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The cherry's on top: Celibacies and surface reading

July 29, 2015 - 08:32
Tags:  Benjamin Kahan, queer studies, Gertrude Stein, Eve Kosovsky Sedgwick, Briallen Hopper, spinsters, celibacy, surfaces

So, I'm late to this, but I finally sat down and had a proper read of Benjy Kahan's 2013 book Celibacies: American Modernism and Sexual Life. [1] What strikes me especially about it is that I think it's the first work of criticism I've read that really makes me appreciate the promise of "surface reading." Anyone who knows me probably knows I'm wholeheartedly #teamdepth, not because I love the depth/surface binary in particular but because so much of what's out there about surface reading and the "postcritical turn" seems dedicated to caricaturing some of the most powerful and interesting criticism of the last several decades and reducing them to some kind of find-the-hidden-code exercise where you line up all the puzzle pieces and the answer is—aha!—a kitten! Fig. 1. Allegedly, Fredric Jameson's interpretive strategy.

Hopefully nobody actually thinks that about critique and we're all just trying to make a point. Eve Sedgwick does a beautiful job of pointing out the tendencies of "paranoid" reading without erasing its generativity. [2] I especially appreciate Sedgwick's demurral at making "paranoid reading" (a potentially very pathologizing name) about a critic's unsuitable emotions or state of mind.

Still, the temporalizing effect of the "postcritical" hints that old-school (so to speak) critique is over, not so much wrong as behind the times—it's not "the way we read now," to quote the title of the special issue of Representations in which Stephen Best and Sharon Marcus most famously advanced the idea of surface reading. [3] Or at least, it's not the way we should read now. Paranoid reading is proper to the paranoid 80s and 90s, it's suggested; the criticism of our time must be different. [4]

I've argued elsewhere that what we think of as "surface" in the reading that we have produced as contemporary has everything to do with what people thought reading was a hundred years ago, so, okay, I have a little bit invested in the alleged contemporaneity of certain reading practices. [5]

What Celibacies does differently is show why attending to the surface need not be an ascetic renunciation of interpretive richness at all—just as celibacy itself need not be an ascetic renunciation, although sometimes it is that too. [6] Celibacies sets out to question what Kahan, after Foucault, calls "the expressive hypothesis." If, for Foucault, the "repressive hypothesis" is an erroneous belief that sexual expression has been repressed by social convention (when in fact those very social conventions around sex are an incitement to speech that produces sexuality as a category), "we still have not fully grappled with the immense challenge that the repressive hypothesis poses—namely, how can sexuality studies avoid positioning itself opposite silence, repression, and power?" [7] The expressive hypothesis is another version of the repressive hypothesis: the expectation that every closet will contain a queer (who could, and probably should, be "expressed"—"come out"). The expressive hypothesis forgets the potentially liberatory possibilities (or complex liberal compromises, in some cases) of not saying, not doing, not choosing, not identifying. Hence the epigraph that Kahan chooses for the monograph, from Sedgwick's Epistemology of the Closet: "Many people have their richest mental/emotional involvement with sexual acts that they don't do, or even don't want to do."

In eschewing a depth model, then, Kahan isn't repudiating interpretive richness. Rather, he argues, celibacy taken as celibacy keeps its richness on its surface. Taken at face value, celibacy is both normative (no sex happening here!) and deviant (no sex happening here!). [8]

Is it a cover for queer sex? Is it a positive sexuality in its own right? Is it a repudiation of sex? Is it a woman's regretful renunciation in exchange for rights she could not have under marriage? Is it a queer route to normative citizenship or religious belonging? Is it a lie? If we haven't yet steamed ahead with the expressive hypothesis, then the answers are yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. "While the epistemology of the closet is an epistemology of the open secret," Kahan writes, "celibacy offers an epistemology of the empty secret": in other words, we can know something, or many somethings, even when there's "no there there." [9] Surface, in this "celibate reading," isn't a repudiation of meaning but the place where meanings proliferate—and produce text.

The importance of reframing the expressive hypothesis comes to the fore in Kahan's exploration of celibacy's specific purchase on the social sphere, contra what Michael Warner calls "the deep and resilient moral fantasy...that reproduction is essentially generous," which leaves the celibate "estranged from reproductive sexuality" and "from life itself." [10] "Whereas most sexual formations are associated with private interests (even as they have public elements)," Kahan argues, "celibacy is associated with the public good. ...[C]elibacy is not just a public identity, but one that motivates (rather than merely instrumentalizes) styles of and performances of publicness." [11]

Briallen Hopper's recent, brilliant essay on spinsters brings into relief how truly social the celibate's alleged unsociability is, and how necessary a lingua franca of celibate sociality is in the present moment:

There are urgent reasons why spinsters need to look beyond the self and resist the system. As [Louisa May] Alcott’s insistence on the ballot box [in An Old-Fashioned Girl] suggests, insofar as the conversation about unmarried women remains a conversation about choice and individual temperament and not about politics, it is missing something important. Even though the contingencies of when and whom I marry don’t define my existence, marriage is still an important legal and social category with implications for many practical and symbolic aspects of adult life. Because in our culture, marriage is a choice, but it also isn’t. It’s a rom-com ending and a party with a cake, but it’s also a systemic mechanism that separates the enfranchised from the disenfranchised, the included from the excluded.

And unfortunately, the momentous Obergefell v. Hodges SCOTUS decision remedies some of these injustices while shoring other injustices up. In too many important ways, marriage and the couple form are still the legal and social prerequisites for the sharing of resources and lives, the care of sick, the parenting of children. And this arbitrary conflation of marriage with the commitments and responsibilities of adult life sometimes turns unmarried people into second-class citizens, and devalues many necessary forms of love.


In order to recuperate these "many necessary forms of love," it's important to be able to read the "celibacy plots," as Kahan calls them, that run orthogonally to the marriage plot. (In one of the book's best moments, Kahan reads Andy Warhol's 1965 film My Hustler as portraying "cockblocking as a celibate act that is both auto- and alloerotic.") [12]

As Mark Goble points out in Beautiful Circuits, the scandal of modernist celibacy is actually its surface reading: “Has Gertrude Stein a secret?" Goble asks, citing the title of the psychologist B. F. Skinner's Stein exposé in The Atlantic. [13] "The answer is of course ‘yes’ and by the way, it’s not about sex.” Instead, it's about Stein's history of experiments in automatic reading and writing. [14] But the scandalous thing that is "not about sex," as Celibacies makes beautifully clear, is precisely pluripotential because it remains on the surface—it's a sexual yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, polymorphously perverse in its denials—of authorial subjectivity, of mind's supremacy over body, of writing's "value."

I've argued that women's information work, such as typing (and Kahan notes that when such work was done professionally, it was inevitably by the unmarried, although, as my essay explores, this overlaps with married women's domestic labor), prototypes the kind of compromised reading that has come to be seen as "the way [should?] we read now." [15] Here's an example from Stein's Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas that lets us see what "celibate" surface reading offers:

Etta Cone offered to typewrite Three Lives and she began. Baltimore is famous for the delicate sensibilities and conscientiousness of its inhabitants. It suddenly occurred to Gertrude Stein that she had not told Etta Cone to read the manuscript before beginning to typewrite it. She went to see her and there indeed was Etta Cone faithfully copying the manuscript letter by letter so that she might not by any indiscretion become conscious of the meaning. Permission to read the text having been given the typewriting went on. [16]


The propriety of Etta Cone's refusal to read—her Baltimorean "delicate sensibilities"—is exactly the same thing as its perversity. Celibacies elaborates the logic that locates propriety and perversity the same depthless act.   █

* * *

Benjamin Kahan, Celibacies: American Modernism and Sexual Life. Durham: Duke University Press, 2013. 232 pages.

* * *

This essay is cross-posted from my blog.

* * *

pls make this fanfic happen

[I did actually try to come up with a title that wasn't also a filthy double-entendre but failed. Paranoid reading: still the way we read now.]


1. Benjamin Kahan, Celibacies: American Modernism and Sexual Life (Durham: Duke University Press, 2013).

2. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, “Paranoid Reading and Reparative Reading, Or, You’re So Paranoid, You Probably Think This Essay Is About You,” In Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity, 123–51, Series Q (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003).

3. Stephen Best and Sharon Marcus, “Surface Reading: An Introduction,” "The Way We Read Now," spec. issue of Representations 108, no. 1 (November 1, 2009): 1–21. doi:10.1525/rep.2009.108.1.1.

4. This is why I called dibs on the title "Nobody Cares What You Believe: The X-Files Reboot and the Postcritical Turn."

5. To clarify: my point is not the boringly true one that people did plenty of reading "at the surface" before now, but rather that contemporary surface reading owes a specific debt to early C20 fascinations with compromised cognition, which directly and materially produced the conditions under which surface reading can now be practiced.

6. I think it would be interesting to spend a little time with surface reading's languages of ascesis in light of Kahan's reframing of celibacy.

7. Kahan, Celibacies 3.

8. Kahan, Celibacies 37.

9. Kahan, Celibacies 3.

10. Michael Warner, "Irving's Posterity," ELH 67, no. 3 (2000): 774, quoted in Kahan, Celibacies 54.

11. Kahan, Celibacies 19.

12. Kahan, Celibacies, 133.

13. B. F. Skinner, “Has Gertrude Stein a Secret?” The Atlantic Monthly 153, no. 1 (January 1934): 50–57. 14.

Mark Goble, Beautiful Circuits: Modernism and the Mediated Life (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010): 128.

15. Kahan, Celibacies, 15; Cecire, “Ways of Not Reading Gertrude Stein,” ELH 82, no. 1 (2015): 281-312.

16. Gertrude Stein, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, in Writings, 1903-1932: Q.E.D., Three Lives, Portraits and Other Short Works, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, ed. Catharine R. Stimpson and Harriet Scott Chessman (New York: Library of America, 1998).

Walter Pater's Renaissance

July 20, 2015 - 15:14
Tags:  Pater, Ruskin, Emerson, Tillyard, Renaissance, OED

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Wikimedia ( I, II 

In the used bookstores of Boston in the late 1980s, the Renaissance section always had multiple cheap copies of two books: E.M.W. Tillyard’s The Elizabethan World Picture and Walter Pater’s The Renaissance. What this fact suggests to me is that these two books were standard fare for undergraduate courses in the 1950s, 60s, and 70s and shaping influences on what “the Renaissance” was taken to mean. I know what Tillyard was: his book (I might as well admit that I find it not very good) subsequently became subject to many attacks, particularly in Britain, for the (allegedly) static, comforting picture of the Renaissance it offered innocent young minds. But Tillyard was a subject of debate, because he felt influential enough to merit rebuttal.

What about Pater? I don’t know if he appeared on syllabi, but he probably did. All those used copies had to have come from somewhere. Yet I can’t think of a single thing written in the last thirty years that felt the need either to denounce or to celebrate Pater’s account of the Renaissance: one reason I am writing this post is to see if anyone out there knows of one, and I will make a more explicit cry for your help at the end. Perhaps Pater seemed so unthreatening or so bland that he just slipped out of Renaissance scholarly time. The one exception I can think of is studies of sexuality. In examinations of, say, Shakespeare’s Sonnets, Pater’s book, especially the Conclusion, might be invoked (though not as often as Oscar Wilde’s The Portrait of Mr W.H.) as code for male-male sexual desire, and hence as part of a broad Victorian shift in sexuality. Yet this invocation is itself a sign: Pater is about the nineteenth century, about its conceptions of art and sex, and readings of his book would get filed under the heading “Pater criticism,” firmly entrenched in the nineteenth-century section of the MLA convention program.

But I have a question: does Pater tell you anything about the Renaissance? Does his account of aestheticism help understand the period? There are a lot of subtle stakes in those questions, of course. I could be wrong about this, but my guess is that one reason Pater is never invoked to describe the Renaissance anymore is that the entire question of art, or at least aestheticism, for a lot of people seems to be inextricably tied to the nineteenth century, and in particular to some vague sense of “universal human values.” And such ideas obscure the Renaissance rather than reveal it. But anyone who has ever used the OED to show how a meaning of a word is anachronistic must realize that relations between the Renaissance and the nineteenth century are…complicated. The OED too is itself a nineteenth-century invention, focused on nineteenth-century questions, and dripping with its own elitism, sexism, colonialism, nationalism…and yet it is indispensible for study of the Renaissance.  

And this paradox leads me back to Pater. It seems to me Pater must have thought he was trying to describe something about the Renaissance, and he thought that the period’s most important characteristic was its art. Of course he was also describing his own time. But was that all he was doing? I’m not sure. So this fall I am teaching a graduate course about Renaissance conceptions of art. The course’s main tour guide will be Rancière’s Aisthesis, itself a dexterous rejigging of Kant, Hegel, and Auerbach that presents some periodizing challenges (Rancière’s thesis: there is no art before Winckelmann). But I wonder if Pater and a few of his contemporaries might not have something to say about current readings of the Renaissance. There has, for example, been a small debate over the last few years in the study of Shakespeare. Did Shakespeare imagine his plays as literature (to be read later) or as performances driven by a combination of economic necessity, political delicacies, and the fickle taste of theater-goers? Could reading Pater help reconfigure that debate? Is “aesthetic” a term that might help sort out the stakes of the argument?

In this spirit, Rancière has a particularly brilliant account of John Ruskin’s love of Gothic (the precursor of the Arts and Crafts movement, and, most surprising to me anyway, twentieth-century German industrial design). But Rancière does not mention that in The Stones of Venice Ruskin’s Gothic is set up against Ruskin’s Renaissance, the period when, as far as Ruskin was concerned, everything that is bad in the world began to happen. Ruskin is a little crazy, but he certainly isn’t stupid. What about his account of the Renaissance-as-evil? Does it tell us something about the sixteenth century, or is it only an expression of Victorian sentiment to be bracketed off? 

Here is another example. Emerson too was a little odd, but he was also a very canny reader. This is what he wrote about Renaissance poetry in his journal in 1828:

Is it not true, what we so reluctantly hear, that men are but the mouthpiece of a great progressive Destiny, in as much as regards literature? I had rather asked, is not the age gone by of the great splendor of English poetry, and will it not be impossible for any age soon to vie with the pervading ethereal poesy of Herbert, Shakespeare, Marvell, Herrick, Milton, Ben Jonson; at least to represent anything like their peculiar form of ravishing verse? It is the head of human poetry. Homer and Virgil and Dante and Tasso and Byron and Wordsworth have powerful genius whose amplest claims I cheerfully acknowledge. But ‘t’ is a pale ineffectual fire when theirs shine. They would lie on my shelf in undisturbed honour for years, if these Saxon lays stole on my ear. I have for them an affectionate admiration I have for nothing else. They set me on the speculations. They move my wonder at myself. 

What does it mean for Renaissance poetry to set you on “speculations?” How do you your wonder at yourself? Does it have something to do with “a great progressive Destiny?” Those are nineteenth century questions, no doubt, but Emerson himself locates one origin for them in Renaissance poetry. Should his love of this “pervading ethereal poesy” be taken seriously as an account of Herbert, Shakespeare, Marvell, Herrick, Milton, Ben Jonson? At the very least, why is Renaissance art so important for him?

So here is my question: if anyone knows of anything—a book, an article, a lecture, a syllabus, whatever—that invokes Pater (or Ruskin or Emerson!) as a guide to the Renaissance, or really anything that insists Pater (or Ruskin or Emerson) be dismissed or bracketed, I would like to see it so I can show it to the graduate students.  They can then make their own decisions. Post a response here or email me, and I promise to let everyone know if this course succeeds or turns out to be a well-intentioned disaster.

Defiance at Despair: On the Meaning of the Greek "No"

July 16, 2015 - 06:48
Tags:  Economic austerity, Greece, Greek crisis, Greek referendum, Europe, Eurogroup, neoliberalism

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Flickr ( I ) and Wikimedia ( I 

Why would people seem to vote for their own destruction? Why would they go against their own economic interests? Why would they risk abandoning the Euro?

Perplexed politicians, journalists, and ordinary individuals from around the world posed these questions following the Greek referendum on Sunday, July 5, 2015. Friends, colleagues discussed this with me as well. No one could make sense of how an entire nation could defy the European political and economic establishment and jeopardize its future.

In the hastily arranged referendum the Greek people were asked to vote on whether to accept the latest offer presented to them by their European creditors. The radical-left government of Alexis Tsipras, elected to power in January 2015, had been engaged in acrimonious and fruitless negotiation with the European creditors to alleviate the burden of this debt that had plunged the Greek economy in a depression unprecedented in time of peace. Not only were the creditors unwilling to offer debt-relief but they also presented Tsipras with an ultimatum to accept their latest proposal. Unwilling to buckle to these demands and renege on his elections promises, Tsipras announced the referendum on whether to accept this offer from the creditors.

The referendum was to take place in a week when the social, political, and economic conditions of the country were becoming perilous. Not being able to pay the latest installment to the IMF, Greece was technically in default. Worse still, the Greek people, fearful of an imminent exit from the Euro, emptied the ATMs in one weekend.

In a political move, the European Central Bank refused to offer any more liquidity to the Greek Central Bank. As a result the Greek government imposed currency controls, with each citizen able to withdraw €60 daily (about U.S. $66.00). Lines continued to form everyday, with pictures on television of senior citizens fainting in front of closed banks. There were stories of Greeks hoarding food and medicines and other news accounts reporting shortages.

To many commentators inside and outside of Greece this was going to be a taste of things to come, the chaos that would ensue after a Greek exit from the Euro. People were understandably frightened. And I, having just returned to the US from a five-month research trip to Athens, was worried about my relatives, friends, neighbors, and colleagues.

World attention focused on Greece, with over 1000 correspondents arriving in Athens to cover the referendum. How would Greeks vote? Would they be horrified at the worsening economic state of their country and cross the Yes box? Or would they jump into the abyss outside of the Euro?

Astonishingly, 61% voted against the latest offer from the creditors. People, including myself who had hoped for a Yes vote, were shocked and dumbfounded. Why did they do it? I offer below a provisional attempt to understand.

First, one must remember that for the last five years Greece has been undergoing a severe depression that was orchestrated by the neoliberal policies of the Eurogroup, the IMF, and the European Central Bank. As Thomas Piketty pointed out in the Guardian, the economy has shrunk by 25%, unemployment is 25%, with youth unemployment set at over 60%. Wages and salaries have been cut back by as much as 40%. There is widespread poverty and misery. No modern, western economy has experienced such implosion since WWII.

Believing that they had little more to lose, some people began to think the unthinkable, to take risks, the see themselves beyond fear. Greeks whom I spoke with told me that they could not bear the conditions of life any longer and wanted to send a message to the world.

