels. In the unfinished The Prolific and the Devourer, he aligns the artist with the Prolific
and the politician with the Devourer, and sets them off against each
other under the notion that to the artist 'a general idea must be capable
of including the most contradictory experiences', while to the politician
'simplicity and infallibility' are an idea's greatest virtues, subtlety and
irony its greatest drawbacks.6 With this distinction, the Prolific ought
never to mingle in the Devourer's domain, or the artist, like Milton,
might end up with their contradictions championing the enemy's cause.
So Auden leaves behind the 'heaven' of a socialist or Marxist idealism,
5. William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1975), p. xxiii. Also, 'Thus men forgot that All deities reside in the human
breast' (p. xx).
6. Auden, Prolific, p. 22.
37
Here we see one clearly on the threshold of a Christianity, but a Christianity corresponding primarily to historical and social forces. 'The Fall',
Auden had said pages earlier, 'is repeated in the life history of each individual, so that we have a double memory of Eden, one from personal
experience, and one social-historical. These two memories are not
always identical'.8 In the question-and-answer form of the final section of
The Prolific and the Devourer, Auden's self-confessing manner regarding his changing belief is cast in social-historical terms: the uncompleted
text stops abruptly with questions about political involvement and
pacifism, for example. But in the long poem 'New Year Letter', written
in the early months of 1940, and published in a volume in which some
of The Prolific and the Devourer was incorporated as annotations or
notes to the poetic text,9 Auden moves to a more individual experience
of the place between Heaven and Hell. This is not to say he is any more
or any less revealing about his own personal belief, but that he shifts
emphasis from the gulf between politics and art to a gulf at the core of
the human Self.
In the prose version of Prolific, Heaven is a general place of harmony
of understanding, Hell a general place of fear and denial. Heaven
becomes a Hell when one tries to maintain the harmony, the very mandate of politics. So fascist regimes become places of incarnate evil. In the
poetic version of 'New Year Letter', Heaven and Hell are more specifically states of Being and dictates of the Will, Heaven where Being may
'play/With Eternal Innocence/In unimpeded utterance', Hell
the being of the lie
That we become when we deny
The laws of consciousness and claim
Becoming and Being are the same,
7.
8.
9.
38
SELF/SAME/OTHER
Being in time, and man discrete
In will, yet free and self-complete... 10
39
threshold of war, he reinvents his Self and the focus of his art in America. There, in a long poem whose subtitle bears the threshold of a new
year ('January 1'), he writes of the purgatorial nature of Being, becoming
what it ought to be in a threshold state between Heaven and Hell. This
state leads him, ironically, towards Christianity, but a Christianity which
is also liminally balancedsomewhere between Catholicism and Protestantism. 'I think the Catholics and the Protestants were both right and
both wrong', he wrote earlier in The Prolific and the Devourer. 'Worship an undfur sich is not an action or a belief, but the state of mind
necessary in order to do anything successfully whether by oneself or in
association with others, i.e., a state of interest and love'.15 And so his
purgatory becomes a curious mixture of Catholic expiation and Protestant individualism, while his worship, when he eventually returned to
the Church, was in the form of high Anglicanism, as one might predict.16
These themes might even be transferred to his romantic life, so that, as a
recent biographer has suggested, the lines about Paradise as a state of
harmony which had to be lost, written during a 'honeymoon' trip with
his new young lover, Chester Kallman, reflected the punctured bliss of
homosexual romance brought about by Kallman's insistent
philanderings and infidelities.17 Everywhere Auden turned at this time,
he found himself saying goodbye to one thing or another, to one person
or another, suffering in his private ironic purgatory, in an continual
effort to reinscribe his self-identity, to drive his cart and his plow over
the bones of his own dead past, to use Blake's proverbial imagery.
Thus the chief features of his theological belief were set in place at
this time, and were to resurface, despite a more direct espousal of Christian 'nomenclature', throughout the rest of his art and his life. Paradox,
irony, reverent frivolity, reticence as the true orthodoxy, loss of Self to a
fertile thresholdthese were the marks of his religious temperament.
But they go beyond biography and private religion, for they address the
nature of Self as it stands vis-a-vis the other, an other which always problematizes the private space, and carries implications to a public, or cultural, or theologicalthat is, some kind of relationallevel. These implications Auden continually sought to voice in more than simply personal
15. Auden, Prolific, p. 83.
16. Osborne writes: 'Asked solemnly by a friend to state his theological position,
Auden replied, "Liturgically, I am Anglo-Catholic though not too spiky, I hope. As for
forms of church organization, I don't know what to think. I am inclined to agree with
de Rougemont that it will be back to the catacombs for all of us. As organizations,
none of the churches look too hot, do they? But what organization ever does?"' (W.H.
Auden, p. 202).
17. Richard Davenport-Hines, Auden (London: Heinemann, 1995), p. 195.
40
SELF/SAME/OTHER
If, as the poem's final line states, 'even our armies/have to express our
need for forgiveness', it is because our enemy is as much, if not more,
ourselves as it is any alien force, and it is in lying with our own ugly
demons, the 'tawny and vigorous tiger', recalling Blake's 'tyger', that we
conceive a self-awareness that can lead to the straighter path we think
we ought to dread. That his path turns out to be a 'horrible' Christianity,
18. 'They', from W.H. Auden, W.H. Auden: Collected Poems (London: Faber &
Faber Ltd, 1976). p. 253. Copyright 1945 and renewed 1973 by W.H. Auden.
Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc.
19. Auden, Collected Poems, p. 255.
41
where forgiveness and hope ultimately lie, is only hinted at in the poem.
But it makes clear that the starting point is a public self-reflection where
the other in the pond's reflecting surface shocks us into an acknowledgment that the 'they', however dreaded and punishing, may very well engender 'our' salvation. (This an uncomfortable notion for a world heating up for war with itself.)
In 'Alone' a few years later, the same conclusion is reached but
through inverse means. In the privatized world of the lover, the poem
opens:
Each lover has a theory of his own
About the difference between the ache
Of being with his love, and being alone:
Why what, when dreaming, is dear flesh and bone
That really stirs the senses, when awake,
Appears a simulacrum of his own.20
Here the interior Self is seeking answers to why the void of being alone
is not ultimately eliminated by even those we possess in love, and why
these are more alive in thought and dreams than in reality, where they
seem only a poor reflection of ourselves. In the next stanza Auden once
again draws on the Narcissus myth:
Narcissus disbelieves in the unknown;
He cannot join his image in the lake
So long as he assumes he is alone.
For this self-obsessed youth, knowledge exists only within and of himself. As long as he is oblivious to Echo and the nymphs around him, he
cannot, ironically, unite himself to the very image which captures him,
his own. Here again, the inability to see the reality of one's Self, the reality in this case that the Self is not alone, prohibits one from true selfawareness and self-possession. Thus the poem ends:
Whatever view we hold, it must be shown
Why every lover has a wish to make
Some other kind of otherness his own:
Perhaps in fact, we never are alone.21
The 'some other kind of otherness' is in contradistinction to the otherness of one's own Self. As the myth of Narcissus has always shown, we
continually face an otherness within ourselves. Self is always fractured
20. 'Alone', from W.H. Auden, W.H. Auden: Collected Poems (London: Faber &
Faber Ltd, 1976), p. 312. Copyright 1941 and renewed 1969 by W.H. Auden.
Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc.
21. Auden, Collected Poems, p. 313.
42
SELF/SAME/OTHER
43
do with the death of God, the God who seemed so often implicated,
whether ecclesiastically or theologically, with this black and devouring
Zeitgeist of the modern project. Our late-twentieth-century postmodern
reaction has been a response to these adieux, to the goodbyes of both
Heaven and Hell, finding, in trademark fashion, the implosive mechanism at the core of adieu, the a-dieu, the farewell of God, the negation
of God, the taking leave of God's own Being. If there is any nostalgia
here, it is not a mat du pays for some lost abode of the divine, but an
ironic ache for a God lost altogether.
Lost altogether? Not quite. We should not say that postmodern nostalgia is so glib as to dismiss anything outright, least of all notions of God.
For as some would contend, this nostalgia has in recent times become
more of a passion, a passion very much for a God, and one certainly not
lost, even if it is not particularly found either. If Jacques Derrida is any
measure,23 it is a God very much resident within, or in between, or
before, the adieu. In Derrida's Donner la Mort (The Gift of Death) he
discusses Emmanuel Levinas's use of the term adieu in relation to death.
'What is the adieu? he asks. 'What does adieu mean? What does it mean
to say "adieu"?' He offers three possibilities for this common French
word: a 'salutation or benediction given', perhaps even at a 'moment of
meeting'; a 'salutation or benediction given at the moment of separation,
of departure, sometimes...at the moment of death'; and the 'a-dieu, for
God or before God and before anything else or any relation to the other,
in every other adieu'. He concludes: 'Every relation to the other would
be, before and after anything else, an adieu.'24
Derrida's thoughts here are set within a very complex analysis of
death, involving Levinas, Heidegger and others, and are not done justice
with selective quotations. But what is important to see, even in this
gross truncation, is that saying adieu is no dismissive remark even within postmodern discourse. Indeed, it is within postmodern discourse, so
fond now of the liminality which Auden had presaged, that the nostalgia
of adieu takes its acutest form, as it brings us to the threshold of existence and non-existence, as it circumscribes not simply a separation, but
the separation we call death, which, as Derrida is trying to point out, is
lying, necessarily and constitutively, in the very notion we call 'other' or
'otherness', a notion itself inherent in the converse, the idea of 'meeting'. Hence it is lying then before (in the double sense of 'prior to' and
23. And for John Caputo, he is the measure, as his latest book makes forcefully, at
times lyrically, clear: The Prayers and Tears of Jacques Derrida: Religion without
Religion (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997).
24. Jacques Derrida, The Gift of Death (trans. David Wills; Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1995), p. 47.
44
SELF/SAME/OTHER
'in front of) God, or our notions of God, the ultimate Other. And in this
space, the space of the adieu or a-dieu, the Self finds itself anew, as it
gives itself over to the other. What other? 'Whom to give to?', we might
ask with Derrida. This is indeed a threshold question for us, having
crossed over into a new millennium. But if the theme of Self-abandonment in the space of separation, which can just as well be a space of
meeting, a threshold place of departure and arrival, is at all current and
vital, Auden's move, despite all its then detractors, cannot be so easily
dismissed. For it opens us up to a renewed theology of the Passion, a
passion of adieu. As Auden would write years later, with a typical measure of reverential uncertainty:
Meanwhile, a silence on the cross
As dead as we shall ever be
Speaks of some total gain or loss,
And you and I are free
To guess from the insulted face
Just what Appearances He saves...25
25. 'Friday's Child', from W.H. Auden, W.H. Auden: Collected Poems (London:
Faber & Faber Ltd, 1976), p. 676.
Sylvia Plath's life makes a gripping story: early death of a father, brilliant
academic achievement, dramatic mental illness and, of course, the infamous marriage to a famous poet. Two facts stand clear in every version:
she worked incredibly hard at her art and died by her own hand. Unfortunately, the second fact often eclipses the first, the primary fact of her
commitment to her art. Thus, Plath's fabulously eclectic poems have
been mapped primarily against the discourse of psychoanalysis and the
various texts of her own life story, mainly her journals and other narratives about her by relatives and colleagues. Although many of these biographically based studies are illuminating, much remains to be done to
map how Plath's speaking Tthe grid of the selfemerges through
confrontation with the grid of (an)other. The textual 'other' that has
been most neglected is the Bible. While they are often overlooked amid
the rampant heteroglossia of her late work, biblical references actually
rise in frequency and significance as Plath wrote her best poems in the
last year of her life.l
Even as a young writer Plath's articulation of ambition and authority
depended upon a generalized language of divinity. In a diary entry at age
seventeen, she names herself '[t]he girl who wanted to be God' even as
she anxiously recognizes that being a 'girl' means that her power will be
'classified and quantified'.2 In later journals, the male literary giants of
I would like to thank Alicia Ostriker, Martine Brownley, Linda Wagner-Martin and
Jane Kalbfleisch for their readings of versions of these ideas.
1. Nancy Hargrove counts that 70 out of the 224 poems in Plath's Collected
Poems (ed. Ted Hughes; New York: HarperCollins, 1992) contain biblical references,
'Christian Imagery in the Poetry of Sylvia Plath', Midwest Quarterly 31:1 (1988), pp.
9-28 (26).
2. Sylvia Plath, Letters Home: Correspondence, 1950-1963 (ed. Aurelia Schober
Plath; New York: Harper & Row, 1975), p. 40. Hereafter cited parenthetically. Immediately preceding this declaration is an admission of a fear of marriage and a desire to
avoid the traditional role of homemaker. Thus, this fear of classification is a recognition not just of mortal limits but also of societal restrictions on women's achievements.
46
SELF/SAME/OTHER
47
5. Sylvia Plath, 'Lady Lazarus', from The Collected Poems (ed. Ted Hughes;
London: Faber & Faber, 1981; New York: HarperCollins, 1992). Reprinted by permission of Faber & Faber Ltd and HarperCollins.
6. I owe this 'sighting' of the Magdalene to Alicia Ostriker's insightful reading of
this manuscript in draft stage.
48
SELF/SAME/OTHER
49
50
SELF/SAME/OTHER
51
Part III
Re-visioning Subjectivity
Sandra Chait
The Psychospiritual in the Literary Analysis of
Modernist Texts1
At the age of fifty, Antonia White still struggled unsuccessfully to reconcile the two major forces in her life with the teachings of the Catholic
Church. In her 4 August 1949 diary, she wrote, 'I am religious: I am
highly sexed. But I am always trying to castrate myself.2 White was
hardly unique among modernists in having battled with the Church's
polarized positioning of religion and sex; many Anglo-American Modernists in the first half of the twentieth century textually investigated the
received mores of sex and institutionalized religion.3 In fact, the spirit/
flesh binary dilemma has been a staple of Western writing in English
ever since Chaucer's pilgrims, wending their Christian way towards Canterbury, entertained one another with stories of salacious wit.4 In every
literary period, poets and writers have sought to understand the conflicting desires of flesh and spirit. However, the topic assumed particular
relevance and urgency in the modernist period when the parallel development of psychoanalytic thought and theological modernism enmeshed
such desires in new and intricate ways.5 They challenged earlier per1. Unless otherwise specified, I use the term 'modernism' to refer specifically to
literary modernism, i.e. those texts published between the closing years of the nineteenth century and the 1940s which broke away from traditions and conventions to
experiment with language, to investigate new forms and styles, and to explore race,
gender, and humankind's place and function in the universe.
2. Antonia White, Antonia White: Diaries 1926-1957, I (ed. Susan Chitty; New
York: Viking, 1992), p. 217.
3. D.H. Lawrence, William Butler Yeats, James Joyce, T.S. Eliot, H.D., to name a
few.
4. At the end of 'The Parson's Tale', Chaucer, fearful for the state of his own
soul, renounces all the tales that were 'sownen into synne'. 'Many medieval authors
feared eventually that they had offended God, and quieted their consciences in the
same way by retracting what they had written', Chaucer: The Prologue to the Canterbury Tales (ed. RT. Davies; London: George G. Harrap, 1953), p. 195. Although, today, theological modernism is understood generally to refer to
any criticisms of traditional Christian theology, at the end of the nineteenth century, it
described specifically the movement within the Roman Catholic Church to bring
Catholic beliefs more in line with contemporary and scientific thinking. This move-
55
ceptions of good and evil and of the God-image itself and, in so doing, as
I shall show, rendered the subject spiritually fractured and thus particularly suited to the psychospiritual approach I wish to propose for reading the trace of the Other in the text.
In the first place, within the cultural context of Nietzsche's repudiation of institutional religion, theological modernism's emphasis on the
immanence rather than the transcendence of God shifted the focus of
religion to humans themselves.6 It offered avant-garde writers of the
time a signifier, if not exactly empty of the institutionalized signified, at
least spacious enough to allow for personal and creative interpretation.7
For, if God were immanent as a presence within, the writer's concept of
the deity and her relationship to it, including her morality and sexual
behavior, were to a large extent individual. Thus, the whole question of
the relationship between physical and spiritual desire became one of personal truth, something vouchsafed to the individual as private, spiritual
illumination. When it came to matters of the flesh, therefore, writers, like
D.H. Lawrence, who experimented with the light/dark, good/evil concepts of conflict-dualist religious traditions, could manipulate these binary ideas to suit their own convictions. Subjectivity, personal intuition
and spiritual evolution were key words in this developing conversation
and writers, brought face to face with their own alterity, plumbed the
depths of their minds in search of individualized answers. The stress
ment, by its support of modern science, its criticism of the Bible, and its demand that
Catholics be allowed to make their own, individual decisions on moral questions,
angered the traditionalists who believed in the absolute power of the Church and that
of the Pope as well. So when, in 1907, Pope Pius X condemned the movement and
declared theological modernism heretical, its leaders, Father Alfred Loisy of France
and Father George Tyrrell of England, were excommunicated. Only in 1943 did Pope
Pious XII, through his encyclical 'Divino Afflante Spiritu', open the way for biblical
criticism in Catholicism.
6. God's death, as purported by Nietzsche, signified the death of the sacred only
as a transcendental authority. The sense of the sacred remained and modernist
authors continued to search for the experience ofnuminosum, those feelings elicited
in the face of what Rudolph Otto describes as the mysterium tremendum, that
which we desire but do not understand. Eugene Webb, The Dark Dove (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1975), p. 137. Of course, many modernists found that signified in art itself, which in its
abstraction and its supposed non-contingent truth appeared to its practitioners and
readers alike as completely pure. With its correlation to timelessness and universality,
its sense of unity, wholeness and permanence, it mimicked the very characteristics
which had given religion its ineluctable appeal. Virginia Woolf, for example, sought
unifying truth in the aesthetic moment, seeing that moment of harmony and insight as
providing a way out of the existential chaos that threatened her generation, a string of
such moments, which shaped that chaos into meaningful ontological order.
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placed by theologians such as George Tyrrell on the inevitability of contradictions and perplexities in our understanding of God's ways convinced writers further that religious interpretations need be meaningful
to the individual alone. Thus, in spite of the doctrine of papal infallibility
in effect since 1870, many of the men and women of literary modernism
sought to remedy their existential alienation in relation to organized religion by exploring the personal spiritual within.
The notion of'personal' and 'within', however, bore ramifications during the modernist period unknown to earlier writers and brings me to my
second point about the particularity of this period. Freud had introduced
his ideas about the unconscious and many modernist writers were not
only conversant with his theories but personally had undergone treatment at the hands of psychoanalysts. H.D., for example, an analysand of
Freud himself, bore witness to her clinical experience with him in revealing texts like 'The Master'.8 Such writers knew the extent to which the
'personal' lay outside the conscious control of the subject and thus
suspected the self in the context of religion to be similarly fragmented
and split. 'One's neurosis can get into one's religion, too', Antonia White
wrote in her 1945 diary, thus extending to the spiritual that revisioning
of subjectivity so characteristic of the modernist period (p. 183). For
personal religion, whatever its theological claims, which are not at issue
here, shared a common bed in the unconscious and its contours, therefore, could be colored by influences beyond the writer's awareness. As
we know from The Future of an Illusion, Freud claimed religion to be a
universal obsessional neurosis, for he had noted from his clinical experience the unconscious re-enactment of repressed childhood illusions and
fixations into the realm of the spiritual.9 Granted, in his view, this interconnectedness betrayed a soul suffering from illusion and delusion, nevertheless he did credit the unconscious life of the psyche with influencing religious behavior and belief, and concluded that the role a child's
parental relationship played in its psychosexual development extended
also to its spiritual life.
Since Freud's claims, the connection between the practice of religion
and family dynamics has been further developed and refined by subsequent psychoanalysts up to this very decade. Irrespective of the absolutism or non-absolutism of the deity, theorists from Erik Erikson and
Donald Winnicott to Christopher Hollas, Heinz Kohut and James Jones,
8. Louis L. Martz (ed.), H.D.: Selected Poems 1912-1944 (New York: New Directions, 1983), p- 101.
9. Sigmund Freud, The Future of an Illusion (ed. James Strachey; New York:
Norton, 1961), p. 55.
57
to name just a few, have brought to our attention the ways in which
religious beliefs can be influenced by the same unconscious desires that
direct our earliest psychosexual experiences. They have established a
connection between the two realms and shown desire and its affects to
be linked, whether through projections, displacements or transferences,
with the God-image in the psyche. While each has suggested specific
variations on this theme, oedipal, ego, and object relations theorists alike
attest to the common ground, the unconscious, in which both our earliest love relations and those of our religions become shaped and formed.
To Winnicott, for example, religion represented an intermediate space
between reality and the imaginary, a space of illusory experience which
belonged both to subjective and objective reality.10 In this third space,
Winnicott claimed, we manipulate illusion, interacting with transitional
objects, just as we once did in our childhood psychic experience with
mother, father, and early love-objects (p. 176). Like Freud, Winnicott
perceived this illusionary activity as one which we would eventually outgrow and assumed that with maturity would come the gradual decathecting of the deity to some other transitional phenomenon which would
serve our developing needs and consciousness better. Unlike Freud,
however, Winnicott understood the process of manipulating illusion not
as a pathology but an activity necessary for the healthy development of
theself(p.ll).
Other object relations theorists, building on Winnicott, went even further. The Jesuit priest and psychoanalyst, William Meissner, claimed
man's capacity for illusion as 'the most significant dimension of [his]
existence' and suggested that this capacity allowed him to shape according to his own internalized experience 'the image of a divine being, a
godhead for himself.11 He argued that even though the individualized
image came into contact with shared communal beliefs, it remained personal and unique, evolving in relation to the child's internalized relationships to specific objects, which derived from developmental experience
(p. 17). Over time, through integration of such internalized elements into
'credal systems, dogmatic formulations, doctrinal assertions, etc.', one's
beliefs became 'inextricably linked with the forces that sustain a consistent and coherent sense of personal identity' (p. 18). Thus, the ego's
sense of itself and its concept of God were seen to derive from the same
intermediate space, both representations dependent on the subject's internalized experience of their relationships. For Meissner, however, the
10. D.W. Winnicott, Playing and Reality (London: Routledge, 1989), pp. 1-6.
11. William Meissner, Psychoanalysis and Religious Experience (New Haven:
Yale University Press, 1984), pp. 14, 17.
