Friday, October 8, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Inheriting the Pain but not the Experience
The question of the legitimacy of fictional representation of history is a complicated one. Some people argue that fictional representations allow us to enter into the experiences of individuals better than historical texts or memoirs. Others, on the other hand, believe that such representation is problematic, at the very least, and that any text other than the original witnessing is illegitimate. The question we should be asking, however, is not whether or not fictional representation can be “legitimate” or accurate, but whether or not the intent of the text to inform, describe, and move the readers is successful. If the purpose behind a historical statistic or factual-based iteration is to provoke pathos by shocking the readers, then one could say this is only partially successful. Where historical facts, especially those concerned with tragedy and death, inform and educate readers, they do not necessarily invoke emotions as well as fictional stories or poetic descriptions do. The objective in telling and retelling tragic memories, such as the Holocaust for instance, is not only to educate audiences about the facts, but also to educate them about more abstract notions such as human nature or conceptual ideas of love, hate, death, life. The backbone of all this, of course, is memory.
Remembering an event is not the same as living it, so retelling a past event is problematic. Regardless of the genre in which the retelling occurs, there is undeniably something lost in the translation. Let’s consider the Holocaust. Even when we read about survivors' experiences, we can never get the whole story. This is true even in testimony, which is possibly the closest we get to “authentic” literature. This is a result of a number of things. Firstly, let’s consider the fact that many survivors chose to remain silent immediately after their horrific experiences. Many of them repressed their traumatic experiences somewhere in their unconscious, choosing instead to live normal lives. In “After the Holocaust,” Aharon Appelfeld claims that “the wish to forget” was very strong among survivors (89). The gap in the time it takes to tell the story is significant since this further interrupts the ability to tell it precisely. Ignoring for a moment the fact that language itself is merely a representation and cannot express absolute reality, time itself becomes a way in which reality is disrupted. It is also important to consider how the psychological and physical traumas affect the ability to recap actual events since“even the original experiences are mediated by hunger, fear, and physical and psychological abuse beyond our imagination” (Schwarz 11).
Memory, then, is not very reliable. The only means of keeping memory “alive,” so to speak, is to repeat it either orally or in written form. After all, “memory relies upon narrative to shape inchoate form” (Schwarz 11). This becomes even more significant when the producers of these narratives are removed from the actual events by time. In other words, those born after the Holocaust, who did not experience the atrocities first-hand, rely on narration, namely fictional narration, to tell the story. The post-Holocaust generation inherits the pain but not the experience and so they must explore history through the imagination. Ellen S. Fine argues that this generation is “confronted with a difficult task: to imagine an event they have not lived through, and to reconstitute and integrate it into their writing – to create a story out of History” (Fine 41). Unlike survivors who try to keep the memory alive by their retelling of personal experiences, those who did not endure the brutality themselves can only “evoke the absence of memory” and this is precisely what fictional writing allows (Fine 46). “As the historical period of the Shoah recedes, imaginative literature will help keep those events alive;” thus, poetry, art, and fiction created by artists removed from the Holocaust by time must express their own stories through the imagination. This becomes an important medium for understanding.
Peter Balakian explains the importance of this type of writing in his book Black Dog of Fate. Before I discuss his ideas, it is important to note that he is a third-generation Armenian-American and the grandson of a survivor of the Armenian Genocide of 1915. Balakian grew up without any knowledge of the dark history surrounding his family. Much of his understanding came from reading poetry or other “fictional” writings about the Genocide. He suggests that these representations and references help those who are far removed from the past events orient the tragic history within their own lives. He writes, “The journey into history, into the Armenian Genocide, was for me inseparable from poetry. Poetry was part of the journey and the excavation” (146). Here, we see the incredible power of fictional writing in relation to knowledge and understanding. It is in these productions, however mitigated they may be, which allow the readers an opportunity and a medium in which to connect and understand despite the distance in time or difference in culture.
Remembering an event is not the same as living it, so retelling a past event is problematic. Regardless of the genre in which the retelling occurs, there is undeniably something lost in the translation. Let’s consider the Holocaust. Even when we read about survivors' experiences, we can never get the whole story. This is true even in testimony, which is possibly the closest we get to “authentic” literature. This is a result of a number of things. Firstly, let’s consider the fact that many survivors chose to remain silent immediately after their horrific experiences. Many of them repressed their traumatic experiences somewhere in their unconscious, choosing instead to live normal lives. In “After the Holocaust,” Aharon Appelfeld claims that “the wish to forget” was very strong among survivors (89). The gap in the time it takes to tell the story is significant since this further interrupts the ability to tell it precisely. Ignoring for a moment the fact that language itself is merely a representation and cannot express absolute reality, time itself becomes a way in which reality is disrupted. It is also important to consider how the psychological and physical traumas affect the ability to recap actual events since“even the original experiences are mediated by hunger, fear, and physical and psychological abuse beyond our imagination” (Schwarz 11).
Memory, then, is not very reliable. The only means of keeping memory “alive,” so to speak, is to repeat it either orally or in written form. After all, “memory relies upon narrative to shape inchoate form” (Schwarz 11). This becomes even more significant when the producers of these narratives are removed from the actual events by time. In other words, those born after the Holocaust, who did not experience the atrocities first-hand, rely on narration, namely fictional narration, to tell the story. The post-Holocaust generation inherits the pain but not the experience and so they must explore history through the imagination. Ellen S. Fine argues that this generation is “confronted with a difficult task: to imagine an event they have not lived through, and to reconstitute and integrate it into their writing – to create a story out of History” (Fine 41). Unlike survivors who try to keep the memory alive by their retelling of personal experiences, those who did not endure the brutality themselves can only “evoke the absence of memory” and this is precisely what fictional writing allows (Fine 46). “As the historical period of the Shoah recedes, imaginative literature will help keep those events alive;” thus, poetry, art, and fiction created by artists removed from the Holocaust by time must express their own stories through the imagination. This becomes an important medium for understanding.
Peter Balakian explains the importance of this type of writing in his book Black Dog of Fate. Before I discuss his ideas, it is important to note that he is a third-generation Armenian-American and the grandson of a survivor of the Armenian Genocide of 1915. Balakian grew up without any knowledge of the dark history surrounding his family. Much of his understanding came from reading poetry or other “fictional” writings about the Genocide. He suggests that these representations and references help those who are far removed from the past events orient the tragic history within their own lives. He writes, “The journey into history, into the Armenian Genocide, was for me inseparable from poetry. Poetry was part of the journey and the excavation” (146). Here, we see the incredible power of fictional writing in relation to knowledge and understanding. It is in these productions, however mitigated they may be, which allow the readers an opportunity and a medium in which to connect and understand despite the distance in time or difference in culture.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
(Final Paper) Literary Trauma: The Unifying Force for the Armenian Diaspora
Andzhela Keshishyan
Dr. Steven Wexler
English 638
May 8, 2010
van der Kolk, Bessel A. and Alexander C. McFarlane. “The Black Hole of Trauma.” Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 487-505. Print.
Dr. Steven Wexler
English 638
May 8, 2010
Literary Trauma: The Unifying Force for the Armenian Diaspora
The representation of trauma in literature has prompted a great deal of attention and an increasingly wide range of study and scholarship. “To be traumatized,” scholar Cathy Caruth asserts, “is precisely to be possessed by an image or event” (4). Trauma can range from witnessing a violent act or being a victim of one. In terms of mass trauma, the Holocaust continues to be a pervasive area of research. The Armenian Genocide of 1915, however, is much less studied. It has “been dubbed the first modern genocide,” yet the research surrounding this horrific moment in history only expanded when interest began to grow in Near Eastern Studies in the past few decades (Bloxham 94). Taking the historical context into consideration, the literary representation of this catastrophic event is significant to the theory of trauma. It is crucial to note that explicit references to the Genocide have become more frequent in Armenian-American literature in the past two decades. Most of the survivors presented in Armenian-American texts, such as the main character in Nancy Kricorian’s Zabelle, are numb to their past. They have repressed their tragic memories somewhere in the unconscious; however, since the effects of the genocide harbor great psychological consequences, their repression is only temporary and eventually returns to haunt their dreams. Freud has termed this delayed effect of a trauma, “latency.”
In Trauma: Explorations in Memory, Cathy Caruth explains, “in the term ‘latency,’ the period during which the effects of the experience are not apparent, Freud seems to describe the trauma as the successive movement from an event to its repression to its return” (7). Many Genocide survivors illustrate the theory of “latency” in their reaction and response to their past. In her novel, Nancy Kricorian depicts such a character. Zabelle is very young when the Genocide takes place. Though she is one of the few lucky ones who survived due to personal strength and strings of good luck, she was nonetheless exposed to a great deal of physical and emotional trauma. She witnessed the deaths of many family members, including her mother, who slowly died of starvation in front of the young girl’s eyes. Years later, Zabelle’s marriage is arranged to an older Armenian man in America, where she begins a new and very different life. Living under the same roof in an unfamiliar country with her jealous mother-in-law and new husband, Zabelle faces many obstacles as an Armenian woman in a patriarchal culture. Nonetheless, she bravely assumes the role and raises 3 children. Her past does not interfere with her everyday life, and “the effects of the experience are not apparent” (Caruth 8). It is only in her old age that Zabelle’s repressed tragedy unfolds as she hears voices from her past and imagines the Turks coming to harm her. Thus, Zabelle embodies Freud’s analysis of the belated effects of a trauma.
Zabelle is one of many Armenian-American works centered around the themes of loss, memory, and identity. In writing this novel, Kricorian shares more than just the story of one person. The narrative of Zabelle’s experiences transcends the individual realm and acts as a unifying force for the Armenian diaspora spread throughout the world. In many ways, Zabelle is a “trauma novel,” which “refers to a work of fiction that conveys profound loss or intense fear on individual or collective levels (Balaev). In this paper, I will argue that the representation of trauma in Armenian-American literature, such as Kricorian’s portrayal of the Genocide’s enduring psychological impact on Zabelle, serves to coalesce the Armenian Diaspora’s sense of national identity. Therefore, literary depictions of this particular trauma, which has yet to be acknowledged as a Genocide by its perpetrators, serves a greater purpose for a dispersed population. Since the producers, artists, and authors who reference the Genocide are decades removed from the survivors of the tribulation, they have the necessary detachment to explore their ancestors’ past. Because the later generations began to voice their hitherto silent history, I argue that they also exemplify, by extension, Freud’s theory of latency. Almost a century later, the memories of the past are only becoming more frequent. Thus, as Caruth explains, “the traumatized […] carry an impossible history within them, or they become themselves the symptoms of a history that they cannot entirely possess” (Caruth 5). To adequately impress upon readers the importance of this history to the current Armenian diaspora, it is necessary to give a brief background of the events that splintered the Armenian nation and its people almost a century ago.
Like the Jewish population was targeted in the Holocaust, the Armenians faced mass slaughters, deportations, and exterminations by the Turkish government in the Ottoman Empire in 1915. Under the cover of World War One, the Ottomans systematically expunged thousands and thousands of Armenians from their ancestral lands “as the world watched almost in silence” (Kurkchiyan and Herzig 7). Approximately 1.5 million Armenians were slaughtered within a few months. This horrific moment left an indelible mark on Armenian history and consciousness and laid the foundations for the radical shift that the Armenian national identity was to undergo during the twentieth century. Many survivors immigrated to foreign lands where they began new lives and, eventually, assimilated into these host cultures. In their struggles to fit into their new surroundings, to raise healthy children, and to maintain somewhat of their Armenianness, many of these survivors did not speak of their tragic past and often repressed it completely in their unconscious. However, witnessing and experiencing such unthinkable horrors left a dark shadow in their hearts, and haunted them for the rest of their lives, even in their dreams. In one of the first personal accounts of the Genocide, Arshaluys (Aurora) Mardiganian, a young girl who miraculously survived through countless brutal acts, says, “When I see [the Turks and Kurds who raped and tortured young girls] in my dreams now I scream, so even though I am safe in America, my nights are not peaceful” (Slide 125).
Kricorian’s novel begins with a description of the massacre’s belated effects on the now elderly, Zabelle, who has repressed the horrors she witnessed as a child throughout her entire adult life. These memories have not disappeared, but, in her old age, begin to resurface in the form of nightmares. At night, “long shadows and disembodied voices, speaking Armenian and Turkish, circled Zabelle’s bed. She heard fragments of long-forgotten songs. The faces of her mother, father, brother, grandparents, aunts and uncles come swimming up at her like fish surfacing from the bottom of a pond” (Kricorian 6). For most of her life, Zabelle has kept these memories to herself, hiding them in order to live a normal life, but “despite the human capacity to survive and adapt, traumatic experiences can alter people’s psychological, biological, and social equilibrium…” (van der Kolk and McFarlane 488). Zabelle seems to be suffering from posttraumatic syndrome, which “is the result of a failure of time to heal all wounds” (491). Since time cannot mitigate such deeply embedded torment, repression is replaced by latency, and a response to the event eventually materializes.
Zabelle, along with many other genocide survivors, does not speak about her past even with her close family members. She says, “That was how it was with us. We never spoke about those times, but they were like rotting animals behind the walls of our home” (Kricorian 223-4). This theme of “silent survivor” runs through various other works by Armenian-American authors. In David Kherdian’s novel, The Road from Home, for instance, the main character, another genocide survivor, claims, “we never talked about the massacres. It was as if we had forgotten about our past troubles, but often they would resurface in different ways” (130). The narrator admits that although they did not explicitly discuss their tragic experiences, they were nonetheless a part of their lives.
These repressed memories often manifest in the form of traumatic dreams. Such dreams, however, differ from most of Freud’s dream analyses, which usually focus on repressed desires. While studying his patients, “Freud realized that the unconscious often expresses itself in the form of dreams, since at night, during sleep, the vigilance of the repressive ego in regard to unconscious desire is stilled” (Rivkin and Ryan 390). Cathy Caruth explains that “the returning traumatic dream startles Freud because it cannot be understood in terms of any wish or unconscious meaning, but is, purely and inexplicably, the literal return of the event against the will of the one it inhabits” (5). In their article, “The Black Hole of Trauma,” Bessel A. van der Kolk and Alexander C. McFarlane state that “many survivors seem to be able to transcend their trauma temporarily and harness their pain in acts of sublimated creation; for example, the writers and Holocaust survivors Jerzy Kosinski and Primo Levi seem to have done this, only to succumb to the despair of their memories in the end” (487). Hence, repression is temporary since, as the aforementioned statement illustrates, survivors ultimately submit to their grief, despite any efforts to do otherwise.
