Caesura 1.2

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

CONTENTS

“The All-Knowing God”. Old Testament and Hellenistic Metaphors 3

in the Genre of New Testament Apocalyptic

AURELIAN BOTICA

Dystopian Narratives and Humanism. What a Zombie Makeover 21

Really Looks Like

JORDAN RYAN GOINGS

“The Night Parade”. Experiencing the Folklore-Based Japanese 37

Imaginary between Wabisabi and the Uncanny

CĂLIN LUPIȚU

The Pain and Suffering of African Children Reflected in 49

Uwem Akpan’s Short Stories Say You’re One of Them

YILDIRAY CEVIK

La Città Di Gu Cheng: Uno Scenario Apocalittico 59

ANNA SIMONA MARGARITO

Great Metropolitan Creations. The Tectonics of 77

Discourse in the Postcolonial City

TIMEA VENTER

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

“THE ALL-KNOWING GOD”. OLD TESTAMENT AND

HELLENISTIC METAPHORS IN THE GENRE OF

NEW TESTAMENT APOCALYPTIC

AURELIAN BOTICA

ABSTRACT. Apocalyptic literature has stood apart from other genre especially because of its

emphasis on metaphors, symbolism and cryptic language. At even a cursory look, one will

notice that the book of Revelation made use to the fullest of these data. What scholars would

expect to see less in such genre is the imagery of God as an “all-knowing” searcher of the

hearts and thoughts. In the book of Revelation there are two major texts that employ this

motif. In chapters 2 and 3 God appears as the divinity who “knows” virtually all deeds, atti-

tudes, and in particular, the thoughts of the heart of the seven churches from Asia Minor. Evi-

dently, one would ask whether this language belongs to the classical apocalyptic literature, and

what are the sources that inspired the author of Revelation? The Bible uses a wide spectrum of

verbs and nouns to convey the idea that God has comprehensive knowledge of human

thoughts and actions. These grammatical terms describe physical organs, physiological and

mental or spiritual operations. In this article we will trace the terminology of the concept of

“divine all-knowledge” to three major (possible) sources: the Old Testament, Greek/Hellenistic

and Jewish Hellenistic texts. In particular, we will want to know what was the original context

in which these concepts were used? Second, we will want to ask to what extent the author of

Revelation was influenced by these sources and what was the meaning that he gave to the

notion of “divine all-knowledge”?

KEY WORDS: Apocalypse, New Testament, metaphor, Hellenistic text

The biblical background of Revelation 2-3

The passages that contain the motif of “divine all-knowledge” in the book of

Revelation fall in the category of the seven pronouncements that Jesus

Christ issued to the seven churches of Asia Minor. First, each pronounce-

ment follows a pattern that addresses the following criteria: the name of the

church, the identity and attributes of the speaker (Jesus Christ), the content

of the knowledge of the speaker, a pronouncement on the fate of the

church, and a closing formula of warning (“He who has an ear, let him hear

what the Spirit says…”) (D. Aune, 1997: 119-30).1

What concerns us in par-

AURELIAN BOTICA (PhD) is Assistant Professor of Hebrew and Old Testament

studies at Emanuel University of Oradea, Romania. E-mail: [email protected].

1 Concerning the literary form of the seven pronouncements, Aune argues that these

sentences follow a pattern of “imperial edicts” typical of Roman culture.

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CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

ticular is the aspect of the “content” that describes the “knowledge” of Jesus

about each particular church.

Second, in Revelation 2:23 the author uses the expression “I am he who

searches the mind and heart, and I will give to each of you according to

your works.” Concerning the first group of texts, the description of each

church begins with the formula “I know”. In each case the author uses the

verb oida followed by a detailed description of the object of knowledge.

However, in 2:23, the author uses a verb of “searching” that could be traced

to the Septuagint, the Greek version of the Old Testament. To clarify the

meaning of each group of texts, we will list the summary forms of the pro-

nouncements introduced by the verbs. We will then analyze the meaning of

the verbs and their larger Scriptural and context.

The Verb oida

Reference

Church Recipient

Object of Knowledge

2:2 Ephesus deeds, toil, endurance

2:9 Smyrna tribulation and poverty

2:13 Pergamum dwelling place

2:19 Thyatira deeds, love, faith, service, patience

endurance

3:1 Sardis deeds

3:8 Philadelphia deeds

3:15 Laodicea deeds

The verb oida (with variations eido/eidomai) is a word that describes the no-

tion of “knowing” in a very general sense (H. Seesemann in G. Keittel,

1964: 116-19; D. Aune, 1997: 134).2

It occurs in approximately 320 passag-

es in the New Testament and it takes human, angelic and divine subjects. In

this sense, one can “know” someone personally, know about a person or a

situation, or “grasp the meaning” of a unique reality (see oida in W. Bauer

and F. W. Danker, 2013). In our case, the subject of the verb is Jesus Christ,

who addresses each of the seven churches. If in the New Testament the

verb does not suggest (particularly) a unique aspect of the act of “knowing”,

the content of the seven pronouncements does. As is evident from the table

above, what Jesus Christ knows are both visible and invisible realities. This

means that it is not the verb itself, but its subject that gives the verb in these

passages a unique function. We have called this an “all-knowledge” motif,

2 Particularly, Aune points out that oida expresses a state of knowledge with little or no

reference to how that knowledge was acquired.


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

not because of the verb itself, but because the subject of the verb assumes

knowledge “of all the affairs upon the earth” (D. Aune, 1997: 143). One will

note that Jesus Christ knows both external realities (deeds and places) and

inward experiences (patience and love).

The New Testament affirms this function of the verb elsewhere, when it

describes Jesus’ “ability to fathom people’s thoughts”.3

As we will argue lat-

er, we believe that the New Testament concept of divine “all-knowledge” is

rooted primarily in the witness of the Old Testament. Now, to convey the

act of “divine knowledge” the Old Testament employs other verbs as well.

Most often, the texts use the Hebrew yada with this sense and in a similar

context. One should note, however, that the Greek translators of Hebrew

text chose the verb ginosko, not oida/eido, to render the Hebrew yada (A.

Botica, 2007: 123; ginosko in R. Bultmann quoted in Kittel, 1964: 689-719;

Yada in G. J. Botterweck, 1986: 448-81; yada in Fretheim quoted in Van

Generem, 2001).4

Even though in terms of occurrences ginosko had more frequently the

sense of divine “all-knowledge”, the Old Testament also employed oida with

a similar meaning. In Proverbs 24:12, God, who knows (ginosko) the heart of

all, also “knows” (oida) all things. The author of Job 11:8 has God pointing

to Job that he does not “know” (oida) the “deeper things” that, apparently,

only God can know. Similarly, God “knows” (oida) the “works of transgres-

sors” (Job 11:11) and the “origin of wisdom” (28:23). God is able to weigh

the deeds of Job and thus “know” his “innocence” (31:6). Given this seman-

tic range, we can grasp better the meaning of the verb oida in the seven

pronouncements of Revelations 2-3. That is, God has “all-knowledge” that,

for all purposes, He will use to evaluate both inward and outward realities

in the life of the churches.

The second passage that focuses on the theme of divine “all-knowledge”

is Revelation 2:23. Unlike the seven occurrences that we have just analyzed,

here the text describes the notion of divine “searching” of the “mind and

the heart”. In essence, the concept of “searching” conveys a meaning similar

to that of “knowing”, especially considering the fact that what God searches

is the mind and the heart of humans. Both verbs target the same phenome-

non, namely, divine “all-knowledge”.

3 Oida, A Greek-English Lexicon, for Jesus “knowing” the “thoughts” of the Pharisees (Mat

12:25), their “hypocrisy” (Marc 12:15), what “they were thinking” (Luke 6:8), and the

“grumblings” of the disciples (John 6:61).

4 Botterweck “relates the aspect of divine knowledge of the thoughts to the realms of cult

(worship) and law (justice).” In this context, the worshipper “calls on God for justice,

based on his knowledge of the heart (Ps 44:21; cf. Job 31:6; Ps 40:10; Jer 12:3). ”For

the idea of God “knowing” realities that are inaccessible to humans, see Deut 8:2; cf.

13:3; Jud 3:4; Ps 139:23.

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In Classical and Hellenistic Greek sources, the verb appears with both

literal and figurative meanings (see ereunao in G. Delling quoted in Kittel,

1964: 655-57).

For example, one could “search” possessions or the house for

a certain item. One could also “investigate” a matter, “search out” the

meaning of a statement or “inquire” into a theoretical problem. Plato used

the concept in the context of philosophical examinations. In the figurative

sense, the verb conveys the sense of “searching” a reality that goes beyond

the power of human perception. As early as Pindar (6th

century B.C.), ere-

unao described the diligent (and apparently futile) search of men to find the

will of the gods. As we have indicated so far, for the most part the verb takes

a human subject and the act of “searching” can be physical, intellectual or

spiritual/religious. We will see later why this aspect has a special significance

to understanding the passage in the book of Revelation.

In the Septuagint, ereunao translates the Hebrew verb hps, which means

to “search out” or “examine” (A. Botica, 2007: 116; for G. H. Matties, “hps”,

quoted in Van Generem, 2001: 252-55). In the Old Testament this verb

works with physical objects (Gen 31:35; 44:12), persons (1Sam 23:23), or

abstract entities like injustice (Ps 64:7) and wisdom (Pro 2:4). Furthermore,

the conceptual range of hps “is flexible enough to include inward elements

like the ‘spirit’ (Ps 77:6) and the ‘innermost chambers.’” Thus Proverbs

20:27, where the subject is the “spirit of man” that plays the role of the

“lamp of the Lord”, searching all his innermost parts. If our analysis of the

usage of ereunao in classical Greek is correct, it follows that the Septuagint

invested the verb with a meaning that did not appear in the Classic or Hel-

lenistic sources. That is, God has the ability to search out realities that re-

main inaccessible to humans.

And one may draw this conclusion from the data of New Testament as

well. True, the authors of the New Testament used ereunao with the gen-

eral sense of “searching” the Scriptures or the ministry of the prophets of

the Old Testament (John 7:52; 1Pet 1:11). But ereunao points not only to

human, but to divine searching as well. In addition to Revelation 2:23, one

should note Romans 8:27, where he “who searches hearts knows what is the

mind of the Spirit.” Likewise, in 1Corinthians 2:10, Paul explains that “the

Spirit searches everything, even the depths of God.” We may conclude,

then, that Revelation 2:23 reflects the Old Testament understanding of God

as a divine “searcher”; as an “all-knowing” God.

The Wider Background of the Theme of Divine

Knowledge and Searching

The passages that we have analyzed so far describe particular and often

different historical situations. However, the unifying criterion that makes

them critical to our analysis is the fact that “the object of the verbs ‘test-


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

ing/examining’ is the inward thoughts and intentions” (A. Botica, 2007: 112).

At a closer analysis, it appears that this emphasis on “interiority” forms a

recurring pattern in the Bible. If this is true, then one may ask what is the

significance of this motif in the Bible in general, and how does this phe-

nomenon explain the meaning of the passages from the book of Revelation?

First, some scholars understood the motif as a religious/theological theme

underlying the divine attributes of knowledge, perception, and

omniscience. As we have noted, “this appears to be the case both in

narrative texts like 1Samuel, Kings, and Chronicles, as well as in prophetic

and wisdom passages from Jeremiah, Job, and Proverbs” (A. Botica, 2007:

119).5

It is true that in some of these passages one may detect what we will

show later to be a juridical approach to the concept of “divine searching.

However, in the current setting, “they reflect the preoccupations of the

authors with religious/theological and ethical issues outside the cult” (E.

Würthwein, 1957: 165-82; A. Weiser, 1962: 802-09; H.-J. Krauss 1, 1988:

204; E. S. Gerstenberger, 2001: 79). Thus scholars have pointed out

parallels between this motif in the Bible and in the ancient Near Eastern

texts; in particular, texts depicting the solar deities and the “weighing of the

heart” in Egyptian religion (K. van der Toorn, 1998: 434-35; R. Pettazzoni,

1956: 77-88; Gerstenberger, 2001: 515; Currid, 1996: 217 ff; Taylor, 2001:

35 ff; O. Keel, 1978: 184-185; J. H. Hogg, 1911: 59-60).6

Second, the motif of “divine testing” has also been interpreted from a

moral/cultic standpoint, as a prayer-formula to be recited before entering the

temple gate. In this context the worshippers participated in what scholars

call “gate liturgy”, which was “a ritual intended to prevent one from

approaching the holy in gross impurity” (Keel, 1978: 183, and Ps. 11:4-5, 7

(“His eyes see, his eyelids test…”).

Third, and in close proximity to point number two, another avenue of

interpretation has emerged from the practice of the “cultic ordeal”. In

essence, the Temple “may have served as a judicial forum for cases that

could not be adjudicated at the level of the local courts” (thus Deut 17:8, “If

a matter of justice is too difficult for you”) (A. Botica, 2007: 110). A number

of scholars have argued that “the process also included an oath” (cf. 1Ki

5 For 1Sam 16:7; 1Ki 8:38-40; 1Chr 28:9; 29:17-18; 2Chr 6:30, and second, Jer 11:20;

12:3; 17:9; 20:12; Job 7:17-18; 13:9; Prov 15:11; 16:2; 17:3; 20:27; 21:2; 24:12.

6 Van der Toorn characterizes the ANE solar deities as gods of justice with intimate

knowledge of the inward world of humans. Note also Pettazzoni for texts describing

Anu, Enlil, Ea, Sin, Marduk, and Shamash, also Gerstenberger for Egyptian parallels.

These are sources that describe gods such as Amon, the “searcher of the body, who

opens the hearts”, and Sia, “who knows the inner parts of the body.” Also O. Keel for

the ritual of “haruspicy” in relation to “divine examination” of the heart (Ps 139:23-

24).

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8:31ff.), which “came in force when the courts had to admit their own

inability to administer justice.” Having the person take the oath meant that

he or she submitted to the searching of God (Phillips, 148; “for the ‘oath’ as

a transfer of jurisdiction to God”, and for the general background of the

ordeal process: Gerstenberger, 2001: 513; Van der Toorn, 1998: 429;

Würthwein, 1957: 165-82).

As Gerstenberger, Krauss, and others noted, the motif of divine

examination served as “an element of the ‘doxology of judgment’, in which ‘a

person unconditionally submits to the procedure of the deity, namely, by

confessing the unsearchable omnipotence of God in a doxological hymn’”

(Krauss 1, 1988: 173; Krauss 2, 1965: 217). This experience could be

interpreted both as a “judgment of the conscience of the sinner and the

‘proclamation of innocence’ for the one falsely accused”, even though

Schmidt restricted this “to the prayer of the person who was accused falsely”

and who now calls for a “legal resolution on his innocence” (for Ps 7:10,

Schimdt, 1934: 13, and Delekat, 1967: 63; for Ps 17:3, Beyerlin, 1970: 106,

102-03, 107, 118). For Schmidt (26), Beyerlin (107), and Krauss (132), the

“sacral process of judgment” consists simply in spending the night in the

temple and receiving the verdict in the morning. As Van der Toorn and

McKane argued, the ordeal was based on the belief that “the party that

survived the test through the night (drinking a mixture of wine and poison)

was deemed innocent.” Nevertheless, even though this scenario may have

some support within the Old Testament traditions, the interpretations

involve a degree of speculation. This is why disagreements still remain (A.

Boica, 2007: 111, and he references to the reviews of Eaton, Hasel, and

Tourney).

Fourth, the connection “between inward morality (as intentions/attitudes)

and societal relations and well-being” has been observed to work in Wisdom

literature as well. For example, Perdue noticed a tendency toward “dualism

between deeds and inward piety/morality”. According to the sages, God

would evaluate the (inward) “disposition of the petitioner” because one can

use “both prayer and sacrifice in deceitful ways” (A. Botica, 2007: 103-104;

Perdue, 1977: 155 ff., 240)7

. We must also note that “inwardness was only

the concern of the sages, but not of the official priests” is not correct.8

Also,

7 Perdue noted “that in the view of ancient Israel, not only did sacrifices have to be

brought in the right way, but ‘the intention of the heart of important.’”

8 Please note the fact that Prov 21:27 uses idioms characteristic of cultic literature (e.g.,

the Hebrew toevah, with reference to homosexual acts [Lev 18:22; 20:13] and zimah

with reference to sexual sins [Lev 18:17;19:29; 20:14]). One should also take into ac-

count Ps 15 and 24, "where the admission of the worshipper into the Temple depend-

ed on his or her pure heart.” Likewise, to convey the notion of intention in “non-action

cases, the Bible uses not only idioms from cultic texts (e.g., Leviticus), but also from


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

for Kovaks the author of Proverbs viewed “social responsibility in terms of

dispositions, attitudes, and intentions, not only deeds” (Kovacs, 1978: 179,

182).9

Another author who has probed this phenomenon in Wisdom litera-

ture is Fox, who noted that a number of passages in the book of Proverbs

(esp. 3:1-12) “are primarily concerned with shaping attitudes” (Fox, 2002:

154-55, 244; Farmer, 1991: 175, 199).10

In his view, even though the “hope

of the authors is to inculcate right actions”, often time they stressed the

imperative of having rights attitudes, “feelings and mental dispositions,

rather than deeds”. It has been the consensus of these authors that the mo-

tif of “divine searching” was based on the premise that “holiness and purity

have an essential inward aspect, accessible only to God” (J. Gammie, 1989:

127ff.; A. Botica, 2007: 104).

Another genre of biblical literature that includes the motif of divine ex-

amination is Prophetic Literature. Primarily, scholars have traced this topic

to the writings of Jeremiah. As we have shown elsewhere, the prophet un-

derstood the human heart as the “medium of inward offenses (4:14-18; 9:7;

12:2). It was in this context that he argued for the necessity of “divine ex-

amination” of the thoughts of the heart (11:20; 12:3; 17:9; 20:12) (see J.

Holladay, 1986, 1989; R. Caroll, 1986: 280ff; W. McKane, 1986: 253ff; P.

Kelley, 1991:177; F. Huey, 1993: 137; J. Walton in Logos Library System).

In this sense, Lundbom noted in prophetic literature the view that Yahweh

alone “is able to look into the human heart, plumb its depths, test it, and

come up with an equitable judgment regarding it”, see J. Lundbom, 1999:

788). In his view this was not a “concern with theodicy, but a classic pro-

phetic call to judgment.” In other words, it expressed the condemnation

against those “who falsely claim to speak for Yahweh.” Evidently other pro-

phetic books shared Jeremiah’s view of divine examination. Perhaps the

(human) reason why Jeremiah depicted God in this posture, more than the

other prophets, was his unique experience. Jeremiah not only had a long

criminal law” There are many terms employed in Wisdom, Poetic, and Prophetic liter-

ature that could be used both in the legal/religious and the moral/ethical contexts.

9 Kovacs applied this argument to situations that described everyday “religious and

cultic issues”. As such, “right intentionality constitutes the sine qua non of prayer and

sacrifice” (cf. Prov 15:8; 21:27).

10 It is true that such attitudes will “inevitably lead to actions, but for the present the

author of Proverbs focuses on attitudes and moral character.” In this sense, Fox reveals

the case of the “Strange Woman” who is “of hidden mind, of a concealed nature”. In

other words, she is the opposite of a “pious frame of mind.” It is this attitude, then,

that makes her all the more dangerous, “when her thoughts and intentions are evil.”

Farmer, too, has argued that in the book of Proverbs, morality is defined “not only in

terms of actions, but of intentions as well.” More specifically, the “test of righteousness

or wickedness applies to the inward life, as the Lord judges intentions as well as

deeds”.

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prophetic ministry, but a turbulent one as well. Of all the references that he

makes about divine examination, most of them arise out of Jeremiah’s con-

cern that the people who persecute him, and who sinned against God, will

escape unpunished.

Divine Searching/All-knowledge and the Human Heart

Now, to understand the phenomenon of divine “all-knowledge” better, one

must consider not only the verbs of “knowing” and “searching”, but also the

objects of the verbs: specifically, the organs or internal functions of human

beings. We have noted so for that the idea of God searching the heart has a

rich background in the literature of Old Testament. This is so because the

human “heart” is arguably one of the most important theological concepts

the Bible (see A. Botica, 2007: 117-19; I. Nowell quoted in H. Luckman and

L. Kulzer, 1999: 17; Robinson in A. S. Peake, 1925: 362-64).11

The term

appears often in verses that describe the act of “searching” or “examining”.

The reason for this examination is that the heart engages in malice, injus-

tice, hypocritical worship and evil thoughts. The evil thoughts of the heart

pose problems not only to human relationships, but also to the relationship

between humans and God. Note the following situations:

“If I had thought evil in my heart, the Lord would not listen to my prayer” (Ps

66:18)

“They speak words of peace to their friends, but have malice in their heart” (Ps

28:3)

“‘Eat and drink’ (he says to you) but his heart is not with you” (Prov 23:7)

“They honor Me with their lips, but their heart is far from Me” (29:13)

“The intention of the thoughts of the heart is only evil” (Gen 6:5; 8:21)

Based on the witness of these passages, we may conclude that in the Old

Testament the heart functions both as a biological organ and a spiritu-

al/emotional/volitive/intellectual apparatus. The heart is able to conceive plans

and intentions, but it is also scrutinized by God (A. Botica, 2007: 117-21; R.

North, 1993: 577-97 identifies the “brain” and the “nerve functions” with

11 Botica notices Fabry’s classification of “lev” from an anthropological perspective, where

the heart is “strong” (Isa 46:12), “powerful” (Ezek 2:4), and “faint” (Ps 61:3), to the no-

etic: “understanding” (1Ki 3:12), “knowing” (Prov 14:10), “wise” (Prov 16:23), “ponder-

ing” (Prov 15:28), “senseless” (Prov 15:21), emotional: “cheerful” (Prov 17:22), “rejoic-

ing” (Ps 105:3), “trembling” (Job 37:1), “fearful” (Isa 35:4), “dreading” (1Sam 28:5),

and ethical: “good” (Eccl 9:7), “evil” (Prov 26:23), “be haughty” (Prov 18:12), “be false”

(Hos 10:2), “go after idols” (Ez 20:16; Job 31:7); also Nowell's “interesting dimension of

the heart as a source of impurity”; see also his own mention of the “heart” with physical,

psychological, intellectual, ethical, and existential meanings (citing Stolz and Robinson for

the “heart” denoting inner life, emotion, will).


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

the heart; North, 1995: 33 points out that ancient Israelites had “no word

for brain and did not associate thinking with the head.” Instead, the heart

took on these functions; see also R. Johnson, 1949: 77; Glasson, 1970: 247-

48; Robinson, “Hebrew Psychology”, in A. S. Peake, 1925: 253). Thus God

tests the kidneys (emotions) and the heart of the person who was accused

falsely (Jer 11:20; cf. 12:3; 17:9; 20:12). He also searches, tests and weighs the

heart of the worshipper (Ps 7:10; cf. 17:3; 26:2; 139:1, 23; Prov 21:2; cf.

15:11; 16:2; 17:3; 20:27) and knows the secrets of the heart in general (Ps

44:22; cf. Job 7:17-18).

Evidently, a number of scholars have asked whether it is proper to em-

phasize the preoccupation of the Old Testament with the thoughts of the

heart. This question reflects the belief that, for some, the Old Testament

deals with legal and practical concerns more than with inner spirituality and

introspection. We have argued elsewhere that reading the Old Testament

from a materialistic perspective alone is both unjust to its cultural/religious

ethos and incorrect from the perspective of a sound methodology. The Old

Testament lists a wide spectrum of cases as it deals both with legal and spir-

itual matters.

In some of these, both the act and the intention formed the basis for judgment

or praise. In others, the act was linked to the intention, but the basis for judg-

ment or praise was primarily the intention. In yet other cases, whether on the

human-divine level (piety), the level of social interactions (ethics), or—as was the case

more than once—the mixed cases of ethics and piety—only the intent/inward pre-

disposition, not the physical act (which could be praise-worthy), was held liable or

was praised. We have…demonstrated that more often than not it was the factor

of “divine calculation”, not the human court, which made this evaluation critical.

One may say that the Bible portrays God, above all, as intently preoccupied with

the inward life of human beings. It appears that the question of the appraisal of

intent in the absence of the expressed physical action (its praiseworthiness or

blameworthiness) becomes more a theological problem, and less a legal one (A.

Botica, 2007: 174).

One of the examples that embody this dualism comes from Psalm 24:2-4:

Who shall ascend the hill of the LORD? And who shall stand in his holy place?

He who has clean hands and a pure heart, who does not lift up his soul to what is

false and does not swear deceitfully.

One will notice that the Psalmist takes into account both the “hands” and

the “heart” of the worshippers. This is not untypical for the Bible. As a

number of scholars have argued, the expression “clean hands and a pure

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heart” points to the “totality of moral/religious life” (E. Otto, 1994: 98ff; B.

Gemser, 1968: 78-95; W. Kaiser, 1986: 8).12

Granted, this passage describes

a cultic situation. We have indicated, however, that the Old Testament

considers the criterion of inwardness not only from a religious/cultic

perspective, but also from a legal, social and inter-personal one (R. E.

Clements, 1996: 220-21, who points to the perspective of the authors of

Proverbs, for whom harboring “evil intentions” has adverse social

consequences).

The Greco-Roman and the Jewish Hellenistic Background to the

Theme of Divine All-knowledge

So far we have argued for a biblical religious and linguistic background for

the motif of divine “all-knowledge”. This does not mean that this theme

appears only in biblical sources. As we have argued elsewhere, scholars

“have shown this motif to be applied throughout early and late Graeco-

Roman literature” (A. Botica, 2007: 308; Pettazzoni, 1956: 145-177; G.

Nickelsburg, 1991: 132; W. Lane, 1991: 103; J. Fitzmeyer, 1991: 311-12,

519; J. Fergusson, 1970: 195). As early as Hesiod, the Greeks believed that

there “is a virgin Justice, the daughter of Zeus… and whenever anyone

hurts her with lying slander she sits beside her father Zeus, the son of Kro-

nos, and tells him of men’s wicked heart” (OP 256-264/Theogonia 902). Aris-

tophanes described Palas Athene as a deity who can take body form and

watch (episkopeo) over human beings (Eq. 1173). Seneca too pointed out that

“nothing is shut off from the sight of God. He is witness of our souls and he

comes in the midst of our thoughts” (Ep. 83.1-2).

But there exist differences between the biblical and the Greco-Roman

sources as well. Unlike the Old Testament, the Greek and Roman authors

referred to a plurality of gods as divine beings who are watching over the

world and who can penetrate even the secrets of the human heart (A.

Botica, 2007: 308).13

Among the lists of “all-knowing” deities one finds Zeus,

as Argos Panoptes (“multiple eyes”), and also “the personification of Boreas,

12 A similar concept to Otto's points to Psalm 78:72 as well. Note similarly the phrase “the

words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart” in Ps 19:15, and we referred to

Kaiser “for the dualism between deeds and intentions, which can be shown to operate

in the prophets (condemnation of “outward acts of piety”), in the cultic life, as well as

in individual cases like that of David (Ps 51:17; 1Sam 16:7).”

13 In this sense note Botica's references (2007) to Arrian, Disc. 1.14; Seneca, Ep. 83.1-2;

87.21; De Prov. 5.10; 16.4.7; Epictetus, Disc. 2.8.15, 24; 2.14,11; Herodotus 1.124;

Philostratus, Apoll. Tyan. I. P. 4.; Hesiod, Erga 238, 251ff.; 267; Theog. 546, 550, 561;

Homer, Odyss. 4.379; 11.109; 12.323; 13.214; 14.487; 20.7; Iliad 19.258; M. Aurelius,

Med. 12.2; Phil, Aer. Frag. 91; Plautus 2.2.310 (Latin); S. Emp., Mat. 9.54; Sophocles,

Oed. Tyr. 498; Antig. 184; Xenophanes, Frg. 24; Aristophanes, Eq. 1173; Plato, Laws

901D; 905A; 717D; Xenophon, Anab. 2.5-7; Plutarch, Mor. 166D.