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61
phallus, must claim its Truth. For Lacan, the Other has no Other and like
'the woman' crossed out, 'the Other' exists under erasure (0), leaving its
trace from which we envision It, shaped to contours projected by our
experience in relating to imaginary others. As elusive as is this God as a
concept for a psychospiritual framework, it nevertheless works linguistically in throwing light on the unconscious desires which govern the
relationship to that very personal, individual God whose traces can be
found in the text.
I have chosen Antonia White as my example because of her own
experience with Freudian analysis, as well as for her familiarity with
Catholic Church teachings and the writings of the religious modernist,
the expelled Jesuit, George Tyrrell. But most importantly, I have chosen
her for her own courageous efforts to explore textually the complicated
relationship between her sexuality and her religion. Although she never
succeeded in grasping the real herself, and for most of her life suffered
sexual problems, her texts nevertheless contain all the material needed
by the critic to trace the disorder in her unconscious that complicated
both her sexual life and her relationship to her God.19 By applying
Lacan's psycholinguistic framework to her work, we will see how
White's father served as objet petit a to her desire for the Other, his
phallus by metonymic projection conveying to her image of the Other
all that which she associated with Cecil Botting, namely his authoritarianism, his cruelty, and also that which she perceived as his dangerous
sexuality.
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apart. In that year, which she considered her most formative and to
which she devotes no less than 14 chapters of her autobiography in As
Once in May, her father, Cecil Botting, the Head of the Classics Department at St Paul's School taught his bright daughter to read and write.20
When she wrote on the dining-room wall, however, he threatened to
pull down her knickers and strike her bare bottom with a ruler (p. 244).
White describes Cecil as wedging her in between the furniture in his
study, his face flushed, his eyes glittering with anger, but then adds disconcertingly that he wore 'a curious one-sided smile as if he were in
some way pleased, as well as angry', and that when he finally spoke, 'his
voice was unexpectedly quiet' (p. 244). She writes that the thought of
her 'most secret and shameful areas' being exposed bare 'to the person
[she] most revered, and not even accidentally, but by his own hand, was
so shocking that [she] felt that [she] should never survive such shame'
(p. 245).
While on the surface such an incident might not seem traumatic, its
resonance within White's unconscious may be judged by the frequency
with which she spoke of the shock that occurred to her in childhood
and which she blamed for her later writer's block. What is more, White
implies that the incident elicited some sort of sexual awakening in her
for, while still accounting for her fourth year in As Once in May, she
describes a clandestine love affair she carried out with a certain childhood friend, Gerard, on the nursery floor just outside of her father's
study (p. 311). 'By touching the most secret part of my body which I
knew it was rude to touch', she claims, she could reproduce alone the
same tremor that Gerard had induced in her while holding her in his
arms (p. 321). She then imagines herself producing the feeling by running through the street naked, an activity which occurred frequently in
White's dreams, perhaps suggesting that the author required forjouissance a certain amount of fear related to sexuality, a behavior pattern, I
suggest, with possible links to the earlier episode in the father's study, as
described above (p. 321).
To go back to the scene with Gerard, even if the reader were to dismiss the child's description of her sexual experience as illicit thrill in
imitating the grown-ups, White's later textual insertion of a snake into
the childplay suggests an obvious authorial attempt to introduce sexual
innuendo and to suggest the titillation of discovery by her punitive
father/god (p. 334). In any case, White seems to imply by linking these
two scenes a precocity that registered at a sexual level as well as intellectual, suggesting a connection between language and desire that opens
20. Antonia White, As Once in May (ed. Susan Chitty; London: Virago, 1983).
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matter to what degree Cecil Betting's imago, even after his death, held
taut the reins of his daughter's writing, neither he nor she could fully
control its signification. It is true that her art depended entirely on his
paternal approval and that he rejected her, as John does Nanda in Frost
in May, when he discovered his daughter's sexually explicit writing
about 'unknown vices'. He even controlled the way she wrote, constantly correcting her backhand script. But, as with the signification of
her writing, even the style itself reverted to kind whenever the sexual
conundrum raised its head. For example, in a 28 June 1938 diary entry,
she matter-of-factly applies a Freudian approach to her relationship with
her father, surmising that she couldn't have had sexual intercourse with
him because '(a) he didn't want it' and '(b) I couldn't have endured it
without mutilation' (Diaries, p. 140). But then, without any warning,
she breaks out suddenly into a tantrum of rage and self-will that is mirrored in the writing itself. 'Yes I will write backhand in spite of my
father I WILL WILL WILL. Couldn't even writefilthy dirty beastly old
manthe way I WANTED toWell I will. You'll see. I spit on your
corpse' (p. 140). No obvious textual connection exists between the two
parts, but the latter section degenerates into a handwriting which
White's daughter, Susan Chitty, claims was 'quite alien to Antonia's usual
small neat style' (p. 141).
Now, given this intricate relationship in her unconscious between
incestuous desire and writing, when White's father converted to Catholicism and sent his schoolgirl daughter to the Convent of the Sacred Heart
at Roehampton, Antonia took with her all the intertwined sexual/textual
complications that she and her father held in common. At the convent,
policed by nuns who insisted on the mutual exclusivity of religion and
sex, White, like Nanda of Frost in May, was able to compartmentalize
her life and act the dutiful and virtuous daughter to her father and her
God. However, such obedience tripped on the sexual mores of the
name-of-the-father as represented by the Catholic Church and patriarchy.23 White stumbled at that place of the Other, which is also the place
of God, the place where the phallus registers as transcendent signifier
and White's father's phallus, I suggest, as the objet petit a signifying
back metonymically via the discourse of the Church to that signiflance
the first, 1935-38, she undertook with the Freudian Dr Dennis Carroll after her breakdown, following the publication of Frost in May; the second, in 1947, with Dorothy
Kingsmill, a psychologist; the third some time after 1957, with a Dr Ploye (Diaries,
P-8).
23. Lacan, Merits p. xi. Lacan's name-of-the-father (nom-du-pere) refers to the
symbolic father and the life of Law, not the real father, nor the imaginary father (the
paternal imago).
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Tantum Die Verbo', for example, she could call on God to 'plunge' into
her soul 'Thy divining rod, the two-edged/sword' that He might 'Strike
to my source; cleave, one me with the Word' (Strangers, pp. 157-59)
Like Nanda in Frost in May, White could not keep her mind 'properly
gloved and veiled' when addressing God the father and her discursive
slippage revealed the extent to which the Ultimate represented for her
an eroticized and material God (p. 45). Jouissance and signifiance,
always inseparable, abound. Nanda's 'thinking about religion', for example, 'was a secret, delicious joy', while to Clara, 'Religion had become
part of her most secret life...deeply concerned with one aspect of the
mysterious creature' (Frost, p. 19; Traveller, p. 47). White has an 'intimate experience' when she takes the host in her mouth during Communion and when the sexual Miss Hislop of the short story 'The Exile'
steals the Blessed Sacrament from the Church, running away with it in
her mouth and examining it afterwards on her wooden table at home,
the affect is startlingly and sacrilegiously sexual (Strangers, p. 102). Such
slippage, however, does not all lie in the realm of the religious; hierophany exists too, the sacred appearing within the profane, though in
much fewer discursive incidents. When Clara in The Sugar House receives a letter of best wishes from her father the first morning of her
honeymoon, she experiences a sense of 'absolution for a sin she ha(s)
forgotten to confess' and, in the only seduction scene in her novels,
Clara's would-be lover, Marcus Gundry, standing at the mantelpiece,
puts a taper to the candles 'with the slow, careful movements of an
acolyte' (p. 129, pp. 234-35).
The intimate entwining of the sexual and the spiritual in her unconscious proved a source of extreme anxiety and guilt for White. She lived
in terror of becoming a 'bride of Christ' even as she yearned to experience jouissance. In Frost in May, after Nanda perceives her friend
Theresa receiving the sacrament with a look of 'strained and expectant
ecstasy' on her face, she dreams of her 'lying dead in our Lady's chapel,
wearing her first Communion dress and a gilt paper crown', a worm
issuing from her mouth (pp. 84, 101). The sexual implications of the
dream are obvious: the communal dress and gilt crown make of Theresa
the bride of God the King, the worm emerging from her mouth suggestive of the phallus and the death in sexual ecstasy that results from conjugal bliss with God. Even White's naming of the would-be postulant
after St Theresa, whose rapt look of ecstasy caught by the artist Bernini
in his well-known sculpture which Lacan describes in his Seminar XX as
jouissance beyond the phallus, indicates further the sexual/religious
conflict, eros and agape, with which White dealt (Lacan, Feminine
Sexuality, p. 147). In the Lacanian context of the Other representing the
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Hugh S. Pyper
Listeners on the Stair: The Child as Other in Walter
de la Mare
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in his own name, to rectify the mistake. Perhaps the time-worn stone
indicates that, if not here, he lies under a stone elsewhere in a place
where he was himself a stranger.
But we are also left with the disturbing possibility that we too may
happen one day on such a stone, the evidence of some strange misapprehension of which we are not awareor, more disquieting still, that
we may one day lie beneath such a stone, our name unknown, unable to
speak as witnesses to our own identity. Most unsettling of all, we are left
with the possibility of identifying ourselves with the impossible double
figure de la Mare has so subtly conjured up: the dead man who reads his
own epitaph.3
We, of course, are readers not of the stone, but of de la Mare's story,
at a further remove, but yet for us too, troubling possibilities are stirred
and linger which bring us to read ourselves into the place of the unknown, unidentifiable, unnameable stranger. Whatever effect it is that de
la Mare has just wrought upon us, it seems a prime example of what
Freud attempts to account for in his reflections on das Unheimliche, the
uncanny.
Freud's essay on the uncanny4 is a much discussed but rather misunderstood piece which displays many of his most characteristic vices and
virtues. It begins with a reading of Hoffman's 'The Sandman' which
reveals a deeply reductionist trend in Freud's thought as he wilfully
rewrites the story to make it a fantasy about castration. In the rest of the
paper, however, he somewhat hesitantly ventures into a series of perhaps incompatible but highly suggestive analyses of the uncanny as a literary phenomenon. In particular, he returns several times to the link between the uncanny and death. Death, he says, is the ultimately unthinkable. The unconscious is incapable of comprehending any negation, let
alone the negation of its own being which death represents. Thus, however rational we may profess to be about the inevitability of death, all of
3. Characteristic of de la Mare is that this distillation of the uncanny is followed
by an abrupt yet convincing modulation to the major key marked by the change from
prose to verse, to the direct speech of the corpse using the unambiguous pronoun T,
and to the mood of rejoicing in the solidity of English earth. This transition is oddly
satisfying, oddly conventional and yet still shot through with a light of mystery, albeit
this time a clear shaft rather than the ambiguous mist over the first four lines. For all
his ambiguity, there is a foot on the ground with this writer, and his almost oversensitive reaction to the sounds and colours, textures, tastes and smells of the natural
world counterbalances, but also heightens, the disturbing effect of his writing.
4. Sigmund Freud, Das Unheimliche, first published in German in 1919 in Imago
5, pp. 297-324; English translation, 'The Uncanny', in A. Dickson (ed.), The Penguin
Freud Library. XIV. Art and Literature (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1985), pp.
335-76.
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writers, Freud says, can trick us, but ultimately leave us unsatisfied.
There is, however, a further step which can be taken:
the writer has one more means which he can use in order to avoid our
recalcitrance and at the same time to improve his chances of success. He
can keep us in the dark for a long time about the precise nature of the
presuppositions on which the world he writes about is based, or he can
cunningly and ingeniously avoid any definite information on the point to
the last.8
Few writers, it seems to me, exemplify this cunning more subtly than
de la Mare. He continually puts his readers into the condition of what
Freud calls 'reality testing' by evoking the 'infantile' sense of animism,
the 'life' within the dead and within objects and animals. Freud, of
course, expects us to surmount these feelings by subjecting them to the
iron test of reality. De la Mare, on the other hand, constantly questions
the nature of reality and of the one who claims to know it. For him, the
perceived world of material reality is no world, but a mask, where alien
sensibilities are constantly on guard and where seeming shifts vertiginously.
Psychoanalytic critics could, of course, dismiss de la Mare as a writer
more than usually given to regressing to this world of infantile fantasy.
On this account, his ambivalence over and fascination with the dead represents a refusal of mature rationality which ties in with his fascination
with and impact upon children and the child's view of the world, a
world peopled with half-heard and half-understood presences. The
reader's fascination with his works in turn is a product of the skill with
which he evokes those childlike beliefs we have surmounted. To surrender to his spell, however, is, in Freud's terms, to surrender the hardwon discipline of mature, rational, scientific understanding. It may be
that the current relegation of de la Mare to the status of a children's
writer and the neglect of his works for adults reveals the unconscious
working of a similar reaction in the general readership.
But this dismissive rationalism belies the fact that Freud himself,
despite his protestations, not only devotes considerable space to the
discussion of the uncanny but, as we have seen, shows a susceptibility
to it rather at odds with his own disclaimers. He seems to waver at
crucial points over his own ability to distinguish between what is real
and what is not, to admit to something beyond the borders of what he
considers possible. This raises the alternative possibility that the view of
reality which is used to counter these childish insights may itself the
defensive construction, a bulwark against the incursion of the unimag8.
75
Some support for this view can be found in the verdict of Bruno
Bettelheim:
The interesting thing is that in rejecting [fairy tales] I followed the psychoanalysts, who should have recognised how deep these tales really are. But
in a strange way, Freud and his followers are really afraid of the unconscious. They say it contains the mainsprings of our strength, but somehow
they all shied away from it, even Freud. Before him we did not know what
it was...so we did not defend ourselves against it. Freud taught us what it
is all about and I guess instead of teaching us how to use it, he taught us
how to live without it. As any other prophet, his teaching bore its own
defeat within it.9
The resonances with Freud's concerns are clear, though the inferences are contrary. The childish insights which Freud calls upon us to
surmount de la Mare sees as more comprehensive than those of adults.
There is no hard and fast line to be drawn between psychic and empirical reality in his view. The senses themselves are only inadequate
pointers to reality according to de la Mare, but it is at least arguable that
the sensibilities of children are more acute, and therefore more informative, than those of adults. In any event, the operation of the imagination
is an essential part of our comprehension of what Freud means by
empirical reality. The dichotomy thus becomes a false one.
However true this may be as a general statement, the passage quoted
above speaks of a particular experience of childhood. Note the key place
9. Quoted from a letter to Carl Frankenstein in Nina Sutton's Bruno Bettelheim:
The Other Side of Madness (London: Gerald Duckworth, 1995), p. 423.
10. De la Mare's essay, given as an address at Rugby School in 1919, was first
printed in that year by Sidgwick and Jackson, London. The quotation comes from the
revised edition in Pleasures and Speculations (London: Faber & Faber, 1940), p. 175.
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listeners to and watchers of lives and events which we cannot participate in. In turn, we are listened to and watched by others whose purposes we do not fathom.
It is in this way that he takes us a step further than Julia Kristeva, who
uses the concept of the uncanny in her Strangers to Ourselves to speak
of the other as 'my own and proper unconscious'.19 The stranger
becomes my malevolent double, but as a manifestation of the inner
strangeness of the self to itself. De la Mare leads us to reflect not just on
our sense of the strangeness of the other but to grasp how strange we
may seem to that other. It is not just a matter of the nature of our
perceptions but how we deal with being perceived. To realize this may
indeed reflect and affect the relation of the self to the self and such an
introspectively reductive account of these relations can be postulated,
but at the risk of short-circuiting the reality of whatever is not the self.
Kristeva herself suggests this interpretative dichotomy when she writes
'uncanniness...is a destructuration of the self that may either remain as
a psychotic symptom or fit in as an opening toward the new, as an
attempt to tally with the incongruous'.20 Such openness to incongruousness is where this discussion may intersect with Christian theology.
In this regard, it is noteworthy that Freud explicitly removes the
miracles of resurrection in the New Testament from the category of the
uncanny.21 His argument is that miracles form an acceptable part of the
biblical story world. To accomplish this he must consign the biblical
texts to the realm of the fairy tale so that the issue of testing the stories
against the reader's experience is side-stepped. He must also, however,
ignore the repeated expressions in the text of the surprise, disbelief and
hostility which the miracles evoke in their spectators. In this he forms
an unlikely counterpart to those who through too glib a belief, too easy
an acceptance of the stories as historical truth, also remove any sense of
the uncanny from the reading of the text by accepting the raising of the
dead without taking into account its defiance of universal human experience. Either way, this exemplifies the way in which readers seek to
insulate themselves from the sense of the uncanny in the New Testament which is part and parcel of its claim that something radically new
and radically Other broke into human history.
But it is that very sense of the uncanny which de la Mare can hone in
us. It means that the text is putting to the question our certainties about
19. Julia Kristeva, Strangers to Ourselves (trans. L. Roudiez; New York: Harvester/
Wheatsheaf, 1991), p. 183.
20. Kristeva, Strangers, p. 188.
21. Freud, 'The Uncanny', p. 369.
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the possibilities in the world, and what is possible for ourselves. The
influence of the text spills out into the world of our daily reality. That
we can be seen as Other is a realization to which we must come to
appreciate our common otherness as human beings, and to comprehend
the depth of reconciliation necessary to bridge and retain that gap. The
wonder and terror of God's presence in the book of Job, the Apocalypse, the Transfiguration, can be illuminated by de la Mare's insistent
questioning of our ability to encompass the possibilities of our experience.
De la Mare's own attitude to Christian orthodoxy is hard to pin down.
He had a great love of the English Bible, and both his prose cadences
and his imagery reflect this. Indeed, he published a set of retellings of
biblical stories for children,22 which, however, is one of his more
disappointing books. In his concern to maintain both the dignity of the
language and to expunge any sexual motivation even from stories like
that of Joseph and Potiphar's wife, he produces versions which are a
hybrid of the fustian and the bland. Here he seems to silence just that
childlike awareness of the danger and excitement of presence which
Auden saw as his gift. His very reverence for biblical language means
that it ceases to be an experience for him.
On the other hand, his writing is saturated with one biblical theme in
particular: Eden as lost paradise for which the yearning is never sated.
Describing the experience of the child in de la Mare's work, his friend
Forrest Read writes:
So it might have been with some unrecorded child of Adam wandering
near the impenetrable hedges of Eden, alone, always hoping to find an
entrance to that place where he once was happy, but from which, he
knows not why, he is now banished. While out of the tree, the snake, his
father's enemy, watches him with unblinking eye.25
81
despises the defencelessness of the child, while the child despises the
'man-of-the-world, the frozen' of adulthood. The child nonetheless has
'fingers of strength to strangle the man alive'. The poem ends:
Oh it is not happy, it is never happy
To carry the child into adulthood.
Let children lie down before full growth
And die in their infanthood
And be guilty of no man's blood.
But oh the poor child, the poor child, what can he do
Trapped in a grown-up carapace
But peer outside his prison room
With the eye of an anarchist?24
Perhaps this is also what Freud fears; the child as murderer of the
man. The alternative seems to be that the adult either becomes the
prison-house or the tomb of the child.
The New Testament in its own way acknowledges these dilemmas. In
1 Cor. 13.11, Paul makes it plain that childish things are to be put aside.
Those who retain the child's perception at the expense of learning the
language of the adult world may indeed labour under a handicap of vulnerability. This may seemingly contrast with Jesus's admonition to his
followers to become as little children (Mt. 18.3). But to become as a
child is not to remain as a child; indeed it presupposes that his hearers
are no longer children. The Christian vision is not the bleak one of the
child in the adult world of Smith's last stanza, nor of the melancholy
waif lurking at the bounds of Eden in de la Mare.
The injunction to become as little children rather summons the
reawakening in us of the openness of childhood which allows us to make
the move to learn to speak the language of adult engagement without
being frozen into the defensive restrictions of what passes for the adult
world. To move from childish babble to speech is in one sense a restriction but in a much deeper sense a way to liberation if the childlike sense
of the 'insecure felicity' of engagement with other human beings and
the ultimate otherness of God is not lost in hidebound convention.
De la Mare may seem at times to hanker for a retreat from adult reality
into a limited childish world, a flight to Eden. Freud's stern stoicism
would have us ensure that that child will be buried within us. As adults,
then, we would surely represent the tomb of the infantile, with, however, its indelible epitaph displayed in our surmounted beliefs. Our adult
24. Stevie Smith, The Collected Poems ofStevie Smith (London: Allen Lane, 1975),
pp. 436-37. Reprinted by permission of the The Stevie Smith Estate.
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selves gaze on the tomb of the child we once were, but uncannily, we
still bear the name and the memories of that child as we gaze upon it.
Yet were that child to turn its gaze on us, what would it see? What we
are now is other to the child that we were, other to the openness of its
gaze. In the uncanny vision of that child rising again to stand beside us
gazing in its turn on our epitaph is perhaps a salutary message in the
true sense, a window onto what it might mean to become as little children.
Roberta Quance
Self and Mystical Rebirth in H.D.'s Trilogy
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Divine Ground.3 The word has, however, been associated very loosely
and sometimes even used synonymously in criticism of H.D. with the
ideas of regeneration and renewal of the self or psyche. This already
betrays a psychoanalytic bias. 'Mysticism' is taken to mean any fusion of
the subject and object into a greater whole that would result in psychic
integration. If we add that any such integration is imaginary, we come
close to Freud's description of the religious impulse in general as an
'oceanic feeling'.4 This blurring of the meaning of mysticism with fantasy
makes it possible to assimilate a (revisionary) Freudian reading of H.D. to
certain feminist goals. Broadly speaking, the argument that emerges runs
as follows: in seeking a symbolic reunion with the Mother (the object)
through myth or through Freudian analysis, H.D. as a subject experiences a rebirth. This entails a poetic rebirth as well.
