More on Foe: The Making of FictionAs I had raised in my previous entry, the Terdiman reading had struck me as rather applicable to Coetzee's
Foe. After hearing more about object-referent in the spiel on Roland Barthes yesterday, I had more thoughts on this.
I think that Diderot's novel
La Religieuse is a very appropriate text for comparison with Foe.
La Religieuse is written in the second half of the 18th century; DeFoe's
Robinson Crusoe was also written in the 18th century, 1719, to be exact, and has often been hailed as the first novel in English.
The situation of both these texts in the 18th century is significant. As Terdiman remarks, "Enlightenment thinking in the second half of the eighteenth century... (was concerned with) what a fiction is and what it does." (20)
"The period's concern with narrative arose because its culture confronted thinkers and writers with some new and unsettling story patterns--patterns that simultaneously put the making of fictions on the agenda and raised troubling questions about their meaning and their use." (20)
What I questioned in the previous blog entry seems to be answered in Terdiman: "In particular the performative implications and potentialities of a fictional text are distinct from those of a text whose referent is intended and accepted as real." (37) That means that fiction and autobiographical fiction, such as
Robinson Crusoe, is different, where the referent
is real.
However, in such fiction, where the referent
is real, the making of fiction is problemtised. As we discussed in yesterday's class, in the verbal arts the sign/referent binary is more fluid, with room for interpretation and sharply distinct from the sign/referent binary in photography. But in
La Religieuse and
Robinson Crusoe both of these are mixed:
"The novel brings the sign/referent antimony that many today have claimed severs these two entities from each other into an experimental situation in which their divorce
can't happen. The letters are fake; Croismare is real. They shouldn't meet up anywhere. But they do." (33)
Terdiman also sums up beautifully, what is happening in these two texts, which is what Coetzee questions and brings to light in
Foe:
"But what happens when real people are treated like characters in a fiction?...That the world of texts and the world of reality are separable seems clear enough. But texts can make them intersect. Then something like an ontological category mistake arises--and because of it, an unsettling ethical and practical conundrum." (33)
Indeed, that is why Susan Barton, in all her real, living corporeality, is suspended in limbo because of DeFoe's treatment, albeit proscratinated, of her in fiction:
"More is at stake in the history you write, I will admit, for it must not only tell the truth about us but please its readers too. Will you not bear it in mind, however, that my life is drearily suspended till your writing is done?" (63)
Foe, J.M. Coetzee
Foe. There are so many layers to Foe. As I was musing about it, I became more and more intrigued by the ingenuity of Coetzee. Here are some of my observations:
Firstly, right from the beginning of Foe, we are made conscious of the teller of the tale--the novel begins with quotation marks, signifying the speech, the tale, the story and the presence of its speaker. The speaker is not the invisible narrator nor the trustworthy narrator which we are apt to find in most other novels. It is Susan Barton, recounting her tale to us, and to DeFoe. Reminders of this are interjected throughout the novel, as well, as if to emphasise the self-reflexivity of the text. Such reminders are often found in parentheses:
Pg 8 “(Let me give my description of him all together)”
Pg 9 “(…I have told you of)”
“I have told you how Cruso was dressed; now let me tell you of his habitation”
“…as you shall hear”
Pg 12 “ ‘But let me return to my relation.”
Pg 14 “(I have not yet told you of Cruso’s stove, which was built very neatly of stone)”
Pg 15 “(I shall have more to say of the terraces later)”
Pg 26 “There is more, much more, I could tell you about the life we lived...”
Pg 33 “ ‘Let me tell you of Cruso’s terraces.”
Pg 38 “I must tell you of the death of Cruso, and of our rescue."
