Pomp and Intertext

Cultural Commentary by Erica Eller

On “Husbandry,” as a form of conviction in writing

I believe Susan Sontag was fully cognizant of the verb form of the word “husband” when she wrote her piece, “An Ideal Husband.” To husband means “to manage prudently and economically,” or to “use sparingly” according to Merriam Webster’s dictionary. These attributes seem suited to stoics or ascetics who define their lives by what they have not exploited, rather than by what they have. Concision is often cited as hallmark of good writing these days. Perhaps Sontag used the word “husband” to suggest that we should apply the mantra “kill your darlings” to the moral sphere as well as to the words themselves (heaven forbid we judge the “content” as well as the “form”), which might put a halt to our contemporary proliferation of maximalist and autofictional writers.

In “An Ideal Husband,” Susan Sontag divides great writers into two categories–husbands (those writers with a moral conscience and a sense of civic duty) and lovers (those who offer the short-lived feverishness and excitement of madmen). She claimed in 1963, that the modern world was filled with lovers, but not enough husbands, unlike in other periods of literary history when the opposite was true. Then she goes on to describe how Albert Camus nearly fit the bill of an “Ideal Husband” as a writer.

Though the lopsided categorization excludes even a nod to women as possible “great” literary figures, I’m intrigued by her classifications because I realize I share her thirst for a moral conscience in writing. I crave people whose inherently intertwined roles as an artist and a person are not arbitrary or loose connections that we should counter-intuitively compartmentalize. I seek a unity of purpose in authorship and in life, and a foresight which does not exclude others through frenetic impulse or an advertisement of desire at the expense of others.

Authors such as Shruti Swamy, W.G. Sebald, Michael Ondaatje, and even Susan Howe appeal to me for their qualities as good “husbands” in that I feel invested in their deep conviction in simultaneous aesthetic and moral thresholds that bind (or bound) them to their history and personal complicity in our time.

For me, moral consciousness depends on the ability to reflect upon our historical role and our place in the world amidst others not in spite of them. In order to do so, I feel that writers must depend on their ability to translate across divides of time, consciousnesses, and linguistic and cultural norms, and whether this crossing derives from the pith of the language, or the divestment of one’s originality for the sake of testimony–to give valor the unseen, lost spark in a footnote (or ideally, to accomplish both), it depends on solidarity with others, all of them. I feel an attraction to writers who navigate the sharp divisions of time, place, and self-interest that otherwise bind us to our various forms of narcissism.

A bond is never solely a comfortable relationship. To be bound is the condition of relative, limited freedom, which denotes sacrifice of possibility in order to maintain a level of comfort. Possibility is the antithesis to sanity and to really embrace it responsibly requires endurance, discipline, and sobriety, even, since possibility, contrary to its stated claims, is a limiting factor which also binds us. Each possibility is achieved by the exclusion of others. When one is bound by history, or bound by a deep investment in respect for humanity and the natural world, a state of grace lingers in that person’s works. This is how an author who is a “husband” with a long-term, purposeful conviction, beyond temporary pleasure can be trusted.

Naturally, the risk of writing which derives from moral conviction is to lose sight of the temporal, sensual, aesthetic pleasures that surround us in favor of aphorism. Let the subtle sounds of wind blowing through the tree leaves and the breath-ornamented silences between strangers remind you who you are and what unseen rifts there are to cross. Knowing pigeons, too, are watching us from the boughs of those trees. We never go unseen; we are always passing through one register or another.


“Apocalipsis de Solentiname” by Julio Cortazar

In an attempt to revive old literary studies of mine, I’ve divided a paper I wrote comparing two of Julio Cortázar’s stories into two separate articles. You can find my companion piece on Cortázar’s “Blow-up,” (1959) here, in the Bosphorus Review’s latest issue. The interesting thing about that story, for me, is that nearly twenty years later, Julio Cortázar seemed to have recycled the premise of “Blow-up” and updated it when he wrote the story “Apocolipsis de Solentiname” (1976), which I write about here.

In “Apocalipsis” the import of historic testimony, which was absent from “Blow-up,” bridges his characters’ isolated shock in a way that asserts his real symbolic political solidarity with the Latin American revolutionary collective (in his writing, the purview of individual experience has transformed into historical testimony). “Apocalipsis” directly engages with a historic period of time leading up to the FSLN overthrow of the Nicaraguan government during the Revolution in 1979. It provides a harrowing vision that prophesies the forms of torture other horrors that the people of Nicaragua would be subjected to. In addition, it is an important example of an author responding both to public criticism and political tragedy through a work of art in an attempt to express political solidarity with the oppressed while furthering his revolutionary literary aesthetic.


Julio Cortazar in Solentiname

In “Apocalipsis,” Julio Cortázar returns to his representation of the photographic process as a means to rupture bourgeois consciousness. In this story, Julio Cortázar (the fictional protagonist whom I will refer to as Julio) travels to a press conference in Nicaragua. The story mimics historical truth because all of the characters in the story are in fact drawn from his real-life experience of attending a similar press conference in Nicaragua. Cortázar writes about the questions that are raised at the press conference: “why don’t you live in your own country, why was the film of Blow-Up so different from your story, do you think a writer ought to be politically committed?” These questions are also questions that the story “Apocalipsis” demonstratively responds to.

For the answers to those questions, we ascertain from his depiction of violence that Cortázar did not live in his country due to fear of the military regimes that plagued Latin America for lefitsts, the film Blow-Up was different because Antonioni did not perceive (or wish to portray) the political resonance of the story, and Cortázar does indeed believe that a writer should be politically committed. While Cortázar expresses his disparagement for the repeated questions people expect him to answer, i.e., “don’t you think that down below you wrote too obscurely for the masses?” he also responds to them by sharpening his ideological message in support of revolutionary solidarity, by the end of the story.

In “Apocalipsis,” Julio visits a small town where his poet friend Ernesto Cardenal lives. He helps the locals to sell their paintings. Several instances of foreshadowing unhinge the travel-diary-like narration. While praising Enesto Cardenal, he writes, “the jackal may howl but the bus moves on,” which as Alberto Moreiras points out in his essay, “Apocalypse at Solentiname as Heterological Production,” has metaphoric significance. The passage briefly hints at one’s empathy and the ability to feel pain at a distance. Moreiras writes: “The jackal in Cortázar’s text foretells an extraordinary act of ectoplasmic translation.  A jackal is the Central American animal whose howling culturally translates the howling of the wolf in other latitudes: ominous, portentous” (160). Later, in the airplane, Julio has a flash of anxiety when he jokingly comments that their Piper Aztec, “was in fact taking us straight into the sacrificial pyramid” (14). These hints of warning destabilize the naively optimistic rendering, just as the narrative destabilization in the beginning of “Las Babas” planted clues to the direction the story would take.


When Julio arrives at their destination, he snaps a photo with a Polaroid, and takes note of how strange the image appears as it develops: “one of those cameras that on the spot produce a piece of sky-blue paper which gradually and miraculously and Polaroid begins slowly to fill with images, first all disturbing ghost-shapes and then little by little a nose, a curly head of hair” (14).  He de-familiarizes the photographic process by writing as if he is naïve to it:

For me to see emerging from nothing, from that little square of blue nothingness those    faces and smiles of farewell filled me with amazement and I told them so.  I remember asking Oscar what would happen if once after some family photo the blue scrap of paper suddenly began to fill with Napoleon on horseback, and Don Jose’s great roar of laughter . . . (14)

The surrealistic sense of imaginative horror in these initial passages casually disappears beneath the mention of friendly laughter. The momentary dream of horror is suppressed by the reality of comfort and peace among friends, a juxtaposition that again foreshadows one of the central themes of the story.

Cortázar highlights Julio’s status as a visitor in order to situate him within a different class than the others. He is intrigued and unfamiliar with the paintings he sees that are made by the people of the village: “. . . and I saw the paintings in a corner, began to look at them.  I can’t remember who it was explained they’d been done by the local people, this one was by Vincente, this one’s by Ramona, some signed, others not, yet all of them incredibly beautiful, once again the primeval vision of the world…” (15). Julio sifts through them, stunned by their depiction of a world full of plants, work, religion, and natural beauty.


In following with custom, Julio attends Mass and discusses how the service portrays the instability of the lives of the people in the town:

[Mass] which that particular day was Jesus’ arrest in the garden, a theme the people of Solentiname treated as if it dealt with them personally, with the threat hanging over them at night or in broad daylight, their life of constant uncertainty not just on the islands or on the mainland and in all of Nicaragua but also in nearly the whole of Latin America, life surrounded by fear and death, life in Guatemala and life in El Salvador, life in Argentina and Bolivia, life in Chile and Santo Domingo, life in    Paraguay, life in Brazil and in Colombia. (15)

Cortázar intentionally extends the solidarity of his story’s political outcry to encompass the lives of all Latin Americans. His political aim is to connect the experience of Latin Americans as a singular, inclusive experience.