Criticism along these lines has produced crucial insights into H.D.'s
work, to which this essay is indebted. But it has a blind spot where
H.D.'s religious convictions are concerned and particularly her faith in
the experiential quality of mysticism. For H.D. this holds for the pagan
mysteries as well as for Christian traditions. Evelyn Underbill (a contemporary of H.D.'s) asks us to bear in mind that all mysticism should be
taken as 'an experience of Reality, not a philosophic account of Reality'.5
That experience involves a harmonization of the self with a transcendent
order, the accomplishment of which is often figured as a New Birth.
Because Trilogy has not been seen in this light, some of its key symbols and the implications of its structure are out of focus. And H.D.
seems more of an eccentric than she really is.
For example, as salient an aspect of the text as the ending has been
blurred. H.D. closes the third and final book of the trilogy, The Flowering of the Rod, with a Nativity scene in which Kaspar, one of the three
Magi, offers Mary and her newborn child a gift of myrrh:
she said, Sir, it is a most beautiful fragrance,
as of all flowering things together;
but Kaspar knew the seal of the jar was unbroken,
he did not know whether she knew
3. See Aldous Huxley, whose syncretistic definition I have adopted, in The Perennial Philosophy (New York: Harpers & Brothers, 1945).
4. See Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents (trans. James Strachey;
New York: W.W. Norton, 1961 [1930]), pp. 17-18.
5. Evelyn Underbill, Mysticism: A Study in the Nature and Development of
Man's Spiritual Consciousness (London: Penguin, 1974 [1911]), p. 455.
85
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ing in the text leads to this end. In other words, Trilogy gives us simultaneously the story of the self s quest for unionor reunionwith the
Divine Other at the same time that it seeks to uncover a feminine concept of the Other.
The first book in the trilogy, The Walls Do Not Fall, announces the
need to search through ruins for abiding spiritual values, to seek out
those walls of the psyche which have weathered all historical accident.
(Freud had likened the psyche to a city such as Rome whose earliest
walls were still intact, and it is not too much to suppose that H.D. is
paying him homage here.)10 In a characteristic superimposition of time
and place, the text moves from the Egyptian ruins at Luxor and Karnak
to the ruins of London after the Blitz. As she urges others (we readers) to
accompany her in her search, the poet advises us of the method she will
follow: history will be taken as a 'palimpsest/of past misadventure'
(WDNF, 2), a text in which one can discover that 'there are things under
other things'.11 In particular, there is a writing beneath the present cultural 'text'; another, older writing which has been erased to make way
for the new but which can still be discerned by a diligent reader. H.D.'s
palimpsest, as we know, has to do with the history of religious thought
in the West, in which the central role of mother goddesses has been
nearly effaced. But this does not mean that her quest is simply intellectual or simply aesthetic, or that it is motivated by theological concerns.
Insofar as H.D.'s text strains after the expression of experiences which
she professes to have had and which, presumably, others may have, too,
it claims a place in the mystical tradition.12
In this regard it is important to note that the poet hankers after what
she calls 'oneness lost' (WDNF, 30). Now, there are several ways to interpret this sense of loss, all of which are implied. Neo-Platonist mystical
doctrine teaches that all souls were once part of a divine unity to which
10. This was pointed out in Chisolm, Freudian Poetics, p. 42.
11. H.D., Tribute to Freud (New York: New Directions, 1984), p. 21. This edition
includes 'Writing on the Wall' (1944) (from which the quotation is drawn) and
'Advent' (1948). Both texts refer to H.D.'s period of psychoanalysis with Freud during
the years 1933-34. 'Advent', however, unlike the other text, was assembled with the
aid of a notebook from 1933.
12. As Kevin Hart observes in The Trespass of the Sign: Deconstruction, Theology
and Philosophy (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1989), p. 182: 'Our knowledge of mystical experience is textual, and on the basis of textual experience alone
one cannot judge if a text refers to a lived experience or to another text about such
experience, if the writer is a practicing mystic, a theorist, or both'. Of course, the argument cuts both ways. It is not possible to rule out experience as source or aim
either.
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was shroud (I speak of myself individually
but I was surrounded by companions
in this mystery)...
There comes a time to 'begin a new spiral', 'a new span of time in which
to grow', to 'be cocoon, smothered in wool,/be Lamb, mothered again'
(WDNF, 21). The god who calls the poet to this fresh start is Amen, an
Egyptian father-god represented as a ram who swallows his child: 'let
your teeth devour me,/let me be warm in your belly', she pleads; '[let
me be] the sun-disk,/the re-born Sun' (WDNF, 22). Although he is the
Father, he is also figured here as a Christ-like Mother from whom a Son
may be reborn.16 In other words, H.D. reads an Egyptian god in Christian terms and posits herselfbreaking free of genderas his twiceborn child.
Here, by digging a bit, can be found the key to a mystical reading of
Trilogy. And it is no accident that there is a paradox involved. For the
basic aim of the Christian mystic and, in H.D.'s revisionary view, as we
shall see, that of the Eleusinian mystic as well, is to put off the old 'man'
16. Edmunds, Out of Line, pp. 43-44 contends that two ancient Egyptian creation
myths are being conflated here, one dealing with the sun god who is reborn nightly
from the sky goddess and another dealing with Aten, 'the only faintly male solar god',
whose emblem is the sun-disk. Edmunds analyzes this motif in terms of Melanie
Klein's theories about aggression between mother and child.
89
in order to put on the new, and that is paradoxical: it means that the old
self with its old identity must die in order for there to be a rebirth which
is held to be a foretaste of the soul's access to immortality. In the Christian tradition the promise of such a transformation of the personality is
founded on the words of Christ as set down in John 12.24-25, where the
germination and growth of a seed into a full ear of grain is thought to
allude not only to the fate of the saviour himself but also to his followers' experience of conversion: Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of
wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears
much fruit'. The secret sprouting underground of the 'grain of wheat',
on a mystical rereading, becomes a metaphor for the falling away of the
believer's old self to give way to the new.
If H.D. remembered this text, however, she did not hesitate to give it
her own peculiar reading. In her Notes on Thought and Vision (1919),
an early discussion of the spiritual life, she too employs the imagery of
the seed to speak of the soul. But she arrives at her Christianity by way
of the (older) Eleusinian mysteries, which exploited the symbolism of
the yearly return of the ripened grain and the promise it may have held
for the initiate of the soul's immortality.17 H.D. speaks of the soul as a
seed in the body:
Because the spirit, we realise, is a seed. No man by thought can add an
inch to his stature, no initiate by the strength and power of his intellect
can force his spirit to grow.
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There in a nutshell is the basic argument for H.D.'s Trilogy. For at the
same time that we are called upon to grasp the mystical, Johannine
intent of H.D.'s wordsthat 'Christ' stands for the seed or the soul as
much as for the holy childwe must see that the ground into which the
seed is cast or, rather, in which it is 'enclosed', is, according to the
mythic logic H.D. finds in Eleusis, the body of the mother. In saying the
seed 'breaks' within the earth, then, H.D. draws an analogy closer to that
of birth, in the sense of one body emerging from another, than to that of
death or sacrifice.19
If we turn back now to Trilogy, we will see that the first book is studded with images which suggest how much such a transformation of the
self is desired. There the poet claims that she and her companions are
dragging the forlorn
husk of self after us...
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93
gigantic wish-fulfilment that had built up, through the ages, the elaborate and detailed picture of an after-life'.25 H.D. accounted for this positionwhich 'he may even have believed'by turning Freud into a kind
of culture-hero who stoically refused the luxury of religious belief so
that all human powers could be directed toward the here and now. It is
immediately after these reflections that she turns her attention to the
words of 'another Jew'.
My point is that the effect of immediately citing Jesus in this way is to
relativize Freud's views. It is to suggest that H.D. read Freud allegorically, that she spiritualized him, setting his theory of the unconscious
within a religious framework which was firmly in place by the time she
called on him.26 She used the language of mystical rebirthdrawn from
Neo-Platonism, ancient mysteries, hermeticism, Christianity properto
make connections between the inner reality Freud had discovered and
the person she already was, daring once more, as Susan Stanford Friedman noted of H.D.'s use of other writers on myth, to 'abandon the
Enlightenment lens'.27 Therefore, although we sometimes find her describing her analysis with the same metaphors as the ones she uses to
evoke her sense of impending transformationin Freud's office, she felt,
she says, as if she were in a 'chrysalis'28she believes that the experience is helping her to find her mother and to grow spiritually.
To summarize: The Walls Do Not Fall turns on the idea of an inner
quest whose goal is to remake the self in harmony with the divine. Book
2, Tribute to the Angels, takes us further along the path by presenting
the seeker's vision of female godhead. According to Luce Irigaray, the
idea of a goddessof god in a female imageis essential for women, if
they are to possess, as men have always possessed, an image of their
perfected subjectivity.29 A feminine concept of deity would provide a
needed source of self-love for women. H.D. finds such an image of
25. H.D., Tribute to Freud, pp. 102-103.
26. More evidence for this can be found in a letter H.D. wrote to her companion
Bryher in 1933 in which she claims that Freud was 'the present-day Jesus who wishes
to rationalize the miracle' (quoted in Janice S. Robinson, H.D.: The Life and Work of
an American Poet (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981], p. 280). Gerald L. Bruns has
defined allegory as 'the redescription, in one's own language, of sentences from an
alien system of concepts and beliefs'. See his Hermeneutics Ancient and Modern
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992), ch. 4, 'Allegory as Radical Interpretation',
pp. 83-103 (83).
27. Friedman, Psyche Reborn, p. 308, n. 13.
28. H.D., Tribute to Freud ('Advent'), p. 177: 'Before I leave, I fold the silver-grey
rug. I have been caterpillar, worm, snug in the chrysalis.'
29. See 'Femmes divines', in her Sexes etparents (Paris: Les Editions de Minuit,
1987), pp. 69-85.
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female godhead in Mary, once the Mother of God has been restored to
the earth;30 it is a necessary prelude to her recasting of the traditional
goal of mystical birth in the Other; now there is to be a rebirth in the
(M)0ther.
H.D.'s Lady proves to be a threshold figure who manifests herself in
nature, marking a point where there can be a breakthrough to the supernatural world. As if to emphasize the passage from one world to another,
H.D. situates an epiphany of the goddess in a limen: 'we crossed the
charred portico,/passed through a framedoorless/entered a shrine;
like a ghost,/we entered a house through a wall' (TA, 20). The in-betweenness of the place makes her and her companions unsure of whether 'we were there or not-there' (TA, 20). Then, characteristically for
H.D., the break between worldsas one passes from nature and finitude
to the supernatural, where rebirth is possibleis re-figured as blossoming: 'we saw the tree flowering;/it was an ordinary tree/in an old garden-square' (TA, 20). And so, before her Ladywho is 'Our Lady' but
who predates Christianityactually appears to her in a dream (TA, 25),
she has been 'announced' in the vision of a charred tree that has miraculously survived the war: 'burnt and stricken to the heart; was it maytree or apple?' (TA, 19).
The manifestation of female godhead in a tree means that there is one
profound sense, one very literal sense, in which we can say that Mary
(or, in traditional terms, a redeemed Eve) is the model for H.D.'s Lady
and this must be perceived in order to follow the logic of the second
and third books of the Trilogy.
The early Fathers of the Church developed a series of biblical types
for the Virgin from passages in the Old Testament which they interpreted as prefiguring the birth of Christ. One of these types is known as
the Tree of Jesse, the source for which is Isaiah 11.1 (Et egredietur
virga de radice lesse, et flos de radice eius ascendef). In the early
Middle Ages this apparently phallic text gave rise to church iconography
found all over Europe which often featured the Virgin prominently at
the top of Christ's family tree.31 This may account for the way H.D.
30. Many scholars have argued for this connection by focusing on one particular
mother-goddess (Demeter, Cybele, Isis, Astarte). H.D., it seems to me, presents a syncretistic version based on Mary's roots as an earth goddess. Pamela Berger in The
Goddess Obscured: Transformation of the Grain Protectress from Goddess to Saint
(Boston: Beacon Press, 1986) shows Mary in this light.
31. Arthur Watson, The Early Iconography of the Tree of Jesse (London: Oxford
University Press, 1934). On goddesses and trees see E.O. James, The Tree of Life
(Leiden: EJ. Brill, 1965), pp. 163-200. Curiously, another name for the may-tree is the
hawthorn, which is associated with a famous apparition of the Virgin in France, at
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34. H.D., Tribute to Freud ('Advent'), p. 123. This had been pointed out by Robinson, H.D.: The Life and Work, p. 327.
35. Coventry Patmore, The Rod, the Root and the Flower (ed. and intro. Derek
Patmore; London: The Grey Walls Press, 1950 [1895]), p. 124.
Frederick J. Ruf
J.B. Pontalis and the Adolescent Self
In the late twentieth century, if we are interested in cultural manifestations of religion, we are largely interested in how various aspects of culture perform a religious function. If an aspect of culturea political
party, a birthday party, a painting by Turner, or a scribble by my daughteris to be religious, then it needn't be so by its Christian roots or by
its relation to the dharma, let's say. Rather it is religious by performing
the function long performed by institutions, objects, beliefs, and persons
that are explicitly religiousthe function of providing humans with orientation in their lives.1 Culture is religious by enabling us, as William
James said, to 'front life': by providing us with orientation; that is, by
answering three crucial questions: who we are, where we are, and where
we're going.2 Having answersor imagining answersto those three
questions enables us to 'front life' by telling us what the word 'life'
means, where our 'front' is, and what sort of a being has a 'front' in the
first place. Culture surrounds us, inundates us, permeates us with orientations, so that we cannot see a chair or hear its scrape or feel the air
without there being communicated an urgent or casual message concerning who we are, where we are, and where we are going.3
Given who we have become by the end of this century, perhaps the
most poignant of the three questions of orientation is the first: the
1. I draw this notion of the religious function of orientation from Gordon D.
Kaufman who traces it back, himself, to Erich Fromm and, ultimately, Kant. See Gordon D. Kaufman, The Theological Imagination: Constructing the Concept of God
(Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1981); Immanuel Kant, 'On Orientation in Thinking', in Kant (ed. Gabriele Rabel; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963), pp. 168-70; Eric
Fromm, Psychoanalysis and Religion (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1950),
Chapter 3.
2. William James, The Letters of William James, II (ed. Henry James, Jr; New
York: Longman, 1920), p. 122.
3. In two works I have analyzed the orientation performed by literary style. See
Frederick J. Ruf, The Creation of Chaos: William James and the Stylistic Making of
a Disorderly World (New York: State University of New York Press, 1991) and idem,
Entangled Voices: Genre and the Religious Construction of the Self (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1997). Both provide a detailed examination of the casual and
implicit orientations that are provided by culture.
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answer to the question 'Who am I?' or, in more general terms, 'What is
the self?' Postmodernism has especially troubled this question and its
many answers by providing us with its own orientation, one that is, in
fact, ^//sorienting. As Mark Taylor puts it, there has been a 'death of the
self, [a] disappearance of the I, [a] decentering of the subject, and [an]
end of man'.4 Nietzsche's death of God seems far easier to get used to
than this second death. And if the death of God meant, as Nietzsche
wrote, that 'we have left the land and embarked, we have burned our
bridges behind usindeed we have gone further and destroyed the land
behind us'a profound disorientation, indeed, as the past hundred-odd
years have shownthen what will this more recent death of the self
mean?5 What can it mean that there is no longer a self?
There is, of course, no shortage of suggestions, most of them involving the other and a dissolving and refiguring of the dichotomy of self and
other. Certainly in theology, Taylor and Charles Winquist provide powerful possibilities, either by, as in Taylor, seizing upon dissemination
'Which effaces every stable center and thereby decenters all subjects',
by placing 'the deconstructed subject...in the midst of multiple and
changing relations';6 or, for Winquist, in the more internal 'other' of
what he likes to call the 'incorrigibilities' of body and mind that confront
and confuse and fracture the self, giving rise to 'intensities'.7
But if we are interested in ways to imagine the self in light of the postmodern disorientations, I would like to suggest a rather traditional means
of presenting itthe literary genre with the particular mission of providing the model for the self, autobiography. Moreover, what might be
of special value is an autobiography by a member of the profession that
came into being after Nietzsche's death of God (dare I say, because of
his death of God?), the profession with the particular cultural charge of
imagining the self and then, interestingly enough, caring for it: psychoanalysis.
J.B. Pontalis is not just a psychoanalyst; he is co-author (with J. Laplanche) of perhaps the most authoritative reference work in that field,
The Language of Psycho-analysis? He is also a senior editor with
4. Mark C. Taylor, Erring: A Postmodern A/theology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), p. 136.
5. Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science (trans. Walter Kaufman; New York: Vintage Books, 1974), p. 180.
6. Taylor, Erring, p. 135.
7. Charles E. Winquist, Desiring Theology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1995). See especially chs. 3 and 4.
8. J. Laplanche and J.B. Pontalis, The Language of Psycho-analysis (trans.
Donald Nicholson-Smith; London: Hogarth Press, 1973).
99
Gallimard and editor of two series at that press. He was the student of
both Sartre and Lacan. He is, then, an authority: he might be said to
represent how the culture sees the self. If so, it is fascinating and important that his 1993 autobiography, Love of Beginnings, is, as Janet Garner
Gunn might say, 'unruly'.9 It is far from being an attempt to present the
chronological mastery of the self, which is the tradition of autobiography.10 Pontalis's autobiography is a wandering through a collection of
concerns and events; it 'ignores chronology', as Pontalis says, 'and...is
very incomplete'.11
Most succinctly, we might say his autobiography presents the life of
the self as a 'sack', as Pontalis himself says of the memory. 'What does
the sack of memory hold', he asks, 'the sack which is so full of holes?'
Pontalis's answer: 'Accidents'.12 Instead of mastering the self through
the dominance of self-narrative and presenting a unified and cohesive self
that is, in the expression so dear to narrative theologians, 'coherent and
intelligible', Pontalis gives us a self that is a sack, with holes, and filled
with accidents. I would like to concentrate upon these three to flesh out
this particular postmodern 'self.
First the 'sack'. We can learn a great deal from the formal aspects of a
piece of writing, from the orientation implicit in its style, its genre, its
organization. A particular sort of self speaks or is depicted. Pontalis's
autobiography does not start at the beginning, nor does it proceed to an
end. There is a chapter about a Turner painting, that chapter (and the
painting) metamorphosing into a rendezvous with an unnamed lover in
London. There is a chapter about obsessive scribbling in a diary. A chapter(of only 123 words) about falling. A chapter about his daily telephone
call from his mother. So the book (and the self) is a collection, lacking
the firm order of a chronology or of the development of character or
intellect. And yet there is no suggestion of 'randomness' in this collec9. Gunn criticizes much literary discussion for concealing the 'strangeness' and
'unruly behavior' of autobiography. Janet Garner Gunn, Autobiography: Toward a
Poetics of Experience (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982), pp. 1011.
10. Roy Pascal speaks for the traditional view of autobiography when he defines
the genre as 'the reconstruction of the movement of a life, or part of a life, in the
actual circumstances in which it was lived... [It] imposes a pattern on a life, constructs out of it a coherent story. It establishes certain stages in an individual life,
makes links between them, and defines, implicitly or explicitly, a certain consistency
of relationship between the self and the outside world'. Roy Pascal, Design and Truth
in Autobiography (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, I960), p. 9.
11. J.B. Pontalis, Love of Beginnings (trans. James Greene with Marie-Christine
Reguis; London: Free Association Books, 1993), p. xv.
12. Pontalis, Beginnings, p. 125.
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That is the participation in language at its best. At the other end is his
loathing for language, his resentment of its dominance, its hegemony:
Everything pulls me away from belief, from adherence to a cause, to a doctrine, to a discourse which claims to dictate rules, to establish authority,
political discourse being only the model for the genre. I'm suspicious of a
way of thinking that, while denying that it does so, has an answer for
everything and holds its own uncertainty at bay. At the heart of this reticence, I find the refusal to identify a language with truth.14
13. Pontalis, Beginnings, p. 8.
14. Pontalis, Beginnings, p. 84.
101
Pontalis, Beginnings, p. 5.
Pontalis, Beginnings, p. 8.
Pontalis, Beginnings, p. 14.
Pontalis, Beginnings, p. 85.
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103
This is very close to the construction of the self performed in Pontalis's autobiography. Pontalis is as acutely aware of the fraudulence and
authoritarianism of social constructionsof semiotic systems, 'languages'as Holden Caulfield. It is in his recollection of the injustice of
an arbitrary grading system, and his rejection of the exclusive claims of
either school or vacations at his grandmother's ('I see an abuse of power
in the notion that a single place could claim to contain everythingI
suspect a totalitarian annexation!').24 Above all his 'repudiation...of
sameness and continuity' appears in his suspicion and rejection of the
claims of language. He says of his actual adolescence that 'there was
nothing to invent, other than a few minor variations on the syntax of
tasks and days', and he adds that 'this shift towards being detached
without being able to be caught or attached elsewhere, this shift that
makes me lose my moorings without giving me map and compass in
exchange...! have gone on experiencing'.25 It is a repudiation (he continues) of 'language [when it] claims to be absolute master and is ignorant of what it is heir toa succession of deaths and murders'.26 Like a
long succession of adolescents, Pontalis is an 'impotent rebel', a 'nomad,
a deserter'.27 And language like childhood and the adult world is a
'beautiful absent stranger'.28
Erikson's 'niche' has its parallel in Pontalis's 'hollows', perhaps the
most striking concept in his book. He needs (and achieves), he says, a
'refuge.. .like the hiding-place children find in the hollow of a cave or of
a hedge'.29 The hollow is the 'shift towards being detached without
being able to be caught or attached elsewhere';30 it is what enables him
to pull away from 'adherence to a cause, to a doctrine, to a discourse
which claims to dictate rules, to establish authority';31 it is the reminder
of the 'deaths and murders' in language.32 The wobble, the clumsiness
and the ticthe 'accidents' that fill the 'sack of memory'indicate that
semiotic systems are imperfect and unable to totalize; that they are
hollow. The holes in that sack are its hollows, as well. They are safe
places, apart; though they are also dangers, for we fear, Pontalis says,
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
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that they are bottomless holes and not hollows.33 'Hollows', Pontalis
memorably declares, 'are the breathing of my life. As for death, it's a
hole'.34
Erikson's 'labile and unpredictable behavior' or Weiner's 'symptoms
that, in an adult, would suggest psychopathology' are predicated upon
adolescence being a stage and one that passes. They are written from
'further on'. If I am correct about Pontalisthat he provides us with a
model of the self that is significantly adolescentit does not 'move on',
and much the same could be said of Mark Taylor, endlessly erring (and
currently playing with body piercings and tattoos), or Charles Winquist,
in quest of intensity.35 And since so many intellectual movements have
laid claim to maturity, the postmodern claim is not only exasperating but
refreshing. Like adolescents, themselves, of course.