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

Aer, Aither, Helios, Apollo, and Selene, and Jupiter, Semo Sancus, and

Janus in the Roman pantheon” (Pettazzoni, 1956: 145-77).

However, a more direct intermediary between the Old Testament and

the New Testament motif of divine “all-knowledge” is Second Temple Jewish

literature. The impact that the Old Testament exerted on all subsequent

Jewish literature was felt in the way Palestinian and Hellenistic Jews

employed the motif of the “All-Knowing” God. For example, Josephus

described God as the “inspector and governor of our actions” (Ag. Ap. 294).

He “is present to all the actions of their lives”, and sees not only the actions

that are done, “but clearly knows those their thoughts also, whence those

actions do arise” (Ant 6.263). Josephus also refers to God being “conscious

of every secret action of the human heart” (Ant 9:3) and, as a heavenly

Judge, He “sees all things and is present everywhere” (War 1.630). Similar

sentiments were echoed in the intertestamental literature of 1-3 Maccabees,

where God appears as “all-seeing” God and Lord (pantepoteis, 2Mac 7:35;

9:5, and epopteis Teos, 3Mac 2:21). He is able to “sees all things” (ta panta

eforontos, in 2Mac 12:22; 2Mac 15:2). As we have pointed out, the theme of

the “divine examination” of human deeds and thoughts is found in a wide

variety of Second Temple literary works (A. Botica, 2007: 308).14

We will conclude our study with a review of Philo of Alexandria (approx.

20 B.C.E.—50 A.D.), perhaps the author who, outside of the Old and New

Testament, exerted the most profound influence upon the theology of

divine “all-knowledge”. Philo was a Jewish thinker trained in the classics,

and who also enjoyed the respect of his Greek philosophical peers (for the

influence of Greek thought on Philo, and especially on the importance of

inward spirituality, see Botica, 2007: 297, and E. Brehier, 1908: 250ff.,

295ff.; T. Billings, 1919, 1979: 72-87; W. Goodenough, 120ff., with the

focus on “inner virtue” and “its relation to the external practice”; H.

Wolfson, 1947: 1.266-67, with the “duties of the heart” and “the intellectual

aspect of virtue”; J. Danielou, 1958: 191ff., for the role of “virtues in Philo

and for the general turn inward”; Y. Amir, 1983: 18, for “the spiritual/noetic

world as the real world”; P. Gagnon, 1993: 684-85, on “the imprints

received on the soul or mind when one thinks virtuous or evil thoughts

[Leg. 1.18 [61-62]); W. Merritt, 1993: 96ff., on “interiorization as a wider

phenomenon”; M. Alexandre, 1995: 17-46). Alexandria at that time had

become the cultural capital of the Western Empire. Hosting a rather large

14 See Botica (2007) for Wis 1:6-9; 3:1, 5-6; 3:13; 6:3; 7:17, 23-24; Sir 16:21; 23:19-20;

42:18; Aristeas 133; T Jud 20:5; 1Enoch 9:5, 11; 84:3; 2 Enoch 45:3; 52:13-15; 53:2-3; 66;

3 Enoch 11:1-3; 45:3ff.; Sus 42; 2 Esd 16:55; 16:6; 4 Ez 16:54ff., 61; 2 Bar 48:39; 83:1; T.

Jud 20:1ff.; T. Zeb 5:2; T. Naph 2:6ff.; T. Gad 5:3ff.; T. Jos 2:6; T. Ben 6:7ff.; T. Isaac

4:21; Ps. Phoc. 51-52; Psa. Sol. 14:8; 17:25; Hel. Syn. Pr. 2:3-4, 7; 9:4-6; Odes Sol. 16:8-9;

Menander (Frag. Ps-Greek Poets [Clem., Strom. 5.14.119, 2; 5.14.121, 1-3]).

14 AURELIAN BOTICA

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

Jewish population, Alexandria was often shaken by conflicts between the

Greeks, who despised most foreigners, and the Jews, many of whom had

chosen to segregate in their own ghettos. In order to appeal to the

philosophical sensitivities of the Alexandrinians, Philo asserted that Moses

was the greatest philosopher who had ever lived. Even more so, he

interpreted the Law of Moses using the method of allegory: emphasizing the

spiritual/philosophical dimension, and minimizing the physical/literary

nature of a story or biography. In doing so, Philo hoped that he would

make the Greek audience more sensitive toward Jewish faith, and persuade

Jews not to abandon their ancestral traditions.

What concerns us here is not so much the allegorical method itself, as is

one of the beliefs that Philo emphasized again and again. Namely, that God

discerns not only the deeds of men and women, but also their intentions, mo-

tives and hidden thoughts.15

The table below lists two dimensions of interpreta-

tion. In the left column Philo describes how people experience and evaluate

reality. In the second column, Philo describes how God sees, searches and

evaluate the hidden reality of the soul. For the full version of the table, that

includes the Greek text as well, see Botica, 2007: 301-302.

The “human”

criterion for moral

evaluation

The “divine” criterion for moral

evaluation

Ref.

“words spoken openly

and deeds done open-

ly are known to all.”

“No merely created being is capable of

discerning the hidden thought and motive

Only God can do so..., the motives being

judged by the all-penetrating eye of

God... who alone can see the soul na-

ked...”

Cher.

16-17

Thinking that “the

eye of God sees

nothing but the outer

world through the

cooperation of the

sun.”

“they do not know that He surveys the

unseen even before the seen, for He himself

is His own light… our souls are a region

open to His invisible entrance.”

Cher.

96-98

Men enter the temples

only after bathing and

But they “shall never escape the eye of

Him who sees into the recesses of the mind

Deus. 9

15 For this concept in Philo see Botica, 2007: 287, and references to D. Winston, 1979:

104; A. Dihle, 1985: 90-98. We pointed to the same motif in Philo and the connection

with Hellenistic Judaism and the New Testament, in J. Moffat, 1924: 53-56; W. At-

tridge, 1989: 134-36; P. Ellingworth, 1993: 260-65; C. Koester, 2001: 274-75; D. Aune,

1997: 206.


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

cleaning. and treads its inmost shrine.”

“For already God has pierced into the

recesses of our soul and what is invisible

to others is clear as daylight to His

eyes.”

Deus. 29

“The words [of

Balaam] that were

spoken were noble

words.”

But God, “who looks upon what is

stored up in the soul, saw, with the Eye

that alone has power to discern them,

the things that are out of sight of creat-

ed beings, and on the ground of these

passed the sentence of condemnation.”

Mig.

114

The physical

appearance of Joshua

“God, who surveys the invisible soul

and to whom alone it is given to discern

the secrets of the mind, to choose on his

merits the man most fitted to com-

mand…”

Virt. 57

“…handing them over to the divine

tribunal only… First, because arrogance is

a vice of the soul and the soul is invisible

save only to God.”

Virt.

172-74

What appears as the

“noble birth” of Cain

Cain “who displayed in his soul an ignoble-

ness, which God, the Overseer of human

affairs, saw and abhorred.”

Virt. 200

Men “admire virtue so

far as outward

appearance goes”

“God the surveyor, since He alone can

scan the soul.”

Abr. 104

“…the Eternal, ‘who surveys all things

and hears all things’ even when no

word is spoken, He who ever sees into

the recesses of the mind, Whom I call

witness to my conscience, which affirms

that that was no false reconciliation.”

Ios. 265

cf. Mos.

2.217

Decal.

95

“Men can arbitrate on

open matters” (in

Num 5:12-31)

“but God on the hidden also, since He

alone can see clearly the soul.”

Spec.

3.52

“We inquire into what

is manifest”

“but He penetrates noiselessly into the

recesses of the soul, sees our thoughts,…

inspects our motives in their naked reali-

ty and at once distinguishes the coun-

terfeit from the genuine.”

Prov. 36

(cf. 54)

16 AURELIAN BOTICA

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

“Men look at the

quantity of gifts”

“but God looks at the truth of the soul

turning aside from arrogance and flat-

tery.”

QG 1.61

“what is visible” “It is an atheistic belief not to hold that

the divine eye penetrates all things and

sees all things at one time, not only

what is visible but also what is in recesses,

depths and abysses.”

QG 1.69

“they judge by visible

things”

“He judges by the invisible thoughts of the

soul.”

QG 2.11

(cf.

2.60)

foolish man’s view of

virtue

“divine Logos… enters his soul and ex-

amines and searches him.”

QG 4.62

Several conclusions are now in order regarding the contribution of Philo to

this debate. First, judging by the number of citations, it is evident that Philo

was influenced by the Old Testament. In this sense, he merely inherited the

view that God penetrates and judges the thoughts of the heart. Second,

judging purely by the terminology that he employed and the style that he

adopted, one must conclude that Philo was thoroughly immersed in Greek

philosophy. He cited freely from Homer, Plato and Stoic thinkers. His level

of expressivity in Greek has been regarded by classic scholars as one of the

most profound and technical of his age.

Arguably Philo was the Hellenistic Jewish author who offered the most

profound view of God as the all-knowing deity who searches the heart.

Philo likewise was a Jew who commented on the Greek Old Testament. He

did not pioneer the allegorical method, nor did he invent most of the

religious Greek terminology that would later be used by the early Christian

thinkers. Yet, through his writings, Philo demonstrated that Jewish

thinking of the Old Testament was now fertilizing the Hellenistic soil in

which the early Christian church was born. Philo also became one of the

most important sources for the Patristic thought the 3rd

and 4th

centuries.

Conclusions

We hope to have shown that, when John wrote the book of Revelation,

there had already been circulating in Asia Minor a rich tradition of spiritu-

alizing the physical cult of the Old Testament. First, if our analysis of the

Old Testament is correct, we will have established at least one major source

for the Johannine concept of God as One who penetrates the deepest re-

cesses of the soul. This means that apocalyptic thinking in the late first cen-

tury AD was nourished by the texts of the Old Testament. Second, we have

also established that Greek thinking envisioned God as an Overseer who


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

sees and judges the thoughts of the heart. The writings of Philo evidently

attest to the phenomenon of Jewish Hellenism and the influence of the

West upon Oriental religious thought. Indeed, no one will contest that the

writings of the New Testament embody the final confluence of the Greek

and Jewish visions of God and the world. The scenario of Revelation 2-3

presents God as the all-knowing deity who can penetrate into the deepest

mysteries of the human heart. The objects of searching are, for the most

part, the seven churches of Asia Minor (chapters 2-3), even though the text

of 2:20, 23 may address specifically the situation of one individual: Jezebel,

a false prophetess and teacher in the church at Thyatira. Based on our

analysis, we conclude that the Johannine image of God as searching and

testing the thoughts of the heart is deeply rooted in the worldview of the Old

Testament and mediated through Hellenistic thinking and terminology.

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CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

DYSTOPIAN NARRATIVES AND HUMANISM.

WHAT A ZOMBIE MAKEOVER REALLY LOOKS LIKE

JORDAN RYAN GOINGS

ABSTRACT. This paper involves an analysis of the zombie narrative sub-genre and its en-

gagement with the philosophical paradigm of humanism. The goal is to show that contempo-

rary zombie narratives disagree with the validity of humanism as valid prescription of anthro-

pological ethics. This has been accomplished by examining recent works in psychological,

theological, philosophical, and aesthetic studies on the literary theory of the zombie sub-genre.

Upon such examinations, it is made apparent that this sub-genre offers an ontological com-

mentary on the state of man that is in stark contrast to humanism’s portrayal of man’s good-

ness. Subsequently, this project discloses the paradigmatic differences between some zombie

narratives and humanism; the former convey mankind as depraved, in a way commensurate

with the Christian worldview, while the latter highlights man’s self sufficiency regarding his

volitional desire to correct the dystopian context in which he would be placed. Through ana-

lyzing the anthropological implications within zombie narratives, this research will highlight

the philosophical value of that sub-genre, as well as use this specific dystopian medium to

communicate that humanism as an inefficient paradigm for helping man thrive in an apocalyp-

tic zombie narrative.

KEY WORDS: zombie, humanism, literature, philosophy, dystopian

Introduction

In his short story Dream of a Ridiculous Man Fyodor Dostoevsky depicts a

disillusioned man who is suffering from depression, and tells of his journey

from this world to another. As he attempts suicide, he is plucked from his

home and taken into space by an ethereal being, with the intention of

bringing the man to his home world. Upon the protagonist’s arrival, he

discovers that this new world is perfect; it is as if it were an Eden that was

left unstained as no sin had ever breached its borders. Through a series of

events, he indirectly teaches the blissful race how to lie, which then quickly

degrades their society. As the man looks around in horror at his corruption,

he soon awakes in his home having not committed suicide, and with a new

vigor for life, vows to live and do well (Dostoevsky, 2003).1

In short, this

JORDAN RYAN GOINGS (ThM) is affiliated to Southern Baptist Theological Semi-

nary in Louisville, Kentucky. His main research interests cover theological aesthetics

and philosophy, with a concentration in Continental theorists, German Idealism, and

Russian Existentialism. E-mail: [email protected].

1 Although Dostoevsky ends this story with his protagonist repenting, desiring to then

live in hope and virtue, the overall tone of this work is bleak. This tone serves as a

mailto:[email protected]

22 JORDAN RYAN GOINGS

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

work, as is the case with many of Dostoevsky’s works, concisely communi-

cates man’s inability to innately make sense of his disordered world.

Over the past few decades a prominent genre within fiction has evolved

into a global phenomenon: dystopian literature. With young adult fiction

bestsellers like Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games series and Veronica

Roth’s Divergent trilogy, the post-apocalyptic dystopianism is becoming

more and more accessible. Whether it’s Cormac McCarthy’s The Road or

Stephen King’s The Stand, this genre has often praised the valor of their

protagonists, and lauded mankind’s goodness for its resilience to see them

through such bleak storylines. However, there is a sub-genre within this

dystopian family that is not portraying mankind in that light: the zombie

genre.

Thesis

Ever since director George A. Romero’s foundational work Night of the Liv-

ing Dead was released in 1986, the dystopian-horror genre began to develop

one of their most distinguishable and prolific sub-genres. This undeniably

popular narrative has seen exponential growth over the past two and a half

decades, and is currently reaching mainstream status with a myriad of

evolving nuances. In other words, just as The Hunger Games series has its

following, shows like The Walking Dead have their own massive fan-base.2

As

most literary genres follow their own distinct guidelines and customs, mak-

ing them autonomous from one another, the same can be seen to occur

within their subsequent sub-genres. Essentially, the issue is that not all zom-

bie stories agree about the state of mankind; standing on the philosophical

foundation of humanism, the majority believe that man is capable of restor-

ing and reestablishing society in the wakes of a zombie dystopia. However,

there are some that not only take a different angle, but that starkly disagree

with the pretense of humanism’s validity in such a future.

Throughout this analysis I will engage three of the most prominent

zombie narratives so as to highlight that in the context of a zombie dystopia

the innate goodness and self sufficiency that humanism professes are not

viable, and that such a future will only show mankind as it truly is: broken.

This will be accomplished by first fencing the context of what a “zombie

narrative” is so as to clearly identify a philosophical and aesthetic herme-

symbol of man’s immediate nature, and that without some divine, supernatural inter-

cession, man will remain a hindered and in a bleak state. The other being—as identi-

fied as not truly human—serves as means for the man to be enlightened from without,

so as to not give credit to the man.

2 On November 17, 2014 The Washington Post recorded that the television series The

Walking Dead had higher ratings than NBC’s Sunday Night Football for the third straight

week (The Washington Post, http://d.pr/13g6d).

Dystopian Narratives and Humanism 23

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

neutic. Secondly, as the Renaissance/Humanism era can be ambiguous, I

will frame the context in which humanism will be applied in the final sec-

tion. Thirdly and finally, this argument will conclude with an assessment of

three distinct zombie narratives, disclosing their implications about man-

kind and humanism: I Am Legend, The Walking Dead, and 28 Days Later. At

the conclusion of this analysis it will be apparent that the zombie medium

can serve the contemporary culture well by making it aware of humanism’s

deficiencies, in that it lacks the viability to sustain mankind in such a post-

apocalyptic context.

The Zombie Paradigm(s)

It should first be noted that the zombie sub-genre is not as much about the

gore as it is anthropology, sociology, and philosophy. In his book Gospel of

the Living Dead Kim Paffenroth argues that George A. Romero’s foundation-

al zombie stories are in the same vein as Poe and O’ Conner, in that his

horror and gore are not arbitrarily applied. Regarding Romero and like

authors, Paffenroth writes, “…shocking violence and depravity are used to

disorient and reorient the audience, disturbing them in order to make some

unsettling point, usually a sociological, anthropological, or theological one”

(Paffenroth, 2006: 2).3

Although they are typically narratives containing

notable amounts of gore and depravity, the zombie genre can often speak

to the same profundity that philosophical and theological works often en-

gage.

Before moving to the distinctions between contemporary styles, it is nec-

essary to note that this sub-genre has become an eclectic niche that is accu-

mulating a large cult following. However, as alluded to above, not all narra-

tives within a genre share the same guidelines. Pedagogically speaking,

some have taken to the genre simply because it has given them the oppor-

tunity to be redefined.4

J. R. R. Tolkien assessed this misguided appropria-

tion in stating that this level of fascination is a misapplication to “restrict…

3 Paffenroth elaborates on this by writing that “although Romero is said to eschew the

idea that his movies have meaning or significance, they are widely acknowledged, by

reputable critics and not just fans, to be thoughtful and serious examinations of ideas,

not just exercises in shock and nausea” (see page 2).

4 A simple internet search for the phrase “end of the world peppers” will disclose blogs,

TV shows, and random sites dedicated to actual stories of people focusing all of their

free time to preparing for the apocalypse—whether zombie, virus, or biblical themed.

In a close association, the term “G.O.O.D. bag”, which is an acronym for “Get out of

Dodge, has become something of trend as well. The idea is to pack a bag that would

contain everything necessary to survive, and then carry it with you as often as possi-

ble—mostly left in a car—so that if the need arises, the owner would be able to leave

their immediate scenario, as he or she perceived it to be culminating to an apocalyptic

end.


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imagination to ‘the power of giving to ideal creations the inner consistency

of reality’” (Tolkien, 2006: 161).5

Ultimately, this seems to be because many

zombie narratives use the zombie outbreak as a deus ex machina that allows

the characters an ontological tabula rasa of sorts, thus enabling them with an

opportunity to rewrite their entire self-narrative. This is partially the work

of most fictional stories; it is, however, a very prominent attribute for the

fantasy genre.

George A. Romero’s Legacy

As mentioned above, Romero’s original work, Night of the Living Dead, has

been the source for many subsequent renditions of zombie narratives, and

remains a staple for assessing zombie lore. However, this is not so say that

he shares the same sentiments about the value of his work. Paffenroth

makes note that “Although Romero is said to eschew the idea that his mov-

ies have meaning or significance, they are widely acknowledged, by reputa-

ble critics and not just fans, to be thoughtful and serious examinations of

ideas, not just exercises in shock and nausea” (Paffenroth, 2006: 2).This is

not to imply that Romero’s motive negates the inferences that his audience

can draw from his works. Nevertheless, Romero did establish a lasting nar-

rative sub-genre and a new fantasy syntax that cannot be eliminated from

the future engagement and hermeneutics of said sub-genre. Umberto Eco

balances this well explaining that “By helping create a language,” which I

argue Romero prolifically has done, “literature creates a sense of identity

and community” (Eco, 2002: 3). Eco proceeds,

Literary works encourage freedom of interpretation, because they offer us a dis-

course that has many layers of reading and place before us the ambiguities of

language and of real life. But in order to play this game, which allows every gen-

eration to read literary works in a different way, we must be moved by a pro-

found respect for what I have called elsewhere the intention of the text (Eco,

2002: 3).

In other words, as an aesthetic medium is created or added upon, there

should be a balance of expecting the work in question to be interpreted

with some nuances, while still appreciating the context of its origin. It is for

this reason that no matter how philosophical or intentional a zombie narra-

5 In his article “Discussion: Kirk on Empirical Physicalism”, Philip Goff analyzes this

level of fantasy by stating that “To say that zombies are coherent is to say something

about what it is coherent for us to suppose is possible, rather than to say something about

genuine possibility” (Goff, 2007: 122-129). Many of the inconsistencies behind an over-

ly fantastical engagement with narratives and para-social relationships can be deduced

to find some similarity with what Goff and Tolkien are addressing.


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

tive is analyzed for paradigm building standards, George A. Romero should

necessarily be in the assessment, if anything for the sole reason that most

subsequent zombie stories rely on his works.

Novel, Graphic Novel, and Television/Film

As alluded to above, the zombie sub-genre is a relatively new narrative,

primarily spanning just two and a half decades. However, the lore that it is

rooted in is not new. For this reason, I have chosen to limit the references

to just three sources, each representing a popular aesthetic medium in to-

day’s culture. The references are Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend, which

was a novel written in 1954, fourteen years before Romero’s Night of the

Living Dead; Robert Kirkman and Tony Moore’s ongoing series The Walking

Dead, which can be accessed in both the graphic novel and television medi-

ums; and Danny Boyle’s 2002 film 28 Days Later.

These three unique storylines share the same common thread about

humanity: mankind is not fully capable to save himself. It is important to

note, though, that The Walking Dead is the only one of these three that deals

with the Romero-imagined zombie. That is not to say that the others are out

of place. Most critics, whether begrudgingly or not, situates each of these

storylines under the zombie sub-genre due to their undeniably strong simi-

larities, tones, and syntax.6

It is for those reasons that I have chosen them

for this argument.

The aesthetic value of the zombie narrative is that in a classical appro-

priation, it highlights the ugliness of life, which is to say the absence of

beauty, so as to create a distinction of and want for a reinstatement of beau-

ty. Paffenroth asserts that “Zombie movies—or, at least, good ones—seem

by their very nature to offer social critique and a critical, moralizing look at

human beings” (Paffenroth, 2006: 2). Though bleak and desolate, this sub-

genre brings the viewer into a post-apocalyptic world that leaves them in

want; in an Aristotelian aesthetic, the tragedy of this narrative causes the

viewer to hope in restoration. Within this style of dystopian form, but very

prominently within these three specifically, the zombie threat serves as a

flood that eradicates all of mankind’s works and accomplishments, thus

leaving the humans with nothing but themselves. In his book Windows to the

World Leland Ryken argues that “We are the heirs of a permissive culture,

and for a critic actually to come out and assert that a given book is immoral

6 The 2014 documentary Doc of the Dead addresses this issue by bringing attention to the

science-fiction behind what distinguishes a being “undead” and “reanimated” as op-

posed to simply “altered”. As will be discussed in the last section, I Am Legend and 28

Days Later depict a threat of either vampires (the former) or chemically altered, adrena-

line-overdosed humans (the latter).


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is extremely rare” (Ryken, 2000: 156). I would invert this and argue that for

a contemporary mainstream narrative to claim a minority stance against

such prevalent humanistic prescriptions like that of man’s innate goodness

and ability is equally noteworthy.

The three mediums chosen depict how this threat speaks to the fears of

mankind’s soul. The first carries the reader along in a formal narrative,

letting them live the story as it unfolds; the second, whether in comic book

form or television episode, portrays snapshots of the calamity, though with

enough opacity to hinder the viewer’s omniscience over the situation; and

the third, through following just one man, gives a full, vivid depiction of

mankind’s vulnerability and weakness. Many other stories could have been

selected, but for the purpose of illustrating how the zombie narrative en-

gages the prominent philosophy of humanism that many contemporary

theories base themselves within, these three speak the most concisely.

An Understanding of Humanism

The immediate issue for any scholar that is engaging the idea of humanism

is to read into the context of its use, past all of the terms ambiguities and

vagueness, and ultimately define it for the purpose at hand. In short, the

term “humanism” is found in several contexts (e.g. art, philosophy, religion,

science, etc.). As Alan Lacey identifies, it has “many different connotations,

which depend largely on what it is being contrasted with” (Lacey, 1995:

375). He carries on to imply its importance in such popular fields of study

ranging from the Renaissance to Darwinian evolution theories. For the

purpose of this analysis, however, my use of humanism will be limited to the

understanding of theological and anthropological ontology.

An Overview of Terms

As alluded to, humanism finds itself almost inseparable from the Renais-

sance era due to the shared prescription they both offered for mankind: to

thrive. However, the primary concern at this point is to recognize a vital

dichotomy that was developing within European humanism early in the

sixteenth century. This distinction will establish the differences between

classical humanism and northern humanism. Classical humanism receives

its name from the care and appreciation that its proponents had in retriev-

ing, preserving, and being instructed by the classical works of Rome and

Greece. Northern humanism, which was more reactionary to the classically

minded humanists in the south, was rooted in the preservation of biblical

and religious beliefs, recognizing the importance of and remaining under

the original languages of the Bible (Cairns, 1996). Where the latter

worldview would later give rise to Protestantism, it is the former that is of


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

greater importance here. Philosophically speaking, classical humanism

would later give rise to the ego.

The differentiations within humanism do not end with this original

schism, however. Like most philosophical paradigms and constructs, as long

as the thought continues, so does the inevitability of nuances. One such

nuance is identified by Stephen R. L. Clark as post-Christian humanism,

which is a perspective that recognizes that each “human being is a uniquely

valuable individual to accord liberty and welfare-rights so as to cooperate in

the progressive enterprise of deifying Humanity” (Clark, 2003: 21). Clark’s

formulation is the precise nuance implied here in this paper; humanism for

all intents and purposes is the promotion of each man to a place of absolute

value ability, with the ends of each being a pertinent exponent in adding to

the progression of mankind. Throughout the history and progression of

humanism, especially in the context of the Renaissance, the acknowledg-

ment of each man’s uniqueness becomes more of a lynchpin that holds the

humanistic paradigm in order. History’s newfound interest in and apprecia-

tion of man’s uniqueness gave rise to a new manner of philosophical en-

deavors: the self.

Philosophical Influence

It is nothing new to discover a philosopher approach the study of a person’s

“uniqueness”, attempting to deduce what constitutes such a state. Such a

project does not necessarily establish them as a bastion of post-Christian

humanism. For example, John Locke famously wrote one of the first ex-

haustive works on individual cognition, epistemology, and psychological

growth in his An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, yet, he subjected

much of his paradigms and findings to the authority of the Bible, and even

faith, keeping him outside of the realm of such humanism and even staunch

rationalism (see Copleston, 1994; Williams, 2000). In other words, using the

faculties that the thinking man has in order to further formulate speculative

philosophies and thoughts does not necessarily validate one’s adoption of

post-Christian humanism.

The error of this specific nuance lies within its trajectory away from ac-

countability under an objective order and truth, and instead toward auton-

omy and subjectivity. As Kant, Hegel, and Nietzsche, to name a few, re-

mained fascinated with the self, although their systems did attempt to sup-

plement categories for an external object, often referred to as the thing-in-

and-of-itself, the most confirmable truth for them was the affirmation of the

id and the ego (i.e. the self). To juxtapose this self-heavy outlook, twentieth

century Russian theorist Mikhail Bakhtin applied what he found agreeable

within them to a socially-dependent paradigm he began to formulate. One

of Bakhtin’s definitive arguments against the dominance of an absolute


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

authorial control was not from some historical, philosophical, or govern-

mental analysis, but was from studying Dostoevsky. In his work Problems of

Dostoevsky’s Poetics he used the literary role of a protagonist/narrator to ex-

plain

Dostoevsky’s novel is dialogic. It is constructed not as the whole of a single con-

sciousness, absorbing other consciousnesses as objects into itself, but as a whole

formed by the interaction of several consciousnesses, none of which entirely be-

comes an object for the other; this interaction provides no support for the viewer

who would objectify an entire event according to some ordinary monologic cate-

gory (thematically, lyrically and cognitively)—and this consequently makes the

viewer also a participant (Bakhtin, 1984: 18).