Secondly, there are many different levels of story-telling in Foe. This, I believe, reinforces the self-reflexivity of the text. Apart from the most overt level--that of hypertextuality, i.e. Coetzee's re-invention of the 18th century novel Robinson Crusoe by Daniel DeFoe; there are other levels. I list them down to show the multiplicity of stories embedded within Foe:
1. We, the readers, reading this narrative (truth or fiction?) written by Coetzee
2. Susan Barton's story of how she came to be a castaway
3. Cruso's story of how he came to be a castaway (which was, as Susan found, full of confused, incoherent narratives)
4. Friday's story (forever unknown?)
5. Susan Barton's story of Cruso, Friday and her experiences on the island
6. Susan's daughter's (or at least she claims) story
7. DeFoe's story (his "silence", the reason behind the bailiffs' occupation of his premises)
8. DeFoe's story about Susan Barton, Cruso and Friday
9. The narrator in Part IV (who seems to be seeking the verity of stories presented earlier on)
Indeed, it makes us keenly aware of the self-reflexivity of the text, and invites us to ponder on the idea of writing and story-telling; ultimately the issue of the art of writing fiction itself. As Captain Smith remarks, "their (writers') trade is in books, not in truth." Susan also remarks on her lack of the gift of writing such as writers like DeFoe have: "A liveliness is lost in the writing down which must be supplied by art, and I have no art." That made me think of the art of writing, and to what extent is this art an artifice.
This issue is central to Foe. Susan expresses adamance against untruthfulness of any sort in the telling of her tale--"I will not have any lies told...I would rather be the author of my own story than have lies told about me...If I cannot come forward, as author, and swear to the truth of my tale, what will be the worth of it? I might as well have dreamed it in a snug bed in Chichester."
This brings me to Diderot, in the Terdiman reading we did. Some memorably striking comments: "...what happens when real people are treated like characters in a fiction?" (Pg 33, Chap 1) and "These narratives may lie, but they lie about the real, not about the non-existent." (Pg 43, Chap 2).
Does Susan's insistence on truth apply only to autobiography and biography for instance, and not to fiction? After all the definition of fiction is that it is imagined, it is not real; it is fictive. But what I think Coetzee does in Foe and Terdiman does is to highlight the fact that all fiction is a construct, it is a deception, at its most basic level, and when real people are written about in fiction, the level of deception and reconstruction is amplified. Thus the simple dichotomy between object and referent is problematized--language is based on the materiality of bodies ("Language requires bodies" -Terdiman) but in fiction like DeFoe's and Diderot's, the relationship is thwarted.
"Anatomy is destiny"I was reading some work on Helene Cixous (
Hélène Cixous: Writing and Sexual Difference, by Abigail Bray) in preparation for my term paper, and came across something quite interesting. "Anatomy is destiny" is what Freud said in reference to women's sexual difference. It strikes me as a rather dangerous statement to make in contemporary times! *tsk tsk Mr Freud* Such a belief assumes and presumes that the differences (in personality, for eg.) between men and women are based simply on natural, anatomical differences.
Bray went on to cite the Nazi classification of people as an example of this belief in action.
"The subtle and perhaps imaginary anatomical differences between the Aryan and non-Aryan body... was based on a racist ideology which confused anatomical differences with moral differences: Aryan culture was morally superior because Aryan anatomy was biologically superior. "
Indeed! I could not agree with her more. And because of that a whole race was tortured and threatened, a whole world was brought into war.
Moira Gatens sums it all up beautifully:
"It is not anatomy which decides cultural value or status but rather the way in which that anatomy is represented and lived."
Disgrace, J. M. Coetzee
Part Two: David in DisgraceI was musing upon the name David, and it struck me that it has a very plausible association with the Biblical David and his act of adultery with Bathsheba. The difference is that King David was repentant, and turned back to God and asked for forgiveness and thus did not remain in "disgrace". David Lurie, in contrast, is unremorseful in front of the committee, gives the excuse that he was a "servant of Eros", and declares the experience "enriching" moreover. It is only much later that he visits the Issacs and apologises. And unlike King David, he does not rise from his state of "disgrace":
"I am being punished for what happened between myself and your daughter. I am sunk into a state of disgrace from which it will not be easy to lift myself. It is not a punishment I have refused. I do not murmur against it. On the contrary, I am living it out from day to day trying to accept disgrace as my state of being. Is it enough for God, do you think, that I live in disgrace without term?" (David to Mr Issacs, pg 172)
Disgrace, J. M. Coetzee
Part One: focusing on the private Body
I really like this book. I like it because it is so rich - there is such a wealth of meaning embedded in the story. There is so much to muse upon, to think about, to extrapolate. I must confess that so far my interpretation of
Disgrace is as yet, still amateurish. There is more I need to explore. The novel merits re-reading, but as yet I haven't had time to do that.