PartIV
Re-visioning Gender
1. Introduction
In writing on exiles and excess Julia Kristeva offers us material which is
both dangerous and transformative for subjectivity. Essentially in Kristevan terms, exiles can achieve a privileged perspective from which they
can recognize the trace of otherness, while excess is that trace which
exiles can discover beyond identity, that is, as the otherness which has
been repressed and marginalized.1 My contention is that Kristeva's writing on exiles and excess has particular relevance for the transformation
of subjectivity: it requires risking any static form of gendered identity.
As a Bulgarian postgraduate in 1977 Paris, Kristeva writes in French
on exile; she speaks as a new type of female intellectual. In a succinct
passage, her writing anticipates much of what I hope to convey in this
paper, and much of what Kristeva herself comes to portray in one of her
novels. So consider the English translation of this passage from 1977:
1. Julia Kristeva, 'A New Type of Intellectual: The Dissident' (trans. Sean Hands),
in Toril Moi (ed.), The Kristeva Reader (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1986), pp. 292-300
(originally published as an editorial in Tel Quel 74 [Winter 1977], pp. 3-8). In the editor's words: 'In her description of the new politics of marginality, she indicates how a
move away from the purely verbal level of politics (mentioning colour, sound and
gesture as alternatives) would mobilize the forces necessary to break up the symbolic
order and its law. The article, however, does not reject law and society; rather it
hopes for a new law and a different society. Drawing on the experience of marginality
and exile, whether physical or cultural, the intellectual can still spearhead a certain
kind of subversion of Western bourgeois society... In addition.. .Kristeva here gives a
brief and lucid outline of her analysis of the position of women within the symbolic
order' (Moi, The Kristeva Reader, p. 292).
In sharp contrast to Toril Moi's view, Margaret Atack more than ten years later is
far less persuaded by Kristeva's account of the subversive role of the intellectual,
finding it lacks originality as well as veracity; see Atack, 'The Silence of the Mandarins:
Writing the Intellectual and May 68 in Les Samourais', Paragraph: A Journal of
Modern Critical Theory, Special Issue: 'Powers of Transgression/Julia Kristeva', ed.
Anne-Marie Smith, 20.3 (November 1997), pp. 240-57.
107
You will have understood that I am speaking the language of exile. The
language of the exile muffles a cry, it doesn't ever shout. No doubt it is for
this reason that it produces symptoms which, when written by me (as
either signifier or signified), are of course, personal, but also inevitably
become symptoms of the French language. Our present age is one of exile.
How can one avoid sinking into the mire of common sense, if not by
becoming a stranger to one's own country, language, sex and identity?
Writing is impossible without some kind of exile.
Exile.. .involves uprooting oneself from a family, a country or a language.
More importantly, it is an irreligious act that cuts all ties, for religion is
nothing more than membership of a real or symbolic community which
may or may not be transcendental, but which always constitutes a link, a
homology... The exile cuts all links, including those that bind [her] to the
belief that the thing called life has A Meaning guaranteed by the dead
father. For if meaning exists in the state of exile, it nevertheless finds no
incarnation, and is ceaselessly produced and destroyed in geographical or
discursive transformations. Exile is a way of surviving in the face of the
dead father, of gambling with death, which is the meaning of life, of stubbornly refusing to give in to the law of death.2
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109
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SELF/SAME/OTHER
'You [may] talk about domesticating [wolves]... A few thousand years ago,
perhaps. But now?... No, you're turning into wolves yourselveswild
beasts fighting against one another. I don't recognize you any more.'7
111
Similarly instead of finding order, the reader of The Old Man and the
Wolves finds fragmentation: the narrative of Kristeva's novel is broken
up by a multiplicity of codes and voices. The oscillating narrativethat
is, from the recording of psychic lives to detective storyas well as the
duplication and dissolution of character's identities, all together present
the experience of contemporary culture in a process of metamorphosis.
The novel's story unfolds by revealing the increasingly hideous nature of
a culture in its transition from goodness and order (back) to corruption
and disorder. At the same time, the novel enacts the drama of excessive
passion in the psychic and material lives of the Old Man and Stephany
most of all, but in addition, in the lives of two, other central characters:
Alba and Vespasian. Alba is the at-one-time favourite, long-devoted student of the Old Man; but after marrying Vespasian, a doctor who refuses
to believe in the existence of wolves, Alba falls into a life of deadening
hatred; accepting the banality of evil Alba not only comes to hate her
husband, but in the end, seems to be an accomplice in the murder of the
Old Man.11 Above all, Kristeva's metaphors'the Old Man' and 'the
wolves'give fragile form to the psychic inscriptions that border on the
unnameable.
The subtext to Kristeva's use of metaphor is Marcel Proust's account
in the third volume of his The Remembrance of Things Past. In Proust's
words,
An image presented to us by life brings with it, in a single moment, sensations which are in fact multiple and heterogeneous... what we call reality
is a certain connexion between these immediate sensations and the memories which envelop us simultaneously with them...a unique connexion
which the writer has to rediscover in order to link for ever in his phrase
the two sets of phenomena which reality joins together...truth will be
attained by [the author] only when he [she] takes two different objects,
states the connexion between them...and encloses them...within a metaphor.12
The central metaphor in Kristeva's novel is the wolves, but the figure of
the Old Manthe fatheris perhaps more problematic. It should be
explained that there have been numerous criticisms of Kristeva's use of
metaphor elsewhere. Admittedly the object of this criticism is more
frequently the maternal metaphor. The metaphor of 'the mother' runs
the dangers of reinstating an ontotheology; this includes the danger of
creating a new religion of women on the basis of the mother being
11. See n. 27 below.
12. Kristeva, 'Interview: The Old Man and the Wolves', p. 164; cf. Marcel Proust,
The Remembrance of Things Past (trans. C.K. Scott Moncrieff and Terence Kilmartin;
3 vols.; London: Chatto & Windus, 1981), pp. 924-25.
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113
linguistic process, by both metaphors and metonymies: that is, the gendered identities of subjects would displace themselves as one name
resembles and relates to another. This process takes place in the novel
as the identities of characters and narrators (author/authored) duplicate
and dissolve.
In an interview about The Old Man and the Wolves, Kristeva explains
that the first part, The Invasion', represents the twilight of the gods,
that is, the end of an era of theistic belief. This twilight in turn is given
meaning in the second part, 'Detective Story', which shapes the plot
into an ethics of knowledge: knowing ought to involve acknowledging
evil.16 In fact it seems that no one's life is beyond the banality of this
evil. Finally, in the third part of the novel, 'Capriccio', the reader recognizes Stephany Delacour as a successful analyst insofar as she succeeds
at imposing a diary form upon the mystery in the novel, while exposing
the need for a solution to a crime. As the detective-analyst, Stephany discovers that the Old Man has been murderedand knows that she ought
to unravel the truth about (who committed) this murder.17 Thus the
novel begins in a negative, confused universe; it is, next, transformed
into a detective story; and ultimately, the reader sees Stephany holding a
careful vigilance over death: in the end, this vigilance provides the decisive resistance of life against death and psychosis.
The character of Stephany, in the end as a daughter-journalist-detective-analyst, adds the distinctive Kristevan, psychoanalytic dimension to
the novel. With Stephany, Kristeva suggests that the maladies of our
souls ought to be investigated and cured. And this gives another indication that the ethical message of psychoanalysis constitutes an ethics of
knowledge: if we can know that evil exists, then it should be confronted: and this confrontation can begin as soon as we come to know,
or become aware of, an interior space which reveals our relationship to
otherness outside and in ourselves. As Kristeva reflects,
[Stephany's] subjective experience, her sensibility as a woman, a child, a
lover is a veritable counterweight to death and hatred. If Stephany is able
to undertake this investigative work and confront crime, it is because she
doesn't ignore her personal experience, because she is plunged to a point
of rapture, and not without cruelty, into the pain that mourning imposes
on us: mourning for her own father, until then repressed, awakens on
the occasion of the Old Man's mourning... Without this interior space,
structure that diverts the homogeneity between the mother-child entity
(O'Grady, 'The Pun or the Eucharist', pp. 101-102).
16. Kristeva, Interview: The Old Man and the Wolves', pp. 165-66.
17. Kristeva, The Old Man and the Wolves, pp. 176-78, 183.
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sculpted out by mourning but given shape by other erotic upheavalsfor
mourning is an eroticism full of undulations, without the smooth
visage of joyno working-out of truth is possible. No investigation, no
knowledge.
In the light of Kristeva's own fundamental presuppositions, the Kristevan novel must involve psychoanalysis; and in The Old Man and the
Wolves the analyst is a woman who, precisely as a woman, can be especially sensitive to the personal experience of loss. This is 'analysis' from
the Greek for 'dissolution'. The dispersal of boundaries happens through
analysis and yet, more creatively here, through allegory. The very boundaries which constitute identity, notably the boundaries between the
interior and the external worlds, would seem to collapse. The Old Man
and the Wolves is anchored in pain, as Kristeva explains (in the same
interview), 'to which allegory aims to give significance without fixing
it...having it vibrate, in an oneiric way, according to each reader's personal framework of ordeals and choices'.19 Without a doubt, the allegory
is built on the wolves as metaphor: 'the wolves are contagious; they
infect people to the extent that one can no longer make out their human
faces: they symbolize everyone's barbarity, everyone's criminality. They
finally signify the invasion of banality, which erases the entire criterion
of value amid the racketeering, corruption, wheeling and dealing [of a
world of enterprise money]'.20 Kristeva makes more radical an idea
presented by Hannah Arendt earlier in the twentieth century: evil has
become banalever more ordinary.21
18. Kristeva, 'Interview: The Old Man and the Wolves', p. 166.
19. Kristeva, 'Interview: The Old Man and the Wolves', p. 164.
20. Kristeva, 'Interview: The Old Man and the Wolves', p. 165.
21. See Julia Kristeva, Le genie feminin (Paris: Editions Fayard, 1999). This is her
biography of a female intellectual, Hannah Arendt.
115
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scription [writing] and writer invest in language in the first place precisely
because it is a favorite objecta place for excess and absurdity, ecstasy
and death. Putting love into words,25 and this stresses the utterance more
than the prepositional act...necessarily summons up not the narcissistic
parry but what appears to me as narcissistic economy. Such and such
loving speech that we view as being in a state of uncertainty and
metaphorical condensation reveals the continuity of the narcissistic economy, and this includes the 'insignificant' love experience that does not
dare express itself differently from what is on the surface, does not venture to seek its logic beyond the looking glass where lovers bewitch each
other. Because it thus speaks love's painful but also constituent truth, that
scription attracts us.
Consistent with the above terms, The Old Man and the Wolves puts
experiences of love into words, especially writing about those experiences of passion which fail to embody love.27 The Old Man and the
Wolves is 'a place of death': it is the writing of the ecstasy and grief
which surround an other's death. Love and death, excess and absurdity,
render the overall theme of this novel: mourning. Mourning represents a
crucial transition within the subject's psychic life; it is a moment at
which boundaries begin to dissolve in relation to the other who has
died. The Old Man becomes the Other in a sense not fully nameable; he
is, as already stated, the professor of Latin, but he is also named Septicius
Clarus and Scholasticus. And yet the Old Man remains foremost the
loving father who faces violence and death. In contemporary literary
circles, a father's love and love for the father may not be a popular
theme in writings on gender. However, we must at this stage be clear
that in her novel-writingin creating this allegoryKristeva is in fact
mourning her own father's death. Her aim is to represent the transformative potential of love for the father: this love is meant to serve as an
antidote to the barbarity of the city, Santa Barbara.
Crucially, love for the father is an interior experience which the
woman author/analyst, as a daughter, lays bare, as if it were a secret and
as if it were behind her passion for life. The Old Man is not a hero, not a
master, and yet Stephany (or is it Kristeva?) ties her dream to the enigma
of the Old Man. He is in a sense a man of sorrows, even a Christ-like
25. Cf. Julia Kristeva, The Samurai: A Novel (trans. Barbara Bray; New York:
Columbia University Press, 1992), pp. 1-2, 130-31.
26. Julia Kristeva, 'Throes of Love: The Field of the Metaphor', in Kelly Oliver
(ed.), The Portable Kristeva (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), p. 162; cf.
Julia Kristeva, Tales of Love (trans. Leon S. Roudiez; New York: Columbia University
Press, 1987), pp. 267-68.
27. We see this especially in Alba and Vespasian who end in a marriage of deadening hatred; cf. Kristeva, The Old Man and the Wolves, pp. 56-60, 71-76.
117
figure; he suffers because of the world's evils; while fully aware of 'the
wolves', he is eventually overtaken by these figures of evil; he is the
innocent victim of the invading inhumanity. It is, then, highly relevant
that, in her own interpretation of the subject's relation to the father
figure, Kristeva insists: 'What needs to be done under these circumstances is to prepare a place for possible law, and I might also say that it
involves new images of atheism that fit the situation we are experiencing, at the end of a world'.28
The novel's persistent message becomes clear: the ethical import of
psychoanalysis in a world of illusion and transience is that we need love
and its ordering principles for a certain autonomy as ethical subjects.
This message implies that we are able to achieve a crucial, ethical relationship for subjectivity between ourselves and an Other. But note if,
like Kristeva, we follow after Jacques Lacan, Emmanuel Levinas and
Jacques Derrida, then the Other can never be adequately represented, so
it is only the trace of otherness, of that which always remains beyond,
which calls us to an ethical relationship and so, also, to love.29 In the
words of the journalist-detective-analyst, Stephany: 'Atheism, which is
said to be inaccessible to women, who are always in quest of illusions,
that is, of a father-mother lover, opens up for the one who is inhabited
by the desert bequeathed her by the dead father. The choice is henceforth restricted and dangerous. Seeking childhooda kind of madness.
Or wanderingindependence played over and over again'.30 In the
words of the novel's narrator:
It's a well-known fact that Stephany Delacour is a confirmed traveler; the
Old Man himself knew that. Sometimes I tell myself that the thought of it
might have lightened his last moments, but I'm quite ready to admit this is
selfish and presumptuous, because the dying think only of themselves, or
of nothing. With the exception, perhaps, of my father, who, like the Old
28. Kristeva, 'Interview: The Old Man and the Wolves', p. 170.
29. Implied here is Emmanuel Levinas's account of the trace of the other,
especially as taken up by feminist philosophers after Jacques Derrida. For the crucial
links to a feminist account of the ethical relationship to the Other, see Drucilla Cornell, 'Where Love Begins: Sexual Difference and the Limit of the Masculine Symbolic',
in Ellen K. Feder, Mary C. Rawlinson and Emily Zakin (eds.), Derrida and Feminism:
Recasting the Question of Woman (London: Routledge, 1997), pp. 161-206, esp. 16263, 178-80, 197-200. For more background on employing the Derridean 'trace' to
signify the maternal body, see Ewa Ziarek, 'At the Limits of Discourse: Heterogeneity,
Alterity, and the Maternal Body in Kristeva's Thought', Hypatia 7.2 (1992), pp. 91108; Martha J. Reineke, Sacrificed Lives: Kristeva on Women and Violence (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997), esp. pp. 23-24, 171, 174, 214 n. 6.
30. Kristeva, 'Interview: The Old Man and the Wolves', pp. 170-71; cf. Kristeva,
The Old Man and the Wolves, p. 175.
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Man, was not of this world and so was able to take an unusual view of it.
Unless that's just another illusion on the part of a daughter holding back
her tears and half dead with anguish in the dark night of courage that
people call a journey.31
119
33. Anna Smith, Julia Kristeva: Readings of Exile and Estrangement (Bristol:
J.W. Arrowsmith, 1996), pp. 188-89 (italics added). Smith also asks a significant critical question, 'how does the analyst or intellectual discriminate between the transformative impulse towards open systems expressed in [Kristeva's] Tales of Love and the
destructive effects of primary hatred we find in her most recent novel, The Old Man
and the Wolves'? The possibility of endless regression is a real one' (Smith, Julia
Kristeva, pp. 189-90).
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The analogy between Kristeva's own experience and the allegory making
up the novel is now obvious. Kristeva's relationship to her father and to
his death in Bulgaria, in barbarous conditions, constitute the real life subtext to The Old Man and the Wolves. Could we say this allegory, then,
34. Julia Kristeva, 'Cultural Strangeness and the Subject in Crisis', in Guberman
(ed.), Julia Kristeva: Interviews, pp. 50-51; cf. pp. 140, 258.
121
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that singularity37that fragmentation prior to name or to meaning which
one calls the Daemon.38
The subtext for the above, 'for philosophy's placing woman on the side
of singularity', is Hegel's passage in The Phenomenology of Spirit on the
' "woman" as the eternal irony of the community'; and Hegel illustrates
this irony with the role of Antigone in the ancient Greek myth about
burial rites. Hegel represents 'woman' in Western philosophy as both
necessary and threatening (as daughter) for the family.39 The implication
is that Kristeva herself manages a double exile in her role in mourning,
as a woman and an intellectual writer.
To conclude, I would propose that Kristeva has sought to speak
marginalization in the language of the exile, and not to accept the dangerously banal language of so-called common sense. In novel-writing
especially, Kristeva discovers the right to speak excess as the language
of the exile. This is language which ceaselessly produces and destroys
meaning in spatial and linguistic transformations; in speaking excess,
meaning exists. Unless those who are marginalized by culture can speak
their marginalization, they remain trapped in narcissism. Instead of
regressing to childhood or retreating in silence, the marginalized must
claim their autonomy as subjects-in-process; but this choice necessarily
leads to a journey of excess; and this journey involves going back to the
passions which have been excessive, and going forward to the expressions of these passions in a new language, with new laws. Those who
choose to recognize marginality can speak experiences of exile in terms
of excess, since even that which has been excluded by culture (the
unconscious) is always already potentially linguistic. Nevertheless, Kristeva also remains fascinated by the psychic and cultural boundary-states
in which language fails the marginalized. Kristeva defends this fascination by pointing to its significant function in the psychoanalytic process
of transference:
We are no doubt permanent subjects of a language that holds us in its
power. But we are subjects in process, ceaselessly losing our identity,
37. See the discussion of woman in Hegel, The Phenomenology of Spirit, pp. 28889; cf. Kristeva, 'Cultural Strangeness and the Subject in Crisis', in Guberman (ed.),
Julia Kristeva: Interviews, p. 45.
38. Kristeva, 'A New Type of Intellectual: The Dissident', p. 296. Note that
'Daemon' in ancient Greece initially meant spirits of the dead who ensure fertility, yet
Daemon gradually came to stand for the 'gods' like Dionysus who were attractive in
an uncanny, potentially dangerous way.
39- See n. 37 above; cf. Hegel, The Phenomenology of Spirit, p. 288; Pamela Sue
Anderson, A Feminist Philosophy of Religion: The Rationality and Myths of Religious Belief (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1998), pp. 190-91.
123
5. Conclusion
Kristeva's distinctive account of transference as transformation means
that, not only are we 'subjects in crisis...[who] live in permanent crisis'41 but in 'crisis' lies the greatest possibility for human subjectivity.
Kristeva as a woman, novelist and psychoanalyst confronts the inevitable
irony: continual crisis is the basis of renewal for subjects whose
linguistic identities are caught up in a life process.42
Admittedly, we might still wonder about the dangers of this permanent crisis. I mean, how doindeed shouldwe function as exiles? And
what about the real-life exiles who do not achieve renewal, for example,
the psychotic, the criminal, the so-called deviant and possiblyto be
more specificthe battered wife who, however different, all remain in
their real, abjected forms of exile?43 How can such exiles signify the
meaning of marginality for themselves, let alone for us? To be honest,
Kristeva offers no certainty that, in the end, exile and excess will bring
about a new form of subjectivitynot even the certainty that a new
form of gendered identities will be achieved. Instead the only real hope
in Kristevan psycholinguistics is that as subjects destabilized by changes
in our relations to others, we can discover through the mediation of
meaning in language that the other lives within us. But here, remember
that the trace of otherness, of that which always remains beyond, can
40. Julia Kristeva, In the Beginning was Love: Faith and Psychoanalysis (trans.
Arthur Goldhammer; New York: Columbia University Press, 1987), p. 9.
41. Kristeva, 'Cultural Strangeness and the Subject in Crisis', p. 37.
42. Kristeva, 'Cultural Strangeness and the Subject in Crisis', p. 42.
43. This certainly seems to be the decisive doubt concerning Kristeva presented
by Edith Wyschogrod in Saints and Postmodernism (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1990).
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44. Kristeva, 'Julia Kristeva Speaks Out', p. 259. For other relevant essays by and
about Kristeva, see: Guberman (ed.), Julia Kristeva: Interviews', Oliver (ed.), The Por
table Kristeva; Kelly Oliver, Reading Kristeva: Unraveling the Double-Bind (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993); Smith, Julia Kristeva, Reineke, Sacrificed
Lives.