Before Julio leaves the island community, he decides to take photographs of the paintings he admires in the community room. He details his efforts to photograph the paintings: “I went through photographing them one by one, positioning myself so that each canvas completely filled the viewer” (15). The photographic medium extracts the paintings from their time and place, allowing Cortázar to transport them back to Paris. When he writes: “as luck would have it, there were exactly the same number of paintings as I had shots left, so I could take them all without leaving any out, when Ernesto came to announce the launch was waiting,” he gives sense that there is some kind of divine necessity in his capturing these images (15).

Again, a minor fissure seeps into the text when Julio explains to Ernesto Cardenal that he took photographs of the paintings: “he laughed, painting-snatcher, image-smuggler. Yes, I said, I’m carting them all off, and back home I’ll show them on my screen and they’ll be far bigger and brighter than yours, tough shit to you” (15). Cortázar positions Julio in a joke about imperial theft enacting the way bourgeois tourists take photographs in order to collect memories from afar. As Walter Benjamin describes in his essay, “Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” “technical reproduction can put the copy of the original into situations which would be out of reach for the original itself” (Work of Art, 221). Julio thinks that the photos will later become a fixture of his comfortable Parisian home.

When Cortázar returns to Paris, one of the first things he decides to do is to develop the film, and once he picks up the photographs, he prepares to view them on his projector, just as he had planned. He expresses the naive excitement of a tourist about to relive the beauty of a distant place they’ve travelled to. Instead, what he sees betrays his expectations. A boy he photographed appears with a bullet in his head, shot by an officer and faced with other men with machine guns. He describes both the boy and Solentiname being “hemmed in” by “water and officialdom” (16). The boy is “hemmed in” by the photographic medium itself, locked into place in the form of a testimonial image, and Cortázar’s renewed vision of the place appears “hemmed in” in the middle of a military attack.

Julio’s emotions bubble up and he thinks that he must have mistakenly taken someone else’s photographs. Then he sees a photo taken of the Mass that confirms that the photos belong to him. He scrolls through the complete set of photographs, seeing a series of images of the torture of a naked woman, a mass grave in a mine, and a car exploding. The images encompass different Latin American sites where history plays out as a violent rupture to the bourgeois conception of the world, “I carried on pressing and pressing between flashes of bloody faces and bits of bodies and women and children racing down hill-sides in Bolivia or Guatemala, suddenly the screen flooded with mercury and with nothing and with Claudine too, coming in silently” (16). When his companion, Claudine, enters the story, he is speechless and leaves so that she can look at the photos alone. With a sense of irrational conviction, he states: “…we never know how or why we do certain things when we’ve crossed a boundary we were equally unaware of” (17). Julio goes to the bathroom and experiences a physical response to the state of shock that the photographs put him in.  He vomits.


Poet Ernesto Cardenal conducting mass in Solentiname

This scene recalls Roberto Michel’s scream in “Blow-up,” each instance of hallucinatory violence produces an uncontrollable bodily response. Then Julio notices that Claudine isn’t screaming. The fast juxtaposition of responses places the hellish visions like a weight upon Julio, but not on Claudine. The horror that opened itself up to him seemed to happen by way of an gap in reason that can’t be explained. He writes: “I wasn’t going to say anything to her, what was there to say now, but I remember vaguely thinking of asking her something really crazy, asking if at some point she hadn’t seen a photo of Napoleon on a horseback. I didn’t, of course” (17). When the narrator returns to his mention of a dream in which Napoleon would appear as if to justify his own unreliable, hallucinatory mind. For Napoleon to appear would no longer remain an implausible farce as it was when the motif appears in the beginning of the story. The recurring motif reminds the reader what has changed, which is to say the story produces two simultaneous frames of reality that create dissonance in their mutual independence. This mutual independence forms a strangely counter-intuitive truth because though it seems plausible that a bourgeois could comprehend violence, the bourgeois subjectivity relies on its wholly reified consciousness towards violence.

In comparison to “Las Babas del Diablo,” “Apocalipsis de Solentiname” produces a much more direct symbolic message. Cortázar does away with the narrative meditations on medium, opting instead to import a sense of historical realism. Cortázar asserts that a Latin American writer must express solidarity with the condition of the people, “He must, metaphorically or actually enter the street, and in Latin America this street becomes more cluttered with barricades, snipers and painful confrontations every day” (Politics, 539). Cortázar uses “Apocalipsis” as a means to symbolically “enter the street.” His story serves as a testimony of his empathy at a distance through a willful unveiling of clear and realistic horror as though it were an irrational dream. Cortázar uses the symbolic weight of his status as a well-known author and he uses the revolutionary struggle in Nicaragua as a backdrop to his portrayal of widespread violence throughout Latin America that produces shock, not indifference. He maintains his fantastical mode of representation by inserting irrational hallucinations as a liberating breach in logic: “the photographic medium becomes a privileged vehicle where his avant garde aesthetics coincide with the weight of visual testimony” (Russek, 2).


Photography slices reality from its context and puts separates it within a newly established frame.  For Benjamin, photography “penetrates deeply into its [reality’s] web” (Work of Art, 233).  In Cortázar’s use, this web is immersed in historical violence and otherwise invisible to the countenance of his bourgeois subjects. In “Apocalipsis” the violence that appears as a result of the developed photographs is explicit and the reader knows exactly what Cortázar’s insertion of violence refers to. The violence is historically specific although no actual massacre had taken place in the community of Solentiname at the time Cortázar wrote the story. Later, the Nicaraguan revolutionary movement by the Sandinistas would progress, and a similar incident of military slaughter would happen at Solentiname, which makes the story prophetic. Either way, military violence had become common in Latin America, which is why Cortázar gestures that the violence he sees is something shared across Latin America.

In both stories, Cortázar interrogates questions of asymmetrical relationships of power akin to Mary Louise Pratt’s concept of “contact zones” which are defined as the “social spaces where disparate cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other often in highly asymmetrical relations of domination and subordination” (qtd. Russek, 4).  While “Las Babas del Diablo” remains localized in a Parisian setting, in “Apocalipsis,” the disparities of power take on global proportions. “Apocalipsis” captures a wider totality of the many different ways that people experience disparity including cultural imperialism, class differences, and technological disparity.

Cortázar’s revolutionary struggle is still at stake, and his emphasis on political commitment is relevant now just as it was when he wrote “Apocalipsis” in the 1970s. The question that remains is how one might draw from Cortázar’s strengths in forming a revolutionary literary aesthetic while endeavoring to push them further towards material praxis as opposed to residing in a merely symbolic plane.

Cortázar did incur direct political consequences by writing “Apocalipsis” because the military junta in Argentina at that time censored the publication of the story. Presumably, its visible testimony to militaristic violence struck a nerve. The potential for the testimonial use of images culminates in Benjamin’s description of the intersection of aesthetics and politics, “All efforts to render politics aesthetic culminate in one thing: war” (Work of Art, 241). One of Cortázar’s strengths is in his discovery that representations of violence need not hinge on a rational portrayal. His inclusion of the irrational appearance of violence through photography and the utter shock it produces exposes bourgeois denial and reintroduces a phenomenon that has been de-familiarized. He recalls a time when photographs were shocking. He extends horror to the spaces where it belongs.  For Moreiras:

The greatness of “Apocalipsis resides in its capacity to affirm a certain constitutive impossibility for the work of art to engage in ontological constructions while at the same time also affirming that the work of art depends, in its very constitution, on such constitutive impossibility. This has serious consequences regarding the possible effects of literature on political thinking and the social articulation of cultural work (159).

Cortázar’s effort to use literature to expose the dialectic positions his revolutionary aesthetic in a Marxist-Hegelian tradition.  However, he did not wish to write what became known as “proletarian literature” because he felt that it had become too conventional. Writing itself, for Cortázar demands a revolutionary approach, which aims toward future forms by defying rational thought and endeavoring to reintroduce diminishing political praxis through an aesthetic means. Cortázar ultimately portrays self-critique as a precondition for revolution in his story “Apocalipsis.”  This story stems from earlier meditations in “Las Babas” on the bourgeois subjective complicity in relation to violent circumstances.  These two stories symbolize the preliminary break down of bourgeois consciousness that is required for revolutionary praxis.

Further Reading

To read the story in full along with Julio Cortázar’s own lecture on the story check out LitHub’s article, “Julio Cortazar Teaches a class on his own short story.”