When I first read
Disgrace, I was drawn to the notion of the rape. That is, Coetzee's narrative ploy of two separate instances in which the body (in particular, the female body) is violated. In David's other relations with women, for instance, Rosalind, Soraya, a colleague, a young girl on the street, Bev Shaw - it seems there was at least a certain level of consent. I did not understand, at that time, the relation to South Africa. Thus the lectures on
Disgrace were a welcoming, mind-opening revelation to how the notion of the body politic can/may (
but should we? as discussed at length in class) be read in Lucy.
I believe that, indeed, in Lucy's words, the very bodily issues of the novel must not be neglected.
"In another time, in another place it might be held to be a public matter. But in this place, at this time, it is not. It is my business, mine alone." (Lucy to David, pg 112)It is the same with David's affair with Melanie Issacs. His private affair with Melanie is (perhaps rightly) brought out into the open, made known, and becomes a scandal, a "public matter".The affair is publicised in the
Argus, reporters throng David after his meeting with the disciplinary board, and the committee tries to convince David to make a public admission that he is wrong.
"...it would help to cool down what has become a very heated situation. Ideally we would all have preferred to resolve this case out of the glare of the media. But that has not been possible. It has received alot of attention, it has acquired overtones that are beyond our control. All eyes are on the university to see how we handle it." (pg 53-54)But we see that despite his public dismissal from the university, the matter is, at its essence, unresolved. David visits the Issacs family in an act of remonstration, which may not be a perfect resolution, but is an attempt at resolution, which is not a
public, but
private act.
The vulnerability of women's bodies, as amplified by the numerous descriptions of women and their bodies as they are seen through David's eyes and eroticised and lusted after, cannot be ignored. Thus, Lucy's decision not to report the rape, to become Petrus' third wife, and to keep the baby represents a attempt to transcend that vulnerability. She transcends her trauma and rises up in strength. Thus, unlike David, who falls from a state of grace, that is, into
disgrace, Lucy ascends into grace, and is, as Dr Yeo has said, a tragic heroine. As we have discussed in class, Lucy stands as a rather puzzling, unfathomable character; but there is no doubt that she is somewhat superior. Her marginality does not make her inferior in the eyes of the reader.
Therefore, the very private, bodily notion of the rape, and the violation of the female body, must not be discounted in the light of other ways in which to read the text. Our preoccupation with the parallel of the new South Africa body politic can sometimes overshadow this.
and the Word became flesh...
Today in class someone shared about her topic for her term paper proposal, that of the representation of the body in the Bible. I thought it was pretty interesting. And Dr Yeo shared how she felt there was an incongruity in the manner in which the Christian faith views the image of the body. One, the body as corruptible, the site of earthly desires, the flesh which requires purgation, the body which must, necessarily, be put to death:
"I say then: Walk in the Spirit, and you shall not fulfill the lust of the flesh.
For the flesh lusts against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh; and these are contrary to one another, so that you do not do the things that you wish...
Now the works of the flesh are evident, which are: adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lewdness...
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control...
And those who are Christ's have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.
If we live in the Spirit, let us also walk in the Spirit."
Ephesians 5:16-24Two, the irony that the ultimate redemption was Christ, but it was a bodily sacrifice, and the Christian faith hinges upon the resurrection of Christ's corporeal body. God in flesh was the redeeming sacrifice. Thus Dr Yeo asserted that there was a peculiar incongruity in how the body is meant to be viewed. Is it to be viewed as evil, sinful, and the source and site of transgression; or to be elevated as the Lamb that was slain for the forgiveness of sins?