Literary scholar M. H. Abrams takes up the task of clarifying Bakhtin’s

philosophical-literary hybrid paradigm, and argues it as

To Bakhtin, a literary work is not... a text whose meanings are produced by the

play of impersonal linguistic or economic or cultural forces, but a site for the dia-

logic interaction of multiple voices, or modes of discourse, each of which is not

merely a verbal but a social phenomenon, and as such is the product of manifold

determinants of class, social group, and speech community (Abrams, 1993: 231).

Bakhtin proceeds to explain this importance outside of literature by claim-

ing that, “The idea lives not in one person’s isolated individual conscious-

ness—if it remains there only, it degenerates and dies” (Bakhtin, 1984: 87-

88). Bakhtin’s philosophy recognizes the importance of being able to identi-

fy the self, yet it also recognizes the limitations of the previously mentioned

philosopher’s, and specifically post-Christian humanism. A culmination of

this theory can be found in Bakhtin’s essay Art and Answerability, which im-

plies that the individual’s thought is unique and relevant, but its purpose is

to be brought out and given to society for the goal of aiding and refining it

(Bakhtin, 1990: 1-3).

How Zombies Disclose the Errors of Humanism

As mentioned earlier, I have chosen three zombie narratives whose messag-

es speak in direct opposition to post-Christian humanism: I Am Legend, The

Walking Dead, and 28 Days Later. This last section is dedicated to analyzing

each narrative’s story, aesthetic, and message, juxtaposing that message to

post-Christian humanism. In doing so, the approval that many apocalyptic

narratives attempt to ascribe to humanism as being a satisfactory society-

rebuilding paradigm will be questioned. In the process of reviewing these

three works, the zombie dystopian narrative will be proven to offer a valid

evaluation of mankind’s ontological state and inabilities within certain con-

texts. Despite offering a minority view of today’s culture, these works are by


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

no means rogue stories overwhelmed by the need to exemplify contra-

normative nuance. Their medium, the fictional world, and tone are still the

same.

I Am Legend: Man Cannot Win

The most important pre-Romero narrative to define the current zombie

lore era is actually not a book about zombies, but of conscientious vampires.

G. A. Waller claimed that “…by far the most important antecedent for

Night of the Living Dead is I am Legend. On various occasions Romero has

acknowledged that the original idea for his film was inspired by Richard

Matheson’s novel, and the resemblance between the two works is striking”

(Waller, 1986). In his essay Raising the Dead Kyle Bishop notes that from the

desolate world, to the nightly routines of fortifying a house, Matheson’s

tone can be found throughout Romero’s works (Bishop, 2006: 196).7

Rich-

ard Matheson’s novel I Am Legend has seen many Hollywood renditions,

and although some have come close, none quite capture the weight of dys-

topian monotony as his novel accomplished. The character, Robert Neville,

is a common man who is the last human left on a vampiric zombie infested

earth. Staving off a rising loss hope and perspective, the story progresses

with Neville facing a lifetime of solitude in front of him. Recognizing that

the antagonists can only come out at night, he chooses to eradicate them as

he can during the day, as well as learn different skills like chemistry and

anatomy by researching at the library. Discovering the cause of the disease,

he begins to find hope as he starts learning from them. Despite all of Ne-

ville’s efforts, since Matheson’s antagonists have full awareness, they are

able execute their own plan, which results in the capture of Neville, and the

conclusion of the story.

Aesthetically speaking, although the backdrop, the actions, and the con-

clusion are all bleak, Matheson’s telling is captivating, as it highlights the

blunt honesty of what an existence like Neville’s would be like. Matheson’s

roads feel long and bare, the stench of decaying bodies seems pungent, and

the long drives to the library, and lonely nights at home model the daily life

of the reader’s existence. The subtle narration of the protagonist’s thoughts

concisely speaks to the psychology of the reader. Mattheson most clearly

7 Despite this essay’s disinterest in the technicalities of things like what fans desire and

ontological laws of nature within fantasy, it should be noted that some literary theorists

have considered the popular shift from vampires to zombies. Angela Tenga and Eliza-

beth Zimmermann are two such researchers who acknowledged that the transfor-

mation of the vampires of Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend (1954), the film’s inspira-

tion, into flesh-eating “ghouls” was an early sign that vampires were becoming less

frightening (Tenga and Zimmermann, 2013: 78).


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

accomplishes this by his antagonists. It can be understandably argued that

since these creatures are cognizant, they are not properly zombies.8

Howev-

er, Neville’s discoveries led him to the knowledge that the bacteria does

reanimate the dead, thus giving rise to the undead—a staple trait of zombie

lore. Regardless, the use of conscientious monsters allows for them to com-

municate with the protagonist, inevitably leading to an old best friend as

well as his dead wife attempting to connect with him, engaging Neville’s

loneliness. Much of Matheson’s artistry in this work is his use of one’s lone-

liness and the many ways that society engages it.

The message of society’s impact on a person is a major theme in I Am

Legend. The cognition of the antagonists seems perfectly intact, which car-

ries immense meaning. If post-Christian humanism is to offer society a

Greco-Roman appreciation of citizenship, believing that mankind desires

goodness for the whole of his context, Matheson’s representation of societal

ethos is almost the opposite. The vampire-like zombies spoke nothing but

deceit regarding the desire to get Neville out of the house, despite the psy-

chological toll and breakdown it may have caused in the protagonist. Fur-

thermore, if the reader were to look at Neville himself, and the painstaking

legend he established by way of teaching himself centuries of science in the

short matter of time that he had, he or she might be tempted to agree with

post-Christian humanism and profess that Neville’s legendary status was his

selflessness and persistence for the societal whole. However, it should be

noted that the observation made is in praise of a character’s motive, imply-

ing Neville’s pathos; such a perspective does not address the efficacy of the

post-Christian humanism’s ethos. In other words, Neville failed. With all of

his work, patience, and loss, he was unable to accomplish the sole objective

that everything was attributing toward.

The Walking Dead: Man is Corrupt

It is difficult in the present culture to discuss zombie lore without mention-

ing AMC’s The Walking Dead. However, before the popular television show

gathered the viewers that has placed it above Sunday Night Football in rat-

8 Regarding the zombie/human distinction, some have argued that a premise built upon

the physicalist notion that consciousness is an ontological necessity of humanity be

mandatory. As Brian Jonathan Garrett argued in his essay Causal Essentialism versus the

Zombie Worlds, “The ‘existence’ or possibility of Zombie worlds violates the physicalist

demand that consciousness logically supervene upon the physical. On the assumption

that the logical supervenience of consciousness upon the physical is, indeed, a neces-

sary entailment of physicalism, the existence of zombie worlds implies the falsity of

physicalism” (Garrett, 2009: 93). However, a distinction should be made between his

essay and the one here: the zombie epidemic portrayed in the narratives called upon in

this essay serves as a stage to perpetuate a need to act within the immediate, like Ne-

ville, regardless of his wife or friend’s psychological dispositions.


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

ings, it was graphic novel. Both mediums offer the recipient a strong com-

mentary on ethics, sociology, and psychology, therefore, both will be ap-

plied as the medium lends itself. The purpose for its being chosen is not

because of its success, but because it is far less objective than the other two

stories chosen here. This is in part due to the fact that the story, in both

mediums, is still being written, therefore there is no clear purpose or end

for the reader to recognize the characters working toward. This enables the

story to carry on in the same likeness of I Am Legend and 28 Days Later, in

that these zombie narratives truly are about the characters first and fore-

most. However, another reason for the open-ended narrative can largely be

ascribed to the nature of one of the story’s primary tones: the unknown.

Although this story’s group of survivors evolves as some die and others

are discovered, the group inevitably is at a loss of what to do. An immediate

inference can be made that this is due to the unprecedented nature of such

a societal context. As governments and religious strongholds, schools and

police stations, hospitals and grocery stores are all no longer functioning,

the world’s survivors are shown to be left with no order, and with no order,

there is no accountability. This gives way for the characters in The Walking

Dead to ultimately do whatever they desire. Furthermore, despite the fact

that this genre as a whole portrays the zombie threat as a definable entity in

and of itself—in that it is a hoard of viscerally charged villainous consum-

ers—for the purpose of approaching The Walking Dead, it is more appropri-

ate to use Andrew Bailey’s use of the “philosophical zombie”, to which he

argues is ideally the same as a human being, though just lacking in “phe-

nomenal states” (Bailey, 2006: 481). This distinction is important as The

Walking Dead highlights the individuality of the autonomous survivor, freed

to be whatever he or she desires, while juxtaposed with the hoard of similari-

ty, represented by the zombies.

Given that this story is the most “group” oriented narrative of the three

chosen for this essay, it is important to note that it depicts the most blatant

struggles of man’s desire to exemplify a specific autonomous image—

contingent upon whatever context is at hand for the character. Subsequent-

ly, The Walking Dead portrays mankind as a force that will do whatever it

must in order to accomplish said individuality and uniqueness, so much so

that the character at hand will lie, kill, and cheat whomever they need to in

order to attain it. In other words, although their appearance looks well kept

(at times), the character’s souls and psyche are shown to be compromised

and in decay like the zombies external features. Tenga and Zimmermann

illustrate this point by recalling a scene in a nursing home that portrays the

elderly survivors as almost identical with the zombies, further attesting to

the theme of mankind not being any better than the villainous dead antag-

onists (Tenga and Zimmermann, 2013: 79).


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

The immediate issue that The Walking Dead speaks to within post-

Christian humanism is the selfishness that attends the desire to be unique

and autonomous. The desired context is to be an individual who is free to

thrive and be known. However, in order to achieve that, the person’s

worldview remains within the I-for-myself, as Bakhtin notes, which is to say

that the individual’s pedagogy begins and ends with himself (Bakhtin, 1990:

1-3). If this is true, then the intentionality to be whatever is needed for the

betterment of society would not be instinctive, but acquired and learned. If

then there is no desire to conform, but only the opposite—complete auton-

omy—then the individual would have to be instructed by something outside

of himself. Concordantly, if order and organized governments (legal, reli-

gious, educational) are absent, then the primary influence upon the self is

going to be others, who are simply exemplifying the very same thing: indi-

viduality. Thus, within a truly dystopian context wherein there is no or-

dered governments of any kind, after self preservation, autonomous

uniqueness is the only thing left to strive for through, and it is perpetuated

through the inevitability of a fellow individual segregating himself from the

community for their his or her own personal advancement, not the groups.

28 Days Later: Man is Worse

The last narrative to address is Danny Boyle’s film 28 Days Later. Although

this assessment will be more brief than the other two, this movie communi-

cates some of the most accessible illustrations and formulations of mankind’s

nature. The story’s protagonist is a character named Jim, who awakens in

the middle of a hospital, unaware that just outside is a dilapidated London

infested with zombies. As the narrative unfolds, Jim becomes friends with a

woman and a girl along the way, who become part of his company as they

search for answers. The wandering culminates to them stumbling upon a

military base that is actually a depraved group of soldiers presenting the

facade of order, reminiscent of some community from The Walking Dead.

The story ends with Jim barbarously killing most of the soldiers with his

bare hands in order to save the women. As the story concludes, 28 Days

Later actually offers hopeful resolution as the zombies are shown decaying

from malnutrition, and a plane spots the three survivors.

However, despite the optimistic ending, and prominent theme in the

film is Jim’s struggle to remain mild-mannered. Aesthetically speaking, this

begins with the first sequence, as the camera pans out to show Jim naked,

waking up on a hospital table. From the beginning the audience is able to

infer Jim to be the quintessential tabula rasa, or blank slate, in that he has no

knowledge of the world, is awaking to reality, and—carrying on with the

rebirth symbolism—is naked and pure. At first Jim might appear bland and

empty, having nothing to really add to other survivors’ parties or conversa-


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

tions. However, as the story progresses, with each travesty the protagonists

face, Jim’s reluctance begins to wane, and he begins to step into a notable

identity. This is worth mentioning here because in the story’s climax, Jim

appears animalistic when killing the soldiers, thus leaving behind what

semblance of naivety and purity he once had.

The post-Christian humanist would argue that his passion for the good

of the two women is what assuaged his passivity, and therein prompted the

need for immediate action. However, given the bookends of the movie—the

birth and death(s) scenes—it is difficult, and even careless as an aesthetician,

to not take note of his lack of clothes. As the story communicates his experi-

entially driven epistemology, with Jim creating his identity along the way,

the most stark event is the climax where he appears mentally unstable and

fueled by adrenaline (which is explained in the movie as being the cause for

turning humans into zombies). Subsequently, this event shows Jim not kill-

ing zombies, but humans. Furthermore, during this entire sequence Jim is

shirtless, which is an acknowledgment of his being naked in the beginning;

this is Jim’s second birth—one into a loosening of all shame and inhibitions.

In short, the protagonist, though seemingly sane and stable in the end,

seems to digress to such a low level of depravity that he not only resembles

the zombies of this film, but seems to even concern the two women for a

brief moment.

Although 28 Days Later does offer some theories about society, the story

primarily follows one specific man’s encounter with the dystopian world,

and communicates how he ultimately handles it. Tenga and Zimmermann

identify a very common theme within this movie and others by addressing

that the origin of the zombie outbreak, and by extension, the downfall of

civilization, is human error (Tenga and Zimmermann, 2013: 79). Jim,

though portrayed to have been a device for redemption, encapsulated how

temperamental mankind can be. Moreover, if science created the zombie

apocalypse in this story, the military showed the desire for unaccountable

depravity, and Jim represented the fragility of the individual, this narrative

represents mankind as not only incapable of solving such a dystopian con-

text, and inclined to evil, but also disposed to be worse than the zombie

antagonists. This is because the most agreed upon faculty separating the

survivors from zombies in this sub-genre is cognition. Therefore, if Jim was

able to apply rational thought to his options and choices, and still chose to

act as he did, he communicated that mankind is capable of volitionally ac-

cepting and applying the methods of zombies.

Conclusions

In summation, the zombie sub-genre serves its recipients as another medi-

um for engaging profound ideas and concepts. Subsequently, there are


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

some that offer a stark contrast to the proposed innate goodness of man-

kind that humanism, specifically post-Christian humanism, would have its

audience subscribe to. More pointedly, though, because of literature like I

Am Legend, The Walking Dead, and 28 Days Later, a recipient is made aware of

certain ontological truth claims that they might not have ever considered,

thus calling him or her into a conversation about who they are outside of

literature. As Dostoevsky’s Dream of a Ridiculous Man implies, it is a good

thing to pursue virtue, kindness, and the betterment of one’s neighbor; it is

foolish, however, to believe mankind to innately be virtuous, kind, and self-

lessly seeking the betterment of the other, and not the cause of dystopian

level brokenness.

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CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

“THE NIGHT PARADE”. EXPERIENCING THE

FOLKLORE-BASED JAPANESE IMAGINARY

BETWEEN WABISABI AND THE UNCANNY

CĂLIN LUPIȚU

ABSTRACT. Unlike the relatively uncomplicated aesthetics permeating the cultural history of

the western world, tied up since Greek Antiquity and the advent of Christianity with such

ethical categories as the good and the pure, Japanese aesthetics are intricately distinct, as both

the lifeblood and the reflection of the various cultural ripples to have swept across the Land of

the Rising Sun. The author sets out on a foray into a most central category of Japanese aesthet-

ics, the elusive wabisabi, which he argues is not too removed, particularly in some of its aspects

captured in folkloric and folkloric-derived modern works, from the more western category of

the uncanny. After certain theoretical considerations connecting the main lines of western and

eastern art philosophy to compare and contrast wabisabi and the uncanny, the paper focuses on

specific iconic examples of uncanny characters in Japanese mythology, e.g. such liminal crea-

tures as the mischievous and bizarre youkai. This is to point out the elements rendering them

wabisabi and just what cognitive and artistic effects their twinned aesthetics instills into the

collective consciousness. Last but not least, the author investigates the productivity of such

characters into modern media, particularly in the pop culture phenomena of manga and anime,

where indeed Japanese folklore continues to not only survive but thrive by reinventing itself

for each coming age and medium, so as to thrill and inspire new generations with flights of

fancy concealing truths fundamental to the human experience.

KEY WORDS: aesthetics, alterity, anime/manga, Japanese folklore, liminality, uncanny, wa-

bisabi, youkai

In his 2001 book on traditional Japanese aesthetics and art, Antanas Andri-

jauskas makes the apt claim that:

The evolution of aesthetic thought in the Land of the Rising Sun gave birth to a

world of unique categories, to distinctive principles of aesthetic understanding

and art appreciation. In no other country on earth have aesthetic feeling and ar-

tistic values been able to take such firm root in everyday life. […] One of the

most distinctive features of Japanese culture and aesthetic consciousness is that

those areas of human creative expression which remain marginal in other cul-

CĂLIN LUPIȚU (PhD) holds his degree in Intercultural Humanities from Jacobs

University in Bremen, Germany. His research interests include: world mythology and

its reinvention in postmodern media; spirituality, liminality and alterity; the monstrous

and theuncanny; labyrinthine spaces, proper and of the mind; layers of (intertextual)

symbolism. E-mail: [email protected].

38 CĂLIN LUPIŢU

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

tures acquire extreme importance in Japan and become the focus of intense aes-

thetic reflection and artistic creation (Andrijauskas, 2001: 9.1).

Indeed, isolated for much of its history via its geopolitical circumstances,

Japan has developed its unique culture, often paradoxical in many of its

aesthetic and cognitive aspects to the untrained eye of an outsider—even

after, or perhaps also due to, the eventual absorption of foreign influences

beginning with the Meiji Reformation in the nineteenth century.

A historical melting pot of primarily such religions as Shinto, Buddhism,

Confucianism, and local tribal animism (e.g. of the Ainu people), Japanese

culture blends order and chaos in its spirituality and aesthetics, none too

surprising in a human society having flourished on a precarious volcanic

archipelago continually swept by earthquakes, typhoons and tsunamis. As

such, the major concepts of Japanese aesthetics revolve around harmony

and natural simplicity, of which perhaps the best-known is the wabisabi.

Broadly speaking, wabisabi may be related to finding beauty in what is

apparently flawed or incomplete and certainly perishable and fleeting. Yet,

unlike the more Western concept of the grotesque, wabisabi, believed to

have been developed in correlation with the tenets of Zen Buddhism and

closely related to the ritualised practice of the tea ceremony, focuses on the

“direct, intuitive insight into transcendental truth beyond all intellectual

conception” (Leonard Koren, 2008: 76). It may thus also be said to be the

beauty found in most things humble or unconventional. It is the enlighten-

ing realisation and reminder of everything being ultimately impermanent

and imperfect, introduced through harmonious displays of natural patterns

punctuated with flight-of-fancy syncopes and/or through intimate, unpre-

tentious designs (e.g. katachi, meaning “art”, but also “form” and “design”)

pointing to a purposeful sense of living (Andrijauskas, 2001: 9.5).

While Japanese aesthetics does not natively (or indeed, naively) incorpo-

rate such a strict binary division as between “beautiful” and “ugly”, it em-

ploys multiple overlapping categories, cognitive as well as semantic, to de-

scribe the transcendental experience of the artistic and natural sublime.

Wabisabi itself originates as a combination of two such categories, namely

wabi (restrained or hidden beauty) and sabi (patina, or the feel of ancient or

classical artifacts). Many others also closely relate to it: makoto (genuineness),

aware (enchantment), okashi (quaint or playful charm, or childlike humour),

yugen (the mystery of beauty), shibui (aristocratic distinction through simplic-

ity, or unassuming elegance), miyabi (tranquility), hosomi (fragility, subtle-

ness), karumi (lightness), sobi (grandeur, presence commanding respect), mei

(purity, noble spirit), etc. (Andrijauskas, 2001: 9.11).

The above categories are never far from the dialectical outlook of Tao-

ism, and their interplay of nuances bespeaks the traditional belief in their

underlying bi, the most abstract and transcendent concept of beauty other-

“The Night Parade” 39

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

wise very similar to Western aestheticism ideals. It is understood as “the

eternal essence hidden in all the phenomena of existence”, and, as Ueda

concludes, “beauty preserves its universal meaning as a principle of life and

art” (Ueda, 1967: 53). Bi permeates the very fabric of the Cosmos, from the

most unnoticed to the most captivating of circumstances, and is said to be

embedded in all natural and human phenomena—a universal constant of

sorts, whose constancy is reflected by its very tendency to acquire new forms

with each age or generation.

It then becomes self-evident why the traditions of Japanese aesthetics do

not conceptualise art and artists as change crafters or re-creators of the

world, but merely as reflectors of the bi already in place since the beginning

of time: “Thus, man cannot create that which already exists, he can only

discern” (Andrijauskas, 2001: 9.3). Nevertheless, despite certain similarities

of the ineffable and primordial character of cosmic beauty, the Japanese bi

is different from the regulated hierarchical vision of the Cosmos entertained

by medieval and Renaissance Europeans especially because the bi is seen as

in constant flux, cloaked by material reality. Furthermore, traditional Japa-

nese aesthetes rather reject any external attempts to systemise and rigidly

categorise that concept of primeval beauty, as they “distrust the power of

analytic reason”, as the same Andrijauskas (2001: 9.4) notes, stating their

belief that the instruments of reason are limited for dealing with such pro-

foundly subjective and intuitive matters as the impact of art and beauty.

Firmly rooted in the nation’s cultural identity, Japanese aesthetics always

pays tribute, despite its kaleidoscope of renewed imagery, to traditional

values. Changes may come and go, but the Japanese collective conscious-

ness continues to remain in awe of nature, enthralled by its multifaceted

and ever-shifting beauty. Accordingly, there have been two main orienta-

tions of depicting that beauty competing and alternating, but also inspiring

one another, throughout the history of Japanese art and aesthetics, namely

the Confucian-derived tendency towards ornate and colourful realism, as

seen, for instance, in the socially documenting ukiyo-e; and the Zen-leaning

tendency for minimalism and stylization, wherein the crafted backdrop

serves as a guide for the meditating mind, as typically seen in calligraphy

(zenga) and intellectual painting (bunjinga).

The above elements of Japanese aesthetics are organically bound with

the collective creativity of the archipelago nation, manifested especially in

their folk beliefs and mythology, whether ancient or of more recent fabrica-

tion. Ever since Lafcadio Hearn’s turn-of-the-twentieth-century popularisa-

tion of Japanese mythology and aesthetics through the Kwaidan story collec-

tion, the Western public started seeing that the “unfamiliar Japan” was also

in fact the uncanny Japan, its unique olden aesthetics feeling particularly

40 CĂLIN LUPIŢU

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

avant-garde in a cultural space that was only beginning to come to terms

with its own rich legacy of the uncanny.

In the Western world, the experience of the uncanny, while as primeval

and as intuitive as anywhere else in its basic social-psychological forms, only

found its artistic voice in the past two centuries, in close connection with the

rise of the Gothic, horror, science-fiction and fantasy genres of literature

and cinema. In previous works, the author has pursued various aspects of

human liminality, alterity and the experience of the uncanny (most often

related to the cognitive and aesthetic categories of the grotesque and the

monstrous) to argue that, particularly during times of shifting socio-

economic paradigms, fictional explorations of the uncanny help societies

negotiate and even exorcise their fears regarding those shifts in paradigm,

while discovering underlying truths about the set-up of their own cultural

and geopolitical identity.

Japanese folklore is certainly no exception, as its troubled history—

especially the Warring States (Sengoku) period taking up much of the fif-

teenth and sixteenth centuries—provides myriads of cultural and geopoliti-

cal opportunities for the accumulation of a wealth of uncanny myths and

superstitions often involving deception and cruelty, but also various mo-

ments of fleeting bittersweet beauty. Such myths are rife with various types

of supernatural beings ranging from the more mischievous animal

shapeshifters (especially foxes, cats and raccoon dogs) to the benevolent,

neutral or even human-hostile nature-guarding deities of variable forms

and abilities. In between the two lies an ever-growing plethora of bizarre

creatures generally assimilated in the West to “ghosts” or “goblins”, the

youkai, mysterious supernatural entities whose name bears such connota-

tions as “attraction”, “suspicious” and “mystery” and whose most repre-

sentative ability is shapeshifting (especially in order to blend in with hu-

mans). They are not to be mistaken with the yuurei, the Japanese ghosts of

the dead, especially when restless, nor with the mononoke, vindictive spirits

held responsible for various calamities, especially wars and diseases (the

original phrase they are named after, mono no ke, literally points to a disease

or an affliction, ke, caused by a certain, usually unknown or unknowable,

“thing”, the mono).

Most of such creatures readily lend themselves to metaphorical use by

authors past and present, while their encapsulated sense of the uncanny

attests to the intricate mix of their ideological (including artistic) and socio-

political circumstances. One of the most unique categories of such youkai are

the tsukumogami (the deities, kami, of various tools), usually held to signify

various household items that, on their one hundredth anniversary, gain

sentient life and may often play pranks on their (previous) owners, also

depending on the state of abuse and neglect the specific item had incurred


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

in its previous existence as a mere tool. It was thus common for various

propitiation ceremonies to be held for such items as pre-emptive measures.

The example of the tsukumogami is excellent for illustrating both the un-

canny underpinning most Japanese mythical characters and the idiosyncrat-

ic roots of their wabisabi appeal. To begin with, such creatures appear harm-

lessly inanimate, while always bearing the ominous potential for an ill-

defined much more, and, most unnervingly, the potential for inanimate-

turned-animate (semi-)sentience, which, from golems to zombies, has

plagued mankind across most ages and cultures. Worse, this is coupled with

the looming threat of privacy violation (life-threatening given the repressive

nature of socialising in feudal Japan), particularly because many such items

are, or used to be, everyday items very close to their human owner’s living

space and body, from sandals and umbrellas to futon cushions and musical

instruments. This threat, while weakened by the shorter life span of the

average Japanese at the time, is nevertheless compounded by its transcend-

ing character, becoming a multi-generational curse if the potentially ex-

posed secrets were of such nature as to still hold meaning after the old-age

death of those involved. On the other hand, while the one hundred years

required for the supernatural upgrade of the tsukumogami (paralleled by the

same requirement for the various animal shapeshifters, or obake) would

have been a number too magically remote as to inspire genuine terror by

itself, it reveals the deep-seated belief of the Japanese in both the unbroken

continuity with the past (i.e., things may change, even radically, in appear-

ance, but their essence remains interconnected) and the Shinto-Confucian

mélange of the universe being both perfectly harmonised and teleologically

individualised, with a certain kind of “soul”, tama, alternatively viewed as a

life seed or an egg, given to all things.

Much of the history of Japan took place in a feudal setting, wherein, with

the notable exception of forging high-quality steel weapons (restricted to

the samurai class), citizens existed in a liminal space and a liminal state, in

which, also encouraged by religious and ideological beliefs, they sought to

live in harmony with nature. As such, most of them, especially the agrarian

class, would have been keenly aware of the sublime aspects of nature,

(somewhat) bountiful and fearful, to be revered and reckoned with. It

comes as no surprise, then, that they would fear the “natural wiles” of cer-

tain animals, from spiders and snakes to cats and foxes, which they would

exaggerate, in both fear and respect, to trickster and godly proportions.