Works Cited

Abrams, M.H. and Geoffrey Galt Harpham. “Aestheticism.” A Glossary of Literary Terms. 10th ed. Boston: Wadsworth, 2012. 3-4.
Benjamin, Walter. “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” Illuminations: Essays and Reflections. Trans. Harry Zohn. New York: Schocken, 1968. 217-251.
————-. “The Storyteller.” Illuminations: Essays and Reflections. Trans. Harry Zohn. New York: Schocken, 1968. 83-109.
————-. “The Task of the Translator.” Illuminations: Essays and Reflections. Trans. Harry Zohn. New York: Schocken, 1968. 69-82.
————-. The Arcades Project. Trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1999.
Castro-Klarén, Sara. “Cortázar, Surrealism, and ‘Pataphysics.” Comparative Literature, Vol. 27, No. 3 (Summer, 1975), 218-236. JSTOR. Web. 22 March 2012.
Cortázar, Julio. “Apocalypse at Solentiname.” Trans. Nick Calstor. Index on Censorship, Vol. 8, No. 1, 1979. Google. Web. 3 April 2012.
————-. “Blow-Up.” Blow-Up and Other Stories. Trans. Paul Blackburn. New York:  Pantheon, 1967. 114-131.
————-. Interview with Jason Weiss. Writing at Risk: Interviews in Paris with Uncommon Writers. Iowa City: U of Iowa P, 1991. 39-56.
————-. “Politics and the Intellectual in Latin America.”  Trans. Mary E. Davis. Books Abroad, Vol. 50, No. 3 (Summer, 1976), 533-540. JSTOR. Web. 22 March 2012.
————-. “Some Aspects of the Short Story.” Trans. Naomi Lindstrom. Review of Contemporary Fiction, Vol. 3, No. 3 (Fall 1983), 25-37. EBSCO. Web. 22 March 2012.
————-. “The Fellowship of Exile.” Alltogether Elsewhere: Writers on Exile. Ed. Marc Robinson. Trans. John Incledon. Boston: Faber and Faber, 1994. 171-178.
Kelman, David. “The Afterlife of Storytelling: Julio Cortázar’s Reading of Walter Benjamin and Edgar Allan Poe.” Comparative Literature, Vol. 60, No. 3: 244-260. EBSCO. Web. 22            March 2012.
Lukács, Georg. History and Class Consciousness: Studies in Marxist Dialectics. Trans. Rodney Livingstone. Cambridge, MIT: 1971.
Moreiras, Alberto.  “‘Apocalypse at Solentiname’ as Heterological Production.” Julio Cortázar: New Readings. Ed. Carlos J. Alonso. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998. 157-182.
Pagano, Adrianna S. “On Official Histories and Subversive Pedagogies in Cortázar.” Translation and Power. Ed. Maria Tymoczko and Edwin Gentzler. Amherst: U of Massachusetts P, 2002. 80-98.
Russek, Dan. “Verbal/Visual Braids: The Photographic Medium in the Work of Julio Cortázar.” Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature. Winnipeg: Dec, 2004. Vol. 37, No. 4: 71-87. Literature Online. Web. 22 March 2012.
Tcherepashenets, Nataly. Place and Displacement in the Narrative Worlds of Jorge Luis Borges and Julio Cortázar. New York: Peter Lang, 2008.


While on Hiatus . . .

I’ve been on hiatus from writing book reviews for Pomp and Intertext, and I feel slightly guilty about it. I’ll admit, I’ve focussed my attention elsewhere, but only temporarily.

Recently, I’ve been volunteering to help with outreach and editorial assistance as well as writing for the Bosphorus Review of Books. The journal is so far the only English language literary journal located in Istanbul. My contributions there have included a book review on Achmat Dangor’s novella, Kafka’s Curse (May), and my most recent contribution, a book review on Yashar Kemal’s Memed, My Hawk (July).

Apart from that project, I’ve been focusing my attention on my biodiversity blog entitled Biodivvy.com. Even there, I’ve turned to books as an important inspiration for my writing.

Today, I’m trying to succinctly summarize a book-long history of modern Western ecological thought starting from the 18th century in response to the question:

“Why should we care if just one species goes extinct,

especially if it is no use to us?”

Presumably playing devil’s advocate, a friend posed the question to me. The question is compelling and has many possible responses, which is why I’ve turned to history for answers.

My gut reaction is, of course, “no species is an island” and that any one species’ decline has myriad consequences. However, some species may seem expendable, especially if we don’t notice the related symptoms of decline and imbalance, or if we don’t personally experience any consequences. For me, that response is ignorant, far too common, and indefensible, so I’m writing about it.

Natures EconomyThe history book is Nature’s Economy by Donald Worster. So far, I’ve introduced the contributions outlined in the book of Gilbert White (holism, as opposed to abstract, mechanistic scientific approaches) and Linnaeus (a hierarchy of interdependent species, “economic” limitations of food, range, and reproduction upon individual species, a benevolent utilitarian whole–in contrast to Hobbes’ vision of a natural system of war and carnage). Next, I’m onto Thoreau, then Darwin, then others . . . after I take a coffee break. Once I’m finished with this, I’ll write a separate post on Vandana Shiva’s book, Staying Alive, to fill in some of the gaps for the post-colonial and feminist approaches to ecology.

 I hope my blog will spread important knowledge in the manner of Freire a la Pedagogy of the Oppressed meaning, I want to distribute information horizontally–to put it into free, shareable terms, as many other knowledge-based platforms have already done successfully (i.e. Wikipedia–currently banned in Turkey). Though my blog is not specifically intended for a Turkish audience, I’m writing with fervor due to the stark reality that soon Turkish citizens will not even receive education about evolution, which is frightening!

I promise, I’ll return to Pomp and Intertext to focus on other compelling books and topics, ASAP.

Book Review: Octavia Butler’s Bloodchild and Other Stories

Book Cover, Bloodchild and Other Stories by Octavia Butler

Octavia Butler’s stories don’t advertise their original content from the outset. Nor do they presuppose a delight for science fiction. Of course, their bookstore-aisle categorization and Octavia Butler’s reputation as a preeminent writer of science fiction lead us to believe something with creatures, aliens, space, or magic could enter the story, but apart from that, the stories in Bloodchild and Other Stories generally begin in plain speech from an everyday, human perspective.

Picture of Octavia Butler from Aerogramme Writer's Studio

Picture of Octavia Butler from Aerogramme Writer’s Studio

We are provided details about the relationships of the narrators, with a voice that narrates the same way a person might describe their relationship to their mother or their uncle, for instance. The difference is that these relationships are not with human beings. The humans of her stories have familial bonds with giant millipedes that use humans in their parasitic birthing ritual (“Bloodchild”), plants dreamed up from elements of quantum physics that need human contact as if humans were their drugs (“Amnesty”), or other people who have conditions that make them so violent they will tear out loved ones’ eyes due to preconditioning as a result of experimental medication (“The Evening and the Morning and the Night”). In spite of these bizarre relationships, the untainted honesty and directness of her narrators makes even these odd scenarios relatable.

For this review, I will limit my discussion to these three stories, which left the strongest impression on me, personally.

Realization that the mother figure, T’Gatoi of “Bloodchild” is a giant millipede does’t fully picture into the narrative of the story until about twenty pages into the thirty one page story. We are given a rich sensory impression of her sounds and movements:

“She made a lot of little clicking sounds when she walked on bare floor, each limb clicking in succession as it touched down. Waves of little clicks. She came to the table, raised the front part of her body above it, and surged onto it. Sometimes she moved so smoothly she seemed to flow like water itself. She coiled herself into a small hill in the middle of the table and looked at me.”

Once we receive such vivid descriptions, we realize we had been waiting for them all along because as a way to build suspense, Butler seems to etch the feelings and situations of the humans first, before revealing the strangeness of their circumstances.


Courtesy of xfadingfastxxx on Deviant Art

The common thread in the stories within this collection is interdependence. Though the “others” within her stories, those gazed upon by the narrators, appear more powerful or dangerous, both parties have come to realize the mutual benefits of working together, in spite of the risk. Humans and millipedes are bound together. The narrators in the stories may be trying to convince others of this benefit (as in “Amnesty” and “The Evening and the Morning and the Night”), or they may be learning about it in a coming of age narrative of sorts (as in “Bloodchild”). The catch, however, is that mutual benefit does not come without sacrifice.

The element of sacrifice in the form of physical pain in Octavia Butler’s stories offer the reader an immediate visceral response. We are led to imagining the risk of a grub eating its human host from within and its forestalled conclusion by way of cutting open the stomach of the human without anesthetic and delivering the grub to its next host—a larger farm animal—until it grows to the size of the regular giant millipedes who keep the humans in check. We are led to imagine a creature made of a giant mass of floating plant-like fronds that form a unified sentient ‘community’ in “Amnesty” that has exposed the narrator’s body to brutal shock treatment with its electric parts. And we are led to imagine an unimaginable physical violence that entails tearing off limbs and taking out eyes. This violence is directed both towards the selves and others of characters with this condition which is brought on by intimacy in “The Evening and the Morning and the Night.” The mutual benefit for humans is that the only way to survive as a human species is by participating in such dangerous liaisons. The benefit of the ‘others’ is a preference for their normal human counterparts. Nevertheless, the immanent threat of these powerful invasive species (or conditions) has made humans’ self-sacrifice a physical burden and reality in these highly imaginative social configurations.    

In the Afterword of “Bloodchild,” Butler describes how her inspiration first came from a simple premise—male pregnancy. In addition, she was fascinated with the botfly found in South America that lays its eggs inside the flesh of an open wound on another creature, which grow until they eat their way out of the host and fly away. Mortified by this natural phenomena, she processed her fear in writing. Nature informs the thematic material of Octavia Butler’s fiction in this collection and in particular, her work provides imagined scenarios of humans engaged in symbiotic relationships.

There are three main variants of symbiotic relationships found in nature: mutualism, commensalism, and parasitism. Mutualism is described as “biological barter” in which a plant or animal species trades a service or resource with another plant or animal species. One example is the cleaning-service of the red-billed oxpecker which eats the ticks off its host’s back, such as that of an impala.