I believe this incongruity can be quite simply resolved, at least, in my opinion. Christ's redeeming work and his sacrifice on the cross had to be corporeal, borne of the flesh, simply because it was the body and its sinfulness which had to be crucified. The transgressions had to be purged at their source. The ultimate resurrection of Jesus could be viewed not as incongrous, but a celebration, not of the slain body, martyred for sins, but a celebration of the exact converse: Christ's power over death, over mortality, over the body. Viewed in this light, it might be easier to read the Communion not as a remembrance of Jesus' body and blood per se, but as a remembrance of Him, of His sacrifice and salvation. Even though Dr Yeo mentioned that the Protestants view the bread and wine as symbolic, but the Catholics take them more literally - both are not symbolic simply of His body and blood which was shed and which suffered for our sins. Rather they are meant to point ultimately to the sacrifice which was performed through the body and the blood, because it was only in flesh and body that the sins of the world could be taken upon. The shoulders which bore the sins of the world had to be of man, for man, because of man.
That is why the Protestants' image of Christ is never that of Him nailed to the cross, shown in suffering; but only the cross itself, because He has overcome death, and it is not His suffering we are asked to focus on, but the salvation and His triumph over death and the body i.e. His resurrection, which is of importance.
Thus, we do not mourn his death, but celebrate His life; we do not grieve the body which was sacrificed, but rejoice in His triumph; and we remember not the absence of life (i.e. His death), but the fullness of life in His resurrection which is not bodily, not corporeal, but supernatural.
In the Penal ColonyDid you know that Kafka's
In the Penal Colony has actually been adapted and produced by renowned composer Philip Glass? I Google-ed it and was surprised to find that Glass has adapted it into a chamber opera libretto! Wow. It's a fairly recent composition - written in 2000. I think it would certainly be interesting to get my hands on a copy of it. :)
Ok, point of interest aside, let me elaborate on my thoughts on
In the Penal Colony.
I was pondering over the fact that
the machine ultimately fails. What does it imply? It is first described as working fine except for a noisy creaking sound; however in the final execution, with its most ardent 'devotee' under its subjection, the machine breaks down. As the explorer remarked, "the machine was obviously going to pieces; its silent working was a delusion". (Pg 165) The machine steadily breaks down - the cogwheels fall off, the Harrow does not write but jab repeatedly, the Bed does not turn the body over, the water jets fail to function, and the usual torture process is speeded up: "But at that moment the Harrow rose with the body spitted on it and moved to the side, as it usually did only when the twelfth hour had come." Finally the body does not, in the officer's own words, "fall...into the pit with an incomprehensibly gentle wafting motion" (Pg 154), but remains hanging over the pit, streaming with blood.
I think that Kafka may be trying to demonstrate how the ultimate failure of the machine, which is an "agency" (to borrow Scarry's terminology) of torture and implied power, ironises the high rhetoric and devotion of the officer to his cruel torture apparatus. Similarly, the undecipherable inscriptions which are 'written' on the prisoner's body can be viewed as parallel to, or even symbolic of the dubious means by which the torture is justified, as well as the dubious or questionable culpability of the condemned man. Kafka is thus, heavily ironic. Moreover the inscription, as claimed by the officer, is meant to read "Be Just" - while this problematises and questions, on one hand, the fairness of the justice and judgement levied on the condemned man, I also see a further irony: the problematising of what many readers and the explorer feel is only "just" for the officer to do - his ultimate suicide.