Unlike man and his short life span, nature—especially the large trees of the

thick forests—was perceived as enduring (an impression shared with the

household items, particularly in an age long before planned commercial

obsolescence, where tools and even clothes would be passed down to one’s

offspring for as long as they still served their purpose), and very likely also

42 CĂLIN LUPIŢU

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

as family in the grand design of things. They would leave offerings of food

and the occasional incense to shrines dedicated to the woodland guardians

as gratitude for their crops or alternatively attempt to appease their (capri-

cious) wrath. Given the geographical circumstances of the Japanese islands

and the arbitrary cruelty of many feudal lords not above claiming a serf’s

life for any perceived offence, especially to their honour, most of the agrarian

population, uneducated in the stoic ways of the Buddha nor sharing the

Confucian views of the bureaucratic scholars, only perceived as having re-

course to their non-human neighbours of the fields and forests. This is why,

while many trickster animals are seen as naturally mischievous, they are

often depicted in a sympathetic way, as older siblings to whom largely eve-

rything is permitted or forgiven, with the tacit understanding of their not

having been driven, even to mortal injury of humans, by malice (although

“rogue” nature guardians were not unheard of) but only sport and circum-

stance—and why myths of humans befriending and even marrying such

shapeshifters were also upliftingly commonplace.

Hardly surprisingly, youkai also appear as moralising allegories in multi-

ple stories sharing the Western fairy tales’ cautionary messages. Paradoxi-

cally for a culture so self-professedly in awe of balance and harmony, Japa-

nese life was, for the most part of the population, as previously stated, very

rough and arbitrary, hence a likely high number of psycho-somatic afflic-

tions that would have required hardly a long stretch of the imagination to

be considered acts of “possessed” humans. But youkai were not considered

ghosts proper, and many had corporeal or semi-corporeal presences, many

of the former considered as having originated as humans. Men and (espe-

cially) women animated by unnaturally high intensities of envy, rage, blood-

lust, greed, gluttony, etc., were thought to be liable of actual body warping

by that specific negative passion, which effectively turned them into various-

ly bizarre humanoids—either missing body elements (e.g. faces or mouths),

having extra ones (e.g. limbs, eyes, tails) or having ones with unnatural

physiology (e.g. cleft tongues, living hair, insatiable mouths)—and drove

home the Buddhist monks’ message of temperance and self-restraint.

There are many aquatic types of youkai, as well as aerial types, both relat-

able, as in many other cultures, to the “alien and/or hostile ecosystem yields

alien creatures” impression intuitive to the majority of the population,

agrarian and landlocked, or otherwise very familiar to the drowning or

infectious potential of various water bodies (perhaps how the link between

water and ghostly portals first appeared) to which the more vulnerable-

perceived social categories of children and women were most liable. On the

other hand, danger was plenty on land just as well, with some of the most

notorious youkai, the Oni and the Tengu, prowling it as their habitats, not

unlike the rogues and bandits their mythical depictions may well echo. The


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

traditional figure of the Oni is similar to other brutish giants in folklores

around the world, e.g. cyclopes or trolls, except for its distinctive tiger-skin

loincloth, likely depicted as an indication of the Japanese club-wielding

cyclops’ ferocity outperforming even that of the feline man-eater. But while

the Oni have largely stayed a two-dimensional hulking menace, the Tengu

have undergone extensive diversification and moral reconversion. Thought

to have originated (as Tiangou) in China in the form of an eclipse-time

moon-eating meteoric dog, the Tengu entered Japanese folklore in the form

of a kite, hawk, crow or similar rapacious birds and evolved to increasingly

anthropomorphic forms (even though full-crow Tengu are still known), the

zenith of its evolution seeing only its iconic long nose (phallic within rural

settings) kept as a reminder of its previous avian forms, although they are

said to still be able to fly and use various wind-and-feather attacks. Moreo-

ver, while they were initially thought of as mere petty demons of war “pat-

roning” mountain bandits, they rose to prominence due to their association

with various orders of martial monks, to the point where medieval scrolls

end up exclusively depicting them in the traditional full garb of such monks

and propelling them to Buddhism-upholding fame, which is how Tengu are

now perceived as rather protective (if still fairly dangerous) minor deities

and even misconstrued as founders of several ninja clans.

After the social and technological reforms of the second half of the nine-

teenth century, many previously unchanged aspects of Japanese society had

to be replaced almost overnight, which also impacted folklore, as for in-

stance not all of the next generation, no longer dwelling in the countryside,

could still relate, or certainly not in the same way, to the agrarian terrors

and worshipped hopes of their ancestors. Living in harmony with a world

of beings they could not see, nor truly understand or accept as reasonable,

from animal shapeshifters to animated tools, simply faded out of city life for

the better part of the following century. Meanwhile, the raging World Wars

were devastatingly more scarring than any folkloric youkai. And yet, when

prosperity started returning to Japan and it struggled to forge a new (in-

ternational) identity for itself, the appeal of the “old world” and its values

also made its comeback, complete with its unique aesthetics and its enchant-

ing tales of freakish critters.

Proving once more that their connection to the values of their past is

precious to them, the Japanese audience did not let the traditional appeal

of ghost and youkai stories fade away even in modern settings, where they

have regained prominence in literature and cinema, especially the genres

catering to teenagers and young adults. In fact, one may surmise that Japa-

nese folklore would be virtually unknown in the West outside of specific

East-Asian folklorists’ research groups were it not for Japan’s arguably most

44 CĂLIN LUPIŢU

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

popular cultural export nowadays, its iconic comics and animation films and

series, best known as, respectively, manga and anime.

Naturally, not all manga and anime are based on youkai tales, but those

that are continue the trend of blending the old youkai with new ones of their

creators’ imagination, pioneered in the post-Sengoku stories of the Edo peri-

od, when artists had finally risen to individual fame and, depending on

their success, had moved into the Capital to enjoy some degree of freedom

to illustrate concepts as their imagination warranted, including with what-if

youkai. Perhaps the most influential early post-war manga series making

youkai dark comedies available again to children was Shigeru Mizuki’s

GeGeGe no Kitarou, adapted after the early twentieth-century folk story

Hakaba no Kitarou (“Kitarou of the Graveyard”). Remade into several anime

series of varyingly lighter tones, it chronicles the adventures of eponymous

youkai boy Kitarou, (re)born in a grave, as he struggles to maintain a tenta-

tive balance between his youkai entourage and the human friends he tries to

make. The series, in both media, has a distinctive rough animation style,

befitting its parodic-dark tone, and features several recurrent characters.

Most of them are classical-inspired youkai, such as the protagonist’s anthro-

pomorphised eyeball for a father, a female friend based on trickster cats of

folklore, and several others based on more obscure legends from the entire

country (the sand-throwing hag, the toddler able to increase his body mass

to crush those around, the living wall blocking and confusing travellers,

etc.), and the on/off antagonist Ratman, well over the age of three hundred

and loosely based on animal shapeshifters but not directly connected to any

particular legend but rather invented as a base-humour foil for the main

character, given his stench attributes.

Nurarihyon is another character making occasional appearances in the

Kitarou manga, where he is only a minor character, although post-medieval

folklore introduces the original character of the same name as the head of

the legendary “Hundred-Demon Nightly Parade”, itself a legend developed

after a painting of the same name. A seemingly very powerful and rather

benign youkai, though a consummate master of deception, it receives a more

central role, which thus contributes to expanding his mythology in the new

media, in the 2007 manga (and 2010 anime) by Hiroshi Shiibashi, Nurarihyon

no Mago (literally “Nurarihyon’s Grandson”, distributed as “Nura: Rise of

the Youkai Clan”), where the old youkai plays grandfather mentor to a

three-quarter human, one-quarter youkai young man, in charge of leading

their clan of youkai, not unlike a Yakuza alliance of Families, towards a fu-

ture of prosperity. The series again places great stock on the dual nature of

youkai not being exclusive, but circumstantial, villains, i.e. capable of great-

ness when under proper leadership, as Nura, the young protagonist (Nura-

rihyon III), seeks to achieve. The series is also relevant to our investigation


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

due to the interesting relationship between beauty (charm), power and fear:

in a world of spectres, fear is the main capital and rebuilding energy, and

thus, any would-be leader of the youkai must learn to first gain an imposing

presence over all of his retinue, so they may bow to him in awe (afraid and

charmed, the aesthetics of the sublime uncanny!) and trust and swear

(around the ceremonial bowl of sake) to be his vassal. Young Nura, while

hardly imposing in his human identity as a feeble teenager, nevertheless

gradually strives to better himself and earn the trust of those around him,

effectively subverting the “charm by power” protocols with his own “charm

by trust” approach, allowing him to use a new set of abilities, only usable by

part-human entities, which work not on the beauty of fear but on the beau-

ty of empathy and camaraderie.

Another iconic series that connects the aesthetics of the uncanny and of

the wabisabi based on Japanese folklore is Rumiko Takahashi’s cult favourite

of the late 1990s (the manga) and early 2000s (the anime), Inuyasha (Sengoku

Otogizoushi Inuyasha, “Inuyasha: A Feudal Fairy Tale”). With great detail

paid to traditions, social organisation, scenery and garments, this self-

proclaimed fairy tale skillfully rekindles modern interest in the Japanese

medieval atmosphere in a profound interplay of action, romance and com-

edy. Protagonists Kagome and Inuyasha reconcile the future and the past,

respectively, as well as modern objective thought with the parallel/time-

displaced dimension that is Inuyasha’s reality, i.e. Kagome’s ancient past

(via her shrine-sacerdotal lineage represented by her grandfather), a mythi-

cal past for most of her contemporaries but which she incredulously sees

realised when she takes the plot-starting accidental journey back into the

Sengoku era. Beyond the visually obvious, the aesthetics of the series is con-

structed on the same folkloric principle of staying in a harmonious flux of

rhythms and contraries. Inuyasha himself is a hanyou, a half-youkai, with

teenage-specific issues of (not) belonging anywhere between the two worlds,

of the youkai, who spurn him, and of the humans, who fear him, and further

struggling with reconciling the two aspects of himself into a fully function-

ing “halfling”, a slave neither to the rabid bloodlust of his canine heritage,

nor to the (comparative) helplessness of being a mere human on full moons.

His physical prowess (he carries the greatest sword of all characters, made

of a gigantic fang) but weakness of spirit (impulsive, prone to depression,

jealous and insecure with women, especially after the staged betrayal in his

past) are balanced by Kagome’s strong heart. The undersung but very in-

spirational female protagonist of the series, Kagome has great determina-

tion, by which she pursues him and accepts to be by his side in patience and

support, though knowing his heart cannot fully choose her yet, but also a

great capacity for empathy and self-sacrifice in continuing the fight against

archvillain Naraku in the past, away from her entire world up to that point,

46 CĂLIN LUPIŢU

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

and as the only member of their team to be lacking any physical superhu-

man abilities—yet deeply empowered by the light of her kindness. The vil-

lains of the series are also highly intricate beings based on wabisabi aesthet-

ics. For instance, Inuyasha’s eternal rival, the aristocratic full-youkai Sess-

homaru, intent on claiming his father’s legacy for himself alone, is cold-

hearted and sociopathically honourable, characterised by most he encoun-

ters as having “an imposing presence” and cold aloof elegance and beauty.

An excellent swordfighter even after losing his arm in combat with

Inuyasha, Sesshomaru has to “bear the shame” of having inherited a non-

lethal blade (a reviving sword), one which he learns was given to him by his

father specifically so he may learn to forgive and to heal, not just destroy, a

journey he very slowly embarks on after saving the human child Rin, who

becomes his travel companion and occasional liaison with Inuyasha. The

archvillain of the series, a minor thief who, jealous of Inuyasha’s happiness

and frustrated with his own weakness, sacrifices himself to become the fu-

ture demon Naraku (literally “hell[-hole]”), a master manipulator literally

made up of a multitude of minor youkai, whose personal quest is to remove

the very last shreds of humanity in him (his heart) and reach absolute pow-

er via the sacred diamond all of them are looking for. For all his wicked-

ness, he is thoroughly explained and believable, as well as necessary for the

development of all the other characters, being both a (Buddhist-consistent,

and thus folklore-consistent) cautionary symbol against the dehumanising

pitfalls of jealousy and greed, but also embodying the wabisabi aspects of

multilayered realities, of having to check underneath the illusions of the

flesh in order to reach the truth.

The above are merely three examples of a vast array of human creativity

lending itself to further academic insight upon further investigation, at the

fertile crossroads between the aesthetic and cognitive dimensions of the

uncanny and the wabisabi. Researching the creative trove of supernatural

creatures dreamt up by Japanese folklore once more confirms the author’s

argument that the multilayered aesthetics evidenced by such apparitions, in

the East as well as in the West, bear witness to both the fantasies and the

fears of the given historical periods of their conception. While some are

little more than whimsical, many others provide mirrors—albeit twisted—

for our own reflections on our flaws and weaknesses, being thus both cau-

tionary and inspiring on our progress for self- and community-oriented

improvement.


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

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_ix.htm. Accessed on Oct. 10, 2014.

Foster, Michael Dylan. (2009). Pandemonium and parade: Japanese monsters and

the culture of yōkai. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

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al Experiences in Japanese Death Legends. Logan, UT: Utah State University

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Western Reserve University.

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

THE PAIN AND SUFFERING OF AFRICAN CHILDREN

REFLECTED IN UWEM AKPAN’S SHORT STORIES

SAY YOU’RE ONE OF THEM

YILDIRAY CEVIK*

ABSTRACT. Nigerian-born priest Uwem Akpan conveys the reader into gruesome chaos and

fear in his collection of five long stories set in war-torn Africa. Stories of abused and battered

children are legion, but only few cut as close to the bone as the collection of 5 stories by Uwem

Akpan. Told from the perspective of young children, Akpan’s collection leads the reader into

heart-piercing brutality of the children’s lives in Africa. Some of them being gritty to the point

of causing distress, each story is an account of children awakening to unbelievable horrors and

realities of African plight. Evil is dominant in the lives of African children: human society is

chaos, and children are sucked down into the heartbreaking scenes just as being sucked down

into the maelstrom. When evil comes through the door in the form of human tribal enemies,

children become awakened to their plight. The first story, An Ex-mas Feast, looks at a poverty-

stricken family that must depend on their young daughter’s income to survive. In Luxurious

Hearses Jubril, a teenage Muslim flees the violence in northern Nigeria. The children in Fatten-

ing for Gabon are being prepared for sale into slavery by their uncle. In What Language Is That?

two little Ethiopian girls are best friends until parents say they cannot speak to each other

anymore because one is Muslim and the other is Christian. The final story, My Parent’s Bedroom,

describes the violence between the Rwandan Hutus and Tutsis as seen through the eyes of a

young girl who has mixed parentage. Akpan’s prose is beautiful and his stories are insightful

and revealing and harrowing because all the horror is seen through the eyes of children. This

article attempts to depict gruesome experiences of the children in the stories and their process

of getting cognizant for escaping from their plight within horrific African scenes.

KEY WORDS: children suffering, pain, estrangement, human degradation, perils of poverty

Introduction

Say You’re One of Them takes the reader inside Nigeria, Benin, Kenya,

Rwanda and Ethiopia displaying in the prose the harsh consequences for

children sucked up into war-torn Africa. Christians clash with Muslims,

parents succumb to Aids, and gruesome events follow through the “wide-

eyed gaze” of the children caught in the middle. Uwem Akpan, a Nigerian

Catholic priest is expected to utilize some religious characters in the collec-

tion of 5 stories, Say You’re One of Them. Although Akpan is an experienced

priest who knows the dark side of African tragedies, readers find no preach-

* YILDIRAY CEVIK (PhD) is Assistant Professor at the English Language and American

Studies Department within International Balkan University in Skopje, Macedonia.

Email: [email protected].

mailto:[email protected]

50 YILDIRAY CEVIK

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

ing in the stories. As a man of faith, which never gets away from a man of

common sense, Akpan appears with a difference as it is stated in an inter-

view conducted by New York Times:

Since it is not something I can put away, my faith is important to me. I hope I

am able to reveal the compassion of God in the faces of the people I write about.

I think fiction has a way of doing this without being doctrinaire about it”

(newyorker.com).

Uwem Akpan wrote five stories depicting about African children in differ-

ent countries suffering major problems. As to the purpose of writing stories,

Akpan states that “the people in Nigeria don’t know what’s going on in

Rwanda and the Rwandans don’t know what’s going on in Nigeria. You can

live in Nigeria or Benin and not fully understand the evils of human traf-

ficking.” He apparently wrote them not only for the Americans or Europe-

ans but also to enlighten the Africans by making them awakened to their

own plight. He also wants to feature how children might react within the

social, familial and political turmoil of the African scene, providing the ac-

counts that take no place in newspapers. When asked why he writes only

about children, Father Uwem’s answer was simple; “I was inspired to write

by the people who sit around my village, and shared palm wine after Sun-

day mass, by the Bible, and by humans and the endurance of the poor”

(newyorker.com). He aims at presenting the brutal subject through the

bewildered, resolutely chipper voice of children.

“An Ex-mas Feast”

The first story in the collection, embedded with tension in Kenya where

street children are great in number as an increasing problem, features how

vital the meaning of family is in the lives of children. Told in the first per-

son narration, the story embodies a child protagonist Jinga who, in the end,

feels obligated to abandon his family due to inter-familial relations. Jinga

has to raise education money for his schooling. His desire to go to school is

very keen as he puts on school uniform many times a day. His older sister

Maisha goes out the streets as a prostitute just to earn some money for her

brother’s education. His younger sister Naema also feels she has to chip in

school expenses, so she imitates Maisha. Jinga feels guilty in the employ-

ment of his sisters for his sake and contemplates taking revenge on the

white tourists so that the exploitation of the sisters in this way should come

to an end. Jinga awakens to Maisha’s degradation and, thus, outbursts the

idea of school however; his father (Baba) expresses his eagerness for his

schooling (Akpan, 2009: 13). At this point we realize the dilemma the father

lives through as he seems not to do his best to alleviate brutal situation

when he is offered opportunity to earn more wages by sweeping the

The Pain and Suffering of African Children 51

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

church. Akpan highlights the sordid condition by featuring father’s insist-

ence to manage Jinga and abuse Maisha’s service as a prostitute.

Akpan reveals the sordid and gruesome condition of the families without

“mockery, ridicule or condemnation” (Kearney, 2011: 92). For instance,

Mama shockingly consults to the use of glue sniffing to keep the children

not hungry before the bed, which is brutal ridicule of the drastic conditions;

however, Akpan develops Mama’s image within the family by making her

read a psalm from the Bible acknowledging the significance of Christmas

(Kearney, 2011: 92). In this an awareness of spirituality comes to the fore-

ground as result of degradation of Maisha. Akpan wants to convey the idea

that no matter how backward the living conditions may be, innately rooted

awareness to human plight exists in inter-familial relations. Illustration of

such a forcible awareness brings the glimpses of hope to children’s vindica-

tion in Africa.

A kind of Christmas feast in the story is a possibility only by the food that

Maisha provides through her degradation. When she has to leave ‘Ex-mas

feast’ early without experiencing the celebration, inter-familial awareness

arouses. As a result, Jinga resorts to “glue sniffing” (Akpan, 2009: 7) again

and destroys the school books, which can be interpreted as an exit from the

entanglements of disempowering family conditions. It is ironical however

self-sacrificial Maisha is towards education, Jinga gets that amount self-

sacrificial of the situation he has caused in the family. In this way, Jinga

becomes all the more resolute that his family is breaking up for his insist-

ence to go to school (Akpan, 2009: 22). Symbolically, however, Jinga proud-

ly declares that the street family stayed together until the “Ex-mas season”

(Akpan, 2009: 6). Jinga’s departure enables him to get the education with-

out imposing his dream on the sister’s abuse. Nevertheless, his independent

life in the streets doesn’t guarantee him to receive the desired education.

“Fattening for Gabon”

Benin is famous for child-traffickers who approach parents with the prom-

ises that their children will make money and they will continue with their

education. Children are smuggled into Nigeria and abused for quarry

work. Much pressure is exerted on children to stop their fleeing. Although

Benin and Nigeria have increased the maximum sentence for child traffick-

ing, it is hard to persuade people to testify against the traffickers.

Fattening for Gabon, a novella, takes place in Benin where Kotchikpa and

Yewa (aged ten and five) are sent to live with their uncle Fofo Kpee. The

children were advised to stay obedient to their uncle (Akpan, 2009: 42),

who was already involved in illegal smuggling activities, and who also takes

the opportunity to sell the children to be utilized in drug trafficking. Akpan

uses Kotchikpa as the first person narrator to emphasize the children’s

52 YILDIRAY CEVIK

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

large scale delusion about the prospects through Fofo’s plans and their

realization of their actual victimization. In the course of the novella, the

children’s awareness of the uncle’s venality and their vulnerability is under-

lined by scenes of their being locked up in darkness (Akpan, 2009: 38).

Akpan brilliantly conveys the children’s exhilaration at their fancied pro-

spects through the inclusion of skilled facilitators “godparents”, who further

reinforce the state of deprivation (Akpan, 2009: 59) through engaging the

children into appalling and treacherous activities that serve for child traf-

ficking. Akpan is careful to depict the children as in no way stupid; when

Fofo tries to justify the need to tell people that the ‘godparents’ are the

children’s relatives, Yewa asserts: “You lie, Fofo. You lie” (Akpan, 2009: 55).

In the intermediate stage of the story, Akpan convinces us that children’s

sense of modesty has been attacked when Fofo wants them to touch his gen-

itals, which foreshadows the kind of sexual abuse they will be subjected to

later in Gabon. The plan made by the “Big Guy” to transfer the children to

Gabon is foiled when Fofo is badly hurt through an assault and dies. The

children are locked again in the darkness; subsequently, Kotchikpa manag-

es to escape through the padlocked window (Akpan, 2009: 131). However,

Yewa cannot jump out. The story ends with his running away but feeling

that he will never escape from the anguished wailing. One cannot be sure

that Kotchikpa will find refuge in his parents’ village, and Yewa has little

chance of escaping enslavement.

“My Parents’ Bedroom”

Akpan’s story My Parents’ Bedroom takes place in Rwanda in 1994 when the

genocide between Hutus and Tutsis froze the human blood in gruesome

violence. The dilemma of the story is reinforced when family members be-

come the target of genocide as chilling acts of human slaughter and when

parents from each family justify the violent actions in the presence of UN

soldiers just in the close vicinity. As Richard Halloway states, “the human

herd, when collectively aroused, is the most ferocious beast on the planet

(Richard Halloway, 2009: 33). Akpan’s story justifies this view when hus-

band and wife become ethnic enemies in the same bedroom in front of their

own children. The justification is reinforced when immediate relatives of

the parents in the story rush into the house to kill the wife and set the house

in a fire. The child protagonist of the story, Monique, describes his parents

as such:

My mother is a Tutsi woman. She has high cheekbones, a narrow nose, a sweet

mouth, slim fingers, big eyes, and a lean frame. Her skin is so light that you can

see the blue veins on the back of her hands… I look like Maman, and when I

grow up I’ll be as tall as she is. Papa looks like most Hutus, very black. He has a

round face, a wide nose, and brown eyes. His lips are as full as a banana. He is a


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

jolly man who can make you laugh till you cry. Jean looks like him (Akpan, 2009:

326).

The history of the problem between the Tutsis and the Hutus goes back to

1956 when the Hutus felt threatened by the fact that the Tutsis, better edu-

cated and privileged class, were protected under the administration. When

the plane of the president crashed on land in 1990, the attack by the Tutsi

rebels triggered the civil war which lasted 3 years. The Hutus were per-

suaded to exterminate the race of the Tutsis for the egalitarian rights in the

administration. In hundred days, eight hundred thousand people from

both sides were killed according to UN reports. In the face of this figure,

Akpan opens the “Pandora’s Box” and directs the sensitive questions “why

does God permit evil to flourish in the world” (Kearney, 2011: 96)? This

question becomes all the more intriguing to comprehend how a priest who

has always affirmed the existence of benevolent providence can ask the

question originating from the accumulated information of hellish tragedies

in some African countries and then reflected into the stories. Akpan still

asserts that the divine benevolence is possible to affirm on the grounds of its

acceptance by various ethnic groups composed around common humanity

(Kearney, 2011: 96). Monique is repeatedly advised by her mother to “say

you’re one of them” (Akpan, 2009: 327) as if she were trying to encourage

the little child to protect herself and her brother Jean from ethnic preju-

dice. The side of ethnicity doesn’t matter for Maman as long as any ethnici-

ty of the children would satisfy her questioners. Within this dialogue, Akpan

encourages the recognition of the common humanity of other ethnic

groups not only for escaping the ethnic cleansing but also for promoting

the common “humane” way between the ethnicities.

This story, like the other in the collection, can be interpreted as chil-

dren’s awakening to the realities of the African plight. It is the one in which

the explicit use of Catholic images is more predominant. Akpan gives the

detailed description of the self-glowing home altar crucifix self-glowing

(Akpan, 2009: 327) that draws Monique’s interest to possess upon Maman

advice to forsake it and save it for the coming generations. The dialogue

between the mother and daughter about the significance of the crucifix

short before the bloodthirsty human herd pour into the house and torture

Monique for the location of the mother. When the Hutus arrive and the

man called Wizard smashes the crucifix on the wall breaking it into pieces,

Monique rushes and hides the broken part of the crucifix for her dear life

(Akpan, 2009: 353). Akpan uses the broken piece as a symbol of still divine

benevolence to stick to as an awakening, the only thing to do in the man

slaughter. As Kearney remarks in his article the glowing crucifix can be seen

as the only remaining hope in her awakening so that the remaining parts

54 YILDIRAY CEVIK

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

hint at “possible future for her as a reconciler for the people” (Kearney,

2009: 96).

By the similar token Maman who awaits her death from her husband’s

hands is the ironic version of the conventional representation of mother as

the Mother of Sorrows. Monique asks her father to forgive Maman for her

activities the previous night (Akpan, 2009: 348). This innocent request dis-

plays the level of evil to which Papa has been driven through the trap of

ethnic genocide. The two children can’t escape witnessing the horrific sight

(Akpan, 2009:349), which in the end further consolidates Monique’s resolu-

tion to stay awakened and alive in the land of agitations. The ending of the

story might pose some optimism for children’s freedom and survival in a

hatred ridden adult society. However, “Saying you’re one of them” to the

questioners might not well suffice for their security. Monique’s determina-

tion “not to be afraid” (Akpan, 2009: 336) as Maman has insisted is needed

even if these actual children’s lives are in peril. Through Monique Akpan

injects the spirit of divine benevolence at work (Kearney, 2011: 97).

Under the spell of the promise Monique will take care of her brother

Jean, and so she escapes into the unreal and the unknown in order to pro-

tect her mental sanity against the violent collapse of the family (Knapp,

2009: 9). Monique also gets awakened holding tight onto the translucent

crucifix and by doing so onto her family’s values. She is awakened to the

plight of the Rwandan gruesome conflicts by staying alive at all costs. “I

must be strong, we don’t want to die” (Akpan, 2009: 345), she says as is

acknowledging and hoping “that evil is but a temporary manifestation of a

still hidden good (Arendt, On Violence, 56, quoted in Knapp, 2009: 9).

“What Language Is It?”

Uwem Akpan’s mind must have been busy with the Ethiopian conflicts, so

he included this story about Ethiopian families. The clashes between Chris-

tians and Muslims began in October 2006 at Denbi. Orthodox Christians

celebrated the annual Meskel festival involving the burning of a giant cross.

Not the cross itself but the location of the festival triggered the clashes as

Muslims who claimed that the burning took place on Muslim land. The

focus of the story is around two young girls: Muslim girl Selam and the

unnamed narrator who is Christian and whose name is designated “Best

Friend” (Akpan, 2009: 178). The two girls get on well despite religious dif-

ferences. Akpan includes the scenes where the discussion about eating pork

by Muslims is handled between the girls and the Christian family appreci-

ates the “open-mindedness” and “sincerity” of the Muslim family (Akpan,

2009: 178). Akpan works on the ironic point that jealousy can possibly sever

the relations, but the religious differences are not likely to.