However, the oxpecker may also harm its host animal that has an open wound by widening and worsening the wound whose blood it drinks. Commensalism is a bond formed by a neutral benefit of one creature without causing benefit or harm to the other. Parasitism is of course a bond in which one organism binds itself to another in a way that harms the other. Butler uses the suspense of gradually revealing mutualism out of relationships that at first glance seem parasitic in her stories.

By extension, her stories promote a genuine understanding of a basic ecological principle: biodiversity.

By situating humans as the less powerful creature in a symbiotic relationship, she emphasizes our complicity in nature. Since the symbiotic pairings in her stories are easy to transpose as allegories for human interactions (in her afterword of “Bloodchild,” she complained that someone had misinterpreted it as a story of slavery), she draws out the oddly complicit and symbiotic phenomena that is also inherent to humanity that requires us to bridge social divisions. Though her stories incorporate imagined, unnatural phenomena, by way of symbiosis, she folds humans back into nature, rather than exempting us from it, with her fiction.

However, her stories also invite interpretation as visions that potentially detail the relationship of a black body to a white, or Western, “alien society.” Her narrators are usually female and described as having dark skin, somewhere in the middle of their narratives. It is never a pronounced description, as emotional and perceptive descriptions are offered more weight than descriptions of physical appearance, but it offers a subtle, important gesture. It helps the reader to recognize that Octavia Butler is indeed writing about her own experience, her own reality. However, this analysis gives way to more specific investigations brought on within Butler’s fiction.

I was particularly struck by parallels to institutionalization in “The Evening and the Morning and the Night.” Like prisoners or mental patients, the participants in the institutionalized system in which characters carrying a genetic disorder bear social markers that prevent them from going unnoticed. They must wear special restrictive garments. The genetic disorder, which triggers violent behavioral disorders, is furthermore the result of medical testing on humans. Only inside a special building where they respond to the pheromones of the female “warden” who is inspired by the “queen bee” found in nature, can the people with the genetic disorder live without restriction. There, they’re left to work with their hands to make art. Her characters in this story participate in a system that does not grant them the liberty of free will and her characters must begrudgingly accept this reality and make the best of it.

By applying the authoritarian role of a queen bee to her story (in place of a warden-like figure), Octavia Butler reorganizes the typically patriarchal power relationships in an institutionalized settings. Furthermore, the characters who are invited to see this phenomenon are wary of the dynamic, but they, too, soon recognize they would benefit from it, as it provides a safer environment. The idea of a beneficial institutionalization is borne out of a perfect merger of ideas from nature and institutionalization in this story. I find it interesting that Butler is able to shed light on our complicity in perpetuating such institutions, while offering a refreshing remix of the power dynamics and causes (criminality or mental instability) it hinges on.

Furthermore, her story displaces the blame upon the subjects participating inside the institution because it comes from a pre-existing condition derived from an external cause. Likewise, PTSD or infantile drug addiction displace the blame upon people with behavioral disorders in society, since it is known to have been derived from an earlier source for which society, not the individual, is to blame. It is this perspective that she seems to highlight of bondage to conditions derived from socially induced causes. Reading “The Evening and the Morning and the Night” in this light reminded me of people with conditions as drug-test patients, military service, or even institutionalized racism.    

The unnatural physical harm of human torture, which we may mentally but not viscerally understand, is etched with precision in Butler’s story, “Amnesty.” In this story, the humans are more treacherous than the invasive species. Her story combines the social, emotional, and physical dimensions of torture in a way I had not fully conceived of prior to reading the story. At the end of the story, she gives a brief afterward, which informs us that her story is based on the experience of Wen Ho Lee, a Taiwanese-born scientist at Los Alamos nuclear laboratory. I was not aware of his experiences, prior to reading her fictional story. His life experience, by proxy, led to accusations that he was a spy collecting and transferring classified weapons information to China. However, none of the accusations held any weight upon full investigation. In fact, they way the FBI interrogated him was to psychologically manipulate him in order to get a confession, which is now considered a point of misconduct by the FBI.

Drawing us into allegories of geopolitical power plays, we understand that her story “Amnesty” offers a valid critique of sanctioned torture and offers an interpretation of the role of Wen Ho Lee as a scientist obtaining classified information as a pursuit motivated at least in part by curiosity, rather than ill-will. The story’s description of the alien “communities” as a conglomerate of individuals matches our assumptions about the collective nature of communist China with its massive population, but on the contrary, it could also reflect the many mysterious open ended questions and elements of Wen Ho Lee’s story. A conglomerate of independent clues that does not seem to amount to a united identity.    

Finally, without Butler’s afterwords, I never would have been able to draw these interpretive conclusions. In this sense, her afterwords serve as useful guides for making connections between her stories and the real world. She is generous to her readers, whether they themselves are practitioners of the art of storytelling or social critics. She offers the beauty of transparency, knowing that it does not harm her highly original from the threat of mimicry. Indeed, this is a sign of a truly successful artist. Her art does not reveal cheap tricks of the imagination nor does it become vulnerable to the threat of plagiarism when she grants us clues to the inception of the work. On the contrary, it is strengthened by her willful generosity.    




Book Review: Maggie Nelson’s Bluets


Although Maggie Nelson is more popular for her “genre-bending” book, “The Argonauts,” I recently had a chance to read her earlier poetry book “Bluets.” In an attempt to revive my hobby of writing literary commentary as I previously have for “The Cave” by Jose Saramago and Walter Benjamin’s article, “A Berlin Chronicle,” I chose a book that came from an independent publisher, offered a unique combination of prose and poetry and relied on the concept of theme and variation.

Published by Wave Books in 2006, this book of prose poems invites responses as varied as the material it contains. This is revealed by her fans’ and critics’ comments on Goodreads: “Dippy.” “Evocative.” “Borderline humorless.” “Filled with life.” Nevertheless, the resounding opinion from her readers is positive, as it has received 4.3 stars. For me, the almost-cluttered material of the book promises too much. It promises to divulge a love affair with the color blue, but instead results in a semi-confessional narrative about a less-than-glamorous personal sexual relationship. I emphasize sex, because the book is preoccupied with sex. Yet, somehow the sex and feeling of the book never seem to intersect. Allusions to a mysterious quality of blue as their supposed point of crossing never fully suffice. In fact, the stronger feeling the book projects is one of the author’s inadequacy to fulfill her desire for intimacy with either her lover or her color. They are always mediated through too much clutter or “detritus” as she refers to it, to allow the feelings in the book to linger.

At times while I was reading, rich feeling comes through in the sensational descriptions of color as a phenomenon of shimmering light. These descriptions are mediated by memorable references to other author’s inquiries into color. At times, the feeling of light and color almost oozes out of the pages. Darkness is also included to frame the concept of color by way of Stanza 73., when Nelson describes Newton’s discovery of the spectrum in a “dark chamber” with an aperture through which to refract sunlight. This technical description is betrayed for a seemingly arbitrarily planted tangent—that the assistant may have been a rhetorical fiction. The meta-plane of textuality is never far from reach. In stanza 130., Nelson writes “We cannot read the darkness. We cannot read it. It is a form of madness, albeit a common one, that we try.” This smacks of mystical religiosity in a way that is buttressed by the not-so-subtle name-dropping of “God” twenty-five times in ninety-five pages. Yet, I found that such attempts at feeling, meaning, depth and “naming the unnameable” never let me immerse myself enough to escape the sense that this work is a “project,” and as such, its mysticism felt prescribed.   

For instance, throughout her writing process, she receives shipments of blue objects by friends who she calls her “blue correspondents” and she also applies for grants to travel abroad to seek out blue, though she never receives one. This marks an instance when she must merely default to what she deems common as much as she’d prefer to escape it. Nelson introduces the French word bluets only to later discover its English counterpart: a common cornflower. Just like other English flower names such as amaryllis or calla lily, the name cornflower offers less of a cue for the senses than the name bluets does. This sense that common things are inadequate may not have been an intended theme, but it can be observed repeatedly throughout the book.

It promises to show the process of falling in love with a color. The first of the numbered paragraphs says: “Suppose I were to speak this as though it were a confession; suppose I shredded my napkin as we spoke. It began slowly. An appreciation, an affinity. Then, one day, it because more serious.” I never got the sense of any gradual change in the text other than the sea change that comes from demystifying a topic. We are lead from descriptions of bluets to cornflowers, from the discovery of the spectrum to collections of blue detritus. By the end of the book, it is clear that the romance has faded. Otherwise, the mere presence of numbered paragraphs grants the pages an artificial progression.

Nelson suggests she is keen on “having three orifices stuffed full of thick, veiny cock” in one self-satisfied diatribe (62) against Puritanism. She teases us with the suggestion that she’ll give us access to her feelings about sex. But later, she offers little more than a cold, graphic fuck for a description of her lover. There are no names, no faces, no histories, no details about him given. The only information granted is that she is willingly sleeping with someone who has an open relationship with at least one other person, which she seems to resent. In fact, Nelson displaces the underlying longing for this character by erasing him as character and drowning him in pull quotes of well-known male icons like Newton, Andy Warhol, Goethe, and Wittgenstein. In that sense, the project seems to be grounded in a feeling of longing or misery that is intrinsically linked to this lover, but unwilling to articulate him as character. Instead, she meanders through thoughts on the color blue.