In his memoir, Black Dog of Fate, Peter Balakian comes to see his “grandmother’s numbed response to the Armenian Genocide as a necessary way of survival” (Balakian 299). Theorist Michelle Balaev reminds us, however, that “the ‘unspeakability’ of trauma claimed by so many literary critics today can be understood less as an epistemological conundrum or neurobiological fact, but more as an outcome of cultural values and ideologies.” This observation applies to the Armenian culture since the “silent survivor” is such a common phenomenon in post-genocide communities, and so frequently depicted in contemporary Armenian-American “trauma novels.” In another novel by Nancy Kricorian, Dreams of Bread and Fire, the main character, Ani, explains that the genocide was a “forbidden topic” in her house, and goes on to say that she always “had the idea that [talking about it] would kill [her] grandmother” (146-7). Even though the massacres had never been explained to Ani, she “knew from bits of conversation she wasn’t supposed to have heard between her mother and grandfather and occasional vague references from her grandmother that in the old country the Turks had murdered lots of Armenians and forced even more to leave their homes. But no one was supposed to talk about the Deportations, especially not in front of [Ani’s] Grandma” (148).
Since survivors suppressed their pain rather than vocalize the memories they were tormented by, contemporary trauma novels serve as a medium in which their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren can finally foreground their nation’s traumatic past. Such novels also provide survivors’ descendents, especially those whose families fled from Ottoman Armenia, a chance to explore their ethnic origins and current “hyphenated” identities. Most third and fourth generation Diasporan Armenians learned about their past through the references to the Genocide in various cultural productions, such as literature. Third-generation Armenian-American author and poet, Peter Balakian, suggests that such references help those who are far removed from the events of 1915 orient Armenia's tragic history within their own lives today. He writes, “The journey into history, into the Armenian Genocide, was for me inseparable from poetry. Poetry was part of the journey and the excavation” (146). In “Trends in Literary Trauma Theory,” Michelle Balaev writes, “A central claim of contemporary literary trauma theory asserts that trauma creates a speechless fright that divides or destroys identity. This serves as the basis for a larger argument that suggests identity is formed by the intergenerational transmission of trauma.” Balaev argues that when stories of one generation are transmitted to another through various texts, private trauma may become “transhistorical trauma” and thus “define contemporary individual identity, as well as racial or cultural identity.” Transhistorical trauma makes the relationship between an individual and the group parallel, and “indicates that a massive trauma experienced by a group in the historical past can be experienced by an individual living centuries later who shares a similar attribute of the historical group, such as sharing the same race, religion, nationality, or gender due to the timeless, repetitious, and infectious characteristics of traumatic experience and memory” (Balaev). As such, genocide survivors’ painful experiences that are presented in works by Kricorian and other Armenian-American authors transcend the personal realm of these individuals and become a shared experience. Today, many Armenian-Americans use artistic mediums to learn about the trauma experienced by the genocide victims and, as a result, experience the history themselves.
There are many factors that contribute to the continued references and subsequent themes of loss, grief, sorrow, and trauma in Armenian-American literature. One of the most significant of these is the Turkish Government’s continued denial that a Genocide ever took place. Gerard Libaridian writes, “The Genocide, its exploitation, and its denial by Turkey paralyzed the collective psyche of the Armenian people” (2). The paralyzing horrors that most victims faced rendered them incapable of speaking about their experiences. Instead, they stored their memories deep within themselves, making it invisible to the external world. Consequently, their repression silenced the collective community for years. Still, the effects of the trauma did not disappear. Inevitably, the victims’ descendents, after learning more about their history, felt the unique responsibility to revive a lost segment of their national past. In Children of Armenia, Michael Bobelian writes, “having inherited a sound economic and communal foundation from the survivors who spent their lives rebuilding, [the younger generation] had the luxury to mount a political campaign. The experience of the Genocide manifested differently in these younger generations” (139). Repression was one of the most frequent psychological defenses used to unconsciously conceal the indelible pain that such death and devastation inflicted on victims; however, their offspring, who did not witness the horrors firsthand, “had the necessary detachment to re-awaken this forgotten episode of history (139). Thus, “the psychological scars of the genocide endured” in subsequent generations (139). Since the effects of the trauma are manifested and exhibited after a long period of silence, this, too, is a form of latency.
Most grandchildren of survivors, upon learning about their history in various forms of discourse, somehow felt as if they themselves experienced the horrors. In “The Response of Women to Crisis: From Mourning to Personal Identity,” Shaké Topalian writes that the “children and grandchildren of survivors have carried [their] parents’ unprocessed projection of trauma” (48). Consequently, most of them express their reactions to the event in multiple ways and different forms. For some, like Nancy Kricorian, this occurs in the act of writing a novel based on her cultural and historical past, using the Armenian Genocide as a symbol for a diasporic community. Kricorian, like many of her fellow Armenian-American novelists, plays a role in the unconscious unification of a fragmented identity. As Balaev states, “The author who situates traumatic experience in relation to a particular place indicates that trauma is understood as a culturally specific event, in which its meaning remains contingent on factors such as a historically specific moment.” The Armenian Genocide has indeed “become a collective symbol and reorganizes the discourse pertinent to Armenian collective identity” (Shirinian 20).
Since “the story of the Genocide has now become deeply entrenched in Armenian collective memory,” it is undeniably a cohesive force in the lives of many diasporans (Miller 161). Because they are “divided by geography and assimilation, Armenians [rely] upon their common tragic past” to bring them together (Bobelian 232). This remembrance of the genocide stands as a unifying theme of continued identification with the Armenian nation among the diaspora. In his essay titled “Denial and Free Speech: The Case of the Armenian Genocide,” Henry C. Theriault maintains, “Certainly, Armenian identity depends on much more than the genocide and its continuing aftermath, but the genocide is […] a central part of modern Armenian history and as such an essential part of contemporary Armenian identity” (247). References to the Genocide in literature and other mediums of expression stand "as a monument to the Armenian aspiration of revived nationhood” as they link history to various forms of public discourse (Peroomian 177). This places “the Armenian Genocide within the ongoing saga of a living people” to try to reconcile the tragedy and “ensure national survival and evolution” (177-8).
Novels like Nancy Kricorian’s Zabelle, function to unify a scattered people by referencing their common past, even if this may not be the authors’ primary intent. In telling Zabelle’s story of repression and eventual confrontation with tragedy, Kricorian highlights the belated effects of a trauma. Furthermore, the fact that she has written Zabelle decades after the actual event, while giving voice to the victims after years of silence, also validates the notion of latency in the Armenian-American diasporic community. Cathy Caruth insists that “the historical power of the trauma is […] that it is only in and through its inherent forgetting that it is first experienced at all. And it is this inherent latency of the event that paradoxically explains the peculiar, temporal structure, the belatedness of historical experience. [If] the traumatic event is not experienced as it occurs, [then] it is fully evident only in connection with another place, and in another time” (8). Thus, repression, in trauma, is replaced by latency. For the current Armenian Diaspora, the contemporary responses to a historical tragedy stand a monument for the figurative unification of a fragmented people.
Works Cited
Balaev, Michelle. “Trends in Literary Trauma Theory.” Mosaic 41.2 (June 2008): 149-66. ProQuest. Web. 12 February 2010.
Balakian, Peter. Black Dog of Fate. New York: Basic Books, 2009. Print.
Bloxham, Donald. “Determinants of the Armenian Genocide.” Looking Backward, Moving Forward. Ed. Richard G. Hovannisian. New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 2003. 23-50.Print.
Bobelian, Michael. Children of Armenia: A Forgotten Genocide and the Century-Long Struggle for Justice. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2009. Print.
Caruth, Cathy. Trauma: Explorations in Memory. Maryland: John Hopkins University Press, 1995. Print.
Kherdian, David. The Road from Home. New York: Beech Tree Books, 1979. Print.
Kricorian, Nancy. Dreams of Bread and Fire. New York: Grove Press, 2003. Print.
---. Zabelle. New York: HarperCollins, 1998. Print.
Kurkchiyan, Marina and Edmund Herzig, eds. “Introduction: Armenia and the Armenians.” The Armenians A Handbook (Caucasus World. Peoples of the Caucasus). New York: Routledge Curzon, 2005: 1-22. Print.
Libaridian, Gerard J. Armenia at the Crossroads: Democracy and Nationhood in the Post-Soviet Era. Massachusetts: Blue Crane Books, 1991. Print.
Miller, Donald E., and Lorna Touryan Miller. Survivors: An Oral History of the Armenian Genocide. Berkely: University of California Press, 1993. Print.
Peroomian, Rubina. “New Directions in Literary Responses to the Armenian Genocide.”
Looking Backward, Moving Forward. Ed. Richard G. Hovannisian. New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 2003. 157-180. Print.
Rivkin, Julie and Michael Ryan. Introduction. Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 389-97. Print.
Shirinian, Lorne. Armenian-North American Literature: A Critical Introduction Genocide, Diaspora, and Symbols. New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1990. Print.
Slide, Anthony, ed. Ravished Armenia and the Story of Aurora Mardiganian. Maryland:Scarecrow Press, Inc, 1997. Print.
Theriault, Henry C. “Denial and Free Speech: The Case of the Armenian Genocide.” Looking Backward, Moving Forward. Ed. Richard G. Hovannisian. New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 2003. 231-62. Print.
Topalian, Shaké. “The Response of Women to Crisis: From Collective Mourning to Personal Identity.” Voices of Armenian Women. Ed. Barbara Mergeuria and Joy Renjilian-Burgy.Belmont, Massachusetts: AIWA Press, 2000. 37-48. Print.
The representation of trauma in literature has prompted a great deal of attention and an increasingly wide range of study and scholarship. “To be traumatized,” scholar Cathy Caruth asserts, “is precisely to be possessed by an image or event” (4). Trauma can range from witnessing a violent act or being a victim of one. In terms of mass trauma, the Holocaust continues to be a pervasive area of research. The Armenian Genocide of 1915, however, is much less studied. It has “been dubbed the first modern genocide,” yet the research surrounding this horrific moment in history only expanded when interest began to grow in Near Eastern Studies in the past few decades (Bloxham 94). Taking the historical context into consideration, the literary representation of this catastrophic event is significant to the theory of trauma. It is crucial to note that explicit references to the Genocide have become more frequent in Armenian-American literature in the past two decades. Most of the survivors presented in Armenian-American texts, such as the main character in Nancy Kricorian’s Zabelle, are numb to their past. They have repressed their tragic memories somewhere in the unconscious; however, since the effects of the genocide harbor great psychological consequences, their repression is only temporary and eventually returns to haunt their dreams. Freud has termed this delayed effect of a trauma, “latency.”
In Trauma: Explorations in Memory, Cathy Caruth explains, “in the term ‘latency,’ the period during which the effects of the experience are not apparent, Freud seems to describe the trauma as the successive movement from an event to its repression to its return” (7). Many Genocide survivors illustrate the theory of “latency” in their reaction and response to their past. In her novel, Nancy Kricorian depicts such a character. Zabelle is very young when the Genocide takes place. Though she is one of the few lucky ones who survived due to personal strength and strings of good luck, she was nonetheless exposed to a great deal of physical and emotional trauma. She witnessed the deaths of many family members, including her mother, who slowly died of starvation in front of the young girl’s eyes. Years later, Zabelle’s marriage is arranged to an older Armenian man in America, where she begins a new and very different life. Living under the same roof in an unfamiliar country with her jealous mother-in-law and new husband, Zabelle faces many obstacles as an Armenian woman in a patriarchal culture. Nonetheless, she bravely assumes the role and raises 3 children. Her past does not interfere with her everyday life, and “the effects of the experience are not apparent” (Caruth 8). It is only in her old age that Zabelle’s repressed tragedy unfolds as she hears voices from her past and imagines the Turks coming to harm her. Thus, Zabelle embodies Freud’s analysis of the belated effects of a trauma.
Zabelle is one of many Armenian-American works centered around the themes of loss, memory, and identity. In writing this novel, Kricorian shares more than just the story of one person. The narrative of Zabelle’s experiences transcends the individual realm and acts as a unifying force for the Armenian diaspora spread throughout the world. In many ways, Zabelle is a “trauma novel,” which “refers to a work of fiction that conveys profound loss or intense fear on individual or collective levels (Balaev). In this paper, I will argue that the representation of trauma in Armenian-American literature, such as Kricorian’s portrayal of the Genocide’s enduring psychological impact on Zabelle, serves to coalesce the Armenian Diaspora’s sense of national identity. Therefore, literary depictions of this particular trauma, which has yet to be acknowledged as a Genocide by its perpetrators, serves a greater purpose for a dispersed population. Since the producers, artists, and authors who reference the Genocide are decades removed from the survivors of the tribulation, they have the necessary detachment to explore their ancestors’ past. Because the later generations began to voice their hitherto silent history, I argue that they also exemplify, by extension, Freud’s theory of latency. Almost a century later, the memories of the past are only becoming more frequent. Thus, as Caruth explains, “the traumatized […] carry an impossible history within them, or they become themselves the symptoms of a history that they cannot entirely possess” (Caruth 5). To adequately impress upon readers the importance of this history to the current Armenian diaspora, it is necessary to give a brief background of the events that splintered the Armenian nation and its people almost a century ago.
Like the Jewish population was targeted in the Holocaust, the Armenians faced mass slaughters, deportations, and exterminations by the Turkish government in the Ottoman Empire in 1915. Under the cover of World War One, the Ottomans systematically expunged thousands and thousands of Armenians from their ancestral lands “as the world watched almost in silence” (Kurkchiyan and Herzig 7). Approximately 1.5 million Armenians were slaughtered within a few months. This horrific moment left an indelible mark on Armenian history and consciousness and laid the foundations for the radical shift that the Armenian national identity was to undergo during the twentieth century. Many survivors immigrated to foreign lands where they began new lives and, eventually, assimilated into these host cultures. In their struggles to fit into their new surroundings, to raise healthy children, and to maintain somewhat of their Armenianness, many of these survivors did not speak of their tragic past and often repressed it completely in their unconscious. However, witnessing and experiencing such unthinkable horrors left a dark shadow in their hearts, and haunted them for the rest of their lives, even in their dreams. In one of the first personal accounts of the Genocide, Arshaluys (Aurora) Mardiganian, a young girl who miraculously survived through countless brutal acts, says, “When I see [the Turks and Kurds who raped and tortured young girls] in my dreams now I scream, so even though I am safe in America, my nights are not peaceful” (Slide 125).
Kricorian’s novel begins with a description of the massacre’s belated effects on the now elderly, Zabelle, who has repressed the horrors she witnessed as a child throughout her entire adult life. These memories have not disappeared, but, in her old age, begin to resurface in the form of nightmares. At night, “long shadows and disembodied voices, speaking Armenian and Turkish, circled Zabelle’s bed. She heard fragments of long-forgotten songs. The faces of her mother, father, brother, grandparents, aunts and uncles come swimming up at her like fish surfacing from the bottom of a pond” (Kricorian 6). For most of her life, Zabelle has kept these memories to herself, hiding them in order to live a normal life, but “despite the human capacity to survive and adapt, traumatic experiences can alter people’s psychological, biological, and social equilibrium…” (van der Kolk and McFarlane 488). Zabelle seems to be suffering from posttraumatic syndrome, which “is the result of a failure of time to heal all wounds” (491). Since time cannot mitigate such deeply embedded torment, repression is replaced by latency, and a response to the event eventually materializes.