"If the judicial procedure which the officer cherished were really so near its end...then the officer was doing the right thing; in his place the explorer would not have acted otherwise." (Pg 163)
However, in the final moments, the explorer feels a degree of sympathy and compassion for the officer - "he had a feeling that he must now stand by the officer, since the officer was no longer able to look after himself." (Pg 165) He is also the one who gets the condemned man and the soldier to assist him in pushing the corpse into the pit. Was this what the officer deserved? Throughout the story, we as readers are horrified and even filled with disgust at the coolness of tone which the officer adopts, his clinicality and pride in such cruel and morbid torture. However, at the end, Kafka seems to push our hardened hearts towards a certain degree of sympathy for the officer. The description of his suffered and maimed body moves us:
"And here, almost against his will, he had to look at the face of the corpse. It was as it had been in life; no sign was visible of the promised redemption; what the others had found in the machine the officer had not found; ... through the forehead went the point of the great iron spike."
Perhaps Kafka may be trying to convey the idea that no torture can ever "be just".
human in an un-human wayWhat struck me while I was reading
The Metamorphosis was the ease with which Gregor accepted his new form. Never once in the story does he lament his new form and desire for his transformation to be reversed. He seems to accept it, right from the start, and instead, begins to start adapting to his new form immediately. For instance, soon after he discovers the transformation, he begins experimenting with ways by which he can get out of bed, unhurt and get ready for work. This brings me to my second observation about Gregor Samsa - the prevalence of a human mental and emotional complex. That is, despite the overt un-human physical form, his mental and emotional state remains, surprisingly, human. For example, "his immediate intention was to get up quietly without being disturbed, to put on his clothes and above all eat his breakfast." When I read this I was amazed. Did Gregor
really believe he could do all these things? Even though he has been changed into an
"ungeheur Ungeziefer" he believes he can still perform all these human tasks. Presumably he also assumes that his family and other humans around him will respond to him ordinarily.
This is what makes
The Metamorphosis poignant. Gregor, in his outwardly un-human form, is in fact, as the story proceeds, shown to be the most 'human' of the characters. His heart is for his family, but yet his outer form belies this 'human' within. And in an ironic reversal of roles, this
"ungeheur Ungeziefer" is viewed by the humans as the parasite in the family, posing a constant nuisance to their social and financial advancement. Yet they have been the real parasites, feeding on Gregor's hard-earned pay, relying on him to settle their financial burdens.
It is also interesting how and why Kafka chooses to use the image and creature of a monstrous vermin or "gigantic insect". He might have chosen other animals, might he not? I believe it is perhaps because he aims to defamiliarise our common attitudes towards such creatures. Most humans respond with negative attitudes of disgust, horror, fear and contempt towards insects. Thus in using such an image for Gregor's transformation, he draws on familiar, pre-established notions within his readers, and emphasises the need to reassess our attitudes and responses. Are we like the Samsa family, or do we have the ability for empathy? Not for insects and other creepy crawlies, but for others which we treat with similar bias. That is my interpretation at least.
The use of a monstrous vermin, a creature with few endearing features, also heightens our sensitivity to the text. It problematizes our criticism of the Samsa family, because, definitely, some of their attitudes echo ours. Are we not equally culpable? Did we not, like Gregor's sister, fear the gigantic insect and slam the door in his face, so to speak, in our minds?
Finally, my reading of modernist writers in the "Twentieth Century" module has given me certain ideas. I wonder if they can be applied. I am reminded of Stephen's famous remark in James Joyce's "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man":
"the artist forging anew in his workshop out of the sluggish matter of the earth a new soaring impalpable imperishable being?"In addition, it brings to mind Joyce's "Ulysses", where he deals with the "sluggish matter [s] of the earth", such as the lowly bodily functions of excretion, urinating, and sexual intercourse et cetera. Kafka, in my opinion, seems to be doing something similar. Is there a connection? That he is imbuing the commonly perceived notions of lowly, "sluggish matter[s]" (the parasite and pest,
"ungeheur Ungeziefer")
with an artistic and aesthetic significance?
I shall ponder.
Kafka, the enigma (it rhymes!)Reading Kafka is a refreshingly new experience for me. Recently while preparing for my midterm on "Twentieth Century", I came across some notes which listed Franz Kafka as one of the writers of the Modernist Period! Interesting, I thought. And so far, after reading two of his short stories,
The Metamorphosis and
In the Penal Colony, I find him a very thought-provoking writer. His stories also seem rather elusive, and I am inclined to think of him as an enigma of some sorts :) This enigmatic quality seems to extend to his writing.