Above all, they wanted to maintain their dignity. Over and over, they said that their self-worth was more important than their pocketbooks. It was this aspect of pride and defiance that European and American commentators had a hard time understanding—that a people could exist for whom self-respect and honor were more significant than economic well-being.

It is important to keep in mind that “Ochi,” the Greek word for “No,” has symbolic associations in Greek history. In 1821 the Greeks launched the first national revolution in the world to end 400 years of Ottoman rule. In October 28, 1940 they said "Ochi" to the invasion of their country by the army of Benito Mussolini. Indeed October 28 is celebrated as Ochi Day, a national holiday. Subsequently Greeks fought valiantly against the Nazi invasion, even when the Germans took gruesome reprisals against them, prompting Winston Churchill to declare that, “hence we will not say that Greeks fight like heroes but that heroes fight like Greeks.”

It was this boldness that expressed itself during the referendum. Young and old, workers and professionals, showed that in utter hopelessness you could maintain your dignity. And we, accustomed to materialist explanations of human motivation, namely that people would chose their pocket books over pride, have difficulty understanding this.

As Pericles said in his oration to the Athenians in 431 BCE, “happiness depends on being free, and freedom depends on being courageous.” This freedom became more elusive a week after the referendum when the Eurogroup, led by Germany, converted Greece into a debtor’s colony, punishing the Greeks for their defiance.

But we should keep in mind the final words of Pericles. “One’s sense of honor is the only thing that does not grow old, and the last pleasure, when one is worn with age, is not making money” but having one’s self-respect.

For and Against Machines: Beyond the New Jetsonism

July 2, 2015 - 12:13

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Flickr ( I 

It is with Peter Frase’s “techno-skeptic vs. techno-utopian dichotomy” in mind that I want to revisit the futurist current that has recently resurfaced on the “new new left” and which was the subject of the debate I excerpted in my initial blog post. We might see one ostentatious example of this tendency in Aaron Bastani’s “fully automated luxury communism” (FALC). Faced with the threat of a jobless future, Bastani proposes the automation of everything plus “Cartier for everyone, MontBlanc for the masses and Chloe for all." As an admittedly utopian critic notes, one problem (among many) with this proposal is that Bastani puts “too much faith in capitalist technology overcoming scarcity and the need for labour,” while he “fails to imagine a more general transformation of social relations." I labeled this tendency and its putative opposite, somewhat tongue-in-cheek, as the Jetsons vs. the Flintstones, in a prior post. 

The Jetsons (like the Flintstones, their Stone Age counterparts) were products of a cold war United States very much invested in the possibility of capitalist technology, or the ideological promise of consumerist abundance for all. Although the Jetsons have flying cars and mechanical servants, 1960s-era children still saw in this family of the future the same social relations with which they were familiar: paterfamilias George, pampered housewife Jane, children Judy and Elroy, and their robot maid, Rosie. Apparently 2062 is 1962 with pills for food. The Jetsons were indistinguishable from the Flintstones save for the costumes and the gadgetry, reinforcing the idea that while technical progress is potentially limitless, capitalist social relations are immutable. The new futurism—which differs from a more theoretically-inflected and often defiantly antihumanist accelerationism, despite sharing many of its goals—could in many respects be described as Jetsonism: a Fordist idyll.

We can see this tendency in Rachel Lauden’s plea for “culinary modernism.” Lauden juxtaposes modern industrial food with the artisanal and organic “Luddism” supposedly exemplified by Michael Pollan and Alice Waters, who, despite their status as modern (if romantic) critics of the American food system, are taken to task for their historical inaccuracies. Invented traditions aside, Lauden lets us know that the past and its benighted eating habits were in fact a terrible thing

More to the point is Miya Tokumitsu’s “defense of machines.” In “Why We Should Listen to Frank Lloyd Wright,” Tokumitsu takes up the cudgel for industrial production against the “‘artisanal,’ ‘small batch,’ ‘heirloom,’ and ‘bespoke.’” As the title indicates, the article pivots on architect Wright’s criticism of William Morris, the nineteenth-century utopian socialist, who championed a revived artisanal work ethos in opposition to the degrading and degraded condition of labor under the factory system in late Victorian England. She reminds us how “according to Wright, artists understandably saw the Machine as a threat, an assault on the 'handicraft ideal.' But Wright argued that this ideal had outlived its usefulness. Rather than lament the obsolescence of the handicraft ideal, we should embrace the fact that there is no longer a need for fussy joining and tinkering. Indeed, the Machine could be instrumental in "saving the most precious thing in the world—human effort.”

Tokumitsu in this way argues that machines—and, by extension, industrial production techniques—have liberated us from “needless toil,” while the obsession with “the artisanal production of yesteryear” ignores “the widespread racial, gender, and class oppression that it entailed.” Tokumitsu builds on Lauden’s analysis of present-day “culinary Luddites”—who are blinded by a combination of class privilege and a backward-looking romanticism—to extol the labor-saving wonders of modern technology. That these same labor-saving machines have also enabled employers to exploit, discipline, and monitor their workers in ways unimaginable to the nineteenth-century capitalist, while intensifying the “widespread racial, gender, and class oppression” supposedly ignored by the urban gardener in the act of growing her tomatoes, goes unremarked.

To her credit, toward the close of her article, Tokumitsu acknowledges as much: “And still, the Machine’s liberatory potential remains untapped. It persists as a tool of enslavement, increasing rather than decreasing our workloads by facilitating speedups and allowing professional communication to infiltrate our domestic space.”

In other words, Tokumitsu relies on the productivist reading of Marx alluded to in a previous post, as she waits for the day when forces will be unfettered from  relations of production. Yet, with her telling caveat, we learn that Tokumitsu’s version of technological modernity is as selective in its treatment of “the Machine” as her artisanal opponents' alleged mis-appropriation of the past and its traditions. Although we might see in the artisanal phenomenon a deliberate repurposing of the past for decidedly modern ends, much like Lauden and our other Jetsons, Tokumitsu can only discern in these aesthetic engagements with tradition a dangerous “nostalgia” that threatens to undermine the present. Or not quite, because, the “liberatory potential of the Machine remains untapped” under current, capitalist, conditions. It is only from the vantage point of a hypothetical technosocialist future—like news from nowhere—that today’s capitalist machines (or rather their potentials) are redeemed retroactively. What we have here is indeed a futurist aesthetic posture, and a nostalgic one at that.

Rather than reduce every romantic recreation of tradition to some atavistic longing in need of factual correction, we might instead keep William Morris’s words in defense of his own medievalism in mind: “To those who have the hearts to understand, this tale of the past is a parable of the days to come.” For Kristen Ross, a parable, in Morris’s sense, “is not about going backwards or reversing time but about opening it up,” in order to “recruit past hopes to serve present needs” while providing “clues to the free forms of a whole new economic life in the future” (Ross, Communal Luxury, 75).

And what is this artisanal movement that Tokumitsu bashes throughout her article? If her adjectives (e.g., “heirloom,” “small batch") are too oblique, the subsequent references to Fuck Your Noguchi Coffee Table, Portlandia, and “contemporary markets for mustache wax and obscure herbaceous liquors” should clue you in.  Tokumitsu’s tongue-in-cheek hipster bashing highlights the extent to which present day evocations of the artisanal aren’t expressions of a movement—much less a concerted effort to undo industrial civilization—but a set of niche-branding strategies for luxury goods. She makes her initially tacit critique explicit at several points throughout the article. These include references to one luxury condo developer’s handicraft-oriented advertising copy, the unaffordability of high-priced fair trade goods, and the ostensibly “neoliberal values of individualism and social atomization” that Tokumitsu counterintuitively aligns with “the handicraft ideal,” exemplified in the work of ninteenth-century utopian socialist William Morris.

For Tokumitsu, while the existence of this artisanal capitalism undercuts our artisans' claims for countercultural status or utopian possibility, we are also told to embrace the emancipatory potential of the Machine, despite its currently being a specifically capitalist “tool of enslavement.”

As Tokumitsu admits at one point in her essay, to the extent that the “artisanal” is a thing outside of advertising, it is a DIY hobby. Tokumitsu’s description of this subculture is a mélange of present-day cultural stereotypes whose only common denominator is sucking. Our new artisans are Portlandia-style eco-hippies and haute bourgeois consumers who seek to allay their liberal guilt through ethical consumption habits. Yet we are also told that the “DIY culture of craft is strong on the libertarian right, taking form in home-butchered meat and the construction of bunkers and local militias.” While this sounds more like survivalism than libertarianism, on closer inspection we might find that techno-utopianism is the preferred flavor of the libertarian right.

Like the “hipster," the figure of the “artisanal” yokes disparate social and cultural phenomena into an all-purpose bogeyman that serves to displace any analysis of the structural dynamics—such as gentrication or increasingly precarious and, yes, alienated labor conditions—at play beneath the surface of these cultural and social conflicts.

Embedded within the parable of this artisanal hobby is a dream of emancipated work freely undertaken in a space beyond the compulsions of the market; in this dream, the worker controls every aspect of an aestheticized production process from start to finish. In a de-industrialized and increasingly de-professionalized U.S. labor market, the downwardly-mobile children of a fast-disappearing “middle class” more and more find themselves in contingent positions in which they perform what resembles piecemeal work, only in digital form. Above and beyond this particular group, most of our waking lives are spent in front of screens, on privately-owned social media platforms. Although a certain sort of accelerationist sees in this process the coming cyborg marriage of human and machine, our condition is better described as the Taylorization of everyday life. It is against this background that we should consider the sensuously material allure of craft work. And to the extent that our 24/7 regime of compulsive work-play-performance represents yet another neoliberal seizure of utopian desire—for the fusion of work and play, meaningful self-directed activity and leisure—the artisanal dream seeks to snatch them back by again imagining labor as art. Yet our present-day artisans are certainly no primitivists, combining as they often do a passion for craft beer and heirloom tomatoes with a compulsive desire to display what they’ve grown, brewed, and built on Tumblr, Twitter and Facebook.

We need only look to Morris’s own formulations to see that there is nothing innately individualist or “neoliberal” about the craft ethos. Morris was a late nineteenth-century example of the utopian romanticism inaugurated by William Godwin and his romantic interlocutors during the 1790s, although his romanticism was arguably transformed by reports of the Paris Commune and Morris's own experiences with communards in exile. Morris wanted “to extend the word art beyond those matters which are conscious works of art, to take in not only painting and sculpture, and architecture, but the shapes and colors of all household goods, nay even the arrangement of the fields for tillage and pasture, the management of towns and highways of all kinds; in a word, to extend it to all the aspect of all externals of our life” (Morris, “Art Under Plutocracy,” quoted in Ross, 63).

In this way, Morris resembles the young Marx of the German Ideology, who notably describes his communist society of the future as one that “regulates the general production and thus makes it possible for me to do one thing today and another tomorrow, to hunt in the morning, fish in the afternoon, rear cattle in the evening, criticise after dinner, just as I have a mind, without ever becoming hunter, fisherman, herdsman or critic." Utopia, in this case, is decidedly artisanal or even Thoreauvian. Yet, we should note that Marx’s idyll relies on a “regulation of general production” that encompasses rational and technological means and methods that, in isolation, could be mistaken for a futurism. The artisanal freedom of Marx's communist dilettante depends on the "machine" of a centralized and advanced production process.

Tokumitsu borrows  the “machine” synecdoche from Frank Lloyd Wright. Wright makes for an odd futurist. With his philosophy of “organic architecture,” Wright developed the modernist functionalism promoted by his teacher Louis Sullivan—who coined the phrase “form follows function”—in a decidedly romantic direction. For Wright, form and function are one, as they are in the natural world: “So here I stand before you preaching organic architecture: declaring organic architecture to be the modern ideal and the teaching so much needed if we are to see the whole of life, and to now serve the whole of life, holding no ‘traditions’ essential to the great TRADITION. Nor cherishing any preconceived form fixing upon us either past, present or future, but—instead—exalting the simple laws of common sense—or of super-sense if you prefer—determining form by way of the nature of materials”  (Frank Lloyd Wright, An Organic Architecture, 1939). 

In his effort to craft an alternative modernity, Wright is a forerunner of the present-day devotees of the artisanal and the organic. In a recognizably romantic fashion, Wright sought to overcome the division between “nature’ and “culture,” “the organic,” and the “artificial.” Rather than directly imitating natural forms, Wright proposed that architects incorporate “nature’s principles” in their use of materials and their overall design. Wright’s architecture fuses natural and industrial material, while his structures are integrated within the natural environments that this anti-urbanist preferred (consider Wright’s “Falling Water"). For Wright, the point was to showcase materials such as wood in their unvarnished or “natural” state.

We can see a prefiguration of the architect’s more mature philosophy in the early plea for "the Machine" that Tokumitsu uses to buttress her argument, when Wright argues, “William Morris pleaded well for simplicity as the basis of all true art. Let us understand the significance to art of that word—SIMPLICITY—for it is vital to the Art of the Machine.” The Machine is not an end in itself but a means to achieve that simplicity, or truth to the nature of materials, also advocated by Morris. Wright was in many ways an heir to the arts-and-crafts movement, even as he argues that the artisanal vision can only be achieved in the twentieth century with the industrial methods, materials, and techniques that were unavailable in the nineteenth; both Wright's organic modernism and Morris's Arts and Crafts movements are better described as later instances of what historian John Trensch calls "mechanical romanticism." Tresch excavates an alternative, and decidedly romantic, view of techne among certain European scientists, philosophers, and writers of the early to mid-nineteenth-century who combined rationalist futurism with a visionary ecology, as he writes: "usually studied as opposites, these exactly contemporary cultural formations—a return to a mythical past and faith in a rational future—intersected in the figure of the romantic machine: a concrete, rational, often utilitarian object that was nevertheless endowed with supernatural, charismatic powers" (Tresch, The Romantic Machine, 14). Wright, in this way, argues for exactly the kind of synthesis that is excluded by a dichotomy that pits those who are for machines against those who are against them.

How can we make sense of these seeming contradictions? In spite of the Jetsons’ insistence that theirs is a positivist outlook, despite their insistence that they traffic in the facts and just the facts, perhaps this line of argument is less about argument and more about signaling? In other words, what we have here is a branding exercise—against the backward looking and the incorrigibly crunchy—which is also an exercise in nostalgia for an earlier twentieth century modernism. According to the Jetsons' own implicit criteria, any selective engagement with the past is nostalgic mystification. The Jetsons' accelerationist fellow travellers are more forthright on this point when they announce at the very start of their manifesto that to "generate a new left global hegemony entails a recovery of lost possible futures, and indeed the recovery of the future as such" (Williams and Srniceck, The Accelerationist Reader, 351). As David Cunningham notes, "it is hard not to sense a 'mood' of nostalgia in contemporary acceleration for a moment when, for example, having put the first man in space and apparently achieved extraordinary rates of industrial  growth, the 'alternative modernity' of the Soviet Union could appear as more modern than its capitalist foe." 

If revolutionary programs are also, in Walter Benjamin's words, "a tiger's leap ino the past" the Jetsons should reconsider their dismissive characterizations of so-called "Luddites" and "artisanalists"—Flintstones all—in terms of a backward looking nostalgia, especially if these dismissals are made in the service of a nostalgic modernism. We on the left might instead recall Morris's parables and the value of usable traditions and alternative pasts in the construction of an alternative future. 

Back to the Future: A Prehistory of the New Utopianism

June 23, 2015 - 12:12

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Flickr ( I ) and Wikimedia ( 

William Godwin, husband of Mary Wollstonecraft, father to Mary Shelley, and philosophical forerunner of modern anarchism, describes a recognizably futurist utopia in the first edition of his Enquiry Concerning Political Justice (1793). Godwin outlines an ideal political and social system under which human beings will flourish after the dissolution of certain institutional arrangements. For Godwin, the state, class hierarchy, private property, and marriage are fetters on the realization of an otherwise limitless human potential. Or, rather, they are errors. Godwin pushes the enlightenment-era deification of ratiocination to a mystical extreme in presenting very real inequities as so many cases of benighted judgment waiting for a personified, yet curiously disembodied, Reason’s correction by way of debate. It was this aspect of Godwin’s project that inspired John Thelwall, the radical writer and public speaker, to declare that while Godwin recommends “the most extensive plan of freedom and innovation ever discussed by a writer in English,” he “reprobate(s) every measure from which even the most moderate reform can be rationally expected” (Thelwall, The Tribune 1796). E.P. Thompson would later echo this verdict in his The Poverty of Theory (1978), when he compared the vogue for structural—or Althusserian—Marxism among certain segments of the 1970s-era new left, to Godwinism, described as another “moment of intellectual extremism, divorced from correlative action or actual social commitment.”

Towards the very end of his book, Godwin does at least confront something like the material limits to action when he considers various objections stemming from “the principle of population.” How can a finite planet with finite resources—in the contemporary idiom—sustain an ever expanding earthly paradise? Godwin’s answers elicited such widespread disdain in the 1790s-era British press that he removed these chapters from the subsequent, chastened, editions of the book. Among his conjectures was that human beings, through an expansion of their reasoning capacities, will achieve an almost telekinetic mastery of matter and its laws: “if mind be essentially progressive, that power may and…infallibly will, extend beyond any bounds we are able to prescribe to it” (455). In this vein, Godwin predicts that human beings will achieve immortality and cease to reproduce, there being no rational reason to do so. Godwin offers us one template for the futurist utopia.

Some critics have seen his daughter Mary Shelley’s characterization of Victor Frankenstein and his “Modern Prometheus” as a critical reflection on Godwin’s speculative program for human acceleration. More relevant for our purposes is the response elicited by Godwin’s speculations in the form of An Essay on The Principle of Population (1798) by the Reverend Thomas Malthus. 

Malthus infamously argues that “the power of population is indefinitely greater than the power in the earth to produce subsistence for man,” with the early industrial revolution’s growing and increasingly immiserated plebeian masses in mind. Motivated by his anti-Jacobin ideological commitment, Malthus uses ostensibly empirical and proto-statistical arguments in order to counter the threat of egalitarianism, rendering utopia and social amelioration as un-scientific errors. Godwin eventually responded to Malthus’s provocation with his own, monumental Of Population (1820). While Malthus was motivated by explicitly reactionary purposes, his mode of analysis shaped the political economy of the nineteenth-century, bourgeois and socialist alike.  The Malthusian emphasis on necessary austerity, to be borne by poor and working class majorities, in response to natural limits, has shaped the subsequent history of environmentalism in the twentieth century, including the primitivist critique of an unsustainable modern capitalist civilization with its unsustainable standards of living.