Zabelle, along with many other genocide survivors, does not speak about her past even with her close family members. She says, “That was how it was with us. We never spoke about those times, but they were like rotting animals behind the walls of our home” (Kricorian 223-4). This theme of “silent survivor” runs through various other works by Armenian-American authors. In David Kherdian’s novel, The Road from Home, for instance, the main character, another genocide survivor, claims, “we never talked about the massacres. It was as if we had forgotten about our past troubles, but often they would resurface in different ways” (130). The narrator admits that although they did not explicitly discuss their tragic experiences, they were nonetheless a part of their lives.
These repressed memories often manifest in the form of traumatic dreams. Such dreams, however, differ from most of Freud’s dream analyses, which usually focus on repressed desires. While studying his patients, “Freud realized that the unconscious often expresses itself in the form of dreams, since at night, during sleep, the vigilance of the repressive ego in regard to unconscious desire is stilled” (Rivkin and Ryan 390). Cathy Caruth explains that “the returning traumatic dream startles Freud because it cannot be understood in terms of any wish or unconscious meaning, but is, purely and inexplicably, the literal return of the event against the will of the one it inhabits” (5). In their article, “The Black Hole of Trauma,” Bessel A. van der Kolk and Alexander C. McFarlane state that “many survivors seem to be able to transcend their trauma temporarily and harness their pain in acts of sublimated creation; for example, the writers and Holocaust survivors Jerzy Kosinski and Primo Levi seem to have done this, only to succumb to the despair of their memories in the end” (487). Hence, repression is temporary since, as the aforementioned statement illustrates, survivors ultimately submit to their grief, despite any efforts to do otherwise.
In his memoir, Black Dog of Fate, Peter Balakian comes to see his “grandmother’s numbed response to the Armenian Genocide as a necessary way of survival” (Balakian 299). Theorist Michelle Balaev reminds us, however, that “the ‘unspeakability’ of trauma claimed by so many literary critics today can be understood less as an epistemological conundrum or neurobiological fact, but more as an outcome of cultural values and ideologies.” This observation applies to the Armenian culture since the “silent survivor” is such a common phenomenon in post-genocide communities, and so frequently depicted in contemporary Armenian-American “trauma novels.” In another novel by Nancy Kricorian, Dreams of Bread and Fire, the main character, Ani, explains that the genocide was a “forbidden topic” in her house, and goes on to say that she always “had the idea that [talking about it] would kill [her] grandmother” (146-7). Even though the massacres had never been explained to Ani, she “knew from bits of conversation she wasn’t supposed to have heard between her mother and grandfather and occasional vague references from her grandmother that in the old country the Turks had murdered lots of Armenians and forced even more to leave their homes. But no one was supposed to talk about the Deportations, especially not in front of [Ani’s] Grandma” (148).
Since survivors suppressed their pain rather than vocalize the memories they were tormented by, contemporary trauma novels serve as a medium in which their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren can finally foreground their nation’s traumatic past. Such novels also provide survivors’ descendents, especially those whose families fled from Ottoman Armenia, a chance to explore their ethnic origins and current “hyphenated” identities. Most third and fourth generation Diasporan Armenians learned about their past through the references to the Genocide in various cultural productions, such as literature. Third-generation Armenian-American author and poet, Peter Balakian, suggests that such references help those who are far removed from the events of 1915 orient Armenia's tragic history within their own lives today. He writes, “The journey into history, into the Armenian Genocide, was for me inseparable from poetry. Poetry was part of the journey and the excavation” (146). In “Trends in Literary Trauma Theory,” Michelle Balaev writes, “A central claim of contemporary literary trauma theory asserts that trauma creates a speechless fright that divides or destroys identity. This serves as the basis for a larger argument that suggests identity is formed by the intergenerational transmission of trauma.” Balaev argues that when stories of one generation are transmitted to another through various texts, private trauma may become “transhistorical trauma” and thus “define contemporary individual identity, as well as racial or cultural identity.” Transhistorical trauma makes the relationship between an individual and the group parallel, and “indicates that a massive trauma experienced by a group in the historical past can be experienced by an individual living centuries later who shares a similar attribute of the historical group, such as sharing the same race, religion, nationality, or gender due to the timeless, repetitious, and infectious characteristics of traumatic experience and memory” (Balaev). As such, genocide survivors’ painful experiences that are presented in works by Kricorian and other Armenian-American authors transcend the personal realm of these individuals and become a shared experience. Today, many Armenian-Americans use artistic mediums to learn about the trauma experienced by the genocide victims and, as a result, experience the history themselves.
There are many factors that contribute to the continued references and subsequent themes of loss, grief, sorrow, and trauma in Armenian-American literature. One of the most significant of these is the Turkish Government’s continued denial that a Genocide ever took place. Gerard Libaridian writes, “The Genocide, its exploitation, and its denial by Turkey paralyzed the collective psyche of the Armenian people” (2). The paralyzing horrors that most victims faced rendered them incapable of speaking about their experiences. Instead, they stored their memories deep within themselves, making it invisible to the external world. Consequently, their repression silenced the collective community for years. Still, the effects of the trauma did not disappear. Inevitably, the victims’ descendents, after learning more about their history, felt the unique responsibility to revive a lost segment of their national past. In Children of Armenia, Michael Bobelian writes, “having inherited a sound economic and communal foundation from the survivors who spent their lives rebuilding, [the younger generation] had the luxury to mount a political campaign. The experience of the Genocide manifested differently in these younger generations” (139). Repression was one of the most frequent psychological defenses used to unconsciously conceal the indelible pain that such death and devastation inflicted on victims; however, their offspring, who did not witness the horrors firsthand, “had the necessary detachment to re-awaken this forgotten episode of history (139). Thus, “the psychological scars of the genocide endured” in subsequent generations (139). Since the effects of the trauma are manifested and exhibited after a long period of silence, this, too, is a form of latency.
Most grandchildren of survivors, upon learning about their history in various forms of discourse, somehow felt as if they themselves experienced the horrors. In “The Response of Women to Crisis: From Mourning to Personal Identity,” Shaké Topalian writes that the “children and grandchildren of survivors have carried [their] parents’ unprocessed projection of trauma” (48). Consequently, most of them express their reactions to the event in multiple ways and different forms. For some, like Nancy Kricorian, this occurs in the act of writing a novel based on her cultural and historical past, using the Armenian Genocide as a symbol for a diasporic community. Kricorian, like many of her fellow Armenian-American novelists, plays a role in the unconscious unification of a fragmented identity. As Balaev states, “The author who situates traumatic experience in relation to a particular place indicates that trauma is understood as a culturally specific event, in which its meaning remains contingent on factors such as a historically specific moment.” The Armenian Genocide has indeed “become a collective symbol and reorganizes the discourse pertinent to Armenian collective identity” (Shirinian 20).
Since “the story of the Genocide has now become deeply entrenched in Armenian collective memory,” it is undeniably a cohesive force in the lives of many diasporans (Miller 161). Because they are “divided by geography and assimilation, Armenians [rely] upon their common tragic past” to bring them together (Bobelian 232). This remembrance of the genocide stands as a unifying theme of continued identification with the Armenian nation among the diaspora. In his essay titled “Denial and Free Speech: The Case of the Armenian Genocide,” Henry C. Theriault maintains, “Certainly, Armenian identity depends on much more than the genocide and its continuing aftermath, but the genocide is […] a central part of modern Armenian history and as such an essential part of contemporary Armenian identity” (247). References to the Genocide in literature and other mediums of expression stand "as a monument to the Armenian aspiration of revived nationhood” as they link history to various forms of public discourse (Peroomian 177). This places “the Armenian Genocide within the ongoing saga of a living people” to try to reconcile the tragedy and “ensure national survival and evolution” (177-8).
Novels like Nancy Kricorian’s Zabelle, function to unify a scattered people by referencing their common past, even if this may not be the authors’ primary intent. In telling Zabelle’s story of repression and eventual confrontation with tragedy, Kricorian highlights the belated effects of a trauma. Furthermore, the fact that she has written Zabelle decades after the actual event, while giving voice to the victims after years of silence, also validates the notion of latency in the Armenian-American diasporic community. Cathy Caruth insists that “the historical power of the trauma is […] that it is only in and through its inherent forgetting that it is first experienced at all. And it is this inherent latency of the event that paradoxically explains the peculiar, temporal structure, the belatedness of historical experience. [If] the traumatic event is not experienced as it occurs, [then] it is fully evident only in connection with another place, and in another time” (8). Thus, repression, in trauma, is replaced by latency. For the current Armenian Diaspora, the contemporary responses to a historical tragedy stand a monument for the figurative unification of a fragmented people.
Works Cited
Balaev, Michelle. “Trends in Literary Trauma Theory.” Mosaic 41.2 (June 2008): 149-66. ProQuest. Web. 12 February 2010.
Balakian, Peter. Black Dog of Fate. New York: Basic Books, 2009. Print.
Bloxham, Donald. “Determinants of the Armenian Genocide.” Looking Backward, Moving Forward. Ed. Richard G. Hovannisian. New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 2003. 23-50.Print.
Bobelian, Michael. Children of Armenia: A Forgotten Genocide and the Century-Long Struggle for Justice. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2009. Print.
Caruth, Cathy. Trauma: Explorations in Memory. Maryland: John Hopkins University Press, 1995. Print.
Kherdian, David. The Road from Home. New York: Beech Tree Books, 1979. Print.
Kricorian, Nancy. Dreams of Bread and Fire. New York: Grove Press, 2003. Print.
---. Zabelle. New York: HarperCollins, 1998. Print.
Kurkchiyan, Marina and Edmund Herzig, eds. “Introduction: Armenia and the Armenians.” The Armenians A Handbook (Caucasus World. Peoples of the Caucasus). New York: Routledge Curzon, 2005: 1-22. Print.
Libaridian, Gerard J. Armenia at the Crossroads: Democracy and Nationhood in the Post-Soviet Era. Massachusetts: Blue Crane Books, 1991. Print.
Miller, Donald E., and Lorna Touryan Miller. Survivors: An Oral History of the Armenian Genocide. Berkely: University of California Press, 1993. Print.
Peroomian, Rubina. “New Directions in Literary Responses to the Armenian Genocide.”
Looking Backward, Moving Forward. Ed. Richard G. Hovannisian. New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 2003. 157-180. Print.
Rivkin, Julie and Michael Ryan. Introduction. Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 389-97. Print.
Shirinian, Lorne. Armenian-North American Literature: A Critical Introduction Genocide, Diaspora, and Symbols. New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1990. Print.
Slide, Anthony, ed. Ravished Armenia and the Story of Aurora Mardiganian. Maryland:Scarecrow Press, Inc, 1997. Print.
Theriault, Henry C. “Denial and Free Speech: The Case of the Armenian Genocide.” Looking Backward, Moving Forward. Ed. Richard G. Hovannisian. New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 2003. 231-62. Print.
Topalian, Shaké. “The Response of Women to Crisis: From Collective Mourning to Personal Identity.” Voices of Armenian Women. Ed. Barbara Mergeuria and Joy Renjilian-Burgy.Belmont, Massachusetts: AIWA Press, 2000. 37-48. Print.
van der Kolk, Bessel A. and Alexander C. McFarlane. “The Black Hole of Trauma.” Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 487-505. Print.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
The Elephant Man/The Elegant Man
"I am not an animal! I am a human being!" -- John Merrick
On Wednesday night I watched The Elephant Man for the first time. I wasn’t sure what to expect – the title indicated it somewhat, and I wasn’t looking forward to watching a film about a man suffering from elephantiasis. Nonetheless, being the studious and nerdy student that I am, I found the film online, and pressed “play,” kind of annoyed at the whole thing. But, within the first 10 minutes, I found myself completely taken by the story…I think I may have used about 2 boxes of tissue paper. In retrospect, I think my initial reaction of not wanting to see a film about a man with elephantiasis is ironically fitting with its theme of people making judgments and assumptions. In other words, this was a good reminder not to judge a book by its cover.
Now that a day has passed and I have stopped weeping like a 5-year-old, I think I can begin to associate some theories to this amazing film. There is much to discuss: identity, the interpretation of dreams, Bakhtin’s “carnival,” the mirror stage, capitalism…where does one begin?!
Since there is an incredibly large pool of potential ideas to explore, I will mainly focus on Mikhail Bakhtin’s “Carnival” in relation to the film. “Carnival is the people’s second life, organized on the basis of laughter,” but what about when this laughter is at the expense of another human being? (Bakhtin 686). John Merrick, born Joseph Carey Merrick, tells the story of a young man suffering from a medical condition which completely deformed his physical appearance. He is covered with disfiguring tumors all over his body, including his head. Because of this “abnormal” appearance, Merrick spent his life being mocked, ridiculed, and laughed at. As if this isn’t enough humiliation, he was also displayed as a “freak” in the circus, where people paid money just to point and laugh at Merrick’s pain. Bakhtin writes, “laugher degrades and materializes…To degrade is to bury, to sow, and to kill simultaneously”(688).
But laugher isn’t the only response Merrick receives. Upon seeing him for the first time, many people scream in horror. This adds to the innumerable degradation Merrick faces because of his incurable fate. Each look of disgust and every sound of inhumane laugher kills Merrick’s soul. This type of humiliation “digs a bodily grave,” (688).
Works Cited:
Bakhtin, Mikhail. "Rabelais and His World." Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 686-92. Print.
On Wednesday night I watched The Elephant Man for the first time. I wasn’t sure what to expect – the title indicated it somewhat, and I wasn’t looking forward to watching a film about a man suffering from elephantiasis. Nonetheless, being the studious and nerdy student that I am, I found the film online, and pressed “play,” kind of annoyed at the whole thing. But, within the first 10 minutes, I found myself completely taken by the story…I think I may have used about 2 boxes of tissue paper. In retrospect, I think my initial reaction of not wanting to see a film about a man with elephantiasis is ironically fitting with its theme of people making judgments and assumptions. In other words, this was a good reminder not to judge a book by its cover.
Now that a day has passed and I have stopped weeping like a 5-year-old, I think I can begin to associate some theories to this amazing film. There is much to discuss: identity, the interpretation of dreams, Bakhtin’s “carnival,” the mirror stage, capitalism…where does one begin?!
Since there is an incredibly large pool of potential ideas to explore, I will mainly focus on Mikhail Bakhtin’s “Carnival” in relation to the film. “Carnival is the people’s second life, organized on the basis of laughter,” but what about when this laughter is at the expense of another human being? (Bakhtin 686). John Merrick, born Joseph Carey Merrick, tells the story of a young man suffering from a medical condition which completely deformed his physical appearance. He is covered with disfiguring tumors all over his body, including his head. Because of this “abnormal” appearance, Merrick spent his life being mocked, ridiculed, and laughed at. As if this isn’t enough humiliation, he was also displayed as a “freak” in the circus, where people paid money just to point and laugh at Merrick’s pain. Bakhtin writes, “laugher degrades and materializes…To degrade is to bury, to sow, and to kill simultaneously”(688).
But laugher isn’t the only response Merrick receives. Upon seeing him for the first time, many people scream in horror. This adds to the innumerable degradation Merrick faces because of his incurable fate. Each look of disgust and every sound of inhumane laugher kills Merrick’s soul. This type of humiliation “digs a bodily grave,” (688).