It feels like a passive aggressive near-confession meant to derive some revenge. Perhaps this revenge is taken upon the object of desire in the text—the male fucker with too many female prospects who is personified as a bowerbird in one part of the text (68). Perhaps her form of revenge is publication. In this sense, it has an interesting mixture of intimation and intimidation.

The sex is too loud, the science of color is too contrastingly stiff, and the collection of ‘blue’ anecdotes is, in fact, strikingly bare. Let’s consider some of the well-known blue referents not mentioned: the nazar (evil eye) pervasive in Turkey, the Greek flag and the color of the Greek Orthodox Church, Picasso’s blue period (perhaps briefly mentioned when she describes “The Blue Guitar”), the American Blues tradition (whose main proponent in the text is Billy Holiday), the films of the Three Colors Trilogy directed by Krzysztof Kieslowski, one of which is Blue, Blue Monday, and even (with so many references to other thinkers from this time period and region of the world) Der Blaue Reiter. Yet, her status as a professor and her female loneliness are glaring as if to send a fatal warning to anyone who dare enter into the evocative promises of the text. She proclaims an urgent need to be revered for this work of academic gesturing (or else!). It smacks of privilege in the sense that the poetics are demanding as if her project “deserves” some empathy from us, the readers.

Another character is in the hospital, being cared for by the narrator. Yes, in addition to collecting blue pull quotes and ephemera, she tends to an aging friend. This is perhaps the most sympathetic relationship drawn of the narrator as opposed to the narrator as professor (whose idiot students can’t understand Gertrude Stein), the narrator as lover (whose object of love is not worthy of characterization), or the narrator as reader (whose readings really only encompass the supposed greats of the Western Canon with minor cameo appearances of ‘other’ figures). Apart from these markers of an elevated status, she is a caregiver, who marvels at the color of her sick friend’s feet. She almost heeds the warning offered by this woman: your relationship is “morbid.” However, admitting to such a denunciation would derail not only her relationship, but also her project-based text.

Surprisingly, I felt that the text was drowning in tropes of ‘maleness’ and a problem of gender seems to be at the core. The text leaves us wondering—is she the damsel in distress, is this a captivity narrative, or is this a female warrior asserting her prowess? However, when she describes a longing to be “subsumed into a tribe of blue people” or the “Tuareg, which means ‘abandoned by God,’” the problem of gender dissembles to one worthy of postcolonial criticism. She has the gall to justify this “exoticism” by claiming that she’s not the only one to share in this fantasy. This “Western” inescapable desire triggers the sort of spice-box nostalgia for the British Empire and other heart-of-darkness themes that eliminate any further possibility to read her evocative text without a grain of salt. An underlying problem of whiteness also appears to linger in the folds of the text.

While comparing itself to a confession at the start of the book, the most convincing revelation is the unnerving forthrightness of this woman to assert her Western privilege and academic status with such unabashed caprice. After this striking incapacity to sort through the implications of her own text—which is one that is composed on the binary pillars of savagery and civilization, striking chords of mysticism for the former, and encyclopedic referencing for the latter, her appropriation of the term blue from African American music is all the more glaring. When she incorporates the most well-known female jazz singer, Billy Holliday, as if to announce the elephant in the room—the appropriation of an American theme hailing from African Americans, which she refuses to otherwise address, I was left starving for the real blues, not her clever French bluets.

Meanwhile, this sideswiping of a tradition is structured through a range of distracting measures meant to delude us into believing she is confessing something personal. And by that, I only mean personal-according-to-the-custom-of-an-American-literary-and-aesthetic-tradition. Much of the thematic material feels like academic (or poetic? or literary?) posturing. At no point while reading the text did I get the sense that I’ve actually read anything intentionally revealing about the narrator. Her collection of material stirs up varied impressions that stem from avoidance of the central dilemma—the self-proclaimed “Western” coldness of the text.

In another color-themed artistic endeavor, several years ago, artist Anish Kapoor got exclusive rights to the Vantablack pigment the “blackest black.” Equally pretentious as it is superlative, Anish Kapoor made his “work” exclusive as a means to give it some kind of longevity. Likewise, Maggie Nelson’s text practices the art of restraint more than it practices revelation, offering up a kind of exclusive set of inquiries that are probably only scratching the surface of a larger whole. No purchase or patience could grant us that access. Even the mentions of drunkenness, dope, and booze feel like textual placeholders to signify “depth of experience.” In the end, the overwrought text generally diffuses any connection between signifier and signified so thoroughly that all we’re left with is a medley of self-conscious efforts at artistry in which the effort remains more pronounced than the artistry. Her complete dissatisfaction for the familiar is marked with an excessive desire to find “exoticism” throughout her daily life with a forcefulness. In addition to an underlying sense of inadequacy, the text projects a sense that she wishes to take power, conquer and divide the winnings of her daily life—as a form of sweet revenge.    

What do we call this book? Textual collage, chapbook, novel-in-verse? Clearly her efforts at elevated meaning are driven by researching a theme and its variations. We are pulled into a medley of linguistic and philosophical tropes. We can easily break the text down into its parts. Firstly, it contains signature blue objects: tarps, lapis lazuli, tuareg, garbage bags, blue light. Then, to make even further use of numbers than her own numbering system, I used the search function in my Kindle. There are 25 mentions of God, 16 mentions of Goethe, and 100 instances of blue in the text—achieving absolute numerical and textual stasis. Her own awareness of the potential inability of her leaflet to take flight is brought up in Stanza 226: “I thought I had collected enough blue to build a mountain, albeit one of detritus. But it seems to me now as if I have stumbled upon a pile of thin blue gels scattered on the stage long after the show has come and gone; the set, striked.” Drawing upon a well-known literary trope, she likens the text to a theatrical performance. Perhaps this is one last effort to avoid complicity in an otherwise problematic text.

Why is Ecology pushed to the Margins of Literary Criticism?

People often push the importance of ecology for literary writers to the margins. While the field of Ecocriticism exists to study this particular intersection, I feel that certain writers warrant their ecological concern to play a more prominent role in the way critics write about them.

Margaret Atwood’s wikipedia entry describes her as a Canadian poet, novelist, literary critic, essayist, and environmental activist, with “environmental activist” conspicuously listed last. Her various roles are also listed as if her environmental concerns and her literary are discreet parts of her oeuvre, operating independently of one another. However, considering the thematic content of her recent works such as Oryx and Crake and Surfacing and the artistic projects she has developed, it is clear that ecological thought, as a philosophical world-view, motivates her writing in an essential way. Her legacy will be skewed in this regard, in that critics will continue to diminish the essential role that an awareness of nature plays in her literary praxis. The same is true for other authors.

An obvious example of an author whose work fundamentally derives from natural observations is Henry David Thoreau. His literary texts are clearly shaped in both form and content by the experience of living his solitary existence on Walden Pond. What is less known about his legacy as a thinker is that he made a substantial scientific contribution to our understanding of ecological succession. By observing the strange patterns of tree growth after clear cuts took place in which pine trees would grow up after oaks had been cleared, he developed a theory of tree succession in his text, The Succession of Forest Trees. This text gave farmers and later scientists important insights about how seed dispersal is dependent upon the interactions of other organisms such as squirrels who carried seeds. His scientific and literary approach both equally contributed to this breakthrough and this historical episode is being highlighted by theorists of the Nature of Science. However, this scientific contribution is overshadowed by his other literary work in which people often give undue emphasis to the humanistic elements rather than his environmental insights.

Vladimir Nabokov was another naturalist whose etymological insights as a butterfly collector led to a later proven theory of the evolution of blue butterflies. Furthermore, his vast amounts of time spent in nature contributed to his insights about aesthetic mimicry which play prominently throughout some of his most famous works such as Pale Fire. His engagement with nature played a crucial role in his literary production.

Many contemporary authors including Margaret Atwood, Ursula K. Leguin, and Arundhati Roy have turned their full attention to using their literary influence as a platform for environmental activism. After Roy’s publication of the critically acclaimed novel, “God of the Small Things, she has written mostly nonfiction that has criticized the Indian government for militarization and the construction of large scale nuclear energy plant and dam. Her political activism essay writing is intrinsically connected to both social and environmental concerns which are both inseparable from the experience of the landless poor in India.

Likewise, Ursula K. Leguin has written essays that defend the central significance of ecology as a concern of the left and Margaret Atwood is also an active member of the Canadian Green Party and an honorary president of the Rare Bird Club division of BirdLife International.

Reading these author’s work alongside other ecologically inspired writers can reveal a cohesive set of literary interests based on natural history and its role in society. Such significance depends on their experiences and observations of the environment.