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

Where there have been clashes in town both fathers have seemingly de-

cided over the issues of whether continuing the friendship between the girls

(Akpan, 2009: 180). The girls are warned not to go to the same school (Ak-

pan, 2009: 182) and cut off their friendships, which is hard to comprehend

for them. Even after the parents take shifts not to let the girls see each other

from the balconies (Akpan, 2009: 181), the Christian girl under the effect of

her dream can no longer resist going on the balcony and waiting for her

friend to appear at the window. Fortunately, on the final afternoon when

one appears on her balcony, Selam also shows up and they both start to

mime their hugs, “hugzee” (Akpan, 2009: 185). At first they can’t figure out

how to find common gestures for the silent distant communication. Selam

imitates “Best Friend’s” embracing and kissing an imaginary person. In this

way, while the story ends, Akpan celebrates the innocence of friendship

between the two children in an environment where hatred for ethnic differ-

ences and religious prejudices come to apex. It is through the two girls’

loyalty Akpan can find the medium to glorify fidelity and rejection of artifi-

cial discriminates. As Knapp states in his article, “Being free from their par-

ents’ authority the two girls fight the enforced control of their intercultural

communication” (Knapp, 2009: 7) by regaining the control of awareness of

the strong ties between them and again by awakening to the need to disre-

gard the parental surveillance. Thus, secretly mimicking each other on the

balconies, they set up reach awakening that an artificially designed lan-

guage of mutual understanding can do well even without words.

“Luxurious Hearses”

Akpan might have taken the context for the story from the clashes that oc-

curred in 2000 over the introduction of Sharia Islamic law in Northern

Nigeria. Jubril, the protagonist, was born a Catholic, but left alone at two

when his Muslim mother fled North to protect her children from the

spreading conflicts. He has been brought up as a Muslim, and his identity is

shaped by devotion to Islam. His brother Yusuf has denied to reunion with

his Catholic father and later stoned to death for his opposition to Islam.

When the religious riots break out, Jubril is forced to flee unsure whether

his mother is alive or not.

Jubril takes a bus trip in which the long story becomes a revelation of his

attempts to come to terms with the identity he will have to assume in the

south. He is not the first person narrator because Akpan includes a variety

of different voices to enable us to understand the hysterical context of

Jubril’s journey. First of these voices is that of a tribal chief who captures

Jubril’s seat without a ticket. We learn that he has been removed by the new

government. He insists that there should be no mention of Muslim or Islam

on the bus. He keeps trying to assert his authority, and washes his hands of

56 YILDIRAY CEVIK

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

the boy once Jubril reveals his Muslim identity by showing his amputated

hand.

Other voices unfold on the bus ride. Madam Aniema, an ardent Catholic

lady, asks Jubril to deny that he is a Muslim. Colonel Usenetok, who is a

half-witted soldier, seems to contend with child soldiers. Emela represents

the aggressive type of Christian who claims to be filled with the Spirit of

God. During all those exchanges, Jubril experiences a reflective process. He

remembers the incident in which Muslim friends treated him as a traitor

when the riots broke out. He was saved by an older Muslim who gave secret

shelter to persecuted Christians (Akpan, 2009: 210). Remembering how he

was hidden under Muslim prayer mats with Christians who helped him,

Jubril realizes heroic people—the generous Southern Christians, and gives

a lesson that his nation would rise above all types of divisiveness (Akpan,

2009: 256).

Akpan’s religious awareness is that Jubril considers himself as returning

to Islam. However, his psychological suffering becomes a physical torture

when he and Usenatok are dragged out of the bus and have their throats

slit. Akpan here acknowledges Jubril’s total commitment as an achievement

of spiritual awareness, maintaining the irony of this story as well.

Conclusions

The children protagonists of the stories are the victims of the “inter/intra-

ethnic” (Knapp, 2009: 7) divisions and they strife for survival and recogni-

tion in different African countries under diversified pressures. Traumas are

connected with forced migrations and escapes lead to a common ground for

awakening to the tragedies in the African scenery. As Knapp verifies, “by

breaking with and undermining violence and injustice of the present web of

relationships”, these children develop a common way out as much as possi-

ble in their capacities. They act outside the perceived norms of obligation

and break with inherent violence that leads to only sufferings. The protag-

onists do not escape into forgiveness which may continue the adult way of

approaching the gruesome deadlocks of man’s slaughter. Further, they

open up new possibilities for the future as in Jinga’s case, escaping and

pressing for the education he desires without turning into “a social parasite

feasting on sisters’ exploitation, and the Christian and Muslim girls to ex-

plore “the sounds of unspoken words”. As in the case of Monique, these

protagonists re-establish the trans-cultural bonds within her promises to

stay alive at all costs. Children’s brevity to explore new horizons in adult

war-torn world is actually a search for a new home. By sharing the resili-

ence and genius of children depicted through the eyes of suffering children

Akpan leaves adults no alternative but feel guilty about the world they have


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

created. So, his stories can be interpreted as an opportunity to see the world

differently in pristine-eyes and to condemn the violence in the adult world.

References

Akpan, Uwem. (2009). Say You’re One of Them. New York, NY: Back Bay

Books/ Little, Brown.

Arendt, Hannah. (1968). The Origins of Totalitarianism. Orlando, FL: Har-

court.

Harper, Graeme. (1997). “As If By Magic: World Creation in Postcolonial

Children’s Literature.” Ariel 28.1 (1997): 39-52.

Hollooway, Richard. (2009). Between the Monster and the Saint: Reflections on

the Human Condition. Edinburgh: Canongate.

Kearney, John. (2001). “Say You’re One of Them: Uwem Akpan’s Collec-

tion of Short Stories.” English Studies in Africa 54.2 (2011): 88-102.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/00138398.2011.626188

Knapp, Adrian. (2009). “Three Children’s Critical Perspectives on Aspects

of the Contempoarary East African Social ‘Web of Relationships’: Uwem

Akpan’s Say You’re One of Them”. Postcolonial Text 5.3 (2009):1-14.

McGrath, Charles. (2008). “Channeling the Voices of Africa’s Lost Chil-

dren.” Review of Say You’re One of Them. The New York Time. 3 July

2008. www.nytimes.com/2008/07/03/books/03akpan.html.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/00138398.2011.626188

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/03/books/03akpan.html

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

LA CITTÀ DI GU CHENG: UNO SCENARIO

APOCALITTICO

ANNA SIMONA MARGARITO

ABSTRACT. Gu Cheng (1956-1993), contemporary Chinese poet, was one of the most im-

portant authors of the Chinese literary scene in the second half of the twentieth century. In

exile since 1989, having publicly expressed disagreement with the intervention of the Govern-

ment of the People’s Republic of China at Tiananmen incident on June 4, 1989, he decided to

live in Auckland, New Zealand, together with his wife and son. This article examines two cycles

of poems composed by the author: Gui jin cheng 鬼进城 (The spirit enters the city) written in

1992 and Cheng 城 (City) composed between 1992 and 1993 just before the tragic end of his

life. A disturbing vision of his native city, Beijing, is what the poet gives us through the lines of

the poems of the cycle Cheng. The capital of China, appears to be destroyed by the people and

history and bears the marks of the violence of the of the recent Tian’anmen incident. What the

author shows us, with this poetic journey through Beijing, are the ruins of an ancient splen-

dour. He tries to rebuild the old city of his childhood through his poetry. However, this effort

is so titanic that Gu Cheng abandons his initial intentions and the cycle remains unfinished.

Very similar to Cheng, both for the structure and for the subjects covered, is the second cycle of

poems called Gui jing cheng. The similarity between the two works is suggested even by the

titles. This article attempts to explain why both collections can be read as the author’s descrip-

tions of his torn inner self, of his identity divided between the two worlds (East and West)

where he lived.

KEY WORDS: Gu Cheng, Chinese poetry, city, spirit, Beijing

Il termine “apocalittico” fa riferimento a qualcosa che implica distruzione

totale o terribile violenza, proprio ciò che ritriviamo nel ciclo di poesie

Cheng 城 (Città), scritto dal poeta cinese Gu Cheng (1956-1993) prima della

sua tragica morte. È interessante notare come l’autore anticipi questi temi in

un precedente ciclo di poesie dal titolo Gui jin cheng 鬼进城 (Lo spirito entra

in città). Di ciò tratta questo articolo.

Cheng (Città)1

è l’ultimo ciclo poetico composto da Gu Cheng, al quale

egli ha lavorato dal 1992 al 1993, durante i suoi soggiorni in Germania e in

Nuova Zelanda. Esso descrive Pechino, città natale dell’autore (Kubin,

1999). In esso, in un’identificazione con la patria lontana, Gu Cheng

tratteggia qualcosa che assomiglia ad un ultimo autoritratto poetico.

ANNA SIMONA MARGARITO (PhD) studied Chinese Literature at the University of

Salento, Italy, and her ongoing research in the field is presently focused on the urban

poetry of Chinese expatriate writer Gu Cheng. E-mail: [email protected].

1 In seguito, si farà riferimento a questa raccolta come Cheng o come “ciclo”.

60 ANNA SIMONA MARGARITO

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

Gu Cheng è stato una delle personalità di spicco del panorama letterario

cinese del secolo scorso, in quanto uno tra i maggiori esponenti della

corrente poetica della “poesia oscura”. Questa corrente, che si colloca nella

seconda metà del XX secolo, dimostra più elementi in comune con la

precedente tradizione letteraria europea che non con quella cinese.

Tamburello (1998) fa notare che l’influenza della cultura occidentale “opera

a livello contenutistico e solo conseguentemente stimola un mutamento

formale della lingua stessa. L’entità di questo mutamento è però opera

interamente originale dei poeti cinesi che conoscono e lavorano solamente

con la propria lingua”.

Per meglio definire l’accezione in cui l’aggettivo “oscura” viene usato in

riferimento a questa corrente poetica, è illuminante quanto lo stesso Gu

Cheng spiega in proposito:

[...] il termine si riferisce ad una poesia che è simbolica e suggestiva, con concetti

profondi, impressioni stratificate, ed una coscienza dell’inconscio, ecc. C’è

sicuramente un senso in tutto questo, ma, se ci si limita a queste idee, non credo

si riesca a cogliere la caratteristica fondamentale di questo nuovo tipo di poesia.

La caratteristica fondante è il suo realismo. Essa parte dal realismo oggettivo, ma

vira verso un realismo soggettivo; muove da una reazione passiva ad una

creazione attiva (Allen, 2005: 182).

Si potrebbe sottolineare che proprio quel “realismo soggettivo” di cui egli

parla, risulta essere la principale caratteristica di buona parte della

produzione poetica di Gu Cheng e, in particolare, del ciclo Cheng, che

mescola elementi reali e ricordi del poeta.

Gu comincia a comporre le prime poesie già a partire dall’età di sei anni.

Nel 1987, avendo acquisito una certa fama, comincia a viaggiare all’estero.

Dal 1988 al 1989, si trasferisce ad Auckland con la moglie ed il figlio,

lavorando inizialmente per la locale università. Qui, il 4 giugno 1989,

insieme all’amico e poeta Yang Lian, organizza una lettura di protesta

contro l’azione repressiva del governo cinese. Questa presa di posizione

segna per entrambi l’inizio dell’esilio.

Nel 1990, arriva dalla Cina, Li Ying (alias Ying’er), la ragazza di cui Gu

Cheng si era innamorato mentre si trovava ancora a Pechino. La donna

decide, d’accordo la coppia, di andare a vivere con il poeta e la moglie.

Qualche anno più tardi, dal 1992 al 1993, Gu Cheng si reca in Germania

con la moglie per ragioni di lavoro, mentre Li Ying, rimasta in Nuova

Zelanda, fugge con un altro uomo. È a questo punto che, nel 19922

, l’autore

2 La datazione della poesia Houhai, nella versione inviata a Kubin, è del 1991, questo

lascia supporre dei dubbi sulla datazione esatta dell’inizio della stesura del ciclo (see

Kubin, 1999).

La Città di Gu Cheng 61

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inizia la stesura del ciclo Cheng. Circa un anno dopo, ritorna sull’isola di

Waiheke con la moglie dove, l’8 ottobre 1993, muoiono entrambi

tragicamente per mano del poeta.

Alla luce di questi dati biografici, i temi del ciclo Cheng appaiono

particolarmente significativi. Negli ultimi anni della sua vita, il poeta che,

pur essendosi stabilito all’estero da alcuni anni, continua a rifiutare di

imparare una lingua straniera, si rinchiude con la moglie e l’amante in un

universo personale creato sul modello del romanzo classico Sogno della

camera rossa3

. Egli pertanto non riesce, né vuole, spezzare il cordone

ombelicale che lo lega alla sua patria, alla sua città natale ed alla sua identità

profondamente cinese (Li, 1999: 61-75).

Tre sono i temi principali del ciclo indicati dallo stesso autore e

individuati già da Wolfgang Kubin, amico molto più che traduttore e critico

del poeta: la perdita di Pechino, la città che rivive solo nei ricordi del poeta,

la meta a cui egli non può più tornare; la perdita della sua amante che egli

non potrà riavere perché lei ha deciso di fuggire con un altro uomo; e

infine, gli eventi del 4 giugno 1989, come si evince dal sottotitolo, Liusi (4

giugno), apposto nella versione inviata a Kubin (1999).

Le 52 poesie, di cui si compone il ciclo, sono precedute da una breve

prefazione (in realtà, una lettera scritta alla sorella), in cui l’autore

argomenta la sentita necessità di scrivere il Cheng.

Ecco un estratto di quanto l’autore scrive nella prefazione al Cheng:

Arrivato in Germania, questa somigliava alla Pechino della mia infanzia.

C’era la neve, c’erano anche rami secchi di alberi che oscillavano nel

vento, io avevo la vaga sensazione che, camminando lungo la strada che

si trova sotto la finestra, sarei arrivato a casa, avrei potuto vedere

Xizhimen, quei raggi di luce desolati del crepuscolo spandendosi

illuminavano i giganteschi profili dei parapetti e delle fortificazioni... In

sogno, sì, torno spesso a Pechino, ed anche se quella attuale non le

3 Honglou meng (Sogno della Camera Rossa) fu scritto da Cao Xueqin (1715-1764) ed ebbe

immensa popolarità. L’autore, che incluse molti elementi biografici, descrive la vita

della famiglia Jia e dei suoi servitori. Nel testo si riscontra un forte contrasto tra la vita

spensierata che Jia Baoyu, il protagonista, conduce nel Giardino della Grande

Contemplazione, insieme a cugine e sorelle, e gli intrighi ideati in altri luoghi della

proprietà. A tal proposito Idema e Haft (2000) spiegano: “Uno degli intrecci principali

segue le contrastanti relazioni di Jia Baoyu con due cugine che sono una l’esatto

opposto dell’altra: la malaticcia, lamentosa Lin Dayu e la robusta, estroversa Xue

Baochai. Dopo una lunga serie di avventurose complicazioni, Jia Baoyu si dispone

infine a sposare Lin Dayu- o così crede. Una volta nella camera nuziale, scopre che la

sposa è invece Xue Baochai. Lin Dayu muore subito dopo. Avuto un figlio e superato

gli esami, Jia Baoyu dice addio al mondo e diventa discepolo di un maestro taoista e si

fa monaco buddhista” (Idema e Haft, 2000: 255-256).


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somiglia, è il luogo dove io, in accordo con i princìpi del cielo e del cuore,

desidero andare. Attualmente il lago Taiping o Zhonghuamen, non ci

sono più, non ci sono neanche i mattoni e la polvere che salivano nel

mezzo del cielo limpido, le strade costruite in pendenza, gli alberi di

giuggiole selvatiche, ma io ci cammino ancora sopra, e vedo la vita

precedente e quella che verrà […] Di questa raccolta di poesie intitolata

Cheng, ho completato solo una metà, ci sono ancora molte porte della

città che non sono state riparate. […] Io non lo so, solo che ogni giorno

canto un verso di una canzone popolare vietnamita: ah, povera mia città

natale… (10 Aprile 1992, see Gu, 1995: 856)

L’autore, nell’anticipare che il ciclo, rimasto incompleto, contiene insieme

elementi reali ed irreali, riesce a creare ciò che Samuel T. Coleridge

definirebbe come una “volontaria sospensione dell’incredulità” (Marinoni

Mingazzini e Salmoiraghi, 1992: 501) inducendo a considerare come reali,

eventi che non lo sono, o posti che non esistono più ma vivono nei ricordi

dell’autore (come, per esempio, i luoghi a cui sono intitolate molte delle

poesie del ciclo), ed azioni che si svolgono solamente nelle poesie, grazie

esclusivamente alla vivida immaginazione del poeta.

La vecchia città delle memorie di Gu si sovrappone all’immagine più

recente di Pechino ed entrambe si mescolano con l’immagine della

Germania dove l’autore risiede. Il risultato è un’immagine illusoria che

riconduce il poeta nella sua capitale, in una visione che dura 52 poesie.

A questo proposito, Kubin (1999: 259) fa notare che il viaggio in questa

città irreale non è altro che un viaggio introspettivo, tanto che il titolo del

ciclo è chiaramente un gioco di parole con il nome stesso del poeta, Cheng

城, il cui significato in cinese è proprio quello di “città”. Un tema ulteriore è

quello dell’identità e dell’individualità dell’uomo Gu Cheng, così come si

viene a delineare nell’intero ciclo, un ultimo e quanto mai singolare

autoritratto spirituale. Gu Cheng è, a questo punto della sua vita, un uomo

che sente forte la sua identità culturale e le sue radici. Dall’esilio, egli sente

il richiamo ed il ricordo della sua Pechino così tanto da impegnarsi

nell’impresa titanica di ricostruire la sua città natale nell’unico modo che gli

è congeniale e possibile, cercando, cioè, di xiuhao 修好 “riparare” i

cambiamenti operati dalla storia, dal progresso e dall’uomo, ricostruendo la

sua città in poesia con le sue parole.

Alla fine del ciclo e della sua vita egli non può che prendere atto di aver

oramai perso la sua battaglia contro il mondo, contro la storia ed il

progresso. Non ha più la sua patria, non ha più la sua amante, vive in una

società dalla quale si tiene volutamente lontano, porta le ferite infertegli

dalla storia e dalla vita, proprio come la sua città, ma, soprattutto, ne è


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pienamente consapevole. È questo lo scenario di desolazione e distruzione

che il ciclo Cheng lascia intravedere.

In psicanalisi, un oggetto del desiderio ha la funzione di mascherare il

vuoto che soggiace alla pulsione (Agosti, 1972: 14). Pechino, per l’autore,

svolge questa funzione, e il perché del vuoto che soggiace alla pulsione è

intuibile: la sua città natale è ormai perduta, in primo luogo, perché il poeta

non può più tornarci e, poi, perché, se pure vi tornasse fisicamente, vi

troverebbe solo le rovine di ciò che un tempo era la ‘città perfetta’: un luogo

concepito e costruito in accordo con i princìpi, che regolano cielo e terra,

secondo la tradizione geomantica cinese. Dalla Storia e dai suoi stessi

uomini Pechino, così come la si legge dalle poesie, è stata distrutta poco a

poco. È diventata teatro di scontri e atrocità tanto da portarne i segni,

ancora chiaramente distinguibili qua e là nei componimenti, dove il poeta li

annota. Queste poesie portano i segni di uno scenario di lotta: vi è l’esercito,

figurano fori di pallottole, ferite, e non ultimo, vi è il riferimento a

personaggi della scena politica del fatidico 4 giugno 1989 ed inoltre il verbo

si 死 (morire) è tra i più ricorrenti nel ciclo.

Nella prefazione del Cheng, Gu dice di voler “riparare” (Gu, 1972: 14) i

luoghi della sua città natale ed ideale, quasi per riportarla al suo originario

splendore, tuttavia nei versi così “costruiti”, egli riesce solo a rimetterne in

piedi rovine e frammenti, apparentemente scoordinati, in un ciclo che

rimane, forse non per caso, incompiuto.

Perduta, come la vecchia Pechino, è anche l’amante del poeta fuggita

con un altro uomo. Vorrebbe riaverla, ma ciò non può più accadere nella

realtà, pertanto egli la ‘colloca’ in un luogo poetico dal quale non potrà più

fuggire. È l’autore stesso a descrivere il ciclo come la storia di una ragazza

deceduta che, nell’ipotesi avanzata da Kubin (1999: 23), sarebbe proprio Li

Ying. L’amante si intravede tra le poesie, è tra le figure che popolano la

“città” e, come tutti gli altri abitanti di questo non luogo, non viene descritta

né caratterizzata in modo particolare.

Nel ciclo, inoltre, stando anche alle indicazioni dell’autore, si racconta

dell’incidente di Tian’anmen, un trauma che ha colpito un’intera

generazione, ma che Gu vive molto dolorosamente per due ragioni

principali: in primo luogo, per aver vissuto in passato, in prima persona,

l’esperienza del confino nella provincia dello Shandong dal 1969 al 1974 (Li,

1999: 405), durante la Rivoluzione Culturale; ma, soprattutto, perché la

storica declamazione di protesta, organizzata insieme all’amico e poeta Yang

Lian, contro l’azione repressiva del governo cinese, segna l’inizio del suo

esilio e la traumatica separazione dalla Cina. Nel ciclo tutto ciò si mescola e

unisce alle vicende personali di Gu Cheng, come lui stesso le narra.

Egli conduce in una città che è materialmente costruita di suoi ricordi.

Pechino è riletta e riscritta dal poeta in questa chiave, così che ogni luogo è


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solo un pretesto, uno spunto e non è più importante di per se stesso, ma

acquista rilevanza e sostanza all’interno dell’immensa geografia della città,

diventando degno di poesia solo perché è stato palcoscenico della vita del

poeta oppure meta dei suoi ricordi.

Nel saggio Ghost enters the city (Lupke, 2008: 123-143), Yibing Huang

sottolinea la metamorfosi che ha interessato il giovane Gu Cheng, quello

che veniva definito il “poeta delle fiabe”, a seguito delle numerose

vicissitudini che hanno contrassegnato la sua vita e dopo i molti viaggi, è

stato trasformato in un uomo completamente diverso, distrutto, rovinato. È

proprio così che egli si dipinge, con la metafora della vecchia città, che egli

descrive per sé e per i lettori nel suo ultimo ciclo. Come si deduce dal titolo,

un’allusione dietro la quale si cela il suo nome (Kubin, 1999: 23), il tema

principale e, quindi, il protagonista dell’opera è l’autore stesso: l’uomo

prima ancora del poeta.

Diversi studiosi hanno messo in evidenza quanto sia mutata, nel corso

della vita dell’autore, la sua concezione della natura e, quindi, anche la

rappresentazione poetica che ne fa. In un’intervista del dicembre 1992

(Zhang-Kubin, 1999: 335), rispondendo a domande su quali testi lo

avessero influenzato di più all’inizio della sua produzione poetica, Gu

Cheng aveva risposto: Jean Henry Fabre4

.

Quando la famiglia viene confinata in campagna (1969-1974), Gu

immagina un mondo naturale completamente diverso da quello con il quale

dovrà poi, suo malgrado, confrontarsi e che lo deluderà fortemente.

L’universo descritto da Gu Cheng nelle poesie del periodo precedente al

confino, è un mondo naturale, popolato da piccole creature, viste dagli

occhi di un bambino che scopre il mondo, che cerca di capirne i meccanismi

e le regole con curiosità infinita. La realtà del confino cancella ogni sogno e

ogni ingenua fantasiosa concezione della bellezza e della benevolenza della

natura, tanto che al rientro dal confino, il poeta afferma: “Addio, Jean

Henry Fabre!” (Crippen, 2005: 153).

Nel saggio dedicato all’analisi del ruolo della natura nella poesia e nella

prosa di Gu Cheng (Li, 1999: 179-197), Li Xia fa risalire l’affinità del poeta

con il mondo naturale alla sua infanzia, e considera la sua mistica “unità”

con il mondo naturale e la concezione della perfezione della natura, tra gli

aspetti più importanti della poetica dell’autore (Li, 1999: 182-183). Da essi

egli ha sempre tratto ispirazione, mentre, al contrario, riceve un forte senso

disagio dall’ambiente urbano, nel quale si sente disorientato. La “città”

diventa in Gu Cheng metafora dell’alienazione dell’uomo da se stesso e dal

mondo naturale. Nel romanzo postumo Ying’er, egli accosta la città a

4 Famoso entomologo francese, Jean henry Fabre venne insignito del Premio Nobel nel

1910 proprio per i suoi studi sugli insetti.


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riflessioni negative o ironiche (Li, 1999: 186). Li Xia rileva, inoltre, come il

poeta mantenga sempre la natura come elemento da cui trarre sicurezza e

bellezza, anche quando cerca di fare i conti con le traumatiche esperienze

del suo passato (Li, 1999), e sottolinea come, nel romanzo, la placida

tranquillità che l’autore ritrova nella natura si trasformi in una “visone

apocalittica di rifiuto universale e morte” (Li, 1999: 191). Questa radicale e

significativa trasformazione può essere ravvisata nel Cheng, la cui mutata

rappresentazione della natura è indice di questo totale rifiuto.

La Natura che, per Gu, era bellezza e perfezione, unica alternativa

all’alienante mondo della città, nel ciclo non rappresenta alcunché di

idilliaco o di rassicurante. In 17, si legge (Gu, 1995: 866):

十七

老虎身上过花厅煤田里边打黄蜂

猴啊猴啊打黄蜂

煤田里边过花厅

老虎身上打黄蜂

17

Passa per la veranda sul dorso della tigre schiaccia la vespa nella miniera

Oh la scimmia oh la scimmia schiaccia la vespa

Passa per la veranda nella miniera

La tigre schiaccia la vespa sul suo dorso

Gli animali, nel componimento, uccidono, corrono, muoiono, e tutto ciò

avviene al di fuori del contesto che sarebbe loro proprio. Teatro delle loro

azioni sono, infatti, una miniera di carbone ed una veranda. Anche la

natura è stata corrotta ed è diventata “altro”, ed è ulteriore motivo di

sconcerto.

Prendiamo ad esempio il caso della parola hua (fiore/ferite) (Gu, 1995:

866) presente, tra i molti altri casi, anche in Nanchizi 南池子 (Laghetto a sud)

e Xinjie kou 新街口 (Ingresso della Via nuova). La parola significa “fiore”, ma,

allo stesso tempo, richiama alla mente del lettore qualcos’altro. Questo

“altro” può essere o un significato meno frequente dello stesso carattere che,

nel gergo militare, significa “ferite”, o un carattere omofono, ma non

omografo, il cui significato, inserito nel contesto, avrebbe comunque senso.

Nemmeno i fiori sono associati alla serenità. Gu Cheng, in una nota (Li,

1999: 33) relativa a Jiantie 剪贴 (Ritagliare), spiega che le immagini floreali,

così come le unghie, sono riferimenti alla Campagna dei cento fiori. I fiori,

tradizionalmente utilizzati come riferimenti sessuali, non sono considerati

come elementi naturali. Infatti, nelle poesie si trasformano in “cani” famelici

dalle grandi bocche (Laghetto a sud, versi 6 e 7), o impallidiscono (Tempio


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della pagoda bianca, strofa 3, verso 9). Tornano a ricoprire il loro ruolo di

elementi della natura solamente quando posti su una tomba. Anche in

questo caso, però, hanno qualcosa di strano perché diventano “grandi

alberi” (Xianglai jie 象来街 Via dell’arrivo degli elefanti, strofa 5, verso 5).

L’erba è fatta di vetro (Changping 昌平 Changping, verso 15) e capelli

crescono dentro a noci di cocco (Hufang qiao 虎坊桥 Ponte del vicolo della tigre,

strofa 2, verso 8). Anche la natura, sempre rifugio per Gu Cheng, riparo

sicuro dalla società capitalista, nel ciclo Cheng sembra aver perso questo

ruolo, e gli elementi naturali presenti non sono per nulla idilliaci. Crolla

un’ennesima certezza e, per l’autore, viene meno un’altra consolazione.