Works Cited:
Bakhtin, Mikhail. "Rabelais and His World." Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 686-92. Print.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Final Paper -- The Start (DRAFT!)
In her novel Zabelle, Nancy Kricorian depicts a character who represses her tragic past. Zabelle is very young when the Armenian Genocide takes place; she witnesses the deaths of members of her family, even seeing her mother slowly die of starvation in front of her eyes. Zabelle represents the few lucky ones who were able to survive because of personal strength and strings of good luck. Years later, Zabelle’s marriage is arranged to an older Armenian man in America, where she begins a new and very different life. Living under the same roof in a new country with her jealous mother-in-law and new husband, Zabelle faces many obstacles as an Armenian woman in a patriarchal culture. Nonetheless, she bravely assumes the role and raises 3 children. At times, her tragic past comes back to haunt her in her sleep, but it is not talked about. It does not interfere with everyday life, and “the effects of the experience are not apparent” (Caruth 8). It is only in her old age that Zabelle’s repressed tragedy unfolds as she hears voices from her past and imagines the Turks coming to harm her. Thus, Zabelle embodies Freud’s analysis of belated effects of a trauma, which he terms “latency.”
Zabelle is one of many Armenian-American works centered around the theme of loss, memory, and identity. In writing this novel, Nancy Kricorian shares more than just the story of Zabelle, for her story transcends the individual experience and acts as a unifying force for the Armenian diaspora spread throughout the world. In many ways, Zabelle is a “trauma novel,” which “refers to a work of fiction that conveys profound loss or intense fear on individual or collective levels (Balaev). In this paper, I will argue that the representation of trauma in Armenian-American literature, such as the Genocide in Nancy Kricorian’s Zabelle, serves to coalesce the Armenian diaspora’s sense of national identity. Therefore, this particular trauma, which has yet to be acknowledged as such by its perpetrators, serves a greater purpose for a dispersed population. Literary trauma, then, becomes a medium in which the Armenian community’s collective tragedy stands as a beacon to their national identity.
Zabelle is one of many Armenian-American works centered around the theme of loss, memory, and identity. In writing this novel, Nancy Kricorian shares more than just the story of Zabelle, for her story transcends the individual experience and acts as a unifying force for the Armenian diaspora spread throughout the world. In many ways, Zabelle is a “trauma novel,” which “refers to a work of fiction that conveys profound loss or intense fear on individual or collective levels (Balaev). In this paper, I will argue that the representation of trauma in Armenian-American literature, such as the Genocide in Nancy Kricorian’s Zabelle, serves to coalesce the Armenian diaspora’s sense of national identity. Therefore, this particular trauma, which has yet to be acknowledged as such by its perpetrators, serves a greater purpose for a dispersed population. Literary trauma, then, becomes a medium in which the Armenian community’s collective tragedy stands as a beacon to their national identity.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The First thing you have to learn is how to be quiet
“Even now China wraps double binds around my feet” (Kingston 48).
It is no coincidence that the first line of The Woman Warrior reads, “You must not tell anyone” (3). With this, the theme of female silencing arises. The narrator’s mother tells her that she must not tell anyone the story of her aunt, who had an illegitimate baby and was disowned by the family as a result. “…it is as if she had never been born,” her mother tells her (3). Her mother continues, “Now that you have started to menstruate, what happened to her could happen to you. Don’t humiliate us.” You wouldn’t like to be forgotten as if you had never been born” (5). The story of the aunt, then, is used as a warning. It is a warning for many things: not to have sex, not to humiliate the family, and perhaps most importantly, to obey the unwritten rules written for women in Chinese culture.
One of these rules is to obey (men) and stay quiet. Silence is a major theme in the book, and the narrator is taught that it is an important part of being a Chinese girl. She realizes that the demand to keep her aunt’s story quiet is not just for the sake of her family’s reputation, but, she says, there is more to this silence” they want me to participate in their punishment. And I have” (16).
The punishment has been growing up haunted by this story – this story has trapped her, keeping her boxed in the restrictions placed upon her by her culture. She admits, “My aunt haunts me – her ghost drawn to me because now, after fifty years of neglect, I alone devote pages of paper to her” (16). Even as an adult, she cannot escape the binding of her culture. It is a part of her, keeping her enclosed in specific expectations.
Works Cited:
Kingston, Maxine Hong. The Woman Warrior. New York: Vintage International, 1976. Print.
It is no coincidence that the first line of The Woman Warrior reads, “You must not tell anyone” (3). With this, the theme of female silencing arises. The narrator’s mother tells her that she must not tell anyone the story of her aunt, who had an illegitimate baby and was disowned by the family as a result. “…it is as if she had never been born,” her mother tells her (3). Her mother continues, “Now that you have started to menstruate, what happened to her could happen to you. Don’t humiliate us.” You wouldn’t like to be forgotten as if you had never been born” (5). The story of the aunt, then, is used as a warning. It is a warning for many things: not to have sex, not to humiliate the family, and perhaps most importantly, to obey the unwritten rules written for women in Chinese culture.
One of these rules is to obey (men) and stay quiet. Silence is a major theme in the book, and the narrator is taught that it is an important part of being a Chinese girl. She realizes that the demand to keep her aunt’s story quiet is not just for the sake of her family’s reputation, but, she says, there is more to this silence” they want me to participate in their punishment. And I have” (16).
The punishment has been growing up haunted by this story – this story has trapped her, keeping her boxed in the restrictions placed upon her by her culture. She admits, “My aunt haunts me – her ghost drawn to me because now, after fifty years of neglect, I alone devote pages of paper to her” (16). Even as an adult, she cannot escape the binding of her culture. It is a part of her, keeping her enclosed in specific expectations.
Works Cited:
Kingston, Maxine Hong. The Woman Warrior. New York: Vintage International, 1976. Print.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
The Deconstruction of Femininity in Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point"
In his famous essay, “The Subjection of Women,” John Stuart Mill argues that the “nature of women is an eminently artificial thing – the result of forced repression in some directions, unnatural stimulation in others” (128). Femininity is a result of social constructions and fixed roles; this is especially clear in most 19th century Victorian poetry and prose. While reading Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poem, "The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point," for another course, thoughts about the construction and deconstruction of femininity came to mind. While the poem is often read as a response to and support of the anti-slavery movement of the time, it is also a response to female subjection. What differentiates this poem from other feminist works is the fact that it presents oppression in threefold: the speaker is not just repressed because she is female, but she is also a black slave. Hence, Barrett Browning offers a space for the discussion of femininity in terms of class, race, and sex. The most significant issue in terms of femininity, however, is the speaker’s role as a mother.
As mothers, women are seen as “bearers of value” (Irigaray 802). A mother’s role is to instill values into future generations; to do so, they must reinforce customary traditions, and in this case, white supremacy and patriarchal dominance, by raising their children to maintain social order. In fact, her responsibility “is to maintain the social order without intervening” (807). In other words, she is to raise her children to carry on the traditional customs of the culture. By ingraining these suppressing notions into their children, the mother is involved in continuing the cyclical process of unfair class order and treatment. The subjection of women is common during the time the poem was written, so the departure from this universal custom “quite naturally appears unnatural” (Mill 125). Nevertheless, the speaker in the poem is able to depart from this traditional concept of motherhood in the most radical way possible: infanticide. In this case, however, killing her child is not necessarily seen as “unnatural;” rather, it is an empowering act since it represents the destruction of fixed roles and female repression. The speaker’s violent act in killing the baby she had by her white master illustrates Barrett Browning’s attempt at deconstructing femininity. By strangling her baby, the speaker is expressing her frustration with her role as a female slave, and in this violent act, she is able to free herself from the constraints placed upon her by a world dominated by white males.
In many ways, the speaker’s story relates to the story of Lilith in Hebrew mythology. “Created not from Adam’s rib but, like him, from the dust, Lilith was Adam’s first wife,” according to “apocryphal Jewish lore. Because she considered herself his equal, she objected to lying beneath him, so that when he tried to force her submission, she became enraged” (Gilbert and Gubar 823). In a similar vain, the speaker in “The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point,” becomes enraged at the thought of submissively continuing to live as a subordinate member of society. The similarities between Lilith and the speaker do not end at their refusal to carry on as lesser beings among society. Lilith “flew away to the edge of the Red Sea to reside with demons,” and “Threatened by God’s angelic emissaries, told that she must return or daily lose a hundred of her demon children to death, Lilith preferred punishment to patriarchal marriage” (823). She then “took revenge against both God and Adam by injuring babies” (823). Aside from the obvious connection of injuring and killing their babies, Lilith and the speaker in the poem both represent “the price women have been told they must pay for attempting to define themselves” (823). In both of these instances, the price involves killing their own children.
In “The Madwoman in the Attic,” critics Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar classify Lilith as the “monster-woman” since she is far removed from the “angel in the house” phenomenon. Although the speaker in the poem could certainly be classified as the “monster-woman” because she kills her child, she differs from Lilith in the sense that the killing of her own child does not bring her more suffering. I maintain that the speaker’s situation differs from that of women who do not experience oppression in several different contexts. Unlike the speaker, Lilith was not included in racial minority, nor was she a slave. Hence, when Gilbert and Gubar claim that the killing of their own children brings “more suffering” to women, it does not necessarily ring true for the speaker in “The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point.” For the speaker, the killing of her child, to some degree, actually offers freedom.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning is able to deconstruct the concept of femininity in “The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point” by presenting a character who escapes perhaps the most oppressing notion of the female role: motherhood. In fact, she does so by killing her own baby, an act far removed from the traditional concept of the female. This deconstruction is made possible because the infanticide is performed by a woman who experiences the restraints of femininity in three ways: race, class, and of course, sex. Since her oppression is multiplied, this violent act is not deemed as demonic; instead, it is an empowering move aimed to escape the suppressing role of her life as a black female slave.
Works Cited
Barrett Browning, Elizabeth. “The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point.” The Norton
Anthology of English Literature: The Victorian Age. 8th ed. Ed. Carol T. Christ and Catherine Robson. Vol. E. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2006. 1085-92. Print.
Gilbert, Sandra and Susan Gubar. “The Madwoman in the Attic.” Rivkin and Ryan 812-26.
Irigaray, Luce. “Women on the Market.” Rivkin and Ryan 799-812.
Mill, John Stuart. “The Subjection of Women.” Victorian Prose: An Anthology. Ed. Rosemary J. Mundhenk and LuAnn McCracken Fletcher. New York: Columbia University Press, 1999. 121-31. Print.
Rivkin, Julie and Michael Ryan, eds. Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. Print.
As mothers, women are seen as “bearers of value” (Irigaray 802). A mother’s role is to instill values into future generations; to do so, they must reinforce customary traditions, and in this case, white supremacy and patriarchal dominance, by raising their children to maintain social order. In fact, her responsibility “is to maintain the social order without intervening” (807). In other words, she is to raise her children to carry on the traditional customs of the culture. By ingraining these suppressing notions into their children, the mother is involved in continuing the cyclical process of unfair class order and treatment. The subjection of women is common during the time the poem was written, so the departure from this universal custom “quite naturally appears unnatural” (Mill 125). Nevertheless, the speaker in the poem is able to depart from this traditional concept of motherhood in the most radical way possible: infanticide. In this case, however, killing her child is not necessarily seen as “unnatural;” rather, it is an empowering act since it represents the destruction of fixed roles and female repression. The speaker’s violent act in killing the baby she had by her white master illustrates Barrett Browning’s attempt at deconstructing femininity. By strangling her baby, the speaker is expressing her frustration with her role as a female slave, and in this violent act, she is able to free herself from the constraints placed upon her by a world dominated by white males.
In many ways, the speaker’s story relates to the story of Lilith in Hebrew mythology. “Created not from Adam’s rib but, like him, from the dust, Lilith was Adam’s first wife,” according to “apocryphal Jewish lore. Because she considered herself his equal, she objected to lying beneath him, so that when he tried to force her submission, she became enraged” (Gilbert and Gubar 823). In a similar vain, the speaker in “The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point,” becomes enraged at the thought of submissively continuing to live as a subordinate member of society. The similarities between Lilith and the speaker do not end at their refusal to carry on as lesser beings among society. Lilith “flew away to the edge of the Red Sea to reside with demons,” and “Threatened by God’s angelic emissaries, told that she must return or daily lose a hundred of her demon children to death, Lilith preferred punishment to patriarchal marriage” (823). She then “took revenge against both God and Adam by injuring babies” (823). Aside from the obvious connection of injuring and killing their babies, Lilith and the speaker in the poem both represent “the price women have been told they must pay for attempting to define themselves” (823). In both of these instances, the price involves killing their own children.
In “The Madwoman in the Attic,” critics Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar classify Lilith as the “monster-woman” since she is far removed from the “angel in the house” phenomenon. Although the speaker in the poem could certainly be classified as the “monster-woman” because she kills her child, she differs from Lilith in the sense that the killing of her own child does not bring her more suffering. I maintain that the speaker’s situation differs from that of women who do not experience oppression in several different contexts. Unlike the speaker, Lilith was not included in racial minority, nor was she a slave. Hence, when Gilbert and Gubar claim that the killing of their own children brings “more suffering” to women, it does not necessarily ring true for the speaker in “The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point.” For the speaker, the killing of her child, to some degree, actually offers freedom.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning is able to deconstruct the concept of femininity in “The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point” by presenting a character who escapes perhaps the most oppressing notion of the female role: motherhood. In fact, she does so by killing her own baby, an act far removed from the traditional concept of the female. This deconstruction is made possible because the infanticide is performed by a woman who experiences the restraints of femininity in three ways: race, class, and of course, sex. Since her oppression is multiplied, this violent act is not deemed as demonic; instead, it is an empowering move aimed to escape the suppressing role of her life as a black female slave.
Works Cited
Barrett Browning, Elizabeth. “The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point.” The Norton
Anthology of English Literature: The Victorian Age. 8th ed. Ed. Carol T. Christ and Catherine Robson. Vol. E. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2006. 1085-92. Print.
Gilbert, Sandra and Susan Gubar. “The Madwoman in the Attic.” Rivkin and Ryan 812-26.
Irigaray, Luce. “Women on the Market.” Rivkin and Ryan 799-812.
Mill, John Stuart. “The Subjection of Women.” Victorian Prose: An Anthology. Ed. Rosemary J. Mundhenk and LuAnn McCracken Fletcher. New York: Columbia University Press, 1999. 121-31. Print.
Rivkin, Julie and Michael Ryan, eds. Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. Print.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
The Angel in the Attic; The Madwoman in the House
“…the monster-woman, threatening to replace her angelic sister, embodies intransigent female autonomy” (Gilbert and Gubar 819)
How does one begin a discussion about something as complex as feminism? How about a controversial video by Madonna?
While there are many issues to explore in this video, I will focus on the relationship between the old lady and Madonna and the ambiguous crash in the final scene.