On the one hand, we might read first-generation English romantic poets William Wordsworth’s and S.T. Coleridge’s retreat into a natural and sublime solitude — their removal from London and the urban mob, in addition to their disavowal of both the French Revolution and Godwinism—as a Malthusian recoil from a more democratic social life. On the other, we can discern in the romantics’ valorization of nature—and an oftentimes invented tradition—an aesthetic protest against an incipient industrial capitalism whose avatars often spoke the same rational, utilitarian, and future-oriented language as William Godwin. Godwin nonetheless advanced an early anarchist version of “political simplicity,” drawing on Rousseau, as a corrective to what he saw as the corrupt, rapidly industrializing England of the later eighteenth century. Godwin also tempered or excised the first edition’s futurist rationalism—predicated on the belief in human perfectibility—in subsequent editions of Political Justice, as he grew to appreciate the importance of affect and history in a recognizably romantic fashion. Late eighteenth-century rationalist idealism, and its futurist utopia, in this way produces its apparent opposites: primitivism and the romantic critique of the modern age.

Nineteenth-century utopianism often oscillated between these two—futurist and primitivist—poles, as the followers of Henri de Saint-Simon and Charles Fourier show us.  Karl Marx breaks with and builds upon his utopian predecessors in multiple ways. He appropriates the language and methods of the “scientific” political economy founded by Malthus  in order to explode its claims and expose its class character. Grounded in an analysis of historical conditions and possibilities, Marx builds on the futurist and romantic strains of utopianism in a way that reveals their partial character, while offering his own version of communism as a reconfigured synthesis of both.

In the wake of  the 2008 financial crisis and global capitalism’s seemingly inescapable “stationary state," Marxism has made a comeback among an unlikely demographic: US millennials. For example, The Washington Post recently profiled Jacobin, a leading mouthpiece of the new new left that also sponsors socialist reading circles: “this reading group and others like it around the country, fostered by a magazine founded by a millennial, is trying to take a 19th-century idea that fell out of favor in the 20th century and infuse it with new life for a comeback in the 21st century.” With this resurgence in mind, we might consider Alain Badiou's claim that “we are are much closer to the 19th century than to the last century. In the dialectical division of history we have, sometimes, to move ahead of time. Perhaps like post-1840, we are now confronted with an absolutely cynical capitalism, more and more inspired by the ideas that only work backwards: the poor are justly poor, Africans are underdeveloped, and the future—with no discernable limit—belongs to the civilized bourgeoisie of the Western world.” 

It is no surprise that the utopian dichotomy sketched above has also returned with these other phenomena. However, in many instances, the futurist/primitivist binary has assumed a farcical form, which I rendered in the very twentieth-century terms of the Jetsons vs. the Flintstones. Here, I will focus on the new Jetsonism, particularly as it is exemplified and critiqued in one leading magazine of the new new left.

In the latest issue of Jacobin, Peter Frase calls for “an enlightened Luddism” in addressing the question of technology and socialist strategy: “how to incorporate technology into social thought and political strategy without treating it as external to social relations or falling into the crude techno-utopian versus techno-skeptic dichotomy, all the while recognizing that the technical mediations of labor and capital do have some relatively autonomous existence." Despite the now widespread use of “Luddism” as a catch-all for irrational opposition to technology and the modern age—a misunderstanding actively promoted by the avatars of tech—the Luddites were, in fact, nineteenth century workers whose machine breaking was a tactical and eminently rational mode of labor resistance, enacted with wage concessions in view. Under an emergent capitalist order, these hitherto artisanal workers viewed the machine as a tool in the hand of their de facto masters and a threat to their livelihoods. Karl Marx would later make explicit what was inchoate in the Luddite’s acts of sabotage in a language redolent of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein: “it is the machine which possesses strength and skill in place of the worker…with a soul of its own in the mechanical laws acting through it” (Marx, “Fragment on Machines” in The Accelerationist Reader, 53). 

For Marx, it wasn’t machines as such that depressed wages or made workers obsolete, but technology in the service of the capitalist’s never-ending pursuit of profit. It is only under socialism that the forces unleashed by capital—likened to the sorcerer’s apprentice in Goethe’s poem of the same name—can be properly harnessed and developed for the benefit of a classless humankind. The Bolsheviks arguably sought to realize this vision through industrialization efforts, notably captured in Lenin’s definition of communism as “Soviets plus electrification.” Marx’s approach to technology, as indicated by my quotation from the Grundrisse above, was much more ambivalent, as Paul Heidemann writes: “Marx’s legacy on technology is thus a complicated one, constituted by two sets of oppositions. First, because of its technological dynamism, he saw in capital both the damnation and the salvation of humanity. Refusing either to simply accept or reject the character of technological progress under capitalism, Marx instead dissected it, identifying its driving forces and its potential place in the process of social transformation.” Heidemann, in one of the better examples of “enlightened Luddism” on offer, traces the various trajectories of the Marxian left and its relationship with technology over the course of the twentieth century—from the Wobblies' rejection of the machine to Gramsci’s romance with Fordism—before recommending Harry Braverman’s new left era critique of Taylorism as an important theoretical resource for thinking through the problems of technology, labor, and exploitation. Braverman argues that the assembly line – as well as the various scientific management techniques once lionized in the USSR for their impact on worker efficiency – is an expression of class power rather than a neutral instrument to be repurposed under a different set of social arrangements.

Braverman draws on Marxist theory and his own experiences as a metalworker in describing the systematic degradation of labor under industrial capitalism, which continues apace, in our own supposedly “postindustrial” moment.

Frase’s “enlightened Luddism” resonates with my own call for a position on technology, progress and collective emancipation beyond the “techno-skeptic vs. techno-utopian dichotomy.” The ecological crisis represents a planetary threat to human life. This threat necessitates a collective and coordinated effort beyond the purview of any purely local or backward-looking approach. The ecological crisis requires both the development of new technologies (e.g. renewables, biodegradable building materials) and the abandonment of some old ones (e.g. fossil fuels, conventional plastics). This effort is fundamentally incompatible with the capitalist growth imperative. And, as forward looking eco-socialists Mike Davis, Michael Lowy and others have argued, it necessitates an alternative mode of social organization. Rather than the intergalactic colonization that left-accelerationists offer as the proverbial launching pad for the reconstitution of communism, we might instead leverage our green state of emergency in order to exit the capitolocene and usher in a world of sustainable “red plenty.” (Part 1 of 2).

Famous last words

June 20, 2015 - 18:40
Tags:  Ray Davis, last words

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Image Flickr ( I ) 

I had occasion to be looking over some old blog entries (elsewhere, elsewhere), and came on something I wrote ten years ago, spurred on by a great blog post by Ray Davis.  Don't even read this: go read his.

Anyhow, Davis was writing about last lines, and I wanted to write about actual last words, single last words.  I came up with a list of last words that I thought became, so to speak, neutron-star hypercompressions of the whole works they ended.  Here are some in a more or less random order (a few are translations):


I was both sort of proud and sort of embarrassed that I could remember most but not all of the works from which I took the last words I quote here.

So, parlor games:

1) How many of these can you get? (I am hoping to be reminded of the three I have forgotten, and also hoping that I am right that these are mostly last words that are so closely interlinked with what they come from that this will mainly be easily solvable.)

2) Pose some yourself.

Part of the point here was to contrast these words with the achieved blandness of other kinds of endings, to see that blandness as an achievement, like the end of Hammett's "$106,000 Blood Money": "I felt tired, washed-out." But perhaps that's for another post.

What Happened to White Privilege

June 9, 2015 - 19:27
Tags:  white privilege, white supremacy, white fragility, white denial

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Image Flickr ( I )

Last fall, at the university where I teach, I gave a presentation at a student-organized and student-run conference on the meanings of being an ally for social justice. This was the third year in a row that I presented at this conference, which is put on by a student organization dedicated to educating students on “diversity” issues. This time around, I was invited to say whatever I wanted about Asian Americans. My presentation began rather straightforwardly with a history of stereotypes of Asian people in the US. I added that stereotypes are really just popular stories told to benefit dominant groups within a society. (I am a literature professor, after all.) The “perpetual foreigner” and “model minority” stereotypes, however, are merely subplots. There is really only one story of racism, I told the students, and that is white supremacy. “You shouldn’t aspire to be allies on behalf of Asian Americans,” I said. “You should be allies in the fight against white supremacy.” That means identifying white supremacy, speaking out against white supremacy, using the words, naming the consciousness that controls our lives as people of color and as white people. I ended the presentation and asked for questions. One of the organizers of the event, a polite young white man, raised his hand. “White privilege is a serious problem, too, right?” he asked.

I want to be clear that I am gladdened by this student’s commitment to talking about racism with his peers, and I mention him here because our exchange led me to give more thought to why white privilege has become such a thing. I’ve been teaching about white privilege for over a decade, and it has been a thing in academia for much longer than that, but I’m pretty sure that it didn’t become a thing on a broad cultural level until Bill O’Reilly and Jon Stewart started arguing about it on TV. It doesn’t really matter that O’Reilly doesn’t think that white privilege is real, or that the academic literature on it is thirty years old, or that people of color have been talking about it in other ways for hundreds of years; the very fact that white people who aren’t college students, recent college graduates, or professors are talking about it has brought it into a new kind of existence. This generation of white college students can return home for Thanksgiving and mention that they are learning about white privilege, and their parents will know what they are talking about, even if they disagree with its premise. White privilege has become part of the vernacular, in other words, despite how a social institution as influential as mass media might shape the discourse.

However, I’m not sure that the social institution in which I participate most directly—education—hasn’t also done its part to confuse matters, just in a different way. For a long time, I was as responsible for this development as much as anyone. I did this by turning white privilege into a thing unto itself, much like the student at the conference. “Race,” of course, is a classic example of reification, so that “Caucasian” and “Hispanic” are as quotidian and matter-of-fact a way to describe human bodies as hair color and height. What we lose is the history of the idea of a relationship. “Race” was once the story of a relationship; “racism” is the only story of that relationship that we have left. I fear that the way that institutions now talk about the impact of racism on white people is through white privilege, a reification that has stripped the term of its relationship to white supremacy.

Most of us in my generation (and the one that followed, I suppose) were introduced to the concept of white privilege through Peggy McIntosh’s iconic essay, “White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack.” McIntosh’s metaphor of an “invisible knapsack” conceptualizes white privilege as a possessive phenomenon—privileges are things that white people “have” (that people of color do not “have”) that can be pulled out of the knapsack and used as resources, which no doubt they are. White people have the assurance of not being followed around stores; they have the ability to buy bandages that match their skin color; they have the expectation of seeing other white people in charge; they have the freedom not to be burdened by race. This metaphor is an extremely useful way of thinking about the meaning of being white in our society, and I was and still am tremendously impacted by this essay. But I also think that what I call possessive white privilege has become the dominant, institutionalized way of conceiving how racism impacts white people.

On my campus, the possessive dimension of white privilege is a popular and unthreatening approach for white allies to engage other white people on the topic of racism. This is because the stakes are low. The story might sound like this: “We have something that people of color do not. Let’s work harder so that they get these things too.” McIntosh calls these privileges “unearned entitlements,” and all of my students agree that everyone should have access to them. Similarly, straight students may experience little dissonance when advocating for marriage equality. One reason is that their advocacy does nothing to decenter their own experiences as people who value marriage. “We have access to something good. Gay, lesbian, and bisexual people should have access to this too.” (I wonder if it would be more troubling for these allies to advocate for the end of institutionalized benefits for married people.) As long as white privilege is reified as something apart from white supremacy, white experience remains central to human experience, and racism is the story of some people not having as much stuff as other people.

Talking about white supremacy is difficult, and even saying the words in a casual conversation without stuttering can be an accomplishment. Students and colleagues tend to associate the words with hate groups like the KKK and not everyday life. For years I taught my students about white privilege without mentioning white supremacy. It was easy. McIntosh provided us with a convenient list of privileges to divvy up and discuss, an activity that inevitably drew attention from the important narrative portion of her essay. My students and I connected individual privileges with events from our own lives, which is still a vital and liberating moment. But I always felt a bit unsatisfied after every class, perhaps because the learning seemed too easy. Too comfortable. I get a similar feeling when talking to a white colleague, and he or she, slightly performatively, says something like “Society gives white people like me the benefit of the doubt.” What has become clear is that my unease in both situations has to do with possessive white privilege standing in for white supremacy. The learning is one-dimensional.

Possessive white privilege frames racism as a problem of access without also understanding it as a problem of imagination. In an interview with New York magazine, Chris Rock explains why he has so much trouble with the term “racial progress”:

When we talk about race relations in America or racial progress, it’s all nonsense. There are no race relations. White people were crazy. Now they’re not as crazy. To say that black people have made progress would be to say they deserve what happened to them before. [ . . . ] So, to say Obama is progress is saying that he’s the first black person that is qualified to be president. That’s not black progress. That’s white progress. There’s been black people qualified to be president for hundreds of years.

Robin DiAngelo and Tim Wise said pretty much the same thing about the pathology of “white fragility” and “white denial.” All three are saying that a white supremacy consciousness severely damages white people and that white people have a long way to go before they’re psychologically healthy. This is the other dimension of learning that is proving so difficult to institutionalize in higher education—just ask Lee Bebout and Saida Grundy—this despite its obvious value to white students, if what my own white students tell me is to be believed.

In this way, white privilege can stand in the way of learning about racism, a short circuit that guides white allies along a path of least resistance to bypass any uncomfortable encounter with white supremacy, in name or in concept. It bypasses the prospect of their psychological damage, of their internalized superiority, of their loss of potential. This is the reason why white allies should advocate against white supremacy: because it destroys their own humanity at the same time it destroys that of people of color, just in different ways and to different degrees. If white privilege comes in an invisible knapsack, then a white supremacy consciousness wrecks you from the inside; it is anti-possessive, something you should want to get rid of as much as you are able and never give to others. It is something far worse than a cancer because it can destroy the lives of people you don’t even know.

White privilege is nothing more than applied white supremacy for white people. Applied white supremacy for people of color is called racism. When I presented at the student conference last year, the Black Lives Matter movement was just getting started. Talking about Ferguson though possessive white privilege might look like this: a white kid has the assurance of not getting shot for doing what Mike Brown did. That’s true, but it’s not enough. We need to talk about why Darren Wilson felt that emptying his firearm into Mike Brown was an appropriate response to not having his assumptions and expectations satisfied. We need to talk about the seed of Bob McCulloch’s condescension during his press conference. And the wellspring of the St. Louis Police Officers Association’s vitriol against five St. Louis Rams for their silent, nonviolent protest. How else do white people respond to people of color when their assumptions and expectations for a situation are not satisfied? Is it a proportionate response? Is it a healthy response? What if the white person is not a police officer but a teacher or social worker? I hope that white allies continue talking about white privilege—but not at the expense of internalized white supremacy. I hope they talk not only about what white people have but what they have lost.

On The Latest Recipes for The Cookshops of the Future

June 5, 2015 - 14:18

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Flickr ( I ) and Wikimedia ( I

Several years ago, I wrote a short article for Jacobin Magazine called “Soviet Space Opera,” on the occasion of Neil Armstrong’s death, in defense of space travel and the Promethean dream of human interplanetary colonization.

The piece was intended as a provocation, in keeping with the editors's stated dedication to Marxist, or at least left-wing, polemic. The decline of space travel and the futurist utopianism associated with it, I argued, coincided with the failure of actually existing socialism and the communist idea. I was at the time just beginning to engage with certain elements of what has since become a full-scale accelerationist revival on the Anglo-American left, exemplified by Alex Williams and Nic Srineck’s Accelerationist Manifesto.

In keeping with this engagement, my polemic was also at least partially aimed at certain backward-looking , romantic, and potentially defeatist tendencies on the left—localism or the more quasi-primitivist strains of the environmental movement—as dissected by Greg Sharzer, among others, in his No Local.

Leigh Philips is one of the writers whose work I cited in my article. Philips, a science writer and self-described “modernist,” wrote an essay entitled “Put Whitey Back On The Moon,” which both preceded and inspired my own polemic. Philips argues—against neo-liberals and the anarcho-localists of the left alike—that the central planning of the state socialist variety is a necessary prerequisite for grand, collective, projects such as space exploration. He advocates a return to such projects as the best way to build a twenty-first century socialism, which would include “guaranteed incomes, well-funded pensions, a transformation to a low-carbon (or even carbon-negative) economy, and investment in space exploration."

So I was surprised when Philips suggested that I had abandoned my earlier views in criticizing what I think is a rather poor essay, entitled “A Plea For Culinary Modernism," by Rachel Lauden, that recently appeared in Jacobin.

Lauden’s essay, for me, was a case study in false dichotomies and an exercise in bash the straw hippie, which in this case, is the artisanal or slow food movement, subsumed under the term, “culinary luddism.” Lauden begins the essay by outlining her long relationship with organic and artisanal methods of food production, before letting her readers know that traditional food was really bad and hardly natural, or in her words: “to make food tasty, safe, digestible and healthy, our forebears bred, ground, soaked, leached, curdled, fermented, and cooked naturally occurring plants and animals until they were literally beaten into submission.” In other words, “natural” and “organic” are modern inventions. But are Michael Pollan and his fellow travelers, advocates for organic and artisnal food, really offering their prescriptions as historical claims? And are they rejecting the modern age or modern industrial agriculture  in its entirety as opposed to calling for a set of (perhaps dubious) alternative agricultural practices in the very modern form of national food policy proposals? 

In terms of her own policy prescriptions, Lauden calls for a better industrial agriculture and “an ethos that does not prejudge, but decides case by case when natural is preferable to processed, fresh to preserved, old to new, slow to fast, artisanal to industrial.” While I agree with Lauden’s proposal and endorse the need for a better industrial agricultural system, I suspect so too would most of her putative opponents. These are just a few of the problems I had with a piece in which the author praises McDonalds and fast food in general because it supposedly freed the poor and working class woman from slaving in the kitchen all day, as if these were the only two alternatives, and without mentioning the negative health consequences of Big Macs on working class communities where this modern wonder is what most people can afford in terms of time and money. Nor does Lauden mention food deserts. Nor the labor conditions of modern farm workers.