For instance, as Dr Yeo mentioned, he writes, "
The Metamorphosis is not a confession, although it is - in a certain sense - an indiscretion." That's very clever, I thought. And in Week 8's
spiel, as Dr Yeo is so fond of calling it, Theodore Adorno presents more mysterious statements about Kafka: "Each sentence is literal and each signifies...Each sentence says 'interpret me', and none will permit it."
Certainly, though, what impressed me was Kafka's passion for writing. Writing, for him,
is, a bodily experience. His whole body, mind and soul seem to participate, in as much as they can, in writing. He possesses a strong bodily impulse to writing which amazes and, at the same time, impresses me:
"It is easy to recognize a concentration in me of all my forces on writing. When it became clear in my organism that writing was the most productive direction for my being to take, everything rushed in that direction and left empty all those abilities which were directed toward the joy of sex, eating, drinking, philosophical reflection and above all music. I dieted in all these directions..." (Pg 94, Anderson)
And his absolute passion for literature: "I have no literary interests, but am made of literature. I am nothing else, and cannot be anything else." (Pg 95, Anderson)
I believe that Kafka's elusive nature is perhaps due to his desire to escape concrete classification, to escape mere simple categorisation or analyses of his short stories. Thus we are unable to put definite or absolute meanings to his symbols. The bug which is Gregor remains a mere mysterious vermin of some sort; we are not given specificities. The apparatus of torture can be visualised as one pleases; only the vaguest, most general outlines are provided. Such schemes of writing de-familiarise our common attempts to 'box' things into maneagable categories. Kafka seems to want us to keep our minds open to what he has to offer.
just a little diversion, but it's related to literature ;D
In my not so humble opinion, you, of course, belong
in the Picture of Dorian Gray, and do not try
to deny it. You belong in the fashionable
circles of Victorian London where exotic
tastes, a double life, decadence, wit and a
hypocritical belief in moral betterment make
you a home. You belong where the witty
apothegms of Lords, the silly moralities of
matrons, the blinding high of opium, and the
beauty of visual arts mingle to form one
convoluted world.
Which Classic Novel do You Belong In?brought to you by Quizilla
I must get this book! Have yet to read it. :)
Under the Skin (part 2)
The ending of the book seems optimistic and hopeful, in my opinion. I believe Isserley has begun to feel for the "vodsels" she captures. The last hitcher, for instance, shares with Isserley a similarly dysfunctional life. We aren't given the details, but there seems to be some hint of how he is a startling parallel of Isserley:
"Even as he was strapping himself in, the hitcher was thinking there was still time to change his mind. What on earth was the point of going through with this? Why not just get right out of the car, go right back where he'd come from, and keep his...his poison to himself?There was something so sick about doing this day after day, going out on the road and seeing if he could trap some poor sucker into giving him a lift. Then, as soon as he had a captive audience, of course he would let them have it, right in the guts, right between the eyes, always the same thing..." (276)
"Maybe he'd behave differently with this one, because she was a girl...But fat chance. He'd let her have it like all the others. Until something happened to make him stop." (277)
And yet as they continue the ride in the car, I believe there is a mutual recognition, soul-to-soul, of a fellow being in desperation, in isolation, in desolation:
"Isserley looked him straight in the eyes. They were shiny with unwept tears, and she could see a tiny Isserley reflected in each one." (284)
It is moving. And he had decided against harming her, requesting to alight earlier. Yet the isolation of the two stricken individuals is made forever complete, when, despite their mutual bond, Isserley still chooses the icpathua toggle. But, for the first time, we see that she is moved. For the first time she feels, not remorse, but something towards remorse, for the captured "vodsels". "I understand", she says. "I'm sorry", she whispers.