First, I’d like to point out that there are only 3 women portrayed in this video: the old lady, Madonna, and the waitress. Next to the old lady and the chubby waitress, Madonna becomes the most beautiful character in the video. This is significant because in this context, she represents the ideals of beauty in popular culture. Throughout each scene, she violently deconstructs all the notions that have repressed her as a female. She is in effect becoming the antithesis of the “angel in the house.”
To understand the significance of the old lady in the video, it is important to consider what she represents. Upon close examination, it becomes clear that the old lady is solely dependent on Madonna. She is only there for the ride; thus, she represents the traditional notion of the female as the “angel in the house.” In 1865 John Ruskin affirmed that the “woman’s power is not for rule, not for battle, and her intellect is not for invention or creation, but for sweet orderings of domesticity” (816). Clearly, then, Madonna takes on the opposite role, destroying these oppressing ideas one at a time. To escape or protest suppression, “Women must kill the aesthetic ideal through which they themselves have been ‘killed’” (812). So why does Madonna bring this poor old lady for this violent ride?
I argue that the old lady’s participation (albeit not actively) is crucial since she is the representation of female oppression. Madonna wants, perhaps even needs her to witness this destruction. After she crashes into the car with the 3 men, Madonna even takes a moment to make sure the old lady’s glasses are securely placed over her eyes, clearly illustrating the importance for the old lady to see what is happening. She does not want her to be blinded by a patriarchal society anymore.
Madonna’s aggressive and brutal behavior places her in the “monster-woman” category. If the traditional representation of the ideal woman has been the “angel in the house,” then “the mysterious power of the character who refuses to stay in her textually ordained ‘place’ [generates] a story that ‘gets away’” from the creators (819). In this video, Madonna is this mysterious power. The most vital part of this is that she places herself in that position; she is able to escape the “angel in the house” phenomenon by stepping out of the predictable, expected, and traditional role of the passive female.
Now, let’s consider the ambiguous ending of the video. I will argue that there are at least two different ways to analyze the ending. One is to argue that the deadly crash at the end implies the death of the “monster-woman.” Some people may say that this rebellious new role for woman is unattainable, and that the crash represents the impossibility for women to escape their traditional roles.
Another analysis, and one that I will argue is more powerful, is that the deadly crash is the final act of empowerment for Madonna. It is not clear whether Madonna or the old lady die, but I wonder whether that’s important, anyway. The key point here is that Madonna was able to give this traditionally repressed old lady (who represents the everywoman) her last hurrah. In fact, she assists in her death by euthanasia.
The old woman represents someone who is considered useless in our society and Madonna helps her end her life. Because Madonna is in the car herself, however, this act is subversive. Does this suggest that Madonna, the “monster-woman,” and the old lady, “the angel in the house,” are in fact the same person? Are they simply different versions of the same self?
Finally, I want to discuss the actual crash itself. It is especially important to note how the car crashes. The car crashes into a pole – why is this important? The pole could be viewed as a phallic symbol; in this case, then, Madonna actively destroys the symbol of patriarchy. Hence, the crash is not the death of female empowerment, but the beginning of it.
Works Cited:
Gilbert, Sanda and Susan Gubar. "The Madwoman in the Attic." Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004.
812-25. Print.
How does one begin a discussion about something as complex as feminism? How about a controversial video by Madonna?
While there are many issues to explore in this video, I will focus on the relationship between the old lady and Madonna and the ambiguous crash in the final scene.
First, I’d like to point out that there are only 3 women portrayed in this video: the old lady, Madonna, and the waitress. Next to the old lady and the chubby waitress, Madonna becomes the most beautiful character in the video. This is significant because in this context, she represents the ideals of beauty in popular culture. Throughout each scene, she violently deconstructs all the notions that have repressed her as a female. She is in effect becoming the antithesis of the “angel in the house.”
To understand the significance of the old lady in the video, it is important to consider what she represents. Upon close examination, it becomes clear that the old lady is solely dependent on Madonna. She is only there for the ride; thus, she represents the traditional notion of the female as the “angel in the house.” In 1865 John Ruskin affirmed that the “woman’s power is not for rule, not for battle, and her intellect is not for invention or creation, but for sweet orderings of domesticity” (816). Clearly, then, Madonna takes on the opposite role, destroying these oppressing ideas one at a time. To escape or protest suppression, “Women must kill the aesthetic ideal through which they themselves have been ‘killed’” (812). So why does Madonna bring this poor old lady for this violent ride?
I argue that the old lady’s participation (albeit not actively) is crucial since she is the representation of female oppression. Madonna wants, perhaps even needs her to witness this destruction. After she crashes into the car with the 3 men, Madonna even takes a moment to make sure the old lady’s glasses are securely placed over her eyes, clearly illustrating the importance for the old lady to see what is happening. She does not want her to be blinded by a patriarchal society anymore.
Madonna’s aggressive and brutal behavior places her in the “monster-woman” category. If the traditional representation of the ideal woman has been the “angel in the house,” then “the mysterious power of the character who refuses to stay in her textually ordained ‘place’ [generates] a story that ‘gets away’” from the creators (819). In this video, Madonna is this mysterious power. The most vital part of this is that she places herself in that position; she is able to escape the “angel in the house” phenomenon by stepping out of the predictable, expected, and traditional role of the passive female.
Now, let’s consider the ambiguous ending of the video. I will argue that there are at least two different ways to analyze the ending. One is to argue that the deadly crash at the end implies the death of the “monster-woman.” Some people may say that this rebellious new role for woman is unattainable, and that the crash represents the impossibility for women to escape their traditional roles.
Another analysis, and one that I will argue is more powerful, is that the deadly crash is the final act of empowerment for Madonna. It is not clear whether Madonna or the old lady die, but I wonder whether that’s important, anyway. The key point here is that Madonna was able to give this traditionally repressed old lady (who represents the everywoman) her last hurrah. In fact, she assists in her death by euthanasia.
The old woman represents someone who is considered useless in our society and Madonna helps her end her life. Because Madonna is in the car herself, however, this act is subversive. Does this suggest that Madonna, the “monster-woman,” and the old lady, “the angel in the house,” are in fact the same person? Are they simply different versions of the same self?
Finally, I want to discuss the actual crash itself. It is especially important to note how the car crashes. The car crashes into a pole – why is this important? The pole could be viewed as a phallic symbol; in this case, then, Madonna actively destroys the symbol of patriarchy. Hence, the crash is not the death of female empowerment, but the beginning of it.
Works Cited:
Gilbert, Sanda and Susan Gubar. "The Madwoman in the Attic." Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004.
812-25. Print.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The American (Dystopian) Dream
“No matter how poor a man was, or how much he suffered, he could never be really unhappy while he knew of that future; even if he did not live to see it himself, his children would..." (Sinclair 357)
Of all the themes, symbols, and ideologies presented in Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, the one that stuck out most to me was “The American Dream.” Maybe it’s because I, too, come from a family of immigrants who came to the United States with a few dollars and big dreams; or maybe it's because of all the success stories I’ve heard, and all the failures too. Perhaps still it is because this dream never seems to die in America. For people living in developing countries around the world, America is a symbol of freedom and opportunity, but we’ve all heard this before. Jurgis’ family came to America in the hopes of attaining this dream only to realize that it is merely an illusion – a utopia created in the minds of the optimists, hoping for something better in the world. For the less affluent population, the American dream is more often than not, merely a distant and unattainable fantasy.
It’s funny (not “haha” funny, but funny in the ironic sense) that the problems with capitalism presented in this book are still very much relevant and problematic today as they were in 1906, when the book was published. America remains a capitalistic nation, divided by class, where the rich remain rich and the poor remain poor. Of course, there are some “rags to riches” success stories, but for most, the American Dream will always remain a dream. Why is this? I think it is safe to assume that economic statuses in this country are cyclical, meaning they replicate generation after generation. If grandpa was rich, then Johnny III will probably be wealthy too. “One major assumption of Marxists is that culture…functions to reproduce the class structure of society,” and “culture,” I maintain, includes the work force (Rivkin, Ryan 644). This is clear in the labor conditions presented in The Jungle, where Jurgis and his family (who represent the “working class”) are faced with greedy bosses and corrupt politicians. How interestingly relevant that seems to politics in 2010.
The most disturbing part in all of this is the fact that the politicians, businessmen, or the otherwise “wealthy” population, use the working class only to get wealthier themselves. They do this by simple manipulation. A good example of this in the book is the advertisements to buy property: “Why not own your own home? Do you know that you can buy one for less than your rent? We have built thousands of homes which are now occupied by happy families” (Sinclair 51). Manipulating the working class by reinforcing the notion of the American Dream is a strategy that’s still being used today and it is not always that people realize “It [is] all robbery, for a poor man” (55).
Works Cited:
Rivkin, Julie and Michael Ryan. "Introduction: Starting with Zero." Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 1998. 643-46. Print.
Sinclair, Upton. The Jungle. New York: Barnes & Noble Books, 2003. Print.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Midterm
Andzhela Keshishyan
Dr. Steven Wexler
English 638
March 19, 2010
Gallop, Jane. “Lacan’s ‘Mirror Stage:’ Where to Begin.” SubStance 11.4.37-8 (1983):118-28. JSTOR. Web. 7 March 2010.
The focus of the “self” that is presented in this article will prove to be a helpful source in analyzing and understanding Lacan’s “mirror stage.” Gallop makes the distinction between the inside and the outside, and relates this to the mirror – the mirror stage, thus, becomes a turning point between the “self” and the projected self. This argument will be useful in analyzing Alan’s behavior in Equus.
Garber, D. L. “The Surprising Thing about Lacan.” Literature and Psychology 44.1-2(1998): 54-69. WilsonWeb. Web. 7 March 2010.
Garber claims in this article that Lacan’s work cannot be independent from Freud’s and vice versa. He insists that the two cannot be easily separable, and devotes the argument to comparisons between the two theorists. For instance, there is a fascinating comparison in the difference between Lacan and Freud’s ideas about the primal moment of the “mirror stage.” This, I believe, will be helpful to anyone writing about this important moment and its connection with desire, freedom, and the self.
Pelt, Van Tamise. “Lacan in Context: An Introduction to Lacan for the English-Speaking Reader.” College Literature 24.2 (1997): 57-70. JSTOR. Web. 7 March 2010.
This article puts Lacan’s work in context with the historical moment. Pelt offers a good way for readers to see Lacan’s work in a more holistic manner, which in turn provides for a deeper understanding. Since most of Lacan’s works are translations, this article is a good background for the English-speaker to fully grasp all of the background moments which contribute to Lacan’s theories.
Simon, John. “Hippodrama at the Psychodrome.” The Hudson Review 28.1 (1975):97-106. JSTOR. Web. 25 February 2010.
In this article, John Simon discusses Peter Shaffer’s Equus. He addresses the play in terms of homosexuality and psychoanalysis. There is an outline of the failed heterosexual relationships presented in the play, and how this furthers the notion of it as homosexually based. Most useful for my purposes, however, is the discussion of the horses eyes as a substitute throughout the play. For a paper focused on Lacan’s mirror stage, this particular part in the article will prove to
be quite useful.
Vasseleu, Cathryn. “The Face before the Mirror-Stage.” Hypatia 6. 3 (1991): 14-55.JSTOR. Web. 7 March 2010.
This article addressing Lacan’s mirror-stage is an important one, as it discusses the reflected image as an object. The topics of self-origin, psyche, and repression, which the author addresses, are useful for an argument based on Peter Saffer’s Equus (in comparing the horse’s eyes as mirrors for the main character, Alan).
Wright, Elizabeth. “Another Look at Lacan and Literary Criticism.” New Literary History 19.3 (1988): 617-27. JSTOR. Web. 7 March 2010.
The relevance of this article rests on the discussion of Lacan’s notion of the signifier and the signified. In this argument, Wright relates the inner private experience of the body to the outer public interpretation of it. This makes for a unique relation to Alan’s (the protagonist in Equus) grisly act in terms of his inner experience and the interpretation of it by the outside world.
Dr. Steven Wexler
English 638
March 19, 2010
Seeing Through the Horse’s Eyes
Peter Shaffer’s dramatic play Equus is layered with psychoanalytic theories. From the relationship between Dysart (a psychiatrist) and Alan (the teenage patient who has blinded six horses), to the idea of sexual repression, the play is full of questions. Although there has been some scholarship focused on the most important moment in the play – the blinding of the horses and its relationship to Jacques Lacan’s “mirror stage,” there has not been a sufficient study of this theory in terms of Alan’s sexuality within the play. If the mirror-stage can be defined as a “turning point in the chronology of a self,” as Jane Gallop has suggested, then the horses’ eyes symbolize this essential moment in Alan’s life (121). They act as a mirror for Alan, allowing him to see his “whole” self as opposed to the fragmented self defined by society. In this image, Alan recognizes his homosexuality and realizes that it has been oppressed by the traditional, heterosexual world surrounding him. Dysart symbolizes the control society has over the “other.” The “other” in this case is Alan, or more specifically, his sexuality, since homosexuality is perceived as a threat to the heterosexual norm. Dysart, however, complicates the notion of “control” as he begins to question his role in “normalizing” Alan. Despite his hesitance, however, he still conforms to the duties of his job, and tries to help Alan conform as well. But the violent acts of blinding the horses symbolize Alan’s frustration with conformity, and in this act, he destroys society’s control over his sexuality, and more extensively, the control over his true self. The “mirror-stage” plays a crucial role in this destruction, and I argue that it is only in this moment of chaos where Alan finally feels free and can be his whole self (as opposed to the hole he feels in himself prior to this moment).
Peter Shaffer’s dramatic play Equus is layered with psychoanalytic theories. From the relationship between Dysart (a psychiatrist) and Alan (the teenage patient who has blinded six horses), to the idea of sexual repression, the play is full of questions. Although there has been some scholarship focused on the most important moment in the play – the blinding of the horses and its relationship to Jacques Lacan’s “mirror stage,” there has not been a sufficient study of this theory in terms of Alan’s sexuality within the play. If the mirror-stage can be defined as a “turning point in the chronology of a self,” as Jane Gallop has suggested, then the horses’ eyes symbolize this essential moment in Alan’s life (121). They act as a mirror for Alan, allowing him to see his “whole” self as opposed to the fragmented self defined by society. In this image, Alan recognizes his homosexuality and realizes that it has been oppressed by the traditional, heterosexual world surrounding him. Dysart symbolizes the control society has over the “other.” The “other” in this case is Alan, or more specifically, his sexuality, since homosexuality is perceived as a threat to the heterosexual norm. Dysart, however, complicates the notion of “control” as he begins to question his role in “normalizing” Alan. Despite his hesitance, however, he still conforms to the duties of his job, and tries to help Alan conform as well. But the violent acts of blinding the horses symbolize Alan’s frustration with conformity, and in this act, he destroys society’s control over his sexuality, and more extensively, the control over his true self. The “mirror-stage” plays a crucial role in this destruction, and I argue that it is only in this moment of chaos where Alan finally feels free and can be his whole self (as opposed to the hole he feels in himself prior to this moment).