Lauden, under the guise of historical demystification and policy prescription, outlines an aesthetic position: culinary modernism. Like certain iterations of artistic modernism, Lauden defines her edible modernity against the romanticism of the slow fooders. In a recent, and, for me, illuminating, interview published in the wake of the Jacobin essay (which, it should be noted, is a fifteen year old piece of writing republished by the magazine) Lauden admits as much: “it’s romanticism and it has older roots. Pollan’s three rules (“Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants”) had already been advocated by Rousseau in the middle of the eighteenth century. Rousseau praised the peasant diet. According to him, the sturdy inhabitants of Swiss valleys grew tall, strong on milk straight from the cow and vegetables straight from the garden. Not for him aristocratic French dining with cooks who disguised meat with sauces to titillate the nobility into overeating and obesity.”

As Lauden recognizes in the excerpt, culinary aesthetics are socially and politically overdetermined in a way that is recognizably modern. Romanticism is a product of nascent modernity, born of enthusiasm for and then disillusionment with the French Revolution. European romantic fantasies of a natural life, from which modern people have fallen away, speak to the dislocations attendant upon capitalist modernity. The various romanticisms, reactionary and progressive, functioned as both imminent critique and symptom of what Marx would later call alienation. The same could be said of the foodie neo-romanticism that even Lauden tacitly acknowledges as having changed the industrial food system for the better: “Look what’s happened in the 15 years since I wrote the article. Walmart’s become a major player, so has Monsanto, celebrity chefs, sustainability, and locavore have become household words, fats and sweeteners have been vilified and un-vilified, and now Taco Bell is removing artificial flavoring and coloring, corporations are scrambling to make their products appealing to those who want healthful and organic foods, and McDonald’s is in trouble. No one could have predicted or managed these changes. And many have happened through the power of the word. So I’d turn down the offer [of a hypothetical food czar position]. The pen is mightier than the czar!”

Most modernist movements, of the artistic sort, build on the romantic critique of modern alienation even while rejecting romanticism and its conventions (think of Eliot’s The Waste Land). Culinary modernism is more accurately described as a futurism, in line with that avant-garde’s over-identification with modern technological processes; this over-identification famously included the movement's first, Italian, adherents’s brief rejection of retrograde pasta in favor of futuristic food.

Futurists, such as F.T. Marinetti, sought to overcome alienation and, in the words of Benjamin Noys, “solve [the] suffering of labor by integrating labor into the machine” (Noys, Malign Velocities, 21). In fact, both futurism and romantic primitivism, of the Thoreauvian sort offer an experience of the sublime in place of a systematic political analysis or program. They are understandable, but insufficient, aesthetic responses to various political and social deadlocks.

All of this might seem very far afield from the issue of slow vs. fast food, although food, its production, and consumption are nowadays a great example of a (symptomatic) politics by other means. These reflections came out of my debate with Leigh Philips on the Lauden piece, as I mentioned above, which was in many ways more interesting than the essay itself. I have reproduced this debate below or at least the first exchange, which Leigh Philips posted on his own blog.

One of Marx’s great innovations in relation to earlier radicalisms was his reconceptualization of the opposition between the progressive’s year zero future orientation and a historicism marred by reactionary traditionalism. Revolution, shaped by historical limitations and possibilities, does not represent a complete break with the past and its traditions so much as its radical reconfiguration. Walter Benjamin, the great critic of futurism, best exemplifies this ethos in his "Theses on The Philosophy of History," when he writes: "Nothing that has ever happened should be regarded as lost for history. To be sure, only a redeemed mankind receives the fullness of its past—which is to say, only a redeemed mankind has its past become citable in all its moments” (Thesis II). This model of the past, and our relationship with it, represents one possibility for rethinking the human relationship with the planet—the environment—in a way that is consonant with a broadly modernist socialism, but without falling into the opposition between neo-futurist Jetsons and eco-localist Flintstones—a topic to be explored in future blog posts.

What follows is the conversation between myself, science writer Leigh Philips, and others in response to Lauden's Jacobin piece mentioned above:

Anthony Galluzzo Historical accuracy isn't really my criterion for whether food is good or not. "Artisanal"—another flavor of gourmet—is better aesthetically. And as noted below, too many straw men or rather straw hippies here.

Yes, we need a better, more sustainable, large scale industrial agriculture, of which small scale organic farming will form a tiny part. Why always these antinomies? So our only choice is between McDonalds ("edible" garbage) and "Luddism?" This is a C student-level example of the false dichotomy. And why are the masses consigned to Big Macs again? Note the subtle hints of reactionary cultural populism-fancy food is only for fancy people, after all!

And as for celebrating bad mass produced food as a "modernist" gesture...this increasingly predictable kitsch Jetsonism is veering into self-parody at this point. I will take farm-to-table over Soylent any day.

Will Hough I agree re the straw men. As for the rest, I'm hoping Leigh Phillips will help me sort it out.

Anthony Galluzzo The problem isn't the technical point (s) per se—there is a campy aesthetic here—a callow 1950s era futurism (the wonders of Jell-O and canned foods) used as a fuck you to some hypothetical Park Slope neo-hippie. Tiresome.

A sensuously aesthetic life for all—which will include "reconfigured" traditions, many of which were once the province of elites—should be one primary goal of socialism.

And do Michael Pollan or Anthony Bourdain really offer their recipes as historical claims? Please. Sophisticated geek trolling—the future as endless McRibs at the Jetsons' place. Kill me now.

Will Hough This'll do for sorting things out, thanks.

"A sensuously aesthetic life for all—which will include 'reconfigured' traditions, many of which were once the province of elites—should be one primary goal of socialism."

Miguel Antonio Gomez A tiny part? You might want to check your facts. Small farmers produce most of the world's foodand they are doing this with less than a quarter of the world's farmland.

Anthony Galluzzo I am critiquing the article, if you didn't notice. My point being that a sustainable future will depend on a better, large scale industrial agriculture and small organic farming. These false dichotomies make for stupid—ideologically coded—debates.

Connor Kilpatrick Anthony Galluzzo, now is the perfect time to confess to you how much I love the Olive Garden's Zuppa Toscana soup.

Anthony Galluzzo Cheer whiz and Spielberg movies—a Marxist vision that even Fox News can get behind, Seriously, I generally love Jacobin, but this article is embarrassing and the constant trolls will only undermine the magazine. Also, some more nuanced takes on environmentalism would be nice. It's not always an either/or.

Anthony Galluzzo Make sure to snap a pic of every McDonalds you visit in Europe, Connor—no "feudal" food for you: #accelerate

Miguel Antonio Gomez Oh but there is a dichotomy, Anthony Galluzzo! There is indeed a big contradiction between the two "modes of production"! The most obvious one is that they compete for resources: space, land, water, financing, etc...

Anthony Galluzzo So what's your take on the essay, Miguel Antonio Gomez? We need to go all organic and local? Neo-agrarianism? Elaborate.

Anthony Galluzzo What's the Eco-socialist perspective, John Gulick?

Leigh Phillips I'm surprised at your antagonism to the article, Anthony, after the other day, you were quite rightly fulminating against Carol Lipton for her salmagundi of anti-vaxx, primitivist, pseudoscientific, Malthusian, "other ways of knowing," noble-savage brain rot. This essay is countering many of the same tendencies with respect to food. It’s a breath of fresh air compared to all the evidence-phobic, faddish waffle everywhere you go about gluten-free, chemical-free (impossible unless what is on offer is a perfect vacuum, as everything is made of chemicals), paleo, local, all-natural, organic, anti-GMO, etc., etc. It’s not trolling to contest the problems of what the author calls "culinary luddism." It’s not the term I would have chosen, as the Luddites of the 19th Century were a lot more complicated than the term luddism would suggest, but otherwise, the essay is a brilliant, provocative piece of popular history.

More broadly, we are living at a moment when a rainbow of anti-modern ideologies dress themselves up as anti-capitalist, or at least anti-corporate. Yet for all their claim of opposition to capitalism, when you scratch the surface, they very frequently turn out to be quite neoliberal and market-friendly while unconsciously drawing on 19th Century counter-Enlightenment thinking or early 20th Century Blood and Soil reaction, and usually come marinated in postmodernist anti-rationalism and relativism.

We find these counter-Enlightenment ideologies within a great deal of environmentalist thought in particular; within the technophobic opposition to nanotechnology, space exploration, cloning, genetic modification, neuroscience, human enhancement, etc., etc.; within the essentialism of identity politics; within the mysticism of alternative medicine; within the scepticism of civil liberties mounted by safe space, trigger warning, ‘no-platform’ forms of campus censorship; but also within foodie culture. To contest the Malthusianism within environmentalist ideas is not to deny climate change, or stop worrying about overfishing or pollution, say, but to propose real solutions to these problems. To contest technophobia is not to embrace the "gadgets + capitalism = awesome" naïveté of a Wired or Popular Mechanics magazine, but to offer future-oriented egalitarianism. To argue against the magical thinking of alternative medicine is not to abandon our challenge to Big Pharma. To contest the censoriousness, viciousness and victimology of SJW berserkers is not to abandon the fight against racism, misogyny and homophobia, but to argue for a better, universalist mode of campaigning against these phenomena. Similarly with this critique of the ahistoricism of contemporary foodie culture, the argument is not to damn aesthetic pleasure in artisanal food, craft beer, etc., but to remind of their fundamental dependence on industry that has brought so much benefit and how industry is not to be done away with, but captured by us and planned in the interest of all.

A growing number of Marxist writers—myself included and I think a lot of folks in "the Jacobin ecosystem," if you’ll permit me to project a little here—are growing increasingly frustrated with the hegemony of such counter-Enlightenment ideas on the left and are groping towards a way of critiquing them without alienating those who unfortunately but with the best of intentions embrace these ideas. The Accelerationists likewise are largely on the right track, albeit steeped in a philosophical register impenetrable to most. Elsewhere, the self-styled Eco-modernists are interesting and definitely coming up with very good solutions to climate change and biodiversity loss but insufficiently confronting the contradictions of the market system.

Do we always get it right? No. Are we sometimes inelegant, ham-fisted or even sneering in this regard? I’m the first to admit that my curmudgeon performance around these sort of issues is a little clumsy at times. But this isn’t the same as trolling. And for all the fumbles, I remain convinced that our best hope for breaking out of the neoliberal impasse lies in a universalist, global, future-oriented, labour-centric revival of the modernist project, not a small-is-beautiful retreat to some Golden Era that never existed. And so this critique must continue to happen, however maladroit it may be sometimes. (That said, I don’t think this essay is maladroit in any way. It’s a superb piece of writing)

Anthony GalluzzoThe fact that you're surprised illustrates my point, Leigh Phillips—apparently there are only two caricatural positions on this (and other issues) where one is either Carol Lipton-a "hippie" devotee of counterenlightenment—OR an unequivocal advocate of McDonalds.

Some general points: there was no one Enlightenment, and romanticism is also a development within the aufklarung-imminent critique—which both Hegel and Marx understood. The problem of alienation and its overcoming was central to Marx's project. I am just as disturbed by scientism and recent attempts to posit some reductionist folk enlightenment—reinventing Marx as a technocrat, for example—as I am opposed to the the obscurantism I critiqued on Ms. Lipton's thread. Both positions are equally false antinomies, as is the opposition between a reified technophilia and a reified technophobia. Human techne must be a conscious, collective, and rational praxis conceived with both material limits and human ends in mind (which include a non-alienated mode of human living, plus the aesthetic, affective, and imaginative dimensions of human self-making).

As for the specific issue addressed in this article, who is advocating the complete abolition of industrial agriculture here? One of the writer's many straw men in what is a very poor article. Certainly not me—look at my comment above. I wrote that we need an industrial agriculture that is better—more sustainable, healthier...and yes, more conducive to aesthetically preferable foods. Such a development does not necessitate the complete abolition of organic farming, which will play one—probably small—role in food production.

As for the article, it is a beastiary of fallacies: for example, modern organic farming is just that: modern. It is dependent on modern agricultural techniques—adapted to a different scale—and does not imply a return to the medieval period or feudal relations of production—a conclusion either dishonest or moronic on the writer's part. You notice the author's historically illiterate use of Luddism—one of many such flaws here. I don't think Michael Pollan, Anthony Bourdain, or other artisanal  locavore types—gourmets and gourmands—would claim they are making historical statements about actual peasant diets, nor are they offering a blueprint for revolution; it's better, more aesthetically pleasing—pethaps healthier—food that they advocate in the end. McDonalds is shit. The poor should not have to eat McDonalds, Everyone should be able to eat farm to table luxuries, although it can't make up all of our diet....

Will Hough I'm just going to peek in again to say that I feel like a prize fight promoter.

Anthony Galluzzo...and I am sorry, but it is hard not to see in this essay a certain, deliberately provocative, cultural politics, camouflaged as no bullshit empiricism. It's bash the straw hippie married to a reactionatey populism—McDonalds FUCK YEAH!—that I can also detect in other forms (celebratory paeans to the blockbuster mode of culture industry). Sophisticated trolling, which sometimes mars a magazine with which I am in broad agreement.

Also, I see no value in equating eco-radicalism, SJWs, and trigger warnings under the broad, and largely meaningless, category of irrationalism; while I might be opposed to these phenomena individually, they are distinct things and must be criticized on their own terms.

The team sport mentality—with its cartoonish misrepresentations (primitivist! futurist! You either accept the entirety of a position or you are the enemy or an SJW or a witch) is as far from dialectical as you can get, while intellectual progress won't happen when our only two argumentative modes-and this isn't directed at you in particular-are snark or cheerleading.

Anthony Galluzzo I am done. This consumed my whole day. My two cents.

Occupy the Humanities

May 22, 2015 - 02:50
Tags:  University of Amsterdam, Dutch student occupations, budget crisis, Humanities, Ohio State, neoliberalism

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Flickr ( I , II

So it is the same everywhere, I said to myself, as I listened to students bemoaning cutbacks in higher education. I had come in April 2015 to the University of Leiden, the oldest in the Netherlands, to hold a number of presentations on the fate of literary studies today.

But the conversation had became more relevant and heated than I could have imagined when I was initially invited five months earlier. Since then students from the University of Amsterdam had occupied two administrative buildings to protest cuts in the Humanities. Some of them had come to my seminar.

I had heard vaguely about this occupation as it wasn’t covered by the mainstream international press apart from the Guardian and a few online sites. Thus I really came to understand its significance only on the afternoon of the seminar.

Participants explained to me what happened. Students in Amsterdam began to protest in November 2014 the draconian budget cuts imposed on Dutch universities. Because the budget model that funds universities is based on student enrollments, the economic tightening adversely affected the Humanities, especially less-frequently taught languages and cultures.

This is exactly the same situation at Ohio State, my home institution. Economic mismanagement at the university and cuts from the State have created the most severe crisis in a generation that undermines the survival of some subjects in the arts and humanities. 

I hear the same news from colleagues in Sydney, Toronto, Copenhagen, Athens, Chapel Hill, Madison and other cities. We are in the grips of a neoliberal ideology that puts into doubt the very existence of public education as social good and especially the arts and humanities, often characterized as useless.

But the situation in Amsterdam was different. The students took matters into their own hands. In February, they organized themselves into a movement they called Nieuwe Universiteit (new university) and occupied the Bungehuis, the art deco building in the center of Amsterdam, which serves as the home of the humanities.

The management of the University of Amsterdam initiated a lawsuit that threatened each student occupying the Bungehuis with a fine of 100,000 Euros for each day of protest. This outrageous action inspired an international petition that gathered more than 7,000 signatures, including those of Judith Butler, Noam Chomsky, and Saskia Sassen.

The occupation of the Bungehuis was symbolic since the building had just been sold to a private corporation to be converted into a luxury hotel and spa. Incredible as this may seem, it’s not unique.

Ohio State, facing declining state support, leased its parking garages to a private firm for fifty years in exchange for close to 500 million dollars. Other public universities are exploring possibilities of leasing their physical facilities. Gradually the public university is turning private but without the autonomy the latter enjoys.

It is one thing, however, to lease parking and quite another to sell a landmark of the university. After the Bungehuis occupation ended in February 24, on February 25 the students occupied the Maagdenhuis building, the university's administrative center and headquarters of its Board of Directors. (The occupation of the Maagdenhuis was historically symbolic because students had occupied it during the protests of 1969.) 

In the events of 2015 the students demanded an end to the privatization of the university along with greater democratization, transparency, protection of temporary teachers, end to restructuring and plans of merging universities together. But one of their main aims was to protect the humanities.

This is what makes the protest fascinating. Students initiated something that professors are normally expected to do and indeed many professors and lecturers -- temporary and tenured - joined the protests in support of the students' demands. Lectures and discussion groups accompanied the protests. French philosopher Jacques Rancière and David Graeber, a leading figure in the Occupy Wall Street movement, came to the Maagdenhuis to talk with the students.

On April 10 however, riot police, some on horseback, moved in and forcibly evicted the students, arresting a number of them. Intimidation against students and faculty preceded and followed this eviction. Many commentators noted that such violence was rare in the Netherlands. 

Although the occupation was crushed, its political and cultural meaning has spread out as students in a number of universities in the United Kingdom and Canada have organized against budget cutting and the privatization of the university.

From Peter the Great, who was dazzled by Amsterdam’s modernity, to the hippies of the 1960’s who sought out its liberal climate, this city has always seemed ahead of its time. And now Amsterdam has begun what seems like a worldwide movement for the humanities against asphyxiating restructuring by neoliberal regimes everywhere.

What I found encouraging was the personal accounts of the students in my seminar. They were fighting for the humanities, trying to figure out a way of justifying them, or, even more importantly perhaps, asking university administrators and the government, too, to justify their own choices and measures and their disastrous impact on the humanities.

This was missing in the accounts I read online. Students were claiming something that professors have been loath to do, namely, that the humanities have their own inherent value. Indeed, accustomed to our projects of endless critique and weary of being labeled essentialist or conservative, we, as teachers, are reluctant to argue that there is something socially good about literary study. We play the instrumentalist game of the neoliberal times by arguing that literary study enhances writing skills or sharpens critical thinking.

Of course, literary study can promote more nimble thinking and can teach students to become better writers and readers. But when the crunch time arrives and we have to justify our profession to an indifferent or hostile world, what more do we say? Can we discuss openly and without embarrassment the public worth of literary and, more broadly, the humanistic profession? Can we explain that humanistic work is not an expensive luxury or irrelevant preoccupation as our detractors claim?

The arts have faced this dilemma through the ages because they don’t have practical value. Unfortunately, we live in a time of instrumentalist thinking where things are good only if they make money. But in the face of a university selling a lovely building, should we not argue that there is worth in beauty. We should keep this edifice because it is old and magnificent. And we should study it for these reasons as well.