In most of these cases, environmental activism is fueled by the experience of spending valuable time observing the natural environment, which forms not only the subjective material of the writing, but also an underlying ecologically-aware worldview. Such a view may not be in direct opposition to other economic, political or religious world views, but it often supersedes those concerns. In a Guardian Interview, Margaret Atwood dramatically described the greater significance of natural constraints to those of human rights:

The trouble with politicians [at events like the Copenhagen summit of 2009] is that no one wants to go first, go skinny dipping and take the plunge. Oh, and then you have people arguing about fatuous things like the environment and human rights. Go three days without water and you don’t have any human right. Why? Because you’re dead. Physics and chemistry are things you just can’t negotiate with. These, these are the laws of the physical world.

Margaret Atwood seems to have developed an understanding that the inclusive framework of the natural world should be our primary plane of inquiry, whereas other systems have a tendency to ignore or distract from this already-existing system.

This privilege for ecology need not be antagonistic towards technology or a modern/futuristic society, as Ursula K. Le Guin’s futuristic novels reveal. Instead, she feels that technological advances that are compatible with natural phenomena are this that we, as humankind, should privilege. In her recent essay about Murray Bookchin, who is known for his famous essay, “Ecology and Revolution,” Le Guin describes his urban social and technological perspective the future of the political left, a contribution which surprised the journal editors who published it. I think this surprise derives from an inability to take authors’ environmentalist “side projects” seriously as an essential element of their work.

I don’t personally know much about Murray Bookchin’s ideas yet, but from this article in Jacobin, I learned that his work has had an influence in my current region of the world (Turkey) within the movement to free Kurdistan.

Overall, I believe the only way to fully honor these literary figures through criticism is by conceiving of their legacy as situated within a tradition that bridges natural history, ethics and literature.


TSA Mistakenly Suspects Me

Egyptian airport security - Imgur

I incidentally left Istanbul, where I live and work, on the day of the terrorist attack at the Atatürk International airport (June 28th). My flight departed at 6am, and the attack occurred at 9pm. I left for a vacation comprised of numerous one-way tickets to random west-coast destinations like Anchorage, Seattle, and San Francisco to visit different family members and friends. My longer flights have also had layovers. Naturally, I’m being held suspect by TSA. In Rome, before the incident even happened, I was patted down and called in for special screening at the security check-point. I had to answer questions about the nature of my travel from Istanbul. I explained that I live and work in Istanbul as a teacher for the SAT and IELTS and I showed them my work visa. My Minneapolis flight gave me similar results. However, nothing compared with the airport treatment I received in Anchorage on my way to Seattle, in the middle of my visit home, yesterday (July 7th). 

It started at the baggage checking point. Since I had extra time, I tried to get information from my Delta representative about the status of my flight back to Istanbul which includes a flight path Delta has not been servicing since April (JFK in NYC to Istanbul). This change had occurred before the recent terrorist attack and I had already tried following up about it twice already. The first time I spoke on the phone for a long time to a Delta representative, but the follow-up email of an alternate flight never came. The second time, I was purged from the line after a forty minute wait on hold. Today, I started out inquiring about the status of my return flight as I was checking luggage to fly to visit my sister in Seattle. The first representative checked my flight in the back room of the Delta office and then returned with the details of my flight, an explanation that there was no information on file about the flight, but the original one had been cancelled. He also had a phone number for me to call about international reservations to find out more info. I asked to speak to a manager in hopes that I could solve the problem and understand the status of my flight with a face-to-face conversation rather than calling over the phone. 

After a long wait for the “manager” to come out, a pert looking woman with straightened silver hair approached me. She explained that there was nothing she could do, and that the other rep had already done everything possible. I retorted that he had not called the number he had given me on my behalf. I persisted, since I felt it was the company’s responsibility to give me a clearer answer and I also explained that I didn’t want to be put on hold for forty minutes to solve this issue. The pert woman called me ‘difficult’ and claimed that as the customer it was my responsibility to follow up by calling that phone number myself.

When, if ever, from the perspective of good customer service is it the customer’s foremost responsibility to hold a company accountable, when a company should work to please and retain a customer?

I asked if she could call it for me, but she was unwilling to make the extra effort. Eventually, she left for the back office again and after I waited for several more minutes, she returned with a flight number from Air France that was apparently my replacement ticket. She claimed that it was no longer Delta’s responsibility and that I should follow up with Air France. The logic is of course absurd, since my original ticket was purchased through Delta, which I still hold responsible for the fate of my return journey. To make matters worse, she again accused me of being difficult, and waived me off, like a fly. I walked away irritated, but happy to have some additional information to follow up on (again). I simply want to ensure that I can get back to Istanbul before August 1st, when my existing work visa will expire as I wait for my next work visa to be processed, which is why I pressed the issue.

Next, I had the ordeal of being targeted by the TSA (again). You’d think that after several instances of having my person thoroughly screened, TSA would have the panache to waive my record of presumed malice. When I got to the first security check-point, I could tell that Anchorage wasn’t used to dealing with “terrorists” like me and brought over six security agents in full uniform. They had to clear and designate a central security aisle just for me and guide me through my rights. On this flight, I happened to be carrying a tote-bag full of children’s garments to deliver from one niece to another such as hand-me-down princess dresses along with my backpack filled with books and my electronic devices. I had the gall to warn them that I did not want this to result in the confiscation of my laptop, which had happened to someone I knew on Facebook. They apologetically assured me that it would not happen to me. When they asked me to turn on my aging laptop, I had to explain that sometimes I need to use the cord because it doesn’t have enough battery power to light itself up. This initiated a group discussion among me and four security agents about what to do. Ultimately, I tested my laptop and it auspiciously lighted up. 

Then, I was basically used as a TSA Guinea pig for trainee security agents who were learning how to properly and gingerly pat me down and scan each and every pink blanket and stuffed animal I had with me. I asked them why it was necessary to do this to me at each airport since it happened in Rome and Minneapolis, too. They said I was probably flagged.’ The joke is on them this time, since they spent about fifteen minutes searching though sparkling toddler-sized sneakers, finding nothing incriminating. I did feel proud to be carrying a Naomi Klein book, “The Shock Doctrine,” that criticizes the excess of private security organizations that have been called in to expand the government’s industry that apparently fights a “war on terror.” From my perspective, an excess of uniformed officials without clear answers due to an overly complex chain of command merely seems to fuel more terror. Later, my name was called again to have my passport checked at the desk of the boarding agent, and finally another red light went off when my ticket was scanned. I got in the habit of just flashing my passport instantly at every stage of the boarding process with a smug look on my face. 

However, apart from any benefit that these screenings did for the public to unnecessarily protect against me, we should recognize that this treatment of unnecessary searches and seizures of property generates discontent. We cannot deny that discontent is a clear byproduct of “security measures.” Furthermore, I personally feel that the discontent I experienced could have and should have been avoided. Not only am I already discontent due to having witnessed the city I live in be dampened by mourning following the wake of a tragic attack on terror, but I am also discontent due to the inadequacy of security systems. Security agents trust their equipment’s judgment so much that they wouldn’t be able to tell a rose from a bomb, by smell.   

Of course, I’m also upset with the system that operates under the guise of “efficiency” according to the TSA website, since clearly there were no need for so many attendants to service my perceived threat: 

Security Screening

TSA has evolved from a one-size-fits-all security screening approach to a risk-based, intelligence-driven strategy designed to improve both security and the passenger experience. This approach permits us to provide expedited screening for trusted travelers and to focus on high-risk and unknown passengers at security checkpoints.

TSA officers may use risk-based security measures to identify, mitigate and resolve potential threats at the airport security checkpoint. These officers may ask you questions about your travel to include identity, travel itinerary and property. TSA may use a variety of screening processes, including random screening, regardless of whether an alarm is triggered. In addition, TSA uses unpredictable security measures throughout the airport and no individual is guaranteed expedited screening.

I don’t quite agree with the statement that TSA uses “unpredictable security measures.” For instance, now that I have been flagged as a “high-risk” traveller, the continued screenings have become quite predictable. However, the part of my experience that I have particular qualms with is the fact that under no circumstances should someone be surrounded by six security guards without concrete cause for suspicion. Nor should I have been ushered through like a celebrity, attracting everyone’s attention, heightening the communal sense of suspicion around the airport. Such actions provoke a sense of danger, rather than subdue it. 

The excess of security applied to me, personally, has assured me that we do live in a world of “big-government” the same kind that republican tea-partiers warn against. The problem is that they always seem to exclude defense or security from their austerity measures, choosing to apply it liberally to things like education and social security. It is this preference for precaution against random terror incidents at the expense of precautions against the assured pitfalls of ignorance and aging that makes me cringe. I especially feel this way when any of my relatives or other republican-minded acquaintances start waxing nostalgic about the virtues of independence from government control. They don’t realize that the supposed status quo of independence that they defend does not exist. We are living under lock down. 

Another issue I have is the suspicion that my Delta representative may have been the one to “flag” me this time, since this flight is not directly associated with my travel from Istanbul. If that were the case, any ill-willed employee could hijack the entire security system to perform their own disruptive “counter-terror” measures at the whim of their mood. Yet, I’m not sure that that is the case, so I won’t pursue this complaint further.