How far are recent accounts of women's mysticism from the Middle
Ages onwards true to the complexities of its surviving texts, whether
they be hagiographical (and largely written by men) or personal (and
composed by women themselves)? From the work of recovery and
interpretation done by social and literary historians of the medieval
period, in particular by Caroline Walker Bynum, there has emerged a
typology of women's mysticism as embodied and visionary. This emergence is manifest in the concern with eucharistic devotion, with imitation of Christ's sufferings, and with bridal communion in terms of the
Song of Songs, turning to advantage the masculine identification of
women with bodily and affective life rather than the intellect and theological wisdom.1 The contrast between the stable life of the convent and
the more risk-laden experience of the beguine or third-order laywoman
1. Caroline Walker Bynum's 'Women Mystics and Eucharistic Devotion',
Women's Studies 11 (1984), repr. Fragmentation and Redemption: Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion (New York: Zone Publishers, 1991)
is seminal; 'And Woman His Humanity: Female Imagery in the Religious Writing of the
Late Middle Ages', in Caroline Walter Bynum, Steve Harrell and Paula Richman (eds.),
Gender and Religion: On the Complexity of Symbols (Boston: Beacon Press, 1986),
pp. 257-89, makes more of women's 'almost genderless' or androgynous selfhood in
religious writing. Also important are Caroline Walter Bynum, Jesus as Mother: Studies
in the Spirituality of the High Middle Ages (Los Angeles: University of California
Press, 1982); C.W. Bynum, Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of
Food to Medieval Women (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1987); The
Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200-1336 (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1995). Grace M. Jantzen, Power, Gender and Christian Mysticism
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995) makes a less nuanced use than Bynum
of the typology to argue a women's mysticism distinct from men's; see also Sarah
Beckwith, Christ's Body: Identity, Culture and Society in Late Medieval Writings
(London: Routledge, 1993). Barbara Newman's 'Some Medieval Theologians and the
Sophia Tradition', Downside Review 108 (1990), pp. 110-30, is corrective; see also
Barbara Newman, Sister of Wisdom: Saint Hildegard's Theology of the Feminine (Los
Angeles: University of California Press; Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1987); and Barbara
Newman, From Virile Woman to WomanChrist: Studies in Medieval Religion and
Literature (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 1995).
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2. Luce Irigaray, 'La mysterique' (1974) in Luce Irigaray, Speculum of the Other
Woman (trans. Gillian C. Gill; Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1985), pp. 191213; Luce Irigaray, 'Divine Women' (1987), in Luce Irigaray, Sexes and Genealogies
(trans. Gillian C. Gill; New York: Columbia University Press, 1993), pp. 57-72, and
Julia Kristeva (see n. 22 below).
3. Recent translations are Hadewijch, The Complete Works (trans. M. Columba
Hart; Classics of Western Spirituality; London: SPCK, 1981); Susan Clark (ed.),
Mechthild von Magdeburg, Flowing Light of the Divinity (trans. Christiane Mesch
Galvani; New York: Garland Publishing, 1991); Marguerite Porete, The Mirror of
Simple Souls (intro. and trans. Ellen L. Babinsky; New York: Paulist Press, 1993);
Romana Guarnieri (ed.), Marguerite Porete, Le mirouer des simples dmes/Margaretae Porete, speculum simplicium animorum (ed. Paul Verdeyen SJ; Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 69; Turnhout: Brepols, 1986).
Recent interpretation includes Louis Bouyer, Figures mystiques feminines (Paris:
Editions de Cerf, 1989); Saskia Murk-Jansen, The Measure of Mystic Thought: A Study
of Hadewijch's Mengeldichten (Goppingen: Kiimmerle Verlag, 1991); Michael L.
Sells, Mystical Languages of Unsaying (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994),
ch. 7, 'Porete and Eckhart: The Apophasis of Gender'; Frank Tobin, Mechthild von
Magdeburg: A Medieval Mystic in Modern Eyes (Columbia, SC: Camden House,
1995); Newman, From Virile Woman to WomanChrist, ch. 5, 'Le mystique courtoise: Thirteenth-Century Beguines and the Art of Love'; Amy M. Hollywood, The Soul
as Virgin Wife: Mechthild of Magdeburg, Marguerite Porete, and Meister Eckhart
(Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1995); Saskia Murk-Jansen, 'The Use of
Gender and Gender-Related Imagery in Hadewijch', in Jane Chance (ed.), Gender and
Text in the Later Middle Ages (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1996), pp. 5268; Saskia Murk-Jansen, Brides in the Desert: The Spirituality of the Beguines (London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1998).
127
4. Babinsky (trans.), Mirror, pp. 226, 229, 230, and Murk-Jansen, Brides in the
Desert, pp. 63, 68-69, 80-81, refer to literary indebtednesss to Cistercian and Victorine
writers; Bouyer, Figures, pp. 23, 36 mentions Richard of Saint-Victor. Robert S.
Lerner, 'The Image of Mixed Liquids in Late Medieval Mystical Thought', Church History 70 (1971) pp. 397-411, notes influence of Bernard, De diligendo Deo 0. LeClerq,
OSB and H.M. Rochais, OSB [eds.], S. Bernardi opera [8 vols.; Rome: Editiones Cistercienses, 1957-77], III, p. 143) on the transformation of human affection into God's
will, 'melting away by some ineffable means' and its influence on Beguine mysticism,
which developed it in more extreme form.
5. The phrase is Danielle Regnier-Bohler's. See her 'Literary and Mystical Voices',
in Christiana Klapisch-Zuber (ed.), A History of Women in the West: Silences of the
Middle Ages (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University, 1992), p. 478.
6. Regnier-Bohler, 'Literary and Mystical Voices', p. 478.
7. See Judith H. Oliver, Gothic Manuscript Illumination in the Diocese of Liege
(c. 1250-c. 1330) (Leuven: Peeters, 1988), pp. 112-19 on women patrons, some of
them beguines; Jeffrey F. Hamburger, The Rothschild Canticles: Art and Mysticism in
Flanders and the Rhineland circa 1300 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990),
pp. 164-67. See also Jeffrey F. Hamburger, Nuns as Artists: The Visual Culture of a
Medieval Convent (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1977); and The Visual
and the Visionary: Art and Female Spirituality in Medieval Germany (New York:
Zone Books, 1998).
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express spirit, the topos of the 'spiritual senses' established since Origen
and Augustine, but in her use presses against its physical limits. As
Michael Sells has put it in Mystical Languages of Unsaying, 'A tension is
engendered in which metaphors are stretched and ultimately shattered
under the demand for a union beyond that which language can
convey'.8 Further, Hadewijch deliberately allows images to collide
against contrary imagesif Love is dew and flowing spring, it is also fire
and helland explains why she uses them: they are 'Forever insufficient
but resonant of eternity'.9 It is necessary to short-circuit any consolation
which falls short of the ineffable, any pleasures of the spiritual way
sought for their own sake rather than as means towards Love's fruition.
The crossing of gender-boundaries is only one of the strategies of dislocation to prevent misapprehension of the inexpressible as solely human,
not divine.
Hadewijch could thus on occasion use mirror-images of the feminine,
such as her stanzas on the nine metaphorical 'months' in which Christ is
inwardly formed in her before his coming to birth; or her startling line, 'I
suffer, I strive with height,/! suckle with my blood', which reverses the
more common feminization of Christ suckling his children from his
wounded side, itself quite startling to those unused to it.10 But she is just
as given to presenting herself in knightly terms of courtly love, with a
feminine Love as the high object of noble male pursuit whose service is
itself a purgative way.11 The secular poetry of courtly love had already
8. Sells, Mystical Languages, p. 125.
9. Columba Hart, Hadewijch, pp. 352-58. Murk-Jansen, Brides in the Desert,
p. 55, translates the hell section:
Forever to be in unrest,
Forever assault and new persecutions,
To be wholly devoured and wholly engulfed
In her (Love's) unfathomable nature,
To founder in incandescence and cold every hour
In the deep high darkness of Love,
This exceeds the pains of hell.
He who knows Love and her comings and goings
Has experienced and can understand
Why it is truly appropriate
That Hell should be the highest name of Love.
10. Columba Hart, Hadewijch, pp. 345-50, 351. Douglas Gray's 'The Five Wounds
of Our Lord', Notes & Queries 208 (1963), pp. 131-32, refers to drinking from Christ's
side in Angela of Foligno, Gertrude of Helfta, Mechthild of Helfta, the English Lofsong
and Latin poems. Clark (ed.), Mechthild von Magdeburg, Flowing Light, 6.24 is another example.
11. This has been well discussed by Newman and Murk-Jansen. It reverses the
129
before her time moved across gender in addressing the lady as midons
(meus dominus, 'my Lord'). Hadewijch, by feminizing Christ as Love,
reverses the processit is the devotee who is maleand shocks into
recognition of the spiritual level of meaning through the impossibility of
the literal.
There are different angles from which such mixing of gender-language
may be interpreted. One may be tempted to see it as the claiming of
male ground by the woman who feels herself unconfined by the boundaries her society has set her, and as a refusal to be confined within the
ecclesiastical categories of behaviour which limited the expression of
love to this or that. Or, more fundamentally, gender-mixing can be seen
as the expression of the divine as a totality (gheheelheit was Hadewijch's
word) and of the divine call as an entry to range within that totality.12
Michael Sells has pointed to Marguerite Porete's perception, rather like
Hadewijch's, of a feminized God, and to Eckhart's envisioning of God as
both giving birth and begetting.13 For all these writers, and for Ruusbroec who to an extent followed them, entry into the life of the Trinity
was both loss, annihilation of the ordinary phenomenal self, and participation in a numenal dynamism for which all metaphors of human creativity and relation were legitimate.
Hadewijch was not the first woman writer to use the inexpressibility
topos. Hildegard of Bingen wrote of holy women, 'No earthly excellence
can express you; You are encircled in the embrace of divine mysteries',
in a Hymn to Virgins, a poem characteristically almost symboliste in the
fluidity of its imagery.14 Yet her composition on the joy of Mary at
Christ's conception, Ave generosa, is among treatments of this theme
feminization of the soul by St Bernard and other male contemplatives, discussed by
Bynum,/ess as Mother, ch. 4, 'Jesus as Mother and the Abbot as Mother'.
12. Clark (ed.), Mechthild von Magdeburg, Flowing Light, 'Introduction', p. xiii,
is a typical statement of the first view, for gheheelheit see G. Epinay-Burgard, 'L'influence des Beguines sur Ruusbroec', in Paul Mommaers and Norbert de Paepe (eds.),
Jan van Ruusbroec: The Sources, Content, and Sequels of his Mysticism (Mediaevalia
Lovaniensa, 1.12; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1984), pp. 68-85 (82); H.W.D.
Wekeman (ed.), Het visioenenboek van Hadewijch (Nijmegen: Dekker & Van de
Vegt, 1980), pp. 159-77, 'Het dertiende visioen', 11. Ill, 140-48, 295.
13. Sells, Mystical Languages, pp. 151-53 (and p. 285 n. 19), pp. 168-74, 194-95.
At pp. 204-205 he challenges Bynum's distinction between men and women mystics.
14. From the hymn Nobilissima viriditas, que radias in sole ('O most noble
greenness who shines in the sun'), quam nulla terrena excellentia comprehendit, tu
circumdata es amplexibus divinorum mysteriorum, in Barbara Newman (ed. and
trans.), Saint Hildegard of Bingen, Symphonia: A Critical Edition of the Symphonia
armonie celestium revelationum (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988), pp.
218-19.
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131
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133
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the knowledge that it is within the Other's love'.28 Like Porete (who was
persecuted and eventually burnt at the stake in 1310) Guyon came
under Rome's censure. They both conceived of themselves as 'deified';
and for both these 'contemplatives of the void' written language 'remains
a site of pleasure' in which they were prolific. In Kristeva's view , they
lived on the 'border between the not-yet-Self and the Other: the verge of
narcissism, of the emptiness that laps against the ideal'.29
Recent scholarship has acknowledged the strong evidence of Eckhart's
debt to Porete's language, and has discovered how her forbidden text
survived inquisition and was translated into English in monastic circles.30
In the early sixteenth century Marguerite Queen of Navarre took up her
language of negation in a poem translated by Queen Elizabeth
as a girl.31 Sir Thomas More's direct descendant, the Benedictine nun
Dame Gertrude More, found the same language a means of affirmation of
personal integrity against intrusive formalist authority.32 Mme Guyon
should not be seen as an excessive singularity, but as one of a line.
Kristeva leaves her readers to make connections with her discussion
in 'Stabat Mater' of the alternative routes for women, as wives, 'the selfsacrifice involved in becoming anonymous in order to pass on the social
norm' which she calls 'legalized' masochism, or the 'exacerbated
masochism' of the nun and martyr.33 Is this not where Irigaray's narrative also ends, with the proliferation of modes of bodily or mental suffering, the wound as the place of imagination? Apparently it was male
hagiographers who particularly dwelt on features of physical pain and
masochism in saintly women's lives, of which Mme Guyon as a devout
Catholic could hardly have been unaware, together with the horrors of
28. Kristeva, Tales of Love, p. 302.
29. Kristeva, Tales of Love, pp. 307, 311.
30. The essays in Bernard McGinn (ed.), Meister Eckhart and the Beguine Mystics
Hadewijch of Brabant, Mechthild of Magdeburg and Marguerite Porete (New York:
Continuum, 1994) build on work done earlier by Herbert Grundmann, Religious
Movements in the Middle Ages (trans. Steven Rowan; Notre Dame: University of
Notre Dame Press, 1995 [1935, 1961]); and by Edmund Colledge OSA and J.C. Marler,
' "Poverty of Will": Ruusbroec, Eckhart and The Mirror of Simple Souls', in
Mommaers and van Paepe (eds.),/# van Ruusbroec, pp. 14-47.
31. Marguerite de Navarre, Le miroir de I'dme pecheresse became Elizabeth I's
The Glasse of the Sinful Soule (1544) published by John Bale in 1548. See Marc Shell,
Elizabeth's Glass (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1995).
32. See my 'Women, Authority and Mysticism: The Case of Dame Gertrude More,
1606-1633', in Sajni Mukherji (ed.), Gender and Literature: Essays Presented to Professor Jasodhara Bagchi (Calcutta, 2000). Dame Gertrude's sources were Walter
Hilton, The Cloud of Unknowing, and the Rhineland mystics.
33. Kristeva, Tales of Love, pp. 258, 260.
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Philip Leonard
Ethical Alterities?
1. A Setting Sun
Levinas's remarks on transcendence depart significantly from some of
the more emphatically counter-theological arguments that have emerged
in theory and philosophy during the last hundred years. The most notorious of these arguments (because of its intensity as well as its resurgence in post-war French thought) can be found in Friedrich Nietzsche's
atheistic antihumanism. The argument that an apocalyptic moment
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occurred during the nineteenth century, that at some point God died, is
one that recurs throughout Nietzsche's texts; The Gay Science, for example, proclaims:
The greatest recent eventthat 'God is dead', that the belief in the Christian god has become unbelievableis already beginning to cast its first
shadows over Europe. For the few at least, whose eyesthe suspicion in
whose eyes is strong and subtle enough for this spectacle, some sun seems
to have set and some ancient and profound trust has been turned into
doubt; to them our old world must appear daily more like evening, more
mistrustful, stranger, older...how much must collapse now that the faith
has been undermined because it was built upon this faith, propped up by
it, grown into it... This long plenitude and sequence of breakdown,
destruction, ruin and cataclysm that is now impending.
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141
142
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143
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was the creation of two beings in one but of two beings equal in dignity:
difference and sexual relations belong to the fundamental content of
what is human'.24 For Derrida this is a 'marvellous reading'25 of Genesis,
but still raises certain problems. Apparently reinscribing a sexually
amorphous humanity as the object of creation, Levinas persistently
conceives this humanity in terms of masculine traits. Thus, Derrida
argues, Levinas,
maintains sexual difference: the human in general remains a sexual being.
But he can only do so, it would seem, by placing (differentiated) sexuality
beneath humanity which sustains itself at the level of the Spirit. That is, he
simultaneously places...masculinity (le masculiri) in command and at the
beginning (the arkbe), on a par with the Spirit.26
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erbated when Levinas attributes phallic characteristics to what he elsewhere describes as either a non-sexual or feminine alterity.
On the other hand, 'Derrida's' female voice in 'At This Very Moment'
traces an unwitting disruption of the prevailing sexual order in Levinas's
work. Derrida claims that, despite reinforcing a number of questionable
assumptions about sexual difference, Levinas's work implicitly invokes a
non-masculine alterity. In a dense though crucial passage, the 'female
reader' of Levinas claims that:
The effect of secondarization, allegedly demanded by the wholly-other (as
He), would become the cause, otherwise said the other of the wholly
other, the other of a wholly other who is no longer sexually neutral but
posed.. .and suddenly determined as He. Then the Work, apparently signed
by the Pro-noun He, would be dictated, aspired, and inspired by the desire
to make She secondary, therefore by She (file)?4
In other words, Levinas's failure to refer neutrally to an ineffable 'contrariety' signals the enclosure of his putatively transgressive theory within a
structure which privileges specific sexual traits and particular gender
characteristics. But by disclosing the non-exterior status of alterity as
illeity Levinas also, Derrida argues, reveals the necessity of something
other than a phallic economya 'she \Elle\ lying beyond structures of
identification and order. In this manner, then, Levinas's work paradoxically reveals the haunting of phallogocentrism by an inconceivable and
unspeakable revenant of 'the feminine'. Reading against the grain of an
apparently contradictory account of difference, Derrida observes that
the work of Levinas (E.L.) carries a feminine signature (Elle)?**
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while dwelling and persevering, such is the wager that the beloved must
make'.39 It is with this idea of 'the beloved' (or 'woman as lover',
amante40) that Irigaray simultaneously takes up and transforms Levinas's
theory of a feminine exteriority. In contrast with Levinas, who describes
the destabilization of binarized metaphysical codes, concepts and
structures by an intrusive and inconceivable other (the feminine),
Irigaray extrapolates from the binary framework of presence and
absence, self and other, masculine and feminine, a liminal and interstitial
'woman as lover' who is neither inside nor outside sexual order. Whereas
Levinas's model suggests that the feminine occupies a position of passive
exteriority, Irigaray argues that the subordinating construction of the
feminine within amorous relationships (as 'the loved one', aimee, rendered passive by 'the lover', amanf) is incontestable, but that the position of woman as lover (which is neither wholly active nor wholly passive) signifies a slippage in binarily sexualized subjectivity. While the
definition of 'the amorous couple as lover and loved one already assigns
them to a polarity that deprives the woman of her love',41 Irigaray's
notion of the woman as lover opens the path out of this constitutive
opposition and sites the feminine as an 'Unforseeability bordering on
alterity, beyond one's own limits'.42
Irigaray's subsequent essay on Levinasthe concise collection of
interrogations entitled 'Questions to Emmanuel Levinas'is more equivocal. Instead of treating Levinas's notion of the feminine largely as an
insurgent and counter-phallogocentric approach to sexuality, Irigaray
argues, as Margaret Whitford points out, 'that his work has not gone far
enough'.43 'Questions to Emmanuel Levinas' partly confronts the same
39. Luce Irigaray, 'The Fecundity of the Caress: A Reading of Levinas, Totality and
Infinity section IV, B, "Phenomenology of Eros"' (trans. Carolyn Burke), in Richard A.
Cohen (ed.), Face to Face With Levinas (Albany: State University of New York Press,
1986), p. 254.
40. A translation of amante differing from that offered by Burke is given in Margaret Whitford's English version of 'Questions to Emmanuel Levinas'. Here 'amante'
is translated as 'woman as lover', 'aimee' as 'beloved', and 'amant' as 'male lover'.
Luce Irigaray, 'Questions to Emmanuel Levinas' (trans. Margaret Whitford), in
Margaret Whitford (ed.), The Irigaray Reader (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), pp. 185-86.
41. Irigaray, 'Fecundity of the Caress', p. 247.
42. Irigaray, 'Fecundity of the Caress', p. 251.
43. Margaret Whitford, Introduction to section III, The Irigaray Reader, p. 159.
From the same position Carolyn Burke claims that Irigaray 'extends Levinas's emphasis on the ethical relation with the other to the question of sexual difference'. Carolyn
Burke, 'Romancing the Philosophers: Luce Irigaray', in Diane Hunter (ed.), Seduction
and Theory: Readings of Gender, Representation and Rhetoric (Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, 1989), p. 233- Cf. Cathryn Vasselu's argument that: 'After having
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exists at the same time as unique in the world and as brother among
brothers'.47 With paternity and fraternity there are, according to Levinas,
dislocations of totality; marking a self which has meaning only through a
relationship with another person, these cultural phenomena throw into
crisis the notion of a stable singularity which dominates Western
theories of subjectivity. But, Irigaray warns, inscribing difference
through exclusively masculine relationships cannot produce a disinterested indication of ethical prediscursivity because, of course, such
notions as paternity and fraternity invest the ineffable ethical realm with
orthodox gender distinctions.
What Levinas does not see is that the locus of paternity, to which he
accords the privilege of ethical alterity, has already assumed the place of
the genealogy of the feminine, has already covered over the relationships
between mothers and daughters in which formerly the transmission of the
divine word was located.
151
Absent from Levinas's work is this recognition that in his work masculine discourse returns at the very moment of its disruption. Despite
developing a notion of the feminine as an unsettling, pre-ontological,
pre-discursive other, Levinas's texts, it becomes evident with Irigaray,
fail to address a basic issue of cultural identity.
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153
The hinge that connects divinity and secularity, Levinas here argues,
appears to be held together by a prioritization of the paternal genealogy:
in spite of describing an ambivalence in the construction of gender
positions, biblical and Talmudic tales of creation refuse to acknowledge
the existence of the feminine either as a creation of God or as a social
phenomenon.
This reading of paternity in the Talmud produces further problems,
Irigaray suggests. According to Irigaray, Levinas's formulation of difference as paternity refuses to step outside the paternal genealogy which
denies women both property and a proper name, and Irigaray similarly
questions Levinas's description of paternity as the God-man relation.