This was, it seems to me, one of the messages of the Dutch occupations. The students of Amsterdam have drawn a line beyond which they will not be pushed. Their government is listening. And the rest of us, facing similar attempts to create a crisis to cut back on the humanities, should be emboldened.

The Last Café in Klidi

April 23, 2015 - 00:29
Tags:  Macedonia, nostalgia, home, Greece, modernization, loss, Climate change

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Photograph Gregory Jusdanis 

We pulled off the main road and began to climb to the remote village in western Macedonia where I had been born. Since I had last visited 13 years before, the coal mine had taken a big bite of the hills east of my neighborhood, leaving an open wound of crimson earth. From the road below, I tried to erase this lesion by focusing on the red-tiled roofs, the water trickling down from the spring, and the scent of mountain sage.

The Greek power company had discovered coal years earlier, had purchased many fields and now had plans to buy the houses themselves. In a few years Klidi would no longer exist, just like Macondo in One Hundred Years of Solitude by Garbriel García Márquez. Its population, once a couple of hundred, now numbered 38.

I had come with my wife and daughter for a final look but was full of apprehension. Should I visit the few people I still was related to? Would they remember me? Would they want to see me?

I started with the school itself, closed now for years, where I last stood holding my grade four diploma, before poverty pushed us to immigrate to Canada and others to Germany or Australia. It was reassuring to know that this building still stood, that there was a place I could return to after all. When I attended this school, the world seemed small, limited to letters coming from abroad and the music and news from our battery-powered radios.

We then moved on to the main square in front of the café. The steam on the glass windows meant people were inside. But who? Would anyone know me or care? Suddenly someone came out and asked who I was. When I introduced myself he told me to go in and I opened the door with an unsteady hand. “Gregory,” shouted Mimis the owner.  I was astonished that he could recognize me. “We thought you were representatives of the power company. That’s why we did not come out and talk.” Mimis told me he had bought the kafeneion 28 years earlier and had run it by himself all this time. “How is business?” I asked. He said he only made about 2-3 Euros a day as he passed out raki, the home-made spirit that men drink here and elsewhere in the Balkans.  But he would keep it open until the end. And then he would never come back. He will be the last café owner of Klidi, the final man to serve coffee and raki on this spot of the globe.

We walked on to the house of my birth, in ruins for decades.  I stood by the fallen stones, remembering my mother locking the door the afternoon of our departure.  The houses near us seemed deserted. But then from the corner of my eye I caught a figure. Moving closer I recognized my mother’s cousin, Vangelis. When I told him who I was he broke into tears and took me inside to his 91-year-old brother, Tragianos, who could not believe I was standing in front of him.  While he was holding my hand, I tried to figure out our relationship – second-cousins-once-removed. But to him, I could have been his son. Relations matter here.

I had vague images of the two brothers appearing at my parents’ threshing floor, with two winnowing fans, those wooden tools shaped like oars. Along with my family they shoveled up wheat, waited for a gust of wind, and tossed it in the air so as to separate the wheat-berry from the chaff. “What will you do,” I asked “where will you go?” They would move to the nearby town but could not imagine being buried away with their wives and parents, brother’s and sisters. I asked who was left in the village for me to visit.  “You must go to Lenka,” they insisted, the daughter of my mother’s best friend. “She is also of our clan,” they reminded me, an important distinction.

After a visit to the cemetery to light candles at my grandparents’ graves, we went up to Lenka’s door and knocked. No one came. Feeling disappointed we were moving away when a middle-age man poked his head out. “Who are you,” he asked. When I identified myself, he admonished me for knocking at the door. And I remembered that it was rude and unfriendly here to knock. You just burst in and say hello.

The family was in the midst of coloring eggs for Easter. Over more raki I asked Lenka’s son, Vassilis, why our village was in decline while the one over the mountain was thriving. He said that they never abandoned their flocks of sheep and goats while our village wanted to modernize. “We didn’t want our children to be shepherds and till fields. We wanted them to get an education, like you did.”

We left the house, laden with red eggs, Easter bread, one large bottle of raki, and two bottles of homemade red wine. Overwhelming generosity by north American standards, it seemed a gesture of kinship and hospitality.

For our final stop, we made our way to a neighbor who seemed inconsolable when she saw me. When I lived in Klidi, they were the poorest family, sometimes not having enough to eat. She told me that my mother often gave her a slice of bread with sugar strewn on top as a treat.

How did she feel about the move? She said she could not wait to leave. For her the village meant poverty and grinding labor. She wanted to live in the city, closer to her children, near stores, and restaurants. She wished finally to be modern. And the electric company was going to allow her to do this.

I remembered my cousin from a nearby village saying the same thing about her washing machine. Unlike me, she had little nostalgia for village life, having worked in the fields since she was 12, either her family’s own or as a hired-hand. The washing machine represented progress – freedom from having to fetch water from the main spring in clay pots and scrub clothing by hand.

There was a connection between her washing machine and the threat hanging over my village. The power company that was freeing my cousin from manual labor was going to obliterate my house. Coal had enabling and destructive energies.

Now on my final stop, I faced my contradiction: On the one hand, I believe that climate change is the most serious danger facing humanity. At the same time, I realize that billions of people live in poverty. But will their modernization through fossil fuels lead to our own extinction? Can we avoid the fate of my village?

The Hamlet Effect

April 20, 2015 - 06:23
Tags:  Hamlet, Social Media, Internet Shaming

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Flickr ( I ) 

Until very recently, I have avoided writing about Hamlet. With the occasional exception, I have also avoided teaching Shakespeare’s most famous play. I might have casually referred to this avoidance as “The Hamlet Effect.” My reasons for ignoring one of the Anglophone world’s most recognizable cultural scripts fall somewhere between intimidation and resignation: with so much cultural investment, from learned commentary to popular reference, I’d long thought there was little “undiscovered country” (3.1.81) left in this well-turned terrain.[1]

What I’d failed to appreciate is the value of a text that is as widely shared as Hamlet. I had neglected to contemplate the active properties of sharing, of what it means to be bound to others through the common experience of a textual/dramatic artifact. I had accepted the text as given to me, rather than thinking through aspects of Hamlet that might not cohere with the play’s overarching focus on the young prince’s struggle. The most urgent of these aspects, now that I’ve finally returned to the play afresh, is the play’s treatment of those characters Hamlet deems disposable, or those characters who muddle his attempts to find moral clarity about the vengeance he seeks against Claudius. Ophelia is one such character, but, as I discuss elsewhere, the gendered dimensions of her psychic undoing make her death a point of shame in the play (“something is rotten in the state of Denmark [1.4.67]).[2]

The demise of other characters—Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, for example—is not afforded the same degree of moral heft.[3] Because they are presented as fawning and insincere, the deaths of Hamlet’s school chums only index the growing disarray of the Danish court. Because Hamlet sees them as disposable, in other words, their deaths do not count in the same fashion as others’. In this vein, no character suffers the indignities of Hamlet’s disregard more strikingly than Polonius. To say that the old man is tedious is to offer an understated characterization of the young prince’s attitude towards the senior counselor: “This counselor / Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, / Who was in life a foolish prating knave” (3.4.188-89). Over the years, much ink has been spilled about his role: his proverbs echo teachings of the ancient rhetorician Isocrates, but scholars remain divided over whether these are just a tired recirculation of worn adages that every schoolboy might have known, or an upright deployment of respectable wisdom that a prudent father and counselor might have endorsed.[4] There is evidence that his counsel is still valued, since his instruction is frequently cited out of context: “[T]o thine own self be true, / And it must follow, as the night the day / Thou canst not then be false to any man” (1.3.78-80). It is only when this guidance is attached to Polonius that its wisdom becomes suspect.

This devaluation is directly traceable to Hamlet’s mistreatment. After Hamlet kills Polonius, he disappears the old man’s body, unleashing a series of events that result in the play’s cascade of deaths. Without a body, the inability to mourn draws Laertes back to Elsinore. Hamlet’s continued disrespect for Polonius drives the young man into a moral cycle of vengeance that is not too far removed from that of the play’s titular protagonist. Ophelia’s destruction, too, proceeds directly from her former suitor’s disrespect for her deceased father’s remains. She unravels in a scene that underscores the wrongs done to Polonius’s memory:

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray, love, remember. And there is pansies; that’s for thoughts…There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me. We may call it herb-grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. (4.5.173-4; 178-81)

The grief of Polonius’s children is not widely shared. His foolishness supposedly excuses his murder, so much so that Saul Bellow icily if wittily remarked, “One of the nice things about Hamlet is that Polonius gets stabbed.”[5] As the old counselor’s dishonorable death affirms, certain bodies are not just “ungrievable,” to use Judith Butler’s way of putting it, they are socially and ethically dispensable.[6] Pondering how the play convinces audiences to overlook Hamlet’s trespass opens a different vista on the play’s moral landscape: it produces a different “Hamlet effect.” The play’s focus—which has rightly attracted critical focus—is on the development of a certain form of subjectivity, what Katharine Eisaman Maus investigates as “an unexpressed interior and a theatricalized exterior.”[7]

This emergence is not enabling; instead, Polonius’s murder uncovers its ethical costs. The ghost presses a specific mode of action, of being in the world, upon Hamlet; and, though the aggrieved son knows he might be damned by what the senior Hamlet’s specter demands of him, he is obligated to take on the role of revenger anyway. To redress a murder he must become a murderer, in short. The play justifies Claudius’s death by detailing his duplicitous treachery, but the moral poverty of Hamlet’s position is revealed with Polonius’s unceremonious dispatch.  

The tragedy of this play, then, lies in the ways that we are sometimes asked to assume roles that will destroy us as moral beings. It is a critical habit to detect greatness as a byproduct of Hamlet’s revenge. Yet if we look more fully at the retribution that embroils the young prince, there is little evidence to suggest Hamlet’s self-awareness makes up for the fact that his vengeance cheapens the lives of others. The play might present those others as relatively insignificant. But when we are conscripted into centralizing the importance of one life over another, we should pause to examine the stratagems that have been worked upon us.

Because, let me hasten to add, I point to Hamlet’s ethical deficiency not to condemn Shakespeare’s play. I’m convinced, in fact, that Shakespeare calls us to notice the young prince’s loss of moral bearing. Indeed, the proper response to the play’s conclusion is included within the play text itself: when Fortinbras encounters the grisly scene of death at the play’s close, his bewildered reaction furnishes an ethical model: “This quarry cries on havoc. O proud death, / What feast is toward in thine eternal cell / That thou so many princes at a shot / So bloodily has struck!” (5.2.308-311). That we have been witness to the escalation of violence that leads to this horrific tableau should caution us to attend more carefully to moments when what seemed like simple, even straightforward, reprisal might become more complicated, compromised, or even corrupted.

If we think something like the events Hamlet dramatizes could never happen to us (wherein the ghost of one’s murdered father demands vengeance)—well, okay, we are probably correct about that in the particulars. But we are often called upon not to care when certain lives are rendered disposable, and there are plenty of instances in our digital world where what initially seems like straightforward retaliation gets out of hand. For the latter, one need only think of the practice of Internet shaming, some of the most high-profile cases of which have gone viral through social media. Even after time passes, we might dimly remember Justine Sacco, or the “racist AIDS joke-/South Africa-woman,” as one of my friends called her, or Lindsey Stone, or “the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier-rude gesture-woman,” as she’s known to some of her online enemies. Jon Ronson is chronicling these cases, which seem new for their ability to reduce a person to a single online trespass.[8] We might agree with internet columnist Archibald Perkins, who entitled her response to Ronson’s New York Times feature, “I Don't Feel Sorry for Stupid White People on the Internet,”[9]; nevertheless, to treat these lives as if they don’t matter, despite, or even on account of, their bare, fumbling foolishness, is to restage the collectivizing disregard that Hamlet cultivates to excuse his act of rash violence against Polonius.

It is not as if these people are murdered. But, as the shame-and-troll cycle of Internet culture spins out of control, lives are ruined. Some of these lives are lesser, we might think, because they are racist, sexist, or just unbelievably stupid. Shakespeare’s Hamlet cautions us against espousing this attitude: it is not that we shouldn’t call out inane or wrong ideas—Hamlet is not mistaken to view Polonius as tedious, pompous, and overbearing. He errs, however, when he acts as if Polonius’s very life doesn’t matter. Shakespeare’s play shows us the violence inherent to a particular strain of folly, which, in no small irony, dangerously derives from moments when we are morally right, ethically just.

Hamlet is right in his conviction that his father’s murder needs to be redressed; his uncle Claudius is, as Hamlet exclaims, a “Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindles villain!” (2.2.557-58). His mother Gertrude, too, needs to be recalled from moral blindness, since her “o’er-hasty marriage” makes her at least casually complicit in the treachery that led to her husband’s replacement (2.2.57). Hamlet feels just in his conviction “That one may smile and smile and be a villain” (1.5.109), because he is just in this conviction. He goes astray, however, because of a funny little trick of being in the world, one that he’s probably more subject to than the rest of us, and one that the short-storyist George Saunders put best in a commencement speech to Syracuse graduates in 2013: we are all, Saunders explains, “born with a series of built-in confusions,” the most devastating of which, I would say, is the belief that, as Saunders puts it, “we’re central to the universe (that is, our personal story is the main and most interesting story, the only story, really).”[10] Now, if you are the protagonist in a drama entitled “The Tragedie of Hamlet Prince of Denmarke,” you perhaps get more slack than the rest of us in pursuing your life as a self-centering endeavor.[11]

Yet, and as I want to emphasize, Shakespeare’s play cautions us against seeing ourselves in such terms. When we do, at minimum we miss out on the lives of others, even if we are right in our conviction that those lives are foolish, or ethically diminished in their outlook or conduct. At worst, we find ourselves responsible for the destruction of those “lesser” lives. Sam Biddle, the Gawker blogger who originally retweeted Justine Sacco’s disastrous “joke,” revisited his part in her online shaming:

The internet is a mountain, and if you climb that mountain, waiting for you at the top will be the person with whom you need to make peace. I climbed my mountain and a woman named Justine Sacco was there.[12]

A year earlier Biddle had, without much thought, he claims, retweeted what he knew was a poorly worded missive by Justine Sacco: “Going to Africa. Hope I don’t get AIDS. Just kidding I’m White!” What Biddle could not have known, even if he recognized her tweet as one that would generate outrage, and therefore traffic, is that Sacco’s post would misfire so colossally that it would garner its own hashtag with a global following of enraged internet users. Calls for Sacco to be fired were the least of it: by the time Sacco arrived in South Africa, several hours after she posted what many took to be a racist tweet, there were people waiting at the airport to take her picture—all the better to witness the moment as she was publicly humiliated. As Biddle recounts it, what had started as casual condemnation of an inarguably stupid, arguably racist, remark had provoked a worldwide chorus of jeering, sometimes abusive, shaming.

Sacco’s life as she had known it was destroyed. Biddle returns to his part in this drama because he regrets the damage his unthinking act caused. As he explains, he had to apologize to Sacco, because, even if he’d convinced himself that his act was just, he couldn’t look at her and not feel sorry for the ruin he brought upon her. Truth is, what Biddle did was not wrong: Sacco tweeted her remark, after all. But Biddle’s reflective revisitation should cause all of us to pause before we casually subject another person to shame, even that which is deserved.

Like the many with whom we share our digitized world, we are not at the center of a drama of vengeance or retribution. When we see stupid things or unjust things—even criminal things—our task is not to define ourselves in response to those things. This is not to say that we should not respond. We should practice justice, and see injustice in our midst punished. But we shouldn’t extract purity of self by doling out punishment (even deserved punishment) against others. Our identity should not be defined in relation to punishment, revenge, or shame. The harder task, rather, is to figure out how to go on being open to the lives of others, even in a world that does not reward or even justify such behavior. Hamlet’s first tragedy is his loss of openness. Because he is at the center of his own revenger’s-plot, he cannot see those around him as deserving of his regard. When Polonius asks him, “What do you read, my lord?” he responds, “Words, words, words” (2.2.190-91). Words are never just words, especially in a world where digital culture makes what we say ephemeral and indelible at once.

This slight is casual, but it is a prelude to the devastating violence that follows. “The Hamlet effect,” as I’m sketching it, then, is the distillation of self that results from punishing others. Hamlet wants to be seen as a revenger, as someone who pursues the righteous path of retribution against corrupt others. Yet, one of the things Shakespeare’s play shows us is the ethical insufficiency of pitting a solitary, self-centered individual against any number of others. When we define ourselves in this way—as the just actor extracting vengeance from the corrupt—we lose what made us good in the first place. When we pursue the punishment of another, we should do so with the awareness that we will be sorry for what we have had to do. Sam Biddle, the Gawker blogger I mentioned earlier, comes up against this uncomfortable reality: when he hears from Justine Sacco, six months after his retweet set off an international storm of Internet shaming, he says “There was a ghost speaking directly into my Gmail inbox.”[13] When that happens, when ghosts press us about committed wrongs, we should accept the charge, but not the identity, that goes along with righting the wrongs in our midst.

[1] All references to Hamlet, hereafter cited parenthetically, are to Hamlet, in The Norton Shakespeare: Tragedies, 2nd edn., ed. Stephen Greenblatt, Walter Cohen, Jean E. Howard, and Katharine Eisaman Maus. (New York: Norton, 2008), 336-424.

[2] I discuss Ophelia’s treatment in my book-in-progress, The Matter of Virtue: Women’s Ethical Action from Chaucer to Shakespeare. My thinking is informed by the ground-breaking arguments by Lynda Boose, “The Father and the Bride in Shakespeare,” PMLA 97 (1982): 325-347; Elaine Showalter, “Representing Ophelia: Women, Madness, and the Responsibilities of Feminist Criticism,” Shakespeare and the Question of Theory. Ed. Patricia Parker, Geoffrey Hartman (London: Methuen, 1985), 77-94; Sandra Fischer, “Hearing Ophelia: Gender and Tragic Discourse in Hamlet,” Renaissance and Reformation 14 (1990): 1-10; and R.S. White, “Jeptha’s Daughters: Men's Constructions of Women in Hamlet,” Constructing Gender: Feminism in Literary Studies, Eds. Hilary Fraser and R.S. White (Nedlands: University of Western Australia Press, 1994), 73-90.

[3] Tom Stoppard’s play, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (London: Faber and Faber, 1973), is filled with action that doesn’t register because it is not part of the central protagonist’s consciousness.