Before the idea of the horses’ eyes as mirrors can be explained, it is important to understand society’s role in ingraining the mind with traditional concepts and its harsh judgment over anything that differs. In terms of sexuality, anything outside of the heterosexual norm is regarded as sinful and disgraceful. When Dysart asks Alan’s parents what they have taught him about sexuality, his mother replies: “I told him the biological facts. But I also told him what I believed” (Shaffer 29). This statement reinforces the role of the family in influencing (and controlling) the sexuality of future generations. Mrs. Strang (Alan’s mother), ends her explanation with “I simply…I don’t understand…Alan!” and then breaks down in sobs (29). Mrs. Strang is very religious, which makes the acceptance of homosexuality, for instance, nearly impossible. The implication here is that Mrs. Strang speculates, or possibly is aware of her son’s sexuality; her sobbing represents the response from the norm, who regard homosexuality as unacceptable. It is no wonder, then, that Alan is uncomfortable with expressing his true sexual orientation.
Since “coming out of the closet” is an entrance into a life of harassment and judgment by society, Alan tries to conform to “normalcy.” In his attempt to stay “normal” (i.e., heterosexual), “He has become a gendered subject, surmounting his Oedipus complex; but in doing so he has, so to speak, driven his forbidden desire underground, repressed it into the place we call the unconscious” (Eagleton 134). Before the connection with the horses, Alan is in a stage that precedes the mirror stage, where his identity is merely a “projection or a reflection” of society’s expectations; before his release, he has not recognized this suppression because “there is nothing on the other side of the mirror” yet (Gallop 121). Before seeing himself in the horses’ eyes, Alan is not the subject of himself; rather, he is only an object constructed by unquestioned rules and expectations from others.
The first moment of self-recognition for Alan occurs at the age of six when he is at the beach with his family. While building sandcastles, Alan meets a horseman who allows him to stroke and then sit on the horse. Alan rides the horse faster and faster, feeling an increasing sense of freedom while doing so. This scenario can be regarded as the moment that Alan recognizes his homosexuality. When his parents see him riding the horse, they are shocked and frightened. They tell Alan to come down from the horse, but he refuses, shouting “NO…NO!” (Shaffer 35). Here, at the somewhat less constructed age of six, Alan shows a rebellious side by refusing to listen to the voice of authority in his life: his father. Mr. Strang, obviously frustrated, tells the horseman, “How dare you pick up children and put them on dangerous animals” (36). When the Horseman expresses surprise over the word “dangerous,” Mr. Strang replies, “Of course dangerous, Look at his eyes. They’re rolling” (36). This notion of the rolling eyes and the horse as a “dangerous” animal reflects Mr. Strang’s fear for his son to enter a different path – one in which he would have no control over. Besides the threat of control, the horse symbolizes Alan’s suppression, and Mr. Strang’s fear is that he will recognize this and respond to it (which he does). Alan’s relationship with his father is ruined after this incident, and “it must be remembered [that] hatred or contempt of the father is a classic homosexual pattern” (Simon 99).
In a session where Alan recalls this first meeting with the horse, he tells Dysart: “When the horse first appeared, I looked up into his mouth. It was huge. There was this chain in it” (43). The chain in the horse’s mouth, of course, represents control, suppression, and silencing. This has left a lasting impression on Alan because he recognizes himself in the horse. The horse is Alan. They are both controlled by another, silenced, and held in constraint, with no way to escape and run free. Alan’s taste of freedom occurs when he rides the horse; in this scene, he is no longer repressed, and his desires are met, if only for a moment. This feeling does not last. Coming down from the horse means conformity. It means that Alan’s desires are now repressed again.
Working at the stables years later allows Alan to reunite with horses – which symbolize both his oppression and yearning for escape. His secret outings with the horses after work hours suggest his gradual attempt to understand and accept himself. In looking into the horse’s eyes, he sees his true self. This moment of mirroring “is a decisive moment” since it “is the source of not only for what follows but also for what precedes. It produces the future through anticipation and the past through retroaction” (Gallop 121). This critical moment reminds Alan of the freedom he felt the first time he saw a horse and the years of repression he has felt since. This chaotic moment offers freedom since it allows him to feel that initial sense of escape. Freud frequently talks about this “primal moment we are driven to return” as “static, inorganic, and inanimate;” Lacan, conversely, “focuses on the way it is also dynamic and even chaotic in order to construct a freedom grounded on that chaos” (Garber). The horses’ eyes do not refuse desire. Even though this freedom is temporary (and anything that’s temporary is also repressed), “it also creates freedom by being the authentic world we inhabit” (Garber). The world which is seen in the horses’ eyes is Alan’s authentic world, for it is the only place he can be himself without worrying about the outside influences and controlling elements surrounding him.
Years of repression lead Alan to commit an act of unthinkable violence towards the very thing that offered him freedom to begin with. Freud would have a field day with this. He would argue that the blinding of the horses is a form of psychological regression, and he would certainly have a point. It is indeed a form of regression. It is a temporary release and escape to something he has felt before – freedom. Because his desires have been repressed, the act of blinding the horses serves as a way to destroy this repression. Its violent act offers Alan a sense of control over his own life. In blinding the mirrors, he is blinding everything that’s been in the way of his true self: judgments, suppression, familial control, and societal influences. The eyes – mirrors -- provide Alan a medium in which to see things clearly. In this clear image, he is better able to understand what he is, but also, what he has not been allowed to be. Lacan argues that “We have only to understand the mirror stage as an identification, in the full sense that analysis gives to the term: namely, the transformation that takes place in the subject when he assumes an image” (442). For Alan, the horse’s eyes offer a medium for self-identification. In them, he sees the subject of himself; thus, there is finally a correlation between the object and the subject and in this connection, the whole self is revealed.
Because “psychoanalysis is not only a theory of the human mind, but a practice for curing those who are considered mentally ill or disturbed,” it is equally important to discuss Dysart’s role as a psychiatrist (Eagleton 138). His job is to help bring Alan to “normalcy” and a healthy state of mind. Of course, the argument “that psychoanalysis as a medical practice is a form of oppressive social control, labeling individuals and forcing them to conform to an arbitrary definition of ‘normality’” exists (141). It is this very argument that makes Dysart wonder whether his duty as a psychiatrist is really helping Alan. In a powerful passage, Dysart tells Hesther:
[Alan] will be delivered from madness. What then? He’ll feel himself acceptable! What then? Do you think feelings like his can be simply re-attached, like plasters? Stuck on to other objects we select? Look at him! … My desire might be to make this boy an ardent husband – a caring citizen – a worshipper of abstract and unifying God. My achievement, however, is more likely to make a ghost! (Shaffer 108).
Clearly, Dysart questions his role (and thus the role of psychiatrists) in “normalizing” individuals. By “helping” Alan, he is hurting the very essence that makes him who he is. His job, essentially, is to repress Alan’s sexuality. He is to make Alan act “acceptable” within the rules of society, but at what expense? He is killing the very spirit that makes Alan. He is killing the passion that exists within him. He observes, “Passion can be destroyed by a doctor. It cannot be created” (109). Alan’s passion (his sexuality) is a part of him, so by “curing” him, Dysart is figuratively killing Alan.
In terms of psychoanalytic theory, Equus examines the relationship between the mentally ill and the healer of the mentally ill. Both terms and roles are socially constructed, and Peter Shaffer’s play questions these constructions. In addition, Lacan’s mirror-stage provides a way to understand Alan’s actions. The blinding of the horses is much more than the physical act entails; it is the refusal to conform, the frustration to accept a façade, and finally, the destruction of it all. It is an act of escape and an attempt to be free. The mirror-stage lets Alan see the world in a clear, new light. In the reflection of the horse’s eyes, Alan understands his role within society. Instead of accepting it, however, he chooses to destroy it. In the chaotic act of rebellion and violence, Alan feels freedom.
Works Cited
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
Gallop, Jane. “Lacan’s ‘Mirror Stage:’ Where to Begin.” SubStance 11.4 (1983): 118-28. JSTOR. Web. 7 March 2010.
Garber, D. L. “The Surprising Thing About Lacan.” Literature and Psychology 44. 1-2(1998): 54-69. WilsonWeb. Web. 7 March 2010.
Lacan, Jacques. “The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Function of the I.” Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin ad Michael Ryan. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 1998. Print.
Shaffer, Peter. Equus. New York: Scribner, 1973. Print.
Simon, John. “Hippodrama at the Psychodrome.” The Hudson Review 28.1 (Spring 1975):97-106. JSTOR. Web. 16 February. 2010.
Works Cited
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
Gallop, Jane. “Lacan’s ‘Mirror Stage:’ Where to Begin.” SubStance 11.4 (1983): 118-28. JSTOR. Web. 7 March 2010.
Garber, D. L. “The Surprising Thing About Lacan.” Literature and Psychology 44. 1-2(1998): 54-69. WilsonWeb. Web. 7 March 2010.
Lacan, Jacques. “The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Function of the I.” Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin ad Michael Ryan. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 1998. Print.
Shaffer, Peter. Equus. New York: Scribner, 1973. Print.
Simon, John. “Hippodrama at the Psychodrome.” The Hudson Review 28.1 (Spring 1975):97-106. JSTOR. Web. 16 February. 2010.
Annotated Bibliography
The focus of the “self” that is presented in this article will prove to be a helpful source in analyzing and understanding Lacan’s “mirror stage.” Gallop makes the distinction between the inside and the outside, and relates this to the mirror – the mirror stage, thus, becomes a turning point between the “self” and the projected self. This argument will be useful in analyzing Alan’s behavior in Equus.
Garber, D. L. “The Surprising Thing about Lacan.” Literature and Psychology 44.1-2(1998): 54-69. WilsonWeb. Web. 7 March 2010.
Garber claims in this article that Lacan’s work cannot be independent from Freud’s and vice versa. He insists that the two cannot be easily separable, and devotes the argument to comparisons between the two theorists. For instance, there is a fascinating comparison in the difference between Lacan and Freud’s ideas about the primal moment of the “mirror stage.” This, I believe, will be helpful to anyone writing about this important moment and its connection with desire, freedom, and the self.
Pelt, Van Tamise. “Lacan in Context: An Introduction to Lacan for the English-Speaking Reader.” College Literature 24.2 (1997): 57-70. JSTOR. Web. 7 March 2010.
This article puts Lacan’s work in context with the historical moment. Pelt offers a good way for readers to see Lacan’s work in a more holistic manner, which in turn provides for a deeper understanding. Since most of Lacan’s works are translations, this article is a good background for the English-speaker to fully grasp all of the background moments which contribute to Lacan’s theories.
Simon, John. “Hippodrama at the Psychodrome.” The Hudson Review 28.1 (1975):97-106. JSTOR. Web. 25 February 2010.
In this article, John Simon discusses Peter Shaffer’s Equus. He addresses the play in terms of homosexuality and psychoanalysis. There is an outline of the failed heterosexual relationships presented in the play, and how this furthers the notion of it as homosexually based. Most useful for my purposes, however, is the discussion of the horses eyes as a substitute throughout the play. For a paper focused on Lacan’s mirror stage, this particular part in the article will prove to
be quite useful.
Vasseleu, Cathryn. “The Face before the Mirror-Stage.” Hypatia 6. 3 (1991): 14-55.JSTOR. Web. 7 March 2010.
This article addressing Lacan’s mirror-stage is an important one, as it discusses the reflected image as an object. The topics of self-origin, psyche, and repression, which the author addresses, are useful for an argument based on Peter Saffer’s Equus (in comparing the horse’s eyes as mirrors for the main character, Alan).
Wright, Elizabeth. “Another Look at Lacan and Literary Criticism.” New Literary History 19.3 (1988): 617-27. JSTOR. Web. 7 March 2010.
The relevance of this article rests on the discussion of Lacan’s notion of the signifier and the signified. In this argument, Wright relates the inner private experience of the body to the outer public interpretation of it. This makes for a unique relation to Alan’s (the protagonist in Equus) grisly act in terms of his inner experience and the interpretation of it by the outside world.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Stop! in the name of Marx
“The relationship between the intellectuals and the world of production is not as direct as it is with the fundamental social groups but is, in varying degrees, ‘mediated’ by the whole fabric of society and by the complex of superstructures” (Gramsci 673)
Marx’s explanation of the conflict that exists between the class systems in a society resonates just as much today as it did when it was first written in the 19th century. The proletarians (working class) and the bourgeoisie (middle-class) could be classified as the oppressed and the oppressor. The oppressed, if uneducated and distracted, will not have the opportunity to advance in society. This is where the ideological state apparatus comes in. It works to make us unaware of our exploitations – leading to false class consciousness.
In “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses,” Louis Althusser asserts: “Ideology has a material existence” (695). Indeed, it does. Perhaps it is, in some ways, easier to “control” the working class in the 21st century with so many mediums of distraction. The media, for example, is a powerful force used by the ruling class to control the proletarians. The media promotes consumerism to a great extent, coning us into believing that capitalism is fair, which ultimately prevents revolutions. Since rebellions and revolutions would hurt the ruling class, they control these superstructures as a way to protect themselves.
In the film Idiocracy, the “dumbing down” of the masses is exaggerated to point out the negative effects of the media and consumerism. The notion that forms of entertainment are used by the bourgeoisie as a way to control the lower-class is (albeit arguable) an interesting one to ponder.
Works Cited:
Althusser, Louis. "Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses." Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 693-703.
Gramsci, Antonio. "Hegemony." Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 673-4.
Marx’s explanation of the conflict that exists between the class systems in a society resonates just as much today as it did when it was first written in the 19th century. The proletarians (working class) and the bourgeoisie (middle-class) could be classified as the oppressed and the oppressor. The oppressed, if uneducated and distracted, will not have the opportunity to advance in society. This is where the ideological state apparatus comes in. It works to make us unaware of our exploitations – leading to false class consciousness.
In “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses,” Louis Althusser asserts: “Ideology has a material existence” (695). Indeed, it does. Perhaps it is, in some ways, easier to “control” the working class in the 21st century with so many mediums of distraction. The media, for example, is a powerful force used by the ruling class to control the proletarians. The media promotes consumerism to a great extent, coning us into believing that capitalism is fair, which ultimately prevents revolutions. Since rebellions and revolutions would hurt the ruling class, they control these superstructures as a way to protect themselves.
In the film Idiocracy, the “dumbing down” of the masses is exaggerated to point out the negative effects of the media and consumerism. The notion that forms of entertainment are used by the bourgeoisie as a way to control the lower-class is (albeit arguable) an interesting one to ponder.
Works Cited:
Althusser, Louis. "Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses." Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 693-703.
Gramsci, Antonio. "Hegemony." Literary Theory: An Anthology. 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 673-4.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Equus Group Presentation
It's not a one-man show
The nice thing about working in a large group like ours (with 7 members), is that we have 7 brains to work with. Every member of our group worked diligently to prepare our presentation on Peter Shaffer's Equus. Because it is problematic setting up a time to meet in person with 7 very busy people, we chose to collaborate online. Initially, our conversations took place via email, but this proved to be somewhat chaotic with the numrous threads; so instead, we chose an alternative method of communication: we created a blog devoted solely to our group. In this blog, we were able to post our ideas, share our thoughts, and come to a decision about how we will carry out our presentation.