Così come la Natura, anche la città della sua infanzia, il cuore della Cina,

è stata trasformata dalla storia e dai suoi stessi abitanti, ed è diventata un

mero mercato (Kubin, 1999: 262). È una città governata da logiche che la

rendono irriconoscibile ed incomprensibile e, per queste ragioni, invivibile

per Gu Cheng. È stata svuotata di tutto, soprattutto dei sentimenti, ciò che

resta sono vestigia di un passato in rovina che dimostra ancora lustro e

splendore, ma che non ha più alcun valore se non quello di mercato. In

Donghuamen 东华门 Porta della Cina orientale, versi 1 e 2, si legge: yuanzi li you

name duo pianyi dongxi/ zui pianyi de shi ni (nel cortile ci sono tante cose

economiche/la più economica sei tu) (Gu, 1995: 858). Anche le mogli sono

in vendita, infatti, i matrimoni si combinano con annunci pubblicati sui

giornali.

Gu Cheng ha sempre ricercato la vita, l’amore e la fama, ma è anche

stato pervaso da un profondo senso di terrore, e dal bisogno di sfuggire gli

altri. Egli cerca rifugio dal crudele mondo reale vivendo isolato in un

mondo di poesia. Ha scelto di rimanere in disparte, lontano dall’ansia della

società moderna, impedendo, allo stesso tempo, alla sua personalità di

svilupparsi armonicamente. Pertanto, secondo Wang, per Gu, scrivere

poesie diventa una vera terapia che ha la funzione di scongiurare e calmare

le sue ansie interiori. Così, crea una barriera illusoria ed un universo

personale che gli servono per trincerarsi dalla realtà nella sua casa sull’isola

di Waiheke (Wang, 1999: 77-95). Questo microcosmo dall’equilibrio

precario va, però, in frantumi, collidendo con la realtà, nel 1993. La fuga

dell’amante, in questo particolare quadro, è solo una concausa e nemmeno

la fondamentale (Wang, 1999).

Il periodo, lungo poco più di un decennio, che va dalla morte di Mao

(1976) al 4 giugno (1989), lasciava supporre che qualcosa di nuovo e

rivoluzionario stesse per verificarsi nel panorama cinese, e non solo dal

punto di vista letterario. Ma se il 1989, a livello mondiale, aveva decretato la

fine di molti regimi comunisti (in Europa cade il Muro di Berlino), in Cina

il PCC riusciva a mantenere saldo il suo potere. Forse, la scelta della

Germania come luogo da accostare a Pechino, era un modo per Gu Cheng


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di sottolineare, implicitamente e per contrasto, i due diversi esiti di uno

stesso processo storico di democratizzazione di cui le due capitali erano

divenute il simbolo. Inoltre, i fatti del 4 giugno rivestono non poca rilevanza

nella vita del poeta se egli ne fa uno dei tre temi principali, insieme alla

patria perduta, e alla perdita di una delle due donne che amava (ne porterà

una con sé tragicamente nella morte), dell’ultimo ciclo di poesie al quale

lavora prima del suicidio, offrendo un ritratto tanto sincero quanto

doloroso e disarmante di se stesso.

Pechino, per Gu Cheng, diventa metafora di se stesso, della sua

interiorità lacerata, ferita e non salvata, segnata dai traumi infertigli dalla

storia, e la poesia diventa uno strumento di lotta, di affermazione della sua

identità e dei suoi ideali. La sua patria aveva confinato il suo spirito di poeta,

dall’infanzia sino all’adolescenza, ad allevare maiali (mansione affidatagli

durante il periodo di confino) in una natura che egli aveva supposto

idilliaca, ma che si era rivelata, poi, al contrario, dura ed inclemente. La

lotta per la democrazia gli era costata l’esilio e l’allontanamento dalla sua

stessa patria. Non c’era stato un altro “altrove”, nessun locus amoenus al

mondo, che fosse riuscito a dargli pace. Nemmeno la Nuova Zelanda, dove

pure il poeta acquista una casa e tenta, insieme alle sue donne, di creare il

suo paradiso su un modello della classicità cinese (Li, 1999: 61).

Kubin racconta che Gu Cheng “era come posseduto dalla Cina e proprio

in virtù della sua assenza dalla sua terra natia egli parlava solo di cose che

appartenevano al passato” (Kubin, 1999: 255).

Alla fine della raccolta, ma già all’inizio della stesura, la città del poeta

(quindi, non la vera Pechino ma, per metafora, l’autore stesso) ha perso la

sua lotta contro il mondo, Golia ha definitivamente sconfitto Davide, e il

giovane autore, consapevole di ciò, si pone, come prima di lui aveva fatto

Lu Xun, in una posizione antitetica rispetto alla Cina. Come scrive Edoarda

Masi, nell’introduzione a Fuga sulla luna, in una posizione “non [...] più di

eterodossia all’interno del contesto globale di una civiltà ma di

rovesciamento: l’intera civiltà cinese era messa sotto accusa” (Masi, 1973). Si

legge nelle poesie del Cheng, una denuncia, forse più che un’accusa, dei

presupposti di questa nuova Cina, dei risultati delle scelte di governo, dei

risvolti economici, delle vicende storiche e politiche del periodo. Una

denuncia implicitamente affermata attraverso gli esiti di questi fattori sul

piano della vita personale del poeta. Il fine della scrittura poetica di Gu

Cheng è, allora, lo stesso che Masi individua per Lu Xun: “esporre la

malattia e attrarre l’attenzione su di essa, affinché fosse curata” (Masi, 1973,

introduzione) e si può intuire anche come questa “riflessione sia una via per

recare nuovo tormento a se stesso, oltre che al lettore” (Masi, 1973,

introduzione). La stesura del ciclo, come pure la scrittura poetica, diventa

per Gu, oltre che un ultimo disperato sforzo catartico, anche un tentativo


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rivoluzionario di denuncia nei confronti della Cina moderna, e una specie

di testimonianza personale del prezzo al quale questa modernità è stata

ottenuta: un novello Lu Xun che attacca la “nuova” Cina che si riconferma

un’insaziabile “mangiatrice di uomini”.

C’è un altro parallelo che suggerisce un accostamento tematico tra questi

due autori. Lu Xun visse in un momento storico di particolare fervore

rivoluzionario che ebbe come primo risultato il Movimento del 4 maggio

1919. In quell’occasione, la volontà della Cina di ottenere un

riconoscimento a livello internazionale, segnò l’inizio di una serie di

cambiamenti per mezzo dei quali il Paese si discostò dalla sua pesante

tradizione, diventando una nazione moderna. Il processo di

modernizzazione e democratizzazione in Cina, lega come un sottile fil rouge

il Movimento del 4 maggio 1919 agli eventi che giungono fino al 4 giugno

1989. Quella modernità che, forse non è esattamente quella che Lu Xun e

la sua generazione agognavano ed auspicavano, è ormai stata conquistata.

La Cina ha ottenuto un posto di primo piano nello scacchiere

internazionale, eppure, leggendo il Cheng, si ha la sensazione che la vecchia

“mangiatrice di uomini” non abbia mai placato la sua fame, continuando a

mietere vittime ancora nel 1989 come già nel 1919.

Nell’ultimo ciclo, Gu Cheng manifesta nella sua Tian’anmen intima con

l’unico strumento di lotta di cui può disporre pienamente: la forza della sua

poesia. Questa piazza, nei 52 componimenti, non viene mai esplicitamente

menzionata seppure se ne si intuisce l’aura e la vicinanza. Xidan, Houhai e

altri dei luoghi che danno il titolo ad alcune delle poesie, si trovano nelle

sue immediate vicinanze. L’assenza di questo luogo, serve all’autore per

accrescerne la ‘risonanza semantica’. La tecnica usata funziona per il lettore

nel modo così descritto da Jacques Lacan:

Potremmo trovarvi un riferimento a ciò che la tradizione indù insegna intorno al

dhvani, in quanto vi distingue la proprietà della parola di far intendere quello

che non dice. E lo illustra con una storiella la cui ingenuità, che sembra di regola

in simili esempi, mostra abbastanza humour da indurci a penetrare la verità che

nasconde... Una ragazza, si dice, aspetta il suo innamorato sulla riva di un fiume,

e vede un bramino che vi si incammina. Va verso di lui ed esclama in tono di

amabilissima accoglienza: “Che fortuna oggi! Il cane che su questa riva vi

spaventava con i suoi latrati non ci sarà più, è stato appena divorato da un leone

che gira per i paraggi…” L’assenza del leone può dunque avere gli stessi effetti

del suo balzo che, quand’è presente, esso fa una sola volta (Lacan, 1972: 147).

La mancanza accresce la nostalgia nel poeta, e la nostalgia per la sua casa e

per la sua Cina sono caratteristiche della poesia di Gu Cheng.

Nello stesso periodo del Cheng, Gu lavora anche a un’altra raccolta, Gui

jin cheng 鬼进城 (Lo spirito entra in città), che include otto poesie, ciascuna, ad


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eccezione dell’ultima, intitolata a un giorno della settimana e preceduta da

cinque versi introduttivi.

Nell’articolo Ghosts in the city the Auckland exile of Yang Lian and Gu Cheng,

Hilary Chung (2012) descrive lo stretto rapporto contenutistico tra il Lo

spirito entra in città e Ying’er, l’unico romanzo scritto da Gu Cheng.

Chung fa poi notare che Lo spirito entra in città anticipa, per alcuni aspetti,

il Cheng, come se l’ossessività di alcune tematiche della sua esistenza

penetrasse inevitabilmente nelle sue opere. La prima analogia suggerita, è

che, entrambe, le opere trattano della perdita dell’amante. Un ulteriore

richiamo è nel titolo, nel quale si ritrova lo stesso gioco semantico in

riferimento al carattere cheng 城 (città) che è anche nome dell’autore. Questi

pochi indizi indicano una complementarietà tra le due opere.

La città in cui il fantasma entra, già dalla poesia intitolata Xingqi san 星期

三 (Mercoledì), secondo Chung, è Berlino, cioè lo stesso luogo in cui Gu

compone l’opera per quanto, alcuni dettagli, potrebbero far pensare, come

si vedrà, a una proiezione di Pechino, tuttavia, non esplicitata, essendo per

Gu Cheng oramai solo una realtà interiore.

L’altro punto di contatto è che Gu Cheng dipinge la città, in entrambe le

opere, attraverso i suoi ricordi. Nelle otto poesie non ci sono indizi specifici

che indichino una connotazione europea della città in cui arriva il fantasma,

colpiscono invece dei precisi richiami alla “cinesità”. Ciò si esplicita nella

presenza di immagini relative alla cultura e alla civiltà cinesi. Ad esempio, il

poeta menziona il figlio dell’imperatore che riceve abiti e oggetti d’uso

quotidiano invernali (Huangzi kaishi shou ta dongtian de yiwu). In Mercoledì

(Gu, 1995: 844) ed, ancora, in Xingqi er 星期二 (Martedì), si trova un

“aquilone” (fengzheng), oggetto inventato in Cina intorno al 400 a.C.

(Bernardini e Blundo, 2010: 30).

Riconducibili all’infanzia del poeta, trascorsa a Pechino, sono anche le

immagini di “pioppi”, “stelle” e “ciminiere” che Gu Cheng inserisce e

condensa nei due versi finali del penultimo componimento, intitolato Xingqi

ri 星期日 (Domenica), che recita:

远处有星星更远的地方

还有星星过了很久

他才知道烟囱上有一棵透明的杨树

Lontano stanno le stelle e ancora più lontano

Ci sono altre stelle è passato tanto tempo

Lui sa solamente che sopra le ciminiere c’è un diafano pioppo.


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Questi pochi versi richiamano tre componimenti giovanili di Gu Cheng:

Xingyue de laiyou 星月的来由 (L’origine della luna e delle stelle), Yancong 烟囱

(Camini)5

, pure del 1968, e Songshu 松树(Pioppo)6

datata 1964. L’antologia

del poeta, curata dal padre, comincia proprio dal 1964 (Gu, 1995: 1-7) e, a

partire dalla prima pagina, riporta, nell’ordine, i seguenti componimenti:

Pigne, Pioppo, Crepuscolo, Camini, L’origine della luna e delle stelle. Le tre poesie

figurano in sequenza interrotte solo da Crepuscolo, che è un componimento

in quattro versi sulla caducità della vita umana, evidenziata per contrasto

con il carattere immutabile di alcuni fenomeni naturali, quali il sorgere e il

tramontare del sole, e che, quindi, assume un forte valore simbolico. Il

richiamo lessicale nel ciclo del 1992, potrebbe non essere casuale, ma, anche

ammettendo un’eventuale predilezione da parte dell’autore per le tre

immagini nell’arco di tutta la sua vasta produzione, potrebbe far pensare

che la scelta di una simile ‘agglomerazione’ non sia solo legata al gusto

personale, ma che, piuttosto, si sia realizzata per una questione di valenza e

di significato a livello connotativo, più che denotativo.

Pur rilevando dei dubbi sulla reale datazione dei primissimi

componimenti di Gu Cheng, avanzati da studiosi che farebbero riferimento

a delle “manomissioni” (Stafutti, 1998: 16-28), si può ritenere che le tre

poesie siano state scritte prima del 1969, l’anno in cui il poeta venne

allontanato da Pechino e mandato, con il padre, nello Shandong.

La deduzione si poggia su elementi di carattere contenutistico. È stato

evidenziato in Gu Cheng un cambiamento della sua concezione della

Natura in concomitanza con l’esperienza del confino. Per due dei

componimenti, il soggetto è riferito alla natura ed è trattato in modo

positivo e giocoso, molto simile alla modalità riscontrata in Fabre. A

proposito di Camini, che Stafutti traduce con Ciminiere, la studiosa racconta:

Nel corso del mio soggiorno pechinese, ho ricevuto dalle mani di una persona

molto prossima al poeta, [...] la copia di un lavoro teatrale manoscritto [...] con il

titolo forse provvisorio, di Gu Cheng he hei yanjing (Gu Cheng e gli occhi neri). Il

testo offre una ricostruzione della vita del poeta, dall’infanzia fino ai giorni del

tragico epilogo. [...] In una delle scene iniziali, la quinta, intitolata Chengdie shang

(Sugli spalti) viene offerta una cornice alla nascita di una delle primissime poesie

di Gu Cheng, peraltro assai felice, Ciminiere (1968): ragazzi delle Guardi Rosse

sono impegnati a trascinare via grandi blocchi dal muro di cinta della città-

5 烟囱:烟囱犹如平地耸立起来的巨人，/望着布满灯火的大地，/不断地吸着烟卷，/思索着

一件谁也不知道的事情。(1968)

Camini: I camini come giganti che si ergono sulla pianura,/ Guardano la terra

interamente disseminata di luci,/ Fumano senza sosta sigarette,/ Pensano a non si sa

quali faccende.

6 松树：我失去了一只臂膀，/就睁开了一眼睛。(1964)

Pioppo: Ho perso un braccio,/ Ho aperto un occhio.


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allusione alla distruzione degli ultimi tratti delle antiche mura avvenuta negli

anni della rivoluzione culturale. Uno stormo di uccelli attraversa il cielo, un

bimbo siede sugli spalti e osserva le ciminiere. Poi prende un quaderno e inizia a

scrivere. Una guardia rossa lo apostrofa in malo modo: “Che cosa scrivi?” “Una

poesia.” “Che diavolo di poesia?! Fa’ vedere…” È il testo di Ciminiere. La guardia

rossa si arrabbia e prende a urlare: “Che cosa vuoi dire con questa poesia?” “Non

lo so, non lo so neanch’io…” La scena si chiude qui (Stafutti, 1998: 22-23).

Questa datazione induce a pensare che l’ambientazione dei componimenti e

delle scene che li hanno ispirati sia la città di Pechino, il luogo dell’infanzia

del poeta. Forse anche in questo ciclo, come nel Cheng, si potrebbe supporre

una commistione tra i due luoghi abitati dal poeta.

A Pechino e ad una data precisa, riportano anche alcuni elementi in

Xingqi wu 星期五 (Venerdì) dove si legge (Gu, 1995: 846):

五个马五个兵

往回走将

枰平平枰五个军

(他怎么走都没希望了)

Cinque cavalli cinque soldati

ritornano dal generale

Una scacchiera piatta piatta una scacchiera cinque eserciti

(Comunque muova lui non ha speranze)

Wu ge ma wu ge bing

Wang hui zou jiang

Ping pingping ping wu ge jun

(Ta zenme zou dou mei xiwang le)

In questi versi, si nota un abile gioco di allitterazioni e di richiami, che

produce musicalità. Risalta la ripetizione di ping al verso tre richiamato da

bing al verso 1. Ed ancora di “Wuge” ai versi 1 e 3 e, altrove, la consonanza

di “w”, in posizione iniziale nei versi 1 e 2 e quasi in fine dei versi 3 e 4. Se

le assonanze sono, di solito, un mezzo discreto per attrarre l’attenzione del

lettore su elementi significativi, in questo caso, gli elementi più in risalto

risulterebbero: Wu ge (cinque), e i due caratteri omofoni ma non omografi

ping (scacchiera/piatta) e, per l’allitterazione di “w”, anche xiwang (speranza).

Questi elementi risuonano nei brevi versi in maniera quasi ossessiva.

Riprendendo un commento di Gu Cheng, a proposito di un componimento

incluso nel Cheng, il ping (bottiglia) è omofono del carattere ping del nome di

Deng Xiaoping (Kubin, 1999: 34). Forse Gu Cheng, nel componimento

Venerdì, ricorre ancora una volta a questo stesso espediente, utilizzando


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dapprima un carattere omofono ma non omografo, ping (scacchiera), e poi,

svelando il trucco, facendo comparire lo stesso carattere contenuto nel

nome di Deng. Questo richiamo non sembrerebbe casuale. Altro elemento

che potrebbe ricondurre a Tian’anmen, è la presenza, nei due versi

precedenti, di termini utilizzati nel linguaggio militare: esercito, generale,

soldati. Più enigmatico pare il riferimento al numero “cinque”. Ci sono due

numeri proibiti in Cina che, in rete, per esempio, vengono oscurati se

digitati insieme e nella successione 6-4. I due numeri sono la data del 4

giugno che in cinese, si esprime con la sequenza liu si 6/4 in base alla

consuetudine cinese di esprimere le date ovvero: mese, giorno. Il numero 5

completa la serie sei, quattro. Gu potrebbe, quindi, suggerire, senza

adoperare parole che, in Cina, erano scomode allora come lo sono adesso, e

che sarebbero risultate ancora più scomode se uscite dalla sua penna.

Ricordando l’esempio di Lacan e della tigre, a proposito dell’omissione del

nome di Piazza Tian’anmen nel Cheng, si potrebbe pensare che, qui, l’autore

usi lo stesso espediente facendo pesare e notare l’omissione.

Inoltre, ne Lo spirito entra in città ricorre l’idea della “morte” che diventa

motivo dominante suggerito sin dal titolo. Gui 鬼, in Cina, sono gli spiriti

degli uomini dopo la morte, spiega Claude Larre:

Tutto quanto si muove e si manifesta in Cielo, in Terra e nella società degli

uomini e nel loro corteo, costituito da Diecimila esseri dell’Universo, appartiene

agli Spiriti. Gli Shen sono gli Spiriti propri del Cielo e delle costellazioni. I Qi

sono gli Spiriti differenziati della Terra: Spiriti dei Monti e dei Mari, dei Fiumi e

dei Laghi, delle Pianure e delle Paludi e, più in generale, di tutte le

conformazioni del suolo. Si chiamano Gui gli spiriti degli uomini dopo la morte...

Gli Shen sono nobili e attivi come il Cielo, i Qi sono comuni e docili come la terra,

i Gui sono in movimento come la vita degli uomini finché non trovano un luogo

di riposo... Gli spiriti degli uomini, durante il tempo della vita quaggiù sono di

due tipi:alcuni provengono dal Cielo, altri dalla Terra. Gli Shen venuti dal Cielo,

per tutto il tempo che risiedono in un essere vivente, cambiano nome e statuto e

ne formano le anime Hun. Gli elementi essenziali che provengono dalla Terra,

per il periodo in cui abitano in un uomo vivente, formano le anime Po... Gli Hun,

le anime superiori degli uomini viventi, sono gli animatori del flusso della vita e

si contrappongono ai Po, anime inferiori, la cui funzione è quella di presiedere

alla vita vegetativa [...] Occorre tracciare un percorso coerente che permetta di

collegare tra loro i diversi Spiriti: gli Shen si ritrovano in un individuo come Hun;

gli Hun si congiungono ai Po per garantire l’animazione completa di questo

individuo. Alla morte, i Po si dissolvono e tornano alla Terra da cui provengono,

gli Hun scappano e cercano di ritornare al Cielo “fissandosi” sulla discendenza

degli antenati. Li si aiuta con dei sacrifici riservati al culto degli antenati. I Gui

segnano il ritorno degli Hun e dei Po quando non riescono a trovare il loro luogo

di riposo (Larre, 2009: 48).


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La morte è uno dei temi centrali di questo ciclo. Chung sottolinea come in

Domenica, essa venga contemplata direttamente, e come il poeta parli come

se fosse già morto. Insieme alla morte, nel ciclo figurano anche richiami a

scene di violenza evidenti già in Mercoledì, la stessa poesia in cui il fantasma

fa il suo ingresso in quella “città”.

In entrambi i cicli, ricorre l’immagine del “fiore”, in entrambi viene

riproposta l’immagine degli scacchi (presente anche nel Cheng), e la

tipologia di violenza che vi si ritrova, si configura come una costante di tutta

la produzione poetica di Gu Cheng nel periodo 1989-1993:

[Venerdì] comincia con una rivisitazione di una precedente intimazione di

violenza, nella quale il fantasma, lui e la persona sono portate in una tesa

vicinanza “spinge” (tuī) viene richiamato dal “indietreggia” (tuì). La

trasformazione surreale delle focacce, non più parte di ogni quotidiana

normalità drammatizza la precarietà dell’esistenza. L’azione di leggere ad alta

voce ne diventa la rappresentazione in cui l’autore prende il centro del palco, e

si trasforma in un gioco di scacchi impossibile da vincere. [...] “Egli” e il fantasma

continuano la loro alternanza in Sabato dove gli eserciti della scacchiera si

trasformano [...] “egli” diventa la vittima della violenza, richiamando Martedì

(Chung, 2012).

Seguono, nell’analisi di Chung, i richiami alla fine della storia d’amore con

Li Ying, centro dell’attenzione del poeta, mentre il “rosso”, colore simbolo

della rivoluzione e dell’amore, risulta dalla trasformazione di un iniziale

colore verde che, nell’analisi proposta è il colore dell’esercito, ma anche dei

boccioli prima che diventino fiori. Sempre in Sabato, la città nella quale si

avventura il fantasma, appare distrutta, così come distrutta è la città del

ciclo Cheng.

Nell’epilogo de Lo spirito entra in città, il fantasma sceglie di non diventare

un uomo. Il componimento conclusivo si intitola Qingming shijie 清明时节

(La Festa dei morti). Chung mette in evidenza come la relazione tra antenati e

vivi venga interrotta perché i riti non vengono celebrati e lo spirito si ritrova

solo, senza famiglia, nel limbo tra vita e morte. Scrive Larre: “Il culto serve

a favorire l’ascesa delle anime Hun al Cielo, tramite la dissoluzione

completa delle anime Po, a spegnere i Gui” (Larre, 2009: 49).

Gu comunica, quindi, al lettore di sentirsi come uno spirito Gui, errante

per il mondo, ma in esilio da esso. Non c’è nessuno che possa o voglia

aiutarlo a sopravvivere, poiché i riti in onore degli antenati erano finalizzati

a garantire la sopravvivenza delle anime.

Sin da questo ciclo, così come l’autore ribadirà nel Cheng, si delinea con

chiarezza il quadro che il poeta dipinge di sé. Uno scenario segnato da

immagini di violenza, solitudine, isolamento e morte. Gu Cheng dipinge un


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autoritratto interiore utilizzando l’unica tecnica rappresentativa che gli è

propria: la poesia. Ancora una volta l’epilogo del ciclo non lascia speranze.

Chung (2012) afferma che l’autore (che è insieme “egli” e lo “spirito” nel

poema), è esiliato dalla sua patria, dal suo “regno” personale, dopo la fuga

della giovane amante, dalla vita stessa verso la quale intermediario era la

moglie, Xie Ye, la quale parlava inglese, guidava, aveva imparato a usare il

computer, col quale trascriveva i componimenti del marito. Anche la “città”

interiore, surrogato che aveva cercato invano di creare come alternativa a

quella “città” che era sua e dalla quale si era allontanato dopo il 4 giugno

1989, era stata, seppure non ancora completamente distrutta ne Lo spirito

entra in città, almeno stravolta. Così lo spirito che si aggira in essa è

tristemente destinato, e sceglie da sè di non reincarnarsi e, senza i dovuti

sacrifici da parte dei vivi, di andare incontro ad una tragica fine. Così come

tragico e volontario sarà l’epilogo della vita dell’autore l’8 ottobre 1993.

L’accostamento tra i due cicli permette di evidenziare, pur se su scala

diversa, alcuni elementi che l’autore ripropone in entrambi: il tema della

perdita dell’amata che sancisce il fallimento del “regno delle sorelle” sul

modello del Sogno della camera rossa e diventa espressione della mancanza di

un luogo che possa costituire o ricostituire, per Gu Cheng, una “città”, un

luogo in cui tornare alla vita (aspetto che nel Cheng prenderà la più precisa

connotazione della perdita di Pechino). Soprattutto, ricorre in entrambi i

cicli (ma si tratta di una costante in tutta la produzione che va dal 1989 al

1993), il riferimento a violenza e morte che, insieme ai riferimenti politici,

riporta il pensiero agli scontri del 4 giugno e non ad altri eventi per alcune

ragioni principali: in primo luogo, il richiamo all’esercito e al colore verde

delle divise militari (che si fonde poi con l’immagine floreale, legata sì

all’amore, ma anche al concetto di “ferita”); quindi, Tian’anmen. Gli scontri

e la relativa protesta attuata da Gu Cheng, hanno segnato l’inizio dell’esilio

e, pertanto, la reale perdita della patria e della “casa”, intesa come luogo

degli affetti, come ‘focolare’, come luogo dell’infanzia al quale ogni cinese è

legato, oltre che culturalmente, anche ritualmente come è stato evidenziato

dall’accenno al legame simbiotico col passato che il culto degli antenati

simboleggia. Lo spirito sceglie di non reincarnarsi così come Gu sceglie di

non rientrare in patria, dopo il 4 giugno, e dopo la protesta organizzata con

Yang Lian.

La patria viene rifiutata dal poeta anche in questo ciclo così come già

aveva fatto nella vita reale, e la consapevolezza dell’incapacità di

sopravvivere senza queste “radici”, è comunicata qui molto più chiaramente

che nel Cheng. L’immagine complessiva che si ricava delle due opere è

quella di un’irreversibile, violenta e totale distruzione interiore: uno

scenario apocalittico che rivela l’incapacità dell’autore di vivere nella Cina

moderna così come nel moderno Occidente. Il suo talento letterario, come


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una condanna, lo obbliga a dare forma di poesia a questa sua

insoddisfazione.