[4] A debate over Polonius’s rhetorical stature broke out in the 1950s. Josephine Waters Bennett started all the fuss with her article, “Characterization in Polonius’ Advice to Laertes,” Shakespeare Quarterly 4 (1953): 3-9. Responses included O.B. Davis, “A Note on the Function of Polonius’ Advice,” Shakespeare Quarterly 7 (1956): 275-76; G.K. Hunter, “Isocrates’ Precepts and Polonius’ Character,” Shakespeare Quarterly 8 (1957): 501-06; and Elkin Calhoun Wilson, “Polonius in the Round,” Shakespeare Quarterly 9 (1958): 83-85.

[5] Quoted in Catharine R. Stimpson, “Polonius, Our Pundit,” American Scholar 71 (2002): 97-108 [99].

[6] See Judith Butler, Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence (London: Verso, 2004), 128–51; Butler, Frames of War: When Is Life Grievable? (London: Verso, 2009), 1–32.

[7] Katharine Eisaman Maus, Inwardness and Theater in the English Renaissance (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 2.

[8]Jon Ronson, So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed (London: Riverhead, 2015). Excerpts from the book, which offer different takes on Sacco’s and Stone’s stories, appear as: “How One Stupid Tweet Ruined Justine Sacco’s Life,” New York Times Magazine, February 15, 2015, p. MM20:; and “’Overnight, everything I loved was gone’: the internet shaming of Lindsey Stone”:



[11] This is the play’s title in the 1623 First Folio.


[13] Ibid.


Robert Stone 1937-2015: exploring the counterculture's limits

April 16, 2015 - 14:06
Tags:  Robert Stone, Ken Kesey, California, Stegner Fellowships, Wallace Stegner, The Sixties, Merry Pranksters

Stone by Dustin Cohen

Robert Stone, my teacher, died a few months back. Though he spent most of his life on the east coast, his origin story was intimately tied up with the west and Stanford University in particular. As a Stegner Fellow in the 1960s, Stone was a favorite of that program's namesake and founder, as well as a fellow traveler with one of its most renown graduates Ken Kesey. It seems right to make sure his passing is recognized in some way on this blog—a return, of sorts to the place that helped make him.

What I'll post is a small excerpt of a longer remembrance I posted in The New Republic about a month after his death:

On one level, Stone could be seen as a living connection to a lost world of hip. Born in 1937, he was in his twenties by the late ’50s: too young to be a Beat, too old to be a hippie. Stone belonged to neither generation, but was fully present when each made contact with popular culture and created what we think of as “The Sixties.” He had fond memories of listening to poets like Allen Ginsberg read at New York City's Seven Arts Café, where he met a waitress named Janice who would become his wife. But Stone’s bohemian bona fides did not end there. In the early ’60s, after receiving a fellowship to study creative writing at Stanford, he went west to a California that hadn’t yet grabbed the nation’s full attention. He described it is as a kind of Eden—“a garden without snakes”—and there he met and befriended Ken Kesey, author of the revered 1962 novel One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, a figure whose real significance lay in how he took that book's anti-authoritarian posture into the world. Kesey’s “Acid Test” parties and cross-country trips on the "magic bus" further helped popularize psychedelic drugs and culture. Kesey’s clique, the Merry Pranksters, was soon mythologized in Tom Wolfe's 1968 book of reportage, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.


For Baby Boomers, the question, "Were you on the bus?" became shorthand for determining if you had really participated in the ’60s cultural ferment. But here's the thing: Though Stone was a kind of proto-Prankster and included in accounts of their glory years, he was literally and metaphorically not fully on board… In a sense, by the time the Pranksters came along, Stone already had doubts about their Dionysian project and its echoes of his chaotic childhood: Its excesses had an attractive familiarity, but he was also repelled by an awareness of the ways these things can go horribly wrong.


And so, Stone’s final feeling on hip America was circumspect. Yes, he partook in the revels of the time—he'd readily admit to the good times, as well as subsequent issues with alcohol and drugs—but he also kept his distance. While the Pranksters drove cross-country, Stone “waited, with the wine-stained manuscript of my first novel, for the rendezvous in New York.” In 1968, when his clique broke into the mainstream, he expatriated with his young family to London for four years to establish his literary career, returning only for a spell in Hollywood to adapt that first book into a film for Paul Newman. When his peers’ ambitions expanded into politics, Stone did not join them in their stateside protests against Vietnam; instead, he visited that country as a loosely credentialed freelance reporter. While his contemporaries sought attention for what they were doing, Stone chased new experiences, banking what he saw. If he’d had a credo, I think it would be this: Play the long game; don’t sweat the zeitgeist.

I contribute to Arcade very rarely. (My last post was over a year ago about Lou Reed.) At the risk of making my appearances here solely of the memorial variety, I thought I'd share these thoughts of Stone, in the hopes that others might be inspired to look at his legacy anew.

I figure this academic community is one to whom he should matter most. As well as being an important contributor to my life and my path — you can glean a bit more of that in my full remembrance — he made a great contribution to American literature, to the expanding influence of California culture on the 21st century, and to many people's bookshelves.

Arabic and the Monopoly of Theory

April 13, 2015 - 22:58

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Flickr ( I ) 

Alexander Key’s recent article on the future of Comparative Literature, “Arabic: Acceptance and Anxiety,” asks hard and important questions about the status and adequacy of the discipline’s theoretical inclusiveness and historical consciousness. The article strikes a chord with many Arabists in the field who, like Key himself, seek to balance the demands of their specific academic goals and their contributions to the overall improvement of the humanities, especially the capacity to expand and connect its theories to a time of terror. Key does a brilliant job in a limited space of considering this balance in the relationship between the acceptance and neglect of Arabic,  “an enemy language,” or rather between the familiar consistency of the discipline and the necessity for responsible thought, a task which requires us to be theoretically globalized, linguistically diverse and fully cognizant of the much larger narratives of our human history.

What Key points to, and what is known to every comparatist in North America, is the chronic drift of theory towards Europe, resulting in a single-minded dimensionality, one that while having a compassionate eye towards its Other, is still incapable of de-totalizing our intellectual production and immunizing the discipline against surrendering once again to the good old gravitational pull of Eurocentrism. As it looks at the future of Comparative Literature, Key’s article reflects on the newly published English translation of Barbara Cassin’s 2004 Vocabulaire européen des philosophies: Dictionnaire des intraduisables (Apter, Lezra, Wood).   A “paradigmatically ‘Comp Lit’ endeavor,” and an important work in its own right, as Key rightfully characterizes it, the irony in the volume’s Introduction does not escape Key’s notice.  While it “gestures with intent towards the rest of the world,” addressing other translations of the French text into Arabic and Farsi, among other languages, the Introduction is pronouncedly clear about the “undeniable European focus” of the volume, which cannot simply be wished away by the translators’s decision not to translate the reference to Europe in the original title. This is a rationalization of the means that does not exactly match the rationalization of the end and a baffling if not unfaithful choice for a volume on the untranslatables.

Speaking of new horizons in human thought, a substantial and transformative work of translation (from Arabic) that is yet to receive its due status among all comparatists is Asad Ahmed’s Avicenna’s Deliverance: Logic (Oxford, 2012). Drawn from the arcane of the arcane of classical Arabic, Ahmed’s work brings to the English reader for the first time a translation of Avicenna’s Kitāb al-Najā (The Book of Deliverance). Not only is Avicenna one of the greatest logicians known to this world, but his theory of logic, as Ahmed brilliantly remarks, departs from Aristotle’s Organon in fundamental ways that compel us to revisit the Arabic tradition of logic, which has been long dismissed by the likes of Hegel as mimetic renditions of Greek philosophy and thus lacking in originality.

We therefore cannot emphasize enough the need to continue to broaden and deepen our comparative horizons, especially in the face of all sorts of essentialisms and monopolies exercised on our diverse human traditions. It is true that the future of Comparative Literature in North America provides a more promising framework for overdue inclusions of less emphasized languages and literary traditions than were readily available, say, during the post-Vietnam era, where French Structuralism followed by Derridean and de Manian Deconstruction, then the Frankfurt School of Max Horkheimer, Theodor Adorno, Walter Benjamin, Erich Fromm, Herbert Marcuse, and Jürgen Habermas dominated the field, bringing with them all sorts of texts to the fore in languages such as Greek, French, German, and English. All this is studied against an exclusivist background in European philosophy which begins normally with the 10th chapter of Plato’s Republic and The Phadrus, and ends somewhere on the threshold of Nietzschean thought and its ramifications in Heidegger, Bataille, Foucault, Deleuze, Derrida, Nancy etc. But the Arabic tradition and the heritage of other less commonly taught languages with hundreds of un-translated manuscripts on literature and philosophy have literally been shelved for the last 50 years.  Even postcolonial theory, which has its roots in the colonized Arab world (Fanon, Said, Memmi) could not survive the siren call of Eurocentrism.  Today, many of Comparative Literature’s fundamental books (theories, philosophies, literary works) continue to be taught, emulated, recapitulated, reemphasized, remediated, re-envisioned, in almost every single department in the US. The list from Plato to Umberto Eco is pretty much known to all comparatists all over the country. There is nothing wrong with this and understandably every graduate program differs in terms of flexibility and inclusion of non-European texts. While all those foundational books are enriching and crucial for a deeper understanding of humanism, most of us in the field are left with nothing but a footnotes of our histories, not to mention the almost futile endeavor of trying convince renowned publishing houses to consider publishing our work, unless of course political Islam is part of the title.  And so we are left with an ironic reproduction of the same despite the good intentions of auto-critique, a malady that Comparative Literature teaches us to avoid. Self-critique is enlightening, no doubt, but it is not enlightenment, and certainly not enough in today’s increasingly polarized world.

In Poetics of Relation, Edouard Glissant makes the salient point that the West (although I would prefer to call it Euro-America), has found a way to reproduce itself through self-critique, a fascinating yet dangerously exclusivist formula: “[T]he West has produced the variables to contradict its impressive trajectory every time. This is the way in which the West is not monolithic, and this is why it is surely necessary that it move toward entanglement [in rough terms: interrelations between itself and the non-west]. The real question is whether it will do so in a participatory manner or if its entanglement will be based on old impositions.”[1] This ‘participatory manner’, this grave warning against falling again into the warped wires of self-replication is what still remains far from achievable in the discipline. The reality is that such a maneuver remains oblivious, intentionally or not, to the multitudes on the periphery that are “powerless to be born,” to echo yet another European poem. 

Because I was trained as a comparatist who writes in English, I felt somehow that I would make more sense if I quoted a German poem or a French novel, or an English author, or better yet something Greek. For an Arabist in the discipline, and I am speaking only for myself, to write was never an “intransitive verb,” as Mr. Barthes has perversely tried to show us, but a “repressive verb.” To learn to write as an Arabist and a comparatist in English was to learn to write while repressing the other, only that this other is none but myself, emptied out almost unnaturally of my ipseity. True, English has become the language of my intellectual thinking, but it has never replaced Arabic nor will. To write then is a repressive verb, an act that silences al-Qur’an, resisting hundreds of readily available verses in my brain, or dismissing captivating lines of poetry from al-Mutanabbi, Umar ibn al-Farid, Malik ibn al-Rayb,  ‘A’isha al-Ba’uniyya, Ahmad Shawqi, al-Sayyab, Nazik al-Malaa’ka, Amal Dunqul, or al-Bayyati. I was taught, implicitly that is, that my reader’s unfamiliarity with my language and its vast tradition could hinder understanding and could make my point difficult to grasp because of the cultural connotations that may not come across in the act of translation. Or, as Aamir Mufti has keenly put it, gesturing towards a future of engaging the Qur’an in literary studies, “if you really want to write a dictionary of untranslatables, then the Qur’an is the mother of all untranslatables.”

The soft criticism against the invocation of Arabic in my writing was always conveyed with a careful and regretful tone that if only Arabic were an easy language to acquire, or if only more scholars and readers knew or appreciated this valuable language, etc.…I won’t turn this into a commentary on my own personal experience as a graduate student in a Comp Lit program, but I remember two turning points quite vividly. First, a gathering with all new graduate students (all English native speakers) when everyone was asked to introduce themselves and speak about their second language and a third ancient language they were studying. Hearing French, German, Italian, Spanish as a second language, I said “English. English is my second language.” Everyone laughed, including myself, except that my laughter was a nervous hiding of the creeping realization that my linguistic position is peripheral. Secondly, the refusal of one of my professors to accept an essay that included the modernist Iraqi poet Badr Shakir al-Sayyab in a comparative study with Baudelaire. The department PhD reading list still included familiar Arabic texts like the Quran, A Thousand and One Nights, some Mahfouz, some Darwish, and a few other texts, all in translation, of course.  But my professor’s disclaimer was that because (s)he didn’t  speak Arabic, (s)he wouldn’t be in a comfortable position to offer constructive comments on my final paper. I respect that response. I could not blame my professor for not knowing my language and it is a point well taken, even though I provided a translation. However, the shock was inconceivable as I was advised to focus on the ‘recognized languages of the discipline’ in order to be able to publish my paper and secure a decent job. That of course, until 9/11 happened and Arabic suddenly acquired a different significance in a must- approach-with-caution anxiety-shift as Key has forcefully indicated.

So an all-inclusive future of Comparative Literature remains a Sisyphean task, but this must not discourage us, for it behooves us as humanists in a discipline enticed by what Lyotard has called “ the desire called Marx” to treat all literatures equally. This turn in what essentially is a discipline empowered through the very inclusiveness and multitudes of a world brought together by literary conversations, and precisely because of its various cultural and intellectual productions, will mark an overpowering transformation for the discipline. In the case of Arabic, this turn won’t happen until Avicenna and Averroes are read against Aristotle, not until al-Jurjani’s long-neglected theory of Balagha shatters all gates of comparative rhetoric, Dante is compared to al-Ma ‘arri, Shakespeare to Shawqi, Percy Shelley to Ali Mahmud Taha, Kafka to Tawfiq al-Hakim and Sonnallah Ibrahim, and dare I say, al-Sayyab to Baudelaire. In other words, the reinvigoration of the discipline through significant ancient and modern non-European languages and their accompanying literary histories, traditions, philosophies, and other arts, including Persian, Hebrew, and Urdu is what is now most needed in order for the discipline to stand tall and not to fall into the vapid recyclability of itself, which, while still fundamental at a certain level, may indeed signal its irrelevance. Why Comparative Literature? Because like all literature, in confronting the massive demonization of the humanities and the ghoulish corporatization of our university systems, it is all we have to bring the world back to the essence of its human condition and mobilize the globe against the vicious partitions practiced on it in the name of callous ideologies, pernicious nationalisms, and the cancerous growth of world capitalism.

[1] Edouard Glissant,Poetics of Relation, trans. Betsy Wing (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997) 191.

Three Upcoming Fora at Republics of Letters

April 12, 2015 - 10:38

Cover graphics by Michelle Jia; image from

Dear Readers,


The editors at Republics of Letters are excited to preview three fora coming to Arcade in the near future. The first is a forum on “Noise” slated to appear later this year, edited by David Ellison (Griffith University), Bruce Buchan (Griffith University), and Peter Denney (Griffith University).  Contributors will include Denise Gigante (Stanford University), Nicola Parsons (University of Sydney), Lisa O’Connell (University of Queensland), John Gascoigne (University of New South Wales), Neil Ramsey (University of New South Wales), and Harriet Guest (University of York), among others.  Topics will range widely, from the conversation piece in eighteenth-century culture to Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year, from cross-cultural communication between the British and the Pacific to noise and vision in military literature, and from domestic soundscapes to noise and political culture in the late eighteenth century. 


A second forum, on “Beauty and Form,” will appear early next year, edited by Thomas Pfau (Duke University) and Vivasvan Soni (Northwestern University). The editors offer this provocative preview:


The concepts of beauty and form are as old as Western philosophy itself. In Plato, they are the foundation for our love of the good. And yet, by a curious paradox, even though these concepts have been perennial features of the philosophical landscape ever since, we witness with the rise of systematic aesthetics in the eighteenth century their marginalization, denigration and divorce from ethics. Concepts like the sublime, the new and even the zany acquire an unprecedented prestige as the aesthetic concepts associated with modernity, while beauty and form come to be allied with a staid premodern or neoclassical love of order and hierarchy, or else with a bourgeois aesthetic of commercialization and kitsch. However, today, there are signs that a significant reappraisal of this legacy is underway, tied to an intuition that concepts like beauty and form may well be indispensable to humanistic inquiry, and perhaps even urgent remedies for the disorientations of modern life. Issuing from a variety of disciplinary backgrounds, these six essays by distinguished scholars and intellectuals present a detailed conceptual analysis of a particular moment in this history.


Contributors will include Natalie Carnes (Baylor University), Robert Pippin (University of Chicago), James Porter (University of California-Irvine), Gaby Starr (New York University), Jonathan Loesberg (American University), and Jonathan Kramnick (Yale University), who will address subjects ranging from recuperations of beauty as disruption of class hierarchy, justification and modernism in J.M. Coetzee’s Elizabeth Costello, beauty and perceptions of pleasure, the long death of art from Hegel forward, a challenge to the binary of utility and aesthetics, and a unique view of beauty through poetic images of the moving body. 


A third forum, edited by Alexander Regier (Rice University) on the topic of “Sport and Literature,” will appear late next year. 


The Editors, Republics of Letters

Shakespearean slips

April 9, 2015 - 03:44
Tags:  Freudian slips, parapraxis, Shakespeare, Freud, costly signaling, Hamlet, Henry IV, Antony and Cleoatra Othello, MacGuffins, Grice, Otto Fenichel, Dickinson, Richard II, Twelfth Night

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Flickr ( I ) 

I am wondering whether Shakespeare invented the Freudian slip.

Did other people before Shakespeare represent mistakes on stage? I am thinking of the way Shakespeare has people make everyday mistakes (the mistakes of everyday life), as in certain kinds of forgetfulness

Courteous lord, one word.
Sir, you and I must part, but that's not it:
Sir, you and I have loved, but there's not it;
That you know well: something it is I would--
O, my oblivion is a very Antony,
And I am all forgotten. (Cleopatra)


what was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to say
something: where did I leave? (Polonius)

HOTSPUR    Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower,
Will you sit down?
And uncle Worcester: a plague upon it!
I have forgot the map.


KENT               I am come
To bid my king and master aye good night:
Is he not here?

ALBANY   Great thing of us forgot!
Speak, Edmund, where's the king? and where's Cordelia?

I don't think this is just the reality effect, though it is that. Or maybe it would be better to say that the reality effect is one in which something real is going on, something real offered and bargained for and exchanged and clarified.  It matters to Polonius that he was about to say something, and it matters that Reynaldo reminds him of what he wanted to say, show's him a kindness where Hamlet would scorn him.  It matters that Albany forgets Lear and that he has to remember him before Edmund is willing to help: recalling the fates of Lear and Cordelia makes Edmund count.