Here's a link to our blog (created -- with aesthetic appeal -- by Margeaux):
http://equus638.blogspot.com/
This is where most of the behind-the-scenes stuff was carried out.
One of my contributions was the idea of bringing in the "escape" question during our presentation. Since Alan's violent action in the play is a form of psychological regression, I thought a good "ice-breaker" activity might be to ask the class what their form of escape is -- or, if this was too personal, we decided we could ask them to identify a form of regression in a different character (from a different book, film, etc). Although this was my initial idea, we ended up carrying it out a little differently during our presentation. We incorporated this question into our "grid," and each group discussed it amongst themselves.
Another contribution was bringing in the outside source to talk about the various relationships within the play. Although the article I researched was about the failed heterosexual relationships within the play (and its conclusion that the play is homosexual), this article opened the door to discuss various aspects of the sexual/non-sexual relationships in Equus.
Our group presentation was a collaboration -- everyone worked well with each other, and we had a good time. For this reason, I'd say that it was a success!
The nice thing about working in a large group like ours (with 7 members), is that we have 7 brains to work with. Every member of our group worked diligently to prepare our presentation on Peter Shaffer's Equus. Because it is problematic setting up a time to meet in person with 7 very busy people, we chose to collaborate online. Initially, our conversations took place via email, but this proved to be somewhat chaotic with the numrous threads; so instead, we chose an alternative method of communication: we created a blog devoted solely to our group. In this blog, we were able to post our ideas, share our thoughts, and come to a decision about how we will carry out our presentation.
Here's a link to our blog (created -- with aesthetic appeal -- by Margeaux):
http://equus638.blogspot.com/
This is where most of the behind-the-scenes stuff was carried out.
One of my contributions was the idea of bringing in the "escape" question during our presentation. Since Alan's violent action in the play is a form of psychological regression, I thought a good "ice-breaker" activity might be to ask the class what their form of escape is -- or, if this was too personal, we decided we could ask them to identify a form of regression in a different character (from a different book, film, etc). Although this was my initial idea, we ended up carrying it out a little differently during our presentation. We incorporated this question into our "grid," and each group discussed it amongst themselves.
Another contribution was bringing in the outside source to talk about the various relationships within the play. Although the article I researched was about the failed heterosexual relationships within the play (and its conclusion that the play is homosexual), this article opened the door to discuss various aspects of the sexual/non-sexual relationships in Equus.
Our group presentation was a collaboration -- everyone worked well with each other, and we had a good time. For this reason, I'd say that it was a success!
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
You Have the Right to Remain Silent
"Our society is one not of spectacle, but of surveillance; under the surface of images, one invests bodies in depth; behind the great abstraction of exchange, there continues the meticulous, concrete training of useful forces; the circuits of communication are the supports of an accumulation and a centralization of knowledge; the play of signs defines the anchorages of power; it is not that the beautiful totality of the individual is amputated, repressed, altered by our social order, it is rather that the individual is carefully fabricated in it" (562).
In “Discipline and Punish,” Michel Foucault describes the concept of “power,” and asserts that it is something that is “dispersed throughout society.” His conclusion maintains that “the citizens of Western democracies act as their own jail-keepers. They internalize the social control that monitors society and maintains the disciplined efficiency of the social system” (549). In his famous example of the Panopticon, which is a “circular prison that allows for permanent surveillance of prisoners,” (549) Foucault explains that the major effect is “to induce in the inmate a state of conscious and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning of power” (554).
This idea that permanent visibility (surveillance) of citizens is used as a way to control society is evident in our country in multiple and various ways. One does not literally have to be in jail to feel the “power” lurking over. We see this every single day throughout our daily routines. Surveillance cameras, for instance, are all around us – in schools, shopping malls, workplaces, theme parks, etc. We are, in essence, jailed by these cameras. What does this mean? Simply that we are controlled by the “power” (i.e. by the government). In effect, we are aware that we are powerless and we accept this and move on. We are the inmates of our own lives.
In the following video, George Carlin, a famous stand-up comedian and social critic, discusses the role of religion and government in terms of our “rights.” (I must give a word of caution to those who are 1. too religious 2. too conservative or 3. easily offended – you may want to skip the video):
First, let’s discuss the role of religion in terms of social control. In the video above, Carlin focuses on one simple role of religion – swearing to God (or swearing on the Bible). He insists that “Swearing on the Bible is just one more way of controlling people and keeping them in line.” This is, in many ways, absolutely true of American society. I will not speak of cultures I have no knowledge about, but certainly, I will argue that religion has and does play a major role in maintaining control among the American culture. It is undoubtedly and unmistakably used by the government as another means of social control. Religion is directly linked with our government. Carlin’s example of the 10 amendments confirms the notion that religion and government are directly connected.
Carlin also humors the idea that although some people may believe we are “free,” we in are in fact powerless since we have no rights – “rights are an idea.” These “rights” are merely temporary “privileges,” as Carlin points out. In support of this argument, he talks about 1942, when the rights of Japanese-American citizens were taken away after Pearl Harbor. Rights are not rights when they can be taken away – and they were taken away for these citizens in 1942. This is just one example revealing the fact that this so-called “free” country is not that free after all. We are, like most other Western democracies, controlled by our government – we don’t really have a voice, and these institutions (i.e. schools, churches, courts, etc) would like to keep it this way. Foucault was right in his insistence that we are controlled and “disciplined” by society. The state apparatuses main function, Foucault argues, “is to assure that discipline reigns over society as a whole” (561).
Works Cited:
Foucault, Michel. "Discipline and Punish." Literary Theory: An Anthology 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 549-66. Print.
In “Discipline and Punish,” Michel Foucault describes the concept of “power,” and asserts that it is something that is “dispersed throughout society.” His conclusion maintains that “the citizens of Western democracies act as their own jail-keepers. They internalize the social control that monitors society and maintains the disciplined efficiency of the social system” (549). In his famous example of the Panopticon, which is a “circular prison that allows for permanent surveillance of prisoners,” (549) Foucault explains that the major effect is “to induce in the inmate a state of conscious and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning of power” (554).
This idea that permanent visibility (surveillance) of citizens is used as a way to control society is evident in our country in multiple and various ways. One does not literally have to be in jail to feel the “power” lurking over. We see this every single day throughout our daily routines. Surveillance cameras, for instance, are all around us – in schools, shopping malls, workplaces, theme parks, etc. We are, in essence, jailed by these cameras. What does this mean? Simply that we are controlled by the “power” (i.e. by the government). In effect, we are aware that we are powerless and we accept this and move on. We are the inmates of our own lives.
In the following video, George Carlin, a famous stand-up comedian and social critic, discusses the role of religion and government in terms of our “rights.” (I must give a word of caution to those who are 1. too religious 2. too conservative or 3. easily offended – you may want to skip the video):
First, let’s discuss the role of religion in terms of social control. In the video above, Carlin focuses on one simple role of religion – swearing to God (or swearing on the Bible). He insists that “Swearing on the Bible is just one more way of controlling people and keeping them in line.” This is, in many ways, absolutely true of American society. I will not speak of cultures I have no knowledge about, but certainly, I will argue that religion has and does play a major role in maintaining control among the American culture. It is undoubtedly and unmistakably used by the government as another means of social control. Religion is directly linked with our government. Carlin’s example of the 10 amendments confirms the notion that religion and government are directly connected.
Carlin also humors the idea that although some people may believe we are “free,” we in are in fact powerless since we have no rights – “rights are an idea.” These “rights” are merely temporary “privileges,” as Carlin points out. In support of this argument, he talks about 1942, when the rights of Japanese-American citizens were taken away after Pearl Harbor. Rights are not rights when they can be taken away – and they were taken away for these citizens in 1942. This is just one example revealing the fact that this so-called “free” country is not that free after all. We are, like most other Western democracies, controlled by our government – we don’t really have a voice, and these institutions (i.e. schools, churches, courts, etc) would like to keep it this way. Foucault was right in his insistence that we are controlled and “disciplined” by society. The state apparatuses main function, Foucault argues, “is to assure that discipline reigns over society as a whole” (561).
Works Cited:
Foucault, Michel. "Discipline and Punish." Literary Theory: An Anthology 2nd ed. Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. 549-66. Print.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Post Number Sex (woops...was that a Freudian slip?)
Sigmund Freud argues that a baby, upon sucking on “its mother’s breast for milk” will “discover in doing so that this biologically essential activity is also pleasurable; and this, for Freud, is the first dawning of sexuality” (133). The baby’s mouth is not only an organ for survival, but an “erotogenic zone,” which “the child might reactivate a few years later by sucking its thumb, and a few years later than that by kissing” (133). As the infant grows, “other erotogenic ones come into play.” Essentially, Freud argues that there are 3 stages: oral, anal, and phallic. The oral stage is the first stage of sexual life. In the next stage, the anal stage, “the anus becomes an erotogenic zone, and with the child’s pleasure in defacation a new contrast between activity and passivity, unknown in the oral stage, comes to light” (133). In this stage, the child derives pleasure from destruction and expulsion, “but it is also connected with the desire for retention and possessive control.” Finally, the phallic stage describes the focus of the child’s sexual drive on the genitals, “but is called ‘phallic’ rather than ‘genital’ because according to Freud only the male organ is recognized at this point” (133).
In no way should this theory be regarded as flawless; nonetheless, I must admit it is an amusing one to ponder (forgive my awkward sense of humor). While reading Freud, I could not help but think of my favorite character on television: Stewie Griffin. In an attempt to support Freud’s (outrageous) theory, I searched for evidence of these three stages in the popular show “Family Guy,” hoping to find relevant episodes where Stewie Griffin, the witty infant, acts in relation to each of these phases.
In the following excerpt, Stewie Griffin experiences extreme withdrawals when his mother, Lois, decides to switch over to the bottle. In a moment of desperation, Stewie finds another woman to provide breast milk.
It is clear that Stewie derives some kind of pleasure in using his mouth (the oral stage) to get milk.
In this next clip, Peter, Stewie's father, is potty training Stewie:
Although we can see that Stewie fails in his attempt to control his “defecation,” it is clear that there is a “contrast between activity and passivity” and that Stewie is “connected with the desire for retention and possessive control” (133).
In the following clip, Stewie demonstrates signs of the phallic stage as he gets ready for his babysitter to arrive:
In this episode, it is evident that Stewie's sexual drive is in the "phallic stage."
I’m not sure whether Seth MacFarlane, the (genius) creator of “Family Guy,” had Freud in mind during any of the episodes; nevertheless, there seems to be an interesting association with some of Freud’s theories.
Works Cited:
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
In no way should this theory be regarded as flawless; nonetheless, I must admit it is an amusing one to ponder (forgive my awkward sense of humor). While reading Freud, I could not help but think of my favorite character on television: Stewie Griffin. In an attempt to support Freud’s (outrageous) theory, I searched for evidence of these three stages in the popular show “Family Guy,” hoping to find relevant episodes where Stewie Griffin, the witty infant, acts in relation to each of these phases.
In the following excerpt, Stewie Griffin experiences extreme withdrawals when his mother, Lois, decides to switch over to the bottle. In a moment of desperation, Stewie finds another woman to provide breast milk.
It is clear that Stewie derives some kind of pleasure in using his mouth (the oral stage) to get milk.
In this next clip, Peter, Stewie's father, is potty training Stewie:
Although we can see that Stewie fails in his attempt to control his “defecation,” it is clear that there is a “contrast between activity and passivity” and that Stewie is “connected with the desire for retention and possessive control” (133).
In the following clip, Stewie demonstrates signs of the phallic stage as he gets ready for his babysitter to arrive:
In this episode, it is evident that Stewie's sexual drive is in the "phallic stage."
I’m not sure whether Seth MacFarlane, the (genius) creator of “Family Guy,” had Freud in mind during any of the episodes; nevertheless, there seems to be an interesting association with some of Freud’s theories.
Works Cited:
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
That's Not What I Meant!
“For literature to happen, the reader is quite as vital as the author” (65).
American Hermeneuticist, E. D. Hirsch Jr. has argued that “an author’s meaning is his own, and should not be stolen or trespassed upon by the reader. The meaning of the text is not to be socialized, made the public property of its various readers; it belongs solely to the author…” (59). My response to such an elitist remark is: then why write? What is the point of writing (at least in the “creative” genre) if the author’s “meaning” (which is in itself complex and debatable) is already established?
If we are all reading to understand a single, non-debatable meaning created by the author, then essentially we are saying that this meaning is authoritative and true. As a result, the author becomes an all-knowing, powerful voice with whom we cannot argue. This is dangerously close to a dictatorship type of literary world. If the reader is not allowed to trespass into the author’s text – meaning the reader is not able to come to his/her own interpretation – then, there is no reader. One can only be called a ‘reader’ if there is interaction with the text. When the meaning is already given by the author, then interaction cannot happen. Instead of intellectual freedom there will suppression.
Hirsch’s argument that “meaning is unchangeable because it is always the intentional act of an individual at some particular point in time” is also problematic (61). Meanings do change. They change depending on context and time.
As the above image suggests, one cannot fully grasp the “pure” intention of the author (or speaker) even when there is a unanimous understanding of the language. These two figures in the image are both imagining a tree, but their interpretations are quite different. The one on the left visualizes a complex, large, healthy tree. The other character…not so much. What is the reason for this difference? I insist that one’s background, including education, experience, and imaginations are at least in part responsible for such a different conception of a single word.
The understanding and interpretation of literature is a lot like that image above. As readers, we cannot fully grasp the “intended” meaning of the author. Understanding is “realizing new potential in the text, making a difference to it” (62). It is alright to have a different understanding than the one the author originally intended. To me, this is the art of literature, “for readers do not of course encounter texts in a void: all readers are socially and historically positioned, and how they interpret literary works will be deeply shaped by this fact” (72).
Works Cited:
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
American Hermeneuticist, E. D. Hirsch Jr. has argued that “an author’s meaning is his own, and should not be stolen or trespassed upon by the reader. The meaning of the text is not to be socialized, made the public property of its various readers; it belongs solely to the author…” (59). My response to such an elitist remark is: then why write? What is the point of writing (at least in the “creative” genre) if the author’s “meaning” (which is in itself complex and debatable) is already established?
If we are all reading to understand a single, non-debatable meaning created by the author, then essentially we are saying that this meaning is authoritative and true. As a result, the author becomes an all-knowing, powerful voice with whom we cannot argue. This is dangerously close to a dictatorship type of literary world. If the reader is not allowed to trespass into the author’s text – meaning the reader is not able to come to his/her own interpretation – then, there is no reader. One can only be called a ‘reader’ if there is interaction with the text. When the meaning is already given by the author, then interaction cannot happen. Instead of intellectual freedom there will suppression.
Hirsch’s argument that “meaning is unchangeable because it is always the intentional act of an individual at some particular point in time” is also problematic (61). Meanings do change. They change depending on context and time.