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CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

GREAT METROPOLITAN CREATIONS. THE TECTONICS

OF DISCOURSE IN THE POSTCOLONIAL CITY

TIMEA VENTER

ABSTRACT. This study proposes to view the postcolonial city as a fugitive, manifold, hetero-

geneous, impermanent and textualised site, interwoven with the metaphorically and literally

tectonic forces of cultural discourse (of political, historical, personal or literary origin), which

can be found in a constant process of collision, bringing about dichotomised displacements,

palimpsestic fusions and emergences of hybrid or protean forms. The paper’s perspective

builds heavily on the tradition of post-structuralist thought as it problematizes the arbitrariness

of cultural belief-systems, showing: how the city and self mould each other changing both

cityscapes and personalities; how English is accepted, rejected or appropriated under the

influence of a postmodern urban environment marked by colonialism; how the clash between

the styles of discourse in the East and West perpetuate or create new traditions; how corrup-

tion, cultural imperialism and sensationalism might lead, in turn, to war, cultural dominance,

contradiction or globalization, protean forms and polyphony; and how migrants create fictions

to connect with their pasts and future. Within this approach, special concern is given to hybrid-

ity’s modes of operation and to their role in shaping both place and identity. Interactions

between urban experience and personal destiny are analysed through the prism of the post-

modern, postcolonial novel The Ground Beneath Her Feet by Salman Rushdie, chosen for its

representative status within these currents, and for its adherence to the norms of historio-

graphic metafiction and postcolonial life-writing, allowing insight into the political exploration

of conceptions of subjectivity, history and modes of writing through the personal perspective of

the migrant.

KEY WORDS: postcolonial city, tectonics of discourse, hybridity, third space, fictionalised

space

Introduction

At the present moment, the modern and postmodern city’s mode of exist-

ence has come to be characterized by sociology, human geography and ar-

chitectural theory as fugitive, manifold, heterogeneous, impermanent and

textualised. The unknowability and avant-garde behaviour of the city has

prompted many to consider it as a sovereign semiotic system or as a text,

and, probably competing only with film, literature has quickly taken on the

task of transposing the city’s shifting infrastructure onto the platforms of

TIMEA VENTER (MA) studies comparative literature at Babeș-Bolyai University in

Cluj-Napoca, Romania, and is affiliated with the Centre for the Study of Religion with-

in Emanuel University of Oradea. Her research interests include post-structuralist and

post-colonial theory, narratology, postmodernism, magical realism and hypertextuali-

ty. E-mail: [email protected].

78 TIMEA VENTER

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

poetry and narrative. The metropolis looms especially large in the novel,

which has generously given space and new modes of expression for all plac-

es or urban encounter, having held with the city through all of its different

stages of development and regional happenings. From the days of the in-

dustrially blooming and inhumanely menacing London of Dickens, the

spectacle of Paris and the neurosis of Saint Petersburg, the city has come a

long way through the eclectic streetscapes of Woolf and Joyce, to arrive at

the simulacrum-London of Barnes and the magically-real, postcolonial

realm of Rushdie. Such a route is so epic in proportions and styles that ex-

ploring it would exceed beyond hope the limits of the present study. How-

ever, for the understanding of the most recent, globalized and post-colonial

form of the metamorphosing metropolis, some emphasis will be placed on

the continuity between the modern and postmodern idea of freedom in

urban space and its production of hybrid forms that cross the frontiers of

established dichotomies of culture and identity. For this aspect has contin-

ued to be cherished and rethought through the works of Baudelaire, Dö-

blin and Wilde, up to the present of Saramago, Calvino or Murakami, pro-

posing and questioning new, both liberating and conflicting practices of

living together in the megalopolis of the many.

This study proposes to view the postcolonial city as a site interwoven

with the metaphorically and literally tectonic forces of cultural discourses (of

political, historical, personal or literary origin), which can be found in a

constant process of collision bringing about dichotomised displacements,

palimpsestic fusions and emergences of hybrid or protean forms. The pa-

per’s perspective builds heavily on the tradition of post-structuralist

thought, bearing in mind the arbitrariness of all cultural belief-systems and

maintaining the idea that their structure as well as their legitimacy, along

with their “right to the real”, may always be called to question. In accord-

ance with such an angle to urban discourses, special concern shall be given

to hybridity’s modes of operation and to their role in shaping both place

and identity.

After laying down the foundations for an analysis of the fugitive “word

city” of postmodern becoming, and for the tectonics of its functioning, re-

sulting collisions will be analysed through the prism of the postmodern,

postcolonial novel of Salman Rushdie, The Ground Beneath Her Feet1

. The

choice for this work over so many others stems, first of all, from its well-

defined stance within the current. What is presented as a general trend in

The Empire Writes Back describes this book as well:

1 Abbreviated in references as TGBHF.

Great Metropolitan Creations 79

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

the postmodern projects of deconstructing Master narratives, unsettling binaries

and admitting marginalised knowledges, follow closely the objectives of the post-

colonial critical project. Similarly, these various perspectives are conjoined in

their attention to the relationship between discourse and power, the socially con-

stituted and fragmented subject and the unruly politics of signification—the

workings of irony, parody, mimicry (Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, 2002: 117).

In addition, the novel’s adherence to the norms of historiographic metafic-

tion and postcolonial life-writing signals that it allows for the political explo-

ration of conceptions of subjectivity, history and modes of writing through

the personal perspective of the migrant, making it eligible for the study of

the interactions between urban experience and personal destiny.

In the book’s first half we encounter the destinies of the Cama and Mer-

chant families, unfolding upon the changing grounds of post-independence

Bombay, while in the second part we can follow the three main characters,

Rai, Vina and Ormus, as they flee Bombay to manifold Manhattan, seeking

self, love, success and home through different forms of art (song, photog-

raphy and literature). Their experience is indicative of the migrants’ way of

life in the modern and postmodern metropolis, otherwise there would have

been no point to writing either the novel, or this analysis. However, we

must always bear in mind the subjectivity of an author and the uniqueness

of personal perspective. As Rushdie has explained in Shame, “My story, my

fictional country exists, like myself, at a slight angle to reality” (1984: 29).

Placing the migrant’s situation outright on the level of a general human

condition might signal an inclination towards the very (grand) narratives

one wishes to subvert—therefore, we must always bear in mind the arbitrary

literary perspective of the well-to-do Indian immigrant, brought up and

educated in the liberal, postmodernist Western tradition, and from that, of

one particular “specimen”, too.

The division of topics is thematically structured around the collisions

produced by the tectonics of city and identity over the tectonics of mentali-

ty, of the vernacular, of politics and of fiction. It shall be discussed how con-

flicts evolve inside each area, resulting in displacements and hybridizations

that seem to resolve or perpetuate the clash between opposing forces. Thus,

it will be shown how the city and self mould each other changing both city-

scapes and personalities, how English is accepted, rejected or appropriated

under the influence of a postmodern urban environment marked by colo-

nialism, how the clash between the styles of discourse in the East and West

perpetuate or create new traditions, how corruption, cultural imperialism

and sensationalism might lead, in turn, to war, cultural dominance, contra-

diction or to globalization, protean forms and polyphony, and how mi-

grants create fictions to connect with their pasts and future. In the novel,

creating fictions of one kind or another, along with writing, is posited as a

80 TIMEA VENTER

CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

legitimate way of access to the multiplicity of experience: the narrator Rai

chooses interpretation over silence, digging freely into people and the real.

But it is important not to forget that such “imaginary homelands” are but

erratic constructs, and we might easily find that “our world is no more than

a vision in some other accidental individual’s damaged eye” (TGBHF, 437).

Premises for Discussing the City

Taking a look at studies of urban environment from the areas of sociology,

human geography and literature, we can find certain common conceptions

about the modern and postmodern city that show how the legacy of mo-

dernity’s radical changes to the structure of urban experience has evolved

within the contemporary metropolis. As a first characteristic of the city’s

mode of existence, its unknowability remains a key aspect. According to

Fritzsche, this feature generally reflects the modern impermanence of iden-

tity and the undermining of “grand designs and meanings” (1998: 44). The

modern novel of the city, as Joyce’s Ulysses, can be mapped, charted and

documented. Yet, it eludes fixity by its anachronisms, willed or unwilled

incongruences and the mingling of fictional and real-world material. In this

genre, as Fritzsche notes, “the [accommodation] of the city’s disharmony…

discontinuity, dissociation, and unpredictability steadily overruled the or-

derings of plot and narrative” (1998: 37). However, Joyce’s textual dis-

placements prove more eclectic and avant-garde in style than Rushdie’s,

since the latter explores the mysteries of city life through elaborately devel-

oped stories and ideas. We find, just as in the case of Leopold Bloom, that

for Rai, the city “by showing me everything it told me nothing”, it “was ex-

pressionistic, it screamed at you, but it wore a domino mask.”

Furthermore, urban reality is manifold, as the same place can mean dif-

ferent sites for different people. Just as the Dublin of the Citizen (the na-

tionalist), Bloom (the outsider) and Stephen (the would-be exile) can never

be the same, Ameer’s (the modernising architect), Darius’ (pro-empire) or

Vina’s (the migrant) Bombay can significantly diverge.

In addition, the urban environment is the realm of heterogeneity.

Barthes defines the city centre as “the privileged place where the other is

and where we ourselves are the other, as the place where we play the oth-

er”, as a “ludic space” of meeting (Barthes, 1971/2005: 171). According to

Doreen Massey, in postmodernity “we recognise space as the product of

interrelations, as constituted through interactions, from the immensity of

the global to the intimately tiny” (Massey, 2008: 9). In this manner, Rush-

die’s “impure old Bombay” accommodates eastern and western thought, a

variety of languages and religions, discourses and ideas, demonstrating the

incongruity of postmodernist experience just as modernist literary experi-

mentations build on the “fast-paced industrial city” (Fritzsche, 1998: 9). But


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

the postmodern city is the global city, characterised by “Late Capitalism’s

accumulative ways; such as spectacular sites of consumption, architectural

pastiche, gentrified neighbourhoods and manufacturing sites reinvented as

tourist destinations” (Jacobs, 2002: .31). Such a site, as often as it welcomes

multiplicity, is wrecked by the differences it accommodates, leading, for

example, to segregation based on racial or economic markers in the West,

as well as political and ethnic conflicts pinpointed by Rushdie on numerous

occasions in The Ground Beneath Her Feet and other works.

Along with being unknowable and heterogeneous, the modern and

postmodern city bears the mark of impermanence. Fritzsche talks about

Berlin’s (and other modern cities’) “changing physiognomy, its tables of

contrasts, and its loss of coherence” being the result of the oversaturated

universe and fast-paced changes of its architecture and infrastructure, and

political and media discourses (Fritzsche, 1998: 189). Similarly, summing up

the debate over postmodern space, Doreen Massey defines it as something

“always under construction”. The Ground Beneath Her Feet demonstrates that

permanence is just an illusion, affirming that “Bombay forgets its history

with each sunset and rewrites itself anew with the coming of the dawn”—the

uncertainties caused by the process of its modernization mean that “the

ground itself seemed uncertain, the land, the physical land, seemed to cry

out for reconstruction, and before you took a step you had to test the earth

to see if it would bear your weight” (TGBHF, 62). The “grandeur of Rome”,

of Empire, will fade, making way for a gigantic building site of residences

and identities.

The city is, in like manner, good at blurring the boundaries between fic-

tion and reality. In Fritzsche’s view, at the heyday of the modern era the

popularity of newspapers has come to create a “word city”, “a fabrication

that overlaid, sensationalised, and falsified the actual city” (1998: 10). Play

with such word-cities is easily observable in Joyce’s novel through “Aeolus”,

“Cyclops”, “Eumaeus” and other chapters. One can navigate the city quite

in the way one reads a newspaper, and in Barthes’ view, the city can be

pursued as a text: “when we move about a city, we are all in the situation of

the reader of the 100,000 million poems of Quenean, where one can find a

different poem by changing a single line; unawares, we are somewhat like

this avant-garde reader when we are in a city” (Barthes, 1971/2005: 170).

Fritzsche calls it “an act of rereading and re-writing”, as texts and paths

overlap and collide (1998: 173). The modern flaneour is he “who doesn’t

walk in straight lines”—Rai and Ormus try this in Bombay and London,

looking for “the real” but finding only ungraspable diversity. This palimp-

sestic structure and interactivity figure in The Ground Beneath Her Feet in the

way Ameer reconstructs the “syntax” of the metropolis, erasing earlier

forms, and in the way Rai writes about the literary melange that is Bombay,

82 TIMEA VENTER

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insde the register of intertextuality. Here stories and storeys are linked in-

extricably as new villas rewrite history—the vocabulary of urbanism and lit-

erature get mixed up as we read of stories with “No Entry” signs building

judgements and lives. For Doreen Massey, stories of space unite “the histo-

ry, change, movement of things” in an area, space being defined as “a sim-

ultaneity of stories-so-far” (2008: 12). In Rushdie’s Bombay, “the stories

jostled you in the street, you stepped over their sleeping forms on the side-

walks or in the doorways”—it is a “metropolis of many narratives that con-

verged briefly and then separated for ever, discovering their different

dooms in that crows of stories” (TGBHF, 52).

In The Ground Beneath Her Feet, the postmodern metropolis, as space de-

fined by “simultaneity of stories-so-far”, contains some utterly erased, de-

personalized and ahistorical zones, which appear mainly around the charac-

ter of Ormus Cama. In Marc Auge’s theory, expressed in Non-places. Intro-

duction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity (1995), this contrast can be ex-

plained using the notions of anthropological place and non-space. In an-

thropological place a ‘concrete and symbolic construction of space’ occurs; it

is a place, in short, of identity, of relations and of history, and could be

summed up with the equation: land=society=nation=culture=religion. Its

territory is geometric in that it can be mapped and centralities are created

within it (buildings, squares, town centres, plus figures of political power).

Moreover, social interactions are constant in this environment—it is the

place of the metropolis in all its unknowable, ever-changing heterogeneity,

in short. ‘Non-place’, on the other hand, is a term that refers to the places

we so often encounter in postmodernity: hospitals, transit points, airports,

supermarkets, refugee camps and hotels, theme parks, temporary abodes,

highways and the like. These places do not tend towards the symbolic, as

anthropological places do, and are solitary: no communities or human

bonds are formed in non-places. They are, in a sense, settings one would

not remember distinctly and attach great personal significance to: they can-

not be defined as concerned with identity, or as being relational or histori-

cal.

Neither exists in pure form, as Vivvy and Ameer Merchant are capable

of transforming their chance meeting at the maternity hospital into an epic

beginning of family history. Ormus is an inhabitant of both realms (and a

link between the “real” world of the fiction and its Underworld)—he is a

negotiator and metaphor for both Bombay and Manhattan life, a global

icon of pop-mythology, as well as a solitary figure hidden in his hotel suite

of “white hectares”, in “unworldly cleanliness and order and barrenness”

(TGBHF, 516). After losing Vina, he completely gives himself up to this

nothingness, occupying only transitory spaces like hotel rooms, limousines

and stadium environments. The erased locations might serve to reflect his


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

despair in the face of lost love, being the befitting territories of his volun-

tarily segregated inner self. His white hell might retain an illusion of conti-

nuity through homogeneity against the hurtful transientness of human life

(TGBHF, 559). The novel demonstrates that all those who give up on

change and hope end up in a similar inferno, as is the case of Darius, Persis,

Vivvy and Cyrus (inhabiting the non-space of a prison). Ormus is assassi-

nated by the supposedly dead Vina (killed in a non-place, having been swal-

lowed by the earth itself) at the only occasion he chooses to go outside—the

whiteness of snow and emptiness is made to dominate the otherwise busy

New York streets, turning it into a “ghost-town” suitable for Orpheus’ final

catabasis.

The Tectonics of Discourses

Inside such palimpsestic word-cities of unpredictability, multiplicity, heter-

ogeneity and impermanence, forces of tectonic magnitudes operate and

bring about historical, territorial, political and personal collisions, under-

mining structures and discourses of permanence. Vassilena Parashkekova,

in her study on Rushdie’s cities, outlines the metaphorical and architectural

origins of the term tectonics, along with its processes and effects. The

changing of “geohistorical accumulations” is achieved with a practice of

“counterdiscoursive urban reconfigurations”, subversive, eruptive, mobiliz-

ing forces that reveal the gaps, absurdities and contradictions of dominant

discourses (2013: 17). In the universe of the novel, the fight between stabil-

ity (set up by the normative forces of civilization) and instability (the “wolf of

change”) remains eternal and unresolved, announcing “our inner irrecon-

cilability, the tectonic contradictoriness that has gotten us all and has com-

menced to rip us to pieces like the unstable earth itself” (TGBHF, 339).

The novel looks beyond the dichotomy between dominant discourses

and the ones that seek to undermine them, demonstrating that their tecton-

ic movements might result in fusions as well as replacements. It shall be

seen how collisions and earthquakes (literal and allegorical) bring about the

blending of the Self and the Other by merging city with identity, by the use

of interlanguage, by introducing the character of the hybrid, by perpetual

metamorphoses, by contamination as a result of cultural imperialism flow-

ing “both ways” and by bridging gaps between universes with the help of

art. The personification of fusion in the character of Vina can be everything

all at once in Ormus’s song: “my ground, my favourite sound, my country

road, my city street, my only love, my sky above and the ground beneath

my feet” (TGBHF, 475).

All manners of discursive worlds are in a state of collision and fusion

with one another, counting in the registers of politics, of media, identity

and art. Even the reality of the real is questioned through a multitude of

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alternative worlds, real and fictional at the same time. It is a realm where

Pierre Menard wrote Don Quijote and the Waltergate Affair is just a novel,

and where the Otherworld of Ormus and America/India coexist with equal

rights. As Rachel Trousdale explains, “real events in our world are trans-

formed into fiction… as our fiction becomes Rai’s world’s truth, so our truth

becomes their fiction, and each world enacts the possible-world scenarios

imagined in the other” (Trousdale, 2010: 153).

The Metropolis and the Self

The city and its inhabitants are inseparably linked through the tectonics of

belonging and drifting away, signalled by the use of language and by other

cultural, historical and fictional discourses. Changes to the city have imme-

diate impact upon the lives of its citizens: “You can’t just keep dividing and

slicing—India-Pakistan, Maharashtra-Gujarat—without the effects being felt

at the level of the family unit, the loving couple, the hidden soul. Every-

thing starts shifting, changing, getting partitioned… People fly off into

space” (TGBHF, 164). These connections are playfully emphasized by the

narrator’s name, Rai, which means prince, but also desire, “a man’s person-

al inclination, the direction he chose to go in; and will, the force of a man’s charac-

ter” (TGBHF, 18). The city of Bombay contains shelters built on Olympian

heights of old belvederes filled with family memories like the Camas’

apartment or Rai’s Villa Thracia. Some can even try to “command the wild-

ness of the city”, as Ormus attempts, but the main flow of events in the nov-

el points to the willed or unwilled uprootedness of its characters. They

jump readily or are forced into negotiating the unstable geographical and

discursive grounds of the metropolis and the self. Territory and self inter-

sect as Rai’s morally questionable founding of his reputation is parallel to

the building of Indian independence through corrupted politics: “In this

quaking, unreliable time, I have built my house—morally speaking—upon

shifting Indian sands. Terra infirma” (TGBHF, 244). Further on in the

novel, his efforts of making up for this by throwing himself into war-time

photography are never proven to have given absolution.

Likewise, Vina finds herself in a situation where places constantly collide

with her self-image: “the right place was always the one she wasn’t in… she

could (she did) unaccountably take flight and disappear; and then discover

that the new place she’d reached was just as wrong as the place she’d left”

(TGBHF, 163). Her story is likened to the myth of Troy, full of loss and

perpetual destruction of both home and identity, so that “[Chickaboom] was

her first Troy. Bombay would be her second, and the rest of her life her

third; and wherever she went, there was war” (TGBHF, 110).

Humans and the geographies they inhabit are indicative of each other

on other levels as well. As the historian Vivvy Merchant explains, “see


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

where people lived and worked and shopped… and it becomes plain what

they were like” (TGBHF, 80). But beside the historian’s method of specula-

tion over facts pointing to character, the relationship between places and

their dwellers can also be fruitfully explored based on the premise that

people and their city function according to similar rhythms.

In The Ground Beneath Her Feet, conflicts between the growing new Bom-

bay and the shrinking old one are extrapolated and illustrated through

tragi-comically presented human relationships. Ameer and Vivvy Mer-

chant’s marriage begins with their love for Bombay, flourishes on its suste-

nance and ends with the city’s decline into infrastructural conflict. Their

first meeting at the neutral non-space of the hospital flowers into an under-

standing based on androgynic correspondences that point to the anthropo-

logical, past-and meaning-filled Bombay: both bear the traditional name of

Merchant and both are architects, although they represent two opposing

sides of interest in built environment. As a historian, Vivvy is pulled towards

archaeology and “[prefers] the mustinesses of records offices to the unfath-

omable messiness of Bombay life” (TGBHF, 32), digging into people

through real and metaphoric sand like his son Rai does though photog-

raphy and writing. Preoccupied with the conservation of memories and the

perpetuation of the older and locally characteristic eastern art nouveau

style, he collides head on with the postmodernist visions of his wife Ameer,

who is always to be found out at the construction sites, supervising the

building of the “discourse of the future” (“my mother Ameer’s vision of the

“scrapers”, the giant concrete-and-steel exclamations that destroyed forever

the quieter syntax of the old city of Bombay”, 154). She is intent on design-

ing and building skyscrapers, palimpsestically imposing them upon (the

preferably erased) ground Vivvy strives so hard to preserve. Their conflict

brews into a force so powerful as to destroy their relationship completely,

just as Bombay is rocketed towards the height of its boom of transfor-

mations. The nonresolvability of this collision is illustrated by the couple’s

fight over the keeping or selling of their own home, in the face of a ruthless-

ly pushy private urban development project. The tragic outcome of their

separation is just as much a family drama as an open elegy addressed to the

human and infrastructural casualties of urban change.

The novel flaunts numerous characters comparable to Vivvy and Ameer

in their obsession with place. Sir Darius Xerxes Cama is a dignitary of the

“old order”, a “relic of colonialism”, deeply Anglophilic and opposed to any

change to his hometown: “Anyway, Bombay isn’t India. The British built

her and the Parsis have her character. Let them have their independence

elsewhere if they must, but leave us our Bombay under beneficient Parsi-

British rule” (TGBHF, 49). By incorporating English elements into his life

he feels “as if he were entering into his better nature”, and his “thing-

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stuffed” apartment and preoccupations with the systematization of Indo-

European mythological heritage signal the stability he covets. Any attempt

at change seems to harass him, including the whole idea of an actually exist-

ing new generation, embodied in his sons. His resistance to independence is

the same as his resistance to his son’s new music, both linked in the novel to

“ourselves as they might be”. Against the uncertainty of hope and the un-

known of the future he sets up the idea of the Empire, the eternal grandeur

of Rome his name is such a boldly self-advertising pun on. Preserving colo-

nialism in an attitude of mimicry is what defines his character, so that his

utterly confused and debasing decline is inevitably concurrent with the de-

cline of English Rule. After the moment of Independence, he is transferred

into his own theorized social class of the outsider: he is rejected both by his

dreamland of England because of the shifting ground he has built his repu-

tation on, and by his homeland Bombay due to the shifting ground of its

politics.

Another technique fiction can make use of in order to probe into the re-

lations between people and the territory they inhabit is the metaphor of the

human as a city, and of the city as human (less explored, but it is mentioned

that Bombay is an “old lady” or a daughter to some). Disorientations that

occur are formulated so as to refer to both territory and relationships, sig-

nalling a fusion of the two, as in the case of the love of Vina for Ormus:

“Disorientation: loss of the East. And of Ormus Cama, her sun” (TGBHF,

5). As what regards individuals, they are often presented in ur-

ban/geographic terms: Darius Cama appears as a “great metropolitan crea-

tion of the British” along with Bombay, his corpore getting “stark raving

insano” as Bombay loses its stability, while “beneath V.V. Merchant’s shy-

ness… [there is] the existence of a great soul… a rock upon which, as

[Ameer] afterwards liked blasphemously to boast, she could build her

church” (TGBHF, 33). In the same style, Vivvy regards Ameer as a metrop-

olis, referring to “her fortifications, her esplanades, her traffic-flow, her new

developments, her crime rate” (TGBHF, 100). It is said of Ormus, too, that

“his name, his face, became part of the definition of the city in that departed

heyday” (TGBHF, 181), referring to Bombay, and, at the end, his ashes are

scattered over Manhattan in a ritual that unites him in body with the site of

his spirit’s unfolding. In plus, at the end of the novel Persis becomes the

personification of the sweet memory of India and Bombay, elegiacally

begged by Rai to remain as she once was: “Stay where you are, Persis…

don’t move a muscle. Don’t age, don’t change… I want to think of you this

way: eternal, unchanging, immortal” (TGBHF, 573). The metaphors and

exemplary stories are elaborated under the banner of the previously estab-

lished premise of the city as a site of continuous change, where shifting


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

places mark out the contours of shifting selves within a tectonics problema-

tizing stability and bringing about palimpsestic collisions.

The Use of English

Linguistically calibrated tectonic forces wreak havoc on a use of English

performed according to academic norms or native formulae. The Empire

Writes Back (2002) systematizes such movements by postulating that from

the perspectives of postcolonial discourse, English is not only either directly

adopted or rejected as a whole, but also strategically appropriated through

the techniques of synecdoche, untranslated words, the use of interlanguage,

syntactic fusion, code-switching and vernacular transcription. By this pro-

cess, presenting new situations and different ways of structuring the world

through the dismantled language of the centre can become a formalized

expression of the need to “[mark] a separation from the site of colonial priv-

ilege” (Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, 2002: 37-52) and to replace the “syn-

tax of ethnic purity” (Rushdie, 1991: 285) with the “syntax of emancipation”

(Rushdie, 1991: 291).

In the novel, the transcription of Yul Singh’s or Shri Piloo Doodhwala’s

speeches demonstrates the use of all the above-mentioned techniques for

the appropriation of English. Singh modifies conventional syntax in such a

manner that his speech generates an unpredictably flowing and wandering

text. Under the aegis of a personality defined by urgency both in words and

deeds, extra information is added to an otherwise syntactically correct sen-

tence at random points: “I owe everything personally to my own lovely wife

who unfortunately she’s not accompanying me on this trip” (TGBHF, 188)

or “I fly to Bombay to see my sweet old mother who god bless her I’ve now

left out there” (TGBHF, 187). Along with “proper” grammar, punctuation

also often gives his babble the slip. Despite this excess, his communications

prove to be deeply lacunal: direct answers are eluded and intentions remain

hidden as he beats around the bush, so that crucial information and mean-

ings in connection with his persona are difficult to get to both for other

characters and for the reader. Owing to all these, it becomes clear how his

self-proclaimed “clean tongue” is discredited not only by swearwords, but

by a dismantled language. In addition, his name gets to be played with on

the phonetic level: combining “Yul” with the dignified reference to the tra-

ditional Sikh addition of “Singh” meaning lion results in the thematically

motivated and sharply ironic label of “you’ll sing”. Bearing this in mind, it

can be argued that the appropriation of English in the case of Yul manifests

twists that leave marks of severe shredding not only on the conqueror’s

language, but also on the authority of the magnate himself. Especially if we

consider that fact that he is not only a representative of old Bombay, but of

corporate America as well.