In a previous post I alluded to Grice's distinction between naturalistic and non-naturalistic meaning.  A fever of 102 degrees F means you're sick, whether you say so or not; "I'm sick and can't come to work today" also means you're sick, whether you are or not.

Freud (we know) had trouble with theorizing repression, because the unconscious mind seemed split between the part that wanted to tell the truth (about its desires, judgments, demands, etc.) and the part that was censoring the part that wanted to tell the truth.  The result of this split was a compromise formation: the unconscious got to tell the truth slant.  Parapraxes -- Freudian slips -- were good evidence for this, he thought.  Whether this is true or not, it's certainly true in some literary contests, where a writer or performer imitates a telling and revelatory lapsus linguae.  But how do we analyze how it's telling?

Does an unconscious communication, a hysterical symptom, a slip of the tongue, mean naturalistically (it's a sympton! like a fever) or non-naturalistically (it's discursive! it knows what it's saying and wants to say it).  Some extreme Freudian formulations (I am looking at you through my -- gulp! -- myopic eyes, Otto Fenichel) saw all symptoms as non-naturalistic meaning, as expressions of unconscious intentions.  Although the intentions themselves might not have been intentions to express, so that naturalistic meaning can come back that way, this doesn't seem true of slips of the tongue: they are my unconscious talking, and my unconscious is talking to you.  So they may have naturalistic meaning on a conscious level (they mean I am repressing something) and non-naturalistic meaning on the unconscious level: they say what my unconscious mind wants to say.

I am interested in costly or honest signaling, how such signaling evolved, what happens when such signaling interacts with conscious expressive intention, what such signaling hopes to elicit (e.g. Reynaldo's aid, Antony's love, Hotspurian enthusiasm; in the Lear case, it's more like we've all forgotten, and need Edmund as he needs to be needed: Albany's forgetfulness is his as well, and only Kent remembers).  One argument in favor of Freud's view is that Freudian slips would be uncontrollable and therefore honest signals, and cooperative species, especially hypercooperative species like our own, need honest signals.  Freudian slips, and maybe the Freudian unconscious, solve a problem in cooperation for a species that has to be able to use language in an extremely skillful and fine-grained way, without being able to lie too easily and at will.  We need to be able to tell when someone is lying, and the way to tell that is both by detecting lies and by detecting truths that they might not wish to admit.  (Some of these truths can be happy ones: she's too shy to admit it but she does love me! Upon that hint I'll speak!)

Anyhow, I think Shakespeare saw this and used it.  Here are two examples of classic Freudian slips, a quick one and a more subtle and therefore more telling one (since what's telling about them is the point).  The quick one is this: when at the end of Twelfth Night Orsino realizes that his page and friend is actually a woman, Viola, he's delighted.  He can marry her.  His repressed homoerotic affection for her now finds heteronormative (sorry, seriously) legitimation.  And so he speaks, and calls her... Caesario.

Cesario, come.
For so you shall be, while you are a man...

He quickly corrects himself, but the mistake isn't one.  That she is pricked out as Cesario is not a bug but a feature.

Here’s my other, longer example, from Richard II.  Richard has gone to Ireland, his rebel cousin Bullingbrook has landed at Ravenspurgh in Yorkshire.  York is the last, despairing survivor of the previous generation.  The trouble in the play begins when his brother (Bullingbrook’s father) the Duke of Lancaster dies; now he receives news that his sister-in-law (“my sister Gloucester”), who had been the close confidante of the last two surviving brothers has just died, and he is the last surviving member of the great generation of Edward’s sons and their widows.  The Duchess of Gloucester doesn’t count as one of them in the psychology of the play because she is not a widow, but a wife and mother who will be called on to interpose between husband and son.  Shakespeare has a bit of playcraft to do here; he has to make plausible the fact that York will change sides, and that the Duchess of York isn’t reason enough to stay loyal to the old regime and its legacy, though loyalty is his natural instinct.  The whole play is about the counterpoint, divergence and convergence between public, politico-theological fidelity and obligation on the one hand and private loyalties and motives on the other.  Shakespeare must represent York as a figure who believes himself to be acting according to the dictates of political theology (as his brother Gloucester certainly had), but who nevertheless is too weak-willed and weak-minded to represent the true principle that he wishes to and thinks he does.  So Shakespeare makes him needy: what’s best is to feel that public duty and private commitment coincide.

Shakespeare has already begun this portrait of his character by showing how Richard manipulates him (in the same way but far more easily than he manipulated Lancaster into voting to banish his own son) by making him his deputy when he goes to Ireland, playing on York’s desire to show his loyalty against his own private preferences, while realizing that this desire is itself a private preference. The Queen contributes to that.  Everyone capable of loving loves her (a fact Bullingbrook capitalizes on); we do, and York does too, so that she adds a private incentive to his preference to do the right official thing.  The Freudian slip that Shakespeare writes for York shows his neediness, his loneliness, his fecklessness and confusion, all of which are necessary to his character, even while adding another touch to the portrait of the sorrow of the Queen, whose husband is later to be murdered just as the Duchess of Gloucester has been murdered.  Off York must go to prepare for Bullingbrook’s invasion, and he takes the Queen with him, calling on her (as Orsino has called on Cesario):

Come, sister,--cousin, I would say--pray, pardon me.

He wants her to be his sister, to replace the sister he has just lost who herself replaced the brother he had lost before.   But she is not his sister and won’t be Queen long, and he no longer has a friend or close relation to support him in his last attempt to support his generation’s view of the world.  He is like Polonius, flustered by a new world, whose grimness his discomfiture underlines. We see he's flustered, we see his need.  Shakespeare, at least, thought such slips worth the telling.  He may not have invented, but discovered them. 

Three Upcoming Issues in Occasion

April 2, 2015 - 11:14

Cover graphics by Michelle Jia; image from

Dear readers,


We at Occasion are very excited to preview three upcoming issues, all intervening in significant and urgent matters of our time. First in line is an issue on "Race, Space, and Scale," edited by Wendy Cheng (Arizona State) and Rashad Shabazz (University of Vermont). Taken together, the articles in this issue ask

How does the relationship between race and space work at various (non-exclusive) scales, from the body to globally?  What is the role of the state in continuing to produce and mediate the relationship between race and space?  How do geopolitics function in the everyday, and how might we foreground political economy in metropolitan, regional, and global analyses to examine both intended and unintended consequences?  What is the role of middle-classness and relatively privileged segments of racialized minorities in shaping US cities and suburbs today, and how might these transform dominant understandings of metropolitan space?  And finally, how do long histories of colonization and dispossession function in shaping individual lives, landscapes, and public memory today?

Contributors include Jenna M. Loyd, Orlando Serrano, Thomas Michael Swensen, Shiloh Krupar and Nadine Ehlers, Johana Londoño, Michael Kahan, Kwame Holmes, and Darius Bost. Discussion ranges widely and deeply from "the global reach of carceral power" and their compounding with national and regional racial ideologies, to "medical mapping that spatially profile Black people in order to market 'race-specific' drugs," to various "practices of defiance and resilience that cannot be suppressed."

Also in the works is one issue on "Censorship and Religion," as emanating from the Charlie Hebdo killings, edited by Cécile Alduy (Stanford), Bruno Cornellier (U Winnipeg), and Dominic Thomas (UCLA), and a third issue on "Cosmopolitan Palestine," edited by Salah Hassan (Michigan State). We look forward to seeing these timely conversations gain momentum, and hope you will help us spread the word!


The Editorial Team, Occasion

The State of Comparative Literature—and Arabic

March 25, 2015 - 09:55
Tags:  Comparative Literature, arabic, Literary Theory

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Flickr ( III ) 

I recently contributed to the ACLA's 2015 State of the Discipline report; it is the first time they have let assistant professors participate. My post is about what happens when the discipline of Comparative Literature lets Arabists participate.

If the Arabists in question work on the mediaeval period, there is a risk that they will want to take the theories of meaning, attention, literature, and poetics that they find in the texts - and test those theories on the contemporary world. I remember in the first few weeks of graduate school, asking Wolfhart Heinrichs (the late James Richard Jewett Professor of Arabic at Harvard and my advisor) whether the test for Western theory might be its application to the mediaeval Middle East. And if the Western theory I had picked up at undergraduate was true (as it claimed to be), then surely it must apply? What the intervening years, and the reading and writing involved, have led me to wonder is whether another naive test of theory might be more productive, and more appropriate to my disciplinary home of the past three years - the test of whether old Arabic theory works for the contemporary West, or for the future South. If it was true - it should work?!

This is how I start the ACLA piece:

"Comparative Literature is comfortable with the inclusion of Arabic in its scope. But ours is also a discipline with a persistent concern for its own identity. What can one unpack from this combination of comfort and concern? What has happened since the first Comparative Literature hires were made in Arabic over the last few decades? Is there an interface between the anxiety about disciplinary identity and the steady integration of Arabic into the comparative conversations? Will this process be finished by 2025? These short remarks track one of the old, pre-Arabic, Comparative Literature concerns – the development and use of theory – in order to test answers to some of those questions.

In 2014, Emily Apter, Jacques Lezra, and Michael Wood published their English translation of Barbara Cassin’s 2004 Vocabulaire européen des philosophies: Dictionnaire des intraduisables. The new Dictionary of Untranslatables: A Philosophical Lexicon [discussed by Adam Gopnik in The New Yorker "Word Magic: How much really gets lost in translation?"] was a paradigmatically “Comparative Literature” endeavor. It updated a French engagement with a European tradition into an English work of Anglophone theory, cognizant of a further decade’s work on the philosophical ideas in play, engaged with theory in dialogue with the original Francophone philosophie, and gesturing with intent towards the rest of the world. The 2014 introduction mentioned other translations of Cassin into “Arabic, Farsi, Romanian, Russian, and Ukrainian” and diffusion of her work in “Asia, South Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and Latin America” (vii, ix). Apter, Lezra, and Wood were commendably frank about their project both having roots in Cassin’s vision of a forward-looking Europe in touch with its Indo-European and Semitic neighbors, and now taking place in Anglophone “literary theory and comparative literature” (xi). They talked in the introduction of removing reference to Europe from the title whilst being “worried” about the “difficult call” because “the European focus of the book is undeniable.” (ix).

This is the combination of anxiety and acceptance with which I am concerned. Apter, Lezra, and Wood are aware of and engaged with the banal truth that our discipline is of and in the whole world, not just Europe and North America. They worry that their work excludes that world at the same time as they try to include it and also catalyze its further engagement. There is not even a shred of doubt about whether or not the rest of the world, including Arabic, should be part of Comparative Literature. There is no harkening back, even between the lines, to Hugo Metzl’s nineteenth-century world of European connections (the ten official languages on the front page of the journal Metzl founded, Acta Comparationis Litterarum Universarium, are an assortment from Europe and Scandinavia with a Hungarian center). Arabic must of course be part of Comparative Literature and yet it isn’t, quite. Comparative Literature can never ignore Arabic, or Korean, or Nigerian Pidgin (three languages represented in the Junior Faculty Writing Group of which I am a part at Stanford), but it remains worried about the mechanics and power relationships involved in their inclusion. What is holding us back? Will it be solved by 2025? ..."

Keep reading at the ACLA site...

Since the piece went up on the ACLA website, I have been looking at the responses on social media and the 140-character re-framings on Twitter - most of the first ones emphasised the threat encapsulated in "the anxiety of acceptance" (to be fair this was the initial ACLA-provided title after I didn't produce one): "anxieties of including Arabic lit", and "the fraught position of Arabic studies in comparative literature". Most of the people who responded were in Arabic-related fields, which might match the identifications I was trying to make: Comparative Literature comfortably accepts Arabists, but those accepted Arabists remain anxious.

Subsequent conversations with more experienced colleagues, or colleagues more theoretically grounded in postcolonial studies, have suggested that the accepted Arabists might be right to feel this way! Is some form of double-bind inevitable? Is there any way to hire enough faculty to change the conversation's center of gravity? Is talking of hiring even appropriate? Both the other pieces on Arabic in the report, by Waïl S. Hassan on modern Arabic literature and the instrumentalist imperative and by Mohammad Salama on fundamentalism, address these issues to great effect.

I also changed the title from "The Anxiety of Acceptance" to "Arabic: acceptance and anxiety" - because I want the framing to be the combination of acceptance and anxiety, rather than a description of the acceptance as anxious. When initially forced by the 140-character limit, my own advertisment had picked comfort as a slogan over anxiety: "My Contribution to the ACLA 2015 State of the Discipline Report - Comparative Literature is comfortable..." But that tweet didn't attract much attention; perhaps it is fear that always proves most attractive!?

omparative Literature is comfortable with the inclusion of Arabic in its scope. But ours is also a discipline with a persistent concern for its own identity. What can one unpack from this combination of comfort and concern? What has happened since the first Comparative Literature hires were made in Arabic over the last few decades? Is there an interface between the anxiety about disciplinary identity and the steady integration of Arabic into the comparative conversations? Will this process be finished by 2025? These short remarks track one of the old, pre-Arabic, Comparative Literature concerns – the development and use of theory – in order to test answers to some of those questions.

In 2014, Emily Apter, Jacques Lezra, and Michael Wood published their English translation of Barbara Cassin’s 2004 Vocabulaire européen des philosophies: Dictionnaire des intraduisables. The new Dictionary of Untranslatables: A Philosophical Lexicon was a paradigmatically “Comparative Literature” endeavor. It updated a French engagement with a European tradition into an English work of Anglophone theory, cognizant of a further decade’s work on the philosophical ideas in play, engaged with theory in dialogue with the original Francophone philosophie, and gesturing with intent towards the rest of the world. The 2014 introduction mentioned other translations of Cassin into “Arabic, Farsi, Romanian, Russian, and Ukrainian” and diffusion of her work in “Asia, South Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and Latin America” (vii, ix). Apter, Lezra, and Wood were commendably frank about their project both having roots in Cassin’s vision of a forward-looking Europe in touch with its Indo-European and Semitic neighbors, and now taking place in Anglophone “literary theory and comparative literature” (xi). They talked in the introduction of removing reference to Europe from the title whilst being “worried” about the “difficult call” because “the European focus of the book is undeniable.” (ix).

Part of the front page of Acta Comparationis Litterarum Universarium.

This is the combination of anxiety and acceptance with which I am concerned. Apter, Lezra, and Wood are aware of and engaged with the banal truth that our discipline is of and in the whole world, not just Europe and North America. They worry that their work excludes that world at the same time as they try to include it and also catalyze its further engagement. There is not even a shred of doubt about whether or not the rest of the world, including Arabic, should be part of Comparative Literature.

- See more at:

omparative Literature is comfortable with the inclusion of Arabic in its scope. But ours is also a discipline with a persistent concern for its own identity. What can one unpack from this combination of comfort and concern? What has happened since the first Comparative Literature hires were made in Arabic over the last few decades? Is there an interface between the anxiety about disciplinary identity and the steady integration of Arabic into the comparative conversations? Will this process be finished by 2025? These short remarks track one of the old, pre-Arabic, Comparative Literature concerns – the development and use of theory – in order to test answers to some of those questions.

In 2014, Emily Apter, Jacques Lezra, and Michael Wood published their English translation of Barbara Cassin’s 2004 Vocabulaire européen des philosophies: Dictionnaire des intraduisables. The new Dictionary of Untranslatables: A Philosophical Lexicon was a paradigmatically “Comparative Literature” endeavor. It updated a French engagement with a European tradition into an English work of Anglophone theory, cognizant of a further decade’s work on the philosophical ideas in play, engaged with theory in dialogue with the original Francophone philosophie, and gesturing with intent towards the rest of the world. The 2014 introduction mentioned other translations of Cassin into “Arabic, Farsi, Romanian, Russian, and Ukrainian” and diffusion of her work in “Asia, South Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and Latin America” (vii, ix). Apter, Lezra, and Wood were commendably frank about their project both having roots in Cassin’s vision of a forward-looking Europe in touch with its Indo-European and Semitic neighbors, and now taking place in Anglophone “literary theory and comparative literature” (xi). They talked in the introduction of removing reference to Europe from the title whilst being “worried” about the “difficult call” because “the European focus of the book is undeniable.” (ix).

Part of the front page of Acta Comparationis Litterarum Universarium.

This is the combination of anxiety and acceptance with which I am concerned. Apter, Lezra, and Wood are aware of and engaged with the banal truth that our discipline is of and in the whole world, not just Europe and North America. They worry that their work excludes that world at the same time as they try to include it and also catalyze its further engagement. There is not even a shred of doubt about whether or not the rest of the world, including Arabic, should be part of Comparative Literature.

- See more at:

omparative Literature is comfortable with the inclusion of Arabic in its scope. But ours is also a discipline with a persistent concern for its own identity. What can one unpack from this combination of comfort and concern? What has happened since the first Comparative Literature hires were made in Arabic over the last few decades? Is there an interface between the anxiety about disciplinary identity and the steady integration of Arabic into the comparative conversations? Will this process be finished by 2025? These short remarks track one of the old, pre-Arabic, Comparative Literature concerns – the development and use of theory – in order to test answers to some of those questions.

In 2014, Emily Apter, Jacques Lezra, and Michael Wood published their English translation of Barbara Cassin’s 2004 Vocabulaire européen des philosophies: Dictionnaire des intraduisables. The new Dictionary of Untranslatables: A Philosophical Lexicon was a paradigmatically “Comparative Literature” endeavor. It updated a French engagement with a European tradition into an English work of Anglophone theory, cognizant of a further decade’s work on the philosophical ideas in play, engaged with theory in dialogue with the original Francophone philosophie, and gesturing with intent towards the rest of the world. The 2014 introduction mentioned other translations of Cassin into “Arabic, Farsi, Romanian, Russian, and Ukrainian” and diffusion of her work in “Asia, South Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and Latin America” (vii, ix). Apter, Lezra, and Wood were commendably frank about their project both having roots in Cassin’s vision of a forward-looking Europe in touch with its Indo-European and Semitic neighbors, and now taking place in Anglophone “literary theory and comparative literature” (xi). They talked in the introduction of removing reference to Europe from the title whilst being “worried” about the “difficult call” because “the European focus of the book is undeniable.” (ix).

Part of the front page of Acta Comparationis Litterarum Universarium.

This is the combination of anxiety and acceptance with which I am concerned. Apter, Lezra, and Wood are aware of and engaged with the banal truth that our discipline is of and in the whole world, not just Europe and North America. They worry that their work excludes that world at the same time as they try to include it and also catalyze its further engagement. There is not even a shred of doubt about whether or not the rest of the world, including Arabic, should be part of Comparative Literature.