Under the Skin
I thought this was a really powerful book. Seldom do I come across a book which I simply cannot put down. And
Under the Skin is more than a captivating narrative - it reverberates and resonates with me. The issues it tackles are various and complex, such that, I hardly know where to begin a discussion of them. Moreover, Faber's beautiful narrative invites deep engagement with the story and its characters, an engagement which also provokes the thoughts and minds of his readers long after the book is put down.
First, the book is grotesque. It contains a grotesque twist - the reversal of roles of "human" and "animal". What struck me first was the horror of realisation that Isserley, was in fact not "human", as assumed through much of the book, but an ape-like, fur-covered, four-legged species which called themselves "human beings". And they consumed "vodsels" who were the real human beings. The discovery of this fact is also particularly thrilling. It is like reading an action thriller, or a treasure hunt, where little clues are revealed along the way. I also remembered, distinctly, that Faber does not tell us what is done to the captured "vodsels" until late in the book. The suspense was immense; I was left wondering at the end of each capture what the men did to those "vodsels" they carried out.
My initial fascination was with the discovery of this alien species, something akin to the human tendency of gawking at freaks. More importantly, I began to feel for Isserley. The book invites us into the thoughts of Isserley right from the start, and I believe this has a huge part to play in generating our sympathy for her. And there is so much one can sympathise with her - hers is a painful life indeed.
The novel also raises issues on the physical appearance of women; women who continue, despite the advancement of society, to be viewed and often perused as sex objects. We are objects of the male gaze; Isserley's breasts are fashioned to please the male gaze. And it is true! Many of my male friends admit that this particular female feature bears much attraction. It surprised me how much power Isserley seemed to wield - you have got to admit, the role of lurer and temptor has some degree of attraction, because of the postition of 'power' it entails. But while we think we are the ones holding the gaze, the rape of Isserley causes it all to come crashing down. Once again, I saw with distinct clarity, how women are vulnerable, that our physical appearance can be a prized attribute and yet a dangerous flaw which renders us virtually helpless.
Even in Isserley's species, female physical attributes also wield some sort of power. The same precarious balance of female sexuality is present. She reminisces about her soft fur, her beautiful hair, and in a moving encounter with Unser, laments the very absence of these, "The parts of a woman's face she could have used to plead with him, to implore him without words, had all been removed or mutilated. Only her eyes remained. They shone brightly as she gazed unblinking through space." (228)
- end of part 1 (there is too much to post in one setting!)-
to be continued.
the bold and the beautiful
Also, let the hairline of the bikini
Be fringed with indecency
Let 'unwanted body hair' straggle free -Who Was It? by Grace Nichols
My choice is lean.
That was what struck me in the class discussions on Monday. I understood every bit of it - the fat black woman, in all three ways banished to the lowest of society's gaze; the subaltern's refusal of a subject(ed) gaze; the post-colonialist tensions. I admired the fat black woman - her boldness was beauty in itself.
And yet I knew that while I admired her, I was not with her. I admired her boldness, but not her in herself. I could not see it as beauty; I felt deep within me that still, slimness, 'lean'-ness, with all 'the tight contortions of the Barbie figure' (Narain), was beauty.
Yes, it is deplorable that I am, ashamably, a product of the materialist age, conditioned by the mass media, by the svelte figures of Miss World. As Simone de Beauvoir put it, "One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman." So it is with me. I am unable to shake off the ingrained beliefs inscribed in me. I can celebrate with her, the fat black woman; I love her, I embrace her, I will champion her beliefs - and yet, I know the ardour and fervour I bear is divided.
How should I reconcile it all? This ambivalence is strange - appreciating the fat black woman for all her beauty and confidence; yet, at the same time, pursuing and perpetuating the beliefs of her 'oppressors'. Perhaps there is no need to obliterate the ambivalence? Surely, life itself is abound with ambivalence. As humans there is nothing in us which is absolute. The poems, though, moved me to see this ambivalence, and the imprints of social inscription in my mind and body.
For now, my choice remains. Razors in delicate places. The lean and the beautiful.