Since I am old enough to remember airports before 9/11 when liquids were just liquids, I reminisce about the simplicity of old-school security. We didn’t even need passports flying across the border of Mexico in my dad’s Cessna (just birth certificates) and we passed by with loads of souvenirs stuffed in the cargo that must have bored the border patrol attendant to death, if they bothered to search them. With grandma aboard, we were the perfect cover for something more illicit than family fishing trips to La Paz, I’m sure. Now, however, second-hand sparkling shoes for toddlers are potential threats if you travel anywhere from the Middle East. An entire region is targeted, in spite of the worse threat of crime by average pedestrians in the U.S. compared to Turkey. For instance, in 2016, Turkey ranked 75th for a crime index compared to the U.S. which ranked 45th. The crime index measures the overall level of crime in a given country. 

On a positive note, there is a way for people who don’t wish to engage in illicit conduct to be “pre-checked” by TSA. Since it involves a wait and a scheduled interview, I probably won’t be able to manage it during my trip, though. 

Notes on Bathos

I’d like to take you on an intertextual journey of bathos. To begin with, let’s get a working definition of bathos. A google search of the definition comes up with this:

noun: bathos

  1. (especially in a literary work) an effect of anticlimax created by an unintentional lapse in mood from the sublime to the trivial or ridiculous.
    “his epic poem has passages of almost embarrassing bathos”
  • Origin: Greek

    mid 17th century (first recorded in the Greek sense): from Greek, literally ‘depth’. The current sense was introduced by Alexander Pope in the early 18th century.

Alexander Pope made the term famous by writing a parodic style guide for bad poetry entitled Peri Bathous, regressing intentionally from the ancient guide for sublime poetry entitled Peri Hypnous.

Recently, in response to Donald Trump’s outrageous demands for “unqualified praise” from reporters, Alexandra Petri of the Washington Post created her own “bathetic” style guide for Trump coverage in the news.

Point #3 of Petri’s guide is a bathetic allusion to Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”:

3. Does Donald Trump contradict himself? Very well; he contradicts himself. Donald Trump is large. Donald Trump contains multitudes.

The lines from “Song of Myself” read:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)


Arguably, Whitman’s own lines are an “omnisexual” bathetic allusion to the bible, perhaps to “Song of Solomon”, which has been described as perhaps the sexiest, most conspicuously “queer” book of the bible. A comparison of the two “Songs” is made here.

I’ve opted to make a slightly less elegant allusion than Petri has in a similar bathetic allusion to lines from “Song of Myself”:

Donald Trump too is not a bit tamed, he too is untranslatable,
He sounds his barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.


Pope with his bathos and Whitman with his free-verse were two poets who willfully challenged poetic traditions. A poem I once wrote willfully merges the freedom of Whitman and anticlimax of Pope in my own “Song of…” poem.

My poem is entitled “Song of Sandwich.” The poem’s sex symbolism comes from my rendering of the sandwich as a symbol of the vagina. I try to make jabs at patriarchal and poetical attempts to “trump” women’s choice, discourse, etc (although you may have to “undress” the language to find these jabs).

Before I give you the text of this poem, however, I shall divert you to another quip I made about Trump via Twitter in relation to this sandwich theme:

By clicking on the link in my tweet, you’ll find a lively rebuttal by arrantpedantry.com of Merriam Webster’s “definitional meaning” of hotdog, stating that instead, meaning should be derived from use. Therefore, for all intents and purposes there is no such thing as:

Genus: Sandwich, Species: Hotdog

nor can we establish the following claim:

Genus: Politician, Species: Donald Trump

Octopi (I assume), Hotdogs, and Trump are to remain taxonomic anomalies.

Now, I present you the ultimate anticlimax of this post!

“Song of Sandwich” by Erica Eller

Until the night shall cometh, I’ve several little squares
Of cheese inside my sandwich, I won’t offer to share–
This is my reward for stretching dollars ’till they tear.
Says one cheese to the other (why must I overhear):
“I’m not about to tell you, and neither would you dare
write minor reportage about this underwear
I’d rather not abort, nor am I an au pair!”
A minor correspondence crawls out into the air
From a phallic ‘wich, though rowdy is its hair
purges mayo at its crust, as if it didn’t belong in there
My nemesis is meaning, but it seeps inside the lair
of every poet’s dreaming who ever had a spare
word to lace a paper–rolled, lit and inhaled just to impair
the sharp blade of the morning, the deep bliss in the stare
of Mona or Madonna, Magdalena or Cher
If this doesn’t have a subject, you know, neither did Seidel
But this has a smaller budget and I don’t write as well.
Imploring for a subject, look how flat I fell!
But words still sing so swell–
yes, words still sound so rare
When they find their proper pair–
Swelling oceans have a moment
Of pause before they break
Couldn’t call you on the phone
Or invite you for a steak
I couldn’t quite afford it
When all I had was this–
A lingering abyss–
Leave it there to rot, now
Leave it there to write
The lines of how Kraft singles
And Wonderbread unite
The voices in a sandwich,
They call me an absurdist–
but I think I heard them wrong,
I thought they said an artist.
In the mirror, I gazed at it so long,
It never had occurred to me
That myself and I could belong
to the archives of our longing
The poet’s names who stack so high
All fingering their “ladies” 
No mothers asking why
They haven’t swallowed coffee
Or drunk all of their tea
Or took to Law of Murphy
They’re so filled up with sea
Sea water in their salty tears
Hot air in their lies
A crab or two down under
A carcass hosting flies
We know that our lineage of poets
Would rather shore up guys
I’ve only an addiction
to making mess of this:
the art we’re so attuned to–
I sing you streams of piss

Brock Turner vis a vis Leland Stanford: A Tradition of Western Colonization

Brock Turner, his numerous letters of parental and social support, and the details of his rape that continue to surface are sickening reminders of a tradition of a colonizing white male superiority complex that promotes racism and the collusion between government, industry and white men that includes the founder of Stanford University, himself: Leland Stanford. As a star athlete for a university team whose mascot was formerly “the Indian,” Brock Turner and his court case symbolically reminds us on many levels that the exertion of physical strength or its evil twin–brute force–over marginal people’s bodies, whether they are women, natives, or any other variant, amounts to the destructive colonization of minds and bodies.

An excellent compilation of the various permutations of Leland Stanford’s endorsement and involvement in Western expansion via the extermination of hundreds of thousands of Native Americans has been compiled here.

Leland Stanford’s contribution to the rape, pillage and extermination policy of California is probably more extensive than most people would like to assume. Notably, we can recall that Leland Stanford arrived to California during the Gold Rush. The native population in 1840 was about 400,000 and just 60 years later, it was just 16,000. What led to such a rapid decline? Several factors:

  1. The mainstream public support in the media, government and legal system for extermination as the best “solution” to the tensions between races. Stanford, who became governor of California in 1861 and later served in the senate for 8 years was complicit in this support.
  2. The vast influx of newcomers from the east was accelerated by the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad in 1969. Stanford was one of the four primary tycoons of the railroad and together they managed to create a monopoly by dominating the shipping industry of California as well. Their monopolizing business practices led to an economic “bust” or recession following the boom of the gold rush.
  3. Natives could be purchased and sold as slaves and they were also forced to live on reservations.

One particularly significant historic incident that serves as a reminder of the colonizing tradition of brutality in the West and the moral corruption that promotes physical violence towards women is the Wiyot Massacre of 1860 which occurred on February 26th.

The Wiyots, a native tribe of about 2000 people lived near Humboldt California. A day before the massacre, the tribe had gathered for their annual World Renewal Ceremony, a thousand years old tradition for the tribe in which they asked the creator’s blessing for the people and land in the coming year. This ceremony had begun just three days after the purchase of the island by German engineer Robert Gunther. A militia group of roughly 5 men in the mining community decided to raid the island and using their mining tools, bash in the skulls of the natives. They chose this method to avoid the sound. When the island was cleared of the some 60-80 bodies, it was discovered that only women, children and the elderly had been murdered because the men had gone to gather supplies for the ceremony. Just one surviving baby remained.

Bret Harte, who would later become a member of the literati of the west and a founding member of the Bohemian Club, was temporarily serving as editor to the local newspaper and condemned the incident. He then received death threats from the anonymous mob of attackers. He left the town for San Francisco thereafter. Incidentally one of his most famous stories, “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” surrounds the story of a baby found by a pack of anti-feminist miners who decide to attempt to raise the baby in the purposeful absence of women. A grand jury was called following the massacre, but no one was indicted, although the male attackers were known as the “Humboldt Volunteers, second brigade.” The newspapers in the region typically condoned such actions as necessary for the expansionist land acquisition by the United States government.

So, how does this incident relate to Brock Turner’s rape? Like this mob, Brock Turner attacked a woman while she was asleep. Furthermore, the failure of law enforcement to adequately address the seriousness of the crime, reveals an apologetic tendency in our justice system. The mob-mentality of the attack on the natives aligns with Brock’s case since he is cited for sending photographs of the body of his female victim to a group of his friends. Lastly, the letters of apology and defense of Brock by his family members and friends parallel the newspapers which denied expressions of remorse over the event. The only difference in this case, is there is huge public outcry against Brock Turner and the complicit responses of his judge and his family members. Whereas Bret Harte had to turn away from his stance of public resistance, the public sphere is admirably speaking up. In my own attempt to speak out, I wish to revise our emotional use of the word “monster” to the more appropriate description of Brock Turner as a “colonizer” as a means to target the root of such aggression in society.