- See more at:

Terry Pratchett: "Not having battles, and doing without kings"

March 23, 2015 - 13:15
Tags:  Terry Pratchett, fantasy, Genre, humanism

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Flickr ( I ) 

I don’t think any writer did more to form me than Terry Pratchett. That might be a bit of a dangerous thing for a professional literary scholar to say. It would be easier to recount how much Ulysses, say, meant to a budding adolescent highbrow. In fact, though, I suspect that as a teenager, and not only as a teenager, I had a Pratchettian reading of the novel: Joyce’s Dublin as Ankh-Morpork, puns and pastiche as the engine driving the narrative language forward, the library of culture as an interdimensional transit zone, and no icon left unsmashed. In any case, I’m certain I would be a very different person if my elementary-school librarian hadn’t read Truckers to us and started me on a Pratchett kick that never stopped.

It’s terrible that Pratchett is gone, much too young, after a particularly cruel form of brain disease. I read a few obituaries in the usual places that made me angry with their banalized versions of this writer. It’s easy to be mistaken, for example, about Pratchett’s Death and his comic image of afterlife. The thing to remember is that when you die on the Discworld, you get a few minutes of postmortem existence before you notice you’re dead—Pratchett’s version of Wily E. Coyote running off the cliff—then Death comes along, chats with you a bit, swings the scythe, and adieu. Afterlife, when it happens, is a problem that has to be solved, as in Reaper Man, or a punishment for Pratchett’s worst villains, as in Witches Abroad. Noli timere messorem, Pratchett put on his coat of arms (causing life to imitate art: the heraldic gags of Men at Arms), but only because you’re going to face him eventually.

He shook his head. “There’s no justice.”

Death sighed. NO, he said, handing his drink to a page who was surprised to find he was suddenly holding an empty glass, THERE’S JUST ME.

(Mort [New York: Roc, 1987], 43)

But I particularly feel that the pious tributes are liable to miss the convictions that underlie Pratchett’s fantasy narratives. Fantasy on the Tolkien/Lewis model, which looms so large in the U.S., is saturated with religiosity, racial and gender essentialisms, authoritarianism, and the ideology of just war. The Discworld series begins as a parody of the genre conventions that support these toxic aspects of fantasy fiction; but even when parody recedes into the background and the imagined world turns into a very flexible vehicle for all sorts of generic amalgams and satiric analogues, Pratchett continues to make fantasy—and commercial fiction—live comfortably with a pluralist, democratic, and atheistic worldview. Pratchett said when he revised The Carpet People, a novel he wrote at age 17:

[The first version of the novel] was read by Terry Pratchett, aged forty-three, who said: hang on. I wrote that in the days when I thought fantasy was all battles and kings. Now I’m inclined to think that the real concerns of fantasy ought to be about not having battles, and doing without kings.

(Author’s note to The Carpet People, rev. ed. [London: Corgi, 1992], 7)

This is especially the theme of the great second phase of the Discworld series that starts after the earliest novels have given heroic fantasy the smiting it deserved: novels like Pyramids, Guards! Guards!, and Wyrd Sisters, culminating in the furiously anticlerical Small Gods.1 The Disc is made out of fantasies, but we enter it to discover that not all satisfying fantasy involves the violent clash of good and evil, the triumph of hereditary authority, or the imposition of a carefully-regulated cosmology in which only the chosen few have the power to determine how our collective life will unfold.

The point, of course, is not that Pratchett was good because he is politically and philosophically appealing in a way that other fantasy authors are not. It would be terribly un-Pratchettian to go around vetting our make-believe for ideological correctness or indeed any other kind of correctness. Measure the difference by comparing Philip Pullman’s dour antitheology with the comic parable of philosophical modernity in the Bromeliad Trilogy. Or consider this exchange from Usenet between a reader and Pratchett about Granny Weatherwax’s witchcraft:

—What are the ‘rules’ and ‘regulations’ of headology? It just seems to be an area that is not properly defined.

“Ah. It appears you have discovered Rule 1.”

(“Words from the Master,” in The Annotated Pratchett File)

It would also cause us to miss so much else in Pratchett—including the pulpy fun that those terrible early American paperback covers promised, a wonderful science-fictional imagination (the permutation of the dimensions in Pyramids, the instantaneous transmission of kingons and queons in Mort) and a breadth of cultural reference to make even the Librarian say “Oook” (read The Annotated Pratchett File). But I hope we will reread Pratchett for, among other things,2 his surpassingly rare combination of democratic humanism and fantastic world-building imagination. Otherwise the joke’s on us.

  • 1. The later City Watch novels may be rather different. Pratchett gets interested in state-building and, in reaction perhaps to the continuous disaster of neoliberalism in the U.K., works hard to imagine the possibility of relatively benign political authority, particularly in the form of the institutions of civil service. For more on the phases of the career, see my projected post-tenure and/or post-detenuring study, The Achievement of Terry Pratchett.
  • 2. Pratchett is of course also the master of the comic footnote, to whose footnotes my own jokey footnotes are the merest wossname.

Shakespeare and Misgiving

March 19, 2015 - 10:16
Tags:  Shakespeare, John Milton, Jim Jarmusch, Ira Glass, Marlowe, Crisis in the Humanities

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Wikimedia ( I ) and New Scientist ( I ) 

What follows is old news. I’ve been preoccupied, probably for longer than justified, with two of last year’s strangest instances in Shakespeare’s afterlife (a word I use advisedly). Taken independently, I find both instances disorienting and opaque. Taken together, they resolve into an unsettling clarity.

Shakespeare’s 450th year was also the year Ira Glass started tweeting. The collision of these events in the text of Glass’s irascible response to a summer performance of King Lear in Central Park needs no summation beyond the iterative: without irony, “Shakespeare sucks.” It’s a nice phrase, really, tarring the name in an extension of the name’s own crowded sibilance. Poetics of dumb things to say – dumb enough that I’m almost embarrassed to bring it up again, having followed the extensively blogged “controversy” (Jimmy Fallon’s word, after Glass, blog-heavy, tipped into late-night television appearances) with an attention that I tried and failed at the time to explain to colleagues and students and that I’ll explain now only as an anxiety that this was a thing that clearly shouldn’t matter, but mattered. I want to venture that Ira Glass was turned off by Lear in the sense of being unaware of being on to something, and in a way that draws awareness to what he was unaware of, which is that his tweet was too late, a poison tongue without a living victim, elegizing what it sought to victimize.

By one account, after all, the year of celebration of Shakespeare’s birth was also the year he died. In Only Lovers Left Alive, released January of that year, Jim Jarmusch imagines another Shakespeare who sucks, but in the manner of a tick or mosquito, and he isn’t Shakespeare but Christopher Marlowe, the immortal (ha) author of Shakespeare’s plays. To be sure, the idea of the author of Tamburlaine surviving his bar fight and proceeding, as a vampire, to pen Hamlet and Lear and the rest is the most credible to date of the many extant anti-Stratfordian scenarios (by far). But never mind. Replacing Shakespeare with Marlowe in a film otherwise without investment in the question of the historical Shakespeare’s biography or authority is a substitution not of authors but of signs, a message folded in a joke that the conditions of aesthetic modernity, Shakespeare being one, may warrant rereading.

To suppose with Emerson that Shakespeare “wrote the text of modern life” is not necessarily to suppose knowledge of what that text is, or what that life is, or what marks it as modern, or what that marking requires of us. At the end of Only Lovers, Marlowe, played by John Hurt, drinks some bad blood and dies in a room behind a café in Tangier. He is more or less a minor character, onscreen for fewer than twenty minutes altogether. So much for him, as Claudius says, too easily, of Fortinbras. Still his death organizes the themes of the film, which are otherwise diffuse and atmospheric, into a kind of argument, pointing to what Glass can’t put his finger on, dismisses, therefore, as “not relatable.” Forget for now that the usage of “relatable” is a neologism for which Glass was roundly scolded in The New Yorker. Jarmusch’s Shakespeare is no less alien to and alienated from the modern life of which he allegedly wrote the text. He is a sort of ur- as well as heir to Burroughs, living out a junky’s exile, or a Bob Dylan, his real name refashioned as an alias, his alias an identity he will fail to outlive. More Stones than Beatles, more Warhol than Rockwell, more doubt than certainty.

It could be said more Marlowe than Shakespeare. The current of Jarmusch’s characterization runs entirely counter to the mainstream idea of Shakespeare that emerged in contour with the emergencies of the twentieth century, the idea that so entirely failed in Glass’s view. One episode of Doctor Who describes Shakespeare as “The most human human there’s ever been.” His is the only uncontested place in most American high school and college curricula – indeed, among the protocols for New York City public schools, the word “Shakespeare” is the only individual name that counts as its own academic subject, and he is the only author explicitly mandated for instruction in high school English classes by the Common Core State Standards, adopted now by 46 states. When Nigel Smith undertook to challenge Shakespeare’s predominance in his 2008 polemic Is Milton Better than Shakespeare?, he knew the reflexive response to his title would be incredulous laughter. The evocation of that laughter is essential to his argument, counterpoint and counterpart to the total seriousness of Harold Bloom’s own audacious title: Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human (1999). Shakespeare’s reinvention in Only Lovers as explicitly inhuman is either a confirmation that he is “not relatable” or a radical reassessment of the range and reach of human relations.

Only Lovers is expansive in its consideration of what relates to what. Among its many visual citations and allusions is a photograph of Nicholas Ray, an early mentor to Jarmusch, hanging on a wall alongside Buster Keaton, Mahler, Robert Johnson, and a dozen others eclectically arranged. Famously, in directing Rebel without a Cause, Ray borrowed a title and little else from Robert M. Lindner’s case study of criminal psychopathy. Jarmusch borrows Ray’s strategy of borrowing in Only Lovers, which is titled for, but not really adapted from, Dave Wallis’s 1964 pulp novel about post-apocalyptic teenagers. Or more accurately, and more elaborately, Jarmusch’s Only Lovers is titled for Ray’s own Only Lovers, a planned adaptation of Wallis’s Only Lovers, which was to have starred the Rolling Stones. That combination of talent didn’t survive even the most preliminary negotiations, but it holds a place among the most remarked upon unmade films in Hollywood history.

If Only Lovers ends with the death of Shakespeare, we might remember that Rebel ends with the death of Plato – transmigrated to Sal Mineo’s performance of a dissolute teenager responding with desperation to the constraints of bourgeois life, the unmooring of the American family, and the sense that modernity is in the process of destroying itself. The latter Cold War disquiet is only barely sublimated in a film preoccupied with cliffs and ravines ethical and actual, and in which millennial expectations are translated with jarring nonchalance to a secular and suburban context. In the planetarium, the edifice at the heart of the film, after an authoritative voice predicts the “demise” of the Earth in the “blackness of space from which we came,” James Dean’s Jim Stark consoles a cowering Plato: “Hey. It’s all over. The world ended.” Plato wonders later whether “the end of the world will come at nighttime.” Jim’s reply is both inarticulate and prophetic. “Uh-uh,” he mutters. “At dawn.”

We can easily imagine that the reason Ray’s version of Only Lovers went nowhere was because there was no need for it: he’d already made the definitive film about emotionally orphaned teenagers with apocalyptic sensibilities. In discourse with the film that doesn’t exist, Jarmusch’s Only Lovers knits itself to the film that does, eliding and elaborating a network of loose allusive intersections. The rhetorical trope at work is transumption, an echo of an echo: Jarmusch echoes and extends Ray’s misgivings that the forms of the past, mistaken for immutable, are instead contingent and unstable, and that they are always in some phase of disintegration. I’ll risk a broad stroke to say that Plato’s death, on the steps of the planetarium, is a metonym for the death of ideas in a culture without convictions, as Shakespeare’s death, in Jarmusch’s telling, announces the death of aesthetics, which is the death of the human, which is a hoax.

At the bedside are two vampires named Adam and Eve who have tried desperately and in earnest, like James Dean and Natalie Wood in Rebel, to accommodate themselves to the forms of domesticity, marriage, and romantic love that will, they trust, then hope, then misgive, keep them from the violence beyond temporary homes in tumbledown mansions. Chased from those imaginary gardens with real toads, or, in Only Lovers, toadstools, vampires and rebels take their solitary way, seeking frantically for Plato in one instance, for Shakespeare in the other, just in time for dawn and the death of the world they thought they knew.

Jarmusch asserts his protagonists derive not from Genesis, at least not directly, but from Twain’s The Diaries of Adam and Eve, which is a reading of and answer to Milton’s Paradise Lost, which is a reading of and answer to Genesis. The Miltonic perspective intrudes as a kernel of misgiving about the Shakespearean perspective, which forms the horizon of aesthetic possibilities, “the text of modern life.” This is the Milton for whom paradises are always resolving as prisons and heavens are always dissolving into hells, a formula adopted and adapted from Marlowe in an epic that began in Milton’s earliest plotting as a Marlovian metaphysical tragedy. That unwritten tragedy, titled “Adam Unparadised,” was to have begun with Satan on Mount Niphates, having traversed Chaos, finding himself still surrounded by the conditions of his punishment: “Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell," he complains, echoing Marlowe’s Mephistopheles to Faustus, “Why this is hell, nor am I out of it.” Jarmusch’s own unparadised Adam stalks hospitals at night, costumed as a doctor whose name tag collapses the distance between these orbiting texts: Dr. Faust.

In Marlowe’s handling, as established in the first lines of Doctor Faustus, the tragedy of Faustus’s own making is not an effect of hubris or greed but misgiving in humanistic study. It is not identical in all ways to Ira Glass’s anti-Shakespearean misgiving, and in some ways it may be opposite, but the origin is the same: they just don’t see the point. Glass tweets: “No stakes.” They’re not alone. The failure to find a point to the enterprise we call the humanities is itself a point of pronounced alarm in the scholarly and pedagogical contexts that frame our place in Shakespeare’s fifth century. Most of us who work in those contexts would say that the present ongoing divestment of literature, philosophy, languages, and the arts is a deal with the devil. But which devil are we dealing with? Is it the Mephistophelean devil mortgaging liberal education for a seductive but eventually bankrupting careerism? Or is it the devil of Milton’s late-career revision tempting not our ambition but our narcissism, winning our sympathy by seeming so much like ourselves? At least we can relate to him.

Yet the devil we know may be worse than the devil we don’t. As Leon Wieseltier wrote recently in The New York Times, “[A] complacent humanist is a humanist who has not read his books closely, since they teach disquiet and difficulty.” I will discuss in a later post how Jarmusch, in killing Shakespeare, also turns to Shakespeare in seeking a way of reading past complacency. I began by saying Glass’s tweet was too late, but now I'll say, with Romeo, “I fear too early, for my mind misgives."

Paris as an American City

March 6, 2015 - 10:18
Tags:  Paris, African diaspora, American Studies, Walter Benjamin, University of Sussex

Graphics by Michelle Jia : Images Flickr ( I

City of lights. Capital of the nineteenth century. The clichés pour down: the cultural metropolis, the imperial center, the capital city of the republic of letters.*

But if we press on this just a little further, we also see the city as conduit, as medium. Perhaps it's not an accident that the great theorist of Paris (and source of not a few of our Paris clichés), Walter Benjamin, was a media theorist, close reading the very materials that made a medium of the city:

Iron is avoided in home construction but used in arcades, exhibition halls, train stations—buildings that serve transitory purposes.**

Recent research by Nancy Green and Brooke Blower has also thrown into question why the quintessential American expatriate in Paris is usually thought to be an artist: these historians have uncovered the deep networks of American business, philanthropy, and diplomacy in Paris, and Paris's role as a site of U.S. power.*** The ideologies of aesthetic autonomy and romantic love that have long attached to Paris have also made the city a crucial conduit for U.S. interests.

What, for example, is Paris doing for Fred Astaire's American character in this video?

[Cyd Charisse and Fred Astaire]

The clip is from the 1957 MGM musical Silk Stockings, based on the 1939 Ernst Lubitsch (MGM) film Ninotchka, starring Greta Garbo. Silk stockings, here, are the luxury commodity that will seduce a Soviet agent (in Ninotchka, it's a truly wack hat).

Greta Garbo in a capitalist hat.

Why is Paris the setting for this Cold War comedy, with music and lyrics by Cole Porter, he of the "Great American Songbook"? Why is it the logical scene of a seduction into American capitalism? None of this film is set in the United States (except that all of it is: this "Paris," and "Moscow," are built in Hollywood).

At the same time, what genuine pockets of resistance or autonomy were opened up by the Paris myth, especially for black Americans and for pan-African organizations?****

Questions like this drive the "Paris as an American City" project, a new Sussex Centre for American Studies international research network, co-directed by Daniel Kane (AmStuds/English), Katharina Rietzler (AmStuds/history), and me. We are funded by a Sussex International Research Partnerships and Network grant and are delighted to be working with collaborators including Nancy Green, Brooke Blower, Jonathan Eburne, Abigail Lang, Vincent Broqua, Olivier Brossard, and Daniel Katz, in partnership with Arcade, the Karla Scherer Center for the Study of American Culture at Chicago, and the Musée Franco-Américain at Blérancourt.

Reflecting that American Studies itself has its roots in the extraterritorial extension of U.S. power, we hope that the study of Paris as an American city will open out disciplinary questions as well as historical and cultural ones.

[Ideology at its very purest. Paris, je t'aime, 2006.]


*Pascale Casanova, The World Republic of Letters (Harvard University Press, 2004).

**Walter Benjamin, “Paris, the Capital of the Nineteenth Century (Exposé of 1939),” in The Arcades Project, ed. Rolf Tiedemann, trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin (Cambridge, Mass: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1999), 16.

***Brooke Blower, Becoming Americans in Paris: Transatlantic Politics and Culture between the World Wars (Oxford, 2011); Nancy Green, The Other Americans in Paris: Businessmen, Countesses, Wayward Youth, 1880-1941 (Chicago, 2014); Green, “Expatriation, Expatriates, and Expats: The American Transformation of a Concept”, American Historical Review 114 (2009), 307-328.

****Davarian L. Baldwin and Minkah Makalani, eds., Escape from New York: The New Negro Renaissance beyond Harlem (Minneapolis, 2013); Fionnghuala Sweeney, and Kate Marsh, eds., Afromodernisms: Paris, Harlem and the Avant-Garde (Edinburgh University Press, 2013); Jeremy Braddock and Jonathan Eburne, eds., Paris, Capital of the Black Atlantic: Literature, Modernity, and Diaspora. (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013).