As the above image suggests, one cannot fully grasp the “pure” intention of the author (or speaker) even when there is a unanimous understanding of the language. These two figures in the image are both imagining a tree, but their interpretations are quite different. The one on the left visualizes a complex, large, healthy tree. The other character…not so much. What is the reason for this difference? I insist that one’s background, including education, experience, and imaginations are at least in part responsible for such a different conception of a single word.
The understanding and interpretation of literature is a lot like that image above. As readers, we cannot fully grasp the “intended” meaning of the author. Understanding is “realizing new potential in the text, making a difference to it” (62). It is alright to have a different understanding than the one the author originally intended. To me, this is the art of literature, “for readers do not of course encounter texts in a void: all readers are socially and historically positioned, and how they interpret literary works will be deeply shaped by this fact” (72).
Works Cited:
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Canon is full of it -- and I don't mean great Literature
"Anything can be literature, and anything which is regarded as unalterably and unquestionably literature -- Shakespeare, for example -- can cease to be literature" (9)
Despite what some people will persistently argue, literature is not objective. I come to this conclusion after reflecting on two important ideas: (1) that the so-called “great” Literature is purely a social construct, and (2) literature is not based on what is written but how one interprets it.
Allow me to begin my discussion with the social construct that is “the literary canon.” There is no such thing as “great literature.” It simply does not exist. This unquestioned canon “has to be recognized as a construct, fashioned by particular people for particular reasons at a certain time” (10). Let’s not forget that art is often merely a commodity, just like most other things in life. Some of the most esteemed writers wrote purely to influence or persuade people politically, economically, or socially. These types of writings became valuable because they materialized the visions of upper-class, white society. Because of this, the “value” factor becomes problematic. “Value,” after all, “is a transitive term: it means whatever is valued by certain people in specific situations, according to particular criteria” (10). Therefore, literature is not objective. Instead, it is a subjective construct based on the decisions of only a few men. Since this is the case, “it is thus quite possible that, given a deep enough transformation of our history, we may in the future produce a society which is unable to get anything at all of Shakespeare,” who is, of course, part of this biased canon.
All this brings me to point number two: Literature is not based on what is written but how one interprets it. Let me illustrate with an example.
First, let’s consider this photo:
At first glance, this may seem to be a very basic picture pointing to an exit from a subway station. However, let’s imagine this scenario: a woman who has been oppressed her entire life decides to run away. She might view the subway station as a representation of her life – the timely schedule the subway runs on could be compared to the strict routine of her life, while the narrow walls may represent the limited chances for escape from such a mundane existence. For her, then, the “way out” sign could be symbolic and meaningful in ways other people cannot fathom. It could symbolize her chance to escape and free herself from the firm grasp of societal expectations.
The “way out” sign, then, can have multiple interpretations based on context and personal experiences. In the same way, literature – including any form of art – is not based on what is written literally, but how one interprets its meaning. The interpretation is more important than the text itself.
Literature, like all forms of art, is subjective. It receives its value not because a few white men chose to label it “great” decades ago, but because it has meaning to someone somewhere.
Works Cited:
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
Despite what some people will persistently argue, literature is not objective. I come to this conclusion after reflecting on two important ideas: (1) that the so-called “great” Literature is purely a social construct, and (2) literature is not based on what is written but how one interprets it.
Allow me to begin my discussion with the social construct that is “the literary canon.” There is no such thing as “great literature.” It simply does not exist. This unquestioned canon “has to be recognized as a construct, fashioned by particular people for particular reasons at a certain time” (10). Let’s not forget that art is often merely a commodity, just like most other things in life. Some of the most esteemed writers wrote purely to influence or persuade people politically, economically, or socially. These types of writings became valuable because they materialized the visions of upper-class, white society. Because of this, the “value” factor becomes problematic. “Value,” after all, “is a transitive term: it means whatever is valued by certain people in specific situations, according to particular criteria” (10). Therefore, literature is not objective. Instead, it is a subjective construct based on the decisions of only a few men. Since this is the case, “it is thus quite possible that, given a deep enough transformation of our history, we may in the future produce a society which is unable to get anything at all of Shakespeare,” who is, of course, part of this biased canon.
All this brings me to point number two: Literature is not based on what is written but how one interprets it. Let me illustrate with an example.
First, let’s consider this photo:
At first glance, this may seem to be a very basic picture pointing to an exit from a subway station. However, let’s imagine this scenario: a woman who has been oppressed her entire life decides to run away. She might view the subway station as a representation of her life – the timely schedule the subway runs on could be compared to the strict routine of her life, while the narrow walls may represent the limited chances for escape from such a mundane existence. For her, then, the “way out” sign could be symbolic and meaningful in ways other people cannot fathom. It could symbolize her chance to escape and free herself from the firm grasp of societal expectations.
The “way out” sign, then, can have multiple interpretations based on context and personal experiences. In the same way, literature – including any form of art – is not based on what is written literally, but how one interprets its meaning. The interpretation is more important than the text itself.
Literature, like all forms of art, is subjective. It receives its value not because a few white men chose to label it “great” decades ago, but because it has meaning to someone somewhere.
Works Cited:
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Print.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Well if Longinus Says it's Sublime...
“For the effect of elevated language is not to persuade the hearers, but to amaze them; and at all times, and in every way, what transports us with wonder is more telling than what merely persuades or gratifies us” (114).
What is sublimity? Perhaps it is the inexplicable. As much as “great” minds (whatever that is and whoever decides it) have tried to explain the sublime, it still entails a sort of mystery. It can be described only in symbolic terms. Longinus, in his attempt to describe sublimity, explains that it is language that can transcend the limits of the human condition. He explains, “For a piece is truly great only if it can stand up to repeated examination, and it is difficult, or rather, impossible to resist its appeal, and it remains firmly and ineffaceably in the memory” (120).
There are, according to Longinus, five sources of sublimity:
1. the ability to form grand conceptions
2. stimulus of powerful and inspired emotion
3. two types of figures: figures of thought and figures of speech
4. noble diction
5. dignified and elevated word-arrangement
As peachy as this all sounds, it stimulates many questions in my humble mind. Firstly, I wonder who is to judge sublimity. In other words, is sublimity subjective? Is it universal or personal? I think Longinus would argue for the former. If Longinus says something is sublime, then it must be so!
During class yesterday, we were asked to share our thoughts on the sublime, and just as I suspected, everyone’s examples were different. We were asked, “Why is this sublime to you?” I don’t know how Longinus would feel about that question, but I think it was the right one to ask. Sublimity is not universal. We all come from different backgrounds, experiences, beliefs, and ideas, so how can we be moved by the same text? What is sublime for one person may be foreign to another.
I can think of numerous texts that have been sublime for me based on Longinus’ definition.
Here’s one:
To answer the question that was asked of us yesterday (Why is this sublime to me?), I would say that it inspires emotions otherwise lost.
Why does this happen?
It is important, I think, to acknowledge my identity as an Armenian-American. Although I will not get into the tragic history of the Armenians, it is, nevertheless, a crucial element in inspiring these emotions for me as an Armenian.
I realize that this video may not be sublime for all who watch it, but that is precisely the point. Since sublimity (as I have tried to explain) is subjective, it does not have to be universal. Context, content, and personal experience will influence one’s own definition of the sublime.
After all, who are we to judge sublimity?
Works Cited: Longinus. "On the Sublime." Classical Literary Criticism. Trans.Penelope Murray and T.S.Dorsch. London: Penguin, 2000. 113-166.
Print.
What is sublimity? Perhaps it is the inexplicable. As much as “great” minds (whatever that is and whoever decides it) have tried to explain the sublime, it still entails a sort of mystery. It can be described only in symbolic terms. Longinus, in his attempt to describe sublimity, explains that it is language that can transcend the limits of the human condition. He explains, “For a piece is truly great only if it can stand up to repeated examination, and it is difficult, or rather, impossible to resist its appeal, and it remains firmly and ineffaceably in the memory” (120).
There are, according to Longinus, five sources of sublimity:
1. the ability to form grand conceptions
2. stimulus of powerful and inspired emotion
3. two types of figures: figures of thought and figures of speech
4. noble diction
5. dignified and elevated word-arrangement
As peachy as this all sounds, it stimulates many questions in my humble mind. Firstly, I wonder who is to judge sublimity. In other words, is sublimity subjective? Is it universal or personal? I think Longinus would argue for the former. If Longinus says something is sublime, then it must be so!
During class yesterday, we were asked to share our thoughts on the sublime, and just as I suspected, everyone’s examples were different. We were asked, “Why is this sublime to you?” I don’t know how Longinus would feel about that question, but I think it was the right one to ask. Sublimity is not universal. We all come from different backgrounds, experiences, beliefs, and ideas, so how can we be moved by the same text? What is sublime for one person may be foreign to another.
I can think of numerous texts that have been sublime for me based on Longinus’ definition.
Here’s one:
To answer the question that was asked of us yesterday (Why is this sublime to me?), I would say that it inspires emotions otherwise lost.
Why does this happen?
It is important, I think, to acknowledge my identity as an Armenian-American. Although I will not get into the tragic history of the Armenians, it is, nevertheless, a crucial element in inspiring these emotions for me as an Armenian.
I realize that this video may not be sublime for all who watch it, but that is precisely the point. Since sublimity (as I have tried to explain) is subjective, it does not have to be universal. Context, content, and personal experience will influence one’s own definition of the sublime.
After all, who are we to judge sublimity?
Works Cited: Longinus. "On the Sublime." Classical Literary Criticism. Trans.Penelope Murray and T.S.Dorsch. London: Penguin, 2000. 113-166.
Print.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Imitation: noitatimI
“Since you have urged me in my turn to write down my thoughts on the sublime for your gratification, we should consider whether my views contain anything of value to men in public life” (114).
Plato’s theory that poetry is a form of mimesis or interpretation and thus is not a form of truth, can be applied to modern methods of discourse. As an introduction to this blog, which is devoted to literary theory, I will juxtapose Plato’s theory of poetry to popular culture, which is, I insist, one form of imitation after another. I will refer to Eminem’s music video “Who’s the Real Slim Shady?” as a supplement to this argument.
Let’s begin with some of Plato’s ideas about poetry. In the introduction chapter of Classical Literary Theory, Penelope Murray explains, “Like all poets before him, Plato is acutely aware that poetry affords its listeners; but for him that is the source of poetry’s greatest danger” (xxiv-xxv). Poetry can be pleasurable, but “pleasure has nothing to do with value” (xxv). Though it can offer its hearers or readers pleasure, poetry, like all forms of art, has the potential to blur our judgments. One could argue that the main goal of poetry is to gratify its audience; thus, it becomes a dangerous weapon for those who are easily enthralled “since the ignorant masses invariably enjoy what is bad for them” (xxv).
Aside from being pleasurable, poetry also has the potential to deceive its audience since it is, after all, merely imitation. Since imitation literally means copying another, there is no originality, and thus is removed from truth. As Plato explains in the Republic:
So what does all this have to do with popular culture in 2010? Simply Everything.
Let’s consider the music video “Who’s the Real Slim Shady?” by Eminem
In the first part of the song, Eminem says, “Of course they [kids] gonna know what intercourse is / by the time they hit fourth grade. / They got the Discovery Channel don't they?” Clearly, this is a commentary about the effects of media on children. Children learn from the media, and ultimately end up mimicking what they see. This becomes a cyclical process of imitation, and consequently, a gradual loss of unique identity.
In the chorus, the lines “'Cause I'm Slim Shady, yes I'm the real Shady / All you other Slim Shadys are just imitating” is repeated, depicting the frustration the “real” Shady feels because so many people have imitated him that he, too, has lost his identity. Of course, this video represents the larger issue at hand: society’s constant tendency to act like someone else. People imitate each other and (oftentimes) celebrities, largely motivated by materialistic values. The imitator’s main goal is to appear like the person he or she is imitating, but just as Plato suggested, “the imitator…knows nothing about the reality, but only about the appearance” (47).
This video is a great commentary on our inarguably imitative culture. We live in a world where kids learn from television, teenagers envy and act like celebrities, and inevitably, they (we) turn out to be imitators. Individuality is lost, originality is forgotten, and rarity replaced with replication.
Works Cited: Classical Literary Criticism. London: Penguin, 2000. Print.
Plato’s theory that poetry is a form of mimesis or interpretation and thus is not a form of truth, can be applied to modern methods of discourse. As an introduction to this blog, which is devoted to literary theory, I will juxtapose Plato’s theory of poetry to popular culture, which is, I insist, one form of imitation after another. I will refer to Eminem’s music video “Who’s the Real Slim Shady?” as a supplement to this argument.
Let’s begin with some of Plato’s ideas about poetry. In the introduction chapter of Classical Literary Theory, Penelope Murray explains, “Like all poets before him, Plato is acutely aware that poetry affords its listeners; but for him that is the source of poetry’s greatest danger” (xxiv-xxv). Poetry can be pleasurable, but “pleasure has nothing to do with value” (xxv). Though it can offer its hearers or readers pleasure, poetry, like all forms of art, has the potential to blur our judgments. One could argue that the main goal of poetry is to gratify its audience; thus, it becomes a dangerous weapon for those who are easily enthralled “since the ignorant masses invariably enjoy what is bad for them” (xxv).
Aside from being pleasurable, poetry also has the potential to deceive its audience since it is, after all, merely imitation. Since imitation literally means copying another, there is no originality, and thus is removed from truth. As Plato explains in the Republic:
“The art of imitation, therefore, is far removed from the truth, and the reason why it produces everything, so it seems, is that it grasps only a small part of any object, and only an image at that. The painter, for example, will paint a cobbler for us, or a carpenter, or any other craftsman, without understanding any of their crafts; but nevertheless, if he is a good painter, he may paint a carpenter and show it from a distance, and deceive children and stupid men into thinking it is a real carpenter” (44)
So what does all this have to do with popular culture in 2010? Simply Everything.
Let’s consider the music video “Who’s the Real Slim Shady?” by Eminem
In the first part of the song, Eminem says, “Of course they [kids] gonna know what intercourse is / by the time they hit fourth grade. / They got the Discovery Channel don't they?” Clearly, this is a commentary about the effects of media on children. Children learn from the media, and ultimately end up mimicking what they see. This becomes a cyclical process of imitation, and consequently, a gradual loss of unique identity.
In the chorus, the lines “'Cause I'm Slim Shady, yes I'm the real Shady / All you other Slim Shadys are just imitating” is repeated, depicting the frustration the “real” Shady feels because so many people have imitated him that he, too, has lost his identity. Of course, this video represents the larger issue at hand: society’s constant tendency to act like someone else. People imitate each other and (oftentimes) celebrities, largely motivated by materialistic values. The imitator’s main goal is to appear like the person he or she is imitating, but just as Plato suggested, “the imitator…knows nothing about the reality, but only about the appearance” (47).
This video is a great commentary on our inarguably imitative culture. We live in a world where kids learn from television, teenagers envy and act like celebrities, and inevitably, they (we) turn out to be imitators. Individuality is lost, originality is forgotten, and rarity replaced with replication.
Works Cited: Classical Literary Criticism. London: Penguin, 2000. Print.
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