Despite Levinas's questionable claim that his commentary is an objective
and disinterested interpretation of Berakhot ('I am not taking sides;
today, I am commenting'59), Irigaray believes that Levinas's transgression
of sex and gender classifications is a limited transgression: 'The assertion
that the other is always situated within the realm of the father, of the
father-son, God-man relation...seems to me to belong to the imperatives
of the metaphysical tradition.'60 Although Levinas argues for a God who
transcends the thematizing violence of metaphysical theology, Irigaray
claims that this transcendence is simply a masquerade, is itself caught up
in metaphysicality, and that Levinas 'scarcely unveils the disfigurements
brought about by onto-theology'.61
A more suitable response to the 'disfigurements' of ontotheology
would, Irigaray argues, consider the correspondences between the systematic exclusion of women from spiritual, sexual and symbolic identity. Although Levinas argues that the ethical relation is evident in divine
transcendence and amorous carnality, he seems reluctant to consider
the relationship between both. He states in De Dieu qui vient a I'idee,
for example, that ethical responsibility begins with agape rather than
eros: 'A relation without correlation or a love of the neighbour which is
a love without eros. For the other man and from there to God.'62 For
Irigaray, this refusal to recognize the fecund dialogue passing between
the divine and the carnal, between agape and eros, leaves the feminine
without a transcendence and without a God. Moreover, this separation
explains Levinas's disenchantment with mysticism:
In so far as I am acquainted with him, Levinas has little taste for mysticism.
What is the link between this lack of interest and his conception of sexual
59.
60.
61.
62.
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difference? In other words, is mysticism not linked to the flesh in its sexual
dimension [comme sexuee\t But outside of any mysticism, who is God?
What is God? What is the point of flesh without mysticism?... To exploit
the woman as reproducer, depriving her of her desire as a virgin-daughter
or as a woman?63
155
the discursive and conceptual horizons within which the divine and
identity are defined. Recommending a restructuring of conventional
notions and representations, so that women can have a bodily and a
transcendental identity, Irigaray reappropriates the empirico-transcendental doublet that Foucault challenges in The Order of Things. Resurfacing as the 'sensible transcendental', this doublet is semantically
redefined by Irigaray: she problematizes the restricted and repressive
metaphysics of phallogocentrism, but does so by continually reinventing
the sensible and transcendental, the physical and metaphysical condition
of women. Thus, This Sex Which Is Not One' and Marine Lover designate female sexuality with the biologism 'lips'\Je, tu, nous endorses
juridical and legislative frameworks; and / Love to You appeals for an
idea of nature that would acknowledge sexual difference. While the use
of these concepts seems to repeat the essentialist errors of patriarchal
culture, Whitford, in Luce Irigaray: Philosophy in the Feminine, argues
that a process of mimicry is at work in Irigaray's worka mimicry which
provisionally restates existing terms in order to overcome the restricted
horizons of phallogocentrism and to represent a female specificity. This
process is, for Whitford, best understood through the notion of the
'sensible transcendental', which,
is a movement which can operate in two ways, first to break up the imaginary formations which have become too constraining, and provide an
interlocutor to enable the male subject to shift his position; second, to
function symbolically as 'home' for women while they seek to build and
create a different place for themselves in the social order. The sensible
transcendental is offered, I think, as a horizon in which we are all implicated67
What needs to be noted is that this alternative horizon does not simply
apply to the reconfiguration of women's physiological status; with the
idea of the sensible transcendental Irigaray also attempts to reconceive
the relationship between the feminine and the divine. For Chanter, This
includes...a reassessment of religious symbols and imagery, and the
development and elaboration of women-identified religions that recognize female divinities'.68
As a part of this reassessment (and in contrast with Kristeva's claim
that, The portrayal of the maternal in general and particularly in its
Christian, virginal, one reduces social anguish and gratifies a male
being',69 Irigaray draws upon 'the maternal' in order to arrive at alter67. Whitford, Luce Irigaray, p. 144.
68. Chanter, ethics oferos, p. 174.
69. Julia Kristeva, 'Interview', in m/f5/6 (1981), p. 167. Cf. Kristeva's claim else-
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157
PartV
Re-visioning the Sacred Text
Christopher Burdon
Jacob, Esau and the Strife of Meanings
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name 'Israel' means (in one of the interpretations provided by the text)
one who strives with God; and the victories of Jacob often seem hollow,
the 'blessing' rather unsatisfactory, and the ongoing strife perhaps a
querulous one for his own or his descendants' identity.
I shall focus on the account at the heart of the 'Jacob cycle' of the
patriarch's return from his long stay with Laban to face his estranged
brother Esau (Genesis 32 and 33). Within the larger canonical framework Jacob is the hero, Esau the outcast; and, having outwitted his
uncle, Jacob certainly seems to be returning home in triumph, leading a
caravan of wives, children, servants, flocks and herds, boasting the
'blessing' he snatched from his father and his brother. Yet it is hardly
possible to read the five episodes in these two chapters without sensing
the hero's weakness.4 Far from being a 'knight of faith' like his grandfather Abraham, far from being a magnanimous gentleman as the feared
Esau is revealed to be, Jacob is ill at ease, nervous before the unknown
Other he must facewhether that Other be the brother he has treated
so callously from the womb (32.8, 12; 33.3, 10), or the God of his
fathers (32.10, 31) or the mysterious 'ish ('man') who wrestles with him
at the ford (32.25). He finally faces his brother as an absurd figure,
parading his great retinue yet limping from the wound imposed by his
night-time antagonist and then prostrating himself on the ground before
Esau. Do these stories of Presence (Hebrew panim, face) and Blessing
(berakab) hang together, or does the looming otherness of the forces
Jacob contends with actually serve to dispel presence, blessing and
coherence? Is there really a 'subject' to the stories at all, let alone one
who can serve as a moral example or father of the nation?
Seeking what I deemed a humane theology of presence and blessing, I
first proposed a reading of these two chapters which seemed to be narratively, psychologically and theologically coherenteven, in a rather
homiletic way, to tell a story of religious progress through the subject
Jacob. Moving on from the encounter with angels in the first episode,
which harks back to his vision on first leaving his homeland (Gen. 28.1022), Jacob's strategy and religion in the second episode are ones of prudencethe use of a show of strength, of bribes, of prayer and mediation
to avoid Esau's vengeance. This is shattered in the third episode by a
religion of violent encounter with the hidden god at Jabbok, from
which Jacob graduates in the fourth episode to a religion of forgiveness
4. The 'episodes' into which I am dividing the narrative are: I. Gen. 32.1-3
(Mabanaim); II. 32.4-22 (preparation for meeting); III. 32.23-33 (Jabbok); IV. 33.111 (meeting); V. 33.12-20 (parting). References to Genesis 32 follow the verse num
bering of the Hebrew Bible: for that used in most English translations, subtract one.
163
when he 'sees the face of God' in his brother's welcome. What then is
the God of Israel, what his presence or his blessing? First, an unseen
presence announced by angels; then an alien and nameless presence
attacking in darkness, from which Jacob nevertheless concludes that he
has been at Peniel and 'seen God face to face'; finally, a gracious but
fully human presence, immanent in the estranged brother. The enemy is
friend and the agon is past in a community of reconciliation, a radically
kenotic, Blakean religion of Divine Humanity. As brothers and sisters we
have reached the twilight of the idols and can leave behind Bethel and
Peniel, our priestly systems and almighty demon-gods.
Yes, I still find this attractive. But a pall is cast over such a humane
fulfilment by the fifth episode, which I had ignored. Jacob does not
respond to Esau's effusive welcome in kind. While Esau calls him 'abi
('my brother') he persists with 'adoni and 'abdeka ('my lord' and 'your
servant') and with the ritual giving of his present. In what seems like a
slip of the tongue, Jacob calls his 'present' to Esau a 'blessing'his
rninbab becomes his berakab. But whose berakab? the one wrested
from the night-time antagonist? or the father's blessing stolen long ago
(the law of primogeniture now reasserting itself)? or the mere material
bribe of Jacob's ostentatious minbab? And this gift of the long-contested
blessing is left hanging in the air, for it is a very nervous sort of reconciliation. It is followed not by the sharing of flocks and herds and the healing of old wounds around the fire, but by parting', for with a feeble
excuse Jacob declines his brother's offer to 'set out and go on' together,
and the two go off in opposite directions. They are separate nations,
meeting again in Genesis only for their father's funeral. To see the whole
story, with J.P. Fokkelman, as the answer to Jacob's prayer of 32.12,
fulfilled in his 'renunciation of deceit and violence for the sake of the
blessing', is to impose a moralizing or theologizing closure on a story
that is much more fraught with ambiguity and conflict, indeed with continuing deceit and violence as the tale of Jacob continues.5 And I must
make the same judgment on the humane and liberal reading I had
attempted.
Forgiveness of the (br)other is not so easy; nor can the human
embrace yet contain or supersede or vanquish the dark divine presence.
Even if the angelic religion of Bethel is past, it seems that the religion of
divine humanity cannot yet be owned. Conflict with the Other (the
5. J.P. Fokkelman, Narrative Art in Genesis: Specimens of Stylistic and Structural Analysis (Studia Semitica Nederlandica, 17; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1975), pp. 22628. Fokkelman's preceding analysis of the Leitworter and puns in the story is,
however, astute.
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divine?) continues to haunt our narratives and religions and subjectivities, just as the wounding but blessing enemy-god continues to haunt
Jacob. 'I have seen Elohim face to face yet my soul has been delivered',
he says, implying that the Other remains other, neither destroying with
irresistible force (or grace) nor absorbing in mystical union, and even
withholding its name. But can we call thisfor Jacob or for ourselves,
even in encounters with claims to be Penielsthe 'presence of God'? Or
is the presence, the face (panirri), veiled in the darkness? The Peniel
encounter takes place before dawn, so in what kind of light can Jacob
claim to 'see Elohim face to face'? Is this hidden face of God after all
then a projection of the subject's conflict with the human Other, in
enemy brother or nation or in one's own psyche?
Historical, narrative and theological interpreters of the stories have,
for different reasons, contended with this otherness by adopting an
implicit submission to a heroic reading. This may work insofar as the
interpreter constructs the subject Jacob by isolating the various Others
he encounters. Some of the gaps can be plugged in a particular hermeneutical style and within a particular episode: in opposition to Laban,
say, or to Esau, or to Elohim (God), Jacob can perhaps be grasped. But
then one returns to the text and peers beyond the episode; and the
subject of the narrative as a whole is too dispersed to provide such
certitude or heroism. This is especially true of the powerful episode III
(the encounter with the 'ish at the Jabbok).6 The historical critic investigates its probable origins in a folk-tale of a river-demon and its partial
adaptation by the 'Yahwist' narrator.7 The theological critic finds in this
episode, unlike the all-too-human stories that surround it, a mysterious
and primitive theophany: the 'ish is no man but an angel, or God himself
(as Jacob hints, 32.31), or Christ, or perhaps Jacob's own alter ego or
dark side, and from the encounter can be drawn religious or moral
depth. The narrative critic forgoes any historical or theological concerns
but pursues the Jabbok story's internal structure, drawing out its strange
gaps and reversals, as most impressively in Roland Barthes's reading.8
6. Surveys of the history of interpretation of Gen. 32.23-33 are given by William
Miller, Mysterious Encounters at Mamre and Jabbok (Chico, CA: Scholars Press,
1985), see especially the summaries, pp. 114-17; 136-38; and by John Rogerson,
'Wrestling with the Angel: A Study in Historical and Literary Interpretation', in Ann
Loades and Michael McLain (eds.), Hermeneutics, the Bible and Literary Criticism
(London: Macmillan, 1992), pp. 131-44.
7. For example, C. Westermann, Genesis 12-36 (London: SPCK, 1986), pp. 51221.
8. R. Barthes, 'The Struggle with the Angel', in R. Barthes, ImageMusicText
(London: Fontana, 1977), pp. 125-41.
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Again, when the brothers meet, the midrashists contradict the original
text directly by denying that Jacob gives any obeisance to Esau: the
sevenfold prostration is to God, since it could not be to the wicked Esau
(78.8). Nor could Esau 'kiss' his brother, so by the change of a consonant (nasaq to nasafe) he is made to 'bite' him, and their mutual weeping is explained by the pain this encounter gives to Esau's teeth and to
Jacob's neck.
The rabbis of this period usually attribute Jacob's triumph to his
extraordinary merit. In this, as in the denigration of Esau, they are followed by the broad stream of Jewish interpretation, as represented for
instance by the medieval Rashi's commentary.12 The earlier Christian
rabbi Paul, however, interprets the conflict more theologically. Jacob
11. J. Neusner (ed.), Genesis Rabbah.. .A New American Translation (Atlanta:
Scholars Press, 1985), III, parashah 76.6. Further references in the text are to
Neusner's numeration.
12. Cf. Rashi's comments on the wickedness of Esau at Gen. 32.6, 11, and on the
'noble conduct' of Jacob at 32.28.
167
and Esau are not human characters so much as signals of God's purpose
of election (Rom. 9-10-13). Jacob is loved and Esau hated, and God's
sovereign decree cannot be contested. The twist, however, is that in
Paul's reading the election is not of the carnal descendants of Jacob but
of his spiritual descendants in the Gentile Church. Such a pattern is
maintained in traditional Christian interpretation of the brothers, though
later theologians are less reticent than Paul and often as imaginative as
the rabbis in elaborating the laconic portrayal in Genesis. So even Calvin,
the most emphatic follower of Paul's theology of predestination, presents the reprobate Esau as 'imperious and ferocious' and the elect Jacob
as a 'holy man.. .completely carried away with the ardour of supplication
to God'. As in the midrash, Jacob's sevenfold prostration is to God rather
than Esau, while the latter's embrace of his brother is a mere temporary
respite of his cruelty engineered by God's grace.13
Calvin's older contemporary and fellow-reformer Luther also followed
a traditional Christian typology in his lectures on Genesis of 1542-44.
But he enlivens and humanizes the biblical narrative by presenting Esau
as well as Jacob as a true Christian. The hero is 'the holy patriarch Jacob',
a type of the Churchthat is, for Luther, the true Church of faith in
Christ, not of works or papacy.14 The returning Jacob is 'an illustrious
and very practical high priest, who rescues and saves so many souls
from Mesopotamia with the pure doctrine and worship of God' (p. 124).
Through him can be learned the lessons of true faith, of prayer, humility
and mortification.15 Esau, on the other hand, when Jacob prepares to
meet him, is filled with 'arrogance and smugness'. 'His flesh rejoices in
the losses and miseries of his neighbour', as Luther imagines him cherishing his own wealth and power and despising the 'blessing' that has
merely taken his brother to service of the idolatrous Laban (p. 98). But
by the power of God and the prayer of Jacob (and in contrast to 'the trivialities of the Jews') Esau is truly converted. God has blessed the triumphant Jacob at Peniel; 'but his brother Esau has experienced such a
change that he not only does not want to harm him but even wants to
help, love, and be good to him. His anger has been changed into brotherly kindness' (p. 156). So when Esau declines Jacob's gift Luther comments,
13. J. Calvin, Genesis (London: The Banner of Truth Trust, 1847), pp. 187, 190,
206-207.
14. Luther's Works. VI. Lectures on Genesis 31-7 (Saint Louis: Concordia Press,
1970), p. 87. Further page references in the text are to this edition.
15. On Jacob's ceaseless and anxious prayer, cf. Lectures, pp. 113; 123. On humility and mortification, cf. pp. 121; 152-53- On Luther's interpretation of the Jabbok
episode, see further Rogerson, 'Wrestling with the Angel', pp. 133-34.
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I think that Esau was truly changed in his heart, although he had a very just
cause for hatred and indignation. For the blessing rightfully belonged to
him as the firstborn, but he was a great man, a fine, brave man, undoubtedly instructed in the doctrine and sermons of Isaac and the other fathers
among whom he was brought up, and he learned to curb his evil desires.
Then, too, this procession drawn up to please him was an additional factor, and likewise the struggle and prayer of Jacob. Finally, there was the
government of God, and all of these things drove his heart to forgetfulness
of the wrong he had suffered (p. 170).
The wrestler begins by asserting that 'I need not tell thee who I am',
namely a sinner. But in a sense the discovery of the Other's identity in
169
('home' being heaven). The limp is the only reminder left of the darkness and wrestling, of the subject's fragmentation and the unease of
physical and fraternal existence. All otherness of God or of brother is
overcome as he triumphantly repeats 'Thy nature and thy name is Love'.
The various readings sketched above are built on the assumption that
Scripture speaks with authority, and they all instinctively adopt Jacob as
heroic subject. Some, like Obadiah and the rabbis, posit a sharp differentiation between the subject and the other, celebrating the victory of
Jacob. Some, like Luther and Wesley, celebrate the reconciliation or
even union of subject and other. But something of a resistance to either
kind of fulfilment is seen in traditional Christian mystical theology,
where-as on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapelthe fingers of Adam and
God do not quite meet. For the anonymous English teacher of contem16. The same is true of Hopkins's powerful individualistic reworking of thejabbok
story in 'Carrion Comfort'.
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171
have seen your face as one sees the face of Elohim' (33.10) is indeed an
amazing one; but is it (as I first read it) the celebration of a fraternal religion of forgiveness and incarnation, or rather the fearful recognition of
endemic conflict between brother and brother, between nation and
nation, between man and Elohim? Is the embrace of Esau as constricting
and wounding as the hold of the 75/7?
Living face to face, in the immediate presence of the god or the
brotherthat is the hard thing. Elohim is left behind in the darkness,
Jacob 'passes on slowly' to Succoth while Esau 'turns back' to Seir. And
the narrative seems to peter out in a kind of reversion to the conventional religion of prudence and mediation. Jacob builds altars (33.20;
35.7) and even returns to Bethel. It seems that, as elsewhere in the Genesis stories, the ultimate blessing is the very practical one of reboboth,
the 'broad spaces' needed so that your presence and your flocks do not
impinge on your neighbour's (cf. Gen 26.17-22). For these are stories
about peoplesthe namings and the warrings of Israel and Edom, the
seeking and losing of dominion. Inherited systems such as primogeniture
are subverted by the voice of the Other, but the subversion itself is
unravelled by the lure of berakab', and as there is not enough blessing to
go round neither conquest nor forgiveness seems to be attainable. The
political and personal outcome is uneasy, as it is for the tribes of today's
world. Are they to shrug their shoulders and slouch off to their Succoths
or Seirs, ducking the agon of seeking blessing? Or can we achieve a
political or ecclesial praxis that creatively affirms the presence of the
Other without pushing that affirmation to some system or fulfilment that
puts the Other in his place?
Yet once the darkness of the river god and the light of the human god
(the face of El and the face of Esau) have been injected into the narrative
they cannot be expunged. The faces still haunt the all-too-human Jacob
with his dysfunctional family, and they still haunt the readerthough
each may be held at arm's length in reading and in praxis, as apocalypse
and Utopia respectively. Within the biblical canon and within history the
antagonist of the Jabbok continues to queer the pitch for limping Israel,
as does the enemy neighbour Edom or Esau.20 The new name given at
Peniel is still incomplete, perhaps ironic. For the 'isb, who is in some
sense the 'face of Elohim', withholds his own name, a name that is presumably part of the meaning of Israel's name. Even when, much later in
the Pentateuch, the holy name is revealed to Moses, it is in a sense no
20. So Gerhard von Rad speaks of the 'wonderful transparence' and contemporaneity of the Jabbok story as symbol of Israel's struggle with its God (Genesis: A
Commentary [London: SCM Press, 9th edn, 1972], pp. 34, 320).
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name: YHWH, who will be who he will be. If identity itself is so fraught,
how can forgiveness be given or blessing enjoyed? Thus the story of
acute reversals, blessings stolen, families deceived, struggles in the night,
is not resolved: despite the narrator's interpretation of the name Israel
(32.29) there is no victory for Jacob. As Barthes's structural reading
of the struggle with the angel shows, expectations are reversed, with
the weaker defeating the stronger.21 Genesis 33 is even more unsettling
for the reader expecting a heroic patriarch. The previous reversal announced to the twins' mother and activated by Jacob the Heel in his
theft ofbekorab and berakah (Gen 25.23-34; 27.1-40) is itself reversed.
The younger serves the elder, referring to himself repeatedly as 'abdeka
and bowing down before the gracious Esau and pressing on him his
berakah. As David Clines comments, 'Jacob serves everyone; no one
serves Jacob. So much for the blessing'.22
So was Blake right all along'Now is the dominion of Edom'? But it's
not so simple. A reversal perhaps (though it could be just another cunning plan of Jacob's); but even in apocalypse there is no reversal to end
all reversals. As Blake writes in the next line of The Marriage of Heaven
and Hell, 'Without contraries is no progression'. Blake's own extraordinary proclamation of a religion of Divine Humanityboth apocalypse
and forgiveness, both face of El and face of Esauis itself not a triumphant or canonical synthesis but a call to continued agonistic living
and writing. Agon, as Michael Fishbane comments, is the 'dominant
motif and 'the recurrent thematic emblem of the [Jacob] cycle as a
whole'.23 But, even if the blessing of God is at stake, why should the
struggle lead to closure? All dominion and power is to be undone, and
the undoing will never perhaps be done.
The same combative kind of writing has long been detected in the
book of Genesis, despite its incorporation into a canon of sacred history.
Even if the attributions and assumptions of the documentary hypothesis
are open to question, it clearly recognizes the wrestling between different theologies and national identities that is going on in the text we
have; and even if the 'P' or 'R' strand is thought to have imposed the
eventual form, that form bears many cracks. A highly speculative but
stimulating reworking of the documentary hypothesis undertaken by
Leslie Brisman sees what is normally called the 'J' source as not the ear21. Barthes, 'Struggle with Angel', pp. 134-38.
22. D.J.A. Clines, What Does Eve Do to Help? And Other Readerly Questions to
the Old Testament (JSOTSup, 94; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), p. 61. Cf. M. Fishbane
Biblical Text and Texture: Close Readings of Selected Biblical Texts (New York:
Schocken, 1979), p. 52.
23. Fishbane, Biblical Text and Texture, p. 45.
173
liest but the latest voice in this battle for narrative dominion, calling it
'the voice of Jacob' the cunning twister of conventional 'Eisaacic' theology and story-telling. For Brisman, Jacob's struggle at Peniel and 'the
very important pseudoetymology of Israel as 'striver with El' suggests
that strife with this 'ish may represent Jacobic strife with the Eisaacic E
and the text over which he presides'.24 If the text is in whatever sense
seen as contemporary, if its readers are engaged with it rather than simply appropriating it or submitting to it, then such revisionist or haggadic
narration is unstoppable. Neither the midrashists nor the prophet Hosea
(12.2-6) seem to have been inhibited from such creative rewriting.
'From the oral to the written, and from the book to canonicity, and from
canon to midrash, represents a continuous process'.25
But not a smooth process. It is agonisticfailing to order the presences and blessings that haunt these stories and letting them instead
continue their struggle one with the other. And seeking refuge, meaning
perhaps, in the gaps and silences that intersperse the scriptural and lived
stories. In the silence may lurk the awareness that the Logos cannot be
grasped, perhaps that the Logos does not exist, so that utterance is vain.
But silence too is ambiguous. Ihab Hassan, in his subtle examination of
modern and postmodern literature in The Dismemberment of Orpheus,
speaks of the 'two accents' of silence arising from the breakdown of language and narrative in the twentieth century. One is 'the negative echo
of language, autodestructive, demonic, nihilist'; the other 'its positive
stillness, self-transcendent, sacramental, plenary'.26 The latter is clearly
akin to the silence of traditional Christian negative theology or apophaticism, to the nada, nada, nada of St John of the Cross and the silence of
R.S. Thomas's empty churches. And Hassan seems to suggest that the
utterers of the postmodern silence have the choice between apophaticism and nihilism: 'Playing their stringless lyres, modern authors enchant
us with their twin melodies, and we dream of bright life or unspeakable
sleep'.27
The recognition of the gaps and the silence, the awareness of our
incompletion as experiencing or believing subjects, can mean we have
reached the place of unspeakable sleepof an uncrossable gulf and a
parting of the waysand that we should therefore abandon any search
24. L. Brisman, The Voice of Jacob: On the Composition of Genesis (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990), p. 88; cf. pp. 9-18.
25. S. Sandmel, 'The Haggada within Scripture\Journal of Biblical Literature 80
(1961), p. 122.
26. Ihab Hassan, The Dismemberment of Orpheus: Toward a Postmodern Literature (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2nd edn, 1982), p. 248.
27. Hassan, Dismemberment, p. 4.
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Jan Tarlin
The Skull beneath the Skin:
Light Shadow Reading in the Valley of Dry Bones
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Yet it is precisely this Otherness that the discourse of mainstream Biblical Studies is designed to tame. The search for sources, editors, redactors, scribes, and scribal errors is an attempt to produce a Bible submissive to modern rationality, a Bible that can be explained: a Bible fit for
polite enlightened company. This Bible has, in the last few decades,
come under attack as traces of the Other have reasserted their visibility
in and around it with ever increasing power.
I refer, of course, to the eruption within the Biblical Guild itself of
social and cultural Otherness in the forms of Jewish Studies; of feminist,
liberation, and queer hermeneutics; and of postmodern theory that has
broken with enlightenment culture. This eruption has brought with it its
specular double: the eruption of the Otherness of the Bible. In the hands
of strangers, the Bible reveals its strangeness.
Mainstream Biblical Studies cannot contain this upheaval by implementing a strategy of 'add and stir'. What is underway is a full-scale
return of the repressed: a negation of the founding exclusions upon
which the identity of the discipline of Biblical Studies as we know it is
based. The traces of the Other that are resurfacing in the disciplinary discourse cannot be dissolved and blended smoothly into the established
scholarly mix; they insist on stubbornly retaining their Otherness and
disturbing the Guild's banquet.
The results of this disturbance cannot be predicted, but a glimpse of
the direction in which things are moving may offer itself through the
medium of parable. The literal definition of the parabolic gesture is: to
throw one thing beside another. Perhaps by throwing things beside each
other that do not seem to belong together, I can mime the current disturbance in the field of Biblical Studies and thereby provide it an opportunity to further clarify its form and trajectory. My parable will throw a
text from the prophet Ezekielhimself a frequent (if not entirely willing) maker of parables at the command of a highly disturbing God
beside a late-twentieth-century work of feminist anthropology: The Last
Word: Women, Death, and Divination in Inner Mani by C. Nadia Seremetakis (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1991).
The text from the book of Ezekiel that serves as the first term of my
parable is Ezek. 37.1-14the famous vision of the valley of dry bones. I
have chosen this passage because it provides an instance in which a text
with a powerful charge of Otherness and the uncanny has been spectacularly tamed by the dominant discourse of Biblical Studies. To make
the text fully available for parabolic use, I will insert it here in the NRSV
translation.
177
The hand of the LORD came upon me, and he brought me out by the spirit
of the LORD and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of
bones. He led me all around them; there were very many lying in the
valley, and they were very dry. He said to me, 'Mortal, can these bones
live?' I answered, 'O Lord GOD, you know.' Then he said to me, 'Prophesy
to these bones, and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the LORD.
Thus says the Lord GOD to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you,
and you shall live. I will lay sinews upon you, and cause flesh to come
upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall
live; and you shall know that I am the LORD.'
So I prophesied as I had been commanded; and as I prophesied,
suddenly there was a noise, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone
to its bone. I looked, and there were sinews on them, and flesh had come
upon them, and skin had covered them; but there was no breath in them.
Then he said to me, 'Prophesy to the breath, prophesy, mortal, and say to
the breath: Thus says the Lord GOD: Come from the four winds, O breath,
and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.' I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived, and stood on
their feet, a vast multitude.
Then he said to me, 'Mortal, these bones are the whole house of Israel.
They say, "Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off
completely." Therefore prophesy, and say to them, Thus says the Lord
GOD: I am going to open your graves, and bring you up from your graves,
O my people; and I will bring you back to the land of Israel. And you shall
know that I am the LORD, when I open your graves, and bring you up
from your graves, O my people. I will put my spirit within you, and you
shall live, and I will place you on your own soil; then you shall know that
I, the LORD, have spoken and will act, says the LORD' (Ezek. 37.1-14,
NRSV).
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Studies but to the dominant mode of Western literacy that we take them
for granted. Yet that is precisely why we should pause to question them.
Is the logical, sequential construction of a holistic vision the natural form
of the reading process, or is it a form of reading with a particular social
location and pedigree?
Anthropologist C. Nadia Seremetakis has concluded that:
There can be no holistic experience at the margins [of society], only the
creation of refuge areas that provisionally assemble the holistic from fragments in order to intervene in the public structure of domination. The
experience of discontinuity and break prevails in the margins. The myth of
holism and continuity is the ideological creation of 'centers' and dominating groups (The Last Word, p. 2).
179
But disengagement and marginalization from the social order and its
institutions and relations of power are not synonymous with nullification
as a cultural agent. Far from it.
'Not to implicate oneself in the visual and material immediacy of the
everyday world, one must look elsewhere. This is the predilection of the
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light shadow person that connects this figure to the practices of divination, dreaming, mourning and...exhumation' (Seremetakis, The Last
Word, p. 220). For the purposes of this parable, it will be what Inner
Maniat women discern through the practice of exhumation that will be
of central concern.
Seremetakis observes that:
[A] cynical wisdom [originates] in the domain of exhumation... Exhumation, by exposing the bones, exposes the finality of the social self, and, as
an accumulated experience, it becomes the exposure of the bones of society. .. [An] ironic derealization of all social order and normative constructs originate[s]...in the material contact of exhumation [original
emphasis]. Exhumation defamiliarizes the entire social order for women...
The exposure of bones metaphorizes the invisible and the outside whose
entry disinters and then decenters the given anchorages of social life (Seremetakis, The Last Word, pp. 218-19; 223).
For Inner Maniat women, the very act of exhuming the bones of one's
dead kin cuts loose the anchorage of social life in the embodied human
self while what can be read in those bones has the potential to loose
their community's moorings to the authoritative (male) narrative of its
history. Only the separation of the dead from their bodily remains
allows those remains to be read; the absent dead use their own bones as
a medium or inscription through which they communicate with the living (Seremetakis, The Last Word, p. 194). Indeed, the completeness or
incompleteness of the transformation of body into bone is precisely the
text the dead author provides for their female survivors to read. Bones
that have been completely purified of flesh signify a virtuous life that led
to an easy, complete departure from the bodily realm; bones with decomposing flesh still attached are marked by a guilt that has prevented the
dead from fully extricating themselves from their embodied condition.
The gathering, washing, sorting, arrangement and storing of each and
every bone, down to the tiniest fragment, gives the women performing
the exhumation a radical experience of death as a material reality that
defies the common sense assumptions that stabilize the social world.
The exhumers directly encounter the transformation of the dead from
human body to 'artifactuaT bones and the displacement of the selves of
the dead to an unknown realm beyond the bodily (Seremetakis, The Last
Word, pp. 194-95). This encounter shatters the illusions on which the
coherence of the social world is based: the solidity of the embodied
human self and the stability of relationships between such selves.
If the process of exhumation undermines the structures on which the
social world is built, the reading of the bones that accompanies it has
the power to negate the authoritative meanings that have been attached
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Renewal, hope, and promise are inextricably entwined with the shadow
of death.
And just as neither death nor resurrection is accorded self-sufficient
finality when viewed from the margins, neither are persons or nations
endowed with perfect unity or absolute boundaries. Neither 'the whole
House of Israel' nor the individuals who make it up are unified, self-possessed entities. Rather, both nations and individuals appear as strange
admixtures of bone, sinew, flesh, breath, human prophecy, and the will
of a deity whose ways are not our ways. Moreover, these elements, when
viewed with ironic double vision, seem to be moving through time and
space on trajectories of their own, quite irrespective of their momentary
conjunction in the form of person or nation. This reading of Ezek. 37.114 asks us to hold in tension the powerful truths of resurrection, renewal
and national ingathering with the equally powerful sobering knowledge
that neither persons nor nations ever attain full, final, completion or
integrity, and that renewal and resurrection are always provisional.
This exercise in parabolic reading suggests that the time has arrived
when those of us who practice Biblical Studies must ask ourselves what
it would mean to study and teach biblical texts with their bones showing. Is it possible for the discourse of Biblical Studies to incorporate the
perspective of cynical wisdom without neutralizing its Otherness? Reciprocally, can Biblical Studies, or, for that matter, any other academic discipline, fully include its own provisionally, multiplicity and fragilitynot
to mention the radical strangeness of its subject matterand still survive?
Further, this parable provokes the question of what a big shadow
white, male, heterosexual biblical scholar is doing offering a light shadow reading of a biblical text in an academic volume? Am I simply indulging in a particularly insidious version of the 'add and stir' strategy for
containing resurfacing traces of the Other in my field? Or, is it possible
for me to really let my work be haunted by Inner Maniat women, an
ancient Israelite prophet, a feminist anthropologist, or an uncanny Deity?
Can I find a way to make my work in Biblical Studies not the consolidation of my privileges into an embodiment of authoritative knowledge,
but, rather, the exposure of the skull beneath my skin?
That this essay concludes with a series of unanswered questions is a
consequence of its parabolic form. Parables bring large questions into
sharp focus while affording only fleeting, indirect glimpses of inchoate
answers to them. In this way, parables serve as provocations to practice:
the only medium in which the answers to the questions they raise can
be fully worked out. Using parable to greet the traces of the Other now
resurfacing in the field of Biblical Studies is a first step toward elaborating a scholarly practice transformed by this return of the repressed.
Catherine Lanone
The Blighted Palimpsest of Tess of the d'Urbervilles
Just like Tess's famous 'blighted star', Angel Clare's desperate Nietszchean outcryboldly rewriting Browning's most famous linemay be
construed as an accurate reflection of Hardy's own view of the world.
Barren Christianity and society obviously bear the brunt of the blame for
tragedy; yet sensuous pagan nature is constantly inverted into a bleak
post-Darwinian mechanical process crushing human beings as it goes
along. The 'confusion of many standards',2 the meaningful instabilities,
should delight deconstructionists. David Lodge calls Hardy an 'in spite of
novelist', famous for bad writing, convoluted abstract sentences, contrived plots pruned to fit a ready-made sense of doom; yet for all that,
the intense bleakness ofjude or Tess obviously retains a rare haunting
poetical quality.
Part of this ambivalence, and also of the lingering fascination, may be
that Hardy's language remains essentially dialogic.3 The religious recantation4 does look like a badly erased palimpsest, fighting, questioning
and responding to what it seeks to eradicate. One has to read side by
side the naive cliches of the poem 'The Oxen'in which the miracle of
the bull kneeling at Christmas might perhaps still be witnessedand the
ironic fable of the fiddler and the bull in Tess of the d'Urbervilles, where
the animal turns out to be the true Christian, and the man a secular
1. Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d'Urbervilles (London: Dent, 1984 [1891]), p. 246.
2. Bernard J. Paris, ' "A Confusion of Many Standards": Conflicting Value System
in Tess of the d'Urbervilles^ Nineteenth Century Fiction 24 (1969), pp. 57-79.
3. I use here Bakhtin's concept as David Lodge defines it: 'The words we use
come to us already imprinted with the meanings, intentions and accents of previous
users, and any utterance we make is directed towards some real or hypothetical
Other.' In this case, the latent Other may well remain the Christian religion. See David
Lodge, After Bakhtin: Essays on Fiction and Criticism (London: Routledge, 1990),
p. 21.
4. Of course 'the letter killeth', as is shown for instance by Sue's shift from
intellectual emancipation to sexual martyrdom; yet both Sue and Jude suffer when
they are expelled from the ancient church where they were engraving the Ten Commandments.
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trickster (a fiddler chased by a bull tricks the animal by playing a Christmas tune; the deceived bull kneels, and the fiddler manages to run
away).
Beliefs may be the stuff jokes are made of, but ominous linguistic
traces of Christianity still form for Tess 'a straitjacket of symbolic
forms'.5 The plot then seeks to question, recast and redefine feminine
identity in terms of culturaland sexualdifference. For all its melodramatic, sensational impact, the topic of the fallen woman, with its paraphernaliaseduction, bearing an illegitimate child or even murder matters less than Hardy's re-visioning6 of such material, questioning the
taboo of virginity, and challenging the boundaries of a monolithic language fraught with cultural and religious parameters. Hardy attempts to
subvert traditional dualities (victim/aggressor, rape/fantasy, good/evil) as
he charts the pains of loss, dissolution and fragmentation, once Tess
attempts to step beyond the masks of the innocent and the sinner. We
shall see how most tokens of Christianity are subverted into a male rhetoric of power, while Tess struggles to identify herself as a subject within
this repressive monologic ideology. Yet beyond the obvious debunking
of Christian patriarchal culture both text and characters are pierced and
warped by traces of lost faith, aporetically exploring the literal absence
of God.
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187
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the social otherness of the unkempt corner in the churchyard, with the
nettles as signifiers of guilt, doom and oblivion. Through her child, Tess
thus manages to give a name to her own experience, 'sorrow' instead of
guilt.
The scene reaches a quality of tragic emotion beyond mere melodrama. Perhaps simply because the vicar's coldness in the scene is not
merely conveyed by his words, stressing the dilemma of a mere tradesman, but by an icy signifier of erasure, a gap through which meaning
takes place. While trivial characters are given picturesque names in the
novel (like Car, the Queen of Diamonds), the vicar is not named, contrary to Parson Tringham or Angel's brothers. Thus he is reduced to a
mere function, the obtuse signifier of a repressive institution; but the
whole scene is indeed about baptizing and naming. The lack of name
radically fractures the scene as the vicar, who will not accept that the
baby has been named, is stripped of his own identity by the narrator.
The blank becomes here the unredeemable trace of otherness. The unmanning of the vicar is carved by the verbal transgression of the woman,
while her wrists, scarred by stubble during the harvest, bear the stigmata
of fate.
189
the 'fiery letters' are 'crushing, killing' the scarlet woman. But the violence of the evangelical graffiti in the garden springs from the neurotic
impulse to add an excess of signifiers, rather than from the stock-andtrade language. The man's activity is entirely obsessive: 'I have walked
hundreds of miles this past summer, painting these texts on every wall,
gate and stile in the length and breadth of this district' (p. 76). In this
compulsive mapping and encoding, no blank space should be spared; no
sooner does he spot 'a nice bit of blank wall up by that barn standing to
waste' (p. 76) than he must cover it. The commas function both as an
excess of gaps and as a visual weapon, the 'punctum'12 stabbing the girl
and making sure each word 'penetrates' her with 'accusatory horror'.
The rest of the scene conveys a similar degradation and abjection of the
female body, the man boasting that his 'hottest ones' would make her
'wriggle'. Interestingly enough the man does not drop his h's but his t's,
or rather one t ('painting these texts', 'believe that tex', 'not but what
this is a very good tex' [p. 76]) so that his dialect blurs the distinction
between sex, Tess and text, coining one perverse signifier, 'tex'. The
compulsive need to inscribe the coarse pattern on the wall as a substitute for the temptress's body turns Tess once more into a 'dangerous'
woman, reminiscent of Alec's recurrent perception of her: 'I must put
one thereone that will be very good for dangerous young females like
yerself to heed' (p. 76). Once again, the Symbolic order of religion is
perverted into textual harassment, adding a variation to the familiar pattern of the red stain on blank tissue, a displaced trope for the rape
which was shrouded in mist and reverie in the previous chapter. The
use of the comma here both enhances and transcends the 'graphic
crudity' of the encounter, by providing a visual puncture as the trace of
the other, unrepresentable male domination.
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with the pot of paint; instead of an articulate vindication she can utter
but a naive, childish denegation once she has left the man: 'PoohI
don't believe God said such things!' (p. 77). Though tropes of excess
threaten Tess and turn her into her own Other, according to Kristeva's
definition of abjection, she fails to fight convincingly the patriarchal discourse of religion.
For religion is degraded into a specifically male chain of meaning.
Curiously enough, the primitive, indefatigable man with the vermilion
pot writes in the name of God but also of another father, Mr Clare:
"Twas he began the work in me' (p. 77). And this tiresome evangelist
will return, still nameless, to greedily listen to yet another dubious convert, Alec d'Urberville, who suddenly appears in a dramatic coup de theatre in the guise of a Latter Day Saint, also inspired by Mr Clare, and
recanting his association with lewd wanton women before urging his
fellow men towards salvation.
The staging of the scene clearly signals the dangerous inversion, as J.-J.
Lecercle points out, illuminated by the halo of the winter sun, the
would-be Angel of Annunciation attracts towards the barn the mesmerized woman who is clearly no Virgin. Laura Claridge14 suggests that the
quotations from the Bible may here undermine the character of Tess.
Perhaps Tess does indeed fail to practise charity towards Alec when she
ironically alludes to the 'spirit of the Sermon of the Mount'. However,
Alec's whole speech brims over with frustration and self-pity, and the
'conversion' seems nothing but another equation between religious imagery and warped displaced aggression. When Tess proudly alludes to
her husband's doctrine, she may well be trying to appropriate the power
of words, and to fend off Alec with a masculine speech substituted for
her own female powerlessness and silence.
Paying lip service to God, Alexander soon forces the 'temptress' to
swear a pledge of release on a stone, a holy relic he does not even
believe in. The unstable landmark, of course, turns out to be a proleptic
foreshadowing of the gallows rather than an emblem of salvation,
emphasizing the perverse twist given to all traces of religious otherness
in the novel. Tess will only erase the scarlet letters branding her as a
temptress with yet another bloody puncture, which for her at least
erases all other memory of seduction.
14. L. Claridge, 'Tess: A Less than Pure Woman Ambivalently Presented', in
Widdowson, Tess of the d'Urbervilles, pp. 63-79. L. Claridge claims that, like Angel,
Tess ironically fails to practice the charity she preaches towards Alec, until she
compels him to resume his role as a predator. Perhaps Tess should acknowledge that
Alec's desire is indeed deeply sincere, if nothing else. But it is hard to believe that her
lack of charity, rather than Alec's wanton hypocrisy, should seal her fate at that point.
191
Thus the tight vice crushing the heroine is not simply the oscillation
between Alec and Angel, both miscast as villain and saviour, complete
with three-pronged fork and fire on the one hand, harp and fair hair on
the other. Tess is also trapped both by determinism and by the net of
pervasive religious cliches projected on her. She cannot escape from the
Name-of-the Father, whether d'Urbervilles on the one hand, stamping as
her destination the tombs of Kingsbere, or Clare, breathing abjection
over her alienated body. For although the narrator claims the elder Mr
Clare would have forgiven Tess had she seen him, all his surrogate emissaries speak against her, whether his sons, the man with the pot of
paint, or Alec himself (who during his brief conversion compulsively
follows her in order to 'save' her). As the agent of the Law, full of Low
Church self-denial and dedication, eulogized as a new Calvin or Luther,
Mr Clare initiates and propels the signifying chain, discarding the flesh,
yet prompting an unhealthy obsession with it. Significantly when Angel
proudly brings home some black puddings15 from the dairy, his parents
immediately give them away to a poor drunkard, in a typical gesture of
warped self-denial which erases the fleshy communion offered by their
son. Scarred by the puritanical teachings of his father, Angel's rebellion
is only skin-deep, equating a return to pagan sensuousness with a
fetishistic cult of virginity which certainly outdoes Catholicism itself (a
neurotic impulse towards sublimation which foreshadows Sue injude
the Obscure).
192
SELF/SAME/OTHER
The lush and sensuous paradise of Talbothays is already tainted. Repeatedly Tess and Angel are compared with Adam and Eve as they walk
before the sun rises, transfigured into ethereal ghostly figures, with prismatic dewdrops hanging from their eyelashes. But Tess's mouth is akin
to a snake's, and the purity is as much a pathetic fallacy as Tess's projection of Christian guilt on the indifferent landscape during her pregnancy.
In an unforgettable scene Tess drifts across the garden of Talbothays,
mesmerized by Angel's harp. Yet her dress is stained by cuckoo spittle,
slug slime, crushed snails, while the white blight on the apple trees
(what else!) prints in her soft flesh 'madder', blood-like stains.
7. Sublimation
While dealing with seduction and the transmutation of white sap into
the bloody ciphers of doom, Hardy does not simply criticize the hypocrisy of Alec or the ruthlessness of Angel. He presents us with a world
ruled by the likes of Alec d'Urberville or Farmer Groby. Yet its most
tragic feature is less the ache of modernism than the simultaneous
yearning for sexual tolerance, equality, and for the immanence of a spiritual order. Both Angel and Tess fail to shed their distorted moral perceptions. Tess is hoodwinked by the pattern of redemptionshe trusts
blindly in confession, penance and forgiveness, not realizing that her
husband is not punishing her for a while, but has simply abandoned
her.17 The truest moment of anguish and re-vision may occur when her
idolatrous sense of love and identity is torn to shreds by the monstrously
alien eyes of the polar birds watching her at Flintcomb Ash, as if the only
remaining trace of the Other opened the loopholes of cosmic emptiness
rather than the path of transcendence.
Stonehenge, the dark temple of the winds, may offer a pagan antithesis transcending the Christian scale, yet the poetic sacrifice on the warm
stone may seem less convincing than the endless study of sublimation,
the perversion of human love substituted inadequately for the lost
transcendental quest for Christian belief. Whether Tess worships Angel,
or Angel turns Tess into a mere spiritual abstraction, love is twisted into
sublime disembodied Otherness. Love for the vanished man or woman
appears as the substitute for 'Agape'.
17. The other very strong scene is of course the moment of the confession which
is not actually heard by the reader, as if it had been rubbed out by the blank between
two Phases. Once again, in this moment of ultimate Otherness rather than hypocrisy,
the 'essence' of things changes, rather than the appearance, as the honeymoon turns
into hell (the hearth becomes evil and devilish as Angel performs the 'irrelevant' act
of stirring the fire, simultaneously crushing the embers of his heart).
193
Maaike de Haardt
Transcending the Other-Self
She was floating along with Brother Ass, thinking that soon they would be
parted, and she smiled at the impossible thought, for how could one be
separated? Where, without breath, would Laura be?
May Sarton
In this essay I shall discuss the relation between the body-self and identity. In doing so I will focus upon situations of illness and dying, as these
are the situations in which the supposedly harmonious nature of this
relation is strongly contradicted. As a theologian I am especially interested in the theological factors that influence the complexity of the relation between body and identity. For that reason I shall focus in particular upon theological thinking on death, where we might expect to find
some significant insights related to this problem. Subsequently I shall
look for a way to understand, as well as to deal, with these complexities
through a reading of May Sarton's A Reckoning as a possible source for a
transforming theology of finitude and death. Feminist theologians have a
preference for the vehicle of indirect communicationthe language of
stories, poetry, songs, rituals and of playful humour, in the processes of
deconstruction and demystification of the theological 'hegemonies of
truth' (Foucault), as Dianne Prosser MacDonald observes.1 As she further
notes, critical analysis, as a dismantling of oppressive and repressive
truths, is not enough and is only one part of the theological task. The
other part, according to MacDonald, is the gathering of the sensual
remainders that are included within this speaking or writing of 'indirect'
messages:
not for the construction of a new system, but for a glimpse of an aesthetics
of existence spawned by the eros of co-creative relation. It is these remainders that set the architecture of religious truth aflame, and that resist the
violence and counter violence of structures of binary opposition to become
themselves the 'originary sites' of a new theological imagination.2
1. Dianne Prosser MacDonald, Transgressive Corporeality: The Body, Poststructuralism and the Theological Imagination (Albany: State University of New York
Press, 1995), p. 142.
2. Prosser MacDonald, Transgressive Corporeality, p. 142.
195
Without denying that there are all kinds of questions concerning the
use of 'other sources' in theological discourse, I am convinced that these
contemporary sources, these vehicles of indirect communications, possess transformative power and therefore I am inclined to call these originary sites 'glimpses of transcendence'. As I will show in my reading of
Sarton's novel, these glimpses of transcendence create spaces for a
renewed reflection on the Transcendence and on the relation between
the Transcendence (God) and the body-Self, identity, finitude and transience.
196
SELF/SAME/OTHER
more profound failure of our culture, the failure to affirm life on this
earth, in these bodies'.6
Expressed in a schematic, and therefore somewhat exaggerated, form,
it is said that the theological basis of this classical thinking requires 'a
doctrine of God's absolute transcendence that correlates with a theology
in which this earth, this body and this life are despised, and in which the
spiritual goal is to transcend the flesh and its desires and to seek a life
after death in which the limitations of finitude are overcome'.7 In this
theological model carnality is equated with sin, and death is God's punishment. Women, nature and body are the icons of this despised carnality, sin and death and they all need to be subdued.
Against this thinking feminist theologians stress that death is an indefeasible or natural part of life and that we must learn to love this life that
ends in death. It is not to say that feminist theologians explicitly deny
the possibility of individual or collective survival. However, they all are
very persistent in stressing that you should not live your life in light of
such a possibility, no more than it should be a theological concern to
speculate on the possible 'eternal meaning of life', let alone that this
should become the focus of the religious message. They strongly criticize a theology in which sin is related to death and the body, and in
which the dominant conception of the relation God-human is highly
dualistic; we are faced with an anthropology that fails to deal adequately
with contingency and finitude, with illness, decay and with death.8 In
my view two elements are being contested in dominant theological and
anthropological thinking. First, the preponderantly negative, but at least
highly ambivalent attitude towards the embodied condition of human
existence per se. Secondly, the specific way in which dualistic patriarchal theology deals with the inevitable 'limits of life', namely, that these
limits should be overcome.9 This has led to an attitude which I would
call 'transcending by negation' and it is this attitude that became determinative for the complex and highly ambivalent attitude towards the
body and for the relation between body and identity. For is it not the
6. Carol P. Christ, Laughter of Aphrodite: Reflections on a Journey to the Goddess (Boston: Beacon Press, 1987), p. 214.
7. Christ, Laughter, p. 217.
8. See for instance the already mentioned works of Ruether and Christ, but also
Daphne Hampson, Theology and Feminism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990);
Ann O'Hara Graff (ed.), In the Embrace of God: Feminist Approaches to Theological
Anthropology (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1995).
9. Rebecca Chopp, The Power to Speak: Feminism, Language, God (New York:
Crossroad, 1991), p. 119; Sharon D. Welch, A Feminist Ethic of Risk (Minneapolis:
Fortress Press, 1990), pp. 153-80.
197
sinful body that is sign and site of decay and death, as well as sign and
site of the liminality of all human agencies? What is more, is it not close
to the heart of Christian belief that in the end finitude and death are
overcome?
In criticizing this theological thinking and in rejecting traditional
eschatology, feminist theologians have so far mainly employed critical
analysis.10 What strongly is opposed in feminist theology, as in other
liberation theologies, is not death in general but untimely death, death
caused by all kinds of injustice or 'unjust' structures.11 Feminists emphasize the connection between classical doctrines and the impossibility
of formulating a life- and body-affirming theology. With regard to the
body, feminist theologians share the contemporary interest in the body
and point out the symbolic importance of the (women's) body in relation to creation, to immanence, to redemption; they stress the goodness
of sexuality and the embodied character of every religious experience
and knowledge. The celebration of women's bodies therefore is an important act of self-affirmation and establishes an autonomous religious
identity. Not only the early feminist dictum 'Our Bodies/Ourselves' is
affirmed,12 but the religious meaning of this affirmation too: 'i found god
in myself.. .and loved her fiercely', is a much quoted motto of Ntozange
Shange.13 Whenever dying and death are spoken of as the natural end of
life (as opposed to a violent or unjust death), it is called 'good' or
'inevitable' or a 'process of growing' without any references to the (often
painful) materiality of the dying body.14 Without denying the relevance
10. An exception should be made for the work of Valerie Saiving. See her 'Our
Bodies/Our Selves: Reflections on Sickness, Aging and Death', Journal of Feminist
Studies in Religion 4 (1988), pp. 117-27.
11. See my conclusion in Dichter bij de dood.
12. As reads the title of one of the famous books of the early women's movement:
Boston Women's Health Collective, Our Bodies/Ourselves (New York: Simon &
Schuster, 1977).
13. Shange's quote comes from her play For Colored Girls Who Have Considered
Suicide/When the Rainbow is Enuf(New York: Macmillan, 1977).
14. See the already mentioned works of Ruether and Christ. However, both of
them never define nor problematize their important concept of finitude and they both
seem to suppose that affirming finitude and death is a simple matter. Other feminist
theologians, for instance Mary Grey and Carol Ochs, agree with Ruether and Christ in
their view on finitude, but they regard death as a special moment of growth and/or
self-actualization. Mary Grey, Redeeming the Dream: Feminism, Redemption and
Christian Spirituality (London: SPCK, 1989); Carol Ochs, Women and Spirituality
(Towota: Rowan & Allanheld, 1983). We also find this approach to death as a journey
of (ultimate) growth, in some male theological reflection on death. For example,
L. Boros, Mysterium mortis: Der Mensch in der letzten Entscheidung (Olten: Walter
198
SELF/SAME/OTHER
199
200
SELF/SAME/OTHER
impossible to hide her illness from her children and sisters. She cannot
prevent them from getting upset. Moreover, 'it is hard to contemplate
beauty when you are about to throw up' (p. 103). The first time she
wakes up feeling really ill, her initial terror becomes more real.
Now she was terribly afraid, not of death as much as of dying, of getting
more and more ill, of pain. She could feel the beads of sweat on her
forehead... Fear, she supposed, was as much a part of all of this as a fit of
coughing. It will pass, she told herself, look at the light, the blessed light
(p. 88).
However, there were times when the adventure of dying and the journey to death lost their appeal:
Not death but dying brought the panic, the process now beginning its
inexorable course inside her lungs. How did one deal with that? Was the
whole of her being dying or only a part of it? And could she hold that part
of her insulated against the rest? Mind, heart, whatever she, the person
might be? (p. 25).
201
ambivalent, and ambiguous way in dealing with finitude, death and dying
than the same feminist theologians would usually consider. In reading
the novel it becomes clear that finitude and death are no abstract or
plain concepts simply to be affirmed, any more than great adventures,
journeys or moments of growth, but processes which are gradually and
with difficulty enacted in and through the body.
202
SELF/SAME/OTHER
The terror is more than undermining her identity. She not only feels
dissociated from her body, but she also wants to dissociate from her
body which is making her life so miserable. Separation, however, is impossible and she realizes she cannot find herself without 'this machine'.
The body, whatever its condition, is a prerequisite for the self. In a
moment of resignation, she decides the only solution is to reject this
wayward body as irrelevant (p. 214). When she fails to negate her body,
to completely separate herself from her body, the only course left is to
deny her body the power to determine her identity, her self. The use of
the 'machine image' allows her to relinquish responsibility for the body's
own journey, which the self cannot control. On the other hand, accept-
203
19. See notably his The Courage to Be (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1952).
For a feminist critique of his view, see Welch, A Feminist Ethic, p. 160.
204
SELF/SAME/OTHER
205
gave up trying to do it alone, a lot of light flowed in' (p. 220). It opens
her up to experience her self as an integrated identity, despite the
ambiguities of her body and the ambivalence of her unresolved past and
relations. However, even this experience does not last forever and it
cannot prevent her feeling lost again, estranged from her body and her
self.
But if she was a stranger here [in her own garden], where was home? And
who was she herself now? The real panic was a loss of identity, for she
seemed inextricably woven into her body's weakness and discomfort, into
struggling sick lungs. What essence was there to be separated from her
hand, her flesh, her bones? Laura lifted her hand, so thin it had become
transparent. Is this I? This leaf-like thing, falling away, this universe of
molecules disintegrating, this miracle about to transform into nothingness?' (pp. 233-34).
Her panic ebbed only to come back later that day. In these last days,
even after her fundamental change, she is constantly up and down
between feelings of anxiety, fragmentation, loss of identity, need to control, on the one hand, and feelings of harmony, trust, openness, and letting go, on the other. She realizes that the living can help the dying only
up to a point. She gradually becomes aware that their presence could be
very comforting and make it possible for her to let go. 'There was
nothing now, no silent thread to hold her back. She had only to let go,
let the tide gently bear her away. She felt light, light as a leaf on a strong
current' (p. 254).
206
SELF/SAME/OTHER
5. Glimpses of Transcendence
The process of Laura's relation to her body and the points of transformation and transcendence have a parallel in her relations to other people.
For the process and the act of dying, of letting go, in all its confusion,
disintegration and pain, takes place within a context of relations. Only
when Laura is able to deal with her body dying, is she able to accept that
she cannot do it alone, to accept that she can no longer control her life
and her relations with others. Only then is she able to give up her independence and acknowledge her need for help. To be vulnerable and
open, to be fully receptive to yourself and others, entails a sensitivity
that invites new experiences, which I would indicate as 'glimpses of
transcendence'. It seems no coincidence to me that at this point we find
'traditional' religious words and symbols to describe these experiences,
even when the contexts of these words utterly differ from their traditional Christian context. As Laura said: 'It's been a kind of revelation.
When I gave up trying to do it alone, a lot of light flowed in' (p. 220). It
gave her insight into a kind of cosmic connectedness, which she
expressed with the bodily metaphor (for that fact, a metaphor heavily
loaded with Christian connotations), that 'we all are members of each
other'. Identity in this respect is beyond the dualistic opposition of autonomy and self-loss/self-sacrifice. To relate to others is not to lose your
autonomy, or yourself, but is to find a larger self that is connected to the
whole of the cosmos.21 Identity in this respect is also beyond the mindbody dualism. By transgressing her ego-boundaries, Laura's identity becomes firmly rooted in her dying body. But there is more: by transcending her body in affirmation, Laura partakes in a reality suddenly
more immediate, and yet more whole, and more intimate to her own
being then she ever experienced before. At the same time this reality
transcends her. The same applies to her relating to others: 'It was an
intimation of something larger'. These experiences resemble the theological descriptions of experiences of 'presence' which are interpreted
as religious and which refer to the Transcendent or to God.
However, other than in traditional theological imagination and
reflection, this sense of presence, these glimpses of transcendence, and
experiences of cosmic connectedness do not oppose transcendence/
God to the finite body; on the contrary, they encompass the body. More
precisely, only in the experience of the body to be encompassed does
this presence become manifest. For Laura, the personal, male God of her
21. See Catherine Keller, From a Broken Web: Separation, Sexism, and Self
(Boston: Beacon Press, 1986).
207
208
SELF/SAME/OTHER
where they will take us. However, theologians can not ignore the dangers and the damages of a monological religious truth any longer. The
recognition of the transformative powers in this and other novels,
poetry, or rituals, are too exciting and too strong to be resisted.
Index of References
OLD TESTAMENT
Genesis
2.7
25.23-24
26.17-22
27.1-40
27.40
28.10-22
32
32.1-3
32.4-22
32.6
32.8
32.10
32.11
32.12
32.21
32.23-33
32.25
32.28
32.29
32.31
33
33.1-11
33.3
33.10
152
172
171
172
165
162
162
162
162
166
162
162
166
162,
170
170
162,
162
166
172
162,
162,
172
162
162
162,
171
33.12-20
33.20
35.7
162
171
171
25.7
38.3
62
103.2
Exodus
31.18
28
26
24
31
26
Isaiah
11.1
94
Numbers
17.1-8
163,
164
164
169,
170,
Nehemiah
13.14
13.22
13.31
95
27
27
27
Job
1-2
2.9
16-17
16.10
17.1
17.2
17.6-8
17.13-14
Psalms
25
25.6
49
50
48
49
48
49
49
49
27,28
28
Ezekiel
37.1-14
176-78,
181, 182
Daniel
7.8
166
Hosea
1.2-6
12.2-6
173
165
Obadiah
10-18
165
Malachi
3.19
3.20
166
166
NEW TESTAMENT
Matthew
18.3
81
Luke
17.20-21
23.42
23.43
Romans
8.17
9.10-13
92
29
33
1 Corinthians
81
13.11
13.12
33
John
12.24-25
89
29
167
2 Corinthians
3.3
27
Galatians
2.20
32
Ephesians
5.30
32
210
SELF/SAME/OTHER
OTHER ANCIENT REFERENCES
Midrash
Ber. R.
75-79
76.6
76.9
77.3
78.8
78.10
165
166
166
166
166
166
Christian Authors
Augustine
Confessions
10.33
130
Gregory of Nyssa
The Life of Moses
2.219-55
170
St John of the Cross
The Dark Night
1
170
Index of Authors
Alcoff, L. 115
Andersen, H.C. 76
Anderson, P.S. 16, 115, 122
Arendt, H. 114
Aronowicz, A. 144
Atack, M. 106
Auden, W.H. 13, 34-44, 46, 77
Auerbach, E. 161
Axelrod, S. 46, 51
Babinsky, E.L. 126, 127, 135
Bakhtin, M.M. 14, 183
Bald, R.C 25
Barnes, D. 60
Barth, K. 170
Barthes, R. 164, 172
Barton, J. 160, 189
Baruch, E.H. 151
Bataille, 154
Beauvoir, S. de 142
Becker, E. 200
Beckwith, S. 125
Benhabib, S. 48
Berg, T.F. 83
Berger, P. 94
Bernard of Clairvaux, St 126, 129, 156
Bernasconi, R. I45i 146
Bettelheim, B. 75
Blake, W. 35-40, 165, 172
Bloch, C. 30
Bloom, H. 185
Bollas, C. 56, 59
Boros, L. 197
Bolting, C. 61,62,64
Bouyer, L. 126, 127
Boyarin, D. 161
Brisman, L. 173
Brock, R.N. 195
Bronfen, E. 17
Brown, A.B. 13
Browning, R. 183
Brownley, M. 45
Brims, G.L. 93
Buchmann, C. 48
Buckley, M. 195
Burden, C. 17
Burke, C. 148
Butler, J. 15,47,48
Bynuin, C.W. 125, 129, 198
Callan, E. 38
CalvinJ. 167, 191
CaputoJ. 43
Carter, A. 77, 137
Caulfield, H. 103
Chadwick, H. 130
Chait, S. 14
Chalier, C. 150
ChanceJ. 126
Chanter, T. 147, 155
Chaucer, G. 54
Chisholm, D. 83,86
Chitty, S. 64
Chopp, R. 196
Christ, C.P. 196, 197
Christian, W.A., ;r 95
Cixous, H. 11, 13, 16
Claridge, L. 190
Clark, S. 126, 128, 129
Clines, DJ.A. 172
Coakley, S. 136
Cohen, R.A. 148
Coleman, E. 60
Colledge, E. 134
Compton-Burnett, I. 76
Condren,M. 195
Cornell, D. 48, 117
Corte, M. de 91
Critchley, S. 145, 146, 149
Crownfield, D. 112
Daly,M. 195
Datta, K.S. 16
Davenport-Hines, R. 39
212
SELF/SAME/OTHER
H.D.
INDEX OF AUTHORS
213
KalvenJ. 195
Kant, I. 97
Kaufman, G.D. 97
Keller, C. 195,206
Kerenyi, c. 89
Kierkegaard, S. 38
King,M. 92
Klapisch-Zuber, C. 127
Klein, M. 83
Kohut,H. 56,58
Kristeva, J. 13-16, 59, 79, 106-11, 11324, 126, 130, 132-36, 155, 156,
184, 185, 189
Krupnik, M. 146
Milton, J. 36,38
Mitchell,;. 131
Moi,T. 106, 108, 118, 156
Mommaers, P. 129
More, G. 134
More, T., Sir 134
Moms, A. 83
Mukherji, S. 134
Murk-Jansen, S. 126-28, 136
Navarre, M. de 134
Neusner,J. 166
Newman, B. 125, 126, 128-30
Nietzsche, F. 55, 98, 13740, 151, 154,
157
Ochs, C. 197
O'Grady, K. 112,113, 171
O'Hara Graff, A. 196
Oliver, J.H. 127
Oliver, K. 116, 124
On, B.A.B. 115
Opera, S.B. 127
Osborne, C. 34,39
Ostriker,A. 10,45,47,51
Ottaway, S. 21
Otto, R. 55,87
Paepe, N. de 129
Paris, BJ. 183
Pascal, R. 99
Pascal, 38
Patmore, C. 96
Patmore, D. 96
Pestalozza, U. 91
Piesse,A. 25
Plath, S. 13,45-51
Pontalis, J.B. 14, 98-101, 103, 104
Porete, M. 126, 129, 132-36
Potter, E. 115
Proust, M. Ill
Pucci, P. 91
Purcell, H. 20,28
Pyper, H. 14
Quance, R. 14
Quilligan, M. 32
214
SELF/SAME/OTHER
Read, F. 80
Reardon, B.M.G. 156
Reder, E.K. 117
Regnier-Bohler, D. 127
Reineke, MJ. 117, 118
Revell, P. 83
Rich, A. 10
Richman, P. 125
Robinson, J.S. 93,95
Rochais, H.M. 127
Rogerson, J. 164, 167
Rose,J. 131, 184
Rougemont, D. de 87
Ruether, R.R. 195-97
Ruf, FJ. 14,97
Saiving, V. 197
Saldivar, T. 46
Sandmel, S. 173
Sarton, M. 194, 198, 201
Sartre, J.-P. 99
Schillebeeckx, E. 200
Sells, M.L. 126, 128, 129, 136
Seremetakis, C.N. 176, 178-81
Serrano, L. 151
Sexton, A. 51
Shakespeare, W. 20
Shange, N. 197
Shell, M. 134
Showalter, E. 10
Sidney, M., Countess of Pembroke 23,
24
Sidney, P., Sir 23
Smith, A. 15, 119, 124
Smith, S. 80, 81
Southwell, A., Lady 28
Sparks, E.K. 83
Spears, M.K. 38
Spek, I. van der 204
Spenser, E. 21
Spiegel, C. 48
Spivak, G.C. 146
Stallybrass, P. 32
Stanton, D. 112
Sternberg, M. 161
Stockton, K. 16
Sutton, N. 75
Swados, E. 48
Tanner, T. 188
TarlinJ. 17
Tate, N. 20