Furthermore, like Leland Stanford was in his time, Brock Turner is a member of the present-day colonizing class as a student of investment banking, known for highly risky speculative business practices worldwide. Global banking has contributed to numerous aggressive policies that promote the global acquisition of resources by colonizing multinational corporations. Brock Turner’s rape is a microcosm of the vast system of violence towards lands and marginalized peoples. A symbolic detail that is reminiscent of this is the fact that bits of earth and soil had lodged inside the victim’s vagina. Brock Turner has not only defiled his victim’s body, but the land of his own campus, while contributing to a history of such actions.

Confusion of Origins: Notes on Historical Approaches to Puritanism


What makes a writer attach themselves to a subject, particularly a historical subject? Is it a way to frame contemporary experience, in light of the experience, words, and actions of others who are somehow perceived as part of a lineage? Or is it a way to seek redemption, inspire the future, isolate the past from the contemporary moment, or enrich our flattened understanding? Is it a desire to find a missing part of ourselves?

I have thought about this question a lot, since whenever people ask me about my literary thesis project – what made me drawn to the topic of my thesis on Susan Howe’s interest in Antinomianism (the radical use of evangelizing rhetoric by Anne Hutchinson of the Boston Massachusetts Colony to resist judgement by her community before being ousted by the elders of the Puritan community to the wilderness) – or what makes me currently drawn to Frances Fuller Victor – a historian of Oregon writing in the mid-nineteenth century who cast doubt on the “predestination” of westward expansion – I cannot come up with a clear, or personally viable answer. There is a bit of confusion about my decision to concentrate on certain material and the nature of my approach.

Today, I will shift my attention away from personal inquiry to question the motivations of several authors whose work attaches itself to Protestant religious belief systems as origins for any number of contemporary phenomena including capitalism, American mainstream identity, or racism.

For instance, Max Weber’s famous thesis in The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism suggests that a “spirit” of capitalism is inherent to protestant values, specifically of the English Calvinist tradition (the precursor to Puritanism) based on the notions of a “calling” and “predestination” which could suggest that material wealth was a sign of salvation. This topic is still questioned, as the American business class (see this article in Forbes) may find an ideological use for asserting Puritanism as its original ideological guide. Weber’s work was particularly influential for the thinkers of the Frankfurt School.

Without further investigation, this could make anyone skeptical at a glance, since it suggests that capitalism has an eternal “spirit” lacking breaks, fractures, or permutations. Likewise, it seats the origins of the capitalist mechanism in European territory, since Max Weber claims that Buddhism and other religious groups were less capable of fully adopting individual material gain as a virtue independent of social systems. It is easy to feel skeptical towards these ideas in our current era of vast globalization in which many belief systems are capable of molding their values to embrace capitalism, granting it the appearance of a performed, rather than essential practice. It is interesting to note that Max Weber’s work contradicted Marx, who described the motor of history as the material, economic base. Weber suggests that ideology, or belief systems likewise produce an effect.

R.H. Tawney responded to Max Weber in the essay, “Puritanism and Capitalism,” in 1926, unwilling to accept his clean-cut description of Calvinism:   

Weber, in a celebrated essay, expounded the thesis that Calvanism, in its English version, was the parent of capitalism, and Troeltsch, Shulze-Gaevernitz and Cunningham have lent to the same interpretation the weight of their considerable authority. But the heart of man holds mysteries of contradiction which live in vigorous incompatibility together. When the shriveled tissues lie in our hand, the spiritual bond still eludes us.

In every human soul there is a socialist and an individualist, an authoritarian and a fanatic for liberty, as in each there is a Catholic and a Protestant.

Thus, in Tawney, Puritanism itself becomes an example not of separation, but of an inherent complicity with the things its tenets both accept and reject.

Puritanism itself involved a constant questioning of acceptance as the quest for finding evidence of “grace” the proof of God’s salvation reveals; and rejection marked by violent determinations, as the Pequot War exemplifies. Overall, such close attention to the mystical aspects of Puritan “grace” theology and its many perplexing internal contradictions and effects always stand in relief to a relative inattention to native interpretations of Puritan violence.


Later, Perry Miller, a Historian of Harvard University, wrote his famous book entitled, Errand into the Wilderness (1964), which questioned whether the reason the Puritans came to America was considered self-determined, or pre-determined, in which case, the higher power (a potentially capricious power) could change its mind and drop support for the social experiment. This project distinctly proposes justifications for considering the Puritan-American mind as something distinctly different from the European mind, due to Puritan isolation and uncertainty. Once more, this effort to detach Puritanism from its sources as part of an effort to establish an American essence gives the work an air of nationalism. However, Perry also took up a contemplation of irresolvable contradictions, namely to which extent do idealism (the errand) and material realities (the wilderness) shape history. Earlier, in his work entitled, The New England Mind: The Seventeenth Century (1961) Perry contemplates the role of the mind as a factor in shaping human history, through the study of rhetoric and Puritan language and texts. Yet, notably, Perry treats the realities of the social and mental spheres as independent as a means of defining their relationship.

Perhaps granting such a deep psychological aura to Puritanism itself is problematic, as it grants undue attention to the interior social constructs of one particular group of historical agents during the “origins” of America, without considering the numerous factions of other influential agents, and the division within the Puritan’s community itself. Ann Kibbey, a leftist-feminist scholar continued to question the rhetorical uniqueness of Puritan doubt and uncertainty, while she attempted to link this rhetoric to what she considers an inherent tendency for violence and prejudice towards natives and women alike within the Puritan colonies in her book The Interpretation of Material Shapes in Puritanism: A Study of Rhetoric, Prejudice, and Violence first published in 1986. This work grants special attention to Anne Hutchinson, a woman who was scapegoated from the Puritan community before the rash of witch trials swept through the Puritan communities. However, I feel it is in our interest to consider the Puritan’s development of violence a performed act, rather than a necessity, since even though it invoked imagery, language and forms as the associated rhetoric of violence, this does not mean that these forms literally caused violence: people’s actions did. From my perspective, people may act or embrace ideology with cruel intentions, and they should be duly reckoned for these intentions, but ideology in a vacuum has no conscience, no power. Ideology itself becomes an excuse.


Another sea of inquiry that highlights the unique role of women and natives as agents shaping the “uncertainty” of Puritan society were the wildly popular captivity narratives of women such as Mary Rowlandson who described their experiences as having been abducted and then returned safely from life with the natives. Poet Susan Howe writes about Mary Rowlandson in her essay “Captivity and Restoration” found within her book entitled The Birthmark: Unsettling the Wilderness in American Literary History. The narratives produced by Rowlandson (and her male congregational ministerial scribes) are deeply steeped in religious rhetoric and typology producing an effect that function follows predetermined form. Howe writes, “Early New England rhetoric claimed for every single Christian a particular evangelical and secular use and progress. Individual identity was prophetic and corporate. In the hermeneutics of the Bay Colony every member of the Elect was a figural type on the way of federal eschatology. The break with the Old World was a rupture into contraries.” She reveals that the dilemma of form involved the extremities produced by the pressure of isolation.

Combined, the quest for some innate Euro-American origins using religious explanations of the Puritan mind, rhetoric, profit motive, or any other simplistic framework is not complete without a consideration of natives, women, material realities as well as emotional, mystical, or rational frameworks. The study of Puritans has accommodated such diverse fields of discourse for different ideological frames of inquiry yet, a recurring theme within the study of Puritanism itself is contradiction and what do we do with it? How can we reconcile the simultaneous rupture and continuity of European traditions in the New World, symbolized by the Puritans? The crisis of identity at the core of their history is notable and it resembles narratives of immigration to America from diverse communities as well: coming to seek opportunity, but never feeling a sense of belonging. Deeply consuming life with a quest for transcendence, salvation, and belonging. Yet, understanding that nothing is guaranteed, so we must consume ourselves with work, industry, production as a means to defy uncertainty, etc…

Furthermore, the imperative for economic freedom through markets via rupture (discussed in Naomi Klein’s The Shock Doctrine) perhaps makes Puritan contradiction a convenient parallel for our own contemporary forms of brutality. However, Klein herself would attribute this not to one particular doctrine, but any that embraces fundamentalism at its core. She reminds us that any effort to cleanse a system of impurity and eliminate all co-existent ideologies is inherently dangerous and filled with risk, yet such extremism continues to shape and influence our political and economic spheres.

So what draws me to my own autodidactic historical research? The condition of my immigrant heritage to America and the complicit violence and prejudice it suggests? My uprootedness? Perhaps questioning itself, as my method, may be the only identifiable material of my existence.

What marks off the “self” is method; it has no other source than ourselves: it is when we really employ method that we really begin to exist. As long as one employs method only on symbols one remains within the limits of a sort of game. In action that has method about it, we ourselves act, since it is we ourselves who found the method; we really act because what is unforeseen presents itself to us.

— Simone Weil, ibid.