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A similarly major case of language appropriation can be found in Shri

Piloo Doodhwala’s articulations. The narrator succeeds in transcribing his

accent by disrespecting rules of orthography: “All persons should be having

hop, ewen when their situation is hopliss” (TGBHF, 69). Syntactic inaccura-

cies figure less than words that got “borne across” rather than translated

(“goodfather”, “what-all”, “magnificentourage”), erratic formulations (“Idea

is good, but … it has prompted one further idea, which is ewen betterer”

(TGBHF, 117) or even code-switching through the insertion of untranslat-

ed terms (“sand building like a Shiv-lingam”). Piloo’s language further mani-

fests unconventional use of register through the way he negotiates a trade

of human flesh, speaking of giving up parentage strictly in business terms:

“Monies hawe been paid. Phees, cash, spending on account. There has been

major outlay of phunds, and in consequence one is considerably out of

pocket. Reimbursement is not unreasonably required” (TGBHF, 119). As

Yul Singh, Piloo releases tirades of self-affirming jumbles of superfluous

information, leaving the listener and reader bedazzled as regards his real

intentions. The unsuccessful counter-advertisement he commissions to save

his milk company is a similarly shifting, linguistically unstable construct that

makes a pun on his own name (“PILOO—the Dude with Doodh” –meaning

milk) and is shouted through a “large speech-bubble issuing from his own

leering face” (TGBHF, 115). And the riddle-simulacrum his later “goat-

ghoast” scam creates fit his personality and style all too well. Just like Yul

Singh, Piloo stands on the middle ground between the accommodation of

the conqueror’s and modernity’s high discourse of capitalism and the

phrases and mentality of provincial India’s goat-filled hills.

Goats and references to goat songs figure as key hints throughout the

novel, pointing to the collisions between the high ideals and language of

tragedy in literature and the subversive or disruptive, unintelligible cries of

animals or of uncharted emotions or territories. The Apollonian and the

Dionysian, “measured” and stable language, place and identity versus lan-

guage and people “gone wild” lie at the core of the infrastructure of the

novel. Ameer Merchant’s subversive word games, puns and rhymes, besides

bringing forth new meanings through unexpected links, create an alternative

route for the emergence of an important side of the novel’s exemplary ad-

herence to minor literature’s linguistic and political manifestations. Accord-

ing to Soren Frank’s elaboration on the Deleuzian idea of presence effects

in minor literature, the songs, visions and word games might draw attention

to the materiality of language (Frank, 2008: 154). This is an aspect that pro-

duces intensities that struggle for the “deterritorialization of language”,

forcing some well-established forms of expression and language systems out

of balance (2008: 152). Language may even slip away completely, so that, as

in the case of a conversation between Vina and Rai, the only answers the


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reader gets to questions are mumbled articulations: “Mmhm?”, “Unhnh”,

“Hynhnyhnm” (TGBHF, 345).

Between the total decomposition or rejection of English and meticulous

correctitude, there lies the middle ground of appropriation. This concept is

close to what Bhabha alluded to as “Third Space, which enables other posi-

tions to emerge… [giving rise to] a new area of negotiation of meaning and

representation” (1990: 211). What it engenders is best illustrated through

Piloo’s, Yul’s and even Vina’s “interlanguage” (Ashcroft et al., 2002: 65), a

term coined by Nemser and elaborated in The Empire Writes Back as an “ap-

proximate system which is cohesive and distinct from both source language

and target language”. Through the strategies of appropriation and through

what is denoted as “fossilization” (“phonological, morphological, and syn-

thetic forms in the speech of the speaker of a second language which do not

conform to target language norms, even after years of instruction”), the

transcription of these characters’ speech designates a place of resistance “in

cross-cultural writing” (Ashcroft et al., 2002: 66).

Vina’s and Molly Schnabel’s speech can be situated at this middle

ground of language-clash. The example of Molly appears in the novel al-

most independently of plot, as a direct disclosure of the linguistic existence

of a “multinational conglomerate babe” (TGBHF, 511). Her Irish descent

and Indian background enable her to have the knack for parodying the

immigrant’s language, as she stands both as a willing example (she speaks it

on purpose, making an effort) and an unwilling exception (her “original”

English is the “right” one) for its use: “O, baba, what to tell? Wehicle broke

down just close by. I am thinking, can I use the phone and give mechanic a

tinkle? Sorry to inconwenience” (TGBHF, 510). The rebuttal this remark

gets from Rai (“For God’s sake, Molly, this is America. Talk American”,

511), himself an immigrant, is once again ironic, since it calls attention to

the clash between blending in and being true to one’s roots as a migrant.

Vina’s language serves to reveal both her American and her Indian side,

but always from the standpoint of an undecided limbo, an in-between. Her

rejection of India as a child manifests itself through a fight by her “bad-

mouthing everything in sight” (TGBHF, 487). Her anger later turns into an

embrace of Bombay’s “garbage argot”—Mumbai ki kachrapati baat-cheet, the

“polyglot trash-talk” of the mixture of Hindi and Urdu nicknamed “Hug-

me”, “in which a sentence could begin in one language, swoop through a

second and even a third and then swing back round to the first” (TGBHF,

7). This serves as an indicator of her identity: of memories and her belong-

ing to India (where “Bombayites… were people who spoke five languages

badly and no language well”, 7), just as English stands for America and her

forming and upbringing there. After her final migration to the States, Hug-

me often signals a gash in the present through which feelings from old

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Bombay might resurface, coming through in difficult (and even final) mo-

ments both for her and for Rai.

Additionally, changing what English means is attempted through pene-

trating the canonical discourse of literature. Subverting traditions is

achieved through a constant play with other works: the result is a universe

of intertextuality so tightly woven as to make it impossible or at least mind-

bogglingly difficult to separate the present narrative from the texts of its

literary predecessors. We can find numerous bits of Joyce (like making Mol-

ly Bloom out of Vina through instances of unpunctuated, song-like, pop-

culture-language and many more), references to Melville, Kafka, Borges

and Tolkien (embossed with internet conspiracy stories borrowed from the

language of fan-fiction that revolves around the language of fantasy litera-

ture) and others, among movie bits, lyrics and ads of all sorts (maybe as

further reference to Joyce and his techniques). Presenting the city in this

manner is equal to putting together a literary cocktail:

Imagine, if you will, the elaborately ritualised (yes, and marriage-obsessed) for-

mal society of Jane Austen, grafted on to the stenchy, pullulating London be-

loved of Dickens, as full of chaos and surprises as a rotting fish is full of writhing

worms; swash & rollick the whole into a Shandy-and-arrack cocktail; colour it

magenta, vermilion, scarlet, lime; sprinkle with crooks & bawds, and you have

something like my fabulous home town (TGBHF, 101).

The varieties of the use of English give rise to what is coined as “english” in

The Empire Writes Back, a term for the cross-cultural multiplicity of creations

that are neither English nor an original Other language, but a collection of

hug-all, personalized discourses located somewhere in the third space of in-

between. Through the perspective of the migrant, in Rushdie’s words, writ-

ing in an appropriated English is not to be taken as a “post-colonial anoma-

ly, the bastard child of Empire” (Rushdie & West, 1997: xii), but as a “re-

making [of English] for our own purposes”, indicative of the clash of cultur-

al tendencies and identities, marking attempts to “conquer English” precise-

ly as a road to freedom from its constraining grip (Rushdie, 1991: 17).

Between East and West

The impossibility of bridging the discourses of East and West is sadly de-

picted through the failure of the research project of Darius. He is brought

down not only by the radical racketeering of the mob at the stadium or on

the streets of independence (along with new architectural and leadership

tendencies), but also by the shadow of Nazism spreading itself over his field

of studies. Comparative religions is tainted by the association of its terms

with anti-Semitism:


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when language is stolen and poisoned, the poison works its way backwards

through time and sideways into the reputations of innocent men. The word “Ar-

yan”, which, for Max Müller and his generation, had a purely linguistic mean-

ing, was now in the hands of less academic persons, poisoners, who were speak-

ing of races of men, races of masters and races of servants and other races too

(TGBHF, 44).

The war of cultural dichotomies played on the level of language is likewise

embodied through the conflict of Darius’ sons. They both provide specific

discourses to signal belonging: Ormus takes flight to America and composes

the lyrics and songs of the uprooted East mingling with the West, while

Cyrus (he who strangles music) stays in India and opts for extensive Eastern

learning, stating in the famous letter about his brother that “his self-hating,

deracinated music has long been at the service… of the arrogance of the

West, where the world’s tragedy is repackaged as youth entertainment and

given infectious, foot-trapping beat” (TGBHF, 556). Ironically, the two

brothers are crafted to be alike, as Cyrus provides a mythology of spaces

and tales of his own for followers to grab, being a “serial killer who tempts

his victims with his highly articulate and mesmerizing travellers’ tales of

glittering cities and mountain ranges like devil’s teeth” (TGBHF, 153).

Vina is maybe the most obviously neutral character who stands at the

middle ground between the two powers, always “crossing frontiers”, never

opting for purist forms and behaviours, a “melange, hotchpotch, a bit of

this and a bit of that” (Rushdie, 1991: 395). Her persona might stand as a

realization of Bhabha’s hybrid, occupying a “third space” “which displaces

the histories that constitute it, and sets up new structures of authority, new

political initiatives, which are inadequately understood through received

wisdom” (Bhabha, 1990: 211). Dressed as pop-slut in a “garish pastiche of

the sixties” (Boyagoda, 2008: 38) mixed with the attire of priestess of multi-

ple religions, she embodies the “seizure of the sign… a contestation of the

given symbols of authority” (Bhabha, 1992: 63). She is consciously display-

ing and advertising herself as both traditional Bombayite and polymer New

Yorker, as a believer in ancient practices and a sexual eccentric at the same

time, “post-racial” and “post-national” in her “global charlatanism” (Bo-

yagoda, 2008: 37). With this “pan-ethnic everywoman” (Boyagoda, 2008:

42), “the process of cultural hybridity gives rise to something different,

something new and unrecognisable, a new area of negotiation of meaning

and representation” (Bhabha, 1990: 211). She serves as a separate universe

of discourse, as after her death “her radical absence is a void or an abyss

into which a tide of meanings can pour… she has become an empty recep-

tacle, an arena of discourse, and we can invent her in our own image”

(TGBHF, 485). She becomes a pagan goddess claimed as a relic by multiple

places, a “patron divinity of the age of uncertainty” and the hopeful phrase

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“Vina significat humanitatem” remains attached to her, along with the blas-

phemous statement that, like Jesus, “she died that men might learn how to

feel.” Making Vina mean something is a ritual Rai opts for as well, by writing

his memoir along with her biography. Thus, he is taking the unattainable,

inexplicable figure of the woman, in a traditionally gendered approach, as a

method of coping with loss and the “mystery at the heart of meaning”. For-

saken, lonely Ormus does the same in his eccentric search for the one true

Vina, seeking her in vain during his life among thousands of other women,

all of them radically different or plainly fake look-alike.

America is posited as the privileged space for metamorphoses, a land

that, besides signifying the uttermost of Western ideals, provides space for

Vina-like hybridization and multiplicity, letting non-belonging be an “alter-

native form of community affiliation” (Trousdale, 2010: 144). It is described

in the novel as an “amnesiac culture”, keen on forgetting or rewriting its

past, and as a great home to migrants, because, in Vina’s words, “not be-

longing, that’s an old American tradition, see? that’s the American way”

(TGBHF, 331).

According to Randy Boyagoda, as a “protean culture” it comes across as

a-historical by overabundance (“the United States by its immigrants has

resulted in such excess that it produces a condition of effective pastlessness

for American society”, 2008: 27) and de-territorialized (“post-national citi-

zens from throughout the global south are the foremost practitioners of

American cultural forms”, 2008: 29). America is seemingly ideal ground for

Rai and his friends, since “[in] America… everyone’s like me, because eve-

ryone comes from somewhere else. All those histories, persecutions, massa-

cres, piracies, slaveries” (TGBHF, 252)—the list is long but not exhaustive.

How faulty even this perspective might be is exposed through Vina’s

nightmares of racial hunts, and Rushdie’s political misfortune has proved

that brooding over differences is many migrants’ strong side. But the book

never states that we can find a true land of acceptance anywhere—on the

contrary, it searches to illuminate just on how many levels worldviews and

identities may come into collision: “where the plates of different realities

met, there were shudders and rifts. Chasms opened. A man could lose his

life” (TGBHF, 238).

Like the author’s other works, the book seems fully aware of the dangers

of such holisms as “the nation, the culture or even of the self”, as these are

“most often used to assert cultural or political supremacy and [seek] to

obliterate the relations of difference that constitute the language of history

and culture” (Asad, 1993). But as Boyagoda stresses, here natives mingle

with immigrants creating not only irreconcilable clashes, but, like Vina,

loved for “making herself the exaggerated avatar of [people’s] own jumbled

selves” (TGBHF, 339), products of fusion as well, “emergent, hybrid forms


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

of cultural identity” (Asad, 1993). The novel poses here a challenge to “the

humanist assumption of a unified self and an integrated consciousness by

both installing coherent subjectivity and subverting it” (Hutcheon,

1989/2001: xii). Her metamorphoses are a product of a tortured past: as a

child, she has been “literally selfless, her personality smashed, like a mirror,

by the fist of her life”, “a rag-bag of selves”, “floating in a void, denatured,

dehistoried, clawing at the shapelessness, trying to make some sort of mark”

(TGBHF, 121). Later in life, her build-up of palimpsestic identities stands as

the demonstration of great strength through embracing constant change.

Metamorphosis is certainly a common enough practice among the char-

acters by now, so that Rai may be right in asserting that “I have truly be-

come an American, inventing myself anew to make a new world in the com-

pany of other altered lives” (TGBHF, 441). “Metamorphosis… is what we

can perform, our human magic” (461). In Boyagoda’s view, other “shape-

shifter types” are Mull Standish, who “is a professional… very American

shape-shifter, able to inhabit any persona that advances his financial inter-

ests” and Ormus, a “mishmash of self-fiction and fragments of authentic

history” (Boyagoda, 2008: 36). However, as the character of Goddess-Ma

maliciously but rightly enounces, Ormus’ “suppression of race and skin

modalities in the interests of the untenable Western dogma of universals is

in reality a flight from self into the arms of the desired, admired Other”

(TGBHF, 565). His “many selves can be, in song, a single multitude”, yet

what he is really looking for is a woman, a love and place that are never

really possible to find.

But according to Rai, “we’re not all shallow proteans, forever shifting

shape” (TGBHF, 462). In view of what the novel seems to stand for (colli-

sions, hybridity, multiplicity, flight), this statement sounds all too problem-

atic, as does his final choice of putting down roots—in the manner of Can-

dide, tending to his garden of a house and family and American Way of life.

It may be true that metamorphosis can end in a final, acceptable form, but

who can tell that choosing the comforts of stability against the shifting,

menacing “wolf of place and time” does not push one into false certainties?

Maybe Rai can escape that, since he ultimately resides, willingly or unwill-

ingly, at the gate of the unknown, in his home named Orpheum guarded

by the dog Cerberus.

Politics and Media

The tone of political propaganda and power clashes is first introduced

through Darius’ big cricket match, where the discourses of colonialist men-

tality are loudly protested through the destructive powers of song (“Don’t

be wicket, ban communal cricket.” “Lady Daria, don’t be slack. Make a duck

and off you quack… Lady Donald, make a duck.” TGBHF, 29). As Hutch-

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eon emphasizes, “the linguistic and the political, the rhetorical and the re-

pressive… are the connections postmodernism places in confrontation

with… humanist faith in language and its ability to represent the subject or

“truth”, past or present, historical or fictional” (Hutcheon, 1989/2001: 187).

The transformation of Bombay is tainted by corruption and the contamina-

tion of politics gains allegoric dimensions in the apocalyptic equation be-

tween moral downfall and earthquakes/catastrophes, both on the local and

the global level. The Emergency, the changing of the city’s name, ethnic

uproars, clashes between East and West, the aggression of globalization and

power-hungry capitalism are (not unrealistically) linked to pollution and

floods. As Maria, a tauntingly named otherworldly character tries to ex-

plain: “Underlying all earthquakes is the idea of Fault… The Earth has

many faults, of course… But human Faults cause earthquakes too. What is

coming is a judgement” (TGBHF, 327). The sad question goes like this:

“Suppose the earth just got sick of our greed and cruelty and vanity and

bigotry and incompetence and hate” (TGBHF, 573). “Earthquakes are the

new hegemonic geopolitics”, we find, within the framing of a sarcastic alle-

gory of nuclear power struggles, where damage comes from the enemy and

from internal “corruption, poverty, fanaticism and neglect”. In fact, the

corruption of all cities is moulded into one, and “Groovy Manhattan is

plainly no better than Swinging London” with its “rusting decadence…

shoulder-barging vulgarity… [and] third-world feel (the poverty, the traffic,

the slo-mo dereliction of the winos and the cracked-glass dereliction of too

many of the buildings, the unplanned vistas of urban blight, the ugly street

furniture)” (TGBHF, 387).

The issue of cultural imperialism is delineated through the language and

industry of music, notes and lyrics alike. New York is the new Rome, having

replaced London as the colonial metropolis (Parashkevova, 2013: 14). America

means Might, creating around itself newly “colonised” consumer-serf areas,

a “power so great that it shapes our daily lives even though it barely knows

we exist” (TGBHF, 419-20). Apparently, this also works the other way

around, as the subconscious Las Vegas of Ormus’ mind is fed by the experi-

ence of his own mega-cultural city:

the music he heard in his head during the unsinging childhood years, was not of

the West, except in the sense that West was in Bombay from the beginning, im-

pure old Bombay where West, East, North and South had always been scram-

bled, like codes (TGBHF, 95-6).

Vina and her performances are spiritual food as much as commodity metic-

ulously calculated, their publicizing timed (by shrewd managers like

Standish and Yul Singh) to be offered up for cash, even more so after her

death. But the messages their words convey (especially through their album


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Quaker-shaker) are deemed to be radically political, and their concerts are

banned from India for bearing the potential of causing earthquakes that are

jokingly literal, yet seriously literary. They become the prophets not only of

love but of uprootedness, proclaiming that “everything you thought you

knew: it’s not true. And everything you knew you said, was all in your head”

(TGBHF, 353). Their words slyly seep among the lines of the novel, con-

taminating and liberatingly shifting the literary register into a mesh of more

conventional bildungsroman-consciousness, presented in the fashion of the

Arabian Nights, seasoned with lyrics, ads and propaganda, with a result not

entirely unlike the discursive kaleidoscope of Ulysses.

Attention is drawn here to the fact that media shifts reality and language

as well as their songs or political propaganda would, and one does not need

to look only to the fineries of Piloo’s politically self-promoting dairy-ad. At

the finale of a cruelly funny and angry outpouring, the novel sums up the

question of where it stands on the dichotomies of sensationalist messages

from the everyday:

Pictures don’t lie! This image has been faked! Free the press! Ban nosy journal-

ists! The novel is dead! Honor is dead! God is dead! Aargh, they’re all alive, and

they’re coming after us! That star is rising! No, she’s falling! We dined at nine!

We dined at eight! You were on time! No, you were late! East is West! Up is

down! Yes is No! In is Out! Lies are Truth! Hate is Love! Two and two makes

five! And everything is for the best, in this best of all possible worlds” (TGBHF,

353).

Many sorts of en vogue shifting realities (taken from television, journalism,

philosophy and other academic areas, horror movies and personal bits) are

pitted against each other through phrases of mainstream discourse, only to

fall flat on the chord of abject dismissal by Voltaire’s sarcastic phrase. Sure,

anything can be enounced for fifteen seconds and Rushdie, as he demon-

strates from the start of the book, is familiar even with the berserkeries of

the universe of internet commentary—but shouts get lots among the throng

of howls, and there’s the grotesque beauty of the hybridity of Bakhtinian

polyphony for you.

Worlds of Fiction

The issue of how fiction shapes the city and inhabitant looms large in the

novel, since it highlights the ways in which the arbitrarily created norms of

grammar and discourses linked to politics and the media mould reality to

their liking. The metafictional nature of The Ground Beneath Her Feet mani-

fests itself in a many-layered construction of alternative fictional worlds,

each “heading for collision” with the other, each brought about by a differ-

ently motivated force (be it highly personal or broadly political). The tecton-

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ically rifted “tears in the reality” of the novel reproduce the postmodern

trend for uncertainties (“There is nothing to hold on to. Nothing is any

longer, with any certainty, so”, 508), yet they inherently contain the tragi-

calness that revolves around the search for the meaning of human life and

its finalities (“We, too, are travellers between the worlds… Having em-

barked, we have no option but to go forward on that soul’s journey in which

we will be shown what is best, and worst, in human nature”, 255). However,

the reality of the real is questioned on numerous accounts, but the legitima-

cy of the possible, alternative universes is never disputed, and their moral

value never conclusively judged.

The Ground Beneath Her Feet flashes a politics that produces ideology and

schemes that need to be probed to their depths. This process has already

been pinpointed, but other, less subtle ways in which politics weaves fictions

are incorporated into the novel as well. As has been noted, Darius Cama is a

great metropolitan creation of the British just like his beloved Bombay, is a

produce of colonialism and orientalism—both are built with elaborate and

willingly intrusive discourses that have more to do with tales than with

mundane facts. Piloo’s goat farm scam is another sarcastic example of politi-

cal fiction, highlighting the embedment of the simulacrum into our eco-

nomic and cultural conceptions of how and what world goes round.

More importantly, the identity of the migrant is at question when we

look at how fictional worlds operate in the novel. According to Nair and

Bhattacharya, the migrant might re-constitute himself through a “neurosis

of personal nemesis”, or chose a return to the past through “the certainties

of nostalgia” (1990: 18). Nostalgia contains, however, less certainties than

would be hoped for, as with Rushdie, “historical moments are sundered to

reveal heterotopic paths not taken”, “alternative histories collide” (Mishra,

2003: 65) in a “disjunctive temporality”, questioning the status of the past

and of its mythologies (Mishra, 2003: 82; 78). As Linda Hutcheon notes,

within historiographic metafiction a photograph or a document “can no

longer pretend to be a transparent means to a past event; it is instead the

textually transformed trace of that past” (Hutcheon, 1989/2001: 87). Tun-

nels and graveyards in the city are “gaps in the earth through which our

history seeps and is at once lost, and retained in metamorphosed form”

(TGBHF, 54), as Rai puts it. But, as he notes elsewhere, “A kind of India

happens everywhere… everywhere is terrible and wonder-filled and over-

whelming if you open your senses to the actual’s pulsating beat… So lead us

not into exotica and deliver us from nostalgia” (TGBHF, 417). Rapid

change effaces the sites of memories, and “the destruction of your child-

hood home—a villa, a city—is like the death of a parent: an orphaning… A

tombstone city stands upon the graveyard of the lost” (TGBHF, 168). Some

who do not pace with change get turned into stone, as has been mentioned:


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this is how Persis, Vivvy, Darius and Cyrus end, and how Lady Spenta, Or-

mus, Vina and Rai survive. Leaving home is trying to escape one’s past, an

attempt to leave “Wombay” for a new beginning.

“The neurosis of nemesis” in The Ground Beneath Her Feet begins with the

dream of the elsewhere, of a “There must be somewhere better than this”

expressed through longings for an earthly or otherworldly “paradise”. As

Rushdie puts it, the “imaginary homelands” function in the way his narra-

tor explains in Shame: “I, too, like all migrants, am a fantasist. I build imagi-

nary countries and try to impose them on the ones that exist” (Rushdie,

1984: 87). Most characters yearn for such space in this novel as well: Darius

dreams of the garden of England, Lady Spenta of a place of illumination,

Vivvy longs for the city of the past, Ameer for the city of the future. The

American Dream is articulated through the aspirations of Vina, Ormus and

Rai for the United States of the “Great Attractor”, the “dream America eve-

ryone carries around in his head, America the beautiful… [a] country that

never existed but needed to exist” (TGBHF, 419). For them, England is just

a limbo before New York, a disaster area with a “generation lost in space”.

When Ormus walks the streets of London, he is “looking for other Eng-

lands, older Englands, making them real…” For him, “to be utterly lost

amidst buildings you recognize, to know nothing about a cityscape of which

you have carried around for years… is a delirious enough experience”

(TGBHF, 289).

After being literally reborn into America, he begins his real cycle of Or-

phean activity (joining his brothers Gayo, Cyrus and Virus, all connected to

an Otherworld of sorts), faithful to the myth on many levels. His credo is

the following: “Sing against death. Command the wildness of the city…

Cross frontiers. Fly away” (TGBHF, 146). His music is a plug to an Under-

world of yet uncreated artwork (a magical, otherworldly metropolis, a “city

of dazzling lights”), where he dives in order to bring back both comfort and

destruction through song, “offering people a promised land or what”:

Our lives are not what we deserve; they are, let us agree, in many painful ways

deficient. Song turns them into something else. Song shows us a world that is

worthy of our yearning, it shows us our selves as they might be, if we were wor-

thy of the world (TGBHF, 19-20),

and “the songs are about the collapse of all walls, boundaries, restraints.

They describe worlds in collision” (TGBHF, 390). His fictionally real uni-

verses of heavens and hells add to the confusion of what is real and what is

fancy and how all that will end, making him a nicely fitting descendant of

orphic rituals though his shows:

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incessant images of heaven and hell, both conceived of as places on earth, nup-

tial motels and flame-grilled-burger bars, video arcades and ballet schools, foot-

ball crowds and war zones... The fictional universe of the show gave the impres-

sion of floating free of the real world, of being a separate reality that made con-

tact with the earth every so often, for a night or two at a time, so that people

could visit it and shake their pretty things (TGBHF, 558).

Moreover, the fantasy of Home (the dream of roots) and the fantasy of the

Away (the mirage of the Journey) are expressed by his music, affirming the

uncertainties of the human condition:

At the frontier of the skin no dogs patrol… Where I end and you begin. Where I

cross from sin to sin. Abandon hope and enter in. And lose my soul. At the fron-

tier of the skin no guards patrol… At the frontier of the skin mad dogs patrol. At

the frontier of the skin. Where they kill to keep you in. Where you must not slip

your skin. Or change your role. You can’t pass out I can’t pass in. You must end

as you begin. Or lose your soul. At the frontier of the skin armed guards patrol

(TGBHF, 55).

But it is suggested that the real hero in Virgil’s story of Orpheus is really

the bee-keeper, here identified as the narrator Rai, or “Umeed Merchant,

photographer, [who] can spontaneously generate new meaning from the

putrefying carcase of what is the case” (TGBHF, 22). Though photography

and literature, he is the main creator of fictions and administrator of time

(because taking a photo is a moral decision of taking a snippet out of space

and time), boasting even that “Our creations can go the distance with Crea-

tion; more than that, our imagining—our imagemaking—is an indispensa-

ble part of the great work of making real” (p. 466). His palimpsestic photos

capture multiple layers of the universe, both in the supernaturally literal,

and, as has probably been intended, in the figurative sense of capturing and

later showing/exhibiting the multiplicity of experience. With a more or less

successful “knack for invisibility”, he “shimmies”, both as photographer and

narrator, “into [people’s] charmed space”, digging into them and exposing

them by bringing to the surface some of their essence.

Literature is an alternative, worthy space for humans to be transposed

into, a place where belonging can turn into a benefit. Vina, she herself a

creator of her own fictional-composite identity, is immortalised by Rai

through the novel, in a place of words: “maybe she can find a sort of peace

here, on the page, in this underworld of ink and lies, that respite which was

denied her by life”. He then proceeds to state boldly: “So I stand at the gate

of the inferno of language, there’s a barking dog and a ferryman waiting

and a coin under my tongue for the fare” (TGBHF, 21).

For Rai, writing a novel about the mouldability of the real, of time, space

and identity is perhaps also a way of trying to survive through discourse


CAESURA 1.2 (2014)

and art. Ormus remains through his music and lyrics, Vina is immortalised

by Rai’s memoir and Rai by the photographs he has created. His father

finds comfort in the written histories of the city, Darius does his research in

order to escape shame and account for his outsider status by creating some-

thing canonical, and Lady Cama seeks the discourse of religion for inner

peace (but she, too, finally finds it in a garden). And all of them are, as an

author might hope, eternalised by the novel. As the characters produced by

art speak sadly out to the reader or to the viewer of photographs, they ar-

ticulate a generally applicable human condition: “This is all that will remain

of us: our light in your eye. Our shadows in your images. Our floating

forms, falling through nothingness, after the ground vanishes, the ground

beneath our feet” (TGBHF, 